pairing: marlene mckinnon x reader
summary: you thirst after your girlfriend's biceps during a party. james and sirius notice. lily ruins a moment by making sure you're not using your girlfriend for sex.
cw: suggestive content, kind of invasive lily/james/sirius, can't remember if this is proofread
wc: 1.7k
Where you went wrong was thinking you were being slick, but even James and Sirius had noticed the way you’d been looking at Marlene. You’re allowed to thirst after her seeing as she is your girlfriend, but you would prefer if not everyone at the quidditch after party was aware that you were waiting to get a moment alone with her.
A teasing call of your name has you sinking into the couch’s thick cushions, but you turn to face James and Sirius anyway, feeling your face grow hot when they giggle as you meet their eyes. “It’s not often that you don’t want to dance.” Sirius comments, nodding his head at you. You huff, turning your shoulder to him as you cross one leg over the other. You turn your gaze towards Marlene again, swallowing thickly at the sight of her. Her blonde hair is wrapped in a ponytail, tank top tight against her torso, exposing the thick muscles of her biceps as she moves.
It’s a little unfair that she’s having so much fun, leaving you to sit on the couch all worked up as you wait for her. But you won’t be the envious girlfriend, watching as she entertains herself with her friends and teammates. You stand, tugging at your dress so it covers more of your thighs, but just as you intend to leave, Marlene turns around, lips melded into a wide grin. She spots you instantly, leaving her friends so she can meet you across the room, bringing her hands to your waist and her lips to your forehead when she reaches you.
“Hi sweetheart.” She mumbles as you bring your hands up to rest on her biceps, fingers tightening around them momentarily. You lick your lips, smiling up at her, though you feel yourself grow shy under her gaze when Sirius and James’s loud laughs reach your ears. You flatten yourself against Marlene, resting your head on her should so you don’t have to make eye contact, and she spins around with you in her arms so she can look at Sirius and James, who make kissy faces at her. “What’s going on here?” Marlene asks you in an amused whisper, and you lift your head up, pressing a little kiss to her jaw.
“I’m gonna go upstairs, okay? Meet me when you’re done.” Marlene’s eyebrows furrow when you remove yourself from her, giving her a once-over. Marlene lets out a breathy laugh, quickly grasping your waist again and pulling you back flush against her chest. “I’ll come with you. Party’s over.” You giggle quietly, letting Marlene guide you up the stairwell and into her dorm, where she seats you on her bed before joining you. She places a hand on your thigh, watching your expression carefully. She doesn’t do anything, waiting patiently for you to begin speaking to her. It’s usual, seeing her girlfriend so quiet and motionless, but before she knows it, you’re shuffling on your knees to get closer to her until your legs touch her thigh. You push Marlene back a little bit, prompting for her to sit back against her pillows, and she obeys, hands open and ready to receive you.
You carefully crawl onto her lap, and Marlene smiles as you take a seat there, your fingertips trailing against her skin. You tug twice at her shirt, and Marlene raises her arms so you can pull it off her, leaving her in a tight sports bra. She observes the small smile on your face, eyes going slightly wide when you lean down to press a kiss to her shoulder. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
You shake your head stubbornly, letting your lips move down Marlene’s arm. You pause at her bicep, letting your tongue jut out to taste her before sinking you teeth into the cushiony muscle. Marlene laughs, though there’s a flush climbing up her chest and settling in her face. You move your lips to her other arm, repeating the same treatment of randomised kisses across her arms. You wrap your hands around Marlene’s forearm to lift her arm up, and she lets you bend it at the elbow as though to flex her bicep. Upon giving you a pleading glance, Marlene tenses her arm, flaunting the muscles to you.
At the sight of you biting your bottom lip, Marlene chuckles, asking “Is that what this is about? You like my biceps?”
“I don’t think the word ‘like’ brings it justice.” Marlene huffs in amusement, lowering her arms so she can drag you higher on her lap. One of her hands reaches up to cup your cheek, and she brings you forward to slot her lips against yours. You hum in satisfaction as your girlfriend kisses you, letting her keep the kisses chaste so she can keep pulling away to look at your face. Once she’s gotten her fill of the shyness grazing your face, she hooks her hand onto the back of your neck, messily licking at your lips when she kisses you. You part your lips, giggling into the kiss when she eagerly flicks her tongue into your mouth. You can taste the alcohol in her kiss, but you don’t mind, especially when she tightens her arms around you and rolls you both over so she lands on top of you.
You swallow thickly when Marlene glances down between your legs where your dress has ridden up and your panties are on show, but she quickly looks back up with a smirk, hands smoothing down the sides of your thighs to ease your dress higher up your legs and over your hips. “Can I?” She asks, though she’s already hiking your dress up your torso before you even nod. You arch your back so she can slip the fabric up higher, shimmying it over your shoulders and above your head. Marlene licks her lips as your breasts come free, and she tosses your dress onto the floor before her hands come up to fondle you. In turn, you bring your hands up to Marlene’s arms, tracing abstract shapes on them. She lowers herself onto you, keeping eye contact with you as she juts her tongue out to lick your nipple before enclosing her mouth around it. Your mouth parts as a gasp leaves you, and Marlene chuckles around you as you bring a hand up to play with her hair.
A loud knock on the door causes Marlene to jump away from you. She digs the blankets out from under you so she can quickly cover you, turning around just as the person knocks again. You feel your breathing hitch when Marlene’s back muscles move as she runs to the door, poking her face out and looking outside. “Hey, the whole team is taking a photo together, do you wanna come down?” Marlene nods, quickly glancing back between you. Lily, who’s stood in front of Marlene, glances at her dorm mate and smiles to herself.
“James and Sirius weren’t wrong, were they?” Lily asks, causing Marlene to shrug rightly, her shoulders raised to her ears. “What did they say?”
“Said that girlfriend of yours was ready to climb you like a tree.”
You straighten up in Marlene’s bed, tightly clutching the covers over your chest. “I did nothing of the sort!” You argue, and Lily’s laugh echoes deep into the room and down the hallway. Marlene chuckles, running into the room to pull her tank top back on. She presses a lasting kiss onto your lips before running down to the common room. She says she’ll only be a few minutes, but you know it’s a blatant lie.
Lily doesn’t let the door shut behind Marlene, instead making eye contact with you from across the rooms. She folds her arms over her chest as she walks inside, kicking the door closed behind her. You blink quickly, unsure what your girlfriend’s best friend wants to do with you, but it becomes pretty clear once Lily rounds the bed to sit down on Marlene’s nearby desk chair. You make sure the blanket is secure around you, keeping your arms locked on the fabric.
“You’re being good to her, right?” Lily asks, crossing a leg over the other. You nod quickly, absolutely terrified of the girl i front of you. “You’re not taking advantage of her or anything?”
“Advantage?” You splutter, shaking your head as you say “No! No I wouldn’t do that. I really like her, you know?” It’s not like you and Marlene have only been together a couple of weeks for Lily to be asking these protective questions, but in the three months you’ve dated her best friend, she hasn’t had the opportunity to question you. “Okay,” She mumbles, nodding. “Because, you know, if you hurt her-“
“I’m not gonna hurt her!” Lily seems satisfied at your flustered tone, so she nods again, standing up. “Good, because she really likes you.”
The door opens again as Marlene runs in the room, shirt halfway off her body, but she halts in her step at the sight of you and Lily. “Everything okay here?” She asks, and you nod quickly, eyes wide, while Lily smiles at her friend and casually leaves the room. Marlene looks back at Lily as she makes her way over to you, climbing over you on the mattress. Marlene presses a kiss to your lips, ready to continue whatever was going on between you, but you don’t reciprocate, mumbling to her “Your best friend is fucking terrifying.”
Marlene eases the blanket down from your chest, fingers already running down your sides as she asks “She ask some scary questions?”
You snatch the blanket back up, jerking away from Marlene as you huff “She do that often?” Marlene grins at your obvious jealousy, twisting her head so she can press a wet kiss to the column of your throat. “No, but she warned me she would do with you when I told her I loved you.” Marlene laughs against your neck when you gasp loudly at her confession, amused by you acting like she’s never said those words to you before.
-Y/N L/N accidentally gets invited in a group chat.
Profiles
Chapter 1: I'm Gonna Leave
Chapter 2: Dont Skip Class
Chapter 3: Their Interest
Chapter 4: Sneaking In
Chapter 5: I don't understand why you denied the obvious
Chapter 6: Slytherins Property
Chapter 7: Princess' Pick Me Up
Chapter 8: Authority Is So Sexy
Chapter 9: Potions And Transfiguration
Chapter 10: A Brave Potter Is A Dead Potter
Chapter 11: Riddle Me This
Chapter 12: A Somewhat Kept Secret-ish
Chapter 13: Not So Normal Normal
Chapter 14: Mattheo And The Hufflepuff
Chapter 15: Bathroom Escapades
Chapter 16: Hidden
TBC
Side Quests
An Angry Puffy
Your Favorite Boy
Full Ill Will
Bibbity Bobbity Boo
Boxed Out
I'm obsessed with these boys and its so hard gathering stories about them
Tom is my favorite so I'm sorry if theres more moments with Tom than the others
I dont really know Mattheo and Lorenzo much so idk if theyll be ooc but this is how I see theyd act but i added them anyway because theyre hot af
I'm still unsure whether to make it poly since i want them all but i just dont see or think theyd all get together romantically
I'm not a hufflepuff but for the sake of the story :3 I added some characters and made up people since i need to for the story just dont mind the thingies
I didn't add Regulus bcuz hes a Marauders era type of guy. why add Tom? because i prefer Tom and its not like he has his era of people yk
idk what else to add here so I thinn ill end the note here I hope you enjoy the story i love you alll <3
“Honey girl?” Clark’s voice is quiet as he shuts the door and notices all the lights are off in your living room.
Sure it’s late, but you usually have your lamps on to set the evening mood.
He gets no answer and starts listening for your heartbeat. It’s not a habit he indulges in often, but this is strange.
He hears it and finds you curled up in bed, lights off, air conditioning blasting and a patch over your face.
Immediately he knows what it is.
You’d been getting migraines more and more often lately and no matter how much you ate, what medicine you took or how much you limited bright
lights, it only seemed to worsen.
Clark had looked for a tumor after the third night, even though you insisted that this just happens sometimes.
He doesn’t make any noise as he reaches you on the bed, his hand smoothing your hair back and taking the mask off.
It’s all melted now, and as he’s about to leave to get your other one, you stir.
“Clark?” Your voice is a gravelly whisper, and as you try to raise your head you hiss.
He’s back at your side instantly, “Lay down baby,” he murmurs, helping you lay your head back on the cool pillow. “M’just gonna get your other ice patch.”
You hum, making him frown. Any sound you make sends another pulse through your head and Clark can feel the distress rolling off you.
You think you fall asleep because you flinch when Clark puts the cold ice pack on your face.
“Have you eaten?” He whispers, rubbing up and down your back as you try to relax.
“Yeah, had toast and chicken salad.” The words come out slowly as you turn to lay flat on your back so you can at least face Clark.
He tuts, but lets you move till your palm cups his cheek. “Good girl,” he presses a kiss to your palm. “Wanna go back to sleep?”
“I wanna spend time with you.” Your voice goes watery immediately. You don’t mean for your voice to tremble like that, and you didn’t realize how much you’d actually missed just existing with him till you said the words. “I haven’t spent time with you in days, Clark.” Your voice cracks on his name and Clark feels it in his heart.
He shushes you, lips to your cheeks as the tears squeeze down your face. He’s gentle as he thumbs the tears away, and then as he turns so he’s laying next to you and tucks you into him without shifting your head.
“We’re spending time with each other right now,” he whispers, trying his best not to make you cry. “Honey girl,” he murmurs when you cry harder, no doubt making your migraine worse. “You’re breaking my heart, angel.”
“I just wanna do fun things with you again.” You hiccup and Clark sighs.
“We’ll do fun things when you give yourself some rest, baby. You need rest to help with the migraine and I’m calling us out of work tomorrow. You can’t keep going to work with this.”
You nod and take a deep breath, rubbing your face into his chest. “I really want it to go away.” You press a kiss to his chest and Clark cups the back of your head, squeezing at the base of your neck. It had you relaxing instantly.
“I’m right here all night,” he kisses your head, “Let’s get some rest, okay?” You nod again, letting Clark’s fingers tug at your hair and squeeze at your neck to alleviate the pain in your head.
“I love you Clark, I really do.” You’re starting to sound a lot more relaxed than before.
“I really love you, honey girl.” You’re asleep in minutes, the headache still throbbing from what Clark can tell, but hopefully with the massage and rest, you’ll be right as rain in the morning.
summary: the most beautiful day of your lives is coming to a close, but your wedding night is about to begin. spencer shows his love to you by setting up the most beautiful room— and giving you the pleasure you deserve.
content warning: mdni 18+, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, fluffy wedding night lovemaking (like sickeningly sweet), softdom! spencer reid, a little bit of nipple play, multiple orgasms, lots of pet names usage (angel, beautiful, baby, good girl), married couple, mentions of longer hair and white wedding dresses, creampie (i hate this word omg), sweet aftercare, no use of y/n
w/c: 5.4k words!
genre: smut, fluff
a/n: soooo welcome to my triumphant return. life kinda got crazy and i didn't want to force myself to write but now that it's summer...ideas have been coming to me. i pictured like season 7-9 spencer but you can imagine any season. this turned out way longer than i thought but i'm so proud of it! can you tell the olivia album inspired me? :)
Spencer's fingers were entangled with your own, his thumb brushing the back of your hand in soft little circles. His brown eyes were shining in adoration as you looked up to meet his gaze, the elevator hum a distant noise in the background— a soundtrack to the beginning of the most anticipated night of your life thus far. He had been looking at you this same way since you walked down the aisle hours ago, like you were something sent from the divine. Just thinking back to that moment, that white dress still flowing all around you, you felt a familiar lump rise in your throat. You were his, and he was yours.
“Baby,” he murmured, searching your eyes and reaching his free hand up to cup your cheek. “You okay? Your eyes went all misty for a moment.”
Damn it. Now you want to cry again, not tears of sadness, no– but in pure joyful emotion. You had married a man who noticed even the slightest change of your eyes or or an off breath.
“I’m more than okay,” you manage to whisper but it comes out more like a choked out wobbly breath. “I just– the way you're looking at me. The way you looked at me. I’ve never felt so much love.”
Spencer leans down to press his forehead against yours as the elevator steadily climbed to the hotel's top floor, the warmth of him flooding your system.
“I love you,” he whispers firmly. “With everything I am, with every breath I take. I’m so happy you’re my wife. I know you know but I need to tell you it again and again. I can’t stop saying it. I’ll always look at you like this because you’re my love. Every chamber of my heart beats in unison for you.”
Just before you could fully burst into tears at the sweetest words you had ever heard and wash off all the makeup that you had spent hours applying this morning, the elevator beeped and opened revealing a long, elegantly styled hallway.
“Cmon, angel,” Spencer murmured softly, his breath caressing your ear. “I want to show you our honeymoon suite,” He tugs on your hand and you giggle at the way he practically drags you down the hallway like an overeager puppy, stumbling beside him.
When you make it to the door at the end of the hallways, Spencer suddenly stops to face you. You open your mouth to speak and then—
“Whoa,” you gasp as he picks you up, his lean but strong arms sliding under your back and your knees to form the classic bridal style hold. “Baby what are you doing?” you giggle into his shoulder, filled with elation. You’re pretty sure you know what he's doing, you just want him to say it.
Spencer smiles down at you and it feels like the warmth of ten thousand suns shining down on you, and healing every emotional wound that ever hurt you.
“I am carrying my very beautiful bride across the threshold of our honeymoon suite, and then I am going to spend the entire night worshipping her.”
You immediately turn that familiar pretty shade of pink that Spencer loves, still not used to hearing him talk like this—even after all this time together.
“You look impossibly pretty like this,” he smiles as his gaze traces the features on your face. “You don’t even know how much.”
Before you can respond with a doubtful quip disguised by humour, he maneuvers you in his arms so he can push the hotel room door open.
Your breath catches.
“Holy shit.”
His eyes fill with pride and you can feel his spine straightening. The room was absolutely gorgeous. The room was lit, not harshly bright, yet light enough so you could see everything. The large windows had the curtains pulled back to reveal the glistening lights of the city. In the center of the room was a king bed, draped with silk sheets and piled with fluffiest pillows you had ever seen. The sheets were covered with rose petals scattered about, and at the foot of the bed sat a basket filled with champagne and other things you couldn’t make out.
“I called a week ago and asked them to set all this up. Penelope helped me find your wedding pinterest board and I wanted to make tonight special, especially since you planned the wedding so beautifully,” he smiles at your wide eyed expression as he puts you down from the bridal carry and kneels down to remove each one of your beautiful but painful heels that had been pinching your toes for hours. “You do so so much, and I'm not the most creatively inclined but I wanted to do this for you. I know I’m about to show you how much I love you physically but I wanted to show you a different way too. I…I hope you like it.”
This. This is why you married him, you thought as he removed each heel— pressing a kiss to each knee through your dress. Not for his incredible profiling skills, not for his astonishingly high iq of 187, not for his tall stature, or his beautifully sculpted face, or his brown doe eyes or his pretty pink lips or his messy brown locks but this. How much he cared. How he remembered the details, like you offhandedly mentioning your pinterest board. How he didn’t mind sleeping with a nightlight on during storms because he knew you got scared. Every single note filled with a fun fact a day left in your lunch. How he would listen to you ramble on and on about your favorite shows that other boys might laugh and call too girly, but he made a detailed chart with you on whether Jess or Logan was Rory's soulmate in Gilmore Girls. You married him for him. For the way he loved you in a way you thought was only possible in fairytales.
“Spencer,” you breathe out shakily as his eyes lock onto yours, looking impossibly soft. “I don’t even know how to describe how I’m feeling right now. I love you. I love you so so so much. I can’t believe you asked Penelope for my pinterest board. I can’t believe you even remembered me mentioning it. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Of course I did…I love you,” he smiles gently as he tugs you closer, his hand wrapping round your waist. “I’m going to be doing things like this for you forever. It’s the least I could do. You are the most incredible girl in the entire universe,”. He smirks as he leans his forehead down to touch your own. “And that's saying a lot because the universe is actively expanding and actually the rate at which it’s expanding is accelerating which means—”
“Wait,”. He suddenly stops and takes a breath. “I’ll tell you about galactic redshift later because I’m getting too distracted by how you look in this dress,” His lips slightly turn up as his voice lowers. “And how much I want to see it on the floor.”
You can feel your face heat up for like the ten thousandth time today and you groan, pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear.
“You can’t keep saying these things,” you pout and he quickly leans down to press a quick peck to your lips. “I can’t help blushing. I think I have a chronic blushing problem.”
He laughs as he picks you and gently sets you amongst the flower petals on the silky bedspread, putting the basket on the floor before tossing his suit jacket aside.
“Chronic implies that it's long lasting which in this case I think is ideal,” he kisses your forehead in between words as he sits beside you on the bed. “You look too cute blushing— I don’t ever want it to go away.”
You giggle until his lips brush yours and every other thought melts from your mind. He kisses you so gently at first, like you’re porcelain on the verge of shattering. One of his hands reaches up to cup your face, while the other one settles on your waist—contentedly drawing little circles into the fabric of your wedding dress with his thumb. You sigh against his mouth as every nerve ending in your body seems to spark to life all at once.
At your sigh, his breath hitches and his tongue slowly slips into your mouth at the given opportunity. The hand that was against your cheek slides to cup the back of your head as he gently lowers you to lay back against the pillows. Your hair splays out, and he raises up from your lips to stare down at you adoringly.
“My beautiful wife,” he breathes out as his eyes trace your every feature. He lowers his lips to barely brush against yours once more. “My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”
Before tears of emotion could fall from your eyes, he's kissing you again, and you can feel how much of himself he’s putting into it. He’s kissing you like your lips are what will save him from an incurable disease. Your wedding dress is twisted and flowing around the both of you, and his hands slide under you to fiddle with the delicate buttons on the back.
He raises his head once again and smiles at you, and everything that is outside of the little bubble the two of you created disappears.
“Can I take this dress off baby?” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Yes please.”
“Your wish is my command,” he winks and you giggle, amazed at the way he can turn everything from serious and deeply intimate to funny, and yet still make the silliest of things romantic. “Sit up a little for me, angel.”
You obey him and his soft voice without question. His long fingers begin to attempt to unhook each button. Keyword… attempt.
He huffs with a slight pout as his nimble fingers fail to get a grasp on even the first button.
“I have an IQ of 187 and yet these buttons seem to require one even higher. Why are they so tiny? I mean they're beautiful… but Vera Wang certainly doesn't design with efficiency in mind.”
“You should send them a letter.”
“Haha… very funny,” he pouts again as he finally manages to unhook the first one. “I have half a mind to.”
Suddenly his face brightens and his eyes get that twinkling look again.
“I have an idea,” he grins as he leans down towards the buttons. “Kisses for good luck.”
You smile and start to giggle again until you feel the press of his lips to each button through your dress. The butterflies come to life in your stomach again and begin to fly in dizzyingly fast circles.
“There we go,” he murmurs as his lips brush each button and somehow…they unbutton as he tries his hand at it once more. “Told you. Kisses are good luck. Scientifically proven now.”
“You don’t believe in luck,” you whisper as his fingers unhook the last of the buttons.
“I do when it comes to you,” he breathes out as he gently pulls the sleeves of your dress down your arms, and lays you down to pull it off the rest of your body.
Damn, you’re blushing again. And you don’t think it will ever go away as long as Spencer is alive to make you feel this way.
Once the dress is all the way off, you hear Spencer's breath catch, and you look up at him shyly through your eyelashes. You were in wedding lingerie, that this morning your bridesmaids giggled and complimented as they helped you dress. The lingerie was white and lacy, delicate edges against your skin.
“You,” he leans down to kiss you between each word. “Are..” Kiss. “So…” Kiss.” Pretty…” Another kiss.
“Do you like it?” you murmur, stealing another kiss as he lifts his head once more. “I wanted to look pretty and special for tonight.”
“Like it?” he blinks like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Angel…like is too insignificant a word for how I feel about you in this. Like… is used for saying you like a drink or dessert. Like…is a widely disproportionate word for how I feel about you. I feel like love is even too small to describe it.”
He exhales and leans down to kiss the lace of the bralettes edge, murmuring sweet things that you could barely make out.
“Hey,” you murmur as you reach for the buttons on his white dress shirt. “I can’t be the only one half naked.”
He grins as he raises his head, and now it's your turn to fumble with buttons.
“Here,” he whispers, as his larger hands cover your shaky ones and begin to help undo the buttons on his shirt. Once he reaches the end, he shrugs off the shirt and tosses it on the floor, not caring where it lands.
You let out a soft breath as he lets you gaze upon his chest. He was so handsome, so pretty. He wasn’t built with bulging muscles or a wide chest. Instead, he was built especially for you. He was lean yet defined, strong without being crushing.
You didn’t have any words so you said the only thing that really mattered.
“I love you, Spencer Reid.”
He leans down, and right before his lips meet your own you catch the mist that begins to cloud his eyes.
“I love you,” he murmurs as he kisses your lips and then begins trailing his own lips down your neck.
“I love you,” he repeats again as his lips latch onto that special spot on your neck, the one he's studied thoroughly and knows it’ll make you squirm. Your hips slightly arch to meet his as he sucks and gently bites at the skin, marking you as his own. You can feel the length of him, a not so subtle hardness pressing against you.
You let out a whiny whimper and you can feel his smile spread across his lips as he keeps kissing his way down to your lace covered breasts.
He kisses all around the lace edge and then reaches both hands up to cup them, marveling in how they fit within his palms.
You whine again as he gently squeezes and begins to knead them, the sensation shooting down between your legs.
“These are so pretty,” he mutters in a low voice as he stares at them. “So perfect for me, look at how they fit in my hands.”
“Oh…god,” you let out in a breathy little moan, the feeling and the sight of him playing with your breasts causing the damp patch on your panties to grow even damper.
“Mm-mm,” he tuts gently. “I don’t think a deity is making you feel like this right now baby.” He grins as you let out another soft little whimper. “Who’s making you feel this way right now? Cmon…you can say it.”
“Spencer!” you cry out as he rolls his hips against yours while he continues playing with your breasts, the friction causing a delicious pleasure to flood your senses.
“Thats it angel,” he whispers against your lips with each slow roll of his hips. “Good job… I knew you could do it.”
The praise he lavishes you with goes straight to your core, while he simultaneously reaches around to unhook the lacy bra, this time his fingers not fumbling at all. As it falls off he stares once again for a moment, before lowering his head to attach his lips around one peak while his hand paid attention to the other breast so it wasn’t neglected. He gently sucks and laves his tongue over it causing an exorbitant amount of high pitched noises to leave your lips.
He detaches for a moment to gaze up into your eyes.
“Is this good, angel? Do you want me to keep going or do you want something else?”
“It's so good,” you manage to choke out as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “But can…can you use your mouth and fingers on me?”
Of course, your cheeks pinken again and he grins.
“Where do you want them baby?”
“You know where.”
“Uh-uh” he shakes his head, trying to hide the slight smirk that begins to form across his face. “I need you to say it. Do you think you can do that, huh? Tell me where you want my fingers and mouth. I need to know exactly.”
“I want them…down there,” you manage to squeak out.
He sighs as he shakes his head again.
“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific, beautiful girl,” he crawls down the length of your body. “‘Down there…,’” he leans down, his breath ghosting above your knee, “could be anywhere.”
He presses a kiss to your kneecap and then the side of it as you pout.
“Did you mean down here?”
“No…”
He grins and brushes a kiss to your inner thigh.
“Then did you mean right here?”
“Spencer!” you whine again, looking down at him petulantly.
“Tell me where, angel. Use your words,” he whispers looking up at you with soft eyes this time. “You can say it, it’s just me. I’m your husband. Don’t be embarrassed.”
You inhale softly, swayed by the love in his tone and the truth of his statement.
“Can you use your fingers and your mouth…” your eyes duck down as your voice gets incrementally lower with every word that escapes your lips, “on my…on my pussy?”
Your voice comes out in the softest shyest whisper on the last word, but he still smiles gently.
“Of course baby,” murmurs and inches up a little bit to play with the little lace bow at the top of the edge of your panties. “Good girl, I’m so so proud of you for saying it.”
He presses a kiss to the bow, his lips skimming the lace and his fingers brushing over the wet patch that was increasingly becoming wetter.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he says in a low tone, with a hint of pride. He begins to slowly inch the panties down your thighs and legs, like he was unveiling the most precious treasure in the world. “Look at you…” he breathes out, “so pretty and perfect. My wife. Made just for me.”
You let out a breathy little gasp as his long fingers part your folds. He lowers his head so that his warm breath ghosts against your clit, and you whimper as you helplessly squirm. As you looked down upon his head between your legs— his hair fell in front of his forehead making him look even more handsome in the low lighting.
He swipes his thumb against your aching clit, making you cry out as he relieves some of the tension. Your hips jump and he laughs softly and then...
“Oh—” you gasp as his head finally lowers and he flicks his tongue against your clit, his hands gently holding your hips down in place. “Spencer I— ah!”
He continued licking at your clit, and then gently sucked at it, raising a high pitched sob from your throat. You could feel him alternate between flicking his tongue and suckling, the combination leaving you squirming and whimpering under his touch.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any more pleasurable, he gently slipped a finger inside of you, moving it very slowly at first, and then finding a comfortable pace after he felt your walls adjust around him.
“Spencer it feels—” your words were cut off by the moan that you couldn’t help.
“Yeah baby, I know…it feels so good, I know,” he murmurs as he looks up then leans back down to suckle at your clit again. “You don’t have to say it, just let me keep taking care of you.”
He continues to pump his fingers in you, adding a second one— then a third when he feels you’re ready. You could hear the obscene sound of your wetness as he licks and moves his fingers in and out, curling them until he hits that spot inside you. That spot that he knows will send you to the highest of heavens.
“Spence…mm..” you whimper. “M’close.”
He doubles down his efforts, but what sends hurtling over the edge of your orgasm was his whispered ‘I love you’ against your clit.
You shake and tremble through the waves of pleasure as he continues between your legs, licking and sucking as you ride out your orgasm.
When you finally lay panting, he presses one last quick kiss to your clit, the sensitivity making your hips slightly buck again and a soft whimper to leave your mouth. He makes his way back up to look into your eyes.
“Hey,” he breathes out. “Are you okay?”. His eyes search your own. “You did so well, looked so beautiful.”
“I’m good,” you whisper shakily, looking into his adoring gaze. “I…wow.”
He smiles gently and begins covering your forehead and cheeks in soft pecks.
“Do you want a hug?” he says softly, looking back up into your eyes.
“Yes please,” you whisper, wanting so desperately to be in his arms before he enters you again.
He lights up, and pulls you into a hug, his lips brushing the top of your head.
“I love you so much,” he hums out, rubbing your lower back.
“I love you too,” you whisper back into his bare chest.
He holds you tight for another minute, whispering soft ‘I love yous’ ever so often.
“I’m ready,” you whisper against his chest and he knows exactly what you mean.
He kisses your forehead and sits up, beginning to slide his boxers off. You watch in soft adoration as they fall to the floor, and his pretty cock comes into view. You’ve never thought a cock could be thought of as pretty, but Spencer has proven you wrong time and time again.
You reach out to wrap your hand around it, but he gently catches your wrist in his own hand and holds it away.
You begin to speak but he gently shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes.
“I want to make love to you now,” he breathes out as he eases you back onto the bed. “I want to be inside you and if you…touch me now…I might not last.”
When you're laying flat against the pillows again, his hands come up to hold onto yours beside your head. His eyes lock onto yours and you can feel all the love he has for you in his gaze. The emotion builds and builds in the silence until a lump forms in your throat and suddenly your eyes are stinging.
“Hey…hey,” he exhales, pressing his nose to yours, as you feel a drop of water make its way down your cheek. “Don’t cry, angel. I love you so so much. I’m right here. We’re married now,”. He swallows and now you can see that he’s on the verge of tears too. “You’re…You’re my wife now.”
He quickly swipes at his eyes before reaching back down to interlock your fingers again. He kisses each salty tear away with the aching tenderness that makes your heart squeeze.
“I love you so much,” you breathe out as he reaches down to position the tip of himself against your entrance.
“Love you back…my perfect girl…my wife,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead gently, then sweetly pecking your nose. “Ready, baby?”
You nod, unable to speak, because if you do you might start crying again.
He gives you the most gentle, the most impossibly sweet smile before he begins to sink into you. You squeeze his hands tight as he presses deeper slowly, taking his time to savor the first moment you are connected as husband and wife.
You gasp as he goes as deep as he can go, his cock kissing the most inner parts of you. His forehead pressed against yours, and his eyes were closed. This was it. You felt every emotion spiral through you, both of your souls swirling and dancing around each other, connecting in the most intimate of ways.
“God…” he breathes out, his voice trembling. “I love you with everything I am. You feel so good around me. You’re a perfect fit, like always. I don’t–...I can’t—,” he chokes out, taking another breath before continuing, “Every part of me belongs to every part of you.”
A tear rolls down your cheek, one that you both don’t bother brushing away.
“I’m your girl forever,” you say shakily. “I want to be like this always. I never… I never want to be without you, Spencer,” You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him closer, his chest, pressing against your own. “You’re my other half.”
He swallows back the lump in his own throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, before he smiles softly and kisses your forehead.
“Us forever,” he whispers into your ear, then draws back to lock eyes with you, as he begins to thrust slowly. “It’s you and me.”
You gasped as his cock brushed against the most innermost part of you again and again. Every part of you was connected to every part of him. Each slow stroke sent sensations throughout your whole body— echoing into your bones. You clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare skin as he made love to you.
“That’s it, angel,” he whispers into your ear. “You’re doing so well. There you go,”. He looked at you with the kind of reverence one would show a religious landmark. You were the temple that he worshiped at.
His thrusts remained slow but deep as he looked into your eyes— hitting that spot deep within you that made your whole body tense and clench around you.
“Is that it?” he murmurs, reaching down to rub slow circles on your clit in tandem with his purposeful strokes. He smirks as you let out a high-pitched ‘ah’—hoisting your legs around his waist to pull him in deeper. “Yeah… that’s it.”
"You don’t have to be so smug about it,” you manage to choke out between high pitched gasps. “I-oh,” your voice dissolves into the prettiest moan Spencer has ever heard.
Spencer's breath hitched—any confident remark he was about to fire off gone as he felt your walls clench tightly around him again. He gazes at you like you were a miracle that he was somehow lucky enough to stumble into because, to him, you were.
Spencer?” you whimper into his shoulder, as he adjusts your hips so he can hit that glorious spot each time.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Harder…please.”
Spencer's breath stutters at your whine, and you can hear the soft inhale he takes in your ear before he nods, adjusting his weight above you and starts to firmly thrust into you. The sound of the headboard rattling against the wall above you was almost erotic in its own way— knowing that Spencer was putting that much effort into bringing your pleasure that a whole king sized bed could shake.
“You’re so good,” he breathes out as you clutch and cling to him, sensing you nearing the edge. “You’re my wife…my perfect girl.”
He keeps circling your clit, building you up through a steady rhythm instead of quickly trying to get you to your peak. As your body started to tense and tighten, he pressed kisses all over your cheeks and face, light brushes that were so light they felt like a feather caressing your face.
“Baby, I’m close,” you whimper as your hips lift, chasing the friction of his hand as he thrusted.
“I know,” he breathed out, kissing your collarbone. “You’re doing so well. Let me take care of you, I’m gonna get you there.”
As he murmured sweet nothings in your ear, the waves of pleasure grew and grew until they reached their crest— and you shattered around him with a broken moan.
“Spencer!” you cried as your body trembled and he held you so close it almost hurt but you didn’t care.
“Let go baby,” He whispered as he continued with slow strokes as you rode out your orgasm. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. We have this forever.”
You pant softly as you come down, him still thrusting gently trying not to overstimulate you as he reaches his own peak.
“Fuck— baby,” he gasped out as you felt him tense then spill into you. “I love you.”
As you both catch your breath together, you look up into his eyes, a post orgasmic haze hovering around the both of you. Your hand lifts, trembling a bit, and you push the soft curls back from where they were hanging over his forehead into his eyes so you could have a clearer view.
“You okay?” he whispers, studying every inch of your face to make sure there was no lingering soreness. “I went a little harder towards the end there. Was that okay?”
You smile because this was Spencer. Soft and sweet and yours. Always checking in and returning his gentle self after taking control and giving you the most pleasurable sensations you’ve ever felt in your life.
“Spencer,” you breathe out, pulling his head closer to yours to steal a kiss in between words. “That was amazing. Best wedding night ever.”
He presses another peck to your lips, then raises his head to look into your eyes with a silly smile forming on his lips.
“Best wedding night ever?” he laughs, poking the tip of your nose. “This was your only wedding night ever.”
You giggle as you reach up to poke his nose back.
“Yeah, but in my imagination if I had ever had any other wedding nights, this would be the best.”
He caught your wrist before you could poke his nose again, and a slow smirk spread over his face before kissing your forehead over and over again.
“I guess we just have to get married over and over to each other so we can have more wedding nights and do a comparison of all of them,” he smiles as you begin to giggle again, warmth from the sounds of your laugh spreading throughout your chest. “That way I can run a statistical analysis.”
“Only you would suggest analyzing our wedding night for science,” you smile as he continues pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead.
He smiles as he leaves one more peck on your nose, before rolling off you and standing up.
“Where are you going?” you pout, the warmth that had been present only seconds ago now gone cold.
He smiles as he reaches down to stroke your hair.
“I am going to get something to clean you up,” he whispers, “and then…we’re going to order so much room service.”
You perked up immediately.
“Room service? Can we get whatever we want?”
He laughs as he comes back with a warm washcloth, sitting beside you on the bed again.
“Whatever we want, angel,” he says softly as he leans down to gently clean you between your thighs. His touch was so soft, wiping away whatever remained and soothing any lingering soreness.
After he finished and quickly disposed of the washcloth, he lay back beside you and you immediately found yourself back in his arms— like you were two opposite ends of a magnet.
“I love you,” he murmured against your forehead. “My lovely, perfect wife.”
You looked up from your cocoon in his arms, and met his eyes, overflowing with adoration.
“I love you too,” you whisper back, eyes fluttering as you tried to force yourself to keep them open— not wanting this night to end quicker than it had to.
“Hey,” Spencer breathed against your forehead, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes, “you can go to sleep…I’ll be here. I’ll always be here. We have tomorrow like this, then our honeymoon… then forever.”
Your stomach flipped again at the mention of forever, as his breath warmed your ear. You were plastered to him, like you were an extension of his body.
“Don’t let go,” is the only thing you come up with to whisper back, because if you tried to say more you might start crying from emotion like earlier.
He immediately shakes his head, like even the notion was absurd.
“Never ever” he whispered back with one final sleepy kiss to your forehead.
You fall asleep mid mumble of ‘I love you’, and he just smiled against your forehead, squeezing even tighter.
You didn’t have to finish the sentence. He already knew. You had forever to say it again, anyways.
****
hiiii! i hope you guys enjoyed, this took me like a wholeee day to write! if you liked it pretty please like and reblog! it would mean so so much to me!
Okay so Spencer is giving a lecture at readers university right, but he doesn't know that she'll be there because he is only lecturing for students that are studying crime related things, and reader doesn't do let's say he's been thinking of her a lot lately so when he spots her in the crowd he falters cause he thinks he's hallucinating so when his speech is over (the rest went smoothly) he heads into the crowd to see her up close. And reader is flustered because she's never seen him so professional, now he's given her speeches when she did something stupid but this is different. And he's just like what if I did bad and she saw me (he knows he did nothing wrong) but in the face of her he trys to appear as put together as possible now that's all I have for now
May 30th 2025
This has been in my drafts for quite literally a year and some.
(ig anyone is free to use this as a prompt I have nothing for ever do tag me though, I'd love to read it)
the moment was silly really, both of you being giggly and playful. you were on top of james, both stripped of your clothes, down to your underwear, in the middle of a heated makeout session. you couldn't help the slight movement of your hips on his, feeling him hard beneath you. you were grinding down just enough to elicit a deep and breathy moan from james.
"oh sorry," you said, breaking to catch your breath. you thought for a moment, deciding to lean into the playful mood. "it's just, i couldn't feel it, it's just so small." you giggled.
james's brows shot up and he smirked up at you. "oh yeah?" he replied and before you knew it you were flipped in an instant, the room spinning as james pinned you beneath him. with the positions now reversed, he ripped your panties from your body, shoving his boxers down and lining himself up with your enterance. you were taken off guard, gasping as he slid himself through your folds and coated himself in your arousal.
"you wanna take that back?" james asked. you hesitated for a second, and james took this as his sign to slam into you, the stretch burning so good. he instantly found his mark as he hit your g-spot over and over again, not taking his time, not giving you time to catch up.
your back arched and you cried out, dragging your nails down jame's back in response. james hooked your legs over his arms, pistoning in and out of you at a rapid speed. nothing but james's name and pornagraphic moans fell from your lips, filling the room along with the sound of his heavy balls slapping against your ass.
he was clearly proving you wrong, joke or not. reaching spots inside you that you didn’t even know were there.
“j-jaaamess!” you cried as he hit that spot deep inside you, making your eyes roll back.
“i’m gonna ask you again,” he said, tone lowering an octave, husky and seductive. “you wanna take that back?” he punctuated each word with a harsh thrust into you, your poor pussy being abused for your earlier mistake in thinking he would take the joke.
“yes, yes-fuck,” you sobbed, “i didn’t mean it!”
james’s smug face lowered to yours, stopping a hairs width away. “yeah,” he said, pausing his thrusts to gently place a quick kiss to your lips, “that’s what i thought.”
Sirius
sirius had added a messily written 'condoms' onto your grocery list which allowed for the perfect opportunity to mess with him.
"condoms?" you asked, standing in the doorway to your bedroom and waving the grocery list.
sirius chuckled, half naked with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh out of the shower. "yeah, we used the last of them last night." he stated, throwing a wink in the mix.
"oh, ok well," you paused, stepping into the room, "what size? medium?"
sirius raised a brow and scoffed. "medium?'' he repeated back to you. you tried your absolute best not to crack, not to give up the joke just yet. "do you think i have a medium dick, sweetheart?"
you glanced down to where the towel covered him, as if you had x-ray vision and shrugged. "i mean, its average."
sirius's jaw dropped, he too looked down, envisioning what was beneath the towel. "average!?"
you gave him a teasing pout, "oh, baby," you cooed, "its ok. the big ones scare me anyway." with that you couldn't help the smirk that creeped on your face.
before you knew it, you were on your knees in front of sirius, towel long forgotten, dick shoved down your throat. it was a joke, but you were wrong, dead wrong, sirius was definitely not medium.
you could feel his size in the way your jaw ached to accommodate him, in the way you constricted around his mushroom tip that he was forcing down your throat over and over. tears fell openly down your cheeks at the burn.
"oh baby,” he mocked, “whats a matter?" he looked down at you, giving you a faux pout as he forced you to take more of him. your hands flew to his thighs, nails digging in and making sirius hiss in reply. "what happened? you were so feisty a moment ago. cat got your tongue?"
he pulled back slightly, not all the way, just enough for you to gasp down some air. gagging and coughing, you looked up at him through your tear damp lashes, silently pleading for him to ease up.
"you wanna take what you said back?" he asked, a bite to his tone.
you nodded your head the best you could with his hand gripping your hair and his cock shoved down your throat.
"good," he hummed, "then lets keep that mouth full so nothing stupid comes out of it again, yeah?"
Remus
you were feeling a bit more on the brave side today, otherwise you would have never said it, never tested him like this.
he was already fucking you, manhandling you from position to position. his trusts were precise and calculated, each one a pleasureful assault on your cervix.
he flipped you, on your hands and knees now as he adjusted, lining up with your entrance again before plunging in.
it took everything in you not to moan out at the sensation, biting your tongue as you waited until he bottomed out before asking, "is it in yet?"
remus paused for a moment, everything still and tension in the air. he laughed behind you. to be fair, he probably did find it funny, but he couldn't let you get away with that, couldn't let a comment like that slide.
that's how you find yourself on the ground, facing your floor length mirror in the corner of your bedroom, chest pressed to the ground and hips being held by remus fucking into your already abused cunt. you had a perfect view of him railing you, watching with lust blown eyes as his dick split you in half.
"r-remmy," you whined out, feeling your walls clench around him.
"nah," he panted "don't 'remmy' me." he drove himself into you harder as if to prove his point. "you did this to yourself."
you fisted the fluffy rug beneath you, gripping the fabric to ground yourself to something as you felt your orgasm fast approaching.
remus grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you up, your back meeting his chest as he continued. he forced you to look down at where the two of you connected, seeing the prominent bulge in your lower tummy as he pounded into you over and over.
you moaned at the sight, at the feeling, at everything.
"look at that," he said into your ear, his breathing ragged and strained from the workout he was getting, "theres your fuckin' proof its in, yeah?"
this has been sitting in my drafts for so long and i need to put something out for y'all so, please accept this as a peace offering while i work on sugar sweet and the tattoo pt 2
corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: what started as a normal, albeit ecstatic request from a Jimmy turns into a discovery that Clark couldn't get out of his mind—lucky for him, you didn't need to be a mind reader to notice the massive tent in his pants.
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: 18+ mdni; smut, smut, smut!; porn w/ no plot; dry humping; sloppy make-out; clark has a big dihh; reader has an ever bigger dick (metaphorically); subspace?; some d/s dynamics; slapping kink?; light edging; m!receiving handjob; lemme know if i missed any!
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.5k
𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲: meant to post this last night but i couldn't keep my eyes open:,>.
this is in-universe to 'what's on the menu?', but can be read as a standalone, please enjoy!
It started off with Jimmy's hollered request for hurricane shots.
The invitation had everybody in the bar hollering along with him—everybody but Clark. Sweet Clark. Sweet Clark whose head popped up from the crowd, towering over everybody as his eyes hurriedly sweep over the crowd and meets yours.
His questioning look only received a wink from you in response, where his head ducked from the flush that crept up his neck.
He lingered next to Jimmy's excited form while you prepared something over the counter for the birthday boy already buzzing with excitement.
Clark's furrowed brow only creased his forehead further at the sight of you sitting on the bar and patting the bar stool in front of you.
"C'mon birthday boy." You said, wiggling your eyebrows when Jimmy hurriedly skipped towards you. "Don't get too excited."
"Oh I am." Jimmy exhaled, grinning ear to ear when his fingers wrap around the shot glass.
He tipped his head back, feeling the burn of the shot down his throat and immediately felt the cold water splash across his warm skin, trickling down his neck, before he felt your heavy hand make contact with the wet skin, a wet smack echoing across the bar.
It was quickly drowned out by the rest of Jimmy's friends hooting and hollering, demanding the next round, but your eyes immediately found Clark, whose plump lips were parted in an 'O' while red hot flush climbed up his neck.
Clark had never been a jealous man. He thought himself lucky that the green monster had never sunken its claws in him in his 30 years, but the hot flush that ran through his body didn't just go up to his cheeks at the sight of you slapping Jimmy.
And he had to sit down for a second to cover the tenting in his pants with his discarded suit jacket.
But it was too late.
You already saw it.
Yet you ignored it, paying no mind to the obvious bulge in his pants as his hand laced through your own over the center console. Even as you crossed the threshold of your foyer and he followed you through the kitchen and into the living room with a stutter in his step.
Clark only let go of the suit jacket when you patted the seat next to you, a sly smile on your face spreading when the bulge between his legs get more prominent at the motion.
"That was fun." He chuckled, leaning more into your arm when your fingers found the curly hairs at the back of his head. "You can-uh-send me the check tomorrow."
"I told you it's on the house, babe." Your hand trailed down his chest, using it as leverage to settle yourself on his lap. His warm hands instinctively grip the underside of your thighs, fingers grazing the sensitive skin. "You worry too much."
He tries to pretend he couldn't feel the warmth of your crotch against his, instead focusing on your hand—the same one that landed heavily on his friend's face now softly carding through his hair and he couldn't help the quiet groan that rumbled through his throat.
Just imagining that same hand make contact with his cheek had Clark's hips embarrassingly bucking up into you. To which he immediately buried his face in the crook of your neck when you chuckled.
It's been six months since the start of your relationship, yet only the last couple dates have you been ending dates like this; with his massive hands massaging your ass lightly while you firmly ground your core against his.
And every time, you always ended up with him leaving your place hurriedly with blue balls and you drenched in cold water, wondering what urged him to leave you there with only your hand to take care of you.
You won't allow that to happen now.
Not when his heavy-lidded blue eyes looked up at you like he was desperately trying to keep his hazy mind at bay and focus on you, all glassy and behind the black frames you had suspicion he didn't need.
Clark's chest rises and falls quickly beneath your palms, his soft lips parting with a groan when your fingers met at a fist in his hair and the vibration shot right through your core.
You could feel yourself drip through your underwear at the sigh of his clammy hands guiding the palm to his lips, pressing the wettest, sloppiest kiss on the warm skin he's ever given you with his eyes squeezed shut.
The action draws a shaky breath from you, confirming what you already suspected at the bar.
Your lips trailed down from his forehead to his temple before your breath tickled his ear, simultaneously grounding your hips against his. "Did you wish you were in Jimmy's place?"
A choked sound escaped his throat. "ck—I–didn't even—" His palms travel up your sides, trembling as it squeezed you through your tight-fitting black shirt. "I didn't expect it to—"
SMACK!
His loud moan echoed across the room when your hand made contact with his cheek, hands stilling your grinding hips as he groaned out a broken cry while you gasped at the sudden warmth that bloomed beneath your core.
"I-m sorry—so sorry, honey, I—" But you stopped his apologies with another smack to the face, one that he responded to with another unabashed whine, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he leaned into your hand again, flesh turning red beneath your palms.
Clark had never felt greedier in his life than now, seeking out your palm even more for more of the sting your calloused hands brought. Noises he never thought he could make slipping past his lips with no regret, hunger spiking in his veins at your blown out pupils.
You hum, shushing Clark's whine when you moved to lean back across the armchair, you removed your pants and Clark salivated at the sight of your damp boxers, but before he could nuzzle your mound and breath in your scent that was already invading his senses, you pat your lap.
He couldn't even feel embarrassed at his eagerness, reclining himself hastily across your chest and eagerly turning his head to capture your lips against his. It didn't matter that he was already soaked and still hard and eager, his senses were filled with you.
Your hands slide up and down his arms before wrapping around his waist, the warmth of your thighs cradling his hips while you eagerly swapped spit, his drool slipping past the corners of his mouth at the awkward angle.
He felt a tap on his hip then, forcing him to break apart from you when he lifted his hips to shimmy down his pants—way too impatient to properly get rid of it, leaving it barely over his knees.
And there it was. Shameless and throbbing. Insistent, even.
As much as you loved the sight of his straining dress shirt against bare skin, you've been craving to see the sight beneath it for months. So, without warning, your fingers grip the placket before ripping could be heard across the living room.
Clark could hear the flying buttons but couldn't focus on them when your fingertips graze the skin lining his boxers, his hips jerking up at the contact before being pinned down by your palm. "Stay."
He listened, and you chuckled breathlessly at his obedience. "So obedient. I bet you would've listened just as well as Jimmy did."
"Can we-hah!—" He meant to ask if you could stop talking about Jimmy when the only thing separating your hand and his throbbing dick is a flimsy wet cloth, but you cut him off once more with the feeling of cool air wafting across his warm cock making him shudder on your lap.
You pulled his boxers down as much as the angle let you, finally seeing what you've been desperately humping all those nights ago. If you thought the darkened gray boxers already made it look painful, you were proven wrong by the red flesh that was his cock.
It stood stiff against his belly, the tip glistening with pre, making the red flush look even more painful. The sight of it had water pooling in your mouth, fighting the strong urge to swallow him whole.
Especially when Clark hid his warm face against your neck when he caught you staring. His black frames went crooked against your skin yet you made no move to remove it, only focused on the puffs of air against your skin and his muffled whimpers as his neediness spikes at every second you do nothing.
"Please, honey. Please." He whimpered, voice unabashedly high when the tip of your finger dragged slowly from his pulled up sac up to his already leaking tip, swiping at the white liquid that began to drip, only to take that finger back to your mouth.
Clark's plea's don't stop, especially after he felt the light tap on his sensitive flesh, in fact, it only got more frequent. So frequent you could feel his drool against your neck from how little he was stopping.
You shushed him softly, nails softly tracing the skin of his belly. "Breathe, baby…"
Only, you didn't allow him to—wrapping your hand around the sensitive flesh of his cock and pumping with no warning, his excessively leaking tip echoing a wet schlick.
Oh how you loved taking him by surprise.
"OH GO—GO-SH!" His voice broke, hips stuttering up to follow your motions as you set a relentless pace that had all of Clark's breath leave his body, all while you chuckled breathlessly against his neck after he threw his head back against your shoulder. "Feels good, baby, doesn't it?"
"mmnngh—feel s'good." He breathed out shakily, fingers trembling into your thighs, hazy mind barely mindful of his strength. "you—" He falters, gulping audibly. "gon' ruin—ngh—m—"
Clark's long legs thrash uselessly against the couch, socked toes curling into the opposite armchair with each stuttering thrust into your wet loose hand.
His eyes roll to the back of his head when he feels your warm breath against his ear, "You're cummin' baby.." you tease the white liquid steadily dribbling out of his slit, pooling into every crevice of your fingers. "Can i?" He whimpered.
He felt a hot, sharp jolt travel up his spine, warmth that already pooled at the base of his spine burning hotter with every swipe of your thumb on his slit—
You paused, hands flat against his belly while Clark cried, "No! Plea—hmph—i ca…" hips stuttering into the air uselessly.
You felt your cunt clench at the sight, dripping—soaking your couch. His desperation was contagious, like his grip on the fats of your legs is the link, "Why would you—honey—" he whined pathetically, a hand pawing at both of yours, which were still on his belly—their warmth so close yet so far—in persuation.
And for a second, Clark thought he had convinced you when your hand lifted, only for it land on his cock—fast yet harsh against the throbbing skin.
"GAH—fuuu-ohhh—oh gosh!" He all but screamed, back arching away from your chest only to be pulled back by his waist, the glasses sitting atop his nose skewed when his eyes shut.
"You're," He sniffed. "so mean."
His babble made you laugh, the giggle breathless against his shoulder while he threw his head back, leaning his temple against your own, attempting to catch his breath.
"Hmm, you haven't seen me mean." Not only do you hear his breath hitch, you also see his cock twitch against his tummy, fingers tightening around your wrist. "I want you to hold it f'me, can you do that?"
Clark's chest heaves as he nodded, gasping sharply when you tapped his dick in warning—you wanted words. "Y-yes, please." You kissed his temple, satisfied as you loosely gripped his base once more.
Clark immediately regretted agreeing to hold it. Because now you had both of your hands on his cock, one hand slowly pumped while the other cupped his tight warm balls. Your fingers would tighten whenever they reached his red tip, forcing out more pre-cum and adding to the obscene squelch that already made up the room.
He couldn't believe that this was his reaction to getting jerked off, he could only imagine when he was finally allowed to sink into your tight wet heat—feeling your muscles constrict around his girth, sucking him in and never letting him leave while your hand came down on his face again, and again, and again—
"Clark."
But Clark hadn't registered the warning in your voice, too consumed in his own mind to even register the ripped fabric beneath his fingertips.
He felt warmth splash across his chest, spurts of hot white liquid covering the expanse of his chest, reaching his chin, while you tsked behind him, fingers wrapped around your wrist to frantically drive his hips into the hot flesh.
"imsorry,'m sorry—'m so sorry," He whined, hazy blues blinking rapidly behind his glasses once he came to. "i couldn—I…"
He felt tears mist his eyes, afraid to meet your own as his breathing leveled and he felt your hands rub his arms up and down.
You specifically asked him to hold and like the pathetic man that he was, he couldn't even hold it for more than a few seconds because he was too busy focusing on how your throbbing pussy would feel around him than keeping it together.
Clark was so consumed in his own head that he hasn't even registered your hand leaving his arm, only noticing when he felt punishing slaps on his softening member, causing his entire body to crumple, a sob leaving his lips. Embarrassed at the feeling of a few more warm spurts leaving his leaking tip at the contact.
"'m so sorry." He mumbled, sniffing as he turned to his side to bury his face against your neck, still too nervous to meet your eyes.
However, relief softened his shoulders when he felt your lips against his forehead. "Shh, you're okay, baby." You said, rubbing his thigh softly, his fetal position against you making him feel smaller. "I kinda got carried away there."
Clark finally pulled his forehead from the crook of your neck, looking up at you through skewed black frames, still sniffling. "I uh…I kinda liked it."
"Oh?" You teased, hand softly rubbing over the red mark on his cheek. "I didn't notice."
Then your face turned serious, brows furrowing in worry and Clark immediately wanted to quell the feeling. "You sure I didn't go overboard?"
"Yeah—no, you, it was perfect." He nodded immediately, leaving a swift kiss on your cheek. "You were perfect."
"You were perfect. Thank you for trusting me."
Clark may look a little ridiculous with his pants still hanging off his ankles, but you made him feel nothing but the opposite—safe and warm in your arms as your soft hand ran through his messy curls, leaving soft kisses with 'mwah's on every inch of his face.
Rockstar!poly!marauders x fem!singer!reader, 731 words, making out with your boyfriends in the green room before a show!
You're splayed on the couch in the green room between Sirius's thighs, head lolled against his shoulder as he tunes his guitar in your lap, toned arms around your shoulders, keeping you snug against him.
You watch his fingers rather intently, the way they strum the guitar strings, the way his knuckles flex. Tilting your chin back, you look up at him to see the concentrated furrow between his brows. When he catches you looking, he grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your upside-down mouth.
"I feel excluded," James declares, despite him being half in Remus's lap as the latter reads his paperback. He's reading Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility right now, you know because you'd recommended it to him, having written him little notes in the margins.
"Come over here then, Jamie," you murmur, resting the back of your head against Sirius's shoulder as your eyes divert back to watching Sirius's hands. Gosh, he's got nice hands.
James lets out an indignant huff, which makes Remus squeeze him a little tighter, almost absently while he flips to the next page. "Wouldn't want to disturb you," he replies grumpily, but his tone has been softened by Remus's touch.
Remus leans down to press a kiss to James's jaw in appeasement and closes his book. "There," he murmurs, placating his boyfriend. "Happy?"
James looks entirely pleased with himself. "Yes."
You let out a snort of laughter from where your eyes are transfixed on Sirius's hands.
"You can't be talking," James reminds you, twisting his head from Remus's shoulder to look at you. "You're worse than me, angel. You're staring at Sirius's hands so hard I'm genuinely worried your eyes are gonna pop out."
Your cheeks warm and you hide your flushed face in Sirius's shoulder. "Shut up, James."
Sirius presses his smile into the top of your hair. "You're staring at my hands, gorgeous? Hm?"
"Don't tease her too much, Pads," Remus calls over from where he's dotting kisses down James's jaw. "We can't have her melting into a puddle before the show."
"'m not gonna melt into a puddle," you grumble, but you feel warmth pooling low in your belly, embarrassment making you feel warm all over.
Sirius lets out a soft laugh, tucking you closer into his lap. "It's okay, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Look at me all you want. I don't mind. I'm yours, anyway."
That certainly doesn't help to ease your flustered state.
"You guys are on in five!" You hear a stage-hand call from outside the door, rapping on the door twice to make sure you've all heard. You take the opportunity to dash off Sirius's lap, heading over to the vanity where you can touch up your makeup.
When you turn around, having fixed up your lip liner, you see all three boys looking at you, looking entirely besotted. Sirius's hand slips a little on the neck of his guitar, James looks like he's going to fall off Remus's lap at any time, and Remus doesn't look like he's faring any better, jaw clenching as his eyes trail over your face.
"What?" you murmur, turning back to the mirror to look over your features. "Is my makeup smudged?"
"No," Remus replies, standing up to cross the room and cup your cheeks in his warm palms. "You look perfect, dove. How am I going to make it through the show without kissing you?"
A shy smile tugs at your lips. "You can kiss me now," you offer, and Remus grins, all boyish excitement.
"Well, if you insist."
His kiss isn't gentle. It's possessive. A little rough, tongue slipping between your lips, biting at your bottom one, kissing you until you're breathless, panting against his mouth, pulling away because there's no air left at all in your lungs.
You hadn't noticed that James had made his way over to you, too, and it standing behind you, arms curled around your waist while Remus lowers his head to chase your lips again. James's lips make contact with the soft, sensitive skin of your jaw, then below, the junction where your neck meets your shoulder.
Your legs feel like jelly under their ministrations. You're not sure how you'll make it through an entire show, thinking about this moment.
Sirius huffs from the sofa, and you barely hear it through the pounding in your ears. "Now I'm feeling left out."
may i please request a fic for your where'd all the time go au where little harry is at the age where he's so stubborn and tends to throw tantrums a lot, and its like that stage where parenting is the hardest. i imagine him getting so mad over things as small as a haircut LOL. feel free to ignore this if it doesnt suit you. love your writing btw xx
Throwing Tantrums
poly!wolfstar x reader ♡ 3.8k
⤷ part of my Where’d All The Time Go? au
summary: raising an eight year old who thought he knew better than three adults was exhausting, especially when harry decided he could handle everything without you, sirius, or remus.
warnings: wolfstar + reader raising harry au, harry is eight in this, brief mentions of death and grief, intelligent harry, domestic comfort, tantrums, mention sof sharp tools, stubborn kids, growing pains, parenting struggles, fluff and crack.
Raising an eight year old boy was definitely no easy feat. Even when said parenting included Harry having three parents.
Now, one would think an extra pair of hands and an extra parent would make it easier…(spoiler: it did not). Not when Harry James Potter/Black-Lupin had somehow grown into the most stubborn child to ever exist.
He had reached that age now where he thought he was entirely self-sufficient, convinced he could do everything on his own without needing anyone. Which meant that lately, things had become… difficult.
Not that Harry was difficult for the sake of it. He wasn’t the kind of child who argued just to hear himself speak, nor did he go out of his way to cause trouble. It was simpler than that, and somehow more complicated. He hated being told what to do. Hated the feeling of someone deciding something for him before he’d had the chance to think it through himself.
Even the smallest instruction could set something off in him, not anger exactly, but resistance.
So it usually went something like this:
Remus, last week, standing in the doorway with that endless patience of his, telling Harry to go brush his teeth. Harry, sprawled across the sofa, eyes glued to the muggle television, refusing outright because he would do it after the programme ended. Remus insisting, gently at first, then more firmly, because it was bedtime. Which, apparently, was a personal offence to the eight-year-old.
“I will. After this.”
“You said that ten minutes ago, Harry.”
“Because it’s not finished yet.”
Remus pushed off the doorframe then, walking a little further into the room. “It’s getting late.”
“I’m not tired.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is the point,” Harry argued, finally looking at him, brows pulled together. “If I’m not tired then I don’t need to go to bed yet or brush my teeth!”
Remus exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that said he’d already had this conversation in his head three different ways. “You still need to brush your teeth before it gets too late.”
“I’ll do it after,” Harry insisted, turning back to the television.
And when Remus didn’t drop it, when he stepped in and reached for the remote to switch it off, that was when it turned.
“I’m not a baby, I don’t need a bedtime!”
Which, of course, spiralled from there. Harry stomping down the hall, muttering under his breath like he’d been personally wronged, the bathroom door shutting a little harder than necessary. Remus left standing in the sitting room, rubbing at his temple, somewhere between tired and faintly exasperated.
Or yesterday:
Sirius had taken it upon himself to teach Harry how to tie his shoelaces properly instead of the mess he kept making. It should have been simple.
“Right, we’re fixing this.”
“It’s fine,” Harry said immediately, trying to pull his foot back.
“It’s not fine, it looks like a ball of yarn not a shoe lace tie,” Sirius replied, not even looking up as he undid it. “Hold still.”
Harry yanked his foot away properly this time, scowling down at him. “I said I can do it.”
Sirius looked up then, one brow raised, something almost amused flickering through his expression. “And I said let me show you, you stubborn little—”
“I don’t need help!” Harry kicked his shoe off entirely, sending it skidding across the floor, and folded his arms like that was the end of it.
“Alright,” Sirius said finally, leaning back on his heels. “Walk around barefoot then, see how that goes for you.”
So really, none of this was new.
Which was probably why neither you nor Sirius had thought much of it when you first brought up the hair.
It had been getting ridiculous. Thick, dark, constantly falling into his eyes no matter how often he shoved it back. You had meant to deal with it earlier in the week, but time slipped, and now Remus was at Hogwarts for the day, which left you and Sirius to handle it.
Right now, you were sitting on the edge of the sofa, scissors resting loosely in your hand, while Sirius leaned against the armrest beside you, both of you attempting to reason with the small, furious boy standing in front of you.
“It’s not even about making it short,” you said, keeping your voice steady, not pushing. “Just enough so it’s out of your eyes.”
“It is out of my eyes,” Harry insisted.
“Harry,” you said, keeping your voice calm, measured, like you hadn’t been at this for nearly two hours. “You can’t even see properly, your fringe is in your eyes.”
“I can see just fine,” he said quickly, already pushing his hair out of his face again, fingers dragging it back in a way that lasted all of two seconds before it slipped forward and fell right back into his eyes.
Sirius let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t trying so hard to stay out of it, shoulder still braced against the wall, arms loosely folded like he’d decided observation was the safest option for now.
You tipped your head slightly. “You’ve done that five times in the last minute.”
Harry blinked at you, immediate and defensive. “Because it keeps falling.”
“Yes,” you said gently. “That’s exactly why we should trim it, love.”
He huffed, shoving it back again with more force this time, like he could make it stay if he just tried hard enough. “I don’t mind.”
Sirius snorted under his breath. “We do.”
Harry turned on him instantly. “You don’t have to look at it, Padfoot.”
Sirius glanced at you, one brow lifting in silent are you hearing this, and you bit back a smile, reaching out without thinking to brush the hair away from Harry’s face yourself.
“It’s my hair,” he said, quieter now, but firm in a way that mattered more than the volume.
You softened immediately, letting your hand fall. “Yeah. It is.”
“And we’re not saying it isn’t,” you went on, keeping your voice even, calm. “We’re just saying it needs a trim. Not short. Just enough so it’s not in your eyes all the time.”
Harry shifted his weight, clearly working through that, like he was trying to find the exact point where he could disagree.
“I can just move it,” he said after a second, demonstrating again, pushing it back with exaggerated care. “See? I can do it.”
“It falls straight back,” Sirius pointed out.
“Only because I stopped holding it.”
“You cannot hold your hair back all day, Harry.”
“I could if I wanted to.”
Sirius opened his mouth, then stopped himself, pressing his lips together as he glanced at you instead, silently asking for backup.
You stepped a little closer to Harry, lowering your voice just slightly. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”
It gave him pause. Not enough to agree, but enough that you could see him turning it over, weighing it in that stubborn, careful way of his where he refused to give in too quickly, even when something made sense. For a moment, it almost looked like he might meet you halfway.
Then his attention shifted.
You saw it in the way his eyes flicked past your shoulder, something quick and intent, and by the time you turned to follow it, it was already too late. He moved fast, slipping around you before you could reach for him, darting across the room.
“Harry—”
“I’ll just do it myself.”
Your stomach dropped as he reached the side table and grabbed the scissors, fingers curling around them without a second thought.
Sirius swore under his breath and pushed off immediately, all restraint gone in an instant. “No, no, no, absolutely not—”
“I know how,” Harry insisted, already backing away again, holding them awkwardly but tightly, both hands wrapped around the handle.
“You do not know how,” Sirius said, slowing his steps, palms half-raised now, like he was trying not to spook him into running. “Give those here before you take your ear off!”
“I’m not going to cut my ear off,” Harry snapped, offended. “I’m not stupid.”
“No one said you were stupid,” you cut in quickly, moving with Sirius but a step ahead, slower. “But those are sharp, love. Really sharp. You could hurt yourself without meaning to.”
“I won’t,” he said, stubborn, tightening his grip. “I’ll be careful.”
Sirius dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience. “That’s what everyone says right before they do something incredibly stupid.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No, you’re a bloody eight year old!”
You shot Sirius a look over your shoulder. “You’re not being helpful.”
He winced slightly, then leaned in just enough to murmur, low and quick, “I’m trying, sweetheart. He’s just making it really difficult to be a patient parent.”
Despite everything, your hand brushed briefly against his wrist, grounding, a small squeeze that said I know. He turned his palm just enough to catch your fingers for a second before letting go again.
Then you stepped forward, all your attention back on Harry.
“Come here,” you said gently, holding your hand out, not for the scissors yet, just for him. “We’re not taking them off you by force. Just come here and we’ll talk.”
You crouched down slightly, bringing yourself level with him, careful not to move too fast. “We decided it needs cutting, love. It;s for your own good. We all love you so much and want you to be able to play outside freely without your hair getting in the way.” you said. “Now, what we didn’t decide is how your hair is cut.”
Harry frowned, thrown off just enough to hesitate.
You softened your voice even more. “If you want a say in it, you can have one. We can show you how much we’re cutting. You can tell us if it’s too short. But you don’t get to do it alone with scissors like that, alright?”
Harry looked down at them, then back at you, clearly torn.
For a moment, it almost worked. And then his grip tightened again.
“No,” he said, louder now, frustration bubbling back up. “I said I’ll do it myself.”
“Harry—”
“No!” His voice cracked this time, sharp and sudden, eyes bright with something that had nothing to do with hair anymore. “Just leave me alone, I can do it, you don’t have to do everything for me—”
—and then the air split with a sharp crack of the magic of Apparition.
The three of you turned instinctively.
Remus stood just inside the doorway, coat still hanging off one shoulder, eyes moving quickly over the scene in front of him, taking it in piece by piece; Harry, red-faced, clutching scissors, Sirius, halfway across the room, tense and ready to intervene, You, crouched, hand still half-extended.
“…Alright,” Remus said slowly. “I feel like I’ve walked into something.”
Harry’s entire posture shifted in an instant. The anger didn’t disappear, but it broke, softened at the edges as he turned and ran straight across the room.
“Remmy—”
He collided with him, wrapping his arms around his waist, voice rushing out all at once.
“They won’t leave me alone, they keep trying to cut my hair and I said I don’t want them to and they won’t listen—”
Remus steadied himself automatically, one hand coming up to the back of Harry’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair as he looked over at you and Sirius.
Sirius lifted both hands. “In our defence, he was about to give himself a butchered fringe.”
“I was not!”
Remus exhaled quietly, looking down at Harry. “Let me see, pup.”
Harry pulled back just enough for Remus to tilt his chin up, brushing the fringe away from his eyes. It fell straight back again.
“…I’m afraid it does need some cutting,” Remus said, mild but certain.
Harry’s head snapped back like he’d been betrayed, not clinging to Remus anymore, frustration flaring right back up. “No, I’m not letting you do it either.”
Remus’ expression didn’t change. “Harry, give me the scissors.”
“No.”
And then, very clearly and sternly, Remus said, “Harold James Potter.”
Harry froze like he’d been hit with a spell, staring at him in pure offence. “That’s not my name, Romulus.”
Sirius made a strangled noise, turning away abruptly with his hand over his mouth. You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking despite yourself.
Remus crouched down slightly, bringing himself level, his voice calm but firm in a way that cut through everything else. “Give me the scissors.”
Harry hesitated. You could see it. The argument sitting right there on his tongue, the instinct to push back and refuse again. But something in Remus’ tone held.
Slowly and reluctantly, Harry held them out.
Remus took them without a word, setting them on the table behind him before straightening again.
Harry stood there, shoulders tight, hands empty now, gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere near the floor.
Remus watched him for a second, not rushing it. “Alright,” he said at last, voice even, calm in that way that always seemed to reach deeper than the rest of you could manage in moments like this. “We’re going to take a breath.”
Harry didn’t respond, but you saw the way his chest rose a little too fast, the remnants of the argument still sitting under his skin.
Remus’ tone softened. “You’re not in trouble for being upset. You are, however, in trouble for how you handled it.”
That got a reaction. Harry’s head lifted a fraction, not quite meeting his eyes.
“We don’t shout like that,” Remus continued, steady, not unkind. “And we don’t grab things that can hurt us because we’re angry. Do you understand that?”
“…Yes,” Harry muttered, the word small, more breath than voice.
Remus nodded once, taking it in, though he didn’t move on from it just yet. “Good. Then there’s something else you need to do.”
Harry shifted where he stood, shoulders dipping slightly, like he could already feel what was coming.
He hesitated for a second, then looked up, a little uncertain, and started, “I’m sorry—”
“Nuh uh.”
The interruption was quiet, but immediate. Harry blinked, thrown off, the rest of the apology catching awkwardly in his throat.
Remus crouched down properly this time, bringing himself level, his voice still soft but carrying that tone that meant he expected to be listened to. “Not to me, pup.”
Harry frowned faintly, confused. “But I—”
Remus shook his head once, not dismissing him, just redirecting. “Before you apologise, I want you to think about it for a second.”
There was no frustration in his voice, just patience.
“When you say sorry,” he continued, “it’s not just words you say to make things stop or to get out of trouble. It’s something you mean. And to mean it, you have to understand what you’re apologising for.”
Harry’s gaze dropped, considering that, his fingers fidgeting faintly at his side.
“You were upset,” Remus went on, gentler still. “And you’re allowed to be upset. No one’s cross with you for that. You didn’t do anything wrong by feeling that way.”
“But,” Remus added, “the way you handled it? Shouting, grabbing the scissors, speaking to them the way you did… that’s the part that matters.”
Harry swallowed.
“So no,” Remus said quietly. “You don’t owe me an apology for being upset. That’s not something you have to say sorry for.”
“But you do owe one,” he finished, tipping his head just enough to guide Harry’s attention without touching him. “Just not to me.”
Harry’s shoulders sank a little more, understanding settling in properly now.
Remus’ expression softened, not unkind. “To Dovey and Padfoot. You gave them quite the tough afternoon, didn’t you, Harry?”
Harry didn’t answer this time. He just stood there for a moment, small in a way he hadn’t been ten minutes ago, all that defiance draining into understanding.
Slowly, he turned.
You were sitting on the sofa now, not quite where you’d been before, the adrenaline of the moment ebbing out of you in waves. Sirius had dropped down beside you at some point, close enough that his shoulder pressed into yours, his head tipped slightly toward you as your fingers absentmindedly threaded through his hair, smoothing it back in a slow, grounding rhythm.
He’d gone quiet too. No sharp remarks or teasing, just watching.
Harry looked at you both, and whatever he’d been holding together slipped a little.
His eyes were glassy behind his glasses, lower lip caught briefly between his teeth like he was trying very hard not to let it wobble. It hit you all at once, that shift from stubborn to small, from defiant to uncertain, and your chest softened so quickly it almost hurt.
Sirius made a wounded sound under his breath before you could even move, and then he was already leaning forward, arms opening without hesitation.
“C’mere,” he murmured, voice gentler than it had been all afternoon.
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He crossed the space between you in a few quick steps, the last of his hesitation melting away as he went, and then he was there, folding into Sirius without quite looking at him, pressing his face into the front of his shirt.
“S’rry,” he mumbled, the word muffled and swallowed by fabric. “Didn’ mean— I jus’—”
Sirius let out a quiet breath, one hand coming up immediately to the back of his head, holding him there. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s alright. Easy.”
Harry shook his head against him, words tangling together. “Wasn’ s’pposed t’ yell. I jus’— you weren’ listening an’—”
“We were,” Sirius said, not correcting him harshly, just easing the edge off it. “We just didn’t agree, that’s all. Happens sometimes.”
Harry huffed a small, shaky breath, still tucked against him.
Sirius’s thumb brushed slowly over the back of his neck, grounding and familiar. “You don’t have to fight us every time something doesn’t go your way, you know that, right?”
There was a quiet, reluctant nod against his chest.
“Good,” Sirius murmured. “That’s all we wanted.”
After a moment, Harry pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still a little bright, then glanced sideways at you like he wasn’t entirely sure how to bridge that distance next.
You didn’t make him work for it.
You opened your arms slightly, a small, welcoming invitation, and he stepped into it without hesitation, climbing up onto the sofa beside you and leaning into you in the same way, pressing his face into your shoulder.
“‘m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time, the words still slightly muffled. “Didn’ mean t’ shout at you.”
Your hand came up immediately, cupping the back of his head, pressing a soft kiss into his hair without thinking. “It’s alright, love,” you murmured against him. “We know you didn’t mean it.”
He nodded faintly, still tucked close, and for a moment the three of you just stayed like that, the earlier tension dissolving. Across from you, Remus watched, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
Eventually, Harry pulled back, just a little, enough to look between all three of you again. His fingers twisted briefly in the hem of his sleeve, nerves creeping back in.
He glanced at Remus last.
“Remmy,” he said, quieter now, almost careful. “Can you… cut my hair?”
Remus raised a brow slightly, waiting.
Harry huffed a small breath, adding quickly, “Just a little. Like… a tiny bit. Not loads.”
Sirius huffed out a quiet laugh beside you, shaking his head as his hand found Harry’s shoulder again, squeezing lightly. “A tiny bit,” he echoed.
You smiled, brushing Harry’s fringe back one more time, gentler now. “We can do a tiny bit.”
Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, some of the last tension leaving his shoulders.
Remus moved then, stepping forward to the sofa and sitting down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. His hand reached for the scissors where he’d set them aside earlier, turning them once between his fingers before glancing back at Harry.
“C’mere, pup.”
Harry stepped forward, calmer now, and let himself be guided as Remus gently settled him between his knees, one hand resting lightly at the back of his head to keep him steady without holding him in place.
“Alright,” Remus murmured, already smoothing his hair back with careful fingers, assessing it properly. “We’ll take a little off here. Nothing drastic.”
“A tiny bit,” Harry reminded him, tilting his head slightly.
Remus huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Yes, a tiny bit.”
Sirius shifted beside you, leaning in just enough that his shoulder pressed properly into yours this time, his head tipping briefly against it as he watched, something softer replacing the earlier tension. Your hand found his hair again without thinking, fingers threading through it in slow, absent strokes, and he let out a quiet, content sort of sigh.
Harry sat still, surprisingly so, eyes flicking up every now and then as Remus worked, careful and precise, each small snip measured.
“There,” Remus said after a moment, pausing to brush the loose strands away from his forehead. “Better already.”
Harry blinked, pushing at it experimentally, and for once, it stayed out of his eyes.
“…Oh.”
Sirius grinned. “Miracle, that.”
Harry shot him a look, but there was no real bite to it this time.
You watched them, the three of them, the ease that had settled back in like it had never left, and felt something warm and steady settle in your chest.
Parenting was hard. It asked for more patience than you ever thought you had, more restraint than felt reasonable some days, a constant balancing act between holding on and letting go. It was long conversations that went in circles, small battles that somehow turned into something bigger, the quiet, exhausting work of meeting him where he was even when he made it difficult.
But it was this, too.
The way he always came back after pushing away. The way he trusted you enough to soften, even if it took time, even if it came out awkward and quiet and a little unsure. The way the three of you met him there, every single time, steady and certain, no matter how many arguments it took to get there.
And really, you would do it all over again without hesitation. Every stubborn refusal, every raised voice, every drawn-out discussion that tested your patience, if it meant this in the end. Harry safe. Harry loved. Harry right here, exactly where he was meant to be.
Remus brushed the last loose strands from his forehead, studying his work for a moment before his hand settled briefly at the back of Harry’s head, warm and grounding.
“Done,” he said softly.
Harry blinked, reaching up instinctively, fingers brushing over his fringe. It stayed out of his eyes, this time. His face lit up bright, the kind of smile that took over his entire face, wide and unguarded and so full of delight it almost startled you.
He twisted where he sat, looking between you and Sirius, eyes shining behind his glasses.
“How do I look?” he asked, unable to keep it in, the excitement slipping through despite himself.
Sirius went still beside you, a heavy lump catching in his throat at the question, the answer sitting there, heavy and obvious. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but you felt it in the way his shoulder went just a little more solid against yours, in the inhale he didn’t quite manage to hide.
Sirius had wanted to say, You look just like your father, Harry.
Your hand came up to ruffle Harry’s hair just slightly, careful not to undo Remus’ work, and you answered instead, “You look lovely, Harry.”
Sirius swallowed, his expression softening as he let out a breath. “Yeah,” he added, his voice a little rougher than usual, but warm all the same. “You do.”
Harry beamed at that, the smile somehow brighter, if that was even possible.
Summary: After the rookies adopted Max as their father on paddock, you became their mother
Song: Chest Pain (I Love) · Malcolm Todd
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this!🫶
Word count: 10.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The thing about Kimi Antonelli is that he never asks permission for anything.
Not when he commandeered Max’s phone to order three extra-large pizzas at 2 AM, not when he “borrowed” your favorite hoodie and stretched it out beyond recognition, and definitely not when he decided—mid-conversation—that Max was now the grid’s unofficial father figure.
“It’s just facts,” he’d said, shrugging, as if he hadn’t just upended your entire dynamic with four words.
You’re still trying to figure out how that happened when Ollie Bearman flops onto the couch next to you, his legs dangling over the armrest.
“So,” he says, grinning like he’s about to drop a grenade in your lap, “does this make you our grid mom?”
You blink. “What?”
“Well, Max is the dad,” Ollie says, as if this is the most logical progression in the world. “You’re dating him. Therefore, mom.”
Across the room, Gabriel Bortoleto snorts into his energy drink, and Isack Hadjar—who’d been pretending to mind his own business—fails spectacularly at hiding his laughter.
Max, who had been scrolling through telemetry data on his tablet with the kind of focus usually reserved for qualifying laps, suddenly looks up as if he’d just sensed a disturbance in the paddock’s force. His eyebrows knit together. "Did someone just—"
"Assign you parental duties without consent?" you finish dryly, tossing a throw pillow at Ollie, who catches it with the reflexes of someone who’s dodged his fair share of flying debris in the F2 paddock. "Yeah. Welcome to the club."
Kimi, sprawled on the floor like an overgrown golden retriever, props himself up on his elbows. "It’s not that weird. You already act like it," he says, jerking his chin toward Max.
"Remember Baku? When Gabe tried to eat his third energy bar in an hour and you grabbed it out of his hand like, ‘No, you’ll crash the car’?"
Max opens his mouth, then closes it. You can practically see the replay running in his head—the way he’d plucked the bar from Gabriel’s grip with the same effortless authority he uses to defend pole position.
Gabriel, for his part, groans and buries his face in his hands. "I wouldn’t have crashed," he mumbles, but it’s undercut by Isack’s snicker.
Max sighs, rubbing his temples like he’s suddenly developed a headache. “So now I’m responsible for what you eat before races?” he mutters, but there’s no real heat in it—just that vaguely exasperated fondness he reserves for things he pretends to hate but secretly enjoys.
You recognize it instantly, because it’s the same tone he uses when you steal his fries.
Ollie, sensing weakness, swings his legs off the couch and leans forward. “It’s not just food,” he says, counting off on his fingers. “There’s also the time you told Kimi to stop using his helmet as a step stool. And when you made Isack rehydrate after FP2 last week—”
“Because he looked like a wilted lettuce,” Max cuts in, throwing his hands up. “That’s just common sense!”
Isack, who had been quietly enjoying the chaos, suddenly straightens. “Wilted what?”
Max opens his mouth—probably to double down on the lettuce comment—but Kimi cuts him off by flinging a bag of Haribo at his head.
"You literally said, 'Hydrate or die-drate,'" Kimi announces, as if this is the most damning evidence possible. The bag hits Max square in the forehead before bouncing onto the couch, scattering gummy bears like tiny, sugary landmines.
You press your lips together to keep from laughing. Max, ever the professional, manages to look vaguely offended while simultaneously catching a stray gummy bear mid-air and popping it into his mouth.
"That was medical advice," he insists, chewing. "Not parenting."
Gabriel, who’s been watching this unfold with the detached amusement of someone who knows he’s next, leans forward. "Then explain why you made me redo my seat fit last week because you said I was 'sitting like a drunk sloth.'"
His deadpan delivery is impeccable. Even Max pauses, the gears in his head visibly turning as he tries—and fails—to come up with a rebuttal that doesn’t sound like he’s digging his own grave.
You decide to take mercy on him. "Face it," you say, nudging his knee with yours. "You’ve been dad-ing this whole time. You just didn’t realize it."
Max stares at Gabriel for a long, silent moment, then slowly turns to you with the expression of a man who’s just realized he’s been ambushed.
“This is mutiny,” he announces, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Ollie, sensing victory, launches himself off the couch and drapes himself dramatically over Max’s shoulders like a human scarf.
“Face it, old man,” he sing-songs, “you’re stuck with us.”
The room erupts into chaos—Kimi lobs another handful of Haribos, Isack starts a slow clap that Gabriel joins with exaggerated enthusiasm, and Max, despite his best efforts, can’t suppress the laugh that escapes.
You catch his eye over the mess of limbs and candy wrappers, and he rolls his own in that way he does when he’s pretending to be annoyed but is actually two seconds away from caving.
“Fine,” he grumbles, shoving Ollie off with a half-hearted elbow. “But if I’m the dad, that means I make the rules.” He pauses, then smirks. “Bedtime’s at nine.”
The protests are immediate and deafening. Kimi, mid-reach for another gummy bear, freezes. “You can’t be serious,” he says, horrified.
Max leans back against the couch cushions, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself as the rookies erupt into indignant squawking.
Gabriel flings an empty Haribo bag at his head, which Max dodges with the reflexes of a man who’s spent years avoiding flying debris—both on and off the track. “Nine?” Ollie gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally betrayed. “I have homework.”
You snort. “Homework?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. “You mean that sim data you were supposed to review yesterday?”
Ollie’s eyes dart to the side, and you know you’ve hit the mark. Max shoots you a look that’s equal parts gratitude and why are you enabling them, but you just grin and steal a gummy bear from the pile on the couch.
Kimi, ever the opportunist, seizes the distraction to launch himself at the remaining candy, but Isack—deceptively quick—snatches the bag first and holds it above his head.
“Hydrate or die-drate,” he parrots, grinning as Kimi swipes at the air like an overexcited kitten. Max sighs, but there’s no real annoyance in it.
“You’re all impossible,” he mutters, but the way his fingers absently tap against Ollie’s forearm—still draped over his shoulders—gives him away.
Gabriel, ever the observer, leans forward with a smirk. “So,” he drawls, “if bedtime’s at nine, does that mean you’re tucking us in?” The room goes momentarily silent before dissolving into laughter.
Even Max cracks, shaking his head as Ollie nearly topples off the couch from how hard he’s giggling. “Absolutely not,” Max deadpans, but the effect is ruined by the way he’s trying not to smile.
The media had a field day with this. You realized it the moment you walked into the paddock the next morning and saw Laurent Mekies holding up a tabloid with the headline
"VERSTAPPEN ADOPTS ROOKIE SQUAD: IS THIS THE NEW RED BULL FAMILY?" splashed across the top.
Laurent’s smirk is nothing short of diabolical as he taps the tabloid against his palm. "So," he says, voice dripping with amusement, "when were you going to tell me we’re running a daycare now?"
Max, who had been mid-sip of his coffee, chokes so violently that Ollie—materializing out of nowhere like a particularly mischievous ghost—thumps him on the back with far more enthusiasm than necessary.
"Careful, Dad," he chirps, grinning. "Wouldn’t want you to drown before breakfast."
You press a hand to your mouth to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, but it’s a lost cause when Kimi—still bleary-eyed from what you suspect was a very late-night sim session—wanders over and squints at the headline.
"Huh," he says, reaching out to poke the paper like it might bite him. "We made it to print. Does this mean we’re famous?"
Gabriel, who had been lurking behind Laurent with the air of someone who knows exactly how this conversation will go, sighs. "No, Kimi. It means we’re embarrassing."
Max, having recovered from his near-death experience with the coffee, levels Laurent with a look that’s pure don’t you dare.
Laurent, being Laurent, dares. "GP wants to know if you’ll be hosting family dinners in the hospitality suite," he adds innocently, and you swear you can see Max’s soul leave his body for a brief, blissful second.
"Tell GP," Max says, voice dangerously calm, "that if he ever calls this a family dinner—"
The rest of his threat is drowned out by Isack’s sudden arrival, the Frenchman slinging an arm around Max’s shoulders with the ease of someone who’s decided fear is irrelevant.
"Relax," he says, grinning. "We’ll behave. Mostly." The mostly hangs in the air like a promise, and you don’t need to see Max’s face to know he’s already regretting every life choice that led him here.
The chaos peaks when Kimi, in a stroke of genius—or sleep deprivation—grabs Laurent’s discarded tabloid and holds it up like a trophy. "Group photo," he declares, as if this is non-negotiable. "For the archives."
You barely have time to react before Ollie bodily drags you into the frame, your shoulder colliding with Max’s chest as Isack and Gabriel flank you both with the coordination of a pit crew.
Max makes a half-hearted attempt to escape, but it’s futile; Kimi’s already herding Laurent into the shot with the determination of a sheepdog.
"Say ‘P1’!" Kimi commands, stretching his arm out to snap the photo just as Max mutters, "Godverdomme," under his breath. The resulting image is a masterpiece of absurdity: Laurent’s resigned smirk, Max’s exasperated eye-roll, and the rookies’ collective shit-eating grins. Your own laughter is barely contained, face half-buried in Max’s sleeve.
Later, when Kimi inevitably posts it with the caption "Paddock Parents™ (they’re in denial)".
The backlash—or rather, the backlash avoidance—comes swiftly. Max spends the next forty-five minutes aggressively ignoring his phone, which buzzes incessantly with notifications from the group chat Kimi has ominously renamed "Daddy and Mommy’s Little Monsters."
It was the Italian Grand Prix, and Kimi was at the top of his game, snatching pole with a lap so blistering even the timing screens seemed to blink in disbelief.
Ollie and Isack locked out the front row beside him, second and third respectively, and the collective energy in the paddock was less "race weekend" and more "teenagers hyped on Red Bull and poor life choices." Yours and Max’s shared glance said it all: This is going to be a problem.
The problem, as it turned out, wasn’t the race itself—it was the post-qualifying press conference. Kimi, still buzzing from adrenaline and the sheer audacity of his own success, leaned into the microphone like he was about to drop a truth bomb.
"Yeah, no, it’s all thanks to Dad," he said, jerking a thumb toward Max in the crowd with the subtlety of a foghorn. The room erupted. Ollie, never one to be outdone, chimed in: "And Mom’s pep talk."
You buried your face in your hands as the journalists’ heads swiveled toward you like meerkats spotting a predator.
Max, who had been mid-sip of his water, inhaled half of it. "For fuck’s—" he coughed, wiping his chin, but the damage was done.
The headlines wrote themselves: "ROOKIE TRIO DEDICATES POLE TO ‘GRID PARENTS’", "VERSTAPPEN’S UNOFFICIAL F1 DAYCARE STRIKES AGAIN".
By the time Laurent Mekies strolled into the paddock the next morning with a custom-made "World’s Best Dad" mug, Max looked like he was considering a career change to deep-sea diving. Alone.
Kimi said it so casually—like he was commenting on the weather, not dropping a bomb that would inevitably ricochet through the paddock’s rumor mill—that you almost missed it entirely.
You were halfway through stealing a fry from his plate when his words registered, your fingers freezing mid-air. "You’re what?"
He blinked up at you, cheeks stuffed with pasta like a chipmunk hoarding for winter. "Dedicating my win," he repeated, shrugging as if this were a foregone conclusion and not a declaration that would send the media into a frenzy.
"To you. And Dad, obviously, but mostly you." He pointed at your stolen fry with his fork. "Because you share your food."
You stared at him. "Kimi," you said slowly, "you haven’t even won yet."
He grinned, the little shit, and stole your abandoned fry back. "Yeah, but I will."
The confidence in his voice wasn’t arrogance—it was the same unshakable certainty he had when he’d announced Max was the grid’s dad, like he could speak things into existence just by believing them hard enough.
You laughed, "Maybe you should dedicate it to your actual family," nudging Kimi's shoulder with yours. He snorted, shaking his head like the suggestion was absurd.
"They know I love them," he said, stealing another fry from your plate with the audacity of a raccoon who'd long since abandoned shame.
"But you—" He pointed the fry at you for emphasis. "—you’re the one who stayed up till three AM going over telemetry with me when I was freaking out about sector two."
His tone was casual, but there was something disarmingly earnest in his eyes that made you pause mid-bite.
You felt yourself tearing up, blinking fast to keep the sudden warmth in your eyes from spilling over. "You better win then," you muttered, shoving your plate toward him so he couldn’t see your face.
Kimi, the little demon, saw anyway—of course he did—and grinned, shoving half the stolen fry into his mouth before tossing the other half onto your plate like a peace offering.
"Deal," he said, stretching the word out like it was a binding contract.
You scruffed his hair—a gesture that was part affection, part exasperation—your fingers tangling in his curls like you were trying to shake some sense into him.
Kimi barely flinched, just grinned up at you with sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth, looking like a smug, overfed cat. "You're insufferable," you muttered, but your voice lacked any real bite.
Kimi's grin widened, unfazed. "You love me," he sing-songed, batting your hand away with the grace of a drunken puppy.
Ollie, materializing out of nowhere like a particularly persistent ghost, draped himself over Kimi’s shoulders with a dramatic sigh. "Aw, Mom’s favorite," he teased, pinching Kimi’s cheek with exaggerated sweetness.
Kimi swatted at him halfheartedly, but Ollie dodged with the reflexes of someone who’d spent years evading older siblings. "Jealous?" Kimi shot back, tossing a fry at Ollie’s face.
Ollie caught it mid-air—because of course he did—and popped it into his mouth with a wink. "Nah," he said, chewing. "I’m the fun child."
Isack and Gabriel came out of nowhere—literally. One second, you were watching Ollie and Kimi bicker over the last fry, and the next, Isack had materialized behind you like a ninja, his breath tickling the back of your neck.
"So," he said, voice dripping with faux innocence, "if Kimi’s the favorite, does that mean we get to rebel?"
Gabriel, appearing at your other shoulder with the silent precision of a spy, nodded solemnly. "Parental favoritism is a serious issue," he intoned, pressing a hand to his chest like a lawyer delivering a closing argument. "I demand equal snack rights."
You blinked. "When did you two—?"
"Exist?" Gabriel supplied, stealing a fry from your plate before you could swat his hand away. "Since forever. You just notice Kimi more because he’s louder. Like a car alarm."
Isack nodded sagely. "Or a firework in a library."
"Fine, whoever wins tomorrow gets to spend a whole day with grid mom and dad," you joked, tossing a gummy bear at Kimi’s forehead.
The room froze like you’d just declared war instead of a throwaway bet. Ollie’s fingers stalled mid-air, halfway to stealing Isack’s energy drink. Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hairline.
Kimi’s eyes locked onto yours with terrifying intensity. "Wait," he said, voice suddenly stripped of all humor. "You’re serious." It wasn’t a question.
You blinked. "I—"
"No takebacks," Ollie interjected, slapping a hand over your mouth before you could clarify. His palm tasted like Haribo dust and poor decisions.
"Terms are set. Winner gets parental custody for twenty-four hours." His grin turned feral. "And we’re all witnesses."
The silence in the room was so absolute you could hear the faint hum of the hospitality suite's fridge. Then, like a dam breaking, chaos erupted.
"Fuck yes," Kimi hissed, slamming his hands on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump. His grin was sharp enough to cut steel. "You’re on."
Ollie, who had somehow already whipped out his phone, was typing furiously with one hand while the other kept you pinned in place.
"Adding it to the group chat rules," he announced, as if this were a legally binding contract and not the most absurd bet in paddock history. "No edits, no deletions."
The moment Ollie hit 'send' on the group chat message—now permanently pinned under the ominous title BATTLE FOR PARENTAL CUSTODY (NO TAKEBACKS)—the room emptied faster than a Red Bull pit stop.
Kimi vaulted over the couch with the reckless abandon of someone who’d just been handed a golden ticket, his sneakers squeaking against the floor as he bolted for the door.
"Simulator. Now," he threw over his shoulder, already halfway down the paddock corridor before you could process what was happening.
Gabriel, ever the strategist, executed a perfect sidestep to avoid colliding with a startled engineer, his phone already out to call his trainer.
"Cancel my dinner," he barked into the receiver, then paused. "No, yes, I know it’s carbonara night—this is more important."
Isack, in a move that defied both physics and common sense, somehow managed to shove two energy gels into his mouth while simultaneously lacing his shoes.
"Hydrate or die-drate," he mumbled through the foil packets, giving Max a thumbs-up before sprinting after Kimi like a man possessed.
You turned to Ollie, who was still typing with the ferocity of a journalist on deadline, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
"You realize," you said slowly, "that this is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done."
"Got to go," Ollie said, snapping his phone shut with the finality of a judge delivering a verdict. His grin was all teeth—the kind that made you instinctively brace for impact.
Before you could protest, he'd already vaulted over the back of the couch like an over-caffeinated parkour artist, his sneakers skidding against the polished paddock floor as he bolted for the door.
"Sim time!" he crowed, disappearing into the hallway with the energy of a grenade pin being pulled.
Max stepped into the hospitality suite with the weary air of a man who’d just survived a debrief that lasted three times longer than necessary.
His hair was mussed from where he’d been absently running his fingers through it, and the collar of his fireproofs was half-zipped, revealing a sliver of sunburn from Bahrain testing.
He blinked at the empty room—strewn with discarded Haribo bags and a lone flip-flop someone (Ollie) had lost in the chaos—then turned to you with the slow, dawning suspicion of someone who’d learned to fear silence. “Where is Kimi?”
You kept your face carefully neutral, stirring your coffee with a spoon you’d definitely stolen from Kimi’s plate earlier. “Gone.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. He kicked a gummy bear off his shoe with the precision of a man who’d spent years avoiding debris. “Gone where.”
“Simulators,” you said, too casually, and took a sip of coffee. The lie tasted bitter, but not as bitter as the truth: They’re currently waging war for the right to monopolize our weekend, and you’re the grand prize. Max didn’t need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that usually preceded him pinching the bridge of his. “Of course they are,” he muttered, collapsing onto the couch beside you.
The cushions were still warm from where Ollie had been sprawled like a sunbathing cat. “Race tomorrow and they’re—” He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you smiling like that?”
You weren’t. Probably. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve just—” His phone buzzed violently on the table, skittering toward the edge with the enthusiasm of a startled animal.
Max snatched it up before it could leap to its death, thumb swiping the screen with the weariness of a man who knew better than to hope. The color drained from his face. “What the fuck is this.”
You craned your neck. The screen glared back, illuminated by a group chat notification so aggressively highlighted it burned into your retinas:
OLLIE: UPDATE: Kimi’s lap times are illegal. I repeat, ILLEGAL. This is cheating.
GABRIEL: You’re just mad he’s 0.3s faster than you.
ISACK: [image attached: a blurry screenshot of Kimi’s telemetry with the caption “Papa Verstappen’s favorite child” scribbled in red marker]
KIMI: wait until i tell mom you’re bullying me
Max’s fingers tightened around the phone like he was contemplating crushing it into dust. “Explain,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “Now.”
You shrugged, stirring your coffee with the spoon that was definitely Kimi’s. “They’re… motivated.”
“They’re deranged,” he corrected, staring at the screen like it might morph into a live grenade.
Another notification popped up—this time a video of Ollie attempting to balance an energy drink on his head while reciting the FIA sporting regulations backward. Max’s eyelid twitched. “Why.”
"I did joke that whoever wins gets to spend a day with us," you whispered, watching Max's face cycle through five stages of grief in three seconds flat.
His grip on the phone slackened, the screen now displaying a live feed of Kimi's simulator session—complete with Ollie's running commentary in the background ("*That corner exit was *criminal, Antonelli—").
Max inhaled so sharply you half-expected the Haribo bags to levitate. "Joked," he repeated, deadpan. The word hung between you like a deflating balloon.
You winced. "In my defense—"
"There is no defense," Max interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose with the precision of a man calculating tire wear mid-race. "You armed them."
Max’s fingers tap a staccato rhythm against his thigh—three beats, pause, repeat—the way they do when he’s mentally rewriting a race strategy mid-session.
You recognize the tell instantly, just like you recognize the exact moment his brain shifts from what the fuck to how do I weaponize this. His gaze flicks to you, then back to his phone, where Kimi’s latest sim lap flashes with a delta that would be illegal in three time zones.
“So,” he says, voice deceptively light, “if they’re racing for us, we should make it worth their while.”
You blink. That’s not what you expected. “Meaning?”
Max’s thumb hovers over his screen, a predator considering its strike. Then he types three words and hits send with the finality of a guillotine drop. The rookies’ group chat erupts instantly.
MAX: Last place cooks.
The response is immediate chaos. Your phone vibrates so violently it nearly skitters off the table—Ollie’s panicked WAIT WHAT buried under Gabriel’s IS THIS A THREAT and Isack’s I ALREADY BURNED WATER ONCE.
Kimi, ever the opportunist, sends a single knife emoji.
Max leans back, satisfied, tossing his phone onto the couch like he hasn’t just declared psychological warfare. “Now they’re really motivated,” he says, grinning.
Max’s grin faded into something softer as he sank into the couch beside you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours before you even registered the movement.
His arm curled around your shoulders with the same effortless certainty he used to thread a car through Eau Rouge—no hesitation, just inevitability.
“They’re going to kill each other,” he muttered, but his fingers were already carding through your hair, blunt nails scraping lightly against your scalp in the way that always made you melt.
Max’s fingers tangled in your hair, his palm warm against the nape of your neck as he tugged you closer. You went willingly, your cheek pressing against the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath his team shirt—still faintly damp from post-debrief adrenaline.
The scent of his cologne mixed with the sharp tang of energy drinks and the lingering sugar from the Haribo massacre.
His sigh ruffled your hair as he slumped deeper into the couch, his free hand absently tracing circles on your shoulder. "This," he muttered, "is mutiny."
You snorted, tilting your head just enough to see the curve of his smirk. "You love it."
The race was a symphony of chaos from the moment the lights went out—Kimi lunging into Turn 1 like a bloodhound scenting victory, Ollie and Isack nearly trading paint in their duel for second, Gabriel executing a move so smooth it should've been illegal.
You watched from Max's garage, fingers gripping the edge of the monitor table hard enough to leave marks, your pulse thrumming in time with the engine notes screeching through the headset.
Max, ever the maestro, wove through the madness with the precision of a surgeon—until Kimi, the little demon, divebombed him into Ascari with the audacity of a kid sneaking extra cookies before dinner.
The Ascari chicane erupted into a flurry of sparks and disbelief as Kimi's front wing kissed Max's rear tire—a move so audacious the stewards would be debating it for weeks.
You barely registered Laurent Mekies' choked noise beside you, too busy watching Max's hands flick the wheel in that infinitesimal correction he'd perfected over years, the car snapping back into line like a disobedient pet.
Over the radio, his voice was eerily calm: "Tell Antonelli if he wants a tow, he could just ask."
Isack, ever the opportunist, slotted into second with the smugness of someone who knew he wouldn’t have to deal with Max’s wrath—that honor belonged solely to Kimi.
Ollie, meanwhile, spent the first five laps yelling into his team radio about "unfair advantages" and "parental favoritism," which only fueled Kimi’s determination to widen the gap.
By lap 15, Max had carved his way up to fourth, his radio transmissions laced with increasingly creative Dutch profanity.
Kimi crossed the line first, his victory lap a masterclass in barely contained chaos—he fishtailed out of Parabolica, nearly clipped a marshal’s post, and still managed to wave the Italian flag so vigorously it smacked his own helmet.
Isack, ever the composed one, finished second with a nod to the crowd that somehow read as both respectful and I told you so.
Ollie limped his car over the line in third, his post-race interview devolving into a dramatic retelling of how Kimi "stole his apex" and "betrayed the sacred bond of sibling rivalry."
Max, who’d spent the final laps nursing a suspiciously soft tire, rolled into fourth with the air of a man who’d just survived a toddler’s birthday party. Gabriel, ever the silent assassin, claimed fifth without fanfare.
Kimi emerged from the car like a firework exploding—all kinetic energy and barely-contained glee. He ripped his helmet off before the mechanics could reach him, his curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, his grin wild enough to split his face.
The Italian flag draped over his shoulders flapped behind him as he sprinted first to his parents, nearly knocking his mother off her feet with the force of his hug.
His father clapped him on the back so hard Kimi stumbled, laughing breathlessly as he turned to his team—where he was immediately swallowed by a sea of navy-blue shirts and backslaps that sounded suspiciously like someone crying.
Then he spotted you.
His eyes locked onto yours from across the parc ferme, and for a split second, everything stilled—the noise, the movement, the world narrowing to the sheer, unbridled joy radiating off him.
Then he was running again, dodging photographers and FIA officials with the agility of a kid playing tag. You barely had time to brace before he collided with you, his arms wrapping around your waist with enough force to lift you off the ground.
The flag tangled between you, the fabric rough against your cheek as he spun you once, twice, before setting you down with a breathless, "Told you I'd win."
Up close, he smelled like sweat and burnt rubber, his fireproofs still warm from the cockpit. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your back like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go.
"You—" His voice cracked, raw with adrenaline. "You saw that last lap?"
You laughed into his shoulder, the sound muffled by his race suit. "Saw you nearly take out Max in Ascari, you little menace."
The moment Kimi's arms wrapped around you, something primal and fierce surged in your chest—an instinct you hadn't known existed until now.
His racing heartbeat thudded against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your neck, and suddenly, you were acutely aware of every scrape on his knuckles, every smudge of tire rubber on his cheeks.
Your hands moved without thought, one cradling the back of his helmet-mussed head while the other pressed between his shoulder blades like you could physically imprint this victory into his bones.
"Idiot," you murmured into his hair, but your voice cracked halfway through.
Kimi only laughed, his grip tightening in response, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. Behind him, Ollie fake-gagged into his glove while Isack mimed wiping away tears, but you barely noticed.
All you could focus on was the way Kimi's breath hitched when you carded your fingers through his sweat-damp curls—the way he leaned into the touch like a sun-starved plant.
Max's hand landed on your lower back, his touch warm even through the fabric of your shirt.
"You're crying," he observed quietly, his thumb brushing the spot where Kimi's flag had chafed your cheek. You hadn't even realized.
Kimi pulled back just enough to peer at your face, his grin faltering when he saw the moisture gathering in your lashes.
"Hey," he said, suddenly serious, his thumbs swiping at your cheeks with surprising gentleness. "No way. This is—this is happy, right?" His voice wavered on the last word, uncharacteristically vulnerable.
You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "So happy," you managed, squeezing his wrists. His pulse fluttered under your fingertips, rabbit-quick.
Something in his expression shifted—a flicker of recognition, like he'd just solved a puzzle he hadn't known he was working on.
Then Ollie barreled into him with the grace of a drunk giraffe, slinging an arm around his neck and shouting something about "emotional damage" loud enough to startle a nearby marshal. The spell broke.
Later, when the podium ceremonies had ended and the press had gotten their fill of Kimi's infectious laughter and Ollie's theatrics, you found yourself cornered in the hospitality suite by Gabriel.
He leaned against the counter beside you, sipping a protein shake with the air of someone who'd been waiting all day to deliver a verdict. "You know," he said casually, "he cried in the cool-down room."
You nearly dropped your water bottle. "Kimi? Cried?"
Gabriel's smirk was all teeth. "Not like, sobbing. Just—" He mimed wiping his eyes with exaggerated delicacy. "When Ollie said you looked proud. Then he punched Ollie in the arm so hard the FIA mic picked it up."
He took another sip, watching you over the rim of his shaker. "Maternal instinct's a hell of a drug."
You opened your mouth to protest—you weren't that soft, for Christ's sake—but Max chose that moment to materialize behind you, his chin hooking over your shoulder.
"Tell me you're not conspiring with the gremlins," he muttered, breath warm against your ear.
Gabriel grinned, unrepentant, and tossed his empty shaker into the bin with a flourish. "Wouldn't dream of it, Dad."
Max's groan vibrated through your back as Gabriel sauntered off, but his arms tightened around your waist when you tried to follow.
"Nope," he said, spinning you to face him. His thumbs traced absent circles on your hips, his gaze flickering over your face like he was memorizing something. "You've been claimed."
"By who?" you challenged, just to see his eyes narrow.
"By them." He jerked his chin toward the window where Kimi was currently attempting to climb onto Ollie's shoulders while Isack egged them on. "And me."
His voice dropped, rough around the edges in that way that always made your stomach flip. "Mostly me."
You rolled your eyes, but the effect was ruined when Max caught your wrist and pressed your palm flat against his chest.
His heartbeat thudded under your fingers—steady, relentless, alive. "Feel that?" His lips brushed your temple. "That's your fault too."
The accusation hung between you, weightless and undeniable. Because it was true.
Somewhere between confiscating Ollie's fifth energy drink and letting Kimi nap against your shoulder during film review, something had shifted.
You'd stopped being just Max's partner and become theirs—the person they texted at 3 AM with simulator questions, the one Isack trusted to fix his headrest padding, the silent presence Gabriel sought when the pressure got too loud.
Max's fingers skimmed your jawline, tilting your face up. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide with something that wasn't quite possessiveness but close.
"You're smiling," he accused.
"You're imagining things," you lied, but your traitorous fingers curled into his shirt anyway.
A crash from outside shattered the moment—Ollie's triumphant whoop punctuated by Kimi's indignant "CHEATER!"—and suddenly Max's mouth was on yours, insistent and tasting faintly of the espresso he'd stolen from your cup earlier.
His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, angling you closer like he could absorb the noise through sheer force of will. When he pulled away, his breath came uneven.
"We're leaving," he declared.
You raised an eyebrow. "And them?"
"Their problem." Max jerked his chin toward the window where Isack was now attempting to climb the hospitality awning while Gabriel filmed with clinical detachment. "They've survived this long."
Another crash—definitely carbon fiber meeting concrete—made you wince. "They're your problem too," you reminded him, just as Kimi's voice cut through the chaos: "MOM! Ollie stole my trophy!"
Max exhaled through his nose like a man resigning himself to the gallows. "I hate you," he informed you solemnly, already striding toward the door.
You caught his wrist, your fingers sliding easily into the spaces between his knuckles. "Liar."
His grip tightened, calluses catching on your skin. "Yeah," he admitted, and let you tug him into the madness.
The trophy—solid silver and nearly as tall as Ollie—gleamed under the paddock lights as Kimi clung to it with the desperation of a man guarding his last meal.
Ollie, perched on the hospitality awning like a deranged squirrel, grinned down at him with the kind of glee usually reserved for arsonists.
"Come on, Antonelli," he taunted, dangling Kimi's winner's cap just out of reach. "Jump for it."
Kimi's grip on the trophy tightened. "That's stealing," he hissed, though his voice cracked halfway through, ruining the effect.
Gabriel, leaning against a nearby pillar with his arms crossed, snorted. "Legally? No. Ethically? Also no. But it is funny."
You sighed, rubbing your temple where a headache was forming. Max, who'd been watching the spectacle with the detached amusement of a zookeeper, finally stepped forward.
"Ollie," he said, voice dangerously calm. "Give it back."
Ollie froze mid-taunt, his grin slipping into something more cautious—like a cat realizing it’s been caught mid-swipe at the curtains. "But—" he started, then stopped when Max’s eyebrow inched higher.
With a theatrical sigh, he tossed the cap back down. It landed in Kimi’s outstretched hands with a soft whap.
"Buzzkill," Ollie muttered, but he was already scrambling down, his sneakers scraping against the awning’s metal frame.
Kimi clutched the cap to his chest like a vindicated toddler. "Thank you," he said, aiming for dignity but landing somewhere closer to pouty. Max snorted and ruffled his hair—hard enough to make Kimi yelp.
Max's fingers drummed against the hospitality table, slow and deliberate, like a judge considering a death sentence.
His gaze slid from Kimi—still clutching his trophy like a shield—to Gabriel, who'd wisely retreated behind the pillar. "Gabriel," Max said, voice deceptively light. "You know what this means."
Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "No."
"Yes," Max corrected. The word landed like a guillotine blade. "Last place cooks. That's the rule."
Gabriel's scoff was undercut by the way his fingers tightened around his phone. "I was fifth. That's midfield, not last."
Max leaned back against the hospitality counter, arms crossed. His smirk was lethal. "You finished behind Ollie, who spent half the race yelling about Kimi's 'illegal' apexes. That's last in my book."
A beat of silence. Then Gabriel's shoulders slumped—a rare concession. "Fine," he muttered, already pulling up a recipe on his phone. His face twisted in horror. "Do you own… pans?"
Kimi, who had been suspiciously quiet, suddenly perked up. "I can help!" he announced with the enthusiasm of a puppy offered steak.
Ollie choked on his energy drink. "Help? You set water on fire once."
Kimi's grin was all teeth. "Exactly. Gabriel needs supervision."
Gabriel groaned, rubbing his temples like he could already feel the migraine forming. "This is how we die."
The yacht rocked gently beneath your bare feet, the Mediterranean sun warm against your shoulders as you leaned over the railing.
Kimi's victory had come with perks—this sleek, white monstrosity of a boat being one of them—and Max had grumbled about "excessive celebrations" right up until the moment he'd sprawled across the sunbed with a contented sigh.
"You're burning," you observed, flicking a droplet of water at Max's shoulder where his skin had started to pink. He cracked one eye open, squinting against the glare.
"Worth it," he muttered, stretching his arms above his head with a groan.
The movement made his swim trunks ride dangerously low on his hips, and you barely resisted the urge to trace the tan line there with your tongue.
A sudden splash shattered the moment. Kimi surfaced like a deranged dolphin, shaking saltwater from his curls as he clung to the boat's ladder.
"Race you to the cove!" he challenged, already kicking off again before either of you could respond.
Max sighed through his nose—the sound of a man who'd long since accepted his fate—before rolling off the sunbed in one fluid motion.
"He's going to drown himself," he said, as if commenting on the weather.
"Your kid," you reminded him, just as Kimi's triumphant whoop echoed across the waves. Max shot you a look that could melt titanium before diving in after him, his form perfect even when swimming for leisure.
You watched them cut through the water—Kimi all reckless energy, Max effortlessly efficient—until they disappeared around the rocky outcrop.
The yacht's deck was suddenly too quiet without their chaos. You counted to thirty before giving in and grabbing the waterproof camera Kimi had "forgotten" on his sunbed. The little shit knew you'd follow.
The cove was postcard-perfect: turquoise water lapping at white sand, cliffs draped in bougainvillea.
Kimi was already sprawled on a flat rock like a sunbathing seal, arms spread wide as if to absorb the entire Mediterranean. Max floated nearby, one arm hooked around an outcropping, watching Kimi with the fond exasperation of a parent at the zoo.
"Took you long enough," Kimi called without opening his eyes. His grin widened when you lobbed his abandoned hat at his face. "Ow—hey! That's winner's merchandise!"
Max snorted. "Should've thought of that before abandoning ship." He swam closer to you, fingers brushing your ankle where you perched on a lower rock. "Regretting our life choices yet?"
You flicked water at him. "Only the ones involving you two."
Kimi sat up abruptly, sending droplets flying. "You love us," he declared, as if this were irrefutable fact. The afternoon light caught the salt crusted in his eyelashes, the faint scar on his shoulder from his first karting crash.
He looked absurdly young like this—all sunburnt nose and reckless joy.
Max's hand found the small of your back as you waded into the shallows. "She tolerates you," he corrected, but his thumb traced idle circles on your hipbone, betraying him.
Kimi's answering grin was feral. He launched off the rock with a yell, tackling Max into the water with the precision of a torpedo. They surfaced in a tangle of limbs and half-hearted curses, Kimi's laughter bouncing off the cliffs.
"You—" Max wrestled him into a headlock, but Kimi just grinned up at him, unrepentant. "—are a menace."
"Your menace," Kimi corrected, and the way Max's grip loosened told you everything.
You snapped the photo just as Kimi twisted free, capturing the exact moment Max's exasperation melted into something dangerously close to affection. The camera shutter sound made them both turn—Kimi dripping and triumphant, Max's hair plastered to his forehead like a wet sheepdog.
"Blackmail," you announced, waving the camera. "For when you inevitably flood the yacht."
Kimi's gasp was theatrical. "You wound me." He paddled closer, resting his chin on your knee where you perched on the rocks. Up close, he smelled like salt and sunscreen, his eyelashes clumped with seawater.
"Besides," he added, mischief glinting in his eyes, "Dad already threatened to throw me overboard twice this morning."
Max snorted. "Third time's the charm."
The yacht's deck was littered with abandoned towels and half-empty glasses when Gabriel finally emerged from below, scowling at a recipe on his phone like it had personally offended him.
"Who the hell uses saffron in scrambled eggs?" he muttered, kicking a stray flip-flop out of his path with unnecessary force.
You barely had time to dodge before Ollie cannonballed into the sea, soaking Gabriel's designer shorts.
Gabriel's glare could have melted steel. "Bearman," he growled, wringing out his shirt, "I will end you."
Ollie surfaced with a gasp, shaking water from his hair like a golden retriever. "Prove it," he challenged, grinning.
Isack emerged from the water like some kind of vengeful sea god, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, one hand clutching a half-melted ice cream cone that had somehow survived his impromptu swim.
"Gabriel," he announced solemnly, shaking saltwater onto Ollie's head, "your eggs taste like regret."
Gabriel's spatula froze mid-flip. "You what—"
"The saffron," Isack continued, licking a rogue drip of vanilla from his wrist with the gravitas of a food critic. "It's tragic."
Max, who'd been silently observing the carnage from his sunbed like a war correspondent, chose that moment to interject. "You ate them?"
Gabriel’s spatula clattered onto the grill with a metallic clang. His expression cycled through disbelief, betrayal, and finally, resignation. "You ate my experimental eggs," he repeated, deadpan.
Isack shrugged, licking the last of the ice cream from his fingers. "Someone had to. They were weeping in the pan."
From the edge of the yacht, Ollie let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a choke. "They what—"
"They wept," Isack confirmed gravely. "Like a sad French film."
You sighed as you watched your chaotic family—your chaotic family, Christ—spread across the yacht’s deck like a particularly unruly pack of seagulls.
Kimi was attempting to balance Ollie’s discarded flip-flop on his head while dramatically reciting what sounded like Shakespearean insults. Gabriel had abandoned his culinary war crimes to film the spectacle with the detached fascination of a wildlife documentarian.
Isack, now perched on the yatht’s edge like a sunbathing lizard, flicked water at them both with his toes.
And Max—Max was watching you watch them, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal the quiet amusement in his eyes.
"Regret yet?" he asked, though the way his fingers brushed your wrist betrayed him.
You caught his hand before he could retreat, threading your fingers through his. His knuckles were still faintly salty from the cove, the calluses along his palm rough against your skin.
"Not even a little," you lied, just to feel him scoff.
The moment shattered when Kimi’s flip-flop catapulted off his head and smacked Gabriel square in the chest. Gabriel didn’t even flinch.
He just slowly lowered his phone and said, voice deadly calm, "Antonelli. Why."
Kimi blinked at him, all faux innocence and sun-bleached lashes. "Physics?"
The shriek of the spatula scraping against the grill was Gabriel’s only warning before Ollie lunged from the sea, tackling Kimi into the water with the grace of a falling fridge.
They surfaced in a tangle of limbs and half-shouted profanities, Kimi’s laughter bright enough to eclipse the Mediterranean sun.
"You’re all banned from my kitchen," Gabriel announced to no one in particular, tossing his ruined eggs overboard. A seagull dove after them with a shriek.
Max’s thumb traced your pulse point, his grip tightening when Kimi tried to climb onto Ollie’s shoulders—only to slip and drag them both under again.
"They’re going to drown each other," he muttered, but he made no move to stop them.
You leaned into him, watching Isack—who’d somehow acquired a second ice cream—lob a spoonful of mint chocolate chip at Gabriel’s retreating back.
"They’re your problem too," you reminded him, just as Kimi surfaced with a war cry and launched himself at Isack’s legs.
The sun dipped low over the Mediterranean, painting the yacht’s deck in gold and long shadows, but the chaos showed no signs of slowing.
Kimi’s latest attempt at a backflip off the diving board ended in a spectacular belly flop, the sound echoing off the cliffs like a gunshot. Ollie, who’d been mid-sip of his sparkling water, choked laughing so hard it came out his nose.
"Alright! I'm going to make beef ragu with shredded beef to celebrate the winner," you announced, peeling yourself off the sunbed with the kind of determination usually reserved for pit lane calls.
Kimi's head snapped up so fast his sunglasses flew into the sea, his cheer echoing off the yacht's hull like a war cry. "YES! RAGU DAY!"
Max's fingers caught your wrist as you passed, his grip warm and slightly sticky from sunscreen. "You realize you're rewarding his recklessness," he muttered, though his thumb traced idle circles on your pulse point—a silent plea for you to stay.
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to the sun-warmed crown of his head. "I'm rewarding his win," you corrected, just as Ollie cannonballed into the sea behind you, soaking Max's discarded shirt.
The galley was a minefield of Gabriel's abandoned culinary casualties—a scorched pan of weeping eggs, saffron threads scattered like confetti, one singular smoke alarm dangling by a wire.
You'd barely unearthed the Dutch oven when Kimi materialized at your elbow, dripping seawater onto the marble counter. "I'll chop!" he declared, brandishing a chef's knife with the enthusiasm of a serial killer.
You plucked the blade from his fingers. "You'll watch," you amended, nudging him toward the breakfast bar with your hip.
He flopped onto a stool with a dramatic sigh, chin propped in his hands as you browned the pancetta. The scent of garlic hitting olive oil made his stomach growl loud enough to startle the seagull perched outside the porthole.
Max appeared in the doorway, toweling saltwater from his hair. "He's hovering," he observed, nodding at Kimi, who'd inched forward until his chest nearly touched the counter's edge.
"You hover," Kimi shot back, kicking Max's shin under the table. The resulting scuffle sent a carrot rolling across the floor, which Isack—who'd slipped in silently—snatched midair with the reflexes of a feral cat.
"Ragu thief," Kimi accused, pointing at Isack's retreating back. The older boy paused just long enough to take an exaggerated bite before tossing the carrot back with a smirk.
The galley descended into organized chaos—Gabriel materializing to critique your knife skills, Ollie attempting to "help" by dramatically drizzling olive oil until Max confiscated the bottle, Isack periodically stealing ingredients only to return them with added spices.
At one point, Kimi snuck a raw onion slice into Ollie's energy drink, resulting in a spit-take that sprayed half the kitchen.
"Mom," Ollie whined, wiping his mouth as Kimi cackled, "Kimi's committing war crimes—"
Max caught your wrist before you could intervene, his palm warm against your pulse. "Let them fight," he murmured, tugging you back against his chest.
His breath stirred the hair at your temple as the chaos unfolded—Gabriel retaliating by flicking flour at Kimi, who retaliated by dumping an entire clove of garlic into Ollie's abandoned smoothie.
The ragu simmered as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the galley in gold and long shadows.
Kimi, now sprawled across the breakfast bar with his head pillowed on folded arms, watched the steam curl from the Dutch oven with rapt attention. "Smells like home," he mumbled, half-asleep.
The moment you lifted the Dutch oven's lid, the scent of slow-cooked ragu—rich with tomatoes, red wine, and the faintest hint of cinnamon—flooded the galley. Kimi shot upright like a bloodhound catching a scent, nearly toppling off his stool.
"Holy shit," he breathed, scrambling toward the stove with the single-minded focus of a man who'd forgotten food could taste good after Gabriel's saffron disaster.
You handed him a wooden spoon before he could stick his fingers in the pot. "Stir," you ordered, nudging him aside to retrieve the fresh pappardelle.
Kimi obeyed with unnatural focus, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scraped the spoon along the bottom of the pot.
Behind him, Ollie sniffed the air like a cartoon wolf. "Is that—"
"Ragu day," Isack confirmed solemnly, materializing at Kimi's shoulder to peer into the pot. His eyes widened. "That's… a lot of beef."
Kimi's stirring grew more aggressive. "Deserved."
The plating turned into a competitive sport—Kimi meticulously arranging each pasta twirl like it was pit stop tire change, Ollie sneaking extra pancetta onto his own plate when he thought no one was looking, Gabriel critiquing the plating symmetry with the intensity of a race engineer.
You barely had time to blink before Max confiscated the serving spoon from Kimi's third attempt to heap an impossible mountain onto his plate.
"Portion control," Max muttered, swatting Kimi's wrist when he tried to sneak more.
Kimi pouted. "But—"
"You'll make yourself sick," you interjected, nudging him toward the table where Isack was already seated, his fork poised like a weapon.
The first bite was comically synchronized—four sets of eyes widening in unison, four forks freezing mid-air. Kimi made a sound halfway between a whimper and a prayer, his fingers tightening around the table's edge like he might levitate.
Ollie, sauce smeared across his cheek, pointed accusingly at Gabriel. "This is what eggs should taste like."
Gabriel flipped him off but didn't stop shoveling pasta into his mouth.
Max's knee bumped yours under the table, his expression softening when he caught your gaze. "Good?" he mouthed, though the way Kimi was practically vibrating out of his seat answered for you.
Isack, who'd been uncharacteristically silent, set his fork down with deliberate precision. The scrape of metal against porcelain silenced the table.
Everyone turned—Gabriel mid-bite, Ollie with noodles dangling from his lips—as Isack leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His dark eyes flicked from the empty Dutch oven to your face, then to Kimi's sauce-smeared chin.
"Next time," he announced, voice smooth as the yacht's wake, "I'm racing for this."
Kimi's fork clattered onto his plate. "The fuck you are—"
Ollie lunged across the table, nearly upending Gabriel's water glass. "Winner's privileges!" he shouted, brandishing his napkin like a white flag. "Antonelli doesn't get monopoly on ragu—"
"You don't even like Italian food!" Kimi hissed, gripping the table edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Isack arched one eyebrow—a silent, devastating counterargument. The sauce smeared across his own plate told its own story.
The argument crescendoed around you like a badly tuned orchestra—Kimi jabbing his fork toward Ollie’s stolen pancetta, Gabriel muttering about "portion justice" in Spanish, Isack calmly dismantling Kimi’s entire argument between bites—but you just twirled another forkful of pappardelle and let the chaos roll over you.
The ragu was rich and velvety, the kind of meal that settled in your bones, and for once, Max wasn’t the only one stealing glances at you between bites.
Kimi, mid-tirade about Ollie’s "theft of sacred beef," paused to swipe a crust of bread through the sauce on your plate without asking. You didn’t even flinch, just nudged the bowl of grated Parmigiano closer to him.
His eyes flicked up, surprised, then crinkled at the corners as he dumped half the bowl onto his pasta with a defiant glare at Isack.
"You’re enabling him," Max muttered under his breath, but his hand found your knee under the table, his thumb rubbing absent circles over the inside of your thigh.
Ollie, mistaking your silence for neutrality, lunged across the table to brandish a noodle at you like Exhibit A. "Mom, tell him sharing is—"
"Bearman." Gabriel’s voice cut through the chaos like a scalpel. He didn’t look up from meticulously arranging his last bite of pancetta onto a fork. "Swallow before you speak. Or don’t. Either way, we win."
The resulting squabble—Ollie spluttering, Kimi cackling into his wineglass, Isack calmly stealing Ollie’s abandoned bread basket—should’ve been exhausting.
But the weight of Max’s palm on your leg, the way Kimi’s foot knocked against yours under the table like a Morse code thank you, the sheer warmth of it all settled in your chest like the ragu in your stomach: deep, slow, undeniable.
You reached for the wine bottle at the same time as Max. His fingers brushed yours, lingered.
The look he gave you—half exasperation, half helpless fondness—spoke louder than the rookies’ cacophony. Look what you’ve done to us, it said. Look what we’ve become. . . .
OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: when the team realizes spencer has a secret girlfriend, garcia launches a glitter-covered investigation that’s equal parts profiling and meddling. the problem? their “mystery girl” profile is so wrong it hurts — and then the case cracks wide open, whether you’re ready or not.
genre: hurt/comfort, fluff tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, accidentally suggestive comment from spencer lol, garcia being the office gossip, BAU team shenanigans, reader has insecurities over if she’s wrong for spencer/how she’s perceived/her entire personality basically, team dinner at rossi’s, reader is warm fruit’s #1 hater, kissssing, purposely suggestive comment from reader, they’re so down bad it’s gross, no use of y/n
a/n: i feel like this hopefully goes without saying, but zero offense is meant to the type of girl described in this fic — i just needed a contrast to greenaway!reader! anywho, this one has been a loooong time coming so I hope you enjoy (and plz appreciate the silly goofy visual aid I made on canva that you’ll find below lol) | GIF by eva @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
Spencer’s alarm goes off at 6:15, but you’re pretty sure he’s been awake for ten minutes already and just pretending not to be so he can keep his arm around you.
“Turn it off,” you mumble into his chest.
“I got it,” he says as he reaches for the clock.
You crack an eye open. “Too early.”
He ignores your complaint in favor of dipping his head to kiss your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. You kiss him back, slow and lazy, one hand curling in the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
“If we don’t get up now, we’ll be late,” he says, very much not moving to get up.
“You say that like you didn’t design your alarm timing around a twenty-minute buffer,” you reply, sliding your leg over his.
“Sixteen-minute buffer, actually,” he corrects. “We typically spend an average of seven minutes kissing before I spend the other nine between your—”
“Spencer!” you shriek, cutting him off before he can finish a statement like that at six in the morning.
He smirks. “I was just providing data.”
You pinch his side. “Provide less.”
He laughs again, sleepy and warm, and grins like he’s proud of getting you flustered.
You kiss him again. It’s easier now that the part where you pretend not to want to stay has worn off. You just want to stay, and you let yourself.
When you finally peel out of bed, it’s with mutual groaning and the kind of reluctant separation that would be disgusting if it were anyone else. He presses a quick kiss between your shoulder blades as you swing your legs over the side of the mattress; you pretend it doesn’t make your chest do something stupid.
By the time you’re dressed and make your way out of the bedroom, Spencer’s apartment smells like coffee and toast. He’s in the kitchen in a button down and slacks, tie draped around his neck, reading something in the newspaper with a little furrow between his brows. There’s a mug waiting for you — your mug, chipped on one side, living here now without discussion.
You snag a piece of toast off his plate, bite into it, and lean your hip against the counter while he wrestles with his tie. It’s a new one — navy with small, neat polka dots.
“Come here,” you say, setting your mug down.
He steps closer automatically when you hook two fingers in his belt and tug him in. You untie the knot and redo it, straightening it with careful precision. He watches your face like you’re doing something much more interesting than fixing his tie.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “I just… like you here.”
You roll your eyes because the alternative is something mushy, but then you lean in anyway and let your lips find his.
The kiss is soft and familiar and still somehow manages to make your knees a little shaky. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and home, which is a terrifying thought you refuse to examine this early in the day.
He breaks away first, forehead resting against yours. “We should go.”
“Yeah,” you say, not moving.
A beat passes, then another long kiss. Eventually you both laugh, step back at the same time, and pretend you’re ready for reality to hit.
You grab your jacket and badge off the hook, he grabs his satchel and keys, and you walk out the door together.
—
By the time you pull into the Quantico lot, the radio is off and his hand is resting, casual and warm, on your thigh. You let it stay there until you’re close enough to see the building, then you nudge it away and give him a look that says later.
He gives you one back that says I know.
The practiced routine kicks in — you get out and head inside first, he waits three-and-a-half minutes before doing the same.
Spencer barely makes it to his desk before Rossi appears beside him like a well-dressed shadow.
“Ready to go?” Rossi asks, coffee in hand, already halfway turned toward the bullpen doors.
They’re headed to the academy building across campus, today’s guest lecturers for a criminology training. Spencer always pretends he’s indifferent to that sort of thing, but the second he’s in front of a whiteboard, he lights up.
Spencer blinks, then nods. “Yes. I just need—”
“Your notes are in your bag,” Rossi says. “You sent me five drafts already. Come on, kid, the cadets await.”
Spencer glances in your direction automatically. You lift your eyes just long enough to catch his and tip your chin, a small, private acknowledgment no one else would notice.
He smiles — barely there, but there — and then heads out with Rossi. You watch them go, then drag your focus back to the report in front of you.
You get maybe three minutes of peace.
“Greenawaaay,” Garcia sings, appearing at the edge of your peripheral vision like a colorful mirage.
You don’t look up yet. “If this is about your whipped cream experimentation with Kevin, I already told you I’m not certified in exorcisms.”
“It’s not about the whipped cream,” she says. “It’s much more important than the whipped cream. Which should tell you the stakes here are astronomical.”
You sigh, close the file, and finally turn. JJ and Prentiss are hovering behind her with matching she-already-recruited-us-but-we-don’t-know-what-for expressions. Morgan leans against the nearest desk, arms folded, clearly already in on whatever this is.
“What did you do?” you ask.
“Me?” Garcia bats her lashes. “Nothing. But we’re about to make history. Come on.” She jerks her head toward the hallway. “Top secret meeting in my office.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m on the clock, Garcia. I have work to do.”
“As do I,” she says. “This is… related to work. Trust me.”
You should say no. You should go back to your paperwork. Instead, curiosity wins and you slide out of your chair.
Garcia herds the four of you down to her lair like a cheerful, bedazzled sheepdog. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, the lights of her monitors bathing the room in neon. On the far wall, there’s a corkboard you don’t remember seeing before.
At the top, in big, bold letters outlined with glittery tape, it says:
OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL - O.M.G.
Garcia plants herself in front of the board, hands on hips. “Welcome, my beloved profilers and communications liaison, to the inaugural briefing of O.M.G.!”
JJ presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Morgan isn’t even pretending to not be thrilled. Prentiss looks like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck.
“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you say.
“This,” Garcia announces, pointing dramatically at the corkboard, “is a fully serious, very important investigation into the case of Dr. Spencer Reid’s mysterious secret girlfriend.”
You blink. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She gestures dramatically to the board again. It’s already populated with printed photos, sticky notes, and colored yarn connecting pins like you’re standing in front of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.
At the bottom is a sheet of paper featuring a stick figure of a woman with a giant question mark over her face. Around it: headings that read EVIDENCE SO FAR, POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS, and VIBES in Garcia’s handwriting.
You step closer despite yourself.
Under EVIDENCE:
Suspiciously happy like all the time
Volunteering for less overtime than usual
New clothes??!!
His aura just screams I’M IN LURVVV
“Some of this is actually pretty accurate,” Prentiss says, leaning in.
“I’ve been monitoring his behavior for weeks,” Garcia says proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. Our boy genius is smitten, and he is hiding her from us.”
Morgan shakes his head. “He’s definitely hiding something. We’ve been saying that for a while. And at O’Keefe’s the other week, he didn’t exactly deny it. He just said ‘no comment,’ which means there’s definitely a girl.”
“He has a right to privacy,” you point out, mostly because you’re trying not to gnaw through your own tongue.
“Absolutely,” Garcia says. “He has the right to privacy, and I have the right to gossip with my friends about our other friend. Both things can be true.”
Prentiss snorts.
Garcia taps the POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS column, where there are several options listed already:
Kindergarten teacher
Librarian
Baker
Social worker
“Seriously? You think he’s dating a kindergarten teacher? A librarian?” you ask.
JJ lifts a shoulder. “He does like to read.”
“And he’s good with kids,” Morgan adds. “Makes sense he’d go for someone sweet and gentle like that."
“It’s probably someone outside the FBI,” Prentiss proposes. “Normal job. Normal hours. No guns.”
“She definitely wears super cute colorful cardigans,” Garcia adds, already scribbling it down under VIBES. “And I’d venture to guess that she bakes cupcakes when she’s stressed. Smells like vanilla!”
“Vanilla,” you echo, deadpan.
JJ tilts her head. “You don’t think he’d be into someone like that?”
You shrug like it’s theoretical, like your heart isn’t doing something unpleasant in your chest. “He might be, I don’t know. But I think he needs someone who can actually handle the job. The hours. The… everything. This kind of life isn’t exactly gentle.”
“Exactly,” Garcia says. “Which is why she’s gotta be gentle. She provides a counterbalance. Yin and yang, crime and cupcakes. It’s poetic.”
She writes CUPCAKES under VIBES.
Morgan points his pen at the pinned drawing of the stick figure woman. “Come on, Greenaway. You spend a lot of time with him. Help us out.”
“I do not spend a lot of time with him,” you deny automatically.
Four pairs of eyes look at you.
You lift your hands. “Fine. I spend an appropriate amount of professional time with him. Not my fault Hotch pairs us together a lot.”
“Point is, you know him. So, from a purely hypothetical standpoint,” JJ says, “what kind of person do you think he’d be happy with?”
You stare at the board for a moment, at the fake girl they’ve built out of cardigans and vanilla extract. Then you pick up a pen.
“Someone smart,” you say. “He’d need that. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a walking encyclopedia but also doesn’t get lost or zone out when he goes off on a tangent. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly,” you continue. “You all know what this job does. You don’t get to just… opt out of the darkness. If you’re with him, you’re in all of it.”
You tap the pen against the board, then force your tone lighter. “And yeah, okay, probably someone nice.”
Garcia grins, scribbling down NICE under VIBES and functionally ignoring the rest of what you said. “See? This is why I invited you. You have insight!”
Morgan grins. “So we’re in agreement. She’s smart, sweet, likes kids, bakes.”
“And probably has no idea how lucky she is,” JJ adds.
You swallow back the instinctive no, she definitely knows she’s lucky and say instead, “Can I go back to work now, or are we building a composite sketch?”
Garcia swats the air. “This is just Phase One, my fine furry friend. We will reconvene later. In the meantime, I expect you all to investigate.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Great. Can’t wait to see what Phase Two has in store.”
As you step back, your gaze catches on the stick figure again. On the glitter, the stickers, the ridiculous heading — O.M.G.
According to the board, Reid’s mystery girl should be someone who wears cardigans. Smells like sugar. Teaches kindergarten.
Definitely not someone like you.
You shove that thought down where it belongs, under seven layers of scar tissue and denial, and head back to the bullpen like nothing in here touched you at all.
—
The rest of the morning unfolds like any other day at the BAU, if you ignore the fact that one of your coworkers has unknowingly built a conspiracy wall about you.
You try to ignore it.
You work a consult. You write up a report on last week’s case. You argue with a detective over the phone until he backs down, and when you hang up, Morgan’s watching you like: damn, remind me to never piss you off.
“You good?” he asks.
“Peachy,” you say, tossing the file onto your desk. “Please tell me Garcia found a new hobby in the last hour.”
He grins. “Not a chance. She’s real committed to this one.”
You roll your eyes and open your email.
There’s a subject line from Garcia that reads: “O.M.G. – Phase Two Meeting Tomorrow - Agenda Enclosed!” with three heart emojis.
You don’t open it. You’re not that masochistic.
Around noon, your phone buzzes against your desk. You assume it’s another follow-up from Garcia and flip it over, already cringing. Instead, it’s Spencer.
Spencer: Cadets have already asked 3 questions that make me concerned for the future of law enforcement.
You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it, shoulders loosening.
You type back under the desk.
You: important news from the home front: i am currently the unsub in an unsanctioned profiling experiment being conducted out of garcia’s lair
There’s a long enough pause that you can imagine him reading it twice, brow furrowed.
Spencer: …What?
You: penelope has formed a task force
You: codename: operation mystery girl
You: acronym: O.M.G.
You: there’s glitter. so much glitter
You: and specific instructions not to tell you about it. oops
This time, his reply is almost immediate.
Spencer: Why can’t I know?
You: because you’ve been “suspiciously happy” so they’ve decided that gives them grounds to reverse-engineer your love life
You: they’re profiling your “type.” your mystery girl.
Another beat. You can practically feel him flushing through the screen.
Spencer: What have they concluded so far?
You: that you’re dating a bubbly, perfect kindergarten teacher who smells like vanilla
There’s a full minute of silence this time. You picture him in some Academy auditorium, phone in his hand under the desk while Rossi lectures about offender typologies.
Finally:
Spencer: I don’t even like vanilla that much.
You laugh under your breath and stare at that for a second, heat curling low in your stomach for absolutely no good reason as his second text comes through.
Spencer: I prefer more complex flavors.
You roll your eyes at your phone, because of course he somehow made that sound unintentionally sweet and slightly filthy without even trying.
You: stop flirting with me during class
You: you’re supposed to be educating the next generation of the fbi
As if on cue, Hotch’s door opens and he steps out into the bullpen, scanning the room. You turn your phone face-down on your desk.
By late afternoon, O.M.G. has evolved. Every so often you catch someone making a note — Garcia walking by while scribbling on a sticky, JJ whispering something in her ear, Prentiss and Morgan analyzing Spencer’s desk from a distance.
It’s fine. It’s all stupid and harmless and fine.
Your phone buzzes again around four while you’re in the hall heading back from the bathroom.
Spencer: Wrapping up here, should be back soon. Any further developments on the O.M.G. front?
You glance down the hall towards Garcia’s office. The door is closed, a faint glow spilling out from beneath it like a witch’s cave.
You: more of the same
You: i’ll fill you in tonight
You hesitate, then tack on one more message before you can talk yourself out of it:
You: miss you
It’s reckless and feels entirely too honest, but your thumb hits send anyway.
The reply comes before you’ve even locked your phone.
Spencer: I miss you too. See you soon.
You swallow, looking around like the words might be visible in the air, but no one’s looking at you. No one has a clue.
Yet.
—
By the time you make it to Spencer’s apartment after work, your brain feels like it’s humming inside your skull.
You kick the door shut with your heel, toe your shoes off in the entryway, shrug out of your jacket and scarf and hang them on the hook you’ve claimed as your own. Spencer drops his satchel by the couch and heads for the kitchen.
“Dinner,” he calls, opening the fridge. “Option A: leftover lo mein. Option B: grilled cheese. Option C: both.”
“C,” you pick.
He smiles faintly and pulls out the takeout container. It’s all so normal — him moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, you leaning your hip against the cabinets as you watch him. This is your life now: FBI agent by day, domestic lovergirl by night.
You watch him butter bread and portion out noodles like he’s solving a complex equation. He glances up.
“You said you’d fill me in,” he reminds you. “On O.M.G.”
You snort. “Right. Your fan club.”
He raises his eyebrows. You sigh and attempt to pick the least sharp version of the recap you’ve been brewing in your head all day.
“Garcia built a case board,” you say. “There are doodles and glitter tape and stickers. She has lists pinned to it for ‘Evidence So Far,’ ‘Potential Occupations,’ and ‘Vibes.’”
He blinks once. “…Vibes.”
“Vibes,” you confirm. “And according to our coworkers, apparently the ‘vibe’ is that you’re secretly dating a kindergarten teacher slash librarian slash cupcake baker who smells like vanilla and wears colorful cardigans and definitely doesn’t carry a gun or have years of trauma to work through in therapy.”
He pauses in the act of flipping a sandwich. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” You pick at a chip in the countertop.
“And what did you contribute to the investigation?” he asks.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “That whoever you’re with would have to be smart. And able to handle the job. And not treat you like you’re made of glass. Clearly, my influence was minimal.”
The grilled cheese sizzles. The lo mein goes in the microwave. Silence fills in around it, heavy and familiar.
You eat on the couch, plate balanced on your knees, a National Geographic documentary playing low on the TV.
You make jokes at first. You tell him about Prentiss and Morgan’s intense study of his desk for “data collection” and Garcia’s email subject lines. Spencer laughs in all the right places. He looks at you more than he looks at the screen.
But by the time the plates are empty, the jokes have dried up.
You stack the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them off like the hot water might scald the thoughts out of your head. When you look up, he’s still on the couch, watching you with that careful focus of his.
“What?” you ask.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says.
“Please specify which thing,” you say. “I have a lot of things.”
“The thing where you brush something hurtful off like it’s funny but then go really quiet and your shoulders get all tense.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
“I never said you weren’t.” His voice stays soft, but there’s a thread of seriousness underneath it. “I said to come here.”
You sigh and drop onto the couch beside him with more force than necessary. He shifts closer, thigh warm against yours. His hand finds the back of the couch behind your shoulders, not quite touching you yet.
“So,” he says. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because we both know that’s not true.”
“It’s stupid,” you grumble, staring at the coffee table.
He gently lifts your chin with his finger. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, throat tight. You’ve been replaying it all day — the board, the stick figure, the list of traits that are a complete juxtaposition to your entire personality.
“I…” You trail off and try another angle. “The team loves you. They just want you to be happy. It’s sweet, honestly. A massive overstep and an insane invasion of privacy, but still sweet. I understand their curiosity.”
“But,” he prompts gently.
You exhale, sharp. “But… they built you a perfect imaginary ideal girlfriend, and she’s nothing like me.”
He’s quiet. You push on before you can lose your nerve.
“Like, not even a little bit,” you say. “She’s soft and gentle and bakes when she’s stressed and doesn’t know what a glock looks like. She smells like vanilla.” The word tastes bitter on your tongue. “And the thing is, Morgan and Garcia and JJ and Prentiss know you. Like, really well. They’re your best friends. So if that’s the woman who pops into their heads when they think about who’d be good for you—” You break off.
When you look up, his eyes are still on you, open and steady.
“When they eventually find out it’s me,” you go on, forcing the words out, “they’re going to look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you traded in a cupcake for… I don’t know. A Molotov cocktail or something.”
“You don’t honestly think,” he says, “that they sat there and consciously decided, ‘Reid should be with someone who is the total opposite of Greenaway.’”
“No,” you say. “I think they didn’t think of me at all.”
The words hang there, more naked than you meant them to be.
He goes very still.
“Not that I wanted them to think of me and figure it out, but still.” You stare resolutely at the coffee table. “And, like, I get it. I’ve spent a long time cultivating a vibe that says ‘do not perceive me unless you want to get bit.’ I don’t exactly radiate ‘nurturing life partner’ energy. It would almost be funny if it didn’t feel like—” You motion helplessly at some vague point in front of you. “Like confirmation,” you say. “That I’m wrong for you. That when they do eventually find out, they’re going to wonder how badly you hit your head.”
There’s a prickling behind your eyes. You blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t help much.
“And I hate that it’s getting to me,” you say. “I don’t care what people think. That’s, like, my whole thing. I have built an entire personality around not giving a shit. But I…” You flex your hands, fingers curling against your knees. “I care what they think of you. And of you with me. And apparently that’s enough to scramble my brain, because now I’m sitting here wishing I could be some fucking vanilla-cupcake-librarian for you because you deserve someone that sweet and soft and kind, but that’s— that’s not who I am. I don’t know how to be that girl. And I am so fucking tired of being the wrong kind of girl in every room.”
There’s a long moment where the only sound is the TV and your own breathing, too loud in your ears.
Then Spencer moves.
He reaches over, gently pries your hand away from your knee, and laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm. His grip is firm without being possessive.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. It feels like standing on the edge of a roof and choosing, deliberately, not to step back.
“You’re right, they do know me,” he says. “But they don’t know what it feels like to be in my apartment at three in the morning when my brain won’t shut off and you stay up with me just so I’m not alone. They don’t know what it’s like to sit in a car with you at a crime scene and have you make the darkest possible joke at exactly the right moment. They don’t know how it feels when I start spiraling and you say, very firmly, ‘Reid, eat something,’ and shove a granola bar into my hand.”
You start to object. “That happened, like, one time.”
“It was three times,” he says. His thumb strokes along the side of your hand absentmindedly.
“They’re still a bit stuck on the version of me that existed before… a lot of things. Before Tobias Hankel. Before Gideon left. Before losing people changed the way I look at everything. They still see the kid who needed to be protected from himself.”
“Sometimes you still are that kid,” you say softly.
“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I’m also a man who knows what he wants. Who he wants.” His eyes are steady on yours. “And it’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”
Your throat tightens.
“They want me to have someone gentle,” he says. “And I get why. But gentle doesn’t necessarily have to mean cupcakes and vanilla and kindergarten.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re gentle with me in all the ways that matter. You know when to challenge me and when to just… be here.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want a cupcake,” you say slowly.
“I’m saying I don’t want to be handled,” he corrects. “I don’t want to be someone’s fragile project. I don’t need to be saved from my own life by a nice woman in a cardigan.”
He leans in a little, eyes not leaving yours.
“I chose you,” he says. “Not because I’m convinced you’re secretly soft underneath it all and one day you’ll transform into their idea of what my life should look like. I chose you, completely as you are. Sharp and stubborn and infuriating and the only person who’s ever told me to shut up not because you didn’t care what I had to say, but because you wanted to kiss me so badly you couldn’t wait."
Heat flickers under your skin at that memory. Your eyes sting again. You blink hard.
“They love me,” he says with a nod. “You’re right. But they also love you. They trust you with their lives. They’ve seen you bleed for this team. Do you really think that when they find out I’m with someone who understands all of that, who gets it down to the bone, they’re going to… what? Stage an intervention? Tell me I should hold out for someone better?”
You look away, jaw tight.
“If I didn’t want you,” he says, voice even, “I wouldn’t be with you. If I thought you were wrong for me, I wouldn’t let you into this part of my life.” He squeezes your hand. It’s grounding, the pressure. “I’m not going to look at Garcia’s corkboard and suddenly decide I made a mistake. I’m in this because I want to be.”
You swallow, hard. A traitorous tear finally escapes despite your best efforts; you swipe it away with the heel of your hand before it can go rogue.
“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter. “I’m mad at a fucking bulletin board.”
He smiles, small and fond. “You’re not mad at the board.”
He shifts closer, finally letting his arm drop around your shoulders, pulling you in until you’re halfway in his lap.
“I just don’t want to be the wrong choice,” you whisper.
“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re the right one. And if that conflicts with our friends’ wild imaginations, then that’s their problem to solve. Not ours.”
You swallow, breathing uneven. He’s so close you can count his eyelashes. You let your head tip against his shoulder as his thumb draws idle circles on the back of your hand.
“Okay,” you say eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “But if they look at me like I’m a bad idea when they eventually find out, you’re in charge of reminding them I’m not.”
“I can do that,” he promises.
You stay like that for a while — documentary murmuring in the background, the universe shrunk down to the circumference of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At some point, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair.
“You know Garcia’s going to put glittery heart stickers around my face if she ever adds me to that board,” you mumble against him.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m so keeping it if she does.”
You pinch his side. He yelps, then laughs, then presses another kiss into your hair.
Let them have their glitter for now, you think to yourself. Let them build their wrong profile. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re choosing each other.
—
Rossi’s email hits your inbox on Thursday morning, wedged between a case update and a training memo.
BAU Pasta Night at Villa Rossi: Saturday. 6pm. Mandatory attendance.
You read it twice. There’s something about dinner at Rossi’s that feels less like an invitation and more like a command.
Your phone buzzes with a text five minutes later.
Spencer: Did you see Rossi’s email?
You stare at the screen longer than you need to, then type back:
You: yep
You: guess we’re having pasta this weekend
Once Saturday night hits, Garcia is on Spencer before he can even take his coat off in Rossi’s foyer.
“REID,” she announces, planting herself in front of him with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for hacking and cross-referencing. “You came alone.”
Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. “Hi, Garcia.”
Morgan appears behind her with a glass of wine, already grinning. “No plus-one, man? C’mon.”
Emily lifts her eyebrows in amusement. JJ’s smile is softer, more sympathetic than nosy.
You keep your face blank and slip past them toward the kitchen, waving awkwardly to Hotch as you pass by the living room, because if you have to stand there and listen to this, you will commit a felony.
Rossi intercepts you with a dish towel over his shoulder and a look that says I got you, kid.
“If you’re looking for a way to escape Penelope’s witch hunt, go ahead into the cellar downstairs and pick out another bottle of red,” he says mercifully. “Barolo or Chianti preferably, but it’s your choice."
“Yes, sir,” you say sarcastically, and take the out.
The basement is cooler, quieter. You let yourself breathe for a minute, fingers trailing over labels, pretending you’re here for the tannins.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Spencer is doing his best impression of a man who is not currently being cornered by three BAU agents and one extremely glitter-motivated tech analyst.
Garcia doesn’t even bother easing in.
“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands. “We have respected your privacy for—”
Morgan coughs. “We have attempted to respect your privacy.”
Garcia glares at him, then refocuses on Spencer. “—for a completely appropriate amount of time. But I simply cannot wait any longer. In my heart of hearts I know you’re seeing someone, and I’m DYING to know who she is.”
Spencer rubs the back of his neck. “This is, uh… really none of your business.”
Emily leans against the counter, entertained. “You’re surrounded by profilers, Reid. Being in other people’s business is kind of what we do best.”
JJ steps in a little. “Look, Spence, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” she says, and she means it even though Garcia’s threatening her with dagger eyes. “But we’re your friends. We notice when something changes, and we just want the chance to be happy for you.”
Spencer’s ears go pink. “I—I know. It’s just— It’s private.”
Garcia’s eyes widen theatrically. “So she IS real! Private means real!”
Morgan tilts his head. “C’mon, fess up. You seeing someone, pretty boy?”
Spencer hesitates for an awkward beat, running through the options in his head. He supposes that confirming the existence of a significant other isn’t the worst idea in the world, considering they’ve already pretty much figured it out, and it’s not like he has to tell them who the “mystery girl” is. That’s a boundary line he can draw and stick to. Plus, maybe they’ll chill out on O.M.G. and leave you some room to breathe if they at least have a few nuggets of information to hold them over for a bit.
“Yes,” he admits finally. “I’m…seeing someone.”
Garcia makes a sound like she’s about to ascend. “OHHH MY GOD. I KNEW IT.”
“So,” Emily says. “How long has it been?”
Spencer exhales. “A… while. Things started slow, so it’s somewhat hard to quantify.”
As if he doesn’t know the exact amount of time down to the minute that’s passed since you first kissed him in Ohio.
Morgan’s cheeky grin softens as he claps Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says.
Spencer nods and looks down, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. JJ’s expression brightens in a way that’s genuinely excited for him.
“Well,” Garcia says, leaning in like she’s about to jump into full-on detective mode. “Tell us about her! I want to know everything.”
Spencer’s eyes flick up. “I—”
“Not actually everything. We’re not asking for her social security number,” JJ clarifies. “Not even her name. Just…are you happy? Is it going well?”
Spencer nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s…good. Really, really good.”
Garcia’s voice turns unexpectedly soft. “Is she good to you?”
Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Emily taps her fingernail against the counter. “What sorts of things do you two do? Do you go out? Stay in?”
“Both,” Spencer says. “We do, uh, normal things.”
Garcia squints. “Define ‘normal,’ because your normal includes reading hundred-year-old Russian novels for fun.”
He gives a small, helpless shrug. “We… we go on walks. Run errands. Go out to eat. There’s this little Italian restaurant in Georgetown she really likes. But… we also stay in a lot. We cook together sometimes. Talk. Read. Watch movies.”
“What kind of movies?” JJ probes.
Spencer thinks of you engrossed by a classic horror film or picking apart some terrible romcom with surgical cruelty, pointing out every dumb decision while somehow still being fully invested. He does not say that out loud.
“Uh, anything, really,” he says instead. “She made me watch Pulp Fiction recently, and I showed her a documentary about black holes last weekend. She… likes indulging my interests.”
Emily’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that. JJ files it away. Garcia is practically vibrating.
Morgan jumps in next. “So, you planning on bringing her to one of these things eventually?”
Spencer’s throat bobs. “…Eventually.”
“In the meantime, I need more. What does she like?” Garcia presses. “What’s her favorite—food, music, whatever. Give us something, Reid! One harmless little detail.”
Spencer’s brain scrambles for something that feels safe. Something that won’t point to you. Something small.
“She… she has a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “Brownies, cake, cookies… you know. But she hates warm fruit. Something to do with the texture. We went to a diner once where the waitress gave us free slices of pie, and she picked out all the fruit and just ate the crust and ice cream.”
Emily laughs. “That’s unhinged.”
Garcia clutches her heart. “Oh, a woman with a quirk! I just know I'm going to adore her already.”
Spencer’s eyes flick toward the cellar door for the briefest of seconds — instinctively, as if his gaze is trained on you like a magnet — before looking back at his nosy friends with his signature awkward, tight-lipped smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “I have a feeling you will.”
—
When you come back upstairs with a bottle of Barolo, the evening has already moved into that easy, warm groove: plates clinking, voices overlapping, Rossi refilling wine glasses.
You laugh at something JJ says. You argue with Emily about her taste in horror movies. Spencer watches you like he’s trying to memorize your face. As if he hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.
By the time the pasta plates are cleared and Rossi heads into the kitchen to grab dessert, you’ve almost forgotten about O.M.G. entirely. The team has, mercifully, taken it easier on Spencer after the conversation you missed while seeking refuge in the wine cellar.
Whatever he said to shut them up, it must’ve worked, you think to yourself.
Rossi returns to the dining room and sets a slice of apple pie in front of you. “Made from scratch,” he boasts.
You eye it. The apples are glossy and soft. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. But the crust looks deliciously sugary and flaky and you’re not about to insult Rossi in his own home mansion, so you manage a polite “Thank you” and pick up your fork.
Across the table, Spencer freezes.
Not a subtle freeze — no. It’s a full, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights freeze.
He clears his throat too loud. Knocks his fork against his plate. His foot finds your ankle under the table with a series of frantic little nudges.
You glance up, confused, eyes clearly asking what the heck is your problem.
He’s staring at your plate like it’s an unpinned grenade.
His mouth opens. Closes. He tries again, smaller, more desperate: “Uh—”
What? you mouth, eyebrows raised.
His eyes flick back and forth — pie, you, pie, you — like he’s trying to telepathically beam a message directly into your skull. But there is, unfortunately, no universal signal for if you eat your pie like a feral raccoon our coworkers are 100% going to figure out our secret so please just be normal this one time, so you just stare at him blankly.
Weirdo.
You gently kick his foot away — more confused than annoyed — and turn back to your plate.
And then you do what you always do.
You begin to push the warm apples to one side of the dish with the edge of your fork, methodically separating fruit from crust like you’re field-stripping a firearm.
Spencer’s face goes beet red in anxious anticipation, but the room doesn’t go silent all at once.
It’s staggered. Like a line of well-spaced dominos, toppling one after another in perfect succession.
Garcia notices first. Her whole face lights up, brows practically shooting up to her hairline. A strangled noise catches in her throat, and her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s trying to keep herself from screaming.
JJ freezes mid-bite, fork suspended, eyes wide and snapping to Spencer.
Morgan’s grin falters into disbelief. “No way,” he says, like he’s arguing with reality.
Emily’s jaw goes slack. “Oh,” she breathes. Then her eyes sharpen, bright with dawning glee. “Ohhh.”
You look up at the sudden weirdness and find four faces locked on your plate like you’ve just confessed to arson.
“What,” you ask carefully, “is happening. Why are you all staring at my pie.”
Morgan points his fork at your dish and turns to Spencer. “Reid,” he says, voice pitched with amusement, “didn’t you literally just tell us your girl does that? That she won’t eat warm fruit?”
Spencer shuts his eyes for a second — brief, pained — like he’s watching himself die in third person. When he opens them, he looks straight at you.
Pure apology. Pure guilt.
He winces. “I… I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”
Something in you goes cold and then hot at the exact same moment you catch up to what’s going on.
For half a second, your brain offers you the classic Greenaway solution: vanish. Run and never look back. You can practically feel the panic trying to crawl up your throat, because this is what you were dreading — the second everyone knows, they get to have opinions. They get to look at you and Spencer like a math problem and decide you don’t add up.
Except… they’re not at all looking at you like you’re wrong for him.
You scan the room. Garcia’s smiling so big it looks painful. JJ’s gaze is warm, not sharp. Emily looks like she just won a bet she never told anyone she made. And Morgan is staring like he can’t believe you got one over on him, but there’s no anger in it — just that big-brother okay, show me you’re serious energy. The only person in the room who looks horrified is Spencer, who’s clearly just trying to cope with the fact he accidentally revealed your relationship in maybe the stupidest way possible.
You take a breath, feel your pulse in your throat, and then — because you’re not going to let all of your control over this situation be ripped out of your hands — you say:
“Congrats everyone, you cracked the code. Yes. Reid and I are together.”
Garcia explodes.
“MYSTERY GIRL IS YOU,” she shrieks, half out of her chair. “It’s been you this ENTIRE time. Oh my GOD. I made a board! I made assumptions! I said cupcakes and cardigans when in reality, Mystery Girl was right in front of me in boots and a leather jacket and—”
“Garcia,” Hotch warns.
JJ’s earnest expression is the first thing that cuts through the chaos. “This makes so much sense,” she says.
“Yeah,” Emily agrees. “The second you say it out loud, it’s like— of course. How did we miss that?”
Morgan sits back, still staring between you and Spencer like he’s recalibrating. Then he lets out a laugh — half disbelief, half delight. “Man,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I thought you were cuddled up with a librarian or something. Meanwhile you’re out here dating the most terrifying Greenaway sister,” he says, then winks at you like he’s trying to make sure you know he means it as a compliment.
You lift your chin. “Say that again and I’ll throw this pie at you.”
Morgan grins, hands up. “See? Exactly what I mean.”
Rossi sips his wine with a chuckle. “About time you bozos figured it out.”
Garcia whirls on him. “You KNEW?!”
Rossi’s mouth quirks. “What can I say, I’m good at my job.”
Hotch sets his fork down with the resigned patience of a man who has filled out a lot of paperwork on this exact subject already. “I’ve also been aware for some time,” he says evenly.
Garcia makes a noise that sounds like she’s dying. “BOTH of you knew?!”
Spencer clears his throat, still pink, still looking like he wants to apologize to you in six different languages. His eyes don’t leave your face.
Garcia’s hands clap together like she’s calling court to order. “O.M.G. never stood for Operation Mystery Girl,” she announces, breathless with triumph. “It stood for OH MY GREENAWAY all along.”
JJ’s gaze meets yours. “For what it’s worth,” she says, "I'm really happy that Mystery Girl is you.”
Emily lifts her glass in a small toast. “Me as well,” she adds. “This is good. This is really, really good.”
Morgan’s grin softens into something fond and protective. “As long as you’re both happy and nobody’s getting hurt,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”
Garcia’s voice goes thick, emotional, and she tries to bulldoze right through it with dramatics. “I’m so happy,” she declares. “I’m also a bit devastated I wasn’t included in the secret circle of knowing earlier, but mostly I’m happy because you two are…” She gestures wildly. “You’re you. And it’s perfect.”
Something in your chest steadies instead of cracks.
“Okay,” you say, exhaling. “Cool. Great. Everybody get it out of their system?”
Garcia points at your pie plate, still half-disassembled. “Not even close. I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but I can’t get over that THIS is what did it.”
You deadpan. “My beef with pie is never-ending.”
Rossi claps once, satisfied. “Alright. Now that the children have finished screaming, eat your dang dessert.”
Laughter rolls around the room again, warmer now, less sharp.
Under the table, Spencer’s shoe nudges yours.
You nudge back.
And when you finally escape an hour later, the night air is cold and quiet, and Spencer grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to drive his guilt into the pavement.
You watch him from the passenger seat, heart weirdly calm.
He doesn’t say much on the drive. Neither do you. The secret is out, the world didn’t end, and for now, that’s enough.
—
Back at Spencer’s apartment, the quiet hits you like a soft wall.
No Garcia shrieking. No Morgan cackling. Just the click of the lock, the hush of the hallway outside, and Spencer standing there with his keys still in his hand.
“You okay?” you ask, toeing your shoes off.
Spencer exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding it since the pie incident — and sets his keys down with exaggerated care. Then he turns to you, eyes wide in that way they get when he’s trying not to catastrophize and failing.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You don’t need to be.”
He shakes his head. “But I am. I’m so sorry. For all of it. For telling them the fruit thing. I didn’t realize I was outing us. I—I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”
“I gathered that,” you say.
He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to touch you but doesn’t want to assume it’d be welcome.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he continues, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “It was stupid. I thought giving them a hyper-specific detail would give them something to fixate on and shut them up, and that one seemed harmless enough, but then I saw the pie and I—” He swallows. “I really did try to warn you.”
“You did,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You were practically doing Morse code against my ankle.”
“I panicked,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “And then it all happened so fast and you looked—” He stops, eyes flicking over your face like he’s searching for hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you hate being… perceived.”
He takes one more step. You can feel his warmth now, close enough that it seeps into you.
“I keep thinking about the other day,” he says quietly. “How scared you were for them to find out.” His throat bobs. “And then I was the one who—who basically handed them our secret on a silver platter.”
You tilt your head. “On a pie platter, actually.”
He looks pained. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”
“Spencer,” you say seriously. “I’m not mad at you.”
He lets out a breath, but it’s not quite relief yet. He’s still braced for impact.
“And I’m not mad that they know,” you add, watching him closely. “I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that my downfall was pie of all things, but—”
His mouth finally lifts, small and uncertain.
“But,” you repeat, “it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”
You push off the wall and close the space remaining between you, because you’re tired of him hovering at the edge of you and want him to feel how not-mad you are.
His hands find your waist the second you’re close enough, careful at first, then firmer when you lean in like you belong there.
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
You nod. “I’m sure.”
“Because you could—” He swallows. “You could decide this is too much. Too exposed. And I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d miss you.”
Something in your chest goes tight and hot.
You slide your hands up his arms, feel the muscle under his sleeves, the faint tremor he’s trying his best to hide. You clasp your fingers behind his neck and pull him down until his forehead nearly brushes yours.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.
His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the words physically steady him.
“You’re not?”
“No,” you say, and you let yourself mean it. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m not running. The worst thing that happened tonight is that our coworkers found out I have psychopathic dessert habits.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Besides,” you add, because you can’t help it, “you looked kinda hot when you were trying to telepathically get me to eat my pie like a normal person.”
His eyes open, startled. “I— what?”
“You did,” you insist, deadly serious. “Somehow, panic is a good look on you. Big fan.”
His cheeks go pink, but now it’s in a good way.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide the smile.
“And you,” you say, sliding your thumbs along his jaw, “are catastrophizing.”
“I know,” he admits. “I just… I care about you.”
The words hang there, heavy and honest and dangerously close to a bigger truth, but you don’t let it scare you. Not tonight.
You kiss him instead.
It’s slow at first — soft, testing — like you’re proving something to him with your mouth: I’m here. I’m fine. Then it deepens, because Spencer never stays soft for long once you give him permission. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to misunderstand.
His mouth is warm, familiar, and still somehow new every time. You feel him exhale against you, a quiet sound that sinks into your skin.
When you pull back, he looks at you again and cups your cheek like you’re something precious.
“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” he says.
“I’m okay,” you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m… actually kind of relieved.”
His brow furrows. “Relieved?”
You roll your eyes, because you refuse to be poetic about it. “Yeah. It’s out, and they didn’t—” You falter, just a flicker. “They didn’t look at you like you were making a mistake.”
His expression softens.
“No,” he agrees. “They didn’t. I told you they wouldn’t.”
You nod once. “And you were right. So, I’m good.”
“Good,” he echoes, but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.
Your gaze drops to his mouth again. His eyes follow it, and his breathing changes — subtle, but you know him by heart now.
You smirk and lean in closer until your lips are brushing with every breath. “And hey, now that the team knows, we don’t have to pretend we’re not together every second of the day anymore,” you tease.
His voice goes a little rough. “We still shouldn’t, uh, do anything at work, you know.”
“Obviously,” you say, like you’re offended he even suggested it. “But we’re not at work right now, are we?”
He shudders softly as his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, drawing you closer like he’s been waiting all night to do this without consequence.
“No,” he murmurs. “We’re not.”
You kiss him again, deeper this time. He gives in completely, following your lead with that sweet, earnest hunger that always makes you feel a little wicked and a little adored at the same time.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing differently. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.
“I’m still sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t be,” you say. “It’ll make a good story someday.”
His throat works. His hands tighten on you like he needs the confirmation in his bones.
You press your mouth to his once more, slow and sure, just to make the point stick.
“Case closed,” you murmur against his lips.
Spencer’s smile turns soft and helpless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Mystery solved.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
→ next part
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
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