#face expressions comma face expressions...

[staticthingamajig]

[hadijjj]

Magic spell of love friendship and kindness!!!!

Or who could believe that Ness was the best brat tamer?

word count: 1,1k

tags: fem! reader, p in v sex, Ness's dom (and I will die on that hill), brat taming, a bit of degradation, teasing, sex in front of a camera, Kaiser mentioned

Dear Kaiser, 

I am writinh to sincerwly apologkze for my... 

“You made three mistakes in the first sentence,” Ness hissed in your ear, sharp whisper of moist lips scorched your ear, put your whole body in flames. “Are you that stupid you don’t know how to write an email? Or just not motivated?” 

Sounds of the keyboard clicking lost its usual hurried tempo upon your trembling hands hovering over the keys, occasionally hitting the buttons as if you were typing for the first time. Each clank faded in your heavy stuttering sighs, sighs and whimpers you couldn’t hold when your pussy painfully clenched around nothing. 

“P-please, I c-can't...” you mustered up the last bits of consciousness for a pathetic mumble, shamelessly bent over the hard wooden desk, figure clad in only underwear and some top Ness didn’t bother to take off: he had only pulled your soaking panties to the side to slide his cock against your puffy folds. A little distraction added up. 

“Oh, you can, you were so cocky and capable when you were bratting out like that,” he fondled with the plush of your hips, keeping you in place, not giving you a mercy to move an inch or let you grind on his shaft, covered in precum and your slick––how could someone so sweet looking be so cruel?! 

As much as others, you considered him Michael’s lapdog: barking and biting for his friend you barely held any respect. As expected, your own ego couldn’t ignore this behaviour! Clash after clash, Alexis’s patience was wearing thin; no more backhanded comments, no more attempts to include himself in the arguments.  

The day when he directly walked over to you, invaded your personal space, leaned so close to spit the last warning in your face in that hushed tone, only reinforced by this mysterious and dizzyingly sweet cologne. You finally tasted the fruits of your labour. 

“F-fuck,” you breathed out, bucking your hips involuntarily in meek attempts, while trembling cursor navigated to autocorrect the underlined words, sensitive clit subtly grazing the mushroom tip, and it drove you insane 

“Language,” his grip on your hips tightened, restraining you from pleasure, as his focus diverted to the bright screen again. “You forgot the comma before the and.” 

Who cares about these commas anyway?! 

You pathetically shuddered under him, first whines and sniffles spilt out of your mouth like nothing, and it didn’t shake his resolve––only stiffened the dick between your foldsand heaved the breathing in your ear.  

He liked that till the last click, didn’t he? 

Till the click on the “send” button, when he put his hand over yours, which rested on the mouse, lead it to the certain app you didn’t comprehend behind the blurred edges of your vision; though, what you did understand was your faces on the screen, dimly lit by the bright monitor, and the recording light flicking in the corner. 

“You’re desperate like that, aren't you?” Alexis tilted your head for a better camera angle, making sure you could see the glassy eyes, the mussed hair, the pathetic face expression, and the way you nodded so eagerly. “Say you’re sorry.” 

“I-I’m sorry, sorry, sorry!” 

Suddenly, your leg was placed on the desk, the knee hit the wooden surface, so it made you naturally spread for him. More access, more touch you were so depraved of. The hand from your face crept under your torso, arm wrapped around your waist yanked you up and tore your upper body from the table. 

Now the whole view of the camera was your soaked panties, an outline of his tip behind the flimsy wet fabric that rested right on your clit, snuggly pressed and nested against the bullied bundle of nerves, and veiny hands on your body occasionally diving under the fabric, playing with a hem in torturous teasing. 

“Look how desperate,” muted sound of the recording, panties tugged to the side to present the leaking pussy. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” 

He was entranced by the sight, the way your slick glistened in the dim light on the screen and how your folds and the pretty button––much more enticing than the “send” one, Ness secretly admitted to himself––got puffier under it. It should burn to feel that hot, shouldn’t it? 

His cock moved, finally, positioned at your inviting entrance; while his knuckles grazed your pussy. Gentle caress that made you shudder, along with the way his tip pressed against your hole and pulled away. 

“Y-yess, Lexis, please,” you whimpered, nails dug in his tensed arms, as his other hand fondled with a hardened nipple under your top. 

“Why do you think you deserve it?”  

Not much of an answer could you dumbed out brain come up with...  

“Nothing to say, huh?” Alexis repeated his torturous teasing, push and pull. “Or you finally understood that you were wrong?” 

“Y-yes” 

He smirked, pressing his tip against the entrance again. 

“Being humble suits you so well.” 

And he slid in, tugging at the underwear to put on a magic show in front of the camera, making you moan at the delicious stretch. The way your slick gummy walls enveloped and clenched around him, as it knocked you off breath. 

“See? Having good manners isn’t so difficult,” Ness started to move, making you melt in his body with each thrust, each hit on that certain spot. “Better see you that compliant in front of Kaiser tomorrow, okay?” 

“O-okay,” you answered with unfamiliar obedience––that dick wrecked you, for sure.  

And it took not so long until your wobbly legs started shaking, your knee accidentally hit the desk again, and you felt something inside was about to break, and it wasn’t only your mind.  

Panting like a dog in heat, you threw your head on his shoulder, biting your lip; and through that dazed gaze you could make out his features. 

“Already close? What a needy girl,” He didn’t even need any answer to pull your writhing figure closer, rub on your neglected clit. And he couldn’t help but chuckle when you blurted out “thank you” mid blabbering. Looking so proud and content at his work––you coming undone and mewling in his arms––as if there wasn’t any animosity in the first place. 

With a final thrust he buried himself to the hilt, shooting hot ropes of cum until your pussy was dripping, grunting and fluttering his lashes, while you went limp against him. 

“You’re actually so cute when you behave,” he pressed a peck on your temple before turning off the recording, sincere smile crept up his cheeks. 

That magic wand put some crazy spells on you. 

AAAURGHUGH I LOVE THAT GUY

[lemonsdietcoke]

We’re Still Not Over. ~ R.C

Summary: You should have just broken up, but Rafe would never let that happen. Sequel to ‘we’re not over.’ (Reader is kies cousin btw)

Warnings: NONCON/DUBCON (implied), DV (implied), Toxic relationship, Emotional abuse, Physical abuse,Baby trapping, Religious guilt/manipulation, Forced pregnancy elements, abortion. If any of this triggers you or isn’t your thing, scroll away. This is fiction. 

a/n: BITCH IM BACK OUT MY COMMA. Okay but fr thanks for all the love on the last part, i had to go to rehab right after posting it so my apologies for how long this part took but im doing sm better now. They tried to make me go to rehab and i said yes! yes ! yes!

MINORS DNI

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Downstairs, your mom’s voice floated up the stairs, soft and uncertain.

“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”

The words landed in your chest like stones dropping into deep water.

You stayed sitting on the edge of your bed, knees pressed together, one hand drifting behind your head without thinking. Your fingers found the strands at the nape of your neck and pulled. Hard. The sharp sting grounded you for half a second before the panic rushed back in. You twisted the hair tighter between your fingertips, pulling again, feeling the roots give way. It was the only thing that made sense right now.

Your mom’s footsteps came up slowly. Each creak of the old stairs made your stomach twist harder.

She stopped in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame like she needed it to hold herself steady. Her eyes were wide, searching your face, already glistening.

“Is it true?” she asked quietly.

You swallowed. The lump in your throat felt like it had been there for weeks. Your fingers kept working at the back of your head, pulling, tugging, the little pricks of pain the only thing keeping you from floating away completely.

“Yeah,” you whispered. Your voice sounded small. Foreign. “It’s true.”

Your mom stepped inside and sat on the very edge of the bed, close but not touching you. She always did that when things got heavy. Like she wanted to comfort you but didn’t know where to start anymore.

You kept pulling at your hair. The strands came loose between your fingers, soft and warm. You didn’t stop.

“I don’t want it, Mom.”

The sentence hung between you both. Heavy. Ugly.

Your mom’s breath caught. She looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring the way she did when she was trying not to cry.

“Oh, honey…” She let the words trail off, then tried again. “You’re sure? How far along are you?”

She looked down from your eyes to your stomach with a worried almost tired expression.

 “I mean, you can't be that far, and things like this… they change you. Rafe seems really excited. He's always so sweet to you…He's already talking about helping. Making sure you and the baby would be taken care of. You wouldn’t have to worry about money or housing or any of that ever again.”

You laughed once. A short, broken sound that scraped your throat raw. Your fingers yanked harder at the back of your head. More strands came free.

“I can’t do this,” you said. Your voice cracked. “I’m not ready. It's not even just about Rafe. There's things I still wanna do. I've only traveled with the Camerons; I don't have a degree yet. I mean, shit, I haven't even had an actual job, yet mom, and now there’s this baby, and I just… I can’t bring a kid into all of this mess. I can’t.”

You didn’t tell her the worst parts. You couldn’t. Even now, some sick, stupid part of you couldn't. After everything, you still remembered the way he cried in your lap earlier, the way he said he loved you like it physically hurt him. You hated him, and you loved him, and the two feelings twisted together so tight you couldn’t breathe.

“But honey, if you keep it, you won't ever need a ‘real job’.”

Your mom reached out and gently touched your knee. Her hand was warm. Familiar. It almost made you cry.

“We’re not going to force you into anything,” she said carefully. “But sweetheart… abortion? That’s forever. And Rafe… he’s a Cameron. You could have a future. Stability. For you and the baby.”

You stood up so fast the room tilted. Your fingers were still buried in the hair at the back of your head, pulling, pulling. The sting had turned into a dull burn, but you couldn’t stop. It felt like the only honest thing left in your body.

“I don’t want that future,” you whispered. Then louder, “I don’t want any of this.”

Your dad appeared in the doorway then, silent, watching. He looked exhausted..

He didn’t yell. He rarely did.

“We’ll support you no matter what,” he said quietly. “But you need to really think about this… that baby changes everything.”

The weight in your stomach twisted again. Sharp. Alive.

You turned toward the window without meaning to. The streetlight outside cast a pale glow over everything. Rafe’s truck was still there. Parked across the street, engine running low, exhaust curling in the cool night air. 

Even from here, you could see the way his shoulders were tense. The way he hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. Waiting. Patient. Like he already knew how this night would end.

Your breath caught.

He looked up. Your eyes met through the glass. For a second, the world narrowed to just him, the boy who used to make your heart race, the boy who pinned you against walls and cried in your lap and told you God gave him this baby.

You turned away fast. The room felt too small. Your fingers yanked harder at the back of your head. A few more strands came loose, caught between your knuckles.

“I can’t breathe,” you muttered.

You pushed past your parents, feet moving before your brain caught up. Down the stairs. Through the living room. Out the back door into the yard. The cold night air hit your face like a slap. You sucked it in desperately, chest heaving, fingers still tangled in your hair.

Rafe’s truck was still there.

Still waiting.

You turned and ran back inside. Up the stairs. Slammed your bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, sliding down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest.

The silence in your room pressed in so thick it felt like it had weight.

You stayed on the floor for a long minute, back against the door, knees drawn tight to your chest. Your fingers were still tangled in the hair at the back of your head, pulling, twisting, the sharp little pops of pain the only thing keeping your thoughts from spinning completely out. Strands kept coming loose between your knuckles. You didn’t care. It was better than feeling nothing.

Eventually, you forced yourself up. Your legs felt shaky, like they belonged to someone else. You crossed to the mirror above your dresser without really deciding to. The girl looking back at you made your stomach drop.

Your eyes were swollen and red, puffy from the tears you hadn’t let fall all the way. Cheeks flushed and blotchy. Lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Your hair was a mess at the nape, pieces sticking out where you’d yanked too hard. You looked wrecked. Like someone who had already lost.

You stared at her, at you, and felt a wave of something ugly rise in your throat. This was what Rafe saw when he looked at you now. This was what your parents saw. This was what everyone would see if you kept falling apart.

You turned away fast.

Grabbed the oversized black hoodie from the back of your chair and pulled it on. The fabric smelled like your detergent and faint traces of Rafe’s cologne from the last time he’d worn it. You tugged the hood up over your head, cinching it tight. It felt like small, useless armor, but it was something.

Your hands were still shaking when you opened your bedroom door.

Downstairs was quiet. Your parents had retreated to the kitchen. You could hear the low murmur of their voices, but couldn’t make out the words. Good. You didn’t want to explain anything else tonight.

You slipped out the front door.

The night air hit cold and sharp. It stung your swollen eyes and made the skin on your face feel tight. Rafe’s truck was still parked across the street, engine idling low, exhaust curling lazily in the streetlight. You could see the faint red glow of his vape through the cracked driver’s side window. Smoke drifted out in slow, steady clouds.

He was waiting.

You crossed the street with your head down, hood pulled low, arms wrapped around yourself. Your fingers found the strings of your hoodie and twisted them tight. Each step felt heavier than the last.

Rafe looked up the second you got close. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy. He looked exhausted. Wrecked. But when he saw you, something shifted in his face, like relief mixed with that sharp edge he could never quite hide.

He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open.

“Get in,” he said. Voice rough but soft. The same tone he used when he was trying to be careful.

You hesitated for half a second, then climbed in. The seat was warm. The truck smelled like his cologne and weed. You pulled the door shut. The click sounded final.

Rafe watched you for a long moment. The vape glowed again as he took a slow hit, smoke curling out between his lips before he spoke.

“You came out,” he said quietly. Almost surprised. “I thought you were gonna make me sit here all night.”

You kept your eyes on the dashboard. Your fingers were back at the nape of your neck again, pulling gently at the strands under the hood. The sting helped. It kept you from completely dissociating.

“I don’t want my parents involved in this anymore,” you muttered. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “They’re already freaking out.”

Rafe nodded slowly. He took another hit, then set the vape down in the cupholder. His hand moved across the console and rested on your thigh. Heavy. Familiar. You didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry I told them,” he said after a beat. “I was just… scared. I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t answering me, and I thought,” His voice cracked. He looked away for a second, jaw tight. “I thought you were really gonna do it. Get rid of our baby.”

You stayed quiet. Your fingers kept pulling at your hair under the hood. Slow. Methodical. The pain was sharp and clean.

Rafe turned back to you. His eyes were wet again.

“But you’re not, right?” he whispered. “You’re keeping it. You came out here to tell me that. Tell me you’re keeping our kid.”

The words sat heavy on your tongue. You swallowed once. Twice. Then you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m keeping it.”

The words tasted like ash.

Rafe’s whole body sagged with relief. He let out a shaky breath and leaned across the console, wrapping his arms around you so tight it almost hurt. His face buried in the crook of your neck. You felt his shoulders tremble.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your skin. His voice was thick with tears. “Thank you, baby. I knew you’d do the right thing. I knew you wouldn’t do that to me. This is gonna be good. I swear. I’m gonna be better. For you. For the baby. We’re gonna be a family.”

His hand slid down to rest on your stomach again. Gentle this time. Almost reverent.

You sat there stiffly, letting him hold you, letting him cry into your hoodie while your fingers kept working at the back of your head under the fabric. Pulling. Twisting. The sting kept you present. Kept you from screaming.

After a long minute, he pulled back. Wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes were red but brighter now. Hopeful in that terrifying way only Rafe could manage.

“I’ll come get you in the morning,” he said. “We’ll go see Ward together. Everything’s gonna be okay now. You’ll see.”

You nodded again. Small. Mechanical.

Rafe leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise.

“I love you,” he murmured. “Even when you scare the shit out of me. I still love you.”

He waited until you got out of the truck. Watched you walk back toward the house. Only when you were inside did he finally pull away, the truck rumbling down the street.

You stood in the doorway for a long time after the taillights disappeared.

Your fingers were still pulling at the back of your head.

The words sat heavy in your chest.

You were alone with it now. The weight. The decision. The words you had just told him.

Your phone sat on the bed like a live wire. You stared at it for a long time before you crawled over and picked it up. Your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped it twice. The screen lit up your swollen face in the dark.

You opened your messages.

Kie’s name was still there, buried under months of unread texts. The last one from her was from last year. 

Kie𖤓˚࿔: heyy im thinking about u

Kie𖤓˚࿔: u should call me

You had never answered.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. The words felt impossible to type, but you forced them out anyway.

                                       Kie𖤓˚࿔

                                    (10:07 pm)

You: hey ik we havent talked in a while

You: ive been rlly weird ik 

You: but i kinda really need ur help

You hit send before you could delete it.

Nothing.

The minutes stretched. You kept refreshing the chat like an idiot. Nothing. No typing bubble. No read receipt. Just silence.

You pulled harder at the back of your head. The pain bloomed fresh. You typed again.

                                       Kie𖤓˚࿔

                                     (10:19 pm)

You: kie pls  

You: this is serious  

You: i fucked up bad

Still nothing.

Your chest started to cave in. The room felt smaller. The lie you told Rafe sat like lead in your stomach. You had bought yourself one night. Maybe. But tomorrow he would come back. Ward would be waiting. Your parents would look at you with those tired, disappointed eyes and talk about “stability” again.

You couldn’t do this alone.

You started blowing her up. Message after message.

                                        Kie𖤓˚࿔

                                      (10:23 pm)

You: kie  

You:  Please answer  

You: im pregnant  

You: with rafes baby  

You: dont want to keep it

The second the last message sent, your phone started ringing.

 Kie𖤓˚࿔  flashed across the screen.

You answered so fast you almost dropped it.

For a second, there was only breathing on the other end. Hers. Yours. Both shaky.

Kie’s voice came through, low and tense.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You swallowed. Your fingers were back at your scalp again, pulling. “I’m pregnant. Rafe’s. And I… I don’t want to keep it. I can’t.”

A long silence. You could hear her moving, probably pacing wherever she was.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You’re actually serious right now?”

“I know,” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “I know I fucked up. I know I stopped talking to you. I know I chose him. But Kie… my friends won’t help me. My mom's talking about how I’d be ‘set for life.’ Rafe waited outside and threatened me… I don’t have anyone else. Please.”

Kie let out a bitter laugh. Not mean, but exhausted.

“I told you. I told you so many times not to fuck with him. He’s poison. And now you’re pregnant, and you want me to help you get rid of it?”

You closed your eyes. Tears slipped down your cheeks. You didn’t bother wiping them.

“I know,” you said again. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. But I’m scared, Kie. He’s talking about lawyers. Ward’s involved. FUCK! I don’t know what to do.”

Another long pause. You could hear her breathing.

“Fuck,” she finally said. “Okay. Okay. I’m not promising anything. But… I’ll help you. You need to get it done fast before he figures it out.”

Relief hit you so hard your knees almost gave out.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you, Kie.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. Her voice was tight. “Be ready at 6 a.m. sharp. John B will drive. We’re taking you to the mainland. Don’t tell anyone. Not your parents. Not Rafe. Especially not Rafe.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see you. “I won’t. 6 a.m.”

She hesitated. “And cuz… if this goes bad, if he finds out… I can’t promise we’ll be able to get you out again. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you said quietly.

The call ended.

You sat there on the floor, phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the dead line. Your fingers had gone back to your scalp without you realizing. The spot was raw now. Tender. You kept pulling anyway.

For the first time in weeks, a small, fragile sliver of hope flickered in your chest.

Tomorrow at 6 a.m.

You just had to make it through the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sky was still dark when your alarm went off at 5:45.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You had lain in bed staring at the ceiling, fingers twisting in the hair at the back of your head until the spot felt raw and hot, after you had gave up on doom scrolling.  Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Rafe’s face in the truck, the way his shoulders sagged with relief when you lied. The way he kissed your forehead like a promise. 

You got up slowly. Your legs felt heavy. You pulled on the same black hoodie from last night, the one that still smelled faintly like him. You tied your hair back tight so you wouldn’t keep pulling at it. Then you stood at your window for a long minute, staring at the empty street where his truck had been parked hours earlier. The spot looked wrong without him in it. Too quiet.

You slipped downstairs without turning on any lights. Your parents’ bedroom door was closed. You could hear your dad’s low snoring. For a second, you almost went in. Almost told them everything. But you didn’t. You just grabbed your keys and left through the back door like a ghost.

The air outside was cold and damp. It clung to your skin. You pulled the hood up and walked fast down the street, shoulders hunched, breath fogging in front of you. Every shadow made your heart jump. You kept expecting Rafe’s truck to appear around the corner, headlights cutting through the dark.

But it didn’t.

At the end of the block, John B’s van was waiting under a broken streetlight. Kie was already standing outside, arms crossed tight over her chest. When she saw you, she didn’t smile. She just opened the sliding door and stepped back.

You climbed in. The van smelled like salt water and old fast food. John B was in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror like he expected Rafe to appear any second. Kie got in after you and slammed the door shut. The sound made you flinch.

No one spoke for the first few minutes.

John B pulled away slow, headlights off until you were off your street. The van rattled over potholes. You kept your hands in your lap, fingers digging into your palms now instead of your hair. The sting wasn’t enough anymore.

Kie finally broke the silence. Her voice was tight.

“You look like shit.”

You let out a weak laugh that didn’t sound like you. “Yeah. Feel like it too.”

She didn’t laugh back. She just stared out the window, jaw clenched. The tension between you both was thick enough to taste. You had been close once. Sleepovers at her house, you teaching her how to braid her hair, sneaking snacks from the Wreck after closing. Then Rafe happened. And everything changed. Family cookouts became awkward small talk. Texts went unanswered. She had warned you. You hadn’t listened.

Now here you were. Pregnant. Desperate. Asking her for the one thing she had begged you to avoid.

“You really did it, huh?” she said after a while. Not mean. Just tired. “Got knocked up by Rafe Cameron of all people.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “I fucked up.”

Kie let out a long breath. “I told you. So many times. But you kept going back.”

You didn’t defend him. Not right now. Your fingers found the strings of your hoodie and twisted them.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. But I'm saying that, okay? I'm being honest, Im saying I need your help.”

She looked at you then. Really looked. Her eyes were hard, but there was something softer underneath. Worry. Guilt. 

John B cleared his throat from the front. “We’re about forty minutes out. Clinic opens at seven. We’ll get you in quick.”

You nodded. The van felt too small. Every bump in the road made your stomach turn. You kept thinking about Rafe waking up. Checking his phone. Realizing you weren’t answering. The way his face would change.

The rest of the drive was quiet. Kie didn’t say much more. She just sat there, arms crossed, staring out the window like she was carrying her own weight. You wanted to thank her again, but the words felt useless. So you stayed silent. Fingers digging into your palms. Heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clinic was small and nondescript. A plain building tucked between a pharmacy and a laundromat. John B parked in the back. Kie walked you in. Her hand was on your elbow the whole time, gentle but firm. 

The procedure itself was a blur. The nurse was kind. The doctor was professional. You cried the whole time. Silent tears running down your face while you stared at the ceiling tiles. Kie sat in the waiting room. When it was over, and you came out, drained and shaky, she didn’t say anything. She just helped you to the van and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders.

The ride back was even quieter.

You sat in the back seat, curled against the door, staring out at the passing trees. Your stomach felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with the procedure. The weight was gone. But something else had taken its place. A hollowness. A guilt so heavy it made it hard to breathe.

Kie kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror. She didn’t speak. Neither did John B. The silence felt like judgment. Like understanding. Like both at once.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

You looked down.

                                         Rafe

                                      (7:35 am)

Rafe: why is your location off?

Your heart stopped.

You typed fast, fingers clumsy.

You: sorry my phone died last night (7:36 am)

You: just woke up (7:36 am)

You: everything ok? (7:36 am)

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Rafe: ill be at your house in 15 (7:38 am)

Your stomach dropped.

You looked up at John B.

 “How far are we?”

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “Maybe more with traffic.”

“Fuck,” you whispered. Your voice broke. “Fuck.”

Kie turned in her seat. Her eyes were wide. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s going to my house. He thinks I’m there. He’s coming in fifteen minutes.”

The van went quiet again. Different this time. Heavy with fear.

You leaned your head against the window. The glass was cold against your forehead. Your fingers drifted to the back of your head again, pulling at the already tender strands. The pain bloomed fresh. You welcomed it.

You had done it. You had gotten the abortion.

But Rafe was already coming.

And you had lied to his face last night.

The van kept driving. The road stretched ahead. Forty-five minutes.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through the panic clawing up your throat.

He was going to find out.

And when he did…

You didn’t want to think about what would happen next.

“What do I do?” you asked. Your voice sounded small. Desperate. “I can’t go back there right now. I can't pull up with you guys. He's gonna be pissed I'm even around you, and he’ll immediately know.”

Kie didn’t answer right away. She just watched you, her expression tight with something between anger and worry. You could feel the years of distance between you both sitting in the space between the seats. She had warned you. Over and over. And you had still chosen Rafe. Still gone back. Still let him pull you under.

John B cleared his throat. “Why don’t we drop you off a couple blocks from your house? You walk the rest of the way. Act normal. Maybe buy yourself some time.”

You shook your head fast. “No. He’ll know. If I show up on foot looking like this he’ll lose it. He’ll start asking questions. He’ll know im lying. He’ll-”

Your voice broke. The van felt too small. Every bump in the road sent fresh nausea rolling through you. The emptiness in your stomach ached in a way that had nothing to do with the procedure. It was deeper than that. Like something had been carved out, and you were only just starting to feel the hole it left behind.

Kie reached back and touched your knee. Her hand was warm. Steady. For a second, it almost felt like old times. Before Rafe. Before everything got ruined.

“Why don’t you just stay with us?” she said quietly. “At the Chateau. At least for today. Maybe tomorrow too. Buy yourself some real time.”

You stared at her. The words landed heavily.

“No,” you said immediately. “No way. Rafe will kill me if he finds out I went there. He already hates all of you. If he thinks I ran to you and lied to him…”

You trailed off. Your fingers kept working at your scalp. Pulling. Twisting. The sting had turned into a dull throb, but you couldn’t stop. It was the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.

Kie didn’t push right away. She just looked at you for a long moment. Her eyes were tired. Guilty. Like she was carrying her own weight from all the times she had tried to warn you and you hadn’t listened.

“If you go back right now,” she said carefully, “you’re gonna have to look him in the eye and pretend there’s still a baby. You really think you can do that? For how long? A week? Two? Sooner or later, he’s gonna figure it out. At least if you stay with us, we can buy you some time. Figure out next steps. Maybe even… have a little fun for once. Remember what that feels like?”

Fun.

The word felt foreign. Almost ridiculous. You hadn’t had fun in so long. Not the kind that didn’t come with fear or guilt or Rafe’s eyes watching your every move. The idea of sitting at the Chateau with Kie and her friends, even for a few hours, felt dangerous. But it also felt like the first real breath you had taken in months.

You leaned your head against the window. The glass was cold against your forehead. Outside, the trees blurred past. Your phone buzzed again, but you didn’t look. You already knew it was him.

“Okay,” you whispered. Your voice sounded small. Scared. “Just for today. Just until I figure out what to say to him.”

Kie nodded. She squeezed your knee once. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something.

John B glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “You sure about this?”

You weren’t. But you nodded anyway.

The van kept driving. The road stretched ahead. Forty-five minutes became thirty. Then twenty-five.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

You didn’t want to look. But you did.

Rafe: here (7:54 am)

Rafe: wya (7:56 am)

You stared at the message until the letters blurred. The van hit a bump, and your stomach rolled. Not from the procedure. From him. From the lie you had fed him last night, from the lie right now.

Rafe: now your ignoring me (8:00 am)

Rafe: answer rn (8:01 am)

Your thumb hovered over the screen. Kie glanced back at you but didn’t say anything. John B’s hands tightened on the wheel. The silence in the van felt heavier now, like everyone knew what was coming.

You typed fast, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

You: sorry u know i just woke up (8:04 am)

 You: still at home (8:04 am)

You: Just saw this (8:04 am)

The three dots appeared almost immediately. They disappeared. Came back. Your fingers dug harder into the back of your head. More strands came loose. You could feel the tender spot throbbing now, but you kept pulling anyway.

Rafe: come outside. (8:05 am)

Your breath caught. You looked up at John B. “He’s at my house.”

Kie turned fully in her seat. “Block him. Delete him. Now.”

You shook your head. Your hands were shaking too badly to type properly. 

“If I block him, he’ll lose it. He’ll go inside. He’ll talk to my parents. He’ll know something’s wrong.”

Another message popped up.

Rafe: btw turn your lo back on (8:06 am)

You swallowed hard. The taste of panic was metallic on your tongue. You typed again, lying through your teeth even though every word felt like it was choking you.

You: location glitching. (8:07 am)

 You: im getting ready. (8:07 am)

You: ill be out in a sec (8:07 am)

The reply came faster this time.

Rafe: come out or im coming in (8:08 am)

Rafe: im not playing with you y/n (8:08 am)

Your chest tightened so hard you couldn’t breathe right. You could picture him perfectly. Sitting in his truck in your driveway, eyes red, jaw locked, one hand gripping the wheel while the other hovered over his phone. Waiting. Always waiting. Like he had all the time in the world because he knew you would eventually break.

Kie’s voice cut through the panic. “What did he say?”

“He’s at my house,” you whispered. “He said he’s coming in if I don’t come out.”

John B cursed under his breath. The van sped up just a little. Not enough. Never enough.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again. Then again.

Rafe: baby please (8:10 am)

Rafe: i waited all night (8:10 am)

Rafe: i thought we were good (8:10 am)

Rafe: why are you doing this to me?(8:11 am)

Rafe: turn your location on right now. im not playing. (8:11 am)

Rafe: im coming in. (8:16 am)

The message sat there. Simple. Final.

You could see it so clearly. Rafe walking up to your front door. Knocking. Your mom answering with that tired, worried. Him smiling that polite Kook smile while his eyes stayed dead. Asking where you were. Asking why you weren’t answering.

And when they told him you weren’t home…

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against the seat in front of you. Your breathing was too fast. Too shallow. The sting at the back of your head wasn’t enough anymore. Nothing was enough.

Kie’s hand stayed on your arm. But even she couldn’t fix this.

The van kept driving toward the Chateau.

And somewhere behind you, Rafe was stepping inside your house.

Looking for you.

Realizing you had lied.

The panic clawed up your throat and stayed there.

Because you knew what came next.

And there was nowhere left to run.

………….

LIKE REBLOG AND COMMENT FOR MORE! YOUR SUPPORT KEEPS ME MOTIVATED TO WRITE!!

[bloomflix]

mmmnnm the people are begging for a nsfw version of the hugo letterbox ff 😛

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ when you had told your movie geek boyfriend vivien that you wanted to recreate scenes from movies, he never thought you meant different types of scenes...

vivien looked at you blankly, his face suddenly becoming red—possibly redder than his dyed hair, when you had suggested it.

you and your boyfriend are movie geeks, occasionally watching movies for dates and then tracking it on your shared letterboxd list (since you two adore that platform a bit too much), but you had recently come to an epiphany of sorts.

you knew vivien was a rather timid person when it came to the topic of actually enacting intimacy (he cried when you two had sex for the first time… three times), but you had recently read on cosmopolitan how sex scenes in movies could potentially help spice things up in the bedroom… well, if he was down for it too.

“of course i am… but i’m not sure… what movies do you have in mind exactly?” he had assumed you meant something cute or romantic, such as the musical number with mia and sebastian from la la land, not...

“the secretary…?” you had said it with such a blank face too, just smiling while vivien was blinking profusely, trying to look anywhere but your direction. his expression faltered and he let out a squeaky, out-of-character ‘oh’. his face turned even more red.

"i— uh... interesting um… choice of movies—”

“unless you want to recreate y tu mamá tambien’s scene by inviting julien—” “no."

you were his girlfriend before becoming arsenaly's pr intern (as you go to university for marketing and communications), so to really get into the scene, vivien had made you plant your hands on the desk while he read your starting draft for a post; in particular, you were being asked to read a letter for fans of arsenaly.

“read.”

the two of you had a study in your shared apartment, with the large glass windows overlooking the rest of downtown london… and there you were, bent over the desk naked for everyone to see.

your eyes shifted from the paper in front of you, to vivien’s hand next to your own, to the large windows. his other hand was elsewhere—his large fingers playing with your pussy. he was gentle as always, his thumb circling on your clit occasionally to his middle and ring fingers scissoring inside your dripping walls.

until he spanked your ass.

“i said read.”

“h-hello gunners—ahhh!” he stopped you, his fingers plunging into your cunt once again.

“do you see those red marks? i’d like you to tell me what’s the issue.”

you let out a sharp exhale mixed with some type of aroused moan, with your boyfriend still fingering you relentlessly.

“th-there’s a grammatical error there. i-i put a comma instead of a period—hahhh…”

“wrong. they’re our fans—so therefore, an ex—spank!—claim—spank!—ation point. c'mon, chérie. enthusiasm."

"oh—u-uh... we would like to a-announce that—v-vivian hugo will be joining the senior team—fuck!”

“mhm… what else?”

your boyfriend was rough with his fingers, adding a third and stretching your hole even more. then, he decided to be more of an asshole and began to rub his cock against your slit, all puffy and overstimulated. then he just thrusted into you without warning, filling you up with him. a sharp gasp left you and you felt your back arch and goosebumps littering your skin at the sound of your nails clawing at the desk.

"i want you to watch your tone, okay? now read."

"w-we would like to congratulate him, a-and celebrate this—oh my god!—new chapter in our team.”

“for. it’s ‘for our team’. another mistake.” he said, spanking you whilst his hips moved relentlessly.

and that’s how it was for the following hour, until vivien stopped after your fifth orgasm (he wasn’t even sure that was humanly possibly until you proved it).

your body laid on the desk, the statement long forgotten about while vivien cleaned you up with a damp towel.

“that was great.” you murmured.

"i don't wanna treat you like that ever again... not my thing," he murmured. "any other movies you wanna do...? and not any intense ones."

"wild things? to celebrate your promotion." "no."

-

-

-

i think if you know me really well or interact with me a lot, you can see what movie i am such a fan of and the fact that it’s been mentioned so much LMAO also i’m a huge movie fan and secretary is one of my favorites, so im lowk scared ahah… not sure how i feel abt this one i feel like you can lowk tell im nawt that serious/locked when writing this. to be fair though, i was watching a show 😭😭😭😭

masterlist <3

[cressidagrey]

The Brush Off

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times people flirt with Felicity and 1 time Oscar sees it happen. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 Also, check out my new divider!

School Library, Haileybury

Felicity was tucked into her usual corner of the school library — second floor, far left, just behind the dusty shelf of outdated atlases no one ever touched. It was quiet there. Untouchable. Sacred.

Her legs were curled under her in a frankly illegal way that made the librarian twitch every time she passed by. 

But Felicity didn’t care. She had more important things to worry about. Like finishing her own chemistry coursework, writing the conclusion to her robotics team report, and, most importantly, rescuing Oscar’s history grade from what could only be described as a stylistic disaster.

Her copy of The Selfish Gene sat open next to a packet of sticky notes and five highlighters arranged in rainbow order. Oscar’s essay draft was sprawled beside it like a corpse in need of resuscitation.

 She was six pages in.

 She had already marked five run-on sentences, circled three historical inaccuracies, and scrawled “comma splice?” in angry red ink on the header. Next to that, she’d added, in smaller print: “This is a run-on sentence and also a war crime.”(This was three lines after “I am not sure if child labour can be considered a “perk” of the industrial revolution, Oz.”)

She was muttering to herself about how Oscar consistently forgot the difference between a primary and secondary source when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hey,” a voice said. “You always sit here?”

Felicity glanced up — just barely — and immediately clocked the newcomer.

Mateo.

The Spanish exchange student.

Hair swoop. Too much cologne.

He had the vibe of someone who thought reading The Secret History made him profound. Like the kind of guy who bought Moleskines but didn’t write in them. Like a walking Instagram profile captioned “Fluent in Nietzsche.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just scribbled a note in Oscar’s margin (“use a stronger thesis here or face the wrath of every historian who’s ever lived”).

“On Wednesdays, yes,” she replied eventually, eyes still on the page.

Mateo didn’t take the hint.

He leaned in a little too close. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and already regretted not bringing headphones.

“What are you working on?”

She lifted Oscar’s paper slightly, as if it were obvious. “This.”

He squinted. “You’re helping a friend?”

“This is my boyfriend’s essay.”

Mateo’s face lit up, but not with recognition — with opportunity. “Wow. You’re that good a friend?”

Felicity blinked. “I’m that good a girlfriend.”

He paused. Smiled like she’d just told a cute joke at a party. “Sure. But, like, if you ever wanted to… hang out? Or study together? I’ve been struggling with philosophy.”

She stared at him. “You’re struggling with philosophy?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s so dense, you know?”

“You mean… reading?”

He chuckled. “I just thought it might be easier with someone like you. Someone sharp. Smart.”

She just stared at him. 

Still, he didn’t leave. “I’m just saying, if you ever get bored of helping your boyfriend… I wouldn’t mind a little attention.”

That’s what made her pause.

Because for a moment, Felicity genuinely didn’t understand what he meant.

Attention? What kind? Did he want her to edit his essay, too? Help him structure his arguments?

Was this a mentorship request? A tutoring thing? Was he trying to hire her?

Because from where she was sitting — wearing one of Oscar’s sweatshirts over her school uniform with her hair up in a pencil-stabbed bun, ink smudged on her fingers… There was no way this boy was flirting with her.

She finally looked up, expression flat. “I’ve been with my boyfriend for two years. I rewrite his footnotes. I know the number of his racing sim’s USB ports by memory. You think I have time for recreational idiocy?”

Mateo blinked. He stammered something that might’ve been “Sorry” or “Your loss” or possibly just the start of a philosophy quote he didn’t finish.

Then he turned and slunk away, disappearing into the nonfiction aisle like a man who needed to Google what a footnote was.

Felicity exhaled slowly, turned back to Oscar’s essay, and drew a tiny skull next to a sentence about Napoleon.

Ten minutes later, Oscar appeared — bottle of water in one hand, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, curls slightly mussed.

“Hey,” he said, flopping into the seat beside her and nudging her ankle under the table.

Felicity didn’t even blink. She just slid his paper across the table.

“Yours,” she said, tone dry. “Try not to get seduced by misused commas.”

Oscar grinned, leaned over, and kissed her temple.

***

Engineering Library, Imperial College London

The engineering library at Imperial had a very specific kind of silence — dense, utilitarian, and just slightly stressed. 

It didn’t have the hushed reverence of a humanities space or the open nervous energy of undergrads cramming in a group. No. This room buzzed with tension.

It smelled like soldering fumes, pencil shavings, leftover caffeine, and the faintest echo of ambition-turned-despair.

Most students had packed up hours ago, but Felicity remained in her fortress of design textbooks, open CAD diagrams, three kinds of scrap paper, and a crumpled granola bar wrapper that she’d been meaning to throw away for at least forty-five minutes. Her water bottle was dangerously low, her laptop fan sounded like it was preparing for lift-off, and her cursor had been blinking in the same spot on her thermal stress simulation for the last twenty-seven minutes.

She wasn’t stuck. She was just… tired.

Tired in the bone-deep way only a mechanical engineering student in her second trimester could be.

She shifted slightly, legs curled beneath her, one hand resting absently on the curve of her bump. Not because it hurt — not tonight — but because Beatrice had just kicked her in the ribs again, like she was trying to crawl out through Felicity’s diaphragm.

Her phone buzzed next to her laptop:

Oscar: Don’t forget dinner. Please. You always forget when your sim models hate you. 

She smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Not yet. She still had heat sink values to triple-check.

That was when it happened.

A voice—too close, too casual—sliced through the stillness.

“Hey.”

Felicity looked up, blinking.

A guy was standing across the table. Probably mid-twenties. Tall, in that I stretch for photos, way. Crisp haircut. Slim jeans. Water bottle with a “No Bad Vibes” sticker on it — ironic, because he was currently radiating intrusive energy like a malfunctioning microwave.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just slid into the chair opposite hers like this was a first date she didn’t know they were having.

“I saw you in Thermo this morning,” he said. “That fluid mechanics question you asked? Insanely clever. I was going to say something after class, but you ducked out too fast.”

Felicity blinked at him. “I had a tutorial.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Should’ve guessed. You seem like you’ve got everything scheduled down to the second.”

“I also needed chips,” she added, because both things were true.

He laughed like she’d made a joke. “You seem intense. I like that. Women in engineering? You don’t see that every day. Rare combination of intimidating and hot.”

She stared at him.

The words rolled around her brain like loose screws.

What… did he want?

Was this a compliment? An insult? An offer?

She was six months pregnant, her knees hurt, her thesis was trying to kill her, and she was wearing Oscar’s hoodie with a faint grease stain across the front.

What exactly was the goal here?

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he rushed on, clearly sensing the silence and trying to recover. “You’ve just got that… serious vibe. Like the kind of girl who rewires her own dishwasher.”

“I did,” she said flatly. “Last week.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“And the kettle. And Oscar’s sim pedal when it failed under full brake.”

There was a beat.

“…Who’s Oscar?” he asked, smirking now. “Your roommate?”

Felicity paused.

And for a moment—just a moment—she considered laughing.

Then she closed her laptop slowly. Deliberately.

“Oscar’s my husband.”

The guy blinked.

Stood up slowly. Her hoodie shifted, and with it, the full curve of her pregnancy became unmistakably obvious. Not theoretical. Not ambiguous. Imminent.

The guy’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

She adjusted the hem of her sweater, not breaking eye contact, slung her bag over one shoulder, and smiled — cold, clean, efficient.

“If you’re gonna flirt with a mechanical engineer,” she said, “maybe do a better job at observational diagnostics.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he wanted to apologise and also vanish into the carpet tiles.

Felicity didn’t wait for a response.

***

Trinity College, Oxford

By the time Felicity Piastri was twenty-one, she had two things down to a science:

How to balance a toddler on her hip while rewriting entire sections of a doctoral thesis.

The exact number of times she could ignore the same man before it became a full-blown academic experiment.

Her Oxford doctoral project - Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite-Structured Performance Environments. - had technically been finished for weeks. The simulations were done, the modelling locked in, her conclusions tight and triple-sourced. Now she was just revising. Editing. Wrangling footnotes into submission while Bee tried to paste glitter stickers into the margins of her printed draft.

She did almost everything from home.

The only reason she even stepped foot into Oxford was for fortnightly supervision meetings with Dr. Green, who was brilliant, terrifying, and the only person Felicity would willingly leave the house (and her toddler) for.

Which was, unfortunately, where Nathan lived.

Nathan — Dr. Green’s personal assistant — had been a PPE student once upon a time, which explained a lot. Somehow, he’d wheedled his way into a departmental admin role despite not knowing the difference between a torque curve and a coffee stain. His talents included:

Misfiling room bookings.

Brewing tea that tasted like despair.

Flirting with Felicity like it was something he was being graded on.

The first time he tried it, she’d thought it was just bad small talk. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed the type to flirt accidentally, the kind of man who said “babe” to baristas and thought it made him charming.

The second time, she was slightly annoyed.

By the fifth, she had moved on to anthropological interest. 

How did he not see the wedding ring? The child’s drawings poking out of her folder? The exhaustion of someone whose idea of a wild Friday night was installing firmware updates for fun?

Today, she arrived two minutes early for her meeting. She’d barely stepped into the department lobby when he spotted her.

“Dr. Green is running a bit late,” Nathan announced, standing up from behind the reception desk like he was emerging for a curtain call. “But I can keep you company if you like.”

Felicity barely paused. “She’s not. She still has 2 minutes till our appointment time.”

He grinned like she’d just flirted back. “You know, I was thinking the other day… you never hang around after your meetings. You always rush off.”

“Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “Because I have a toddler. And a dissertation. And a husband. In that order.”

Nathan winced theatrically. “Oof. Brutal.”

She offered him a smile that wasn’t one. “Sorry. Was that too reality-based?”

Still, he pressed on, leaning against the desk like he thought he was on the cover of GQ.

“Still,” he said, “it’d be nice to talk about something other than drivetrain mapping sometime. Maybe grab a drink?”

Felicity blinked. Twice.

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it. But somehow, today, it caught her even more off guard.

“You’re asking me,” she said slowly, “a married mother of one, who is actively finishing a thesis and hasn’t eaten a full sit-down meal in two days, to go get drinks with you?”

He laughed, like she was being ridiculous.

“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. We could just talk—”

“About what?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “What, precisely, do you think I have in common with a man who once told me Elon Musk was just misunderstood?”

Nathan blinked.

Felicity continued. “Do you want help with your CV? Is this about office gossip? Are you confused and trying to network with me through reverse psychology?”

“I just meant—”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I genuinely don’t understand what outcome you’re envisioning here. Do you think I’m going to cheat on my husband with the guy who can’t pronounce ‘aerodynamics’ without swallowing the word halfway through?”

He flushed slightly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not. I’m being efficient.”

The door to the inner office opened before he could reply. Dr. Green appeared, breathless and balancing two takeaway coffees in one hand and a folder in the other.

“Felicity, I’m so sorry. The grant committee meeting ran over. Here—” She handed over one of the cups. “Decaf oat, right? And I pulled the new journal submissions for you. There are a few I thought might intersect with your secondary chapter on hybrid systems.”

Felicity smiled as she took the coffee. “Thanks. I already reviewed the three most relevant ones and emailed you a summary chart with citations.”

Dr. Green blinked. “Of course you did.”

Nathan blinked, too, but for entirely different reasons. 

Felicity turned back to him just before following her professor inside.

“Oh, and Nathan?”

“…Yes?” he said, still — somehow — hopeful.

She raised her left hand and tapped the wedding band with one finger. “This wasn’t a joke.”

And then she shut the office door behind her like it was a verdict.

The Door Handle Aisle of Homebase, Woking

Oscar was off racing.

Felicity was elbow-deep in a bathroom renovation.

Not the Pinterest kind.

Not the “new towels and scented eucalyptus and a little bamboo ladder for the aesthetic” kind.

No, this was the “rip out the vanity with a crowbar and discover the wall behind it had been sealed with hope and duct tape” kind.

The kind of renovation that required full battle gear: dust mask, gloves, safety goggles, and the controlled fury of a woman who had read the plumbing manual twice and did not need a man explaining pipe fittings to her.

And because she was who she was — stubborn, competent, and wildly intelligent— Felicity hadn’t hired anyone.

She could do it herself.

And she would.

Which meant… many, many trips to the hardware store.

The staff had started to recognise her by mid-April. A couple of them even learned to duck when she walked in, in case she asked for a specific size of tap washer they didn’t carry. But one guy — the guy from the sealant aisle—hadn’t learned that lesson.

Late twenties, overly friendly, perpetually wearing a toolbelt he definitely didn’t need, like he thought it made him look rugged instead of unconvincing. He hovered near the caulk and grout displays like they were a dating pool.

The first time, it was casual.

“You here again?” he’d asked, smiling like he was in a rom-com. “You must really like DIY.”

Felicity didn’t look up from the tile grout chart. “I like doing things properly.”

The second time, it was more confident.

“Doing a kitchen too?” he asked, spotting the tile adhesive in her basket. “You ever need help—”

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, already walking toward checkout before he could finish.

By the sixth visit, he had apparently decided they were bonding.

She was in the handles aisle, comparing brass finishes, when she heard him again — that telltale sneaker-squeak on linoleum, the voice turned up a little too loud, too performative.

“Wow,” he said, appearing at the end of the aisle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep coming in just to see me.”

Felicity didn’t look up. She held one cabinet pull in each hand and considered which one better matched the art deco lines of the mirror she’d thrifted.

“I assure you,” she said, tone even, “my interest in you begins and ends with your stock of brass hinges.”

He laughed, undeterred. “Come on. You’re always here. I figured, maybe you’re one of those cool builder girls. You don’t wear a ring or anything, so…”

That’s what finally made her pause.

Not the tone. Not the implication. But the logic.

She looked at him.

“You think I keep coming in here because… what? I’m lonely?” she asked, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “I’m literally holding blueprints and a door handle.”

He shrugged. “You just seem like the kind of girl who could use a little—” (God help him) “—company.”

Felicity blinked. She wiped a smudge of pencil from her chin, set the handles back down, and reached into her tote bag without breaking eye contact.

She pulled out her phone.

“I’m going to walk you through something,” she said calmly, unlocking the screen. “Because clearly, you didn’t do any preliminary research before launching this… ill-conceived outreach attempt.”

She turned the lock screen toward him.

A photo.

Felicity, curled up on a sofa in a hoodie. Oscar was beside her, kissing the top of her head. Bee sprawled between them in footie pyjamas, holding a spoon upside down like a trophy. The lighting was soft. Domestic. Unmistakably intimate.

“This,” Felicity said, “is my husband. He is currently in Azerbaijan, driving a car at three hundred miles an hour. That’s our daughter. She is two. I do renovations during naptime.”

The man paled. “Oh. I—uh. I didn’t know—”

“No,” she agreed. “You didn’t ask.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else — possibly to dig the hole deeper.

But Felicity wasn’t done.

“I come in here to buy tile primer. I don’t come in here for unsolicited analysis of my marital status from men who think a toolbelt is a personality trait.”

Her voice never rose. It didn’t have to.

It was calm. Steady.

The voice of someone who had personally rewired her fuse box and once installed a dishwasher while on the phone and dealing with a crying toddler.

She smiled politely. Dangerously.

Like a woman who kept zip ties in her car and knew how to use them.

“I’ll take these, thanks,” she said, lifting the cabinet handles. “Don’t need help carrying them. But if you’ve got any more of that tile primer from last week in stock, that would be helpful.”

He mumbled something about checking the back and fled like a man pursued by the consequences of his own choices.

Felicity watched him go, then picked up the nicer brass finish.

She didn’t even roll her eyes. She was too tired. 

Felicity just wanted her tile primer and to go home.

***

Rooftop Bar, Melbourne

Felicity didn’t go out much.

Not because she couldn’t — Oscar insisted she take breaks, even booked her massages that she always forgot to attend — but because she liked her life.

She liked being home with Bee. She liked sanding doorframes and painting walls and mapping out the next renovation with a pencil stuck in her messy bun. She liked curling up on the sofa with her laptop, trading stock options at 1 AM. She liked Oscar reading over her shoulder, pointing out line graphs he didn’t understand but wanted to. She liked the steady rhythm of their days. Naptimes and quiet dinners and Bee’s loud commentary on the existence of pigeons.

But they were in Melbourne over the Winter break, and Nicole had insisted.

“You’re getting out of the house,” she’d said, practically pushing Felicity toward the wardrobe. “You’ve been in Australia for five days, and the only places you’ve seen are the beach and Bunnings.”

And so here they were — rooftop bar in Melbourne, warm summer air, glass of chilled white wine in Nicole’s hand and a lemon-lime mocktail in Felicity’s.

 Their dresses fluttered in the breeze; Her hair was up. Her arms were bare. She looked, Nicole thought proudly, like the kind of woman men write songs about.

Which was, unfortunately, the problem.

Because a man at the bar had noticed, too.

He made his way over with the swagger of someone who once played rugby in uni and still referred to it as “his prime.” White linen shirt. Too many rings. Hair with more product than structure. And that thing men did when they leaned on a table like they were presenting a TED Talk on their charm.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said smoothly, eyes only on Felicity.

Nicole didn’t blink. “You are.”

Felicity raised her eyebrows, mildly surprised, but didn’t say anything. She just sipped her drink and let the lime catch on her tongue.

The man chuckled — the low, confident kind that assumed he was being flirted back with.

“I just thought I’d say—you’ve got a great smile,” he continued. Still to Felicity. Still convinced. “You local?”

“No,” she said. “Just visiting.”

He nodded toward Nicole. “With your sister?”

Nicole’s mouth twitched.

Felicity opened her mouth to clarify, but Nicole got there first.

“I’m her mother-in-law,” she said, swirling her wine.

That gave him a moment’s pause. But not enough.

“Well, she’s clearly not married—” he gestured vaguely to Felicity’s left hand, bare in the way most hands are after a morning at the beach with a toddler and too much sunscreen.

Felicity smiled. Slowly. Like a summer storm deciding whether to ruin your picnic or level your whole house.

“I took my rings off before swimming this morning,” she said, amused. “Didn’t want to lose them in the ocean.”

He still didn’t give up. “No offence, but… a girl like you? You don’t need to be tied down so young.”

Felicity furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, you could have fun. Live a little.”

“I’m married,” she said again, a little slower. “I live a lot.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, grinning.

 She genuinely didn’t understand.

What did he mean by that?

Was she supposed to say thank you? Defend her marriage? 

Debate the merits of early commitment like she was on a panel?

“No,” Felicity replied honestly, “I actually don’t. What exactly do you think is going to happen? I abandon my family because you complimented my teeth?”

She had a three-year-old who could build better arguments about bedtime.

Before Felicity could figure out what to say, Nicole gently set her wine glass down.

“She’s not tied down, darling,” she said, tone perfectly pleasant. “She’s adored.”

She reached into her purse like she was pulling a weapon.

“Would you like to see a photo of her husband holding their daughter on the beach this morning?” she asked. “Or maybe the one where he flew eight hours just to make it to her thesis defence?”

The man’s face did a visible three-second software update.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, already backing up a step.

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “You sure? My son is very photogenic. His job likes to post him shirtless sometimes. It’s a whole thing.”

Felicity had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Right. Uh—have a nice night,” the man muttered, vanishing like a bug under bright light.

+1 — The One Time Oscar Noticed

The garage was buzzing with that high-voltage energy unique to a U.S. race weekend — louder music, brighter cameras, fans pressed against every fence line like they were at a concert instead of a motorsport event. McLaren’s VIP list was stacked with influencers, sponsors, and the usual parade of celebrities trying to look like they knew what a downforce map was.

Oscar didn’t care about any of them.

He cared about the girls in the denim jackets with PIASTRI stitched across the back in big, white glittery letters. Their arts and crafts project for Silverstone.

Felicity was standing near the back of the garage, Bee balanced on her hip, and a pair of toddler-sized headphones slipped over her curls. The two of them had matching jackets, homemade and loud and perfect. Bee’s even had a sparkly iron-on chicken. Felicity’s had glitter stars. Oscar had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He was mid-chat with one of the engineers when he glanced over again.

And froze.

Because some guy—tall, tanned, fake-smiling, and clearly trying to look famous—was leaning way too close to Felicity. His teeth were too white. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a drink, and worse, he had sunglasses on inside. Oscar didn’t even know where he’d come from — but there he was, leaning against the garage railing like it was a club bar and Felicity was the drink special.

He was saying something. Laughing too loud.

Felicity frowned politely. She shifted a sleeping Bee on her hip and took a half-step back.

The man followed.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, gesturing to her jacket, “if you’re gonna wear another man’s name on your back, he better be worth it.”

Felicity blinked. “He’s my husband.”

That didn’t deter him.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how good he’s got it,” the man said, still smiling, his gaze dropping briefly to her legs. “You ever get tired of being someone’s plus-one, let me know.”

Bee stirred a little, nose twitching, and Felicity rubbed her back automatically, like muscle memory. Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

The guy tilted his head. “C’mon. You’re clearly the type who plays the sweet wife in public. But a woman like you?” He dropped his voice. “You need real attention.”

Oscar took a step forward, but someone else moved faster.

“Alright,” said a voice, sharp and Australian and impossible to ignore. “Let’s try that again — from six feet away.”

The man turned, surprised, and saw Mark Webber.

Mark didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to freeze a room.

He gave the man a smile that could cut glass. “You’ve got five seconds to back up before I make this very awkward for everyone.”

“Sorry, mate—”

“No, see, that’s the problem,” Mark said, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not her mate. You’re a stranger talking to a woman who’s clearly married, clearly holding a child, and clearly not interested. So unless you’re trying to get blacklisted from every paddock hospitality list from now until eternity, I’d walk away.”

The guy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned and slinked off like a coward in designer shoes.

Oscar finally got to them, face tight, fury in every step.

Mark nodded. “Handled.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mark looked at Felicity. “You alright?”

Felicity still looked baffled. “What was that?”

Oscar looked her over, checking Bee, checking her, like reassurance was the only way to keep his hands from shaking. “That guy was harassing you.”

“What? No. Was he?” She squinted after him. “He was just being weird.”

Oscar stared at her. “He was flirting. Badly.”

“He was being rude,” Felicity said. “And creepy. But flirting? Why would anyone flirt with someone holding a sleeping toddler and wearing a juice-stained T-shirt? Why does this keep happening?!”

Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re wearing a custom denim jacket with your husband’s name on it in glitter. Holding your kid. And you still have men sniffing around. That’s not on you — that’s on them being idiots.”

Oscar exhaled hard. 

Felicity, still gently rocking Bee, just sighed. “Maybe I should just get a flashing neon sign.”

Oscar stepped closer and kissed her temple. “You okay?”

She looked at him, tired but unbothered. “Yeah. Are you?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I will be once I get you both inside.”

***

They were tucked away in the quiet corner of the drivers' room now, post-session, Bee still fast asleep on the little sofa wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies. The chaos of the paddock had faded into muffled noise. 

Oscar was sitting across from Felicity, one leg bouncing.

He was still rattled.

“What do you mean they keep flirting with you?” he asked, brows drawn together as he looked at her.

Felicity blinked up at him. “What?”

“You said it like it happens regularly,” he said, voice low and sharp with something he was trying to keep cool. “Like that wasn’t the first time.”

She paused. Shrugged. “I mean… it does? A little?”

Oscar stared at her. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since Haileybury, probably? Or Oxford. And, like… in the hardware store.”

Oscar made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she said simply, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “They’re not you. So they don’t have a chance.”

He stilled.

That one sentence — calm, sure, like it was the most obvious fact in the world — hit him in the chest like a perfect downshift.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I knew people looked,” he admitted. 

Of course, they looked. He was aware of how Felicity looked:  Sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. Hair windswept from the open pit lane. She had juice on her shirt, no makeup, and still — still — she looked like something out of a dream. Breakable and brilliant. All porcelain and fire.

Beautiful. 

“I’m not blind. But I didn’t realise they were… like that.”

“I don’t even get why they are doing it,” Felicity snorted. “I look like someone who hasn’t slept properly since Bee was born. I have crusted juice on my shirt. I literally threw Goldfish crackers at our daughter to buy myself ten minutes.”

Oscar leaned back, exasperated. “And you still look better than anyone else here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just biased.”

“I’m jealous,” he corrected, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I hate it. That guy didn’t even flinch when you said you were married.”

“He probably thought I was joking,” she said mildly. “People don’t really expect twenty-somethings to be married with kids.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “They should. You wear my name on your back.”

She shrugged. “They don’t matter. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Oscar was across the space in a second.

He kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate — hand sliding around her waist, pulling her in close. His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he had to remind himself she was real.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breath shallow.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low. “I know I don’t own you, but God, I feel it sometimes. Like you’ve always been mine.”

“I have. Since we were 15,” she whispered. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even before you had a Wikipedia page.”

Oscar kissed her. Not rushed, not messy — but firm. Grounded. A kiss that said mine. A kiss that would’ve been indecent if she weren’t already wearing his name and carrying his child and his whole damn heart.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

And across the room, Bee stirred, let out a sleepy sigh, and snuggled deeper into Oscar’s hoodie.

Felicity leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous when you’re jealous.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed. “Yes.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

Heels of Dreams

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: you wear heels for a fancy dinner, but in the end, it’s not your shoes that carry you home. warnings: suggestive, fluff, hotch being the perfect man once again by carrying reader home and taking off her heels, age gap implied, reader giving hotch a hard time about being old. (all i hear is hotch is a boobs man, hotch is an ass man no! hotch is a legs man! he told me himself!) word count: 2k

✧ masterlist

Your feet ached – so much so that you weren’t even surprised when Reid, probably fed up with your quiet whining, casually mentioned over dinner that high heels were originally invented for men. And honestly? That made perfect sense. Only creatures that ridiculous would willingly subject themselves to this kind of torture.

He had then launched into an explanation about how, somewhere in the eighteenth century, heels became associated with women’s fashion, but by that point, you were far too focused on two things to pay attention: the persistent throb in your feet and the slow, deliberate movement of Aaron’s hand as it slid over to rest on your thigh.

That had effectively wiped out any interest in Reid’s history lesson.

It had been a small dinner, one of those rare nights where the girls – Penelope, really –  insisted on dressing up. She had made a reservation somewhere far fancier (and significantly less sticky) than your usual bar, declaring it a much-needed change of scenery.

So, you had picked out the prettiest pair of shoes you owned – the ones you knew Aaron liked because he had insisted on buying them for you. He hadn’t even flinched when the price climbed high enough to require a comma, just given you that quiet, unwavering look that made it clear he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

And now, after hours of balancing on them, you were really hoping that look extended to carrying you to the couch.

“Regretting your choice of footwear?”

You huffed, dramatically shifting your weight onto one leg. “I regret your choice of footwear.”

His brow lifted. “Mine?”

“You picked these out, remember?” You gestured toward your aching feet, the expensive, unreasonably gorgeous shoes peeking out from beneath the hem of your dress. “You practically demanded I get them.”

Aaron hummed, slowing his pace just enough to make you aware of how much effort you were putting into keeping up. The ass. “I don’t recall any demanding,” he said, tone far too innocent. “I seem to remember you trying them on and looking at me like you were hoping I’d tell you to buy them.”

You gasped, stopping in your tracks. “That is not what happened.”

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable – except for the glint in his eyes, the one that only appeared when he was in the mood to toy with you. “No?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

He paused for a moment before asking, “Which one is it going to be?”

“Huh?

“Do you want to walk home in my shoes,” he clarified, like he was offering you something as normal as his jacket, “or am I carrying you?”

You stared at him, trying to gauge whether he was actually serious. “You can’t just carry me,” you argued, crossing your arms.

Aaron arched a brow and before you could react, he took a deliberate step forward, closing the space between you. “You underestimate me,” he said and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you can – I just don’t think you should.”

His lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile. “Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“You’re limping,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “And you’re already dramatic when you’re comfortable, I can’t imagine how much I’ll have to hear about this tomorrow if I don’t carry you.”

“Jeez, you’re making me sound like a real catch.”

His smirk deepened just enough to make your breath hitch. “You are,” he said simply, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “That’s why I’m carrying you.”

And before you could even form a protest, his arms were around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips as he adjusted his hold, settling you securely in his arms, carrying you like you were weightless. The absurdity of it all – his confidence, the way he did it without hesitation, the sheer ridiculousness of being carried down the street like some sort of Disney princess – sent you into a fit of laughter.

“This is silly,” you managed between giggles, clinging to his shoulders. “Baby, put me down, I’ll walk barefoot.”

“Not happening.” His grip on you tightened, as if the very thought of letting you go was out of the question.

You let out another giggle, looping your arms around his neck for balance – not that you needed to, because Aaron held you like you were made for this, like carrying you home was just another part of his routine. Like it didn’t even require effort.

“Well, at least it’s not too far,” you mused, mid-yawn. “Wouldn’t want you throwing your back out.”

Aaron huffed out a laugh, the warmth of it brushing against your temple. “My back is fine. I think I can manage a few blocks.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, a teasing smile curling at your lips. “You think you can manage? Should I be concerned?”

“I should drop you just for that.”

Your eyes widened in mock horror, gripping his shoulders a little tighter. “You wouldn’t.”

Aaron’s lips curved into a smile “Wouldn’t I?”

Still, you gasped dramatically, clutching him even tighter. “Wow. Threatening to drop your much younger wife? That’s low.”

He sighed, the kind of long-suffering exhale that only came from years of dealing with you. “Here we go.”

You bit back a grin, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “I mean, I get it – you’re not as young as you used to be. It must be exhausting carrying someone so full of youthful energy.”

“You do realize I’ve tackled suspects more than twice your size, right?”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” you conceded with a wave of your hand. “But, you know, they don’t cling to you and distract you with conversation while you’re carrying them.”

“No, usually they’re either trying to stab or shoot me.”

You blinked, considering that. “And I’m the difficult one?”

Aaron didn’t bother dignifying your last remark with a response, he just shook his head, adjusting his grip on you. The movement brought you even closer and you could feel his warmth bleeding into you. If you weren’t still revelling in the absolute delight of being carried, you might’ve admitted that this had been your plan all along.

Eventually, the familiar sight of your apartment building came into view, and you sighed dramatically. “Well, we made it. Against all odds. How’s your back? Need me to book you a chiropractor?”

“Maybe a divorce attorney,” he mumbled, earning a swat at his chest from your clutch.

“Excuse me?”

But before you could demand a proper retraction, he angled you slightly, adjusting his hold so effortlessly it was almost infuriating, and you barely had time to react before he nodded toward the door.

“Kick,” he instructed.

Rolling your eyes but obliging anyway, you lifted a foot and tapped the door open, muttering, “Chivalry is dead.”

“Chivalry is alive and well,” he corrected smoothly, stepping inside with you still securely in his arms. “It’s just carrying a very mouthy woman up the stairs.”

You gasped again, scandalized. “Wow. I think that definitely just earned you a night on the couch.”

“We both know you’d end up joining me anyway. In fact,” he mused, his voice dropping as he carried you up the stairs, “I recall you saying that the best sex we’ve ever had was on that couch.”

Your mouth snapped shut, heat rushing to your cheeks so fast it was disorienting.

“You cannot just say things like that,” you hissed, your head whipping toward the door opposite yours. “We have neighbours. You know Agatha is a night owl.”

Aaron exhaled a quiet chuckle, completely unfazed. “Agatha’s hard of hearing.” He paused then added, “Keys, honey.”

With a dramatic sigh, you started digging through your clutch, fingers sifting through a graveyard of lip glosses and tiny perfume samples you had no intention of ever using but refused to throw away.

Aaron tilted his head, watching with mild amusement. “Need some help?”

“I’ve got it,” you muttered, ignoring his deeply unnecessary smirk as you fished out your keys. “Not all of us have the luxury of bottomless suit pockets.”

“That’s not what they’re called.”

“Whatever, Mary Poppins.”

He shook his head as he patiently waited for you to unlock the door – still very much carrying you.

Finally, your fingers closed around the keys, and with an exaggerated motion, you yanked them out. Aaron hummed, the sound low and pleased, before lowering you just enough so you could reach the lock.

The door swung open and he carried you inside, kicking it shut behind him. He made his way over to the infamous couch. The moment he set you down, you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, stretching out dramatically. “Ugh. My hero,” you drawled. “My feet may never recover, but at least I died beautifully.”

You watched as he crossed the room with that same grace, making his way back toward the door. He slid off his suit jacket, draping it neatly over the back of a chair before reaching for the lock.

He made his way back over to you without a word, nudging your legs apart just enough to settle between them, sinking onto his knees. His fingers went immediately to the delicate strap of your heels, the pads of his thumbs brushing against your skin as he worked.

“Wow. Didn’t even have to ask.”

Aaron barely glanced up, his focus on your ankle as he did his best to undo the tiny buckle – one-handed, no less, because his phone and wallet were still in his grip. “I take care of what’s mine.”

Your stomach did a little flip, but you refused to let him win just yet.

“Hold these.” He pressed his phone and wallet against your stomach, and you took them instinctively.

Your fingers brushed over the wallet – the one you had given him for his birthday last year, the worn leather soft and familiar against your palm. You turned it over in your hand, shaking your head. “Oof. Trusting me with your wallet? Big mistake, Hotchner.”

He slipped the first shoe off your foot. “Spend whatever you want,” he murmured, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, lifting it slightly. “Take whatever you want. Take everything.”

Before the words could even land, he dipped his head and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your ankle. His lips continued to trail lower, placing another kiss just above the curve of your foot, then another, his movements achingly tender.

You exhaled a quiet, contented moan, your body melting into the cushions as his touch worked its magic. It was like he knew – of course he knew – the exact places that hurt, the spots that had been aching for hours, and now, with nothing more than his lips, his touch, his presence, he was undoing all of it.

Like he needed to make it better.

Like he wanted to erase every trace of discomfort you’d felt all night.

His hands skimmed up your calves, pushing your dress up, fingertips pressing gently into the sore muscles before his thumbs followed, kneading warmth back into you.

Then, with that same patient care, he reached for your other foot, undoing the second buckle. The strap slipped free and he set the shoe aside before his hands returned to you, skimming up the length of your legs.

And then his mouth followed. Kissing. Worshipping.

His lips trailed over your shin, each kiss pressing something deeper into you – something that made your chest feel full.

His breath was warm against your thigh when he mumbled, “Marry me, baby.”

You blinked down at him, another giggle slipping from your lips, light and breathless. “Aaron, we’re already married.”

You felt him smile against your skin.

“Marry me again.”

Another kiss.

“And again.”

Another.

“And again.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging it slightly, your heart stuttering as warmth curled deep in your stomach.

He looked up then, eyes full of love, lips hovering just above your skin.

“As many times as you’ll have me.”

And just like that, you knew – you’d say yes to him a thousand times over.

dividers by cafekitsune

[silkyslurp]

GN! reader has had a tongue piercing for a while. tf!141 is just now discovering it

NSFW !! - blowjobs tehe

- you, who had always kept your clear, plastic tongue piercing jewelry in during your 2 years of service with the task force. it was something you never discussed with anyone on base. piercings were against military protocol anyways, no? you just had to keep it on the down low, hoping price or anyone else wouldn’t find out and make you take it out entirely.

- —————————————————————

- you, who WAS sitting in the common area eating dinner with the team- before hearing an all too familiar cracking while eating your food. standing up abruptly and rushing back to your sleeping quarters to check, leaving four confused and stunned men behind to watch you sprint out of there.

- —————————————————————

- you, annoyingly having to change the clear piercing out for a standard metal bar. staring hopelessly at the shattered piercing while desperately googling to find the nearest piercing shop- and groaning when you realized they’ve all closed for the day. you make a mental note reminding yourself to make a quick stop by there tomorrow, you just need to make it through the rest of the night.

- —————————————————————

- you, having to walk back into the common area, giving a poor excuse about feeling sick and needing the bathroom. sitting back down and keeping your head low while eating in small portions to not draw too much attention.

- —————————————————————

- you, who had been completely oblivious to the way they all silently spotted it almost straight away. you missed the way Gaz almost choked on his food, the way Price stopped talking mid sentence, the way Soap had the most devilish grin on his face, or the way Ghost’s gaze became almost primal, hungry. and you certainly didn’t notice the way they awkwardly shift at the growing bulge in their pants.

- —————————————————————

- you, now on your knees with the four men circled around you. cocks out and at attention- leaking with precum at the sight of you with your tongue out. that slutty little piercing adorning your tongue, making them groan as each of them take turns using that pretty mouth of yours.. shivering at the cool metal raking up and down their thick rod. grabbing at your hair and forcing your mouth impossibly deeper onto their cock. your mind is so fuzzy you almost miss the silent praises Gaz gives you, saying things like “Cmon baby, keep those eyes on me.. fuck yes.. you’re so good. such a good slut for us.” or the way Ghost degrades you in such a way you should be offended, but it only makes the growing heat in your lower belly warmer. “Keeping such a dirty secret from us huh, love? I wish I had known about this sooner.. Would’ve kept that fucking mouth preoccupied around base all day, Use it for what it’s meant for.”

- —————————————————————

- You, now breathing heavy.. face covered in cum and knees burning from the stationary position- watching the men as their chests move up and down steadily while they catch their breath from the euphoric orgasm. watching as Price leans down and scoops you up, tossing you onto the bed.. Soap taking place beside you as he sloppily lands kisses on your face while using a hand towel to clean at the cum on your face before it gets in your eyes. “Oh babe, did you think we were done?” Soap laughs, amused at your expression. “We have to reward ya for making us feel good.. Sit back and relax. We’ll handle it from here.”

It was gonna be a long night:P

.

.

hiii so i hope this was ok. LMAO this is my first time writing anything like.. ever??? i love the tongue piercing simon/other tf141 members but i can’t ever find one with the READER having a tongue piercing so i was like FUCK i’ll do it myself. also i know my commas and periods and all that grammatically correct shit is WRONG i got like a C+ all through high school in english I DONT CARE. depending on if anyone actually likes this i may consider doing another, or requests????

[lanadelreyylover]

Retail Therapy

Pairing: Chris Redfield x Brat!Reader Rating: Explicit Summary: When the two of you have a nasty fight the night before, you take Chris's bank card out for a day on the town. As he sees the transactions roll in on his phone, he decides he has to come home and teach you a lesson. Word Count: 2.6k Based on this request from @lostdreamsx (sorry this took for-freaking-ever, but it was a labor of love, trust)

“Whose phone keeps buzzing?” Chris barks across the table, the sound of his interruption bouncing off the concrete walls of the briefing room. There’s red-hot anger in his voice, and he realizes he’s still harboring some leftover emotions from the fight the two of you had last night, the cold shoulder you gave him this morning as you both got ready for the day, side by side but without speaking or making eye contact. He doesn’t even remember the catalyst of the argument, just that, in hindsight, it was silly and things were blown way out of proportion. 

Every tiff starts the same way: he forgot to fix something around the house, or he smoked inside the house, maybe he’s been coming home from work late and you feel neglected. It’s always a trivial matter that ends in an explosion–you yelling, waving your arms in the air, voice as frantic as your gesticulations. He doesn’t match your fire, however. He keeps his control tight in his fist like a leash, taking the beating you give him. 

You’re too pretty to yell at, so he yells at his men instead. They can take it. 

“Huh? I asked whose fuckin’ phone keeps interrupting this meeting.”

He watches intently as some of his men glance around the room, others resigning their gaze to their laps, the floor, their own reflections on the surface of the table. 

Baker finally has the gall to clear his throat and speak. “I think it’s yours, Captain,” he says, pointing to Chris’s phone, resting on the table in front of him. 

Chris sighs, mumbling an apology into his hands, feeling like a fool for not realizing sooner that the chirping was coming from his own device, only a foot away. 

“What the fuck?” He mutters under his breath, finger nearly cramping at the amount of notifications he has to scroll through. They’re all from the same application. His bank. And they all read the same message. 

Recent Transaction. Plus an exorbitant amount of money, in red, with a minus sign in front of it. 

“Something wrong, cap?” Smith asks, narrowing his eyes to read the contorted expression on his Captain’s face.

Chris shakes his head, eyes still glued on the illuminated screen. He scrolls down the recent transactions page on his banking app, eyes nearly crossing as they try to focus on the individual purchases. 

One after the other. Triple digits, sometimes a comma separating a number that makes his gut twist. Names of stores he only recognizes from the glossy shopping bags you leave littered around the bedroom, the floor of the closet for him to trip over. 

Is this how you have decided to punish him today? By taking the card he gave you, an authorized user on his bank account, and going on a shopping spree? 

You bought clothing items that weren’t even in your correct size, blouses that you would never wear, accessories that won’t fit into your jewelry box, trousers that were half an inch too short on your legs. It was like taking a hit of a drug every time you swiped that card–so depraved that inserting a piece of plastic into a machine and hearing it chime could make you feel so euphoric. Not to mention the molten gold that ran through your veins when the satin handle of the shopping bag was placed in your hand. 

“We only have these in the half size above or below yours,” the saleswoman says, the corners of her painted lips falling into a frown, her hands clasped against her chest as she delivers the disappointing news. 

For a moment, your shoulders sink as you grieve the pair of pumps you had been eyeing on the display stand–a pretty satin pair you’ll never have the occasion to wear unless invited to a ball at Versailles, but would look pretty sitting on a shelf in your closet regardless. Then, you cut your eyes toward the mountain of shopping bags on the chair beside you. The entire morning has consisted of you hopping from store to store like a bunny on speed, swiping and tapping and inserting to purchase items that make no rational sense to buy. A half-size too small didn’t stop you earlier. Why quit while you’re ahead?

“They’ll stretch,” you respond sweetly with a smile, taking the box in your hands.

She furrows her brows. “I don’t think that material will–”

“I’ll take them.” 

As the woman remembers that her commission is on the line, she nods, taking the shoe box up to the register to scan and place in a bag. You stand up, grappling with your prior delights, all wrapped in tissue paper and gloss, taking the handles into your fists as you walk to the counter to complete the sale.

Another tap. Another cha-ching. Another wave of dopamine right to the brain. 

A diamond tennis bracelet. A pair of matching earrings. A babydoll slip you’ll torment him with later. 

You told the shopkeeper it was a gift so she would wrap it in specialty paper and a big, satin bow, just for you to tear into like a kid on Christmas morning when you returned home.

The salon smelled like acetone and bleach as you got a fresh manicure and pedicure, and a blow out as bouncy as the clouds in the sky, leaving a very generous tip as you practically skipped out the door. As you admired your fresh makeover, the card in your wallet felt a bit lighter.

A booming voice echoes your name through the downstairs hallway, the sound punctuated by the click of the lock, the door shutting to a close, and a pair of thick-soled boots being taken off and placed on the hardwood floor.

It’s four o’clock. He’s home early. 

And you’re in trouble. 

“Get down here, please.” 

The tone of his voice all but shares the politeness of the message. So you wait. 

Another shout of your name.

Your eyes bug wide as you remain settled on the closet floor amid the fortress you have created from shopping bags, crumpled tissue paper, ribbons of receipts, and shoe boxes. Heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs, down the hall, heading toward you. 

“What the fuck?” Chris asks as he appears in the doorframe, taking a look around the closet, which was already busting at its seams and hinges before your little spree. There’s genuine shock in his words, as though he’s concerned you bought out the entire city. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

“Hmm.” Your lips pucker into a pout as you turn away, pivoting your body back to the wool sweater you were folding into a neat square, tags still attached. It’s July…

He says your name once more. “Don’t look away from me while I’m talking to you.” 

And yet you do. To punish him some more. To tempt him. 

He attempts to come to you, stepping over the mountains and valleys of the spread, nearly tripping over the discarded lid of a box, almost slipping on a loose sheet of crepe paper. 

“Shit–” he curses, deciding to stay on the clear side of the barrier you’ve created, not wanting to add to his humiliation by slipping on a sheet of silk strewn on the floor. “Can we talk?”

“No, leave me alone,” you bite, glancing over your shoulder. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, a conflicted look in his eyes. It is decidedly less conflicted, however, when he points his finger to the empty patch of space beside him.

“Get over here right now.”

“Make me,” you bark back, immediately regretting the words, knowing that Chris has never been one to back down from a challenge you present him. 

Chris growls–a deep, ursine sound that, if you weren’t still so mad at him, would shoot straight to your core. It does anyway, and you can feel the damp patch on your panties spread across the lace gusset, a betrayal of your anger. Yet you don’t banish it away. 

He stomps over the pile of evidence, grabbing you off the floor by hooking two arms under yours. 

“Hey–” 

His hands move to find your waist, pivoting you until the two of you are face to face and there’s nowhere to hide. 

“Look at me,” he commands, as if you’re one of his men at their captain’s mercy. “What is going on?” 

You refuse once more, cutting your eyes to the side, though it’s difficult not to melt under his voice, the warmth of his strong yet gentle hands on your figure. 

“You don’t want to talk this out like adults? Fine.” He picks you up by your midsection, and tosses you over his shoulder, slapping your ass hard before he stomps out of the room. 

You’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t planning on this. 

“Dealing with a fucking child,” he bellows under his breath as he throws you onto the bed. You land on your back, bouncing once on the mattress. You quickly turn from your seat onto your hands and knees, attempting to crawl to the headboard for safety. A futile endeavor, because the next thing you know, there are a pair of calloused hands on your hips, dragging you back. His fingers snake around your waist to unravel the tie of your satin robe, yanking the fabric straight off your back. 

You glance over your shoulder to see your husband nearly buckle at the sight of the lingerie beneath it: a white babydoll slip with powder blue ribbons around the chiffon hems. He groans to himself as he slides the fabric up your spine, palming the skin beneath it. Up and down. 

The pair of panties you don are pulled down your thighs, slipped out from under your knees, and discarded onto the floor. 

You watch behind you as Chris yanks off his shirt and unzips his pants, pulling down the article along with his black briefs. His cock is red and weeping as it sits heavy in his fist. The anticipation that leaks from the slit in the head gushes as he squeezes and strokes a few times until it’s at its full, punishing length. 

“If you’re gonna spend my money like you’re the one who goes out and works for it,” he says as he lines himself up with your entrance and, without warning, enters you in one mean thrust. “You’re gonna fuckin’ work for it.” 

With a cry, you fall down to the mattress, aided by his hand that presses your back down into an arch. He uses it to steady himself as he pounds into you relentlessly, using another hand to unforgivingly pull your ass against his hips. 

The stretch is something to be savored, the bittersweet sensation soon being replaced by complete, unadulterated pleasure when your body begins to lubricate itself and the sting dissipates. 

“Fuck, you feel good,” he confesses, though he immediately regrets it, forgetting that this is supposed to be a punishment, a lesson. Clearing his throat, he gets back into character, and both of his hands travel to your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. 

There’s a smug smirk that appears on your face, and you do your best to hide it behind a curtain of hair as you bury your face into the linens, fingers grappling at the cotton sheets as he pounds into you from behind, grunting like a rutting animal. 

“You spent thousands,” he barks, pulling out until only half his length remains buried inside you. “Thousands,” he repeats, pistoning back in, eliciting a whine from your throat. “What do you have to say about that, mhm?”

“Fuck you.” You clench around him and he nearly plummets forward onto your back at the sensation of you squeezing his dick. 

“Fuck, baby,” he breaks, palms flat on your back, your smooth skin glistening beneath the orange glow dripping from the fixture above. 

Such beautiful skin, he thinks. Unmarred by years of fighting and killing. No scars strewn across your shoulderblades. He revels in the sight of it, clean and unwounded. You’re safe and sound here, and he’ll keep you like that for the rest of his days. 

Still, he has a point to make, and he can’t get distracted.

“I work my ass off, put my life on the line to keep you safe here.” He spits out a curse before continuing his tirade. “To give you anything you want. And this is how you repay me? Shit. Punishing me with the very thing I do to show you I love you?”

Cruel woman.

His hand dives to smack your cheek, and you hiss at the sting. “Not under my roof.” He doesn’t sooth it like he typically does, with a gentle kiss or a soft, caressing palm. He lets the air conditioning lick it like a dog on a hot wound. “Got it?” Another slap. 

“Got it?” He repeats, and you answer quickly, lest he plant another merciless hand on your skin. 

“Y-yes, Chris.” 

He thrusts into you again, picking up the pace until all you can think, hear, or feel is the slap of his hips against your ass, and the rhythmic song of his grunts harmonizing with your crying moans. 

Once he finishes, he bows down to kiss the red marks on your skin before you fall onto the bed, dragging the sheets over your sullied body. The cool cotton works as a salve, tending to both your stings and the burn of humiliation red-hot on your face. Now you can hide. 

That is, until he yanks the sheet down to your chest, revealing your rosy cheeks and glassy eyes to him as he wags a disciplinary finger.

“None of that.”

After he cleans himself up, he reclines on the mattress, lying next to you, his spine flush up against the headboard. He pulls the sheet over his lap and lets out a sigh as he tips his head back, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry about today,” you say meekly, fidgeting hands picking and poking at the skin around your nails, eyes affixed on the anxious movement. Suddenly, the sheet draped across your upper body is oh so fascinating as you study the tight weave of the cotton threads–

Chris leans over to plant a kiss on the top of your head, scooting closer to you so he can wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. 

“I can take everything back tomorrow,” you assure, still unable to meet his gaze. 

“Keep it all,” he says from above as you nuzzle into his chest, coated in the thinnest sheen of sweat. 

You snap your head up to look at him, whole-heartedly expecting there to be a jovial smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, a laugh escaping his chest. The expression on his face is nothing but genuine, and it makes your heart sink through the layers of insulation in the mattress. “No, Chris. It’s too much. I can take everything back, really.”

He shrugs, his broad, boulderous shoulders shifting against the upholstered headboard. “I like taking care of you. I want you to have everything your heart desires, and I’ll gladly work for it.”

The way his voice trails off into nothingness…you expect it to be punctuated by a ‘but’, followed by a lofty exception.

“Are you sure?”

Another kiss. “All I ask is that you don’t use it as a weapon against me. Got it?”

You nod against his side. That, you can do.

“How about you give me a little fashion show, huh? Show me all the pretty things you spent my money on? It’s the least you can do.”

A light giggle escapes you, and you nearly jump off the bed to do as he asks before you remember all those half-sizes and ill-fits you bought just for the sake of it. 

You’ll make a trip back to the shops tomorrow.

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