Warm Under The Collar - S.R

"You can't tell, but I'm livid rn" is so iconic

Could you do an f1 grid text x reader where the reader is feeling very insecure and just misses their boyfriend and they make her feel better?

ACCIDENTALLY TELLING YOUR F1!BOYFRIEND YOU THINK HE LIKES SOMEONE ELSE

( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request )

★ : summary :: texting your boyfriend while sharing your insecurities with your bestfriend(s) ★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ★ : genre :: hurt/comfort; heavy "insecurity" discussions

©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

★ : a/n :: ignore the typos, feedback and reblogs are appreciated!

They are so cute! What the hell.

😏 ➡️ <_< ➡️ >_> ➡️ <_< ➡️ 😯

I love Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia

can i request a derek fic where readers also in BAU and they’re married and everytime someone says “morgan” both her and derek turn around or show up and the teams figuring out how to differentiate the morgan’s and dereks just all smug like “yeah she’s MY wife”

i love you’re writing btw!!!🩷

"Morgan?" Penelope calls from the kitchen, "You're scheduled for a retake of your ID photo today at 12!"

The responses she gets are a, 'What?' from you, and a, 'What'd you say?' from your husband. You blink bewilderedly at him, and relish the way that his grin lights up the room between you, like a sunbeam shot into your chest.

"Oh, not you," Penelope huffs, peering over the open door of the fridge to glance between you two, "I meant the pretty one!"

"That doesn't narrow it down, babygirl," Derek raises an amused brow at her, drumming his pen on the wood surface of his desk, "You talking to me or my wife?"

"Your wife!" Penelope all but snaps, "Derek, your ego is so inflated."

"It's your fault," You tease Penelope, who withdraws from the fridge with a can of soda and a slightly guilty expression on her face, "I seem to remember you answering just about a thousand of his phone calls with, 'Ahoy there, sexy'."

"Stop," She pleads regretfully, cracking the tab on her soda can with more force than she needs to, "Don't- stop! I didn't know you two were- were hitched! -were canoodling! I never would have talked about his abs if I'd known he was taken."

"It's okay," You promise her, and you really mean it, because you know for all of their sex-crazed banter, they're friends to the highest degree, and Derek is faithful to you. "Penelope, if it weren't for you, he wouldn't know how to paint nails."

"It's true," Derek nods, grabbing your hand to showcase the baby blue color he'd applied for you just yesterday, "You're my personal trainer, P.G."

She surrenders with a sigh, and you're glad that she seems to not harbor any real guilt, because you'd hate for her to be burdened with it. She leans in to peer at your hand Derek has on display, and when she looks closely at your ring finger, her nose scrunches in a grimace.

"You got it on her cuticles, Derek," She chides, disapproval apparent in her tone that makes your chest shake in a gleeful laugh, "Have I taught you nothing?"

Fucking Perfection.

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

White Lies

[Spencer Reid x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You have constantly lied to your mother about your private life, as she was one to disapprove of everything, but those "harmless lies" become a lot more serious when you forget to cancel plans with your closest friend.

WC: 3036

Category: Fluff, Fake Dating, Sassy!Reid {TW: Reader’s mom is Authoritarian}

Another drafted idea that I finally wrote up because Spencer is the definition of pookie, and you cannot change my mind. This is also a dedication to my girl, @yoursacredqueenmother, for matching my crazy delulu fantasies 🫶💖

『••✎••』

Your mom has always been a force of nature—a whirlwind of opinions, expectations, and unsolicited advice that sweeps through your life like a hurricane. She’s the kind of woman who believes she knows what’s best for you, even when you’re pretty sure she doesn’t. Ever since you turned 30 last year, her visits have become more frequent, and her nagging has reached a fever pitch.

"You’re getting old, sweetheart," she’d say, her voice dripping with concern that felt more like judgment. "You need to settle down, find a nice man, start a family. I’m not going to be around forever, you know."

The words were always delivered with a smile, but they stung like a slap. You love her, you really do, but her constant pressure makes you feel like you’re failing at some unspoken test of womanhood.

So, to get her off your back, you’d started lying. Little white lies at first—"I’m seeing someone, Mom, it’s just early stages"—but they quickly snowballed into more and more elaborate fibs. Soon, you were telling her that you were dating a doctor who wanted nothing more than to start a family with you but was waiting for the right time.

It was easier to make up a fictitious doctor than to explain the real reason you were still single.

Because the truth is that the man of your dreams is already in your life, he's been here for years, and he's always been the perfect friend. The problem is that he's a little hard to read. You have no idea how he feels about you or if he sees you as more than a friend.

You'd tried to tell him how you felt about him before, but the words had stuck in your throat. He’d seemed so confused, so shocked by the mere suggestion of romance. Maybe he just didn't see you that way. Maybe you’d ruin your friendship by even mentioning the idea.

This led to where you are now: alone, frustrated, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother from butting into your personal life. You’d thought maybe she’d drop the issue after your birthday, but she’d come by to "surprise you" last night and is now currently sitting at the kitchen table, looking around your apartment with an expression of vague disappointment.

"Honey, you’re an adult now," she says, not looking up from her coffee cup. "You can’t keep living like this."

She gestures at the living room, which is scattered with discarded letters and half-read books. The mess is a symptom of the chaos in your head as you’ve been too preoccupied with thoughts of him to worry about cleaning up after yourself.

"It’s not that bad," you mumble, though you know it is. Even he’d commented on the state of your apartment when he’d last stopped by, and his place is usually worse than yours. Messy, not dirty. He’s a bit of an organized hoarder.

"Well, maybe not for a single girl," she sighs. "But what if Doctor Whoever comes over? Don’t you want to impress him?"

You bite your lip, trying to keep your temper in check. This is the problem with your mother—she has a habit of steamrolling over your feelings, and you've never been able to stand up to her. You’d thought you were done having this argument when you turned 30. Apparently, you’d thought wrong.

"Mom," you begin, your voice firm. "I told you, he doesn't care about stuff like that. He's more concerned with things like—"

The doorbell rings, interrupting you mid-sentence. Thank God. You’re not sure what you would have said, but any excuse is better than none. You figured it was the mailman, late with that package you’d been expecting, but when you just so happen to glance at the calendar (the one your father bought you last Christmas, with pictures of cats wearing hats), your stomach drops.

March 21st, which may not seem important, and it really isn’t, unless you look closer and realize that the cat in the picture is wearing a lab coat and is holding a beaker. Because that, my friends, is not just a picture. It is a reminder.

The one thing you had not wanted to forget.

The one thing, apparently, you had forgotten.

You’d been so busy trying to avoid your mother’s questions about your non-existent boyfriend that you’d completely lost track of time. The calendar sits there, taunting you, and all you can think is:

Oh, no.

Because the person who had rang the doorbell? It was him. He and his adorable grin, hazel-like eyes, and messy brown hair. He probably even brought a bag of those terribly expensive chocolates you love.

You want to cry. Of course, it had to be that day, the day of all days, the day you'd been secretly anticipating for all month.

Chess day. It was a monthly ritual you'd started with him when he'd discovered that you, too, were a fan of the game. You were absolutely terrible at it, and he won every time, but honestly, you didn't care. Chess day was just an excuse for you to spend time with him.

Except today, you have company, and it’s not exactly the kind you want him to meet.

You were supposed to call him, but in your haste to please your mom, you completely forgot.

Your mother’s gaze shifts to the door, and her eyebrows rise as if she can sense his presence on the other side. "Well, aren’t you going to answer that?"

No.

That's what you wanted to say. Instead, you hear yourself saying:

"Yeah, just a sec."

And, like a complete idiot, you open the door.

You open the door, and he’s there, all bright-eyed, smiling, holding a box of chocolates and his perfectly polished travel chess set. You feel like the biggest jerk in the world.

"Uh, hey!" he chirps, his voice making your stomach flip. He doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air or the fact that your mother is standing right behind you, peering curiously over your shoulder. "I know I’m a little early, but I needed to pick up some things and..."

He trails off as his gaze settles on your mother. She’s eyeing him like a hawk and doing what she does when meeting a new person: leaning forward slightly, squinting her eyes, and tilting her head. You can see the wheels turning in her mind.

"Is this him?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.

Before you can stop her, she grabs your wrist and pulls you aside. You stumble into the kitchen, and she takes your place, smiling warmly at him.

"So, you’re the doctor," she says, her voice full of approval. "My daughter has told me so much about you!"

Oh, this is bad. So, so bad.

"Uh," he begins, clearly caught off-guard. His eyes dart to yours, and you were expecting his classic confused puppy look, but this time, it’s different. He looks... honored? No, that can't be right.

"She… talked about me?" he stammers, looking back at your mother.

She nods. "All the time! In fact, I was starting to think she’d made you up. It’s good to know my daughter has such a handsome young man in her life."

You want to die. Right there, on the spot. But, somehow, you manage to force a smile, even as your heart pounds with anxiety.

And your mother? She beams.

"It’s lovely to meet you finally," she gushes. She reaches out and shakes his hand, and he stares at her with a dazed expression. "My daughter has always been a bit shy, and she tends to keep things close to the vest if you know what I mean."

"Mom, please," you cut in, mortified. "Stop."

He still hasn't said a word, and the silence is killing you.

"Well, come on in, then," your mother continues, ignoring your protests. "I insist. After all, I can't wait to learn more about my future son-in-law!"

And this is when the situation goes from bad to worse.

This is when he freezes, and the box of chocolates threatens to slip from his fingers. You watched as he struggled to form a coherent sentence.

"I... Uh, that's not... we’re not..."

"Yes! Yes, we are!" you shout, desperate to cover up his stammering. He looks at you, his expression shifting from confused to shocked, and it’s like a punch in the gut. "That’s right, Mom. This is him. My boyfriend. Doctor Whoever."

"Oh, sweetie, this is so wonderful!" Your mother is so busy clapping her hands with delight that she doesn't notice his reaction.

"Doctor… Whoever?" He looks offended and a bit hurt. "What’s that supposed to mean—?"

"Shush!" You hiss, silently pleading with him to keep quiet. He must have caught your desperation because he shuts his mouth.

It allowed you a moment to process everything. Your mother is smiling widely, her face filled with delight. She doesn't even seem bothered by the fact that he’s currently dressed like a college professor with an evident love for scarves.

Meanwhile, he’s standing there, blinking stupidly, looking as if his entire world has been flipped upside-down. He seems torn between anger and elation, and honestly, it’s confusing as hell. You want to grab him and apologize and explain that this was all a mistake, but you can’t. Not with your mother right there.

So, you knew what you had to do.

"Mom! Say, would you mind doing me a huge favor and just give us like a few minutes? We have some important totally-not-boyfriend stuff to discuss."

"Sure, honey." She grins. "I'll do some unpacking. How about that?"

"Perfect!"

She practically skips into the other room, leaving the two of you alone. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.

The sigh you let out is one of relief, tinged with the faintest hint of dread.

Though, he was the first to break the silence with words.

"I didn’t realize we were dating," he says, his voice low. He's not quite glaring at you, but it's a close thing. "Last time I checked, statistically, dating requires at least two people. Which leads me to the logical conclusion that you are, in fact, a liar. Unless this is some strange, newfangled term for friendship, in which case, I think it would be more appropriate for me to refer to you as the "teller of lies" rather than a—"

"I know, I'm sorry." You blurt out, your cheeks flushing with shame. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was asking all these questions, and I couldn't tell her the truth, and then she just kept talking, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, and... I panicked. Okay? That’s all."

"What do you mean, couldn’t tell her the truth?" He narrows his eyes. "Is something wrong? Did you get yourself into trouble?"

"No! No, nothing like that."

"Then, what is it that you can't tell her?"

He steps closer, and the concern in his eyes makes you feel even guiltier.

"Look, don't worry about it, alright? It’s not important." You turn away, refusing to meet his gaze.

"If it isn’t important, then why are you so embarrassed?"

"I’m not embarrassed."

"Your cheeks are flushed," he points out. "And you tend to rub your thumb against your forefinger when you’re feeling nervous or stressed. Which, coincidentally, is also something you do when you’re lying."

Damn it. You should’ve known better than to lie to a profiler.

"You don’t know what it’s like to be interrogated by my mother," you snap, harsher than intended. You soften your voice before continuing. "It’s like she’s constantly see-sawing between disapproval and pity. She means well, but when she’s around, I feel like I'm being crushed under the weight of her expectations."

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"And I know, I know, that’s not an excuse for lying. I just... I’m sorry, okay? It was wrong and selfish and... I didn’t mean to drag you into it."

You brace yourself for the inevitable rejection, the anger, the disappointment. Instead, you hear him let out a sigh, followed by the familiar look of resolve that comes over him when he's faced with a challenging puzzle.

"You know, when we first met, you used to lie all the time." He glances at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You would say things like, 'I don't watch rom-coms,' and, 'I have a real job,' and, most infamously, 'there's no such thing as aliens.'"

"Hold on a minute—"

He ignored your protests, his smile growing wider.

"You’re not that bad of a liar. Actually, you’re pretty decent, considering your lack of social skills. So the fact that you’ve managed to fool your mother is pretty impressive."

"Hey—"

"And, honestly, it’s a little flattering."

"I— Wait… what?" You gape at him, trying to figure out what's going on. "Flattering?"

He shrugs, but you can tell he's trying not to blush.

"Liars tend to use people they know well or trust implicitly when they need a cover story because they have more information about them and are therefore more believable. So, by lying about your fake boyfriend, that being me, it suggests that you trust me enough to make a convincing cover story, and the fact that you are embarrassed about the deception implies a certain amount of fondness."

"You can't know all that from a simple lie."

"Can’t I?"

There's something in his tone, the slightest hint of a tease, that makes your heart flutter. He's always been like this, so damn perceptive. You never knew what to make of it.

"It’s actually a well-established behavioral theory," he continues. "Deceivers typically show affection toward the person they are attempting to deceive. In fact, a study in the 1970s—"

"Spencer, please." You hold up a hand. "I get it."

"I'm not so sure that you do."

There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your stomach do backflips.

"Because," he murmurs, moving a little closer, "if you did, I wouldn’t have had to spend the past three years of my life wondering why my best friend keeps avoiding my gaze."

"You noticed that?" You squeak, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

"I notice everything."

He takes a step toward you, and it’s so quick, so unexpected, that you can't help but glance up. He's actually extremely close, his face mere inches from yours, and you find yourself frozen, unable to speak, unable to think, as his eyes lock with yours.

"I notice that the color of your eyes changes depending on the lighting." He pauses, and his voice grows softer. "And I notice that your pupils dilate when I'm near. I notice the way you breathe, the way you laugh, the way you chew your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought. And I can’t help but notice that the closer I get, the faster your heart rate becomes. That could be a number of things, of course, and not just an indication of arousal, but considering the context, the likelihood that it’s due to anything other than sexual excitement is simply—"

"Spence," you breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’re not sure what to do, so you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. "Do you want to be my fake boyfriend?"

There’s a moment of silence, followed by a quiet snort.

"I thought I already was."

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but the tension between you has lessened. Now, he’s simply staring at you with a smug smile, and it's like a dam has burst. The words tumble out of your mouth, spilling out like water from a leaky faucet.

"Well, then, you should know that my boyfriend is absolutely infuriating and has a tendency to ramble about obscure facts at inappropriate moments. And he’s really, really bad at taking a hint."

His smile widens, and his voice takes on a teasing tone.

"Oh, he is, is he? Tell me, is he good at chess?"

"No, he’s terrible at it."

"Then, he sounds like a total loser."

"Yeah," you admit, biting back a smile. "He’s the biggest loser I know."

"In that case, you should know that my girlfriend is incredibly frustrating and a compulsive liar who uses her boyfriend for cover stories. She also tends to cheat her way to victory despite still losing most of the time."

"I do not cheat!" You protest, playfully punching him on the shoulder.

"No, you just make up rules on the spot in order to justify why you lose so badly."

"You’re one to talk. You’re the one who’s been letting me win all this time."

"Perhaps," he grins. "Or maybe I’ve been letting you believe that."

You narrow your eyes.

"Are you admitting to me what I think you're admitting?"

"What is it that you think I’m admitting to?"

"I think you’re admitting to me that you’ve been throwing our chess games all this time."

"That sounds like the ramblings of someone who cheats and is trying to project their own faults onto others."

"Oh, you know what—"

And that's when the bedroom door swings open, and your mother's voice cuts through the air like a knife.

"Ahem."

She's standing there, smiling, and holding a box filled with old pictures and baby toys. Your father had sent it to you last year, hoping that you’d have children soon and use it, but you’d put it in storage, intending to deal with it later. Apparently, your mother had decided now was the perfect time.

The both of you share a look, and it's clear that he’s thinking the same thing as you.

"Not interrupting, am I?" She asks, glancing from him to you and then back again. Her smile was practically glowing, and she had a strange look in her eyes as if she were a cat watching a bird. "I was just looking for a place to put these old things and thought maybe my daughter's boyfriend might be interested in seeing them."

The shared look between the two of you solidified what was going through both of your minds. This was indeed going to be a long, long afternoon.

This was so beautiful

all those dreams where you’re my wife

gif by @reidgif

inside your mind - the 1975

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

summary: coming down from the highs of sex, Spencer and Reader talk about his brain and its thoughts.

genre: fluff & angst

word count: 2.1K

warnings: no use of y/n, proofread, this is an old piece of writing.

masterlist!

Panting softly, your breath mingled with his, your chest rising and falling in tandem with Spencer’s. Your body felt weightless, the afterglow of your shared passion wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Sweat clung to your skin, and the soft hum of his heartbeat echoed in your ear where your head rested against his shoulder. The intimacy of the moment felt sacred, a shared silence that spoke volumes without words.

Spencer was unusually quiet. Not that his silence was uncommon—he often retreated into his mind after moments like this, his thoughts working in overdrive as if the endorphins had unlocked new pathways in his brilliant brain. He’d once explained to you that post-coital clarity often helped him connect dots he’d never considered before. You’d always found it endearing, a quirk that made him uniquely Spencer.

But tonight, something was different. His quiet wasn’t contemplative—it felt heavier, like the weight of his thoughts pressed down on both of you. You couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers hesitated as they traced lazy circles on your back, the way his chest rose with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

“What’s wrong, handsome?” you murmured softly, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze. His chin, which had been resting lightly against the crown of your head, shifted as he tilted his face toward you. His eyes, usually warm and filled with an endless stream of curiosity, now held a flicker of something else—something guarded.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just looked at you, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as if he were weighing his words. You could see the gears turning in his mind, the way he struggled to reconcile his thoughts with the honesty that had always been the cornerstone of your relationship.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” he said finally, his voice soft but unconvincing.

It was a lie—a glaring, obvious lie. Spencer was many things: a genius, a profiler, a man who could recall entire books word for word. But a liar? Never. You knew him too well, knew the way his eyes darted away for just a fraction of a second when he was trying to mask the truth. He knew you knew, too, which made his attempt at deception almost endearing.

You propped yourself up on your elbow, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead. “Spence,” you said gently, your tone a mix of affection and concern. “You’re a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them. Talk to me.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but the words caught in his throat. He sighed again, this one deeper, as though the act of holding everything inside was physically exhausting. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t scare me,” you replied, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.

He let out a breath, his gaze darting away for a moment before returning to yours. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost fragile. “It’s just… I don’t know how to explain it.”

You frowned, leaning closer. “Try me,” you said softly. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just tell me what you’re feeling.”

His hand moved softly, almost reverently, to the back of your head. His fingers threaded through your hair with a gentleness that sent shivers down your spine, pausing now and then as though he were mapping the curve of your skull. There was something purposeful in the way he touched you, something that felt more like exploration than comfort.

“I wish I could know you the way you know yourself,” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. His fingers continued their journey, tracing invisible patterns that only he could see. “I want to be able to have your brain all laid out in front of me, every thought, every memory, every piece of you.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, his voice soft but steady as he continued, almost to himself. “The back of your head is at the front of my mind.”

He fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to untangle the thoughts swirling in his mind. His hand didn’t stop moving, the gentle rhythm of his touch grounding both of you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

After a long pause, he spoke again, his voice tinged with hesitation. “Sometimes, when you’re asleep, I’ll just… watch you breathe.” His eyes flickered toward you, searching your face as though bracing for judgment, but his hand never faltered.

“I’ll watch the way your breathing slows, the way it evens out. It’s like… proof. Proof that you’re real, that you’re here with me. And then I start to wonder…” His voice trailed off, but the weight of his thoughts lingered in the air.

His fingers stilled briefly before resuming their gentle path, tracing the base of your skull as though it held the answers he was searching for. “I wonder what you’re dreaming about,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost fragile. “I wonder if you dream of me, or of the things you love, or the things you want in life. And I can’t help but think about how much I want to know every part of you. What makes you happy, what makes you sad, what you think about when no one’s watching.”

His other hand came to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. His gaze was intense, those wide, earnest eyes searching yours for understanding. There was no shame in his vulnerability, only a raw, unfiltered need to be known and to know you in return.

“I don’t want to miss anything,” he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re the most important person in my life, and sometimes it terrifies me how much I feel for you. Like… like I’ll never be able to express it the way I want to.”

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His hand lingered on your cheek, the other still cradling the back of your head as though he could hold your thoughts in his palm.

He let out a soft, shaky breath, his forehead lowering until it rested against yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, the words almost too quiet to hear.

For a moment, he stayed like that, his eyes closed, his breathing syncing with yours. His hands stayed gentle, as though he were afraid of breaking the moment. And then he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that spoke of a love too big for words.

In the quiet that followed, his touch said everything he couldn’t, and you let it.

In the gentle quiet of the room, Spencer’s voice broke through like a fragile thread, hesitant yet determined. “I mainly watch you sleep because I’m terrified of my mind,” he admitted, his tone a mix of vulnerability and unease. He hesitated, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of the blanket as if debating whether to pull the veil back on his inner torment.

His gaze dropped to the floor, his breath catching slightly as he continued. “When I sleep…” he started, the words trembling on the edge of his lips. “I dream that you’ve been taken. It’s always the same. I’m helpless, paralyzed—every step I take feels like wading through quicksand, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t reach you.”

His voice grew quieter, a raw edge creeping into it, but he forced himself to keep going. “By the time I finally get to you, it’s too late. You’re lying there…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, as though the very memory of the dream clawed at his throat. “You’re lying on the ground in a pool of your own blood. And the only thing I can see, the thing that haunts me even after I wake up, is the ring on your finger.” The room seemed to close in on you, the silence heavy and suffocating. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such a confession. You’d never talked about marriage—not explicitly, at least—but there had always been an unspoken understanding between you two. You both wanted it, you both felt it in your bones, but life had never given you the time to explore that possibility.

But hearing Spencer speak of the ring, of the symbol of everything you meant to him, in such a terrifying, haunting context—it shook you. The dream wasn’t just about losing you; it was about him failing you. About the one thing that represented his commitment, his love for you, now twisted into something horrific, something he couldn’t escape.

Your mind raced, trying to process the weight of his words, the depth of his fear. You could see it now—the desperation in his eyes, the vulnerability in the way he held himself. Spencer was afraid. Afraid of losing you, fearful of not being able to protect you.

In that moment, the love between you felt both fragile and immense. You reached out to him, your hand finding his, the warmth of your touch grounding him in the storm of his emotions. You didn’t need to say anything—he already knew how much you cared. But still, you squeezed his hand, hoping to convey everything that words couldn’t.

Spencer finally looked up, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It’s supposed to be a symbol of everything good, everything I’ve ever wanted to give you. But in that moment, it feels like a mockery—a cruel reminder that I couldn’t protect you. That I failed you.”

The room fell silent, his words lingering in the air like a fragile echo. He looked at you then, his gaze pleading for understanding, for some assurance that the horrors of his subconscious didn’t define him.

“Spencer Reid, you could never fail me, not ever. Don’t ever think that,” you said softly, your voice steady but full of the weight of everything you felt. Your hands found their way to his face, cupping his cheeks gently, guiding his gaze to meet yours. You could see the self-doubt in his eyes, the fear that had taken root there, and it made your heart ache.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you pressed your forehead against his, a silent plea for him to hear you, to understand. “You’ve given me so much in this life, Spencer,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, but every word carried the depth of your emotions. “So much that I never thought I deserved, but you showed me that I do. You showed me that I’m worthy of love, of happiness. That I’m worthy of you.”

You could feel the weight of your words sink in as Spencer’s breath caught, his eyes flickering with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. It wasn’t just the love you had for him—it was everything he had done for you, everything he had helped you realize about yourself.

You gently pulled one of your hands away from his face, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for his hand, placing it over your chest, just above your heart. “This…” you said, your voice catching in your throat as you pressed his hand against the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. “This is because of you. Every beat, every breath—it’s because of the love you’ve given me. You make me feel alive in a way I never thought was possible.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, his gaze dropping to where his hand rested against your chest. The quiet intensity of the moment wrapped around both of you, and you could feel the weight of everything he was carrying—the fear, the guilt, the love—and you wanted to lift it off him, even if only for a moment.

You leaned in slowly, your lips brushing against his forehead in a soft, lingering kiss, a silent promise that you were there, that you always would be. Then, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, you whispered, “Spencer, you don’t ever need to worry about failing me. You’re everything I’ve ever needed. And I’ll never let you forget that.”

Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed, and without thinking, he leaned in to kiss you, his lips gentle against yours, a kiss that spoke of gratitude and love, a kiss that grounded you both in the present moment. When he pulled back, you couldn’t help but smile, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheek.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. And before you could respond, you kissed him again, this time deeper, letting the weight of everything you had just shared hang in the air between you like a promise, unspoken but undeniable.

thank you for reading!

please like & reblog if you enjoyed!

masterlist!

taglist! @pleasantwitchgarden

𓊆 . ໋ 𝜗ৎ DEREK MORGAN & FOX! READER ˚ ୭ . ⊹ ۫

au work content, female! readers race not specified, dark content ( BAU content ), some nsfw content.

DEREK MORGAN & FOX! READER who had only been together for a couple months before his colleagues were sniffing at his clothes and giving each other knowing looks. of course, the looks don’t go missed by derek himself but he simply chooses to ignore them and let your smell cling to his shirt for the next couple weeks.

DEREK MORGAN who fully intended on keeping you to himself for a while—not out of shame, never that—he’s just not quite ready to give up the privacy of having his little secret yet. he intended on leaving it at small teasing and “needing to meet the misses soon.” a couple of grins, some smooth diversions—that had been enough. until one day, on the plane.

their places were already assigned by hotch, and there had been maybe two seconds of silence before emily broke it. “m’ just gonna ask what everyone’s been wondering—who’s the vampire?” emily teases, pointing at derek’s neck, her eyes bright with mischief. derek’s brow furrows until he mirrors her motion, his fingers brushing over the faint mark on his neck. then he remembers you—the way you’d smiled at him that morning, kissed him soft and sleepy before leaving him with a playful nip—and his mouth stretches into a wide, satisfied grin.

everyone is watching now, waiting. “none of your business. focus on the case,” derek says, his voice low and pointed. they all groan in unison. “ohh,” emily sings, eyes wide with mock scandal. “okay, mr. hit-it-and-quit-it.”

derek’s head snaps toward her, offended. “for the record, i am not hitting and quitting.” he points a finger at her. “It’s more of a hitting it and keeping it.” he gestures to spencer. “tell ’em, spence.” spencer immediately stiffens, wide-eyed. he looks at emily, caught. she’d had been interrogating him about for months. “i— i just found out like two days ago!”

emily’s mouth drops open. “so you did know!” she laughs, tossing a napkin at him. spencer looks down at it like it’s betrayed him. “wait, so you’ve seen her?” jj asks, shifting forward in her seat, suddenly a little too invested. derek’s eyes narrow. “hey—”

“you’re always worrying about who we’re interested in,” jj shrugs, shifting the file in her hand. “she’s got a point,” rossi chimes in with a shrug. “hey!” derek’s tone is all faux-offense, but his grin is sharp. “alright, alright, let’s stop harassing morgan and focus,” hotch’s voice cuts through the playful noise, his tone completely contrasting his slight grin.

“thank you,” derek sighs, settling deeper into his seat. but the low sound of soft laughs and teasing smiles linger.

DEREK MORGAN who is more than a little selfish about you even though he has no real reason to be. maybe because you have nothing to do with the BAU—and he likes it that way—or even though you don’t, you’re always keeping him on his toes and very much entertained. you make him work for it without even realizing you are, and derek? he wouldn’t have it any other way.

FOX! READER who always gives derek the illusion of control. he’s used to chasing—thrives off it—and the fact that you don’t even seem to notice you’re being chased just makes him want you more. you’re the sweetest to everyone on the team—always polite, always warm—but with derek, you’re different. you give him a hard time, whether on purpose or not, and derek loving this is an understatement—he adores it. he lives for the playful push-pull, the teasing edge you give him. and when he needs it—when the weight of the day is sitting too heavy on his shoulders—you don’t hesitate to be soft for him. no teasing, no resistance. just quiet warmth and your touch, grounding him instantly.

FOX! READER walks with grace in every step, always in loafers or thick-heeled shoes that click against the floor with quiet confidence. derek’s eyes track you every time. he adores your legs—always finding an excuse to slide his hand along your thigh, or press his mouth to the back of your knee when you’re curled up together. he’s obsessed with the necklace you always wear—the delicate chain resting just above the neckline of whatever low-cut shirt you’ve chosen—and he’ll trace his thumb over it absently as he kisses your throat, lazy and lingering. you’re quietly confident, showing it in the way you move and the way you speak—not cocky, just assured.

FOX! READER who lets derek carry all the jealousy on his own because you almost have none. you know where his loyalty stands and you’re sure no one’s taking derek from you. sure, you might give a hard glance to someone who’s getting a little too close, but you don’t need to say anything. derek handles it.

“thought she was gonna kiss you if you moved over an inch,” you say, amused as you lean back in your seat, eyes sharp. derek’s mouth twitches. comically, he shifts a little closer, arm resting along the back of your chair. “do I get a kiss?” you raise an eyebrow, lazy smile playing on your face. “sure you don’t want to try her first?” derek’s eyes darken, his hand sliding to your thigh. “i’m damn sure.” and of course, you give him that kiss.

work goes here . . will be filled soon!

asks are open for these two! read guidelines before submitting or i’ll just delete you’re ask lol.

💋💋

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

Champion Of Flirting - Sebastian Vettel

@herdetectivetheorist prompt 5 & 20 (sorry 3 was already taken for Max but we'll make it work) - "Want to try that again?" & "You'll regret this." "I'll regret not doing it more."

Summary: Y/n is a new reporter in F1 and she is trying her best not to let a certain young world champion seduce her, but she's struggling (as anyone would)

Red Bull 2011!Sebastian x shy for only Seb!reader

Warnings/themes: Pre-smut but no actual smut

Word count: 1.3k

No one would deny Sebastian is famous for a multitude of things. From his quick jump up from Toro Rosso into Red Bull despite fight back from Mark, his continuous wins, his record setting championship win and he's no failure with women either.

So when a new reporter is brought in, specifically for getting interviews with the drivers, his attention is grabbed by the woman who tries to overcome her shyness around him but he never aims to aid her.

"Hello, y/n." Seb greets as he walks to the media pen and even pushed Lewis out of the way to get in with y/n first.

"Hello, Sebastian." Y/n smiles already looking like she's getting a little flustered from his light eyes remaining glued on her like he's attached himself to her. "Do you feel good?"

Amusement sparkles behind his eyes as he watches her wince at the way she worded that question. He'd almost think she did it on purpose if y/n knew how to handle his presence and the effect he seems to have on her.

"Want to try that again? They can cut that." Seb smirks making her sigh then readjust trying to compose herself.

"How do you feel going into this weekend?" She asks since it's only a Thursday and he hasn't been on track yet.

Seb does answer the question in a professional manner giving her something decent to work with to redeem herself over the badly wording of her question. Not that he actually thinks it was that bad at all and he would've given the same answer regardless but it's not always that simple.

"Thank you." Y/n mumbles as Seb is steered away by his media babysitter, as he likes to refer to them since that's what it feels like a lot more than anything else.

"No problem." Seb smiles shooting her a wink as he does so.

He keeps watching her out the corner of his eye as he does other interviews and watches her seem a little more at ease with other drivers. Even his own teammate which is a little annoying because he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. He really likes the young woman and he has a certain fondness that he can't shake with her.

-

Sebastian won the Turkish gran prix and made a point to search for y/n immediately after the post-race chaos. Finding her packing up for the day and getting ready to catch a flight home.

She doesn't get the luxury of flying anything better than economy and she is always moving quickly to get herself home because she doesn't have the back up finances to pay for another ticket out of pocket.

"Come celebrate with me." Sebastian demands catching her attention while she immediately loses her voice. "I promise you a good time."

"Sorry, I have a flight I can't miss." Y/n mumbles while Seb sighs at her.

"You can get a flight back with me tomorrow."

"My hotel."

"We'll probably be leaving straight from celebrations. I'm not celebrating without you, so you have to come with me." Sebastian states not really giving her an option but only because he knows she'd put her foot and and decline if she really didn't want to. But on the chance she's too shy to actually say no. "If you don't want to, I won't really force you."

"No-I'll come with you." Y/n rushes out then managing a smile. "It sounds fun."

"Come on then, you will be part of the Red Bull team tonight." Sebastian smiles feeling a victory. Actually a big victory. The fact that y/n accepted his invitation to the party feels a bit like a bigger achievement since he fully expected her to to just shut him down and decline with no hesitation of changing of her mind.

-

Going to celebrate with Sebastian definitely felt like it was the right choice. Especially as she gets a couple drinks in her. Not getting drunk but definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol.

Maybe she should've actually tried to be more resilient to Sebastian's similarly tipsy whispers and light touches. But he talked her into coming back to his hotel because unlike expected they left the night out earlier than previously discussed.

But as they find themselves alone in each other's company. Y/n gently closes the space. Her liquid courage making her usual shyness and inability to find enough words to structure a full sentence having long since disappeared from the space between them.

"You'll regret this." Sebastian comments since even being less than sober, he knows y/n's lips ghosting over his own is something she'll think about when they part from each other.

"I'll regret not doing it more." Y/n whispers practically breathless as she completely closes the space between them.

Feeling her lips on his own is like getting a hit of a drug he didn't know he was waiting for a hit of.

"Don't change your mind. I don't want to stop." Sebastian states and she certainly isn't about to be the one who pushes for them to stop. She almost feels like she's overwhelmed by how good it feels to kiss the blonde f1 champion.

But she doesn't want to stop and she's desperate for more. To the point she's pushing his lean body backwards to the bed till his legs hit the edge and he accepts his position of being pushed back onto the surface.

"I need to feel you." Sebastian grunts rolling them over so she drops beneath him and he can gain some more control over the situation which earns a moan from the young woman.

-

Y/n definitely feels like this is a walk of shame as she follows Sebastian onto the private jet. But at the same time Sebastian is so completely unapologetic about his actions with her and he takes her hand into his own as they do.

"Sebastian." Y/n mumbles making him hum and smile dragging those blue eyes up to look at her and he reads her unspoken thoughts without her opening her mouth.

"You are not going to break my heart now are you?" Sebastian questions with the brutal honesty that forces her to accept that she really has two options: quit her job as soon as she's off the jet and completely prevent him from pursuing her or actually let herself have something nice and just accept his advances as more than just sex.

"No." Y/n whispers earning a toothy grin before he leans over and kisses her cheek. "But you can't keep flirting-"

"People would think something is wrong if I stopped flirting with you. Anyway, now I have the best reason to flirt with you." Sebastian smirks looking very victorious even if he's a little disheveled since they had to rush from the hotel to get here in order to stop the jet from being delayed for take off.

"Fantastic." Y/n hums while Sebastian grins just happy that she isn't fighting him about it. "So it's going to get more obvious and aggressive with your flirting?"

"Oh yes." Sebastian confirms not even seeing the issue with such a thing.

Squish-y - LN

Request from @sunshineeyessss - please something with squish! I miss her, if it can be something angst like her getting really hurt or something in those lines

Word count: 1.1k

Clingy/physical touch-love language!reader

Author's note: I am not making a Squish series, this is a one time part 2. Please don't request more Squish after this guys.

Lando and y/n are rarely apart at this point in their relationship. But y/n had a bachelorette party to attend and to say she was having a good time would be an understatement.

Lando did get constant text, videos and even a couple short-lived phone calls from the night.

But the joy and excitement came to a pretty abrupt end when he got a phone call from another drunk attendee of the party and finding out that his girlfriend fell down not one but two flights of stairs.

Which is how he ended up rushing to the hospital.

"Squ-Y/n y/l/n?" Lando calls having to stop himself from using her nickname.

"It was mentioned you'd ask for Squish. We've been told." The nurse comments not seeming impressed by the nickname but he can't tell if she actively dislikes him or not. "She's room 2F. That way."

Lando moves to follow the directions and finds the young woman looking pretty beat up. Her exposed knees looking pretty beaten up. But the main concern is her cast bound arm in a sling.

She broke her forearm, her elbow and her collarbone all on the right side.

"Squish." Lando sighs placing the flowers he'd made sure to grab on the way there since he's not going to be caught slacking but in reality he knows his still very much drunk girlfriend is looking very emotional as her good but still bruised arm raises making it obvious she very much wants a hug. "Aww. My Squish."

"I was having such a good time then I need to the toilet and I fell." Y/n hiccups. "What stupid club has stairs down to the toilets anyway?"

"A very stupid one." Lando reaffirms as a nurse that thankfully looks a little happier to be there and happier to see him enters.

"Hi, you must be Lando. Y/n told us all about you while we got the cast on. We did need someone sober to discharge her so we knew she was going home safely. So once you sign and sort out all the paperwork, you're free to get her home. Just keep an eye on her. She did hit her head, not too hard but we always want to be cautious with that stuff."

"Yeah, I got her. Thank you." Lando nods with a smile as she hands him the clipboard with all the forms.

"Lando." Y/n mumbles making him move towards her and absently sit on her better side, not that she necessarily has a good side, just so she can touch him somehow. "I love you."

"I love you too, squish. I might need your help for some of these forms...I think I know most of it, but I just want to double check that I'm not putting anything in wrong." Lando mumbles focusing on the paperwork before he smiles at her and leans over for a kiss at the face she's just playing with the hem of his top.

"Ok."

-

"Alright, Squish. I am all yours for however long you want me." Lando sighs once he's got her set up in bed.

And immediately y/n just wants to cuddle. The woman isn't taking into account how awkward a cuddle is going to be and Lando has to figure out the best means of getting them into a position that won't disturb her collarbone which they actually have to go back to the hospital for in a week or so to check that it's not healing incorrectly, otherwise there might be a need for surgery since collarbones can be a little difficult to heal.

Eventually they settle on her lying with her back to his chest as she sits between his legs. Just as the safest position to make sure he's not unsettling any broken bones or making her uncomfortable but still giving her the comfort she wants from him.

"Squish, are you awake?" Lando asks noticing her body pressing down more heavily on him with him realising she's probably asleep.

She’s still on some pretty heavy pain medication since her whole body is pretty battered even if it was her arm and shoulder that took the brunt of her fall. So it’s not surprise she’s passed out. But the issue is, Lando now has to pee.

By some miracle he manoeuvres himself out from behind her and gets to the toilet but there's no surprise when he's halfway through his pee, y/n appears shuffling with a pout.

"I had to pee, squish. You were pressing on my bladder." Lando laughs as she comes up behind him him and hug him with her good arm as he smiles at her, resisting the usual urge to lean back on hr since he knows her other broken limb is very much pressed gently against him. "How are you feeling?"

"Achy."

He knew that would be that answer but he doesn't like it anymore now he's actually hearing it.

"We'll sleep and cuddle then you get you something to eat." Lando states after tucking himself back away and flushing the toilet before he moves to wash his hands while y/n follows like a little puppy. "Ok, squish. Back to bed for you."

-

Walking into the paddock for the next race. Y/n is very much latched onto Lando and his concern for her not gaining more injury means he's holding her just as tightly.

"There's Lando in the garage, and no surprise, he is walking in with Squish. I was talking to Lando early in the week, he was saying that she actually fell down two flights of stairs while at a bachelorette party. She must've landed entirely on her arm. She broke her arm, he elbow and her collarbone. I just hope all concern for her isn't distracting him from the race this weekend. I doubt it. Usually having her there with him seems to actually bring out the best of him." Martin states as the camera remains on the McLaren garage and they see Lando continue to talk to y/n as he also speaks to Jon.

Lando proves that y/n definitely isn't a distraction even with how injured she is because his weekend is mega and while y/n is thankfully not feeling the pain she'd been feeling initially and actually the gifts from fans and Lando making sure to spare any attention to her that he can.

"I'm really starting to hate this." Y/n comments while Lando gets ready for bed, having already helped her. "I can't cuddle you properly."

"Hey...come on now just think, squish, it means when you can cuddle me properly and you'll have a new appreciation for it." Lando smiles before he climbs into bed and pecks her lips. "I love you, squish."

"I love you too. I just hate 4-6 weeks healing time."