#Festive Wine Costumes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bamgyw · 2 months ago

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˖°𖡼.𖤣𖥧 little red riding hood 𖥧𖤣.𖡼°˖

summary: afab!reader x werewolf!beomgyu just as little red riding hood entered the woods, a wolf met her. little red riding hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him. little red riding hood modern [smut] retelling.

warnings: little plot, lot of smut at the end. fingering, biting, sucking, they fuck in the forest? dub-con. definitely not as pretentious and cheaper than six nights.

word count: 6,5k

rey yaps: rey comeback. yay. as you can see, this is not the six night update. i am so very sorry. if you don't like it, i did it on purpose. it's camp. happy halloween.

once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her. whenever the wind whistled she wore a warm, scarlet cloak, so she was always called little red riding hood.

the window’s open just enough for the wind to slip through and moan against the narrow slit. its sighs blend with the creeping chill of autumn nights, making it too easy for her to ignore the other sound—the low, mournful howl of the wolf stalking just beyond the trees. waiting. starving.

but inside—warm, cozy, oblivious—she’s giddy, caught up in the process of getting dolled up. the vanity of the pre-party ritual. halloween night, or the night to honor the ancestors' harvest festival by dressing like an unapologetic slut.

she leans in closer to the mirror, dragging the eyeliner brush across her eyelid. the black ink smudges into a sultry, careless flick.

her reflection stares back—rosy cheeks, fox like eyes, lips twitching into a smirk as she perfects her look. red little riding hood. she’s got that ominous, almost brilliant look of blood on snow; hair like lint, cheeks tinted a synthetic red, lips red like wine.

outside, the darkness gathers thick. that part of town—the forgotten edge where the trees grow too tall, too twisted, their branches clawing at the sky—has a reputation. by day, the leaves rustle with tiny, cheerful birds. but by nightfall the trees bend into shapes that shouldn’t exist, and the black between them isn’t just dark. it’s hungry.

she doesn’t care. not tonight. she’s excited.

she’s got a boyfriend, and she adores him in that hopeless, foolish way. taehyun—so princely, so mature, so different from any other boy she’s ever known. just the thought of him sends a flutter through her stomach.

but her excitement falters, her hand with the eyeliner brush pausing mid-stroke.

for quite some time now, she’s had the gnawing feeling that taehyun doesn’t like her anymore. he's distant. cold. the hunger in his eyes has dulled into something worse than disinterest. he doesn’t kiss her the same, doesn’t touch her like he used to. the golden glint of lust she once saw in his gaze is now replaced by dull apathy.

but not tonight. tonight, she’s going to fix that.

she has gotten herself a ridiculous little dress, so charming and frilly that it would drive any boy insane. a costume meant for a twelve-year-old, that should stretch over her curves and frame her just so. a skirt that's more like a belt made of little ruffles, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. puffed sleeves, and a corset cinched tight enough to steal her breath—she doesn’t care. she’s pulling the hunger back into her boyfriend's eyes.

the cheap red costume lays across the tub, a mess of fabric that’ll turn her into something untouchable. a gift for him, draped in lace and bows. she shrugs off her bathrobe, careful to close the door but leaving the curtains wide open. why bother? what harm could come from the empty wilds?

in a deep red bra and panties that cling like fresh blood to bare skin, the fabric is thin, barely there, a gauze that the cool night air slices through. the chill raises goosebumps, and her nipples harden beneath the lace, two sharp peaks straining against the sheer veil.

somewhere in the woods, the wolf is watching.

she notices her own reflection and pauses, taking in how her body looks under the dim light. the slight tremble of her chest, the rosy peaks beneath the lace. her breath catches in her throat as she runs a hand over her stomach, feeling the curve of her waist.

somewhere in the woods, the wolf starts salivating.

she has drowned in self-loathing lately. the boy she loves has been treating her like she’s nothing. she’s felt like nothing. but tonight —must be the witches, the spirits and the ghosts— she feels pretty.

the wolf thinks she’s pretty too. he has spotted a tender, plump mouthful, and hunger is curling in his belly. he can’t hold back anymore, and his howl cuts through the silence—sharp, hollow, vicious. and the wolfsong is a warning. the sound of death by the window.

she freezes. a chill creeps down her spine, not from the cold, but from something primal. she holds her breath, listening. and then she hears it—a soft, distant inhale. a wet and heavy breathing. not hers. human, but not quite.

her head snaps toward the window, eyes wide. there, in the darkness, something moves. no, someone moves. two glowing yellow lights. embers, burning. they don’t blink. they just… watch.

she pulls the drapes shut, heart racing, forcing a grin. halloween, she thinks. just some asshole playing a prank. a cheap, silly trick.

somewhere in the woods, the wolf smiles.

just as little red riding hood entered the wood, a wolf met her. little red riding hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.

"just go from streetlight to streetlight," she tells herself.

focus. one light. two. a quick breath of safety before plunging into the next stretch of black. the cold night air curls around her, prickling her skin like needles.

her little red heels click against the uneven pavement, the sound echoing in the stillness. for a moment, she feels that gnawing, unshakable sense that she's not alone. but she shrugs it off, laughs under her breath, calling it paranoia.

the road ahead glimmers beneath a blanket of fallen leaves, slick and shimmering in the muted glow. on either side, the dense, impenetrable forest looms—a thick monster of dark green and black, framing her path to the party.

above, the moon, full and obscene, watches her like a voyeur. all still. all quiet.

except, that is, for the rustling of leaves beneath the predator’s steps. the wolf moves with ease, slipping behind her unnoticed, eyes on her legs as they sway, hungry.

this is his territory. she just doesn’t know it yet.

tucked inside her little basket—a cute part of the costume she’s rebranded as a purse,—there’s a small pocket knife. mom’s voice echoes in her head: “you never know what's lurking out there, darling.”

however, no amount of steel could cut through the one rule. the rule older than the trees that lined this cursed path. in the history of women walking alone at night—never, ever make eye contact.

so when she sees the shadow up ahead—thin, crooked, leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips—her heart does what it must. it kicks into overdrive.

head up. eyes forward. don’t let him know you're aware of his existence. her fingers tighten around the basket’s handle, knuckles turning white. it’s fine, she lies to herself. just keep walking.

one meter.

he tilts his head slightly, tracking her as she nears, but doesn’t move. her heels click louder now, faster, echoing hollow.

two meters.

close enough to smell the smoke curling from his cigarette. her skin crawls, but she doesn’t falter. just a few more steps and he’ll be behind her, another shadow, another forgotten threat. she feels a sudden, punctuating cold down her neck, but she barely pays attention to it.

three meters.

she passes him, breath held, heart pounding. it's done, she's safe. her fear was stupid, it always is. then it happens—a hand, cold and solid, lands on her shoulder.

her stomach drops. she spins, ready to scream or run, but the words die on her lips when she sees him.

a beautiful boy, just—beautiful.

dark, untamed. his hair’s a mess, falling over his forehead, deep brown eyes glowing like embers. flannel over a ragged band tee, the faint scent of smoke and damp leaves hangs around him.

“you dropped this.” his voice is low, nearly a growl, as he holds out her little red hood. it must’ve fallen when she rushed past.

“o-oh.” she stammers, half breathless, “thanks. i didn’t even realize.”

as she takes it from him, his gaze lingers for too long, making her hyper-aware of the way the dress clings to her body.

“pretty…” he says, the word half-whispered. a slight and wicked smirk touches his lips, like he knows he can degrade the costume and the girl beneath with just a single look.

a shiver races down her spine, but she forces a smile. “t-thanks.”

his eyes drag up and down her body, slow, making sure she notices. heat blooms in her neck, unbidden, and she tells herself—this dress is for taehyun, not for some stranger who smells like rain-soaked earth and cigarettes. and yet, when he bites his lip, something flutters low in her stomach—dangerous, thrilling.

“little late to be walking around dressed like that, don’t you think?” he sneers, and scorn flickers in his eyes. but the humiliation sends a shiver through her, one she doesn’t quite hate. “you headed to the party?”

“obviously,” she shoots back, spreading her arms, letting him take in the dress—though he’s already noticed, definitely. still, she’s relieved. he knows about the party, and suddenly he feels closer, more familiar. not quite a stranger anymore. “you?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, casual, like it’s nothing. “not really big on parties, though. i prefer the quiet.” his voice dips, eyes lingering on her. “but you gotta socialize… or you get lonely.”

“right.” she quirks a smirk, finally letting herself look him up and down. “but it’s a costume party, you know.”

“oh, i’m in costume. i’m just subtle,” he says, grin spreading wider, darker. “wanna see?”

against her better judgment—against every instinct screaming at her to walk away—she nods. his smirk deepens. he lifts his lip, just enough for a single sharp fang to catch in the dim light.

she laughs, half-relieved. “that barely counts as a costume.”

“oh, but it counts,” he says.

“fine. so, what are you supposed to be?”

he leans in just a little closer, his words coiling around her like smoke. “that’s the game, pet. you have to guess. guess right, and you win something. guess wrong...” his smile widens. “well, i get something.”

naive and pathetically charmed by the boy, she raises an eyebrow. “what do i get?”

he leans back, pretending to think, though his eyes never leave hers. "i mean... i'm a stranger in the woods. you get to walk away... unharmed."

poor thing, she rolls her eyes like he was joking. "and if i don't guess right," she speaks, her voice softer now. "what do you want?"

"a kiss."

her heart stumbles. she'd give it to him, gladly. hell, she'd guess wrong just to get their lips together. but... “i'm really sorry i…” she stammers, smile faltering, “i have a boyfriend.”

and though he doesn't seem fazed, his expression shifts. subtle, but unmistakable. his eyes darken, the playful charm fading away. “you shouldn’t go around teasing strangers when you're all alone like this,” he says softly, “might find yourself in trouble.”

she swallows hard, "i– i'm so sorry, i wasn't trying to—"

“it’s whatever,” he says, stepping back into the shadows, his voice a low warning. “go to your boyfriend, little red. but be careful. there are wolves out here. and not all of them are as friendly as me.” he pauses, a smirk twisting his lips. “name’s beomgyu, by the way.”

and so little red riding hood wanders on, oblivious to the truth: wolves wear many skins, each one crafted to prey on vanity, on longing, on the hollow spaces left unguarded.

they slip through shapes, feeding on weakness and hunger. but it’s in the glow of those predatory eyes that you recognize him. the unmistakable trace of his essence, the constant lurking in every form.

the wolf is as cunning as he is ferocious; once he’s had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.

the halloween party is but a yearly excuse for yeonjun to show off how filthily rich he is and make a joke out of it. as if by opening the doors of his mansion to the rest of the mortals he lets them in on the punchline. a spectacle for the sake of being one. a big parody of himself.

and tonight, he’s dressed as gatsby, because of course he is. the slick white suit shimmers under the bruised purple lights, like a spotlight trailing him—and it might as well be, because yeonjun is the spotlight, soaking in every second of it.

he carries a champagne glass permanently attached to his hand, always swirling just enough liquid to keep things classy but not sober. every grin he flashes feels rehearsed, and he keeps crooning “old sport!" at anyone close enough to hear.

he's a cartoon. a well-dressed, charming caricature of wealth and tragedy, and everyone in the room knows it. and they love it. and he loves it more than anyone.

the music thumps through the house like a pulse, vibrating underfoot and inside ribcages. it’s too fast, too loud, forcing everyone to keep moving or else be swallowed up by the noise. by the chaos. bodies blend together, creating a messy tangle of limbs and sweat, grinding and swaying under the flickering strobe lights.

a chandelier overhead swings crooked, crystals throwing fractured light around, mimicking a starry sky in a thousand different colors. it's gaudy, too big for the room, and yet perfect for yeonjun’s vision. a crown fit for the king of excess.

she sits on the edge of it all, watching. just watching. taehyun’s next to her, but he might as well be miles away.

his eyes are glued to yeonjun who leans in close, whispering something in his ear, pointing out random people in the room. every now and then, taehyun’s lips twitch into a smirk as he scans the room like he’s calculating everyone's worth, everyone’s weaknesses.

he hasn’t looked at her once. she could have been invisible.

the bitterness stings, but she pushes it down. instead, she reaches out, her fingers grazing his arm, trying to pull him back to her, even if just for a second. “hey… you wanna get out of here? somewhere quieter?”

taehyun doesn’t react at first, not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. he’s in his own world, lost in whatever game yeonjun’s playing.

dressed as a medieval knight, his armor shines under the lights, making him look even more untouchable. when he finally speaks, it’s almost an afterthought. “yeah, yeah. in a bit.” his words are hollow, thrown over his shoulder like loose change. “just… give us a second.”

and before she can process it, yeonjun’s turning toward them with that same cruel smile he’s been flashing all night. “god, you’re clingy,” he says, “can’t handle not being the center of attention for, what, five minutes?”

her stomach twists, heat flooding her face. “i wasn’t—” she starts, but her soft spoken words quickly fall short.

“it’s fine,” taehyun cuts in, still not looking at her, “just… chill, okay? we’ll leave soon.”

it feels like a slap. not hard, not violent. just… cold. her chest tightens. and it’s so clear now—he doesn’t care. he’s tolerating her, only and barely. her fingers clench into fists on her lap. she swallows hard, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over.

"i’m… i’m going to the bathroom," she says, voice barely audible over the pounding music. but it doesn’t matter. taehyun doesn’t hear her.

she drifts through the crowd like smoke, unseen, slipping between the life and color all around her, barely there.

she finds her way out to the porch, cold air cutting into her skin, sharp as the bitter edge of disappointment still lingering in her chest. she hugs her arms, the night heavy and indifferent, pressing in on her as if to make her smaller.

yeonjun’s yard sprawls below, made-up like a graveyard—plastic tombstones lurch from the soil, skeletons claw out of dirt, grinning skulls leer up at her from the fog.

her breath puffs into the night, fading just as she feels she has, every inch of her dressed up for someone who never even noticed. ridiculous fucking slut.

but then, the air thickens, a chill going down her spine. she senses him before she sees him. a crackle in the dark, the slow burn of a cigarette lighting up.

“you look… sad, little red,” barely a purr. low, smooth, a murmur from the dark that curls around her like a trap.

she startles, spinning, heart slamming up to her throat. it’s him. beomgyu. the boy from the woods.

he's lounging against a stone grave, cigarette dangling from his fingers. his face is a smirk made of shadow, his eyes glinting, almost like he’s playing at something, watching her to see if she’ll play along.

“why aren’t you inside?” she asks.

“i told you," he says, snuffing out the cigarette against the stone, his gaze never leaving her face. "i like the quiet. besides...” his smirk stretches, razor-sharp. “can’t say i’m exactly welcome in there.”

then he stands. he steps closer. that lazy, stalking pace that narrows the distance between them, each footfall a reminder of who’s in control. the night presses her back against the railing.

“you’ll freeze out here, pet,” he says, words tipped with a cruel sort of sweetness.

he’s looking at her the way a wolf might look at a lamb. like he could devour her whole, and god help her, a spark of thrill runs down her spine, sharp as a nail.

she stares, heart skittering in her chest, searching his face for something human—but his eyes are restless, ravenous. and yet they see her, see through her. why couldn’t taehyun ever look at her like that? why couldn’t he see her like beomgyu did?

“i… i want to take that bet.” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady.

his eyes spark, the faintest flicker, and she feels like she’s opened a door she can’t close. he leans in, his smirk curling wider. “what about the boyfriend?”

she holds his gaze, refuses to look away, “the boyfriend doesn't give a fuck about me.”

one of his hands is already sliding around her waist like a snake coiling around prey. the other lifts to the neckline of her dress, fingers sliding up to tug gently at the red ribbon there, toying with it.

“then guess, little red,” he murmurs, lips curling into a pout that pretends innocence, “what am i?”

and from the bottom of her being, she knows what he is. but she doesn’t dare put it into words. she decides to guess wrong.

“a kitten, maybe?” her voice comes out playful, teasing, such a pretty little fool, “with those cute fangs?”

he laughs, sharp and cocky, and she watches his tongue glide over his canines. “wrong,” he murmurs, leaning down, his grin widening. “you owe me something now, don't you?”

she smiles, heart racing as she tiptoes to reach him and his arm tightens around her waist, providing a steady anchor. her lips brush his just barely, the peck of a little bunny.

but he’s already got her, pulling her in harder, his mouth a claim, his kiss a taking. his lips are cold, but the kiss is hot, burning. his jaw tightens and loosens wide and heavy, lips pressing against hers with a force that feels like he's taking something from her—something she didn't agree to give.

she allows him to do as he pleases, giving herself to him like she's under a spell. she clings to his frame, hands gripping his shoulders, body caught up in the press of him.

her breath becomes shallow, her mind a blur. his touch, his heat, too much all at once, too intense, too—

she dares to open her eyes. just to look at him. just for a second.

and she's terrified to discover that his once brown gaze is now molten, liquid yellow, something feral staring back at her. her pulse jumps, fear clawing its way up.

she pulls back, gasping, but he’s already there, leaning in again, his mouth hovering like he wants to bite, to consume. she raises her hands, warding him off. “i… i think i should go back inside.”

"why?" he purrs, and his breath impatient and almost manic against her cheek. "scared, little red?"

her throat tightens, "i don’t really… know you, and…" she tries to step away, but his hands close around her waist like iron. trapping her.

"you don’t need to." his fingers dig into her, reminding her that her body is his to command. he draws her close, “let’s play one last game, pet. just one. what do you say?”

“what… kind of game?” she asks.

and just like that he lets go. he steps back. a twisted offering of freedom she knows can't be trusted.

“we race,” he says, voice low, almost playful. “you run. back to your house. if you make it—” his eyes gleam, hungry “—i leave you alone.”

“and if i don’t?”

beomgyu never replies. he stays silent, shadows pooling in his amber eyes.

the full moon hangs ivory, casting a ghostly glare across his face. he glances up at it, bathing in it's glow like it's medicine. then his gaze drifts back to her, that twisted, merciless smile twisting his face.

and he just starts counting down.

ten... nine... eight...

she doesn't wait for seven.

she bolts. she flies down the steps, heart pounding, her feet barely grazing the ground as she breaks into the night. gravel scrapes beneath her heels.

six.

she ditches her shoes mid-sprint, stumbling onto the cold, wet ground. the fake cemetery looms around her, fog twisting between the tombstones as adrenaline pushes her forward.

five.

the sound of him shifts, something subtle at first—a dark, guttural growl building low in his throat. her heart stutters. it’s happening.

four.

a crackle of bone, a sickening pop, a snarl splitting the quiet night. something breaking, reshaping. she hears his breath deepen, his bones stretching, snapping.

three.

a howl cuts through the night, piercing, shuddering through her bones, her skin, her soul. the sound belongs to something that is no longer human.

two.

she dares to glance over her shoulder, just once, and what she sees makes her blood run cold. a massive, shadowed figure, fur gleaming silver under the moonlight, teeth bared in a snarl that sends ice through her veins.

his eyes, the same molten yellow as before, are locked on her, brimming with a hunger that borders on savage.

she never hears the one. she just runs and runs, as fast as she can. but the wolf is faster.

carnivore incarnate, only immaculate flesh appeases him.

the trees claw at the sky. gnarled limbs jutted out, crooked talons waiting to snatch her, tear her apart, make her one with the dark.

she doesn’t run but hurtles through the blackness, branches snapping beneath her feet like brittle bones. the forest isn't just there anymore—it's aware, watching her, toying with her. she can’t stop. can’t even breathe.

he's after her. and he's close.

“guess right, and you get to walk away unharmed.” how she regrets what she's done. she should've guessed right. should've kept her life instead of trading it for a kiss. stupid mistake. stupid choice by a foolish girl.

but just when she's about to give up she sees—between the curtain of twisted trees, the faintest flicker of light. her house. it's almost a visual illusion. something so desired it seems unreal. so near. almost there. her heart skips with hope.

she never makes it.

something cold as death clamps around her wrist, yanking her back. her body slams against a thick, gnarled oak tree, the bark biting into her back. it’s like the forest itself is starving for her, clawing at her, pulling her deeper into its hunger.

she feels red-hot, searing pain. then the wet warmth of his breath on her face. human again, if you can even call him that. all ragged, scraped and scratched. but human.

"run, run, run," he purrs, voice slick with amusement, "did you really think you could get away?"

it was never about catching her—it was always about the chase. the thrill of letting her think she could escape, just to tear that illusion apart in the final, hopeless moment.

she’s not escaping. not now. not ever.

"little red," he says with a sultry pout, his index finger tracing her jawline, “you seem so scared…”

“w-what are you going to do to me?” she asks.

she tries to wrestle, always avoiding his eyes. but each movement affects her physically, making her more aware of his body against hers, of his hands upon her.

he lowers himself, bringing his face close to her neck and breathes her in. his nose grazes her skin in a barely-there caress that makes her insides tighten. he nuzzles his head against her throat, his body stirring as if comforted by the scent.

“you smell even better up close,” he says, his lips parting as they hover over her neck. he lets his tongue brush her skin, savoring the faint saltiness. “taste even better than i imagined."

he sends a shiver through her, a crackling thrill that races under her skin. her heart beats so swiftly that she feels as though this were the moment she had expected for years. she almost stands up on her toes to hear the rest of his words.

"you’re so beautiful, little red.” he continues. “boyfriend never noticed, but i did. i’ve been waiting for this… for so long.”

and she knows it's true. she would’ve known even if he hadn’t said a word—could’ve felt it in the way his arms cage her against the rough bark of that oak, the trembling eagerness in his body.

he wants her, not gently, but raw and feral. and when she meets his gaze, those amber eyes glowing in the half-light, starvation licking at the edges, she feels something inside her shift. the want for this monster—this creature with fire burning in his stare, diabolically phosphorescent.

in quiet awe, she says, “what big eyes you have.”

“all the better to see you with.”

he does see her. exactly how she wants to be seen. and she wants to let him see more.

she pulls off her scarlet shawl—a flash of poppies, the bloody bloom of sacrifice. and since fear is of no use to her now, she sheds it like old skin, too. next, the blouse—soft, almost apologetic in the way it slides over her head—leaving her breasts bare, kissed by the cold silver of moonlight.

his arms find her without thinking, tight, firm, an embrace that feels like iron bands. in that grip, something stirs inside her, something she hasn't felt in so long it almost frightens her—it’s not just being wanted, but being claimed, protected, as though she belongs to him entirely.

“what big arms you have,” she breathes, her fingers tracing the hard ridges of his bicep, brute strength beneath her palms.

“all the better to hold you with,” he grins, his lips parting just enough for her to catch the white of teeth. the daggers of fangs.

her voice drops to a whisper, “what big teeth you have.”

“all the better to eat you with...”

his words slither out just before his mouth crashes onto hers, devouring. his lips, firm and greedy, drink from her, swallowing her breath, tongue invading with a force that leaves her dizzy.

his hands grip her body with the same ruthless intensity, fingers mauling her flesh like claws, leaving painful bruises blooming under his touch.

his mouth drifts lower, down to her jaw, down to her neck, teeth grazing her skin in teasing bites, until he finds the soft skin of her chest. the hardened, sensitive nipple. he sucks hard enough to leave a bruise. a mark of ownership. meant to hurt. to claim.

his tongue grazes the sensitive peak again, teasing her with the cruelty of it, dragging it out. her breath falters, and before she can choke it back, a broken whimper slips out.

“good girl,” he purrs against her skin, “such a good little pup.”

his hands aren’t far behind. they drift lower, fingers tracing the curve of her body, abandoning her chest like it’s no longer enough. they slide down her sides lingering over her stomach before slipping between her thighs. his fingers brush the garters, barely caressing the lace straps holding them tight against her legs.

“too tight, don’t you think?” his voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. he traces the garter’s edge again, pressing into the skin where it’s biting in. “let’s see if it left a mark.”

he lifts her skirt, letting her feel every inch of skin being exposed, every second of her body laid bare to his gaze. her leg lifts instinctively, just a small movement, but enough for him to slide the garter down, peeling it away from her thigh.

and there, above the edge of her stocking, her skin gleams, reddened, damaged by the strap. he stares for a second too long, then up at her, asking for permission, knowing very well he has it already.

of course, she lets him.

his fingers skim the inside of her thigh, higher, until they’re at the edge of her panties, toying with the fabric like it’s something fragile. he grins, teasing. and she sees in his eyes, in his invigorated breath, that something violent is coming.

his fingers press against her cunt, once, cold and firm, right against the damp fabric clinging to her skin. then comes a ruthless slap, quick, and she bites down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. then a second slap, harder, leaving her moaning, and her hips jerking toward him.

without a word, his finger slips past the soaked fabric, and makes its way inside her, slow but firm, pushing through the heat of her skin like he’s sinking into something molten, something desperate.

her back arches hard against him, her head falling onto his shoulder. the surrender comes easily—she doesn’t fight it. she opens for him, lets him push deeper, lets him take.

he stops when he’s knuckle-deep, breath hot against her ear. "you like that, little red?”

her heart slams against her chest, and the wet heat grows, slick and throbbing. she can only nod and let out a pathetic “hmph”.

she’s already soaked, but the need—the ache—builds with every passing second, with every subtle shift of his breath, his body looming over hers like a shadow.

another finger slips in, just as slow, until he curls them inside her, pressing deep enough that she feels every inch. her entire body trembles, a soft moan slipping from her mouth.

he pulls out his fingers, but only for a second before he plunges them back in, harder this time, deeper. forcing her body to open for him. her breath hitches, and her cunt clenches around him, her walls spasming as he presses further.

“such a tiny little hole…” he says, almost to himself, a wicked grin curling his lips.

when he withdraws, he drags it out, agonizingly slow, like he wants her to feel every ridge of his knuckles as they pull back. the emptiness is immediate, the loss of him, the loss of that pressure, unbearable.

he holds his hand up, and her eyes widen. she can see the evidence of her need painted across his skin, shining under the dim light.

the dampness between her thighs coats his fingers in a thick sheen. it glistens, dripping down toward his palm, the slick strings of her arousal hanging between his fingers. “so fucking wet for me,” he growls, his voice rough, edged with a sharp, dark amusement. “dripping like a little slut.”

his hand moves again, back down, fingers sliding over her trembling cunt, tracing along the wet, swollen folds. when his fingers find her clit, they barely press—just enough to make her shiver, just enough to make her whimper. the wet bud throbs under his touch, every nerve in her body firing at once.

"beomgyu p-please," she whispers, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice.

the grin that spreads across his face is demonic, a depraved satisfaction settling in the lines of his jaw. every second that passes is his to control. in one fluid motion, his hands are at the waistband of his jeans, undoing them with a pull.

the pants slide down, peeling off like skin, and then he’s free. the hard line of him, thick, swollen, standing rigid in the faint light. it gleams, slick at the tip with precum, and her breath stumbles over itself, catching, holding, as her eyes latch onto the sight.

his hand wraps around his cock and he strokes himself, the rhythm heavy. his size makes her breath hitch—the way she knows he’s going to stretch her, fill her completely.

the thought of him fucking into her becomes all-consuming. her thighs tremble, and she can feel the clenching heat between her legs, aching, desperate.

he moves corruptly slow, dragging the swollen tip of his cock down, sliding it through the soaked mess of her folds. it’s a tease, the wet heat of her slick coating him, and the pressure of him right there—right at her entrance—makes her head spin.

a moan escapes, soft, helpless, her lips parting as he toys with her, his cock gliding up and down, never giving her enough, always holding back just a little longer.

his eyes lock with hers, and they’re glowing, that eerie golden glow, something unholy in them, “beg for me.”

“p-please,” she chokes out, the haze of lust clouding every rational thought. “please, beomgyu… i need you. please.”

the second the words spill from her mouth, he moves. he thrusts into her, forcing her open, the thick length of his cock splitting her apart. the stretch is instant, a burn that radiates through her core, and she gasps, her back arching as he fills her.

the tightness of her cunt clamps around him, a desperate attempt to take him all in, and she can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein as he pushes deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt, his cock seated deep inside her.

he grips her hips with ruthless strength, his fingers digging into her skin, sure to leave marks, bruises that will linger. he holds her there, buried deep inside her, savoring the way her body shakes, the way her walls flutter around him.

“ah, fuck…” he groans, his voice rough and guttural like he’s barely holding back from wrecking her completely.

a tremble runs through her like a live wire, raw nerves, everything sparking at once. she adjusts to the size of him inside her, body bending, flexing around the thick intrusion. she feels like she's being split open, the sharp line between pleasure and pain blurring until it’s just sensation—hot, pulsing, overwhelming.

he starts to move, each thrust like a shock to her system. his hips grind into her with almost cruel force, ricocheting pleasure up her spine, waves crashing in her chest.

"look at you," he growls, voice thick with satisfaction, "taking me so well. fuck, my little pet, keep making those noises for me,”

she whimpers in response as the coil of pleasure in her belly winds tighter, tighter, pulling her in. he slides in and out of her, their bodies tangled, twisting, rolling together. her cries now mount in endless spirals, loud as if he was murdering her.

beomgyu answers each cry with a deeper thrust, pushing into her harder, his hips slamming against hers with a brutal sound. he’s lost in it, in her, in the need to possess her to annihilation. she belongs to him now, her body molded to fit his touch, pliable under his hands.

his fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck, and his lips find her there, hot and hungry, biting, sucking, the sharp edge of his teeth sinking into her skin between breathless kisses.

his grip tightens as his thrusts become frantic, erratic, the control slipping from his grasp. “s-so fucking close,” he groans, his voice raw, trembling, every word a struggle against the rising tide of his release.

and with one final, savage thrust, she's the first one to shatter.

the orgasm crashes into her with a force that steals her breath, her vision blurring, her walls clamping down around him as her climax takes over.

he escapes a low, animalistic sound. a howl that vibrates through her chest. he fucks her through her oversensitivity and his thrusts grow rougher, less controlled, his hips slamming into hers. the obscene slap of their bodies colliding fills the air, the noise of flesh on flesh, sweat-slick and raw.

he curses under his breath, his hips stuttering, his cock buried deep inside her as he finally comes, his release spilling into her, thick and hot, filling her completely, warmth flooding through her as her body trembles uncontrollably under the onslaught of pleasure.

beomgyu’s teeth sink deep into her flesh. biting hard enough to leave marks, her skin yielding under his canines, and she whimpers, too far gone to feel the pain, her body burning with pleasure, every nerve on fire, every sensation magnified as the aftershocks ripple through her, wave after wave of white-hot bliss.

his cock twitches inside her, pulsing, pumping more of his release into her, and she sobs, her body shaking as the pleasure rips through her, the intensity of it almost too much to bear. her vision blurs, white-hot flashes behind her eyes, and all she can feel is him—filling her, marking her, owning her.

with a snarl, he finally pulls back, releasing her neck, and a soft moan slips from her lips as his tongue flicks over the small wound he’s left behind, licking away the blood, soothing the sting with gentle kisses. there’s a tenderness to his touch now, strange and foreign after the brutality.

slowly, he shifts his hips, easing his cock out of her, and she whimpers at the sensation, her body so sensitive that every movement reignites the sparks of arousal beneath her skin. she feels him drag against her, the last of his release leaking out of her, warm and thick, a reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed her.

she lies there, spent, panting, her body soft and malleable under his hands, no longer her own but something broken, something he’s molded, possessed. his slave, his ownership, growing soft under his fingers.

for a moment, everything is still.

the only sound is their ragged breathing, their chests rising and falling in sync. his body stays pressed against hers, his warmth seeping into her, grounding her in the moment. his lips brush her ear, “you’re mine now, little red. all mine.”

she doesn’t even have the strength to respond. she’s spent, hollowed out, drained of everything, her body limp, barely held together by the weight of him, by the grip of his hands still clutching her as if she might slip away. everything feels far away, like she’s underwater.

the world fades—blurry sounds, dim lights—and then she’s weightless, cradled in his arms as he carries her like something fragile.

there’s nothing but moonlit quiet and deathly cold in the woods. only the soft fall of his steps, paw prints in the ground.

and little red sleeps, forever nestled in the arms of the tender wolf.

taglist 𖥧𖤣.𖡼°˖ @beomiracles @yoseicour @fairfootedflekk @bubbly-moon @izzyy-stuff and i know more people asked to be on the general taglist but i'm an idiot and i never kept track so. yeah. sorry. just ask again.

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bunnyswritings · 2 years ago

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50 (unconventional) date ideas for your otp

Attend an art fair together

Go on a hot air balloon ride

Furniture shopping date at Ikea

Visit an aquarium and have dinner in an underwater restaurant

Have a picnic at sunrise or sunset

Play 20 questions to get to know the other better

Take a pottery class together

Attend a silent disco party

Go indoor skydiving / bungee jumping

Take an aerial yoga class

Rent a couple bike and ride around town

Attend a poetry / book event

Have fun at a board game cafe

Visit a psychic and have fortunes read

Have a dine in the dark experience

Take a cooking / baking class together

Challenge each other at arcade games

Have a home movie night with popcorn and homemade nachos

Ice-skating when one doesn't know how to

Take a painting class / go for an art jam session together

Attend a play together

Go scuba diving together

Take a dance class together

Visit an animal sanctuary / shelter to volunteer together

Go for a kayaking adventure

Go to a comedy show

Organise a get-together potluck event with friends

Go to a drive-in movie theatre

Attend a beer or wine tasting event

Go to an escape room together

Visit an amusement park

Go stargazing at a local observatory

Visit an art museum or gallery and have their caricatures drawn

Assemble a lego set together

Go on a scenic drive and have a picnic

Go on a nature trail walk together

Go camping together

Attend a themed costume party

Go to a local fair or festival

Take a horseback riding lesson together

Pet-sit a friend's pet together for a day

Play mini golf together

Have a spa day together

Take a sailing lesson together

Go rock climbing / bouldering together

Go to a karaoke bar

Take a sushi making class together

Visit an old bookstore or library

Play a game of laser tag

#writing #writing prompts #bunnyswritings #creative writing #writeblr #otp prompts #prompts #fanfiction prompts #new writer boost #creative writing prompts #imagine your otp #fluff #romance prompts #fluff prompts #first date ideas #date ideas #otp writing

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leclsrc · 1 year ago

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in so deep ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, charles has a huge crush and is a lovesick bloke, smut, humor, Fluff

word count: 13.1k

It takes you many cities, a botched Halloween costume and a failed break-in to realize how much Charles likes you. It takes Charles several years to realize he doesn’t need to do much to have you like him back. title from this

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, praise central, size kink, unprotected sex

auds here… thank u for all ur love during my periods of being awol .... i wrote this over the course of a week and i hope u all like it!!! its very much a self indulgent thing... :P

The first time Charles realized he liked you, you were both posed for a picture.

It happened at a dinner party in London, in late autumn, thrown by you to celebrate your first year on the paddock as a reporter. Few friends had been invited but, with how noisy everyone was and with the ease of conversation, it felt like a houseful of people in your narrow dining area. Lando was in front of the mirror, tipsy, demonstrating his best rendition of an Irish accent to a genuinely interested Alex and Lily.

Max was playing with your pet cat, Gene Kelly, and mentally plotting a heist to sneak him out with Pierre’s help. Your boyfriend, Liam, was making himself a cocktail. And Lewis had been roaming around with a glass of dry wine and his brand new film camera to document the night’s festivities—but the host was nowhere to be found. Unbeknownst to everyone, full off dinner and tipsy off cocktails, you’d ducked into the balcony to find where Charles had run off to for the night.

The music was muffled when you shut the door, leaving it ajar just a little bit. Lissie had played Cocteau Twins and was singing whatever gibberish lyrics played, fully drunk off a bottle of Tito’s. Still laughing over her predicament, you turned to Charles and refocused your attention on him. Is it boring?

What w… what is? He asked, turning to you. Briefly his eyes flitted to your hand, the bracelets clasped onto your wrist. He noticed you held matching bottles of beer but yours remained full, nail tapping idly on the semi-opaque glass.

My party, you responded wryly, cocking your head to the side. A loose tendril of hair fell over your eye and he itched to tuck it back in place, thumb over your ear. You continued, still pressing for an answer. You left to smoke but you didn’t come back.

I like the view. A half-lie but truthful in some way. He squinted to try and make out blurry, faraway signage. I should move here. Monaco makes me sick. He tried to say it jokingly, but was betrayed by the raw tone of his voice. You hummed quietly, to signify you were listening.

So move. Who’s stopping you? You smiled slightly. Aside from your ludicrous career, of course.

You had a natural disposition of—something. He didn’t quite know how to describe it, almost like the rest of him had yet to catch up with something only his heart was already decided on. You spoke and acted with some kind of smoothness that only the most popular kids in secondary school could have reins over, but you always claimed you weren’t very popular in your teenage years. He just knew he liked hearing you talk, watching you smile. He felt something—but he didn’t want to name it even if he knew exactly what it was. Instead he played into your joke. Yeah, I’ve been told I should move to Dubai instead, become a prince.

You laughed aloud. You are terribly unfunny, you know that?

Am I? He asked. Just then, as the cotton of his tee brushed against your bare shoulder, Liam brashly tugged the balcony door open to find you. He had this drunk smile on his face, brushing his blond hair out of the way and raising a Leica to the two of you.

Hey, I got Lewis’ camera. Smile, Liam had said, eyes squinted behind it. You remained still, half-turned to the camera, and Charles gave a smile whereas you remained in a neutral, half-smiling pose. And right there, at that very moment, as a giggle escaped your lips from having to pose so quickly and even awkwardly, Charles realized with a damning force that he had a massive crush on you.

Liam had left shortly after to resume taking pictures, but would later confront you over your “weird, odd, fucking closeness with the Monegasque bloke” that you would vehemently deny despite a gut-churning feeling boiling low in your stomach. But that’s later. Your conversation continued calmly, along the passive whir of London and the streets below. You both people-watched as you thought of things to say—finally Charles said, Are you interviewing me next weekend?

I always try to get out of it when it’s with you. You rolled your eyes, feigning irritance, then smiled to break the illusion. I think so.

I’ll make sure I have good answers. You’re too smart. Hurts to be in the same room.

Like you aren’t, you said back, but the rebuttal is shy in nature, like he struck you with a compliment so high you couldn’t bear to return it. He felt then like this was the kind of moment where you would start holding hands any minute, timid touches between clinks of bottles. He remembered Liam existed and screwed his eyes shut. He wished so hard to be able to kiss you. Abandon all sense and just kiss you.

—

“It’s 2023 and still London has the most rubbish ass, fucking cunt, stupid wanker stoplights,” Lissie huffs beside you, checking her watch. “Right then. We’re going to be late. You know how Lando is when people are late. Especially because this is his event.”

“We’re not people to Lando,” you reason, tapping the steering wheel. The ETA on your navigation app tells you you’re still twenty minutes away. “We’re his best friends. If he can’t forgive us, we should kick him out of the group chat.”

“Ooh, and add Alex,” Lily pipes up from the backseat, where she’s redoing her eyeshadow to pass the time. “I keep telling you guys he’s funnier than Lando.” Both you and Lissie make faint, vague sounds of dissent and she grunts again, deflating.

“No boyfriends in the group chat,” Lissie repeats an age-old rule that’s been around for as long as you three (four, including Lando) have been friends. “Or girlfriends, in Lando’s case, but we haven’t worried about that much, have we?”

You’re all en route to watch Lando crank out a brand-new deejay set, one he’s spent the summer break working on. It’s all house and inspired by beach music, and he’s very proud of it, so of course you’re all showing up to laud him. You’re not the only ones, though, apparently—whoever’s in the city is showing up to show their support, which includes a whole stretch of drivers.

“Oh, my God!” Lily says all of a sudden, eyes wide at something on her phone; you both gesture for her to show you and she does with speed. “Do you guys remember this? God, Instagram archives are a godsend.”

“Your dinner party in Chelsea!” Lissie coos, immediately sidling into a fond awwww! You tap at the story Lily had then posted: a video of everybody eating. You tap again to view the one she posted a few days later, which was a collage of Lewis’ camera scans he’d gotten developed overnight. There in the upper right corner, you almost immediately spot your photo with Charles.

“Oh, Christ, that picture.” Memories of your subsequent arguments with Liam flash past your head. Playfully, all you say is, “And I never had a boyfriend again.”

“Liam was an Irish arse, anyway.” Lissie scoffs. “Nobody liked him. Lewis joked about cleaning his camera after he used it that night. Plus, you actively avoid dating, so don’t complain.”

“Fair,” you say with a slight smile. Your mind lingers on the picture, the imprint of it burned fresh into your mind.

“You—it’s also because you can’t take a hint, babe.” Lily says matter-of-factly. “Who knows how many guys have, you know… fancied, or, like, had crushes on you, and you just never knew?”

“Are you saying somebody fancies me?” You ask, voice whittling out playfully as your eyes count down the seconds to the green light.

Funnily, silence is all that answers. Beside you, Lily and Lissie exchange a look—one that communicates their years-long amusement over your cluelessness. You whirl back to them, eyebrows raised, and double down: “Wait. Does somebody fancy me?”

“No!” Lily ekes out; you don’t miss Lissie’s poorly-hidden laugh. “No. I’m just—it’s just—no.”

Truth is, it truly seems like the only person in the entire paddock (team and Sky Sports staff included) who hasn’t caught on to a certain somebody’s boyish crush is the crush herself, oblivious as ever, even years and years later. One might think you’d have realized eventually, but perhaps owed to your type A personality and immersion with work, and Charles’ pathetic and total inability to express how much he likes you, the crush has always remained just that, despite your two friend groups’ best efforts to hint at it.

It wasn’t to say, though, that you didn’t sometimes entertain the idea of liking him, too. On that one rainy race weekend when he’d brought you a plastic cup of soup, and embarrassed, laughed sheepishly at Lissie’s joking request for one; then returned twenty minutes later with soup for everyone in the media pen. Or that time in Monaco where he’d pretended to be your boyfriend at a bar to ward off a creepo from hitting on you any further. Or another time, in Budapest, when he’d drank half his body weight in jello shots and slurred out a goofy, heavy I’m soooo sorry, baby while you helped him into the passenger seat of his car.

That one, singular time in Cancun you told your friends once and never again.

But those are isolated incidents, you suppose; plus, dating someone you work with has never seemed like a remotely good idea to you, and you don’t think it ever will.

For all your thinking on the topic, you fail to realize that you don’t know much at all—you don’t know the fact that Charles has liked you for years, after getting to know just how charming and funny you were as a friend. You don’t know that he still gets gut-churning butterflies when he sees you, hands shaky and face tinged pink. You miss the fact that he’s not had any long-term partners in the years of his liking you. You don’t know anything.

“Don’t lie.” You narrow your eyes as you rev the car and continue the trip.

“We’re not,” Lily says loudly and a touch too defensively, crossing her fingers. Quietly, she continues, “You should just pay more attention.”

Whatever she meant to say is lost on you as soon as you make a left and spot the club Lando’s at, already teeming with high-profile guests and their high-profile cars. Half an hour later you’re in—valet and being on the guest list effectively cuts your entrance time in half. You separate at the entrance—you, to find Lando; your two girls, to find your reserved table. You find him eventually, busy behind the booth churning out high-frequency tropical music; he pauses for half a beat to flash a huge grin and a thumbs-up before redirecting his attention to the knobs and sliders you can’t seem to guess the functions of.

These kinds of parties are affairs in and of themselves. They mimic the afterparties during the season—nothing if not shows of opulence and networking: champagne paid for by business magnates, yachts that barely make dents in anybody’s wallets, thick CVs, fruity cocktails spilled on pieces of clothing that cost upward of 3000 pounds. You make eye contact with at least seven skeevy businessmen before you spot your friends, but only because you hear them first—by them you mean Lissie, her loud voice raised even more to match the noise at this club.

“I said I didn’t fu—ugh—I don’t want ye fahkin’ champagne,” she slurs out to an old man in a pressed suit, eyebrows knitted angrily. “Got it?!” Behind her, Lily and Alex (who’s arrived now, apparently) watch, concerned and helpless to stop her but equally (perhaps more) entertained.

You step closer and make a move to calm down the exchange taking place, but somebody whispers a “hey” in your ear and startles you. You turn, and come face to face with Charles. His black tee accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, which you connect to his crossed arms; there’s a shy, boyish grin playing on his face. “Oh, Charles!” You smile. “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thanks,” he says with a grin, straining to raise his voice. “You look—you look well. Are you alone?”

“No, I’m—” You turn to your three friends nearby, and to Lissie’s argument heating up. “I actually have to go.” You raise your thumb, jabbing it toward them. “But hi again… again!” You both laugh, but he laughs much louder. “I’ll see you around.”

“I jus—” He says, and you stick around for a second to hear him say what he has to say.

“Yeah?”

He clears his throat and laughs stiffly, abandoning his previous statement in favor of a new one. “I just…. want… to have a great time.”

“Ohhhh,” you holler, nodding, clearly trying to mask your extreme confusion under a polite smile. “Okay, well… go ahead!”

You smooth down your dress and laugh again, evidently more forced but, unfortunately for Charles, not any less pretty.

You carry yourself in a very pretty, graceful way, loud and quiet at the same time, like your confident voice when you’re holding the mic and asking questions or making drivers laugh. He might sound creepy, though, a touch too observant, if he tells you so. He observes you instead, for a second, the low cut of your dress and the way the red overhead light shines on your exposed collarbones—and then you’re leaving. He watches you walk over to hug Lily, realizes how stupid he’s sounded, and smothers a hand over his face, humiliated.

—

“I just want to have a great time?” Max’s jaw drops and he shakes his head, disappointed above all else. “Charles, what the actual. Like…. fuck?” They’re all camped out at the latter’s hotel room, around the dining table, in varying states of sober and doing different things to wear off the last hour of the night before they’re all due to train or debrief again in the morning. Charles had relayed the disaster of the night to everyone at some point, but Max is the last to hear of it; this, unfortunately, does not inoculate him from the shock and secondhand embarrassment.

“Pierre told me to—” Charles starts, forlorn.

“Oi, no. I told you to say something like I just wish… I’d seen you sooner,” interjects the Frenchman with a tut. “You know, flirting? Not… whatever the fuck you said.”

“I didn’t—I was—I lost my mind,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. It couldn’t possibly be entirely his fault when you looked so pretty tonight, hair down and a wash of glitter on your eyelids. Just subtle little flecks of them. They brought out your eyes, too. And your blush, the pink flush of it that sat high on your cheekbones.

“…llo? Charles.” He blinks and sees Carlos’ deep eyes, wide and staring right at him, so pointedly he’s genuinely startled.

“Jeeesus fucking Christ. What?” He places a melodramatic hand over his chest. “Yeah?”

“What do you mean with the”—Carlos mimics his confused expression—“I asked you a question, tonto.”

“Don’t bother with him,” chimes in Pierre, half-distracted by his phone. He looks up with a devious smile and continues. “He’s still thinking of Miss Reporter of the Year.” A round of loud, jovial laughter makes its way across the table, a few teasing quips being chimed in here and there.

“I just,” mocks Pierre from across the table, adopting a sing-songy tone as he bumps his shoulder to Carlos’ with a mocking laugh. “Wanna have a great time.” His voice is much higher and more mocking, which is enough to send Charles into a fit of petulant embarrassment.

“This isn’t sixth year,” he grits out quietly, but the blush on his face could just as well be plastered on the cheeks of a twelve-year-old. “Give it a rest.”

“Mate.” Pierre’s voice mellows into something more austere. “You do know she’s leaving the reporters’ job at the end of the season? She’s going to London full-time. No more seeing her all year round. You know this. And I keep telling you. If you are really, and I mean really, interested, I say go for it. C’est la fucking vie, yeah?”

“Plus, if she says no, you can go for pretty much anyone else, anyway,” concludes Max with a convinced smile.

“It’s not the same,” he admits helplessly, smothering his hands over his face in bleak frustration. Behind his eyelids he sees you still, beautiful and smiling and funny—he seriously needs to institutionalise himself before he goes even more mad with the years-long malady he’s called a crush. And seriously, for a twenty-something to have something he calls a crush is despicable in itself. He feels juvenile.

“I can’t tell her. She’s always told people that dating coworkers is a bad idea.”

“You’re not coworkers.”

“We’re—well, we still work closely together. It is the same.” He groans. “It’s just… I’ve said it before. If I admit I like her, things will become awkward. I’d rather we remain friends.”

“Well… see, nobody said you needed to tell her,” begins Pierre schemingly, eyebrows raising. Around them, everybody groans at the birth of another Pierre-brained scheme that will, no doubt, need the enlistment of everyone’s help and will likely end in disaster. “What?! I’m just offering… I’m just saying, mate—you’ve liked her since forever. Why not make a move?”

“—I can’t—”

“Without telling her?”

“Pierre,” groans Carlos, ever the voice of reason, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—whatever this is you’re planning, it’s going to go to shit. I swear.”

“You are acting like I plan to take somebody hostage.” Pierre shrugs. “You know, girls like when you don’t tell them straight up. You have to show you like them. You know, be interested in the things they’re interested in, compliment them, make them laugh. And then they think, oh, how thoughtful, oh, how adorable, and before you know it, they like you. And you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”

“Mmm. Uh-uh. Untrue.” Max says decisively, shaking his head. “I told Kelly I liked her.”

“Yeah, sí. I told Isa I liked her, too.”

“Will you two—just—” Pierre gesticulates and makes a funny noise that insinuates just go with it. “Okay?” he points out to the latter, rolling his eyes. He turns back to Charles with a ready, dazzling, so-French-it’s-scary grin and continues. “I suggest you let us be your wingmen and help you charm her.”

“Whoa, whoa, wh—us? You’re on your own here,” Max quips with a laugh. “It’s your stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid, and it’s going to work. She probably likes you already.” His confidence carries the lie with gusto. “We just need—you just need to show her instead of saying the dumbest shit to her face.” Pierre leans back into his chair and shrugs matter-of-factly. “Max and I will be regular wingmen, but we have a secret weapon.”

“Don’t—” Carlos starts with a sigh.

“Yes. Lando, Lily, and Lissie are all close to her, eh? Well, perfect—Carlos will get information from Lando about things she likes, you gift her those things or talk to her about them, bam she’s in love. It’s literally a perfect plan.”

Maybe it’s worth it. Maybe—

“No.” Charles shakes his head firmly, setting the record straight. “This will not work. Who’s to say she even needs a boyfriend?”

—

Despite what his best and closest friends—on and off the paddock—might have you believe, Charles hasn’t always been so hopeless when it came to trying to catch your heart. His closest call came in Cancun, after a long weekend of racing and a flight to the area, early into the night where he thought he was the only one who decided to opt out of partying.

Your skin’s peeling. You turned from where you sat on a barstool observing the shore, startled, immediately relaxing when you found him standing there eyeing you. Your hair was still damp, crunchy with saltwater, and your skin had tanned considerably, a sunburn sitting on the bridge of your nose. You stuck your tongue out.

I spent the whole day swimming. He observed your bikini, yellow and green contrasting the colour of your skin. He blinked slowly, ordering himself a drink to hopefully pass the thoughts away. His eyes couldn’t stop, though, wandering, the translucent material of the scarf you’d tied loosely around your hips, the tinge of heat on your shoulders and nose. I’m burnt everywhere.

There are remedies for that. He smiled around his glass.

I’m aware, you said lightly, crossing your legs and sliding your finger along the salt rim of yours. But just in case I forgot, maybe you could refresh my memory.

Your voice was so sweet, so low, so tempting. Already he knew he was wrapped around your finger, the same finger picking up grains of salt to press on your tongue peeking between your smiling lips. You brought your glass to your lips. It had been some time since the dinner in London so he pressed, his voice deep and a little rough, Liam can do that for you, I’m sure.

Pity, you said meekly as you set your glass down and looked back at him. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.

Out of eyeline, the bartender’s eyes widened at the exchange he was overhearing.

Is it a pity? He asked, leaning backwards and cocking his head to the side. It’s easy, an easy glide of conversation, flirt, something he’s wanted for a while now. To have you playing into him, and have himself playing into you, just like this. It was naturally easy in a foreign city where nobody knew who either of you were, where you were just two strangers flirting at a beachside bar.

Two strangers laughing while they dug their toes into the sand. Two strangers basking in the water, tinted orange by the sun dipping below the horizon, scarf untied in favor of one last swim before night fell. There was nothing keeping either of you from doing whatever you wanted. Nothing keeping Charles from finally acting on the attraction that honest to God crushed him.

You ended up leaning on the door of your hotel room, keycard fiddled in-between your sandy fingers. You combed a hand through your hair and offered a shy smile. So.

So, he replied, leaning closer. So.

Sooo. You were laughing and your breath smelled like a mint leaf and vodka. You looked up at him, blinking slowly. I have a rule.

What rule is that?

I don’t date coworkers. He wanted to dip down, place a hand on the dip of your waist, and kiss you.

Pity, he said gruffly instead, a smile forming on his face.

Is it a pity? You chewed on your lip and looked at his barely parted ones, pink and pretty. When I’m about to break it? He was about to help you do just that—eyes fluttered shut already—when a crash resounded from down the hall and you both turned to find the culprit. You broke apart and with your separation, whatever atmosphere of tension you’d built up popped, too, leaving you awkwardly standing beside each other.

Oh m… Lissie? You asked, leaning closer as you recognized your friend more and more. You narrowed your eyes, watching the girl crawl her way through the carpeted floor. Oh, Jesus—let’s—get you—

You both hauled her up and wrapped either arm around your shoulders, unlocking her hotel room with great effort and tossing her onto the bed. You stood back and sighed at her half-blacked out state, slightly amused but ultimately relieved she ended her night unscathed.

She pried one eye open and sleepily, she groaned out, what were… you two… doing together outside your room?

Nothing, you said quickly, face warm and eyes wide.

Because you—Lissie raised a lazy finger in your direction—don’t date coworkers.

I wasn’t—it wasn’t—goodnight, you spluttered, eyes refusing to meet Charles’ even as you both exited the room, paying him quiet thanks as he pulled the door back closed.

Sorry, you said, pretty as ever. The light shone on the red splotch on your nose. Goodnight.

And so he went to his room that night, bummed out and still high off your scent.

—

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not,” he lies through his teeth, averting his eyes away from your figure by the shore. Sue him if he was staring (which he wasn’t… but most definitely was) but he finds you much too pretty. After the disaster that was the Mexican GP, he figures he could use some sort of stress reliever. Apparently he was not alone in thinking this, considering half the paddock hauled ass to Cancun and prompty partied.

Across Charles, Joris and Pierre share a knowing look that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I said I’m not!”

“So you are not staring at her blue swimsuit then?” Joris tests, mouth twisted into a devious smirk. “It’s black,” Charles says matter-of-factly before catching sight of his friends’ smug expressions and realizing he’s implicated himself. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, petulantly almost. “And I wasn’t. Can you fucking—fuck off?”

“Just ask her out already,” Pierre groans, nodding when Joris chimes in with agreement of his own. “I seriously can-not handle another bar of this shit. It’s been years.”

“I don’t know how to,” he laments. “It’s going to be awkward if I do it all formal, and she’s going—she’ll laugh at me, and it’s…” He blows a raspberry. “Non. Pointless.”

“Just kiss her at the party,” reasons Joris with an easy attitude, shrugging.

“Joris! Charles didn’t know about that,” Pierre says, trying to lower his volume, but it’s pointless since they’re barely a metre apart. “Fucking tattletale.”

“Party?!” Charles repeats, eyes wide. “Why don’t I know about a party?!”

“It’s a Halloween party,” Joris says, a wacky grin on his face. “And you said it yourself, didn’t ‘cha? You told us not to tell you if any functions were happening because you’re too tired to go to any. Too… too wrapped up racing.” He laughs. “Or something of the sort.”

“Well the season’s ending,” he huffs, wringing firm fingers over his face, his shut eyes, “and I still fucking haven’t… so I think I’m afforded a party.”

“Alright, then come to the party! Dress code, Halloween. Sexy Halloween.” Pierre wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, speaking of our plan, Carlos overheard Lissie and Lily talking about what your girl’s costume is going to be.” He leans in closer and laces his fingers together. “She’s going as a… Christina.”

“Christina?” The other two echo, confused.

“Christina. I did some digging, and I think it’s this.” Pierre scrolls and dicks around on his phone for a minute before turning it back around to Joris and Charles, who peek with great interest. They seem to be looking at an outdated movie poster of—

“Cas-per the friendly ghost,” Charles reads aloud, trying to get his accent to dissipate. “Huh. What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a movie, idiot.” Pierre shuts his phone off. “Starring who? Christina Ricci.”

“Vraiment? You think his crush is going to show up wearing… a white gown?” Joris asks, his mind stuck on the outfit he’d seen just seconds ago. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Well Carlos and I agreed, so. Two to two. And Carlos says she and her friends always wear silly costumes like these. So if she shows up as Christina, what better way to start conversation than to dress up as Casper?”

Charles’ eyes widen with comical horror. “No. No, no, no. Did the ghost and the kid fuck?”

“No!” The two men across him yell in unison.

“Right!” He gesticulates. “So it’s not a couples’ costume!”

“But it’s still—” Pierre pauses. “It still matches. Trust me on this one, mate.” He smiles. “We even brought the supplies.”

—

The party is a hit as soon as Charles and his group enter. The former finds refuge at the table, unwilling to socialize. Pierre roams for a bit and ends up finding you almost immediately—you’re wearing low-waisted pants, a strappy top, and you sport alternating streaks of blond and black in your hair.

“Hey!” He calls, jogging up to you. “I heard you were coming as a Christina. Guess who I am?”

You rake a hand through the streaks in your hair and smile. “Not just any Christina. The artist. Xtina? You know?” You twirl a bit, the dark material of your strappy pants swishing as you go, as if the movement will help Pierre deduce the costume’s identity. “Whatever. You’ll get it. Lando is—we’re matching tonight, but I g—it wouldn’t make any more sense if you don’t understand it.” You sigh a bit and gesture vaguely to the crowd behind you, referring to the Eminem-dressed Lando, who you guess is currently caught in the thick of.

“Xtina?” Iks-tina, he repeats, clearly confused. “I remember hearing… somebody saying you were going as a… a Christina.”

“Chris-tina, Xtina, yeah. Christina Aguilera.” You smile, fingers pinching at the material of your belt. “Anyway—where is everyone? I’ve only seen Daniel’s costume and then yours.” The recent memory of Danny’s neon orange traffic cone costume bumping into everybody flashes in your mind.

“Save yourself,” he huffs, smoothing calloused hands over the denim of his jeans. “Zhou and Esteban came as Bella and Jacob, Max as a Tifosi. Anyway”—he points to his ensemble—“guess yet?”

Your mental images of each cited costume are cut short. “Aha! You’re, um. Yes! You’re Ken from the Barbie movie,” you crack finally, remembering the revealing denim vest and jeans combo from the film you’d watched four times over in theaters a few months ago. “Wow, even your briefs say Ken. Very accurate. Minus the non-bleached hair.”

He tuts and shrugs. “I’m no Alex. What’d he come as?”

“He and Lily matched—Sonny and Cher.”

“Let me guess,” Pierre starts, and already you’re nodding because you can tell he’s going to predict exactly how the night has turned out, “Alex is Cher?”

“Wig and sequined dress and all.” You nod, laughing and squinting; Alex’s tall figure, head clad in a long, fringey, black wig, stands out above the rest. “Oh, I did see Carlos at the bar. Ricky Martin?”

Pierre really laughs at that, a loud, distinctly French guffaw involuntarily forced past his lip glossed mouth. “What the fuck, mate! Ricky Martin?! He’s El Profesor from La Casa de Papel. You know, Money Heist? Bella ciao? Oh, my God, he’s going to fucking freak if he hears—heard you said that.”

“He seriously gave off Ricky Martin vibes,” you defend in-between laughs of your own. “So that’s everyone? Oh—oh. Charles! What did… I never saw him! He kept telling me how excited he was for his costume, too…” Just a few hours ago, at that—a boisterous voice honing into the your voicemail inbox, boasting about a costume while you prepped for the party with Lissie and Lily. Your eyes peruse the room, but the lighting is too dark and vague for you to make out anything you haven’t already seen.

“Oh. Charles?” Pierre’s voice lilts higher. “Um. Yeaaah. Um.”

You, however, are sufficiently distracted by your own search for him, and you fail to notice Pierre’s clear scrambling attempt to stall you. He takes a long swig of beer and clears his throat. “He’s just, well, around. I should actually—excuse me, I need to actually go look for him. I owe him a drink.”

“Oh? Oh, okay. Well—be careful?”

You’re a bit surprised by his sudden, jolted departure, but bid him a rushed goodbye anyway. He waves back vaguely, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression of worry as he shoves his way back into the crowd and toward the area littered with tables. It’s only then that Lissie surfaces from the crowd, scratching absently at her nose as she crashes into you with a floaty giggle.

“Lis, you’re all sticky.” You place two palms flat against her shoulders and push her off. “Are you high?”

“Yes but not drunk.” She giggles again, eyes fluttering.

“Oh—that’s not. Whatever, I guess.” You exhale and cross your arms over your chest. “Who’ve you been with?” She listens, plays with the braid in her hair, matching her getup as Lara Croft.

“Um, the deejay. I gave him my number, but he’s actually pretty fucking weird. Come on, I want to pee.” As always, her speech quickens to something inhuman, an effect elicited by alcohol; giving you essentially zero time to react, she loops a hand around yours and drags you with ferocity to the nearest restroom. She moves so aggressively through the thickly-packed crowd you barely have time to react or say hi to people you’re acquainted with en route.

You whiz by the door, and in the rush, you notice Pierre entering the one adjacent with a worried expression etched onto his face. Just minutes ago you’d been conversing—you wonder why he’s suddenly become privy to worries.

“So the deejay,” says Lissie, effectively distracting you for the time being. You hum to signify you’re listening, fixing bits of your outfit in the mirror as she kicks different stalls open to judge their cleanliness. “One, he was dressed up as James Bond. Which is just about the most fucking pretentious thing ever. Two, all he played was Chainsmokers. You’re telling me this pub—club—whatever—in Mexico could only afford to commission this guy? Three, he was”—she kicks the last door open and a gasp escapes her and morphs into a semi-shriek—“a ghost?!”

“Ghosted you? Already?” Your eyes, focused previously on re-lining your lips, flits to Lissie’s in the reflection. She’s distracted, staring at the contents of a stall with comically wide eyes. “What’s up? S’that a fucking glory hole or something?”

“No!” She yells when you approach, immediately lunging forward to pull it shut. “No. It’s—I saw a roach. Serves us for going to a fucking… pub. Don’t go in there, it’s…” She exhales a long breath. “It was a mama roach and… with eggs.”

“What are you talking about?” This isn’t even a pub, it’s a nightclub—one with a door fee that definitely did not warrant rogue cockroaches in the water closet. “Lis, you’re drunk-hallucinating.” You’re not even sure if that’s a thing, but you shove past her and push the stall door open again, ready to come face-to-face with, maybe, a sleeping Tinkerbell or a puking black cat. Worst case scenario, shit on the floor; worst-er case scenario, Lissie is right and you’ve stepped into a den of roaches.

Weirdest case scenario, though, if that’s an actual thing: Charles Leclerc seated on the closed toilet seat, face painted white, wearing an all-white ensemble of a large white shirt, shorts, high socks, and sneakers. He’s got two hands on either side of the wall, as if he’d been preparing to escape; how or to where, you’re clueless. Why he’s here, you’re even more stumped.

His entire face is a stark white, with black smudges of face paint on his forehead (eyebrows, you’re guessing); his hair’s been curled by the humid air at this club, and he looks like himself in all the ways he totally does not, eyes big and caught when yours click onto them.

Despite confusion, you chalk it up, as one would rationally do at a party, to intoxication. You spend a few bated breaths staring at him staring at you, his face of pure shock and embarrassment enough to sober up a drunk for a few days. “Hi.” You can hear yourself say it, but you’re so caught off-guard and full of confusion it feels alien.

“Hey,” he says, wiping four fingers over his stubborn face paint with a smile. The smile and the paint barely fade. “I’m a ghost.”

“I see. Classic.” You pause. “I’m Chr… nevermind. Um—are you okay?”

“A bit, uh—a tad bit drunk. I seem to be in the ladies’ room.”

“Yeah, you seem to be,” you recite back to him, amusement quickly overtaking confusion. “I think Pierre was looking for you. Let me go get him. Lis, make sure he doesn’t…” You gesture a puking movement, and the pair watch and listen to your shoes click against the tile, before the door swings open and then shut again.

“Coast is clear.” Lissie’s voice has been lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I reckon everyone you know is already looking for you?”

“This is a disaster.” He rubs frantically at the face paint, but it’s horribly futile. “You know, I didn’t even realize I was in the ladies’ room until you two came in. She cannot see me like this.”

“She already fucking has, mate.” Lissie sounds exasperated. “Whose idea was this? If you say Pierre I swe—”

“—Pierre—”

“—ar to Jesus fucking Christ, Charles—I can’t keep saving you from Pierre’s antics.” She grumbles out a sigh. “What are you supposed to be, even? Have you—did you see how hot she looks? This is like… you look like a… I can’t—” She lets herself taper off, so disbelievingly shocked at his odd costume.

“I’m Casper the Ghost!” Lissie mentally forms a crude picture of the kid ghost, which looks absolutely nothing like what’s in front of her. “Casper was opposite Christina Ricci. Pierre told me so.”

“That’s the dumbest analogy ever, holy Christ. You look like a poster child for some…” She regards him for a moment. “Anemia advert.”

“Take that back.”

“You don’t really have the upper hand here, Charles,” says Lissie with a grimace. “I’m texting Pierre. Are you—did you even get drunk?”

“No,” he woes. “I am totally sober. I had to lie. Pierre went to the table and told me that my—that the costume we planned—it was wrong, and I just—I ran to the bathroom.” Lissie can’t help but laugh at the story, raising her camera to record the incriminating evidence.

Mid-video, Charles’ white face droops and his painted lips part to ask: “You think she found me cute?”

—

Charles likes finding things about you. He supposes the first time he realized just how much he liked hearing you talk about yourself—which you rarely did—happened in São Paulo. He’d been stressing over a spiel to recite in front of a camera, rewriting over words for hours to make everything sound more natural.

Each margin had been hastily written on with pencil, run-on sentences with semicolons in the place of periods. The team scriptwriter didn’t do much to make his lines sound more natural and less like they’d just been spat out of an online translator. You peeked into the media pen and coughed. You don’t belong here, do you?

Tch, he clicked his tongue, turning to offer a smile. I’m working on a script for Sunday. Portugese stuff.

I can help, you responded, walking slowly over toward him. You smiled quietly, approaching slowly like you were waiting for him to greenlight your offer. He did so by pulling a chair out for you, and once you sat you traced a nail over each line, murmuring them under your breath.

You speak Portugese?

You looked up and gave a half-shrug, laughing like you were amused with yourself. Kind of. It’s not very good, but it’s enough. You resumed your editing and he felt content to stare, admire, watch every movement of your lips align with the syllables of the words. You asked for a pencil and began writing something much cleaner. He couldn’t help but let himself be in awe of your intelligence.

You read over the last few lines and turned to face him. Let me guess, you said. You want to make a pun on Ferrari before you say bye.

Ah, he laughs. Yeah.

See, I know you so well, you half-joked, scrawling idle edits on the margins of his script.

He was already looking at you when you turned back to him, seeking his response, agreement, anything. When your eyes met, something caught at your chest—it tugged, tugged, then tugged again, a dull feeling burrowed deep in you. Words failed to wrench themselves free, but once they did, all you could manage was a faint—What?

Nothing. He smiled and shook his head, like he was waiting for you to figure it out. You know… sometimes, I wish I met you sooner. He does. He wishes he knew you back then, when you first learned Portugese. Or when you were in high school, so you could see just how exponentially awkward he was in his own teenage years. He thinks sometimes that he’s lost too much time, met and liked you too late.

Hm, you breathed out, because you didn't know what else to. I know why—so you could always have me. As a proofreader. Right?

Hah. The tilt of his laugh was high and mocking, and he stuck his tongue out, as if to punctuate that. He looked away then, like he wasn’t ready to say certain things to your face just yet. Quietly he added, Always have you… something like that.

—

If you ask Charles what he’s doing hiding in a laundry basket of a luxury hotel in São Paulo, he wouldn’t be able to answer you, either. It’s been some time since the disaster that was Caspergate Cancun 2023, and if he’s perfectly honest, he doesn’t feel like facing you again for the rest of his life. Pierre, of course, has other plans.

All he knows is last night, Pierre suggested he leave a huge vase of roses for you to arrive to in the living room of your hotel; as he planted it in said room, the door’s lock turned, and he sought a hiding place in the adjacent bedroom. Judging by the prevalent scent of Dior Sauvage, this is Lando Norris’ room.

Did u get to escape??? Pierre’s text irritates him. At the same time, the light flips on; Charles curls in on himself, remaining perfectly still. Lando’s voice trills through the room. “I didn’t leave those roses for either of you,” he’s saying to you and Lissie.

Charles hears you hum. “They’re so beautiful.” His heart swells. “I gotta run for a sec, pick up something from Will’s room.” A few seconds pass and the door opens and shuts, which means Charles is currently alone with Lando and Lissie. Which means he needs to plot his escape as soon as he can. Otherwise he’ll be caught in the crossfire and much too embarrassed to—

A foot meets his concealed body and he lets out an oof! as he’s sent flying out of the hamper, along with strewn-around clothes. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, scared shitless and in a fetal position; he only unfurls when a socked foot kicks at his ass. Above him are Lando and Lissie, both extremely confused.

“How did you know I was…?!” He asks, aghast.

“My fucking laundry was breathing, mate, s’not that hard to leave alone,” Lando retorts sharply. “What are you doing?!”

“I left roses for her,” he explains fruitlessly, gesturing to the vase outside. “But you came in, and this was the closest hiding place. I was told this would be a great gesture.”

“Right. Where did you even get that advice?” Lando tries to suppress the critical tone in his voice, but judging by Charles’ embarrassed grimace, he’s failed. Beside him, Lissie makes a hm? noise, goading Charles to answer quicker.

“I got it from.” Charles pauses. “A friend,” he ekes out vaguely.

“No shit. Who?”

“Um—” Charles’ eyes are shut. “Pierre.”

In unison, Lissie and Lando both release incredulous gasps, throwing their hands up in the air. Lissie points at the mess of clothes in the corner of the room to emphasize her point and asks loudly, with comical cynicism: “This seemed like proper romantic advice to you?”

“Scratch that. Pierre’s words seemed like proper romantic advice to you? His girlfriend is—!” Lando places a flat palm a few inches off the floor and shakes it a few times to insinuate Kika’s age, his disbelieving expression growing funnier by the second. “Mate!” His voice cracks mid-syllable, though even this mishap seems to be the least crazy thing about tonight.

Charles, burning with humiliation, releases a shaky sigh. “I know! I know!”

“You don’t know!” They shout simultaneously in response, disappointed if anything. Just then the door opens again and your two best friends hurry to throw assorted pieces of laundry on the lying Charles, exiting to make sure you don’t suspect anything.

“Hey,” you say slowly, because they’re both posed the exact same. “Am I… missing something?”

“A shower, girl,” Lando says, and you flip him off before retreating into your room.

Belatedly you ask, “Did you find out who sent those flowers?”

“Some loser, probably,” he calls right back. Charles emerges to poke him accusatorily, but Lando just shrugs. Charles definitely does not have the upper hand here, anyway.

“Just get out,” Lissie says, completely done with Charles’ antics. “And stop. Listening. To Pierre.”

He rinses the odor of laundry off him once he’s at his room, but thinks, despite himself, that you called the flowers beautiful.

—

Are you—

—no. I’m not. You wiped a hand over your face and caught mascara along with it. I’m fine, it’s fine.

What he said, it wasn’t…

I said, you turned to face him, eyes rimmed and mouth trembling. You didn’t finish your sentence, just tore the microphone off your lapel and buried your face in your hands. There was always going to be a first time. Your first time insulted on a live feed, after the Abu Dhabi weekend, was not any less shocking. You felt small. You felt humiliated.

You didn’t want to show Charles any of it. You moved around the green room, picking up shit to throw into your bag. Thank God the season was fucking over, you kept thinking. I feel so, you said, still failing to finish anything you started to say. You’d been called an annoying bitch by a fan of one of the drivers—to your face, as you exited the paddock.

He moved nearer. Charles, you said, a half-sob, and then you were allowing him to crash, allowing him to hug you. Your arms were weak when they wrapped back around him, linking softly in the small of his back. You sobbed hard into his chest until his grey tee was dark with tears. I want out, I just want out.

You’ll lord your career over that prick when you’ve made a million dollars doing this, he said. You do it too well to want out. You’re too smart. You’re too good. You cried harder, your face hurt and every word felt wrestled unintentionally, like it took too much work to say much at all. I’m sorry, you said. You should go.

No, he said. He held you closer. Not until you feel better.

—

He cries after Abu Dhabi. Bad season, everyone’s said. You snap a few smiling pictures with Max, who wins, and Lily and Lissie and the lot of them, the people who made the year so great. You notice an absence in all the pictures and you find it in a room in the Ferrari motorhome.

You’ve found you both find solace in words. In reassurance. But you’ve also found that your connection enables you both to reassure without having to say anything at all. You sit beside him, lean your head on his shaky shoulder, and wait.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he admits brokenly. “I was just not feeling good.”

“I know,” you respond. “It was a bad race. Shit strat.”

He’s quiet. His breaths are ragged and wet and shaky. “Will you stay? Until I feel better?”

You don’t move. “I’ll stay for longer.”

—

In the kitchen Charles unscrews himself a beer. The sky outside is pink and the sun hides behind faraway mountains, gradually darkening the entire atmosphere, save for the few woolly clouds. He’s by the patio door so he can spot people in the wide yard: Pierre, exchanging a Frisbee with Lando. Max, Alex, and Lissie engaged in an intense match of Uno.

They’re all gathered here in Spain at Carlos’ behest to celebrate the dawn of winter, and the end of the season, Max’s third championship.

He’s yet to spot you—he’d been told earlier you’d be late—but it doesn’t matter. He’s been feeling uncharacteristically himself all day anyway. He wrote that on his notebook this morning, on the flight here, verbatim. Looked up the word to spell it right and everything. He remembers you saying it, that time in London where you and Lando took him around and annihilated Borough Market before lounging on the grassy knoll of a nearby park. I feel so uncharacteristically happy, you’d joked. The syllables were too stunted and too fast for Charles to nail it. But he feels it now. Uncharacteristic.

He tells everyone he’s fine, though, and does a good job of it. Three beers in and he’s beginning to trick himself into thinking he actually is doing fine. Nobody suspects he’s been feeling empty from such a bad finish to the season—the season that was already bad in itself. He hasn’t been feeling his usual drive, his usual appetite. He doesn’t know when it will return.

“Here you are.” Carlos has this goofy smile on his face when he bounds into the kitchen, depositing empty dishes at the sink. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Charles and Carlos have always shared an easy dynamic—they’ve both always wanted the same thing. Racing has always been at the forefront of their minds. It makes conversation passionate, easy, fun; it was what helped build their now-natural rapport in the first place. “Yeah?” He prods, leaning against the counter and tipping fizz into his mouth.

“I invited everyone here to announce… something important.” Carlos crosses his arms. “But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Me?” Charles knits his eyebrows and smiles. “Wow.” He gulps, cocks his head. “What is it, then? Are you switching teams?”

Carlos’ goofy smile grows. “Isa and I are engaged. I’m retiring next year.”

“You—you’re—” Charles laughs and shuts his eyes all at once. “Oh, my God, mate! Congratulations!” The overload of information isn’t lost on him, but he channels it all into a hug. “Are you really retiring, though? I mean. Wow, this is amazing news—but—”

“I was sure as soon as I asked,” Carlos says squarely, smiling as if he’s conjured an image of Isa’s smiling face (which is likely the case). “As soon as she said yes. As soon as I bought the ring!” He laughs aloud, so overwhelmed with happiness of recalling everything. “I’m so glad you were the first person I told.”

“Besides Lando,” Charles says, because he knows it’s true.

“Besides Lando.” Carlos smiles. “I’m… dios, I’m happy. I always knew I’d have something to look forward to after racing.” They hug again, and then he clambers past Charles and into the patio, where he resumes the façade of being unengaged and still a driver. Left behind, Charles thinks over it himself. What does he have to look forward to after racing? All his life, racing is all that ever existed to him.

The announcement comes eventually—when it’s dark out, intermittent stars white and twinkly against the black above. Charles has once again turned into a blushy mess because you arrived a few hours prior, wearing a lovely dress and with your hair down in messy waves and you said hi to him earlier without him approaching first. They present a stupid, but very Carlos-and-Isa ring-shaped cake to announce it, and somebody queues up music and everyone’s cheering. Of course everyone’s cheering—it’d be impossible for this announcement to not come with bouts of yelling and cheering and goodbyes to Carlos, who accepts them with glee and—dare he say—excitement.

Charles remembers their first year as teammates, the jokes they’d made about needing to beat the other out. For both of them, he recalls, it’s only ever been the drive to race. He didn’t think Carlos would even entertain the idea of retiring yet. He wonders when he will. The thought of it alone is enough to send a well of anxiety run deep into him—which happens after he congratulates the couple, so he excuses himself to the empty outdoors area to get fresh air back into him.

He didn’t mean it, but he finds you already there. “Hi,” you say when he slides the door shut. “You okay?”

“Just… yeah, I’m fine.” You smell faintly like smoke. “It’s crazy, huh. Everyone’s… moving on.”

“So Carlos told everyone, then,” you say, pursing your lips and waiting for his response. He closes his eyes and lets a soft exhale escape him, warm air out and fresh air in, a welcome change from the heady atmosphere in the party. “I knew. I bought that God awful cake. I kept saying get a normal one but they both wanted it to be shaped like a ring.” You punctuate your sentence with a crisp laugh, a stunted exhale of air to break the tension.

You have a natural sway over words, graceful and beautiful and commanding, something he only wishes he could be. For so long he’d been told the feedback loop of one and the same thing: you’re good. You’re the best. You’re going to be the next big thing. And this season had just… aggravated every single insecurity he’s picked up in his years of racing. He wishes sometimes he’d been told something else: you suck. You’re normal. You’re irrelevant. Then at least he wouldn’t exist in some odd panopticon of feeling on top of the world and yet looking at it from the bottom of a pitch black abyss.

“Yeah,” he says instead, wringing his hands. He mimics the wrist movements he’s made to do during gym hours. “It’s wild how—I mean, not really wild, but. I just can’t… even picture my life after racing.”

“You’re young, that’s warranted,” you laugh. “You’re also… I mean, even if you drop out of racing tonight, it’s not like you’re going to become dirt poor or anything. You could become a bloody orthodontist and people will still love you.”

“Will they?”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud but out it comes, garbled and rushed and he’s a bit embarrassed for sounding like a child in front of somebody he finds so beautiful. The silence is suspended and dry, and for a minute all he hears and feels is the slow rise and fall of his chest. To somehow mend the vulnerability, he tries again. “It’s not—I just think I’ll be lonely if I decide to stop racing.”

The fact that Carlos can say with so much ease that he’s willing to drop his career to ensure his pending marriage lasts is almost terrifying, because Charles knows he wants that. He knows—he’s always known—that he wants that intimacy, that realness, but for it to come at the cost of something he’s known for so long is so scary it’s almost a dealbreaker.

“Lonely?” You echo, voice tinged with concern. “Charles—”

“Lonely.”

He says it with an edge to his voice, so final, so steadfast. Loneliness is what he’s always feared and he knows, with a deep drawling punch to his gut, that loneliness is what will come if he decides to stop racing. Even if he’s tired. Even if he’s so pent up with frustration and loss and anger. Racing is all he’s ever known, it’s all he is—when he’s not tied to it, who is he? “Like no one… like I’m just standing in front of what I’m supposed to be, and when people see me, that’s all they see—what’s behind me. Right through me.”

“Well, you’re off racing right now,” you respond, trodding carefully. “So, well. Do you feel that way?”

He knows what you mean: it’s winter break, so he’s not driving or doing some form of it every single day. And he knows in turn what to answer: no, not really, he doesn’t really feel detached from it because there’s a low anticipation in his belly that tells him he’ll be doing it all again soon. But he chooses to interpret it differently; differently, but not falsely.

“I th… I don’t feel lonely,” he says, “when I talk to you. You see me.”

Your stomach drops and your heart begins to pulse a mile a minute, knuckles tightening where they’ve gripped onto the wooden post of the patio. You can feel the air in your lungs pass through every divot of your body as it escapes and arrives in long, shaky breaths. He’s looking at you, his eyebrows knitted like he wants—needs an answer, if you’d be kind enough to please give him one.

“I…” You bite your lip, every thought in your head at odds with the other.

Time feels like rubber, like it’s been stretched and manipulated and Carlos is ducking out to announce that it’s time to blow out candles on the stupid ring-shaped cake and you’ve taken too long to respond and your body feels too heavy but your heart feels too light and your eyes are blinking, open and shut and open again, and you feel like the wind could honestly blow you away now because Charles has given you a neutral nod and left you alone again, to contemplate the weight of what he’s finally, finally admitted, tonight here under the sky of Spain.

You move a hand over your hair, watch him walk away. The words lodge themselves in your throat, but they’re there.

—

One minute after you realized you liked Charles, you swallowed the feelings until they were barely decipherable.

In happened in Dublin, at a pub on St. Paddy’s Day, when you’d emerged fresh out of a breakup with the most arseholic Irishman you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. And funnily enough, it happened without Charles’ presence. You’d spent the day at Liam’s, hours of fighting over so many things—the growth of your career and the decimation of his, where your relationship had soured, why you never came to visit him, Charles, the sodding bloke you like so much—until finally, you took your things and left.

Wise, because you might’ve honestly gone insane if you stayed a minute longer, attuning your ears to the deafening feedback loop of his voice. Also decidedly unwise, because you had a piece of luggage and barely any battery, in a full city of people you didn’t know at all.

There was no chance Liam would let you return, and no chance you wanted to, for that matter—the fact still stood, though, that you needed to kill the night before your flight to France left at 6AM. You entered the first pub you heard, deposited your bag at the coat check for an extra couple of euros, and accepted the first pint thrust into your hand and first leprechaun hat plopped atop your head.

In between watching people compare how they poured Guinness pints, Sinead O’Connor songs, and exchanging headdresses with a random stranger, you found yourself impressingly drunk. The Irish did it too well.

A university student stumbled past your stool, tears in her eyes; she stopped to steal a shot of whiskey lying unattended on the bar. You looped a hand around her wrist and stared at her menacingly. Manners?!

Fuck manners, she said wetly, wrenching every word out with great effort. Nobody paid either of you any attention. I just caught my best friend and boyfriend kissing. Her accent was unmistakably Irish and was stronger with the tears.

Oh, you said, loosening your threatening grip. Sorry.

Don’t be. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid, she said, aghast, before finally stalking outside the pub. Half an hour later, you wound up at a table of thirty-somethings, all belting along to a folky sounding song.

Drunkenly you slurred out, I thought it was a stereotype.

What was, love? One of them paused her singing, dipping down to listen to you properly. Your cheek was smushed against the varnished wood, moving with every syllable you eked out.

The songs. You sound like… you belong in the 19th century.

She laughed at that, surfacing and yelling something to the band onstage you couldn’t quite decipher. The song reached its peak, loud and getting the whole crowd singing along, before fading into a familiar opening. S’this better? She asked, her voice slightly raised above the guitar.

You looked up. I liked the other one too, to be fair. M’not a fucking anti-Irish.

Nobody said that, love. Come sing. She hauled you upward, exaggerating her arm swinging in the air so you’d follow suit, which you did. You hummed the opening, eyes fluttering open and closed. You imagined opening them again and finding Charles across the room, already looking, with the same charming, boyish smile on his face that came to you as comfort.

You thought back to the dinner in London, the feeling of his shirt against your shoulder, the way he’d gotten you so easy and laughing and babbly, something you never got with Liam. You squeezed your eyes shut and exhaled raggedly. Fuck.

Linger’ll do that to you, your companion mused. Around you, the entire pub sang along to the song that served as the backdrop to your all-encompassing romantic epiphany. Missing a lover, huh?

No, just… You opened your eyes, watched the band sing out the rest of the prechorus before they slid into the next verse. A new kind of air had crept over the pub, one that exemplified just how much this song could mean to anyone, no matter who. You shut them again and saw Charles. The green of his eyes, mossy on some days and bright on others. The moles on his face. The grooves of his hand, the way it wrapped around things like pens, mics, bottles, your fingers. His voice, how he curved around words. He always knew exactly what you meant even if it took you ages to get to the point, even if you felt like you didn’t know what you meant exactly.

You opened your eyes. Suddenly fights with Liam didn’t matter. Whatever little sympathy you had left evaporated as you listened to the lyrics and realized, with a damning force, that you were thinking of Charles. And this was not weak, this was not vague, this was a strong thing that took you off your feet like a gust of wind, hurtling you out of the pub. You thought of every time your eyes met his, both of you already laughing at something else present. Every time he saw you at the end of a busy work day and asked if you were doing alright.

Just this guy, I suppose. His name’s… yeah. We’ve been friends for ages. He’s really very talented. Very kind. Your voice was drowned out by the music but you didn’t intend for anything to be heard, anyway. And he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. He always knows what to say. He’s not in Dublin tonight, not even in Ireland, for God’s sake.

He’s your boyfriend, then?

You closed them slowly. No. T’wouldn’t be very smart to date him.

Is he an arse?

No either. It’s just too late.

I’m sorry, love.

Don’t be, you mused, eyes still shut as Linger came to a close. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid.

—

Charles should be in Monaco. You should be in London. But at four-thirty PM, leaning against the counter of a tiny café in Dublin, you cross paths for the first time in weeks, and everything tilts on its axis.

He notices you first, because he hears you thank the barista quietly. It’s not your reporter voice, not the one you put one when you’re interviewing him or his teammate or his fellow athletes. But it’s your real one, and it’s the one he thinks he could hear through a snowstorm.

A tuxedo-clad man exits and suddenly you’re there. You’re wearing a white top, low neck and thin straps covered by a cardigan. You’re sliding coins into the pocket of your jeans and he watches your hand freeze, drags his eyes back up to you, finds you’re already looking.

You look beautiful, he thinks. You put on a lot of makeup for the cameras, and you looked gorgeous, but seeing you like this—caught, almost, in a moment you didn’t expect to see him—you look unbelievably beautiful. He aches with it.

“You look well,” he says first when he opens the café door for you. “What’s your business in Ireland?”

“Acquainting myself with my new coworker.” You wait for him to follow and squint when the sun hits your eye. “We’ve been here three weeks, fly back to London next Monday. You?”

“It does seem weird for me to be here,” he observes absently. “I needed a change of pace, I think. Gear up for the season.” He shakes his half-full cup of coffee. “Where are you staying?”

“Just up ahead.” A slow silence overcomes you both. “Come over. I have beer. I know you can’t be fucked to have coffee.” He laughs and nods, following you through the road and up into a flat—a BNB, if he’s guessing. There’s a tiny landing and then stairs to a wider living area, where you proceed to unwrap the croissant you’d gotten a few minutes earlier. You chuck it into the fridge and produce two bottles of beer in one go.

“Sit,” you gesture to the spot beside you, and he sits himself there. “We can talk. We should.”

You’ve shrugged your cardigan off, and he observes every detail of your exposed skin, the way your hair layers atop it. Right as he opens his mouth to respond, a blond girl enters, rings of mascara caking her eyes and a wine glass twiddled in-between thumbs. She’s talking her head off and only pauses when she spots Charles.

“Hhhh…iiii.”

“Salut.”

“You’re Charles?” She notices how close the two of you are seated together.

“Yes,” he says.

“Charles, this is Robyn—my coworker’s friend. And by extension my friend.” You pat her knee and point to Charles to get them properly introduced. “She leeches off the apartment.”

“You love me,” she retorts, mockingly—but sweetly. “Anyway, sorry to intrude. I was just on the phone with my situationship.” She rolls her eyes. “Does he think I give two shits about goodnight texts? It feels impossible to be romantically satisfied these days.”

Charles grunts. “I hear that,” he says, just to make Robyn feel less excluded. You get up then, to fuck around at the kitchen sink—he suspects you’re not actually doing chores—but you come back with wet hands and you sit yourself across Charles, on the loveseat, instead of next to him.

“The thing is, right,” she gulps wine, “there’s such a thing with dating now,” Robyn says, not missing a beat, her Geordie accent curving round the syllables with a distinctive twang. She stares at the opaque red liquid in her glass, like that will supplement her with more words. “Like a deal. A big deal. Everyone’s making this huge thing out of it, and it’s like, can’t we be in our twenties and fuck around occasionally?” She laughs, a high-pitched, tapered noise.

You shift from where you’re seated, buried into the material of the seat. It’s quiet and beginning to touch awkward, so you speak in a rough voice: “I dunno, I kind of… get it.”

“Oh do you, now,” she responds, voice saturated with wine. “No, it’s—I was joking. Of course you would, you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, is all.”

Suddenly you feel all too seen and inclined to touch a fingertip to your cheek, feather light. You blink so you won’t feel tempted to meet Charles’ eyes, because you feel them on you. “It’s—thank you, I mean. It’s nothing to do with that. I just always feel it’s impossible to find someone who loves you. I feel like I’m not very lovable.”

“You? You’re bloody fucking likable!” Robyn’s laugh is so disbelieving you find yourself semi-convinced. “You’re a bit intimidating, yeah, but you’re lovable as fuck, babe.”

You double down anyway, voice thin. “Right. I don’t think I’m very good at being… affectionate.”

“Hah. Bull. You’re affectionate with… with Charles! I’ve heard you talk about him to Jane.”

She turns to Charles before you have the chance to defend yourself. To him she asks: “Is she affectionate with you?”

But it’s basically rhetorical. Everyone speculates, sees the way you two bend the line between friendship and romance, the care with which you treat Charles, the way you two understand each other in ways impossible for anyone else in your orbit. Fuck if it’s not overtly physical. Robyn’s known you three weeks and has never even met Charles until seven minutes ago and already she’s sensed the energy, the difference, even if she hasn’t seen you do so much as embrace.

“It’s—” You say and say too quickly. You wind up slowing your speech so you don’t sound too defiant and lean backwards, willing yourself to relax. “It’s… different with Charles.”

“Different?” She repeats, miming every dip and rise of your voice. “Why?”

“We’re close.” You refuse to meet his eyes. “Be—because we’re good friends. I feel… things are… just. They’re different. That’s all, really.” Barely satisfied with the answer you eked out, you cross your arms over your torso like it’ll help shield you from the interrogation going on. Briefly you let your eyes fall on Charles; he’s reclined, eyes all over the place, blinking in quick flashes.

“But you admit it, at least?” She smiles. “That you’re affectionate, I mean.”

“Only with…” you taper off, unwanting to dig yourself a deeper hole. “Right. Sure, yeah.”

“Well then,” she says, eyebrows raising as she dows the rest of her glass. She sets it down on the low wooden table with a clink. “I’ll get going. Don’t let me keep you two from shagging or whatever.”

“We don’t f—shag,” you interrupt, voice sharp. “And you’re not keeping us at all. Me, at all.”

Us sounds so exclusive, you realize as it leaves your lips. Us. It tastes like sour cherries on your tongue, bleeds all over. Robyn gives you a look. In response, you insist on seeing her out, leaving Charles at the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands toying with the neck of the beer bottle. He can make out faint words but he doesn’t try translating or deciphering them, just listens to your muffled voice peek through every few words. You sound amused, also accused, also endeared—a bit irritated. You end it with a laugh.

You clamber back in after a few minutes and find him at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry,” you wave off, rolling your eyes to fend Robyn’s earlier interrogation efforts of. “She’s very strong-willed.” You climb the stairs, your striped linen shorts folding with every movement of your legs. Finally you make it to the top, on the second-to-the-last stair, staring up at him.

“You know,” he says, watching you ascend to the top finally, but you’re still staring upward. “You should know.”

“Should know what?”

“I missed you.”

You inhale and are grateful to find the air is all him. “I missed you, too.”

“In a different way.”

“Me, too,” you echo again, voice quiet. “I missed you. It feels like I’ve missed you all my life.”

He can hear your still, controlled breathing. “Thank you for seeing me. Even when, you know, it’s… hard. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” you say. “It’s never difficult, not…” With you.

He leans down and captures your mouth in his then, like it’s a thirst he’s always needed quenched. You allow it, kiss him back like you’ve needed this your entire life. His lips are chapped, but you don’t mind—Dublin’s cold. He kisses like he’s smiling, like he’s happy, and you think maybe that’s not far off. He moves downward, to your jaw; lower, along the column of your throat, around your collarbones, cornering you against the wall, letting you lean against it.

Charles’ kisses are light and soft, but also heavy, like he’s trying to waste as little time as possible. You sigh, feeling light, feeling ecstatic. He puts two hands on either side of your face, presses your foreheads together, and shuts his eyes.

You feel the divots of his fingers on your hip, your waist, places he’s never touched before. “I’m sorry I left,” you breathe into him. “Back in Spain. In Madrid. I wanted to think about it. About what you said. About everything, about you.”

“I’m glad I found you here, then.”

You tiptoe to kiss him again, because now that you’ve had it once you’re terrified you won’t have it again. In-between kisses he picks you up, cages you fully against the wall, and you breathe shaky little exhales. It builds up quicker and harder; you feel his cock at your hip and shiver, eyelashes fluttering. “Upstairs,” you say breathlessly.

He likes knowing you want this, because he’ll give you whatever you want. He’d fuck you for hours. Have you shaking, eking out moans of his name. He’d whisper praise up and down your ear. He wants this just as much, if not more.

“I want you, so much,” you exhale when he lies you both down on your bed. “So much.”

He tugs your shorts off, then your panties. He doesn’t usually lack self-restraint, but he thinks he’s never felt this much temptation in his life. He’s so hard. He brings one hand to his thigh and squeezes his dick through his pants, but it doesn’t provide him with any kind of relief. You’re needy already, whimpering, mind dizzy. He slides a finger up your slit and watches you screw your eyes shut.

Slowly he sinks in, watches you accustom to the stretch. “Wanted this,” you breathe out.

He thrusts in further, feels your warm cunt stretch around him, feels your breaths get hotter and quicker against his lips. But he takes it nice and slow, so he can feel every little ridge inside of you as you take all of him. “You like it?”

You nod, too dumbed down to speak. “Good girl. Pretty, pretty girl.”

He’s wanted this for so long, fucking you deep and slow and desperate. He thrusts harder, watches you unravel and your hot breaths pick up in pace. He reaches down, smears wetness around your clit as your thighs begin to shake. Your pretty, flushed face is enough to send him into overdrive, your eyes rolling back as he goads you into orgasm.

You’re still cumming around him when he takes a shaky breath, pulls you tightly back against him, and lets the pleasure take over. He fucks you full, rides his orgasm out while you ride yours out—buries his dick all the way inside, so each spurt fills your contracting pussy up.

He pulls out and collapses beside you, pressing his lips to your shoulder before lying on his back. “I’ll clean you up in a minute.” It’s quiet for a second, just you two breathing.

Then: “I did, I did think about it,” you say, voice reedy. “I thought about you.”

“Yeah?” He watches you blink at the ceiling, lets you clasp your hands onto his.

“About me, too.” You open your eyes and stare into the green.

“D’you want this?”

“Believe me,” you say, threading your fingers into his tightly. Your hair’s fussed from the sex. “I do. But—”

His heart drops.

“I don’t want to… I want you to not…” You sigh. “You know, I like seeing you. I like being that. I like knowing I make you feel good. And I want you to know you… you make me feel amazing. Like you and I… we understand each other.” You pause. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who understands every inch of me.”

“Ditto,” he says, and you smile.

“I look up to you, you know? I don’t want you to anchor yourself onto me. I want you to realize that on your own. You’re smart. You’re a great driver with a shitty fucking team I hated reporting on last season.” He laughs shakily. “You know I look up to you. You know… you know I love you.”

“I do. I love you.”

“I always have. It wasn’t… it didn’t always make itself clear, but I always have. And I know I always will.” You smile. “We’ll be in different cities, in separate timezones, but if we survived the years of not telling each other how bloody fucking much we liked each other, this is nothing. When we’ve sorted ourselves out, we’ll know the right time to finally call this what it is.”

He’s never thought of himself as a writer, but his notebooks might beg to differ. Many times you’ve told him yourself that he has an affinity for describing things, especially when he lets go of language as a limitation. He wonders what you’d say if you knew the amount of times he’s tried to write about you. Careful letters or typefaces, in an effort to form a coherent picture of you, the way he sees you, the way he loves you. But he’s so scared he tears the pages off before they get too intimate, too personal, crossing the border from having a crush on you to being in love with you.

For once he’s not. He nods. It’s bittersweet, but it’s a segue to a better ending. He moves a hand over your hair and holds you close.

“You could never be unlovable,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead because finally, he can. “I mean it.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

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elodieunderglass · 5 months ago

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Re: your tags on the fungus and petrochemicals:

Excuse me, bramble wine? That sounds absolutely divine, how lucky you are! I hope you enjoyed it (and that I get to make/taste this one day)

(In reference to this post: https://www.tumblr.com/elodieunderglass/757191605386084352/oh-heavens-im-sorry-i-dont-remember-this-at I had to apologise for not being especially coherent in my response to an extraordinarily kind and friendly person as I was several days into a group camping, and had touched too much grass to be coherent, setting aside the bramble wine.)

The camping expedition consisted of seven+ families with children who all know each other extremely well and are growing up in a feral pack together that averages about 30 members. The pack forms at the conjunction of any five children, and therefore often exists in multiple places at once; a mini version can be assembled from as few as two of the core families, but when you have seven of the core, the pack becomes its own entity. For example, exhibiting a fascinating reflection of the hunting behavior of ancestral humans, ten of them together once managed to stalk, hunt and bring down a dragon costume performer at a local festival and sit on it in a few seconds when the adults weren’t looking. They had the light of the hunt in their eyes and they were GOING to have that dragon. Anyway this is not conducive to clear and accurate science communication at the best of times, especially since the usual reason that the pack manages to slip the leash is because the grownups are ordering pints.

For this camping expedition there was one family I didn’t know, but they live on a boat and we could vibe. They were the ones who brought the bramble wine. They were the people who sometimes evolve into Whiskey Hamishes. The bramble wine was made from foraged blackberries, and had been stored in a box on the roof of the boat (so essentially: outside) since 2019. The bottles were covered in rotten leaves and spiderwebs. This is not how you usually treat wine. Even home-brew. Even hedgerow. This is a recipe for converting free materials into as much alcohol as possible without interference.

The wine itself was similar to dark port, very heavy and thick, headachy around the edges. The alcohol percentage was estimated in the double digits. It is hard to explain but the dark black-purple color had no red in it. It was like ink.

Then, after coming into your campsite and kicking most of the party around lightly, it kissed you on the mouth one last time with a mouthful of blackberries and wandered off.

I’ve never had a hangover (hobbit liver) but I didn’t spend much time in dalliance with it. a lot of dads were pretty flat the next morning, but, to be completely fair to them, they DID rouse themselves to take the kids swimming in the river, where they (the dads) laid around recovering like beautiful crocodiles. Thus, all they had to do was lie in the cool mud while children rolled over them like puppies.

Bramble wine!

#whiskey Hamish #feral pack of children

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thewritetofreespeech · 2 months ago

Text

Night 221: Liar’s Night

words: 1.7K rating: E pairing: Gale x Tav summary: A night for tricks & treats at the annual Blackstaff Academy Masquerade Ball. An certainly more treats than tricks that Gale had hoped for. tags: kinktober - masquerade, f!oral, public sex, fluffy smut

Ao3 - 1000 Night Series

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Gale huffed as he adjusted his mask, trying to straighten it. It was rather itchy too. He wished he could have just used a glamour like some many of his colleagues tonight.

Liar’s Night. A festival in honor of Leira & Mask, gods of trickery, deception, and illusion.

It was often celebrated with people dressing up in costume to ‘trick’ the gods into thinking they were someone else. Though celebrated up & down the Sword Coast, in Waterdeep, the celebration was very elaborate. As home to one of the greatest magical academies, people took their effort in the illusions very serious.

None more so than the academy itself.

As a student, Gale often wondered what the professor’s masquerade ball was like. The smaller celebration for students was often quite involved, so he had to assume that the professor’s was over the top. It did not disappoint. The main ballroom had been decorated with beautiful crystals straight from the Underdark and beyond. Intricate weavings of pumpkin vines from some of the best herbologist magicians this side of the druids. Candles floated in mid-air, a common trick, but would change on their own with the tempo of the music played by an invisible orchestra. Seeing his colleagues unbutton their collars for a bit, dressed so unique & silly, was also quite impressive.

“Gale my boy, where is that enchanting wife of yours?”

“Hard to say, Elminster.” Though not on staff at the academy, a wizard of Elminster’s acclaim was welcome at any magical gathering. And Elminster would go just about anywhere with free cheese. “It’s a little hard to see with this mask.”

“Hmmm…her suggestion, I take it?” The older wizard asked. Though not really asked, as he seemed to already have his answer before Gale nodded. “I thought as much. Do not take this the wrong way, my boy, but I would not have thought a proud peacock like you would cover put his visage so willingly.”

“Did you just call me vain Elminster?”

“Not so much ‘vain’ as more….proud of your appearance. And which you should be, my boy. Enjoy your looks and your youth while you can. They will be gone from you sooner than you know.” The older man huffed a little, seeming defeated by the weight of his own years a bit, before he sipped his wine. “I will leave you to search for your mate then. Do say goodbye before you leave though.”

“We’ll find you by the buffet I take it?” Gale quipped as his old mentor departed.

Alone in the crowd for a moment, Gale continued to try and scan the room for his wife. She had said that she would met him at the party, saying it was silly for him to come all the way back from classes just to return a few hours later. Gale said he didn’t mind what man would, arriving at a party with a beautiful woman on his arm but she insisted.

“Excuse me kind sir,” he turned around at the gentle tap on his shoulder, thinking it was someone looking for the loo again, and felt all the air rush out of his lungs, “could you direct me to the nearest stream?” There before him was Tav. His beautiful Tav. Dressed in what he could only assume was a water nymphs costume.

The intricate, flimsy material moving around her body like waves on the sea. The flecks of sparkle like moonlight blinking in the sea. Her mask, not nearly as cumbersome as his, just some delicate pieces of white coral by her temple with makeup over her eyes. Clearly her inspiration that of the Umberlee charges they helped while in the Gate. But where they looked ready to slay a man in divine vengeance for their Bitch Queen, Tav looked as if she would lure a man to the sea, who would willingly follow as a sacrifice to the Mother of Oceans for just one more glance at her.

“There…there are no streams here.” Gale replied. Collecting himself and turning fully towards her. “But there’s a pretty large fountain in the south corridor I could interest you in.”

Tav giggled. The sound like sea breeze through a chime. “I suppose I will have to make do. What’s a handsome man like you washing up on these shores?”

“I’m looking for someone.” Gale told her. “A missing love.”

“Missing? Oh, how horrible.” She stepped closer and placed her hand at his chest. Even with the thick cut of his jacket he could feel her pulse there. Although maybe that was his own heart. “Anything I can do, to help a poor lost sailor?”

Gale clasped her hand and, without a word, cast Dimensional Door. Suddenly, they were no longer in the thick of the party but in a secluded, unused portion of the ballroom. Gale torn off his mask and threw it to the ground somewhere in the dark before he kissed Tav feverously.

“Where did you get this dress?” He asked when he finally let her go.

“I made it.” She told him; would her wonders never cease. “I thought it would be a cute couples costume. Nymph and pirate.”

Suddenly his outfit made sense. Gale hadn’t questioned it. Interested in the party but less on what he was wearing, and trusted her judgement. “Well then, it seems I have caught myself a nymph in my net.” Gale replied. Falling back into ‘character’. “According to legend, that entitles me to three wishes for your freedom.”

Tav giggled again. “Alright. What are your wishes, handsome sailor?”

“I want to taste you.”

Gale kissed Tav again, deeper this time, before he moved down to her neck. Her skin tasted like salt. Gale wondered if she had added it to make her costume that much more authentic, or if it was just his imagination. He moved further down. Kissing the patches of skin her costume left dangerously bare as he moved the kneel in front of her. “Gale,” Tav hissed quietly, “we’re at a party!”

“You said you would grant me any three wishes.” He reminded her. Her blush an intoxicating contrast with all the blue. “This is my wish.”

With no further complaints from Tav, Gale moved the ruffles of her skirt aside. Letting them fall over him like a curtain as he reached up to spread her legs and lapped at her center. His wife moaned. Fingers gripping into his shoulders at the hem of her skirts to keep quiet. Gale used his practiced tongue to work her open. Moving one leg carefully onto his shoulder by her hand to give him more room. Taste her deeper. He was pleased to feel Tav buck her hips against him in a soft cadence. Using his mouth to gain her pleasure. His cock straining in his pants in reply.

In the quiet dark of their little corner, Tav moaned between the bite of her bottom lip as she came for him. Her sweet ocean coating his tongue before he pulled out from under her skirts. “Everything you wished for?”

“And then some.” Gale replied. Looking up at her with reverence before he stood to his feet. “For my next wish, I wish to be inside you.”

“Yes please.”

Tav wasted little time helping him unlace his pants and hike up her skirts again. Gale was pleased with her eagerness. Maybe it was the moment, or the fact that they were still at his work party, but she seemed quick to join with him; compared to their usual slow & passionate love making.

Gale held on to Tav’s legs when she wrapped them around his waist. Using the wall to brace them before he slid his cock inside. His little nymph moaned. Clinging to him as he fucked her. Thrusting in & out with ease from the wetness of her orgasm and tongue just moments ago.

“Don’t stop.” She begged him. “Feels so good. Don’t ever stop Gale.”

How Gale wished that could be true. To be joined with her always. To be one forever and feel her around his cock for eternity. Sadly though, all good things must come to an end, and the wizard grunted as his hips stopped. Coming deep inside her.

Gently, he let Tav down and allowed them to adjust themselves. Gale groaned as he straightened his back. The lower part tense from the strain and his impulse decision to lift his wife. Well worth it, but he was paying the price now.

“Shall we go back to the party for a bit, my love?”

“Yes we…Oh…Oh dear…” Tav giggled as she looked at Gale. Covering her mouth as she snickered. “Your face is covered in blue.”

Gale was surprised, although he really shouldn’t be, and touched his cheek to find blue paint at his fingertips. “Nine hells…” It was probably in his beard too. It would not do to go out looking like this; their disheveled appearance already a dead give away that they had not been taking in the pumpkin displays nor the night air.

“Think we can sneak out the back?” Tav asked.

“Now that you mention it, I just so happens I know a way to sneak out through this back hall.” A memory for his school days that was proving quite useful.

The couple snuck out through Gale’s hidden escape route and out off the campus to head back home. Once there, he took Tav in his arms again. “Sorry my impulsiveness ruined your costume. And the chance to show it off.” He apologized. “You just looked so lovely. I couldn’t help myself.”

Tav chuckled at his apology and offered him a kiss. “No need to be sorry. We’ll be better prepared for next year I suppose.” Gale smiled. Delighted at the thought of next year. And the year after that. And the year after that.

His wife wrapped his arms around his neck to stare lovingly at him. “You never told me your third wish, sailor.”

Gale grinned. He tilted her chin up, holding just before their lips touch to whisper, “Forever.” His one wish. His only wish for a very long time.

Tav leaned up to seal their lips together. Like the stamp on a contract. “Done.” She told him. “Now, handsome sailor,” Gale grunted as Tav hopped up into his arms. His lower back whining again as he held her up. “You’ve caught yourself and sullied a fine nymph this day. You’ll have to clean her up.”

“Oh yes, woe be unto he who interrupts a nymph’s bathing rituals.” He teased back. His cock already getting excited again as he carried her to their bathing suite. Eager to show his water nymph how long he could hold his breath for.

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ltwilliammowett · 1 day ago

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Christmas on Arctic Expeditions

This could look very different and could range from rather plain to very creative. But let's take a look at some Christmas celebrations.

On HMS Alert under the command of Captain George Strong Nares, Christmas 1875 she was frozen in the Lincoln Sea north of Ellesmere Island, there the officers were led below deck by a drum and pipe band to the strains of "Roast Beef of Old England". The officers saw the men's quarters "tastefully decorated with flags, coloured tinsel paper and artificial flowers".

The crew on Arctic ships ate around lunchtime, and Christmas dinner usually consisted of preserved vegetables, beef that had been frozen in the rigging, and local game if it was available. Desserts and sweets were particularly sought after. Plum pudding and mince pies were essential components of the traditional British Christmas at this time, and the inclusion of these foods in the celebrations worked - as a reminder that the men were connected to their loved ones at home through these special foods.

Officers usually dined in the armoury at around 3pm. The food included wine, of course, and it was of better quality than that of the crew. In 1852, Captain Henry Kellett of HMS Resolute even enjoyed a complete preserved Christmas dinner from the exclusive London department stores' Fortnum & Mason.

After dinner there were toasts, music, games and general merriment. Just as ship's newspapers and theatrical performances inspired the crew's creativity, singing together helped the men relax and cope with the stress of long expeditions. What was also very liberating was a party with costumes like the one on board HMS Terror under the command of Captain George Back in 1836, where all kinds of costumes were designed and worn, and dressing up as women or symbolically swapping positions was very popular, but was only permitted up to a certain limit so as not to cause mutiny.

“Arctic Amusements” aboard HMS Terror, 1836, by Lt. Owen Stanley (x)

But why was Christmas celebrated so intensely? You have to remember that what we associate with Christmas today, the good food, the merriment and time with loved ones, first came about in the 1840s as part of Christmas traditions.

Expedition commanders sought to foster camaraderie on board by preparing these festivities and promoting the well-being of their crews through the symbolic presence of wives and loved ones, who were acknowledged through toasts, dressing up and opening gifts. And incidentally what many were not so aware of was that the consumption of fresh meat, dried fruits and sweets also provided their crews with a significant - if temporary - nutritional boost. A psychological balm and physical respite from the dreaded scurvy, Christmas was more than just a meal: it was a celebration of light and hope, and a crucial moral boost for the men on the dangerous expeditions in the eternal ice.

#naval history #christmas #age of sail #arctic

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yoomiwrites · 2 months ago

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Halloween [Mihawk Edition]

It was Halloween night, and the stark contrast of your brightly colored costume against the dark, gothic atmosphere of Mihawk's castle couldn't be more dramatic. He didn't celebrate Halloween, of course. The idea of dressing up in silly costumes or celebrating something so frivolous was clearly beneath him. But you? You couldn’t resist a bit of festive mischief.

Mihawk sat in his study, pouring over a weathered map, his wine glass close by. He looked up at you, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as you pranced into the room with a grin, practically glowing with Halloween spirit.

“What are you supposed to be?” he asked, his tone as dry as the autumn leaves crunching outside. Though he tried to keep his expression neutral, you swore there was a hint of amusement in his gaze.

“Well, it’s Halloween!” you said brightly, twirling in your costume for added effect. “You could stand to get in the spirit, you know.”

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from his glass as his gaze followed you. "I don’t see the point of ‘celebrating’ with costumes and tricks." He sounded indifferent, but you knew him well enough to know that was just his way.

“Right, right,” you replied, smirking. “What fun is there in a little mystery and mischief?”

Setting his glass down, Mihawk folded his arms and leaned back, clearly done humoring you. "Do you really think that prancing around in a costume will make you more… menacing?" There was a faintly mocking edge to his voice, and you couldn’t help but feel a thrill at his attempt to keep his usual, distant demeanor.

“Menacing? No,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly. “But maybe you could use a little fun. Trick or treat?” You grinned, standing your ground even as he gave you an unimpressed look.

“Neither,” he said, his voice a low drawl as he looked back down at his map, as if already dismissing you. But that only encouraged you further.

“Oh, come on, Mihawk,” you coaxed, stepping closer to him, your voice soft but full of playfulness. “Where’s your Halloween spirit?”

He sighed, still not looking at you, and it was clear he had no intention of indulging you. But you had one last trick up your sleeve.

Slowly, you leaned over and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, lingering just enough to feel the slight warmth of his skin. He froze, his entire demeanor going rigid as you pulled back, grinning.

“There,” you whispered, your eyes dancing with mischief. “A treat for you, since I knew you wouldn’t pick one.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he turned his head, his golden eyes watching you with a mix of surprise and something… else, hidden just beneath his usual cool exterior.

“You’re a fool,” he murmured, though the sharpness of his tone was softened by a rare flicker of amusement. “A very bold one.”

“I try my best,” you said, smiling as you took a small step back. “Happy Halloween, Mihawk.”

He just shook his head slightly, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips as he watched you go. And as you slipped out of the room, heart racing, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’d left a lasting impression on the great Dracule Mihawk—one he wouldn’t soon forget.

#one piece x reader #one piece #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader

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vii-doodles · 2 months ago

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HazbinAutumnWeek Day 3: Trick or Treating!

Little 1k+ StaticApple / Valastor writing under the cut ✨

The three overlords and their majesty made a striking group as they strolled down the streets of Hell in their Halloween costumes, heading toward the final stop of the night: the Hazbin Hotel, where a Halloween party was waiting for them.

Valentino, dressed as Cruella with a massive black-and-white fur coat, a black dress so sleek it perfectly melted into every curve of his body and an elegant cigarette holder, had a gentle hand on Alastor’s shoulder. Alastor, perfectly in character as Lady Tremaine, wore a wine-red gown with puffy shoulders and an air of refined mischief that suited him too well. One of Val’s extra arms was looped through Alastor’s, keeping them close.

Infront them, Vox trailed along with a pumpkin-shaped basket in hand, his screen projecting fake stitches to his amused grin and wearing a black suit, perfectly representing Jack Skellington, as he watched Lucifer practically skipping ahead. Lucifer, fittingly dressed as Sally was filled with pure excitement, his face lit up with childlike glee as he bounded up the hotel's hill.

“Trick or treat!” he shouted eagerly, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. As the doors of the Hotel opened to welcome them, Lucifer couldn’t contain himself and gave a little jump, his stitched-up sleeves flapping. Charlie, who had opened the doors, squealed excited at the sight of them.

Val chuckled, squeezing Alastor’s arm gently. “Seeing the the king of hell being so... Lively... because of some candy was truly not on my bingo card for this year.” he murmured, watching Lucifer with genuine amusement.

Vox smirked, watching his lover with an affectionate glint in his eyes. He’d been the one to tell Lucifer all about trick-or-treating, a quaint human tradition that seemed like an odd fit for the ruler of Hell. But Lucifer had been all in from the start, insisting they go all out, costumes and all. And now here he was, fully immersed in the experience, delighted at every door that had handed him a handful of sweets.

Of course, for Vox, there was an added step at every stop. The moment they collected their candy, he’d casually flicker his screen, sending out subtle hypnotic waves that glazed over the minds of each demon they encountered. Couldn’t have it getting around that three of Hell’s most feared Overlords, plus Lucifer himself, were out indulging in such a cutesy and domestic activity. Maintaining their reputation took a bit of effort, after all.

Charlie stepped aside and made them follow her inside of the Hotel, her own costume an adorable mishmash of pumpkin and ghost elements. “Welcome, welcome! I’m so glad you all made it!” She beamed, clapping her hands together. “Come on in! This party’s just getting started!”

Lucifer was the first inside, his eyes darting immediately to the tables loaded with an array of Halloween-themed snacks. There were candied apples, marshmallow ghosts, and a bubbling punch bowl filled with some ominously glowing green liquid. “Oh, Vox, look at all this!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing as he took in the spread.

Vox smirked as he followed Lucifer toward the food, holding the pumpkin basket as Lucifer picked out treats with the enthusiasm of a child. “I swear,” Vox teased, leaning in close, “it’s like you’ve never seen candy before.”

Lucifer chuckled, casting Vox a sidelong glance. “It’s not really the candy,” he murmured, his voice softening with a hint of wonder. “It’s the whole experience. I never truly celebrated Halloween before... I suppose I just lost interest in human festivities after a while.” He paused, looking around the decorated room with genuine appreciation. “But tonight... it feels different. It’s… nice, having a reason to enjoy all this.”

A warm smile softened Vox’s usually sharp features. Without a word, he placed a gentle hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He could feel his own heart stirring, watching the joy on Lucifer’s face, a brightness that made him feel lighter. “Then enjoy it,” Vox said quietly, his voice filled with warmth. “I can’t imagine a better Halloween than this one, seeing you this happy.”

Charlie smiled fondly at Vox's and her father's interaction, watching them with warmth in her eyes before turning back to Valentino and Alastor, who had stepped inside hand in hand.

“So, over here’s the dance floor,” she said, leading them to a spacious area adorned with flickering jack-o’-lanterns and fake cobwebs. “And we’ve got a few different drinks set up. There’s something smoky, something sweet, and, of course, something... a little more intense.”

Alastor’s eyes lit up as he took in the carefully arranged tables, and he gave Charlie an approving nod. “My, my, you’ve outdone yourself, Miss Morningstar. Quite the spread you’ve got here. I couldn't have done it better.”

Charlie blushed, clearly thrilled at Alastor's approval. “Thanks, Alastor! And you two look fantastic. I mean, really! Cruella and Lady Tremaine?” She gave a playful smile, “Absolutely villainous. Though... I wasn't aware that you knew who they are, Al.”

Valentino chuckled, smoothing the fur on his Cruella coat. “Only the best for a night like this.” His arm remained looped with Alastors. "though I had to rather force those films onto him" he added, pulling Alastor a little closer and to Charlie's suprise, Alastor didn't even protest. With a smile on her lips she left as Vaggie called out for her.

As they made their way through the Halloween crowd, Valentino nudged Alastor with an elbow, a smirk creeping onto his face. "I gotta hand it to you, cariño,” he drawled, eyeing Alastor’s Lady Tremaine costume. “You look almost as good as me in a villain’s getup.”

Alastor chuckled, a sly smile curling on his lips as he adjusted the collar of his gown. "Almost? Darling, I'm practically the embodiment of evil elegance," he replied smoothly. "And I didn’t even need to slip into stilettos to pull it off."

Val laughed, glancing down at his own black stilettos. “Oh, you wish. These things are a statement, baby. Though I gotta admit,” he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a playful murmur, “I never thought I'd see you in something this... flamboyant.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, pretending to be scandalized. “Why, Valentino! Are you suggesting I’m anything less than flamboyant every day?”

Val threw his head back in laughter. “Touché. Guess I forgot who I was talking to.” He glanced at Alastor, eyes gleaming. “So, when’s the next dance? I wanna see if you’re as smooth on the floor as you are with that silver tongue.”

Alastor smirked, offering his hand with a dramatic flourish. “Shall we find out, darling?”

Val took it without hesitation, the two overlords slipping seamlessly into a waltz amid the costumed chaos around them, both too proud to let the other outshine them, and both enjoying every second of it.

#Yall writing for public eyes has always been so fucking scary but I got exactly one compliment and whoops #Back to my bad writing era hahah #myart #fan art #fanart #hazbin hotel #vox #Valentino #lucifer morningstar #Alastor #StaticApple #Valastor #radiomoth #Applestatic #Ficlet

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amnestria-the-elf · 2 months ago

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BG3 Companions at Halloween

Wyll volunteers at the city-wide Halloween festival, performing pantomimes of various exploits of The Blade of Frontiers. He patiently gets pictures with every single kid who wants one and goes out of his way to compliment the kids who dress up as him. He has been stocking up on full-sized candy bars since May and makes sure that every kid who visits him gets one.

Karlach loves trick-or-treating. She’s spent the past three months helping the kids from the Grove get their costumes together– even Mol, with a little cajoling– and she’ll be taking them around all night. She won’t let them stop until their bags are full, and then she’ll pull out new bags and make them keep going while she carries all the full ones.

Gale puts a couple of uncarved pumpkins on his porch and stays home to answer the door to all the trick-or-treaters in his neighborhood. When the candy runs out, he turns off the lights and settles down with Tara to watch old black-and-white monster movies on TV and has a good laugh with her about how completely inaccurate they are.

Lae’zel wants nothing to do with this istik holiday until Shadowheart explains to her that it’s a holiday devoted to scaring people (Wyll clarifies that she is not allowed to touch anyone while scaring them). She then spends a lot of time coming up with the most horrifying costume imaginable and hides in the bushes outside Gale’s house to scare the children as they’re leaving.

Astarion throws an ostentatious, adults-only masquerade. There are hors d'oeuvres, fancy desserts, and fine wine. The only candy available is hand-made by a French chocolatier and candy corn is explicitly forbidden. He has carefully curated a rumor among the children in his neighborhood that he’s a vampire who eats kids, so nobody ever tries to trick-or-treat at his house.

Shadowheart leaves candy on her porch in one of those bowls with the animatronic hands that grab you when you try to take candy from it. She goes to Astarion’s party in an elaborate gown and beautiful mask, and wins the costume contest by a landslide. Hers is the most-sought after hand on the dance floor.

Halsin goes trick-or-treating with Karlach’s group in his bear form. Every single house makes a comment about how incredibly realistic that bear suit is. One by one the kids climb up for a ride as they get tired, and eventually he has to tell Karlach that twelve pounds of candy is enough and they need to go home.

Jaheira works security at the city-wide Halloween festival. Eventually Wyll makes her join him onstage for a pantomime about the time that The Blade of Frontiers and The High Harper teamed up and it’s the most popular performance of the day. It’s hard to miss the proud smile on her face when kids who dressed up as her crowd around for a picture.

Minthara runs the most notorious haunted house in the city. You know, the one where you have to show ID to prove you’re over eighteen and sign a waiver affirming you don’t have some kind of heart problem before they let you in. The actors inside are allowed to touch you, and rumor has it that somebody went inside and was so traumatized that they didn’t speak for a week afterwards.

Minsc feels conflicted about the holiday, because on the one hand, he greatly dislikes those who are tricksome with the truth, but on the other hand, he loves to see kids dress up as someone who spends their time in the smiting of evil. Boo tells him it is ok to be tricksome with the truth as long as it is in the service of getting treats, and so he goes around yelling “Tricksome or Treating!” and laughing his arse off all night long.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #wyll #karlach #gale dekarios #lae'zel #astarion #shadowheart #halsin #jaheira #minthara #minsc #minsc and boo

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ladyveronikawrites · 2 months ago

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AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A GOOD TIME

Lady Midnight's Kinktober in the Concrete Jungle 2024

Pairing: Nicholas Ruffilo x Jolly Karlsson x OC x Noah Sebastian

Cw- masked men, roleplaying, sensory deprivation: blindfolds, scarf as bondage, unprotected vaginal sex, mean ex boyfriend, double penetration, oral sex (male and female receiving), mild thigh slapping, spitting, vaginal fingering, jerking off, facial, cum eating, revenge kink if you squint, getting caught, voyeurism, THICK DICK NICK, one hot foursome, If I missed anything please let me know!

AN: a little self-indulgent fic, Star Wars characters ahead - Nick as Kylo Ren makes me feral lol - pärla means 'gem' in Swedish

AO3 || Wattpad || Word Count: 3k || masterlist || Taglist sign up

dividers by saradika-graphics

Ruby swipes on her signature red lip as she looks over her outfit in the full-length mirror by the front door. She adjusts her boring brown Jedi robes Nathan insisted she wear to juxtapose his Darth Maul. She scoffs to herself knowing damn well he has no idea who Darth Maul is and probably found the costume at Spirit Halloween. Reluctantly she sighs, the distant dream of her Sabine Wren cosplay lying buried under clothes in her closet never to see the light of day.

Her phone chimes, ripping her from her brief moment of sadness.

She frantically types ‘OMW’ as she slides into the Uber.

Nathan <Ru, I have been waiting for over an hour.>

She can hear Nathan’s anger through the screen, silently sending a prayer for the driver to go faster. Ruby and Nathan were high school sweethearts that turned into an on-and-off-and-on-again situationship while they were away in college, but when Ruby dropped out of college to pursue music full-time as an indie artist - things went sour really fast. He never understood her passion for music, too self-absorbed in his reputation at the Ivy League university he got into thanks to his wealthy parents.

Her fingers freeze over the screen as her heart shatters into a thousand pieces.

Nathan <You know what, since it seems like you don’t care about MY time, we are done. For real this time. Don’t even bother coming.>

Tears stream down her face as she powers down her phone and shoves it into her purse. He can go fuck himself, Ruby thinks to herself - and she gets an even better idea.

“S-sorry but can you take me downtown instead?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly as the realization sinks in. She takes a deep breath, drying her tear-stained cheeks as the driver pulls up to Nathan’s most hated bar- which happens to be her favorite, Third Base.

The bar is bustling as she walks in. It’s been updated since she had been there, all those months ago when Nathan was doing a semester abroad in Rome. Ruby instantly fell in love with the quaint charm of the dive bar. It didn’t help that the bar owner was ruggedly handsome, the kind of personality that was homegrown from a small town. She ached for the slow stroll of home instead of the hustle and bustle of city life. Festive Halloween touches add to the ambiance and that’s when she realizes other patrons are also adorned in costume.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” his familiar twang wraps around her like a warm blanket. She should probably be sobbing into her wine glass in a rose-scented bubble bath in the comfort of her home instead she replies with “Whiskey neat, double.” She notices he’s the only one not dressed up, even his bartender is sporting a risque outfit.

Ruby is about to mention the lack of costume when he asks “That kinda night?” Ruby downs the drink without a word, slides off the metal bar stool, and makes her way to the old jukebox in the corner of the bar. She scrolls through the CDs not really impressed with the selection.

“Not finding what you’re looking for?” A distorted voice has Ruby turning. She opens her mouth to grumble about the lackluster music selection, but her brain turns to static. She’s met face-to-face with Kylo Ren.

“I-”

“Here, you might like this.” Another man dressed up as a Mandalorian pushes between them. Ruby stands in awe as the two men fight over a CD. Her awe turns into appreciation as she notices the small details in the homemade costume. Whoever’s in the suit spent hours making it.

“Can I buy you another drink?” A deep voice comes from the bar.

She turns and freezes. “N-nathan? How’d yo-” She is silenced by a red-painted finger as the man towers over her. Realization strikes her that this man is too tall to be Nathan.

“Nathan isn’t here Jedi.” Boldly, the stranger spits in her face - playing into the villainous role - yet Ruby can’t help but be even more aroused.

Ruby finds herself being shoved into the back seat of an SUV. Not in a kidnappy way but in a rushed I-want-to-devour-you-way. The look Darth Maul is giving her has her pussy throbbing. She slides her way in as Kylo and Mando hop in the front. Warm lips pressed against her and; at this moment, she couldn't care less if she was covered in red and black body paint by the end of this. She pulls him in closer as his gloved hand teases the waistband of her leggings. Her head thuds against the window when he slips his fingers inside her as his tongue explores her mouth. Suddenly, his long finger slams into the sweet spot and she bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

He groans, “You gonna surrender, Jedi?”

“Fuck, don’t stop,” she whines as he finger fucks her all the way to her apartment. By the time they get to her apartment, his gloves are drenched and the back seat is damp where she was sitting, but Ruby could give a single fuck as in the span of 30 minutes she had already had more satisfying orgasms than Nathan could ever give her. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the thrill? Probably both. If one of them can satisfy her alone with his fingers imagine all three of them.

“You wanna do this Jedi?” Kylo Ren asks once in Ruby’s apartment.

“It’s not every night you get three masked men in your apartment,” she smirks her hands roaming over his black robes.

“You’ll have to wear this,” the foreign Mandalorian slides a blindfold over her eyes.

“That’s fine,” her breath catches as her hands drift up to grip Ren’s mask. “Can I take this off?”

Abruptly, she finds herself pressed against a solid chest behind her and warm lips devour her own. She tangles her fingers into long hair and he groans when she yanks.

“I was not expecting long hair, but it’s so soft.” Ruby twirls a strand around her finger. Her hand cups his cheek and pulls him into another kiss.

“Ren’s not the only one here Jedi.” Her heartbeat skyrockets at the memory of Darth Maul in the backseat of the car. The way he towered over her, his eyes dark with lust, and his voice made her pussy flutter.

The mattress groans with the added weight and Ruby’s mind begins to spiral. She yelps with teeth and stubble brush against the skin on her inner thigh. Fuck, Mando has facial hair that's fucking hot. Ruby giggles as he inches closer to her core and at the same time remembers how Nathan can only grow a pathetic and patchy beard. She squirms, aching for roughness against her pussy..

“Oh you’re a feisty one,” Maul whispers in her ear as he settles down beside her. Suddenly, her hands are bound loosely with something smooth and soft. Her brain rationalizes one of her summer scarves that hangs from the hooks over the door. A part of her hopes it’s her favorite one, the black one with skulls.

“Our red hot Ruby.” he nips at her ear and at the same time one of them pinches her nipple. Ruby yelps at the sudden pain, endorphins surging through her body. “You like a little pain with your pleasure, hm?”

Smack

A large hand makes contact with her inner thigh. “Fuck! Yes,” Ruby yelps. “Yes, I like pain ‘n pleasure!”

Lips brush against her cheek. “Our little pain slut.”

“Our little pain slut,” Mando mumbles against her throbbing clit as he sinks two thick fingers inside her.

“Fuck,” she groans as her pussy walls stretch from the invasion.

“God Ruby… have you ever- “ he trails off, lost in thought. He sucks her clit between his lips and thrusts his fingers into the spongy sweet spot. Ruby writhes as the coil winds tighter in her core. Large hands clamp down on her shoulders to keep her steady as her body starts to tremble. In a silent scream, the dam breaks, and euphoria floods through her body as she releases herself onto Mando’s face. She writhes oversensitive and overwhelmed as he laps up everything she gives him.

“Little, pärla” Mando pants, “You are divine.”

Ruby finds herself being pulled gently to sit upright. “Here’s some water,” Ren says softly, handing her a glass of water.

“Thank you.” Her cheeks warm to the kind gesture. “Nathan never took care of me like this.” Her lips press into a thin line and her shoulders slump forward as her mind flashes each disappointing experience.

A warm hand settles on the small of her back, gently rubbing up and down. “Ain’t nothin’ but a good time, hm?” Mando whispers seductively, his breath is hot against the shell of her ear.

Ruby briefly wonders if that would have been the track he chose at the bar. Her heart flutters at the parallels and she enthusiastically adds, “Hell yeah!”

She squeals at first when hands grip her hips and hoist her onto his lap. His hard cock

“You ready for a good time, sweetheart?” Ren asks before pulling her into a heated kiss. His free hand roams over her tits as another set of hands rubs up and down her thighs. Sandwiched between the two men her heart races with anticipation.

“Got any lube, darling?” Mando asks as Ren pulls her up onto her knees.

“In… the… drawer…” she replies between kisses. Her heart leaps into her throat when a cold and wet finger circles the tense muscle of her asshole.

“Can Mando fill you up back there while Ren plays with your pretty pussy?” Maul’s baritone makes her spine tingle. Mando’s finger stills at her back entrance and Ren nips at her other ear.

“Can I watch?” Maul asks, pulling the blindfold off and Ruby’s eyes widen, taking in the sight before her. Ren’s stormy blue-gray eyes captivate her first, then his soft smile and tint of pink on his cheeks. She can’t resist carding her hand through his hair, so smooth. He leans into her touch, entranced by the gentleness. The world around them darkness slightly and she briefly forgets about the other two. She could stay here, locked in his gentle gaze but her eyes begin to wonder. Her other hand traces the tattoos on his shoulder to his wrist where in the corner of her vision she spies his large thick cock.

Suddenly, a gloved hand grips her wrist and twists her sideways. His fingers entwine with hers as the other grips her chin. “Don’t forget about us, Jedi.” His deep brown eyes are piercing and she notices that his face is the only exposed skin free of paint. His abdominal muscles flex as her gaze lowers, she huffs disappointed that he is clothed from the waist down.

Her eyes widen at the sound of a deep moan. Maul tilts her head back so she can see the man behind her. His grasp loosens completely and she twists her body more to see Mando better.

“Hello, pärla,” he moans her nickname, his eyelids flutter closed as he strokes himself.

“Looks like Mando’s ready. Are you?” Maul asks.

Ruby remains fixed on watching Mando touch himself. She mutters a breathless, “Yeah.”

“Come back to your supreme leader.” A tinge of pain pricks at Ruby’s scalp when Ren fists her hair and tugs. She moans as the pain melts into pleasure.

“Finally showing me your dark side, Ren,” Ruby smirks. “I like it.”

“Good.” Ren crowds into Ruby’s space, thrusting his hand around her throat. He squeezes slightly then releases pressure completely. “Lean back.”

Ruby adjusts her stance to straddle Mando’s hips. Together, Mando and Ren guide her to lower herself onto him. Maul groans beside them. The stretch takes her breath away, if only for a moment as the hand tightens around her neck and lips crash onto hers. Ruby succumbs to the sensations letting Mando set the pace while she battles for breath with the fallen Jedi. Ren shoves her back against Mando’s chest by the throat. She sucks in the air when he releases his hand, chest heaving with every inhalation.

“My turn,” Ren growls, nipping at her earlobe. He squeezes the soft tissue of her breasts as his mouth trails kisses down her torso. Grinning he spreads her legs apart wider and his lips gently kiss her tummy before descending through her silken folds. Mando thrusts into her as Ren teases her other hole with his tongue and then sucks at her clit. She’s teetering on the edge of bliss when it is abruptly ripped away.

“No cumming yet darling.” Mando stills inside her just as Ren flattens his tongue licking one final time before pulling away.

“Do you want a taste?” Ren asks, his lips ghosting over hers. Her mouth drops open to respond but without warning, fingers slide their way in. Disappointment sours her stomach when Ren leans over and kisses Mando. Greedily, she flicks her tongue around Ren’s fingers in hopes of vying for his attention.

“Is our Ruby a little jealous she is getting attention?” Maul laughs. In the heat of the moment, Ruby had forgotten all about him. “No… you aren’t jealous, but your needy little cunt is.” Desperation flashes through her as she bites down on Ren’s fingers. Ren huffs a laugh against Mando’s lips,

“I heard that cunt is still needy, hm?” Ren tilts his head, his gaze scanning over her body. A small whine leaks out of her mouth. He slides his fingers out of her mouth and onto her throat. His lips curl into a devilish smirk, “You want more?”

“Yes, yes, yes, please!” Ruby’s lashes flutter when Ren sinks into her dripping pussy.

“So tight-” Ren groans.

“Dude, I can feel you,” Mando gasps when Ren bottoms out.

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Maul muses.

Ren holds her steady as Mando slowly thrusts in and out of her.

“Feeling good?” Maul whispers lowly in her ear.

“S-so good, so full.. he's so big” Her words melt into nothingness when Ren flexes inside her.

“Fuck fuck fuck, I’m gonna come… don’t-” Ruby whines as Mando and Ren alternate thrusting into her ass and cunt.

“Ru, you home? I saw your car out front.” Her ex’s voice booms through the apartment, his words slur together in one long word. But she can’t be bothered as pressure builds in her core.

“Shhh,” Mando shushes her with a hand to her mouth

“Maybe,” Maul leans over and whispers turning Ruby slightly towards him. Grinning he offers his eager cock to her and she eagerly nods. Ren smacks Maul in the arms when he moans as Ruby takes him into her mouth.

The bedroom door swings open and Maul’s cock throbs between her lips. Ren and Mando are too far gone to care when -

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Ruby sighs against Maul’s softening cock slipping it from her mouth while she is still being pounded between two beautiful men. It takes all of her strength not to come when she leans around Ren to stare Nathan dead in the eyes.

“Fuck! You!” she groans as she comes, flipping Nathan one and then sucking on each of her middle fingers. Her eyes roll back as she catches a glimpse of him stalking out the door. When the door slams shut she sinks into Mando as euphoria floods her body.

“Damn, that was hot!” Maul says impressed. Ruby peers up through her lashes at Maul who’s stoking his now hard cock.

“Yeah?” Ruby cocks an eyebrow. Without hesitation, she pulls his free hand and sucks on his middle finger.

Maul sucks in a curse. “Damn girl, fuck.” Ruby bites down at Maul’s finger, not painfully hard, but enough when her hair is yanked back and she is pulled off.

“Wh-”

“Open up,” Mando commands as he grips her jaw forcing her mouth open. Ruby opens her mouth wide and sticks her tongue out with anticipation. Mando lowers his hands to rest around her throat squeezing gently. Ren tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear before leaning down to suck on her nipple. She jolts when he bites down, her pussy walls clenching around his semi-hard cock. Mando slides his hand down her middle to circle her clit as Ren plays with her tits.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Maul curses as he splatters his cum all over Ruby’s face. Small whimpers come from her open mouth as another orgasm wrecks through her. She swallows then licks her lips and smiles up at Maul before pulling him closer to lick and suck at his softening cock. She hisses when Ren pulls off her tit with an audible pop.

Ruby hums satisfiedly, leaning back against Mando, as Ren slides out of her. Before he can say another word, she mumbles, “Baby wipes in the bathroom down the hall.”

She doesn’t open her eyes but sinks further into bliss as Mando rubs his hands up and down her arms. “You did so well for us Pärla,” he whispers in her ear. All she can muster is a hummed agreement.

“Let me clean you up,” Maul offers when Ren returns. She blinks to find soft brown eyes and a dazzling smile to greet her. “Thank you,” she whispers. “All of you,” she adds when Ren takes Maul’s place in front of her to press a gentle kiss to her cheek. As Ren and Maul redress, Mando steals more kisses as he helps Ruby up to dress her.

“Here,” Maul hands Ruby her glass of water. “You can call me Noah.”

“Hi, Noah.” she flashes him a dazzling smile in the afterglow.

“Food?” Ren asks before adding,” The name’s Nick and he’s Jolly.”

“No please- you guys can go, I’ll be alright.” Ruby dismisses, gesturing to the door.

“Please?” Jolly wraps her up in his arms. “Dinner and a movie and we will leave after that.”

“We just don’t want you to be alone,” Nick adds.

“Fine.” Ruby relents as her stomach rumbles. “Thai food and the new Deadpool movie.”

The four of them settle on blankets and pillows in the living room with Ruby in the middle. She finds herself leaning against Jolly’s shoulder and for the first time in a long time has finally felt at peace.

👑Royal Readers👑

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