#HOW COME I HAVE HARDLY SEEN ANY POSTS ABOUT IT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

no-144444 · 6 days ago

Note

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations.

And apparently this.

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there.

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks.

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.”

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you.

Lando Norris

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that.

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated.

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done.

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it.

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left.

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t.

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right.

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.”

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind.

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit.

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him.

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you.

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself.

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt.

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say.

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him.

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you.

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising.

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving.

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head.

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.”

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant.

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem.

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship.

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week.

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives.

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky.

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away.

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.”

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument.

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you.

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him.

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there.

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt.

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid.

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved.

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while.

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles.

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted.

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long.

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend.

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes.

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset.

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze.

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip.

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand.

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand.

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him-

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered.

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry.

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance.

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms.

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate.

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were.

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion.

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge.

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.”

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell.

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure.

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much.

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable.

Hey baby, where are you? (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright? (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really?

Work is more important than this? Than me? (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared. (20:07)

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49)

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50)

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions.

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes.

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up.

He picked up on the fifth ring.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up.

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you.

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame.

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed.

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.”

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end.

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days.

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away.

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort.

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice.

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.”

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful.

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you.

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love.

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer.

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love.

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image.

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less.

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave.

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.”

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins.

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes.

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him.

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable.

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it.

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left.

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist.

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.”

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child.

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes.

“Y/n-” he started.

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.”

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it.

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms.

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping.

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight.

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room.

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier.

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’.

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away.

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name?

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him.

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself. “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.”

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again.

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily.

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.”

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.”

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth.

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.”

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.”

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat.

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week.

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you.

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t.

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were.

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this.

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou.

haas:

Ollie Bearman

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked.

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over.

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of.

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off.

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.”

His world stopped. “Y/n-”

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.”

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work.

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love.

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague.

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.”

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more.

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain.

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43.

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long?

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you.

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering.

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.”

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart.

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you.

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love.

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away.

And he let himself go.

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued.

But he missed it.

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time.

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh.

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.”

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.”

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened.

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up.

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring.

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you.

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care?

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.”

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.”

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far.

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so.

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it.

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him.

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud.

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed.

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone.

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third.

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten.

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument.

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life.

He loved every second of it.

Franco Colapinto

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home.

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking.

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please.

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper.

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.”

Jack Doohan

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you.

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice.

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant.

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him.

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back.

“Did you talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind.

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was.

Over.

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it.

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly.

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?”

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did.

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)

ferrari masterlist (CL16, LH44 & AL65 )

williams & mercedes masterlist (GR63, KA12, CS55 LS2 &AA23)

redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1,IH6 & LL40)

alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17, FC43, PG10)

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meowse · 7 months ago

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That AMA marks the end of Dragon Age.

In my opinion.

I'll start by saying that I have played all 3 of the previous games repeatedly, I've loved the series for 15 years, more than half my life. These games inspired me to become a writer and they've shaped a lot of my tastes and interests in shows and writing -- to say they were formative is kind of an understatement. Don't want to go on and on about how much I loved them, that's not the point here.

I didn't care for Veilguard for pretty much all of the reasons people have already discussed at length on Reddit and Tumblr. The writing is comprehensively bad, the romances are easily the worst Bioware has written by pure virtue of having the most cookie-cutter pacing and shallow characterization I've seen across their games, the lore has been shafted in every direction, and the nuanced storytelling and roleplay I came to expect from the series has been taken out back and shot in the head.

All, apparently, in the name of a "clean slate". It seems to me that, rather than familiarizing himself with the existing lore of the game he took the creative reins on, Epler clearly had a vision for Dragon Age (or perhaps a different IP entirely) in his head that he decided to transplant into the game (and possibly Trick? But they've said so little beyond defending their work that I can hardly theorize what direction they were coming from). That being a sanitized, wildly self-contradicting, morally absolute shitshow focused on distancing itself from the previous games as much as possible. Now, I know it's unrealistic to blame one person entirely, and I don't blame him entirely. Corinne was there. Trick was there.

But if it wasn't already evident from the numerous interviews Epler's given on the game as well as his participation in the Q&A's (while the actual lead writer of the game has been completely absent in not just the marketing, but in most fan-related interaction pre and post-launch outside of BSKY), this AMA seems to have confirmed, more than anything else, that Epler doesn't understand the game nor does he understand its audience. Neither does Corinne Busche, who despite being Game Director for only the last two years of development, has been answering lore questions a) like she has any fucking clue and b) like she thinks Dragon Age is a cozy-gamer IP, meant to appeal to people that want uplifting stories with uncontroversial characters, morally upright heroes, and unquestionably evil villains.

So as of today's AMA, I think I've finally had enough. We're just outright retconning the lore in Reddit AMA's now, I guess. Among other things. I'll provide a few examples, just so we're all on the same page.

This was part of Epler's response to why Solas didn't have his cult following in the game (insert "We Kind of Forgot" meme here):

Solas' experience leading the rebellion against the Evanuris turned him against the idea of being a leader. You see it in the memories - the entire experience of being in charge ate at him and, ultimately, convinced him he needed to do this on his own. And his own motivations were very different from the motivations of those who wanted to follow him - he had no real regard for their lives or their goals. So at some point between Trespasser and DATV, he severed that connection with his 'followers' and went back to being a lone wolf.

The fact that this (the not caring bit) directly contradicts the writing in the actual game is absolutely INSANE to me, moreso than the lack of Solas's spy network (which he apparently carried with him for 10 years only to conveniently drop right before the ritual? Because he clearly had them research Rook?). But in regards to the not caring -- here's a line from Solas's memory of killing Mythal in Veilguard, which. I'll get to Mythal in a minute:

Why should I not tear down the Veil, and bring back immortality to all the elven people? They deserve it!

Which is it? Does Solas care about the people he's saving (the venn diagram of people he's saving vs. the people following him is surely a circle, i.e. elves) or not? Does he even care about the spirits trapped behind the Veil anymore or is it just convenient to abandon them and have him only care about elves, now? What happened to saving The People? What happened to him not identifying as an elf in his conversations with a Dalish Inquisitor? And what the absolute fuck happened to him wanting to bring back the magical marvels (that the ancient elves did in fact achieve) that were greater than anything we see in Thedas today? Here's what Epler has to say about elven magic, now:

I do agree that the elves have had their place in the sun at this point. [...] The thing about the Evanuris is that, ultimately, they were able to take a very specific type of magic and shape it into doing what they wanted. But even their understanding of magic was only skin deep [...] Even the magic that Tevinter wields, the magic of the Southern mages, is different from what the Evanuris used. The magic of the Evanuris is powerful but it's sterile, and it's constrained. So while the Evanuris have made magic work in a way that's more predictable and understandable, it's not the only kind of magic out there, and even then, I'd say they understood it at a very surface level. People were confidently describing how the natural world worked back in the 16th century. Very few of them were right.

First of all, Tevinter has been stated in previous games to have clumsily adapted ancient elven magic for their own, but they did adapt it. To the point where even Solas is surprised that Corypheus achieved effective immortality -- by binding himself to a dragon the same way the Evanuris did. So, cool, more contradicting the lore here. "They understood it at a very surface level" you mean when all of the magic of the Fade wasn't locked behind the Veil? You mean when magic flowed freely through the world? What do you mean, Surface Fucking Level? The entire point of the Dalish elf culture is what they lost; this wasn't the ancient elves thinking the sun revolved around the earth, the Veil was their fucking Library of Alexandria burning. Oh my god. I still cannot believe he said this.

And how have the elves had their day in the sun? I'm sorry, was Arlathan not given to... the Veil Jumpers? Instead of the Dalish? What happened to all the Dalish clans in the south, who had no infrastructure when the world was apparently blighted to hell? I guess they're just gone now! They've had their day! The story of the Dalish and the Evanuris is over (also confirmed in this AMA), and it apparently ends with the final snuff of the candle that is their culture. Congratulations, Chantry, you've won! Only took two genocides and a double blight, but we're done with the Dalish now! We get your mind-numbingly superficial factions instead!

What happened to Mythal, by the way? What happened to "She was betrayed as I was betrayed, as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!" What happened to the reckoning that will shake the very heavens? John's answer to this:

People grow and change over time. Mythal's essence - and in particular, the fragment of her spirit that Morrigan carries, that she got from Flemeth - is not the same Mythal who he knew millennia ago. Centuries of living in this world and being around the kinds of people Flemeth found herself around - the Hero of Ferelden, Hawke, the Inquisitor - changed her views, and made her realize her own culpability in turning Solas into the kind of person he is now.

Oh, right, okay. So she was pissed for like a thousand years, got her big speech about the impending "reckoning" out 10 years ago, and then she just chilled out because the last 3 heroes were neat people. What a fucking joke. And yes, here is the confirmation that the Evanuris story is over --

The story of the Evanuris is done - the gods are dead (or imprisoned) and Thedas is in a state of flux and uncertainty. I imagine that whatever happens next is going to be a surprise to everyone, including the people of Thedas."

So I guess Mythal's reckoning is never coming. One of the most fascinating characters in the series, shrouded in mystery for those first 3 games, PROMISING US a blaze of glory, only to fizzle out in this one. Again, and I can't emphasize this enough, for Epler's clean fucking slate. And we've not just tied up her story, but also the Veil and the Blight:

When Solas bound himself (or, depending on your ending, was forcibly bound) to the Veil, it severed the connection that the Blight had to the waking world. The reality is that the Veil has been leaking ever since the Magisters first entered the Black City, and the dreams of the Titans gave it its terrible and awesome power. Now that the Veil is fully repaired, the Blight lacks that motive force, and being so close to the epicenter of that change has stripped the Blight in Minrathous of its vitality. It's calcified now - dead - and Bellara/Neve no longer suffer its effects. If they'd been anywhere else, further from that epicenter, it would've likely been different and they still would be looking for a cure.

So the Veil is permanently fixed now because our half-dead Dread Wolf bound himself to it (a decision I still don't understand) and that somehow fixed every single hole ever poked in it. Fully repaired. No more holes, no more "Veil is thin here" because tons of people died in the same spot, nope, we're washing our hands and leaving it (and the spirits) behind us because we've wrapped up both the series-long Veil storyline and the blight storyline in a big red bow.

And Epler tells us Solas not only bound himself to the Veil but fixed it entirely in one fell swoop, no ritual required, just a little slice to the hand. Again, all in the name of a clean slate, so any future installments or media centered around Thedas can turn away from this story.

Then there's this. What we can expect from future installments, I freaking guess. The aforementioned roleplay getting taken out back and shot:

Q: "What lead you to the decision to step away from active conversations with the companions as in previous Bioware games, where you can initiate them at any moment and ask exhaustive questions?"

John: "For us, because of tech limitations, it became a choice between exhaustive investigate conversations, or letting the companions move more freely around the Lighthouse. With the kind of experience we were going for, one where seeing the team grow around you is paramount, we felt that seeing them interact in common spaces (and in each other's rooms) made more sense."

Literally confirmed that they chose companions moving freely about the cabin over ... interacting with them outside the handful of cutscenes we got. Who in their right mind would think this was a good call in a Dragon Age game? A series that quite literally prides itself on complex character interactions and storytelling? So they could... sit in different places? Are you kidding me?

They don't see an issue with the game's reception. They don't have any interest in addressing or responding to criticism. They're either happy with their choices or EA's got a gun pointed at their heads, I'm honestly not sure anymore. I used to believe the latter was true, but looking at both Epler's and Busche's responses today, I'm inclined to believe the former.

So I think that's it for the series. Not that I thought it was going to get another game after this, but on the absolute off chance it did, what would be the point? The best stories were ruined. Anything left they have to tell is going to read a lot like Veilguard -- superficial, morally absolute, flagrantly disrespectful to the lore, and delivered in a very poorly written package.

#bioware critical #dragon age critical #veilguard critical #veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard critical #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard

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ace-turned-confused · 5 months ago

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love thy neighbour

joel masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: joel miller x f!reader summary: you visit your parents for the holidays, and their new neighbour joel miller makes the trip far more exciting. word count: 3,6k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied & wears a skirt, food & alcohol consumption, christmas & new year celebrations, unspecified age gap, joel gets a sneak peak, smut, fingering, unprotected p in v, spanking, creampie hallelujah, come eating, dirty talk, praise kink a/n: MERRY VERY LATE SECRET SANTA EM @hellfire-state-of-mind !!!! this is over a month late and i've never felt more guilty about something in my life. ilsm you are a GEM! i hope this makes you twirl your hair and kick your feet and melt into a puddle, as you requested. 💛 this is the first fic i’ve managed to finish since SEPTEMBER and idk i’m just proud of myself, times are tough. 🫡 not beta'd

The neighbourhood has hardly changed since your last visit — no fresh coats of paint, no new landscaping, no new drama. The one thing that has changed, is a new face that’s moved in across the street from your parents. He waved to you the first time you passed each other, flashed a contagious smile and a cheeky wink as he collected his post and headed back inside his own home. You’ve been hooked since then.

Your childhood bedroom has a wide window that faces the street, with a clear view of the front of his house. Whether arriving home or leaving, or simply standing talking to someone, you always admired him. You made a habit of going out too — sometimes for no real reason — on the off chance you’d get a closer look at him.

He caught you staring one day as you dared to walk on his side of the street and met him in his driveway — brown tangled curls laced with silver, broad shoulders and arms that filled out his sleeves — you shot your eyes up before you could look any lower, a small smirk and knowing look on his face as he turned around to walk away. He hasn’t given you his name and you haven’t been bold enough to ask. You still stare, just not when he’s looking.

Your parents told you the house would be quiet this Christmas, with no extended family or friends — just the three of you spending some quality time together while you’re visiting for the holidays.

It's mid-Christmas morning and you’ve exchanged presents with your parents, with plenty of smiles, hugs and thanks. Your mom sets the table and your dad checks on the food while you get ready for lunch, still wanting to dress nice for the occasion. You hear the doorbell ring through your door, followed by muffled voices. Satisfied with your appearance, you head for the living room, a deep and unfamiliar voice becoming clearer as you enter the room.

There he is — the hot and mysterious neighbour you’ve been drooling over from across the road.

Your mom turns to you as you stand, fiddling with your clothes and unsure how to act.

“Oh, you’re finished! This is Joel, have you met already?”

“No, haven’t had the pleasure,” Joel cuts in and answers for you, standing before you with an outstretched hand. You take it, his hand dwarfing yours, calloused fingers rough against your palm.

“He’s on his own for Christmas, so I invited him to join us.” Your mom smiles at you. “It’s only us three, there’s plenty of food and Christmas cheer to go around!” She claps her hands together, waltzing away to the table.

Joel gives you that same cheeky wink and smile you’ve seen before, but up close it has a much stronger effect than you were prepared for — it’s going to be a long day.

Everyone sticks to the usual mundane topics of the weather and traffic and the best fertiliser to use for the lawn. You don’t say too much through lunch, distracted by Joel’s voice and charm and the occasional smouldering look he throws you. Every time you glance at him, he’s already staring at you.

When your parents get up to clear the table once everyone’s well-fed, you jump up instead and volunteer — if you have to watch Joel any longer you might just jump at him across the table, to hell with your parents. His eyes follow you over their shoulders as you leave the room, plates in hand. You look back to the table one last time, catching his eye as he smirks and takes a swig of his drink.

You start to rinse off the plates and put leftovers into containers, laughter and quiet chatter sounding from the dining room. Joel wanders into the kitchen and sets his glass down, leaning against the counter next to you and looking around the room.

“So, uh,” you clear your throat, awkwardly trying to make conversation and avoid embarrassing yourself. “When did you move here?”

“Couple months ago, nice neighbourhood… even better now, though.” You can see him grinning in your peripheral vision.

“Are you coming to my parents’ New Year’s Eve party?”

“I am, why? You lookin’ for your midnight kiss?” he teases.

“I have plans already,” you scoff at him, “I actually wanna have fun on New Year’s, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he falls silent and angles himself closer to you. “You make the dessert?”

“Mhm.”

“Nice ‘n sweet.” He grabs the dessert bowl from your hands and drags two fingers along the inside.

You watch him, your lips parting as he sucks his fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. What would it feel like if those were your fingers instead? Or, better yet, if he shoved his fingers into your mouth?

He pulls his fingers out and opens his mouth to say something more, but he’s interrupted by your parents as they enter the room. He shoots you his signature wink before giving them his attention, and that’s the last you see of him.

The week after Christmas flashes by.

You bailed on your original plans of partying with your friends, coughing up a poor excuse why you couldn't go out with them anymore — with Joel coming to your parents' house again, it’s the first time in years you're willing to spend the otherwise boring last night of the year at home. Maybe you’re foolish for lusting after him, but that’s what New Year’s is for.

After spending the afternoon plating snacks, chilling drinks and fluffing pillows, you now pace in your room, deciding what to wear tonight. Your pre-picked club outfit is far too disrespectful for the new company you’ll be in tonight, but maybe you could make parts of it work…

You ditch the stockings and swap out the heels for flats. Your skirt stops mid-thigh once you make some adjustments, and change your risque top for a more neighbour-friendly one with ties in the front — if you look hard enough you can still spot your bra peeking through the gaps, but nobody here tonight should be doing that anyways. Except for Joel, maybe. You make sure it’s a decent bra in case he does. After all the effort you’ve gone through, you hope he does.

Hijacking the aux as soon as you come out into the living room again — you do not trust your dad’s music choices — you sit pretty with a drink in hand as everyone from up and down the street starts arriving.

You’re cornered by The Nosy Old Couple, getting grilled about jobs, partners and general life choices when Joel walks in. He looks around the room as your parents greet him, eyes finding yours as you try signalling him to rescue you. He simply smirks before turning and walking away — that bastard.

Joel watches you the whole night. He really shouldn’t — the neighbour's daughter, definitely too pretty and likely too young — but he can't find it in himself to care. What's the harm in a bit of holiday fun?

He could have saved you from that gruelling conversation, but then he’d have to let you go sooner. And it would look rude, strange, even, to tell your father, thanks for the welcome, but I’d rather spend the night chattin’ up your daughter.

So he settles for watching, for now at least.

The shift from a forced smile to a genuine one, your shoulders relaxing as you get yourself another drink and keep yourself in decent company. His eyes roam now, and he allows himself to stare while in your calm state, the same way you’ve always stared at him from across the street.

The way your lips part and slide over the rim of your glass, the delicate grip of your fingers, the hint of lacy fabric in the gaps in your top. Your almost-too-short skirt and how it hikes up when you cross your legs. Would you let him pull the ties loose and watch it fall open? Glide his hands up your legs and underneath your skirt?

You stand and laugh at someone's joke, reaching for your things. Something falls out of your grasp and you bend over to pick it up, your panties peeking out from underneath your skirt, just for him to see. His jeans tighten just so, the air in the room heating up as he clears his throat. He should look away, but he keeps staring, his own lips parting now as he imagines what’s beneath that fabric.

You turn around and catch his eye, all unassuming and innocent. He wonders if you know what you’ve done. You walk towards him, maintaining that look, and it’s evident you’re unaware. He’ll make sure to tell you.

Most of the night has passed already, and you finally get to talk to Joel.

“So much for those plans you had for tonight.” He leans towards you as people push past behind him, raising his voice above the music.

“Oh, uh, my friends cancelled, so…”

“Still hopin’ for a night of fun?”

“Are you offering?”

He downs the rest of his drink, jaw ticked to one side as he stares you down. He dips to speak in your ear, “You should be careful next time you’re bendin’ over in this little skirt of yours, sweetheart… I could see those pretty panties from a mile away.”

You step back from him, mouth agape at his admission — he just smirks at you, his eyes darkening. You hoped Joel would look at you tonight, but it was a long shot. You're deciding what to say when everyone gathers in the lounge — your dad’s put a countdown on the TV, and it’s a minute before midnight. You pull Joel into the hallway, away from the crowd and out of sight.

“So, you gonna kiss me at midnight or not?” You spin to face him, leaning against the wall with a naughty smile.

“I reckon your parents won't be too pleased havin’ their daughter kissin’ an old man like me.” He stands firm, arms folded across his chest.

“Well, they wouldn’t be too happy having an old man like you looking up my skirt…” You trail off, distracted by his arms.

“You’re the dirty girl bendin’ over and flashin’ her panties. Would you have wanted me to look away?”

He unfolds his arms and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you to meet him as he leans to kiss you, his beard and moustache scratching against your skin and you reach up to hold his arms. It’s rushed and desperate and over before you can take in what’s happened, but god you need it to happen again.

He looks around at everyone cheering, hugging each other and topping up their drinks. He grabs your wrist and pulls you through the house without a word.

Joel sneaks you out of the house and drags you across the street towards his own. Your eyes linger on his shoulders and back as he unlocks his door. He turns a lamp on once inside and closes the door behind you both, pinning you against it.

“What are you doing?” You ask lazily, taking in his features in such close proximity.

“Givin’ you that night of fun you were wantin’.”

He kisses you again, licking into your mouth and taking his time now as he runs his hands down your body, lifting your skirt to bunch it around your waist. He pushes one hand down between your legs to cup you over your panties and you grind into him — subtly at first, but it’s enough for him to notice and he smiles against you.

“That needy already, huh?” He says lowly, huffing a laugh when you whimper quietly. “Don’t gotta be quiet, sweetheart. Why you think I dragged you here? Ain’t gonna be much fun if I can’t hear how good I make ya feel.”

He spins you around and walks you towards his couch, backing you into the armrest. He pulls the ties on your top and drops it to the floor, fixated on the lace now in full view. He squeezes your breasts, fingers tweaking your nipples through the fabric as he looks up at you again.

“You wear this lacy number every day? Or just on special occasions?”

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head, lips parted as he keeps working his fingers, “I wore it just for tonight, for you… in case you noticed it.”

“Oh, I noticed alright,” he chuckles.

His fingers slow down and his hands begin to roam again. You take the reprieve to lift his shirt over his head and drift your hands down his bare chest. You stare at his broad shoulders and torso, almost in awe, as you reach for his belt buckle and undo it. It clinks against the floor, and you make quick work of his jeans, popping the button and undoing the zip. He dips down to kiss you, his hands bumping into yours as he pulls his jeans down and off.

It was mostly a joke when you said you wanted a night of fun — you never expected something like this to happen.

Joel kisses you again, inching along your jaw and down your neck while his hands continue their blind exploration of your skin, caressing and groping and digging into any part of you he gets ahold of. You reach to palm his bulge through his underwear, hard and heavy as heat radiates off of him through the worn fabric.

He shucks your skirt down and off, leaving it in the same growing pile of clothes, his fingers zeroing in on your covered clit. You moan at his movements and he lifts off of you to take in the sight.

He grabs your waist to turn you around, holding you flush to him as he gropes your breasts and grinds into you. You push back against him, a fresh wave of arousal soaking into your panties, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear.

“You ready for that fun?”

“Please, Joel,” you whine.

“S’what I like to hear.”

He pushes you down over the arm of the couch, chest flush with the cushions and ass up in the air. He rubs his fingers up and down over the damp gusset of your panties and pulls them down, leaving them hanging around your knees. Now with no barrier, he traces a single finger through your folds, already sticky with need and prods your entrance before repeating the motion.

“Even prettier than that little preview you gave me, she’s soaked for me already.”

His breathing sounds laboured behind you, and you turn as best you can to watch him, eyes falling on his hand as he strokes himself, thick and throbbing.

“This what you wanted? This what you still want?”

You smile almost drunkardly at him, huffing a laugh as you nod, facing forward to rest your head on the couch again.

“Remember, I wanna hear all those noises you can make — dirty girl like you, I’m sure you sound gorgeous.”

He replaces his finger with the head of his cock, dragging himself against you and coating the length of him in your wetness. He slips in slowly, his hands in a bruising grip on your hips as he pulls out only to push in even further. The music from your parents’ party fades from your mind when he finally bottoms out; Joel sighs and you groan as he holds your ass flush against his hips. He stays there, grinding into you and never pulling back.

“Jesus, feels like heaven…”

All you do is whine in response — partly unsure if he wanted a response, and partly unable to say anything else — overwhelmed by Joel and finally getting what you’ve been dreaming of since you first laid eyes on him.

“How you want this, sweetheart?”

A moment passes and he smacks your ass when you don’t answer him. He leans over you, letting his body weight push you deeper into the couch cushions, pushing his cock deeper into you in the process.

“Cause this is how I see it… Your little friends didn’t cancel your plans, did they? They’re all still goin’ out on the town tonight and doing God knows what and fuckin’ anything with a pulse. But you backed out, thought maybe you’d stay home 'cause if there’s anyone you’re gonna fuck tonight, it’s me. Ain’t that right?”

You’re silent again, both annoyed that he has you figured out and relishing that he's on top of you like this.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He lifts himself off you and pulls almost all the way out, leaving just his tip inside your cunt. “Be good and I’ll give ya a real fun story for your friends.”

He spanks you again, giving you no time to react as he snaps his hips into you. You screw your face up at the stretch as he does it again and sets a steady rhythm, the room filled with gasps and grunts and heavy breathing. He smacks you a third time and you moan, loud and unabashedly and you hear Joel chuckling behind you.

“That’s it, good girl. Wanna hear you, sweetheart, hear how good I’m makin’ you feel.”

He’s reaching a spot nobody else has before — undoubtedly the most experienced man with the biggest dick you’ve ever seen — and you know your back is going to be fucked in the morning from how he’s got you draped over his couch, your hips will be tender for days with how tight he’s holding you, and you might not walk straight for a week, but God are you glad you bailed on those original plans.

As heavenly as it is already, you still need just that little bit more. Joel’s already clocked you once, and he’s done it again as he wraps an arm around your torso to pull you up again, his pace never faltering as he presses his chest to your back. The new angle has you seeing stars, and he pushes his free hand down to circle your clit.

“You hear that? Hear how wet you are? God, if I’d known you were gonna take my cock so well I woulda fucked you on Christmas… maybe even before that. You think anyone’s wonderin’ where we are? Anyone smart enough to put the pieces together?”

You clench around him at his lewd confessions and beg him to keep going, so close to reaching your end.

“You gonna come on my cock for me?” He breathes against you, his thrusts becoming clumsier the longer he goes on. “Come on, sweetheart, know you want to. Been such a good girl, lettin’ me fuck this sweet pussy.”

A few thrusts and swipes of his fingers over your clit later and you're tightening around him, head thudding against him as you reach up to grab the arm that’s wound around your chest. Your nails carve crescent moons in his skin and you yell out, and he keeps pistoning into you through your orgasm to chase his own.

His filthy words turn into mere ramblings, muffled when he lowers his face to drag his lips against your skin and breathe you in, tightening his arms around you. His breathing heavy, small moans turn into grunts and groans as he fucks into you one last time, holding you in place as he empties himself inside of you, warm and filling.

He keeps you there, both of you panting for air as you come down and he pulls out with a hiss. He turns you around to face him — you’re still dazed when he leans to kiss you, calm and kind as he cradles your cheeks.

His hands wander down your body and he follows suit, coasting his lips down over your bra between your breasts, over your stomach until he’s crouching in front of you. He peers up at you, pupils still blown wide as he thumbs your folds apart, captivated by how his spend seeps out of you. His tongue darts out, eyes fluttering closed as he tastes himself and licks you clean.

He stands now and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pulling your panties up and straightening the elastic. His fingers linger on your skin before reaching to do the same with your skirt. He does up his jeans and shakes out his t-shirt, his gaze staying on you while you ensure the gaps in your top are no bigger than when you snuck away from home.

“Maybe we should, uh, get back…” You trail off, boldness quickly fading as you start to second-guess tonight.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, opening the front door. “So, when you comin’ round again?”

“Huh?”

“What, you really wanna sneak around your parent’s house instead?”

“No! God, no,” you laugh, shoulders relaxing and Joel smiles at you. “I just wasn’t sure if… I don’t want to sound overeager or anything…” “Nothin’ wrong with that, sweetheart. Besides, I know what I’m doin’ next time.” He winks at you, glancing across the street in thought. The party still seems to be going strong. “Night doesn’t have to end right now, anyways.”

He ushers you out the door with a smack to your ass, leaving you giddy and giggling as he locks his door again. You both head back towards the party, bumping into each other as you walk. You smile at Joel and he winks at you one last time before you crack open the door, excited about what the rest of your time here might hold.

np taglist for some pookies who showed interest:

@almostempty @joelmillerisapunk @djarins-cyare @burntheedges @milla-frenchy

@604to647 @evolnoomym @beefrobeefcal @whocaresstillthelouvre @bitchesuntitled

@sizzlingcloudmentality @sixhours @strang3lov3 @guiltyasdave @morallyinept

@mermaidgirl30 @bbyanarchist @vichons @angiewatson @professionalpromqueen

@lordhurn @pidgeispunk @letsgobarbs

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @strangergraphics

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut

1K notes · View notes

delulujuls · 1 year ago

Text

healing sessions | aegon II targaryen

hi, it's been a hot minute since i posted here, the last weeks were pretty intense for me and since i have a summer break now, i would like to start writing again and do it more regularly.

this is something new here and since new episode of hotd dropped, im in my westeros era, so please prepare for something other than my last shots (i will still write for f1, don't worry)

and lemme set this straight, im team black till the day i die but those green bastards are FINE AS HELL lmao. also @alicenthightcwer is author of those gifts

summary: aegon isn't dealing well with his father loss, but gladly there is someone who's gonna do her best to lift his spirit a bit

warnings: it's fluff without basically any plot, sister x brother romance so targaryens at their finest, mentions of death, depression, alcohol, drugs

pairing: sister!reader x aegon targaryen

The news of King Viserys's death did not surprise the residents of King's Landing. Nonetheless, the loss of the kind ruler dealt a painful blow to the city, which seemed to freeze in time with the king's passing. The capital plunged into mourning, and in addition to the banners, black flags were hoisted. Westeros was left without a king.

Viserys's successor, his second child and first son, Aegon Targaryen, had not been seen since the king's funeral. Aegon had lost not just a king but, most importantly, a father who, unfortunately for him, named him the future ruler on his deathbed.

Aegon would have gladly given the throne to Rhaenyra, his older half-sister. He would have done it without hesitation, even placing the crown on her head himself. Unfortunately, his mother Alicent, who was with her dying husband and heard his wish to elevate their eldest son to the throne, decided to fulfill her beloved husband's last wish at any cost.

To be honest, Aegon couldn't care less about being king. The young prince had not left his bed for several days, thick curtains blocking any light from outside. Occasionally, servants were allowed into his chambers, but only with wine and poppy milk. Aegon did not eat, allowed no one near him, and slept. Sleep was his salvation. Even the prostitutes, who once outnumbered the rats in the castle, were no longer summoned. The fiery prince had dimmed.

Alicent knew she needed to give her son time to grieve. She didn't bother him, only inquiring about his condition from the servants who managed to enter his chambers. It was enough for her to know that he was alive. Aegon's siblings dealt with their grief in their own ways, and his condition hardly impressed anyone. Except for Y/N, who, despite her own pain, worried about her brother. Sitting at breakfast, she silently observed Aegon's chair, which remained empty. After her husband's death, Alicent decreed that all meals, not just dinners, be taken together. The firstborn had not appeared at any of them since.

After a silent breakfast punctuated by brief, formal conversations, Y/N stood up and grabbed a plate, filling it with Aegon's favorite croissants and a portion of strawberries. She was done pretending nothing was wrong. This had to end.

"You shouldn't go to him," Alicent said quietly as the servants began clearing the table. "You know him, he'll come out when he's ready."

"Or he'll drink himself to death first," she replied, not even glancing at her mother. Alicent clasped her hands and pressed them to her lips, watching her family fall apart without knowing how to stop it.

Y/N left the dining room and went to Aegon's chambers. She knocked first, wanting to maintain decorum, but knowing it was futile, she grabbed the handle and pushed the heavy door open. Inside was darkness. Only a nearly spent candle by the bed gave off any light; the room looked like a cave. She blindly set the plate on a table, and with arms outstretched, she made her way to the windows. With a swift motion, she drew the curtains, and even she was blinded by the sudden light that flooded in. Not hearing any curses from her brother, Y/N looked over her shoulder. On the large bed, a figure lay curled up, back to her. From the waist down, he was covered with a sheet that blended with his pale skin. White hair in disarray touched the crumpled pillow. Aegon was either in a deep sleep or dead.

Y/N opened the curtains at every window, flinging some open. The room was stuffy, reeking of stale alcohol, sweat, and the sweet scent of poppy milk. She circled the bed, crouching opposite her brother. He was indeed asleep, but his breathing was shallow. His lips were cracked, stained with dried blood. His eyelashes were matted with tears, and dark circles marred his eyes. There was a bruise under his left eye that was different from the ones under his eyes, as it began to fade and turn from purple to green. Y/N remembered her mother, who had been rubbing her hand while sitting at the table for several days. She could only guess that Alicent was trying to shake her son off in her own way.

Aegon slept, lying on his side and hugging himself, seeking comfort only he could provide. Y/N brushed the tangled strands from his forehead and kissed him. Aegon did not stir.

The princess knew he wouldn't allow servants to tend to him. She left the room quietly, asking the maids to prepare a hot bath quickly and silently. Y/N returned and sat beside him on the bed, gently stroking his head.

Aegon wasn't the bad person many thought him to be. True, he was unique, and in a room full of people, he was impossible to ignore, but no one is born evil. Now, Aegon was simply engulfed in darkness from which he couldn't free himself. The slender, sticky fingers of depression had tightened around his throat, allowing only alcohol to pass.

After some time, a maid stood by the bed, whispering that the bath was ready, nervously glancing at the sleeping prince, afraid of waking him up. Y/N thanked and dismissed her, then leaned in and kissed her brother's forehead again.

"Aegon..." she began softly, close to his ear. "Wake up, I have strawberries for you."

He furrowed his brow, feeling her hair tickle his face. At first, he thought it was a dream or a drunken hallucination, but when he felt the urge to sneeze, he wiped his face with his hand. When he opened his heavy eyelids and saw how bright it was, he pulled the pillow over his head.

"I said no one was to come in," he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I'll have you killed for this."

"It's nice to see you too, considering I haven't seen you in over a week," she replied, sitting back on his bed and placing the breakfast she brought on the table beside him.

Hearing the familiar voice and wanting to ensure it wasn't a drunken hallucination, Aegon removed the pillow from his face, clutching it to his chest. From squinted eyes, his violet gaze spotted a well-known figure.

"Y/N?" he asked hoarsely, his voice betraying that he'd only spoken to chase away servants in the past days.

"Yes, it's me," she nodded. "And if you still want to kill me, you'll have to get out of bed, which I doubt you can do."

Aegon sighed, more of a grunt of dissatisfaction. He wanted to cover his face with the pillow again, but his sister took it and easily pulled it from his arms.

"Did you come here just to make my life more miserable?" he groaned, looking at her with displeasure.

"I came to stop what you thought was the best solution," Y/N explained. "I brought you breakfast and a hot bath."

"I don't want breakfast or a bath," Aegon replied, turning onto his other side. "And you can leave. Tell mother I'm not dead yet."

"I'm not leaving until you get out of bed," she informed him, staring at his back.

"Then enjoy your stay," he muttered, closing his eyes again.

Y/N sighed. She knew it might be hard, but in a few days, she had almost forgotten her brother's character. And Aegon's character was sometimes the textbook definition of a Targaryen.

"I came here because I want to help you," Y/N began, feeling a lump in her throat. "No one talks to each other, and when they do, it's just some fucking formalities. Aemond flies on Vhagar every day, Helaena spends hours in the garden with her books, Rhaenyra has been on Dragonstone since the funeral, mother is banging with Cole at every turn, and I don't even know if you're alive," she said in one breath, feeling tears prickling her eyes. Only when she said it all out loud did she realize what was happening. It wasn't just about informing Aegon; it was about making herself understand. The truth hurt her even more than she expected.

Hearing his sister's trembling and upset voice, Aegon sighed and turned onto his back, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Only now could his sister see his full appearance. It was the image of a boy deep in mourning and struggling with unimaginable pain.

For a moment, they exchanged looks in silence until Aegon glanced at the nightstand beside his bed.

"Did you bring strawberries?"

She reached for the plate and placed it on the bed next to her brother. Aegon weakly lifted his hand and took one, eating it whole, including the stem.

"Croissants with filling?" he asked, chewing. Y/N nodded again.

"Nut and chocolate," she answered. Aegon silently took a croissant and slowly began to eat.

Y/N quickly wiped her cheeks as two single tears escaped from the corners of her eyes. The young prince looked at his sister, who also seemed different than he remembered from a few days ago. Her hair was still neatly combed, with a few small braids woven into it. The dark red dress, which he thought he had seen her wear before, now seemed to hang a bit loosely on her shoulders and wrinkle at the stomach. The color of the dress reminded him of the bloody cuticles around her nails, which she must have bitten out of nerves. Her face, still beautiful, was now paler than usual, almost as white as her hair. Her swollen eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and her lips seemed to have completely forgotten what a smile was.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment when he had finished eating. Y/N pushed the plate closer to him, and as he reached for another croissant, she only shrugged.

"I'm sad. And I sleep poorly," she replied, staring out the window.

"You know, poppy milk—", "I won't drink it," she interrupted him.

Aegon raised his hands in a defensive gesture, taking another bite of the croissant.

"And you?" she asked, looking at him. "How are you feeling?"

He also shrugged.

"I don't even know. Now I think I feel nothing," he said, looking back at her. "Most of the time I feel nothing, except when a wave of sadness hits, and then I cry like a child until I fall asleep again."

Y/N nodded silently. She could tell that Aegon had spent many hours crying.

He put the last piece of croissant in his mouth and reached for a strawberry, handing it to his sister. She took it and ate it, nodding with appreciation.

"Not bad, right?" Aegon said, seeing her reaction. "Unusually sweet for this time of year."

Y/N let out an involuntary snort, lowering her head. Their father was dead, the country was without a king, the family was falling apart, and this idiot was talking about how great the strawberries were.

"They really are good, I don't know what you mean," he replied, taking the last strawberry and popping it into his mouth. The girl smiled, for the first time in a long while, then looked at her brother.

"I miss you, you know?"

"I'm not dead yet," he said sarcastically, rubbing his face with his hands. Y/N set the plate aside, and Aegon extended his arm toward her, silently inviting a hug. The girl shook her head and stood up.

"Maybe I miss you, but not enough to hug you after so many days without a bath," she replied, nodding her head towards the bathroom.

"You've got to be kidding," he snorted, but she shook her head again and pointed to the bathroom. Aegon sighed and slid off the bed, looking at her reproachfully the entire time. When he stood, the sheet slipped off completely, and he, naked and unbothered, walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. Y/N asked the servants to change his bedding and clean the room while she locked herself in the bathroom with him. As he sat in the water, she perched on the edge of the tub, rolling up the sleeves of her dress.

She reached for the nearby comb and slowly began to untangle his matted hair. They both remained silent, as words were completely unnecessary at that moment. After a while, she put the comb down and picked up the sponge, wetting it and pouring water over his hair. Aegon closed his eyes and tilted his head forward.

Y/N grabbed the soap and lathered it in her hands, adding a few drops of lavender oil. Aegon smiled as the familiar, pleasant scent filled the air, while she began to wash his hair. He sat there with his eyes closed, allowing his sister to take care of him. Aegon felt that of everyone in the family, only Y/N truly cared about him. Despite being the second youngest sibling, just after Helaena, he had always gotten along best with her. They were almost inseparable, always sitting together at feasts, stuffing sweets into their pockets to eat later in the garden when they managed to escape the table. Rhaenyra, their half-sister, was always the oldest and most composed. Aemond, younger than Aegon, was calm and collected but could stab a knife into someone’s neck without blinking if provoked. Helaena lived in her own world, surrounded by books, flowers, and maesters who had tried to help her ever since they noticed something was off with the growing princess. Aegon was often irreformable, acting and speaking first and thinking later. When he was younger, he was incredibly unruly, the mastermind behind every wild idea that Y/N almost always eagerly supported. The young princess loved her brother, who always tried to make her smile. Aegon loved his sister and knew that of all the people in the castle, she was the only one he would kill for and die for either.

Young prince winced quietly when Y/N, massaging his tense shoulders, ran her thumb over a particularly tight muscle.

"You're as hard as a rock," she said, continuing to massage his back. Aegon smiled to himself.

"Not quite yet," he joked.

She rolled her eyes and soaked the sponge again, rinsing the soap off his back with warm water. As she got up to stoke the fire, Aegon submerged himself in the water, washing the soap off himself and his hair. After a moment, he sat up straight and wiped his face off, leaning on the sides of the tub. He silently watched his sister, whose silhouette was highlighted by the flickering fire in the fireplace. Her white, slightly wavy hair cascaded down her back. The young prince smiled and bit his lip. Blood of my blood.

When Y/N finished tending to the fire, she stood up and dusted off her hands. She looked up, feeling her brother's gaze on her. He watched her in silence.

"Care to join?" he asked, glancing at the tub before looking back at her.

She shook her head, stepping closer and looking at the murky water. "I think I'll pass this time."

Aegon extended his hand toward her, and she gave him hers, which he pressed to his lips, planting a wet kiss on her skin. She smiled at his gesture.

"I'll go dismiss the servants," she said, stroking his cheek. "Make sure you wash away all the sadness."

The princess left the bathroom and returned to the chambers. They looked much better now, with two servants finishing changing the bed linens. When they were done, she thanked and dismissed them. She approached the large wardrobe, looking for clean clothes for her brother. She planned to get him outside for a walk, even if just a short one.

She placed the clothes on a chair and sat on the bed, running her hand over the freshly made bedding. Shortly after, Aegon emerged from the bathroom, not bothering to cover himself with even a towel.

When he stood in the doorway, Y/N involuntarily looked up at him. She looked him up and down, causing Aegon to smile.

"Like what you see?" he asked, approaching the bed without taking his eyes off her.

"I'm just checking if you washed yourself properly," she retorted, lifting her head to meet his gaze when he stood right in front of her.

Aegon still wore a faint smile as he cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. His pale skin had gained a bit of color from the hot bath, but he had goosebumps from the cool, fresh breeze coming through the windows. The dark circles under his eyes were still visible, but his gaze was now clear and certain, darkening as he was looking at his sister.

"I missed you too," he said after a moment of silence, during which they exchanged looks. He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. "Make love with me."

It wasn't a command or even a request. It was a quiet murmur filled with desperation, almost sounding like a plea. Aegon needed to feel her warmth, needed to feel something other than the alcoholic breath of death that placed cold kisses on him.

She silently stood from the bed, and before he could say anything, she touched his cheek and kissed him. Aegon wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, returning the kiss. Blindly, he started to fumble with the ties of her dress, but seeing his struggle, she began undressing herself. He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her tenderly. When she loosened her corset, Aegon grabbed the bottom of her gown and quickly pulled it over her head, tossing it aside. She shivered at the sudden chill but soon felt Aegon's warm body against her skin. He smiled into her mouth.

"You're so soft," he whispered between kisses, holding her tightly as if he wanted to lock her inside his ribcage. "Go on, lie down."

She obeyed, positioning herself comfortably on a pile of pillows. Aegon hovered over her, kissing her gently. Their hands tangled in each other's hair, touching and grasping every bit of skin they could reach. Lips swollen from kissing released soft sighs and moans mixed with tender words.

Aegon could be gentle, delicate, and caring. He wasn't like this with the whores he sometimes brought to his chambers to relieve himself and kill boredom. But he loved his sister dearly and would never harm her.

The young prince couldn't remember the first time his sister came to his chambers and stayed the night. It was probably before their father's illness. One autumn, Aegon caught a terrible cold. He couldn't sleep at night, and his cough kept the entire western wing of the castle awake. One night, a sleepy Y/N went to his room, silently took the nearby laying ointment, sat on his hips, and began rubbing it on his chest. Aegon, feverish, thought he was hallucinating. But when he woke up the next morning and saw his naked sister asleep in his bed, he knew the events of the previous night hadn't been a fever dream.

Now, too, Aegon had to think twice if the soft body in his arms was really there or just a trick of his drunken mind.

"Are you real?" he whispered, pulling away from her lips and looking at her face.

"You'll have to find out for yourself," Y/N replied just as softly.

Aegon smiled involuntarily and hurriedly disappeared between her thighs.

At dinner, not only Aegon's chair was empty. The chair next to his, Y/N's, was also vacant.

Aemond glanced sideways at his sister, who tried to hide her smile behind her hair. Otto looked at her as well, then at her mother.

"Helaena?" Alicent spoke, looking at the blushing face of her daughter. "Is something wrong?"

"Aegon is feeling much better," she said. The young princess knew this first because the garden she particularly liked was just below her brother's chambers, and the windows, this time, were wide open.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #aegon the second #hotd fanfic #hotd one shot

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yoongihan · 2 months ago

Text

Services Rendered - BC - 2/3

pairing: escort chan x femreader

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy, but there be angst in this part

word count: ~ 13.5k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative safe sex, hand jobs (both rec.), oral (both receiving) ; a lot of kissing, older reader, chan goes by chris, reader shorter than chris, many more 'babys' and 'yeonins' because it's chris, the most ethical escort service ever; alcohol imbibed, but no one's drunk, more discussion of insecurities on reader's part, cursing. if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n: I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. i swear i thought it'd take a couple weeks and i started it right after posting the first part. i don't think the final part will take as long (she says while packing her apartment to move states literally next week). thank you so much for the kind reception of the first part. there's some book discussion in this part, those books belong to their authors. i hope you enjoy it. big thank you to @moni-logues for reading this over and making sure it actually makes sense.

part one

Part Two

You wake up at some point, way too early. The sleepy realization that you aren’t in your own bedroom gives a moment of panic, but it subsides. You also realize that you aren’t currently the little spoon, or any spoon at all. There’s another irrational moment of panic, this one about him, that he’s left, that he’s gone.

You roll as gingerly as one can toward the other side of the bed, which reveals a head of messy hair and a peek of bare shoulders. Had he ditched his pajama shirt sometime in the middle of the night? Does it matter?

Your heart rate slows though. He’s still there.

You turn back toward the nightstand and the bright digital numbers that tell you that you are up well before any person needs to be. You get out of bed, standing to walk to the bathroom. As you do, you realize that you are sore. It’s a stupid thought, honestly. Of course you’re sore, but still, it’s surprising, and unnerving. You’re sore because you’ve had sex.

You had sex.

You shut the door to the bathroom before you turn on the light and once you do, you nearly audibly groan at what the mirror shows. Bedraggled. The last vestiges of your makeup are smeared (even though there wasn’t that much to begin with), eyes a bit bloodshot, hair a disaster.

You wash your face thoroughly and pat it dry. You also decide to brush your teeth. You’re not convinced a stunning specimen like Chris would even have morning breath, but you definitely do, and maybe even if you sleep a few more hours, this will mitigate the worst of it.

When you return to bed, he hasn’t moved at all. You slide in, staring at the back of his head, wondering about the course of today.

Will it be a sex-fest? You doubt it because you hardly think you have the stamina, even if he’s studied tantric or whatever.

Will it be awkward? Possibly. You’ve had only a handful of waking hours with him. What will happen when there are long, non-seducing hours? Conversation had been fine last night, but this is so much time.

Will it be claustrophobic? The hotel room is yours until twenty-four hours plus from now. That doesn’t mean you can’t leave the hotel, but does an escort want to be seen in public with his less than perfect-looking client? Does he want to be seen with you, as though you’re a couple?

You shake your head, closing your eyes despite wanting to reach out and trace your fingers along those bare shoulders. You don’t know how much time passes; you don’t think that you really fall back asleep, but you do doze some. A pleasant dreamy fog of rest, mixed up with memories of the previous evening: a pull of emotions and impressions.

When you come back to this plane of existence, you can feel lips on your shoulder.

“Chris?”

“You expecting someone else?” His voice is deep from sleep and glazed with amusement. You rub your eyes, by the nightstand clock you can see that a couple hours have passed since your first wake up. There’s a lazy bite on your shoulder, you shiver before tentatively rolling over to see him.

The wild hair, the barely-open eyes, the flushed skin.

God, he’s so beautiful.

“Hi,” you say for lack of anything creative. “Good morning.” His head tilts to the side and sniffs once.

“You brushed your teeth,” he accuses as he covers his mouth with his hand. “That’s hardly fair.” He starts to pull back the covers, as though to leave the bed.

“It’s not a big deal–”

“Nope,” he interrupts, laughing as he slides to his feet and heads to the bathroom. “We have to be the same here. Equality, right?” He winks at you before entering, the door shutting behind him.

You sigh, embarrassed now for NOT having morning breath, before forcing yourself to sit up, back resting on the headboard. You touch your hair to make sure it’s not too crazy.

When the door opens, not more than a minute or two later, you’re already back to feeling horribly anxious at what the day will bring. He walks to your side, looking down at you.

“Equal now?” you ask softly.

He sets his knee on the bed, gracefully climbing on without even touching you, enclosing you with his presence. You stare up at him, swallowing as your throat feels dry. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes sparkling. He leans in, his hands pressed into the mattress at your sides. His lips find yours, a minty burst. It’s biting, the mint, but his mouth and tongue are soft and warm. It’s like sinking into a hot bath.

“Morning,” he murmurs, lips barely a millimeter from yours. He goes back in, drawing it out, making you sit up higher, your hands encircling him by the neck to keep him close. When he breaks for air, he lets his nose bump yours before sitting back on his heels. “Sleep okay?”

You’re muddled from his kiss, brain slow to engage. “Mmmhmm.” You move again to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You can tell he’s grinning when your lips meet his, but you slip your tongue in his mouth, curling with his. He groans, reaching to pull you on top of him instead. His hands slide along your legs to your hips, gripping tightly as you continue to taste him. It’s relaxed this morning, the tangling of your bodies. He seems not inclined to speed up, rubbing his hand up and down your back, almost in rhythm to the kiss. It’s so engrossing, being wrapped up in him, that you don’t even question when your hips start to rock against his.

Well, the stuff you’ve heard and read about morning wood certainly is true. He groans when you thrust just right; you echo his groan, barely audible since detaching from his mouth seems wrong.

He breathes your name against your mouth. “Hold on.”

The words eventually make themselves recognizable in your mind and you break away. “You don’t…want to…I thought guys were always up for it in the morning?”

“Oh, I am. We are,” he says quickly, as though he realizes that you’re beginning to feel ashamed by your assumptions and zeal. “But you might be sore? A little? And it’s by no means required.” He cups your face in his hands before you look and dart away. “Talk to me.”

“A little sore.”

“Thought so.” He kisses you softly, nose brushing yours before letting his head fall back on the headboard. “Breakfast?”

It’s difficult to switch from desire for him to considering desire for food. “I mean, we can do room service.”

His fingers trace along your ears before dropping to his lap. “Let’s go out. Do you like diner food?”

“I wouldn’t trust someone who doesn’t.”

He laughs, reaching out and squeezing your thigh. “That does seem like a good litmus test.” He stares at you for a second. “Want me to shower first?”

You nod slowly as you roll off his legs, sitting back against the headboard next to him. “You want to go out?”

He looks over at you, still comfortable on the bed in the twisted sheets. “Supposed to be a nice day. I figure, good breakfast, maybe we go to the park…” He trails off at your expression. “Do you not want to?”

“No, that…that sounds nice,” you mumble, eyes falling to your hands, folding back the sheet like that will make order out of chaos.

He leans over, mouth at your ear. “Did you think it would be sex 24/7?” His whisper and breath on the sensitive skin makes you tremble.

“I both thought too much and not enough about this weekend.”

“Meaning?”

“I worried, but tried not to imagine what scenarios might happen. I didn’t think you’d…” When you look over at him, he gives you a questioning look. “Never mind.”

“Nope, you promised to tell me. What you’re thinking.”

“That’s still in effect? I think you mastered getting my brain mushy and senseless.”

He chuckles, hand grasping your chin to turn you to him for a kiss. He lingers, enough to make you want all over again.

“Tell me?”

You want to look anywhere but at him, but his hold on you is firm. “I wasn’t sure going out like a date was something we could do.”

He stares at you for more seconds than you wish he would. “Sometimes I’m hired as a date for events.”

You suppose if you’d given yourself a moment to think about anything you know about sex work (specifically from films and books), you would have remembered that. Hopefully no one would blame you for focusing solely on the ‘sex’ part of the occupation.

“Right.”

He kisses you again. “You’re worried about something.”

“Do you want to be seen with me? In public?” Might as well just ask. He already knows you’re insecure about things.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he counters, fingers skimming your jaw and cheek.

“I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

With as insightful as he’s been already, you hoped you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him, but apparently he’s making you do that anyway.

“You don’t mind being seen with me? Even though I’m…”

He kisses you for a millionth time. “A couple things. I chose to take this job. With you. That includes being seen with you. Also…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I should make you say another positive thing about yourself.” He lets his hand glide down your neck, a caress.

“Chris…” You think for a moment before continuing, “I don’t think I’m disgusting or repulsive. I really don’t. I just know how the world sees me. And my good qualities…” He grins when you smile. “Don’t seem as admired by society as the qualities I lack. It’s not low self-esteem, but a realistic understanding of the world?”

“That seems a little like justification for not thinking you’re beautiful. And you are.”

You can’t help your immediate grimace at the compliment.

“See?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s…I don’t trust compliments about how I look.”

“From anybody or from men?”

Insightful as fuck.

You sigh. “Why ask when you seem to already know?”

His thumb traces along your collarbone as he answers: “I like to make sure my assumptions aren’t completely off.” He takes a moment, his touch lackadaisical. “So, breakfast…out?”

“Yes. If you’re sure.”

He rolls his eyes before cupping the back of your neck to kiss you. “Yes. I’m sure.” And he gets up to walk back into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door and you open your mouth to question, but he pops his head out. “Feel free to come in if you need to. I’m not shy.” He winks and disappears.

Yeah, you’re not doing that. Sex is one thing (a thing you’re still processing), but domestic daily acts together? That’s a level of intimacy you can’t fathom.

You are combing through your luggage for something to wear when he comes out of the bathroom…in only a towel.

“All yours,” he says, going to his own bag to find clothes.

You stare, which is silly, because you’ve already seen him two seconds ago with only pajama pants on. It’s the same thing, right?

It’s not. The towel leaves less to the imagination, and the scattered drops of water catching the light on his torso heighten your awareness.

He glances over at you when you don’t respond, or even move. He smirks.

You scoff, embarrassed. “You know you’re hot,” you retort when you grab your clothes and move toward the bathroom. He catches you by the arm, pulling you close.

“Thank you,” he says softly, nose to nose with you. His fingers caress your forearm as he lets go and you mutter a ‘you’re welcome’ as you dash into the bathroom, shutting the door behind.

–

“Is that enough meat?” you ask, not in a judgemental tone, but more in astonishment. He grins cheekily across from you in the booth.

“I told you. I’d share if you got the pancakes.”

“I know, but…” You gesture to his plate with toast, eggs, and enough bacon and sausage for the carnivore in anyone. “It’s…impressive. Thank you. I really do hate choosing between sweet and savoury for breakfast.” You set pancakes on the spare plate.

“Well,” he begins, setting some of his protein on your plate. “I did use up a lot of energy last night.”

You don’t have to look at him to hear the amusement and know he’s smirking again at you.

He says your name plaintively when you don’t look up or comment.

“I think you just like embarrassing me.”

“I think you’re cute like this.” He points at you with a fork. “You’re cute always, but especially right now.”

The meal is mostly devoured in quiet as you are hungry (you expended energy, too, after all), but you find out that Chris loves working out, playing sports with his friends, going to concerts, and cooking.

“I’m not good,” he assures you about cooking. “I’m not awful, but I’m not going to impress anyone.”

“But cooking is a skill. There are people who pretty much order out for every meal. Minus like cereal and sandwiches.”

“I still do that…sometimes.”

You laugh at his sheepish expression. “I do too. Some days after work, I’m too tired to even think about making something. It’s enough to decide what I even want to eat.”

He nods. “Understandable.” He puts another piece of bacon on your plate even though you’ve definitely eaten your quota of food for the morning. “Do you like what you do?”

“Work-wise? I guess. It’s enough for now. I can do the job, some days I feel like I do it well. But I wouldn’t say it fulfills me. Helps me pay the bills.”

“Is that okay?”

You startle when you stretch out your legs and hit his. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he replies simply before hooking his foot around yours at the ankle. His eyebrows lift at your expression, like he’s daring you to make a scene. “Is it okay to not be fulfilled by your job?”

“I…” His foot is rubbing your calf and it shouldn’t be stimulating, but my god, it is stimulating. “Well, are you?”

“Fulfilled?” He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I’ve done well.”

“This job?” you ask, swallowing before grabbing your mug of coffee. Chris, with another very unique trait, doesn’t drink coffee and is having orange juice. “Your…current work?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes warm. “This job.”

“I mean…not the acting, not like specifically…a…client…but your work overall…”

He leans closer, despite the table in the way. “I know what you mean.” He waves down the server and hands her a credit card before you can even get your wallet out of your purse.

“You…”

“My treat.”

“Tax-deductible?”

He laughs. “Sure. Something like that.”

You finish your coffee by the time he’s signed the check. He slips his hand in yours (he’d done the same on the walk from the hotel to the diner) and leads you back outside.

“Anything you wanna do?” he asks. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Some shops if you’re so inclined.”

“Is this okay?” you ask. “Us just…hanging out?”

He watches you while you both wait at a crosswalk. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. I…I feel like I might be wasting your time.”

He squeezes your hand. “I don’t feel like that. You said that you don’t take time off from work a lot.”

“I did?”

“In your interview. I figure this can be about some relaxation as well as…other activities.”

“I don’t want you to be bored.”

“I don’t want you to be bored either.” He gestures toward the sign that announces that you’ve arrived at the city park. “But…there’s fresh air, trees, and a used bookstore all within a couple blocks.”

“A used bookstore?”

He grins at the delight in your voice. “Fresh air first.”

It’s a nice park. People are out on a clement Saturday, walking their dogs, playing frisbee, and having picnics. Chris leads a meandering pace, stopping to pet dogs whenever the opportunity arises. You also indulge scratching behind the ears for several, getting licked and jumped on. You don’t want to think about the dusty paw prints left on your pants, just Chris’s big smile and laugh when he falls from a squat position because the golden retriever is a little too excited.

He’s still chuckling when you offer your hand to him (the excitable dog and his owners have already moved on). He takes it and you brace your feet to pull him up. He brushes himself off, and before you can overthink it, you do the same, wiping the stray dirt from his t-shirt. He grabs your hand after a moment, lifting it up and kissing it softly.

“Thanks.”

You want to ask if he’s the top employee at his company. How could he not be, with warm eyes looking at you like you matter. How can any client go back to their real life after time spent with him?

It’s a dream. A dream that you made happen, but still a dream.

“You’re a dog person,” you reply to his gratitude, trying to move his focus off of you.

“I am.” He doesn't let go of your hand, but draws you toward a bench. You sit next to him, clasped hands on his thigh as he looks out at the people milling about, dogs chasing sticks. “My folks have a dog, but my life is so busy that I can’t have one now. Maybe someday.”

“That sounds nice.” You stare at his profile for a few seconds. “Dog, house, white picket fence?”

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know about the fence. What’s your ‘someday’? Your job sounds pretty involved.” He glances at you.

“It’s silly.”

“Is it?”

“I mean, what I want.”

“Lies.”

You take a deep breath and turn your focus on the trees. “I want a quiet life. Sure, I’d still work, but it’s mostly at home. I have a small garden where I grow things that end up on my table. The idea that what I put effort into actually is something that benefits me tangibly. Instead of just a paycheck.”

“Don’t insult the paycheck.”

“Everything I work with is conceptual, you know? I can’t touch it, see it. It’s documents and meetings, and something posted on the internet. There’s nothing to hold.”

“Makes sense. I like traveling, but it’d be nice to have more than a tiny apartment to come home to.” He squeezes your hand. “Want some ice cream?”

You look around, confused.

“It’s behind those trees,” he says, pointing. “Stay here, I’ll go get it. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Surprise me.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on me,” he says, before leaning close. “You trust me?”

“You seem to have me pretty figured out already.”

His brow furrows. “I doubt that.” He’s so close with his unsure expression, it’s cute. You cover the remaining distance and kiss him softly. He returns it, light and breezy. “See…I didn’t know you’d do that.”

You grin at him. “That’s because you can’t see what I see.”

The blush growing on his cheeks makes him all the more endearing. “Smooth talker,” he mumbles before kissing you again and getting up. You watch him go before looking back out at the activity.

You can’t remember the last time you sat somewhere and people watched, without taking out your phone either to scroll or work. It’s calming. Chris, his very presence reminding you why he’s here, sets your nerves alight. In all the good and anxious ways. You worry so much about what you say or do, that in this moment, it’s nice to just be.

“I got two that I like, so whichever one you prefer, I’m good with the reject.”

You startle at his voice, intently watching the final outcome of a boy, about ten years old, in a tug-of-war with his beagle.

“What did you get?”

“Chocolate peanut butter, and mango sorbet.” He carefully sits next to you, a cone of melting goodness in each hand.

“They both sound good, but I'm leaning toward mango.”

“Interesting decision,” he says, handing over the bright yellow-orange swirl.

You take a lick of it, closing your eyes to enjoy the burst of flavor before responding to his words. “Is it? Is there some psychological diagnosis about me choosing fruit over chocolate?”

“Possibly,” he replies, leaning against the back of the bench, staring out at the clearing, still inhabited by people, dogs, and activity. “Are you denying what you really want due to some social concern that you can’t have the thing you desire?” He raises an eyebrow when you laugh. “Are you assuming I would rather have chocolate and you are appeasing me over having the thing you want the most?”

“Maybe mango sounds better than chocolate right now.”

He scrunches his nose. “Unlikely.”

You laugh again at his mocking disbelief before enjoying several more bites of the sorbet. “Did you study psychology or sociology in school?”

“Neither. There was a gen ed intro class I had to take. It was cool.” He offers his cone to you. “You have to try it, to know if you made the right choice.”

The familiarity of sharing ice cream with someone you met yesterday is not lost on you; how strange this entire experience is. So you lean over to taste and it is really good. You offer your cone.

“Equality, right?”

He chuckles and tries the mango.

“I don’t regret my choice,” you say when he goes quiet, either pondering psychology classes or chocolate over mango.

“Hmmm,” is all he gives you. “I can’t complain. This is really good.”

You smile at his apparent glee for ice cream, and how the sun shines on his face, highlighting his skin, casting shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks.

The smear of chocolate by his lips.

“You…you have…,” you begin, gesturing to the mark.

He doesn’t look embarrassed, but leans toward you. “Can you get it?”

You wipe it with your thumb, offering the remnants to him without much thought. Then you see his eyes spark when his lips touch your skin. There’s a light scraping of his teeth and the ice cream feels less like an enjoyable dessert and more like a precursor to something else.

When he draws back, your eyes are glued to his mouth, your thumb still proffered in supplication as you’re frozen.

“It’s melting,” he says softly, nodding toward your ice cream cone. You blink and focus on the sorbet, eyes straying back toward him after a little bit. “So…do you want to go to the bookstore after this?”

Your thoughts are definitely not on books, or shopping, or anything public. You don’t answer, unable to figure out how to say what you want.

He says your name, drawing your gaze from what’s left of your sorbet to him. Does he know? Can he tell?

“I don’t want to go to the bookstore.”

His eyebrows raise. “No? Um, there’s…” He pulls out his phone, you assume, to look up what’s around. “There’s a farmer’s market several blocks away. And–”

“Chris…

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, channeling whatever confidence you have in everything but sex. “I’d like to go back to the hotel.” The confidence lasts just the duration of the sentence, and you look away immediately.

“Yeah? Why?”

Your head turns so fast, because you can’t believe he might be oblivious, not after last night, but he’s grinning widely at you, those beautiful brown eyes heated.

“You like making me spell things out, don’t you?”

“I do. I like how flustered you are about the very reason you hired me.” He stands up, waiting for you to do the same. “We can finish on the way.”

He chats the whole way back about when he was growing up in Sydney, but you can’t really focus on his actual words. Just the rolling sound of his voice, the accent in full effect. You’re thinking too much, as per usual. Worried, as usual, about how you’ll perform. It doesn’t seem to matter that everything last night went way better than you could have hoped or imagined. Your brain doesn’t allow you to relax, to take in the evidence that you can ask for this, that he might want to even if it is why you hired him.

When you two are waiting for the hotel elevator, ice cream wrappers discarded in a street bin, he bumps shoulders with you.

“Where’d you go?”

“Into the twisted, thorny mire that is my brain.”

He laughs and kisses you without warning. It’s almost perfunctory, natural and domestic. “Your brain sounds like the part of the Sleeping Beauty cartoon, where the prince has to hack his way through the huge vines into the castle.”

“That. With no castle or end in sight. And probably a bit grimier.”

The elevator doors open and you both enter as he is still chuckling at your description. “Grimier?”

“Yes. The cartoon seems too clean, you know? That much plant life would be dirty with soil and insects, and that mossy loamy smell.” You lean back against the elevator wall as the doors close. “Maybe swampy too.”

He’s still grinning when he turns toward you, lips finding yours in half a laugh. The relative privacy allows you the freedom to slide your hands around his middle, pulling him close. He’s cosily warm; the ice cream has left you a little cold and his natural temperature banishes that chill. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tantalizing. Your head falls back against the wall as the elevator dings to announce its arrival to your floor. He pulls away, hand slipping into yours to drag you toward the long hallway.

It feels both interminably long in distance as you stumble after him, but also short because…sex…again. With him.

How does most of the world’s population consider sex to be a normal (albeit enjoyable) thing?

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, he looks at you with that raised eyebrow.

“What?” you ask, wishing your missing boldness would not be missing.

“I’m half-wanting you to just pounce, I guess.”

His smile softens the sharpness of your nerves.

“Just half?”

He moves close, not touching you, waiting. “More than half…what’s got you looking so wide-eyed?”

“Nervous.”

“Why?” At this, his hand comes to your cheek, careful.

“I guess I thought, you know, having sex once would make me less awkward about it.”

His eyes soften. “Once would make you a sex goddess?”

You make a face at the absurdity. “I didn’t say my thoughts made logical sense.”

His hand molds to your cheek and jaw. “It’s okay to still be nervous. And it’s okay to be awkward.”

You know you’re pouting, but you can’t help it. “I just…I want to…enjoy and for you to enjoy.” Your face heats at that last part.

He dips his head so you can’t look anywhere but at him. “I do. I will. And I’ll tell you if I’m not and we’ll try something else.” His thumb pulls lightly at your bottom lip. “Trust me?”

“I do…” If you think too deeply about it, it’ll worry you how much you trust and admire this man, after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him. “Really, I do. It’s more me, than you.”

He lets his lips brush yours delicately, as if inviting you to make the decision to add pressure and intensity. It’s so lovely, like the touch of a rose petal. You cover his hand on your cheek with yours and lean in, prolonging the kiss. His arm curls around you, pulling you flush against him. Using his hold on your face, he angles your head, shifting from a quiet kiss to hot and wet and shiver-inducing.

“Wanna try something new?” he whispers, lips still touching yours with the question.

“Um…”

He draws back, still holding you because he rightly knows you might try and run away.

“Like…?”

He bumps noses with you, teasing. “I have a feeling you already know what you want to try.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why do you make me say everything?”

“Cause you need to. So it’s clear,” he replies, unbothered by your frustration. “It gives you the power. This is your weekend, baby.” He dives back in, the kiss as stubborn as he is. You melt against him, wishing you could be absorbed by his heat and scent. “What do you want?” It’s as though he addles your brain on purpose, just to ask questions like that.

“Orgasm,” you breathe.

“Sure. How?” His head drops to suck a mark on your neck, making your fingers dig into his arms. “You can say it.”

“Your mouth.”

He lifts his head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Never mind that you know you’re flushed from saying it. “Do…you…mind it?”

The smirk is devastating. “If someone…in your future, tells you they don’t want to…dump that person. Immediately.” He maneuvers you to the bed, chuckling at your inability to walk normally. He sits you down, so your feet are planted on the floor.

“You’re overestimating my dating life,” you finally say.

He cocks his head to the side, regarding you before dropping to his knees. You swallow, hard.

“I think, if you truly wanted to date, you could. Successfully.”

“Have you met people, Chris?”

He laughs, resting then sliding his hands along your thighs. “I have and I stand by what I said.” He presses one kiss on your knee before starting to undo the button and zipper of your shorts. “Why wouldn’t someone want to date you?”

You’re so focused on where his hands are, how he’s slipping off your shoes and socks. He massages your calves idly, like he’s barely thinking about it before tugging off your shorts.

He says your name when you don’t reply.

“I’m not answering that,” you breathe out as his hands map your legs. “It’s like you asking for me to say something nice about myself yesterday.”

“Lay back, baby,” he says, rising up on his knees to kiss you softly. “We’re back to the color system, okay? Red if it’s too much, or not good. Or if you don’t feel safe. Yellow to slow down, or change. Green if you’re out of your mind with pleasure.” His smirk makes your eyes narrow in mock-annoyance. “I really want it to be green.”

He kisses your bare knee before trailing his lips up along your inner thigh.

“Yeonin?”

You make some sound in response.

“You gotta relax.” You feel him cover your hand which is clenched tightly in a fist (you didn’t even notice) and carefully undo the curling of each finger. “You’re supposed to enjoy it.” He has that amused thread in his voice.

“I do. I am.”

His fingers slot with yours. “Deep breath.”

You do as he instructs, and your muscles relax with the exhale.

“Good girl.”

Oh.

“Hmmm, I figured,” he says softly, lips back on the inside of your thigh. There’s a nip and a soothing touch of tongue. As he gets closer, you try not to squirm, but it’s impossible. He lets go of your hand to hold your hip down. “Easy.” Then you feel his mouth on the gusset of your underwear.

The noise you let out is humiliating, but you cannot be appalled at yourself because holy shit. He chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations in your core. He hooks a finger on the fabric, his finger brushing your swollen and sensitive and wanting cunt. You whine as he pulls the clothing down your legs and off. His hands slide back up your thighs, thumbs barely brushing you there.

“Chris,” the whine is more pronounced. “Please.”

“So polite,” he says, his breath fanning out on your clitoris. It feels like an eternity, his fingers digging into your skin, breath heating then cooling, before you feel his mouth. You’d levitate if his hand wasn’t so firm on your hip, keeping you on the bed. A slow lick, excruciatingly slow. He hums, sending vibrations again, this time more intense before his lips enclose over your clit and he sucks.

You are forming words, you think, but you might be nonsense as well. There’s ‘Chris’ and ‘More’.

“As you wish,” he answers one of those ‘more please’s with that low voice, full of provocation and fondness. His fingers, first one then a second, slip in, curling up and proving how much attention he pays as he finds the exact spot. You shudder and his fingers retreat; this time you whimper.

“Not so fast, baby. It needs to build for a bit.” His explanation in no way makes you not wordlessly complain the next two times he does the same thing. He checks in with you, asking for your color, and saying the word ‘green’ is its own kind of torture as breathing is challenging. Your hand is in his hair, twisting, tightening. He’s laughing, but when you raise your head to actually see him, his eyes are black, pupils blown out, and you’re sure the image of him looking at you while giving you oral will be seared in your brain for fifty years.

Then he doesn’t back off or relent and you are sent beyond this mortal plane, the experience not old hat to you, the pleasure prolonged as he continues until you come back to yourself, breathing heavy and fingers releasing their grip on his tousled hair. He lifts his head, hand patting your thigh and wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. When you stare at him, unable to speak, he climbs onto the bed to lay next to you.

“Verdict?” he asks softly. You pull him to you, kissing him messily, trying to rid him of his shirt at the same time. He obliges, tossing his shirt to the floor before cupping your face in his hands to kiss you deeply, apparently not in a hurry like you seem to be.

“Good,” you finally speak, breath somewhat back to normal. “So good, god, Chris…” You don’t know what to say, how to phrase how much this means to you: to be given pleasure so freely, that he cares enough to get you off with no expectation of reciprocity.

But you want to reciprocate. You start to undo his jeans, and you don’t notice that he’s only smoothing your hair, pressing soft kisses on your cheek, forehead.

“You always want to rush,” he murmurs as you shove down both jeans and his underwear. It’s not a protest, his dick definitely isn’t saying no, but you look up at him even as you take him in hand.

You want to say that time is limited. That it’s less than 24 hours till he leaves, a part of that has to be dedicated to some sleep as you can’t function properly to get yourself home if you don’t. You have to rush because you don’t have any guarantee that you’ll get to experience this again.

And not with him.

So you say nothing, denying a realization of feelings that are better looked at tomorrow, when you’re on your own.

“Can you get a condom?” he asks, his voice strained as you explore his length, intrigued by how hot it is, how delicate the skin, and how stiff. “Please?”

You meet his eyes with your own smirk. “Now who’s being polite?”

His lips twist. “I’m always polite.” And he gives your nose a peck. You ignore the flutter of your heart at such a small gesture, letting go of him to grab a foil packet from the box. You roll it on him, squeezing carefully.

“That okay? Green?”

He huffs a laugh, face flushed and glowing with light perspiration. “Green.” He wraps his hand around yours and starts to press the head to your entrance.

“Like this?” you ask, not sure why side by side, facing each other is shocking to you. Sex always seems like one person is above, the other below. There’s something even more intimate about this.

“Yes?” He smiles. “Okay?”

You nod as he slips in, your earlier orgasm allowing the breach much easier than last night. You clench instinctively and he slides a hand down your side to your leg, lifting it so it’s slung over his. The angle changes and you gasp.

“Better?” He tips your chin up to capture your lips again as he draws back to thrust. You grip his shoulders, lost in the feeling of his cock moving against your walls, the rhythm of his tongue with yours. You don’t think (not much anyway), drowning in the sensations of heat, sweat, sharp inhales and exhales. He whispers compliments, words you don’t really comprehend, but with his accent, the timbre, you think it’s poetry.

His fingers bring you to completion before he lets go and comes himself.

Chris props himself up on one elbow once you both get your breath back. He’s giving you that sleepy grin, self-satisfied (you can’t be mad at him…he should feel satisfied) and content. He moves a piece of your hair out of your eyes.

“Still green?”

You snort then laugh. “Yeah, if I had strength I’d give you a high-five.”

He holds up his hand and with effort you smack it, making him giggle. “That’s a first for me.”

“Never been high-fived?”

“Not after sex.”

“Pity.”

He falls to the mattress next to you, eyes never leaving you. You stare back, breathing mostly normal now.

“It was good for you, too?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t sure?” He scoots closer, nuzzling your shoulder, leaving a kiss.

“I mean, it sounded like it was good. But…I guess I want verbal confirmation.”

He moves even closer so your faces are inches apart. “Yes. It was great even.” He kisses you without heat, only sweetness. He rolls to his back, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s early.” He glances at the nightstand clock then at you. “Any thoughts on how we can while away the hours until dinner?”

There’s nothing to hint mischief in his voice, but you still think he might be angling for more of something. You want to, but you’re also a little shaken by what’s just occurred. That he wanted to, did, and did so with skill.

“You did say there was a bookshop?”

If he’s disappointed, you can’t see it in his face. “To add to that stack over there?” The books you brought have not moved a millimeter since yesterday.

“One can never have too many books.”

“Nerd,” he teases, clasping you by the jaw to turn you toward him for another kiss. “We’ll get dressed and go then. Maybe you can recommend something for me.” He dwells on the kiss, lips tasting yours. He pulls back as your eyelashes flutter open. “Hmm…though…”

You go still entirely when you feel his hand rest high on your thigh. “Chris…”

“You can have three,” he says easily. “Should tide you over until after dinner, yeah?” When his fingers find where you are sensitive, you shudder.

“I don’t think…” Surely you can’t again. He’s gentle, attuned to your workings so well that it takes a light touch, circling and pressing.

“Sure you can. Just a little one.”

With a kiss, he muffles your sharp exhale when your stomach drops yet again and the spread of pleasure tingles through your body.

“A goddamn menace,” you huff out as he squeezes your thigh.

“Yeah, you’re really upset about it, I can tell.” He slides out of bed and into the bathroom without another word while you’re prone for several minutes before hauling yourself up to gather your discarded clothes.

–

“Oh, it’s lovely,” you say reverently when he slows you down in front of the bookstore. You were so intent on avoiding the two teenagers on skateboards that you missed it.

He opens the door and you enter into tall, overstuffed bookshelves. It’s not a big space, but every inch of it is used. There’s a small counter and till to your right, and the clerk nods in greeting. You nod back, reaching for Chris’s hand and tugging him toward the fiction section. “You said to recommend something.”

“Yeah, I have a job that I have to fly to, so I’ll need something to pass the time.” If he notices your falter at the mention of another ‘job’, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t ask, though the morbid side of you wants to, if it's this kind of job: creating intimacy with a client, a stranger. You tell yourself it could be a legitimate acting job, but it punches you in the chest anyway.

“What do you normally read?” you ask with a steady voice. You stop in front of the Bs, pulling out a copy of Wuthering Heights. “Want a great presentation of badly-parented children that grow up and treat each other horribly?”

He chuckles. “That’s such a sales pitch.”

“It’s a pretty copy, though,” you say, sliding it back on the shelf.

“I read more nonfiction.” He sees your expression. “I know, it’s boring, but a lot of it has been acting methodologies. To expand my skills.”

“Would you prefer nonfiction?” You run your finger along the spines, stopping on familiar surnames. “I have a few I could recommend.”

“No, no way. Give me something that’ll suck me in.” He comes up behind you, resting his chin on top of your head, arms around your waist.

“Okay…more recent, or stuff like this,” You gesture to the books in front of you. “Classics?” You lean back into his embrace, savoring. There’s a long list of moments from this weekend you want to carve into the stone of your memory. This is one.

“Uhhhh, maybe more recent. I’m not that smart.”

You sniff, covering his arms with your hands, holding him close. “That’s ridiculous. And besides, there are multiple kinds of intelligence.”

“There are?” You feel his words in your hair as much as you hear them.

“There’s a theory that there are nine, and less than half are what would be considered academic.” You pause. “Sorry, I get a little ranty about stuff like that. You know how there are people who are so good at reading others, registering their emotions and how to empathize?”

“My mate, Felix.” He’s so sure. “He’s very affectionate, very aware of how to care for his friends and those around him.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s its own intelligence. You can be an astrophysicist, but cannot walk into a meeting with any awareness of the people around you. Two types of intelligence.”

“So all that to say?” His words are shaded with repressed humor.

“I’m going to find one classic and one more modern book for you.”

You feel him kiss the top of your head. “So generous.” And he lets go. “Am I allowed to find something for you?”

You turn to him. “You want to?”

“If you trust me.”

“Absolutely.”

Your confident response visibly surprises him; he blinks then that devastating smile, complete with dimples, appears. He drops his head to kiss you before disappearing down another aisle of books.

You wander along the classics first, considering what you know of him, what story might immerse him. It’s easier to focus on that than on the job he’ll work after you.

You have no idea how much time passes when Chris finds you in a corner, legs crossed and seated against the shelves. There’s a stack of five books next to your knee as you leaf through one. He squats down in front of you and waits until you notice him.

He chuckles when you jolt at his presence. “I thought you were only recommending two?”

“This is my short list,” you reply indignantly at his amusement. “You might go and play sports with your friends, but I read when I have free time.”

He plops down across, offering you one book. You reach out to take it as he speaks.

“I’ve not read it, but I know the author wrote a book I liked as a kid. And I read the first page? I don’t know…I thought it sounded a bit like what you were talking about at the park. A simple life.”

A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle; a memoir of her time at her family’s farmhouse.

“Oh this sounds lovely.” You clutch it to your chest. “Thank you. I didn’t even know she had nonfiction.”

“Glad you like it…” He looks at the books. “Do you need help narrowing down?”

“No. I think I’ve got it.” You pull two and hand them over.

“Okay, I’ve heard of Frankenstein…why that one?”

“It’s a good book that happens to be a classic. It’s not terribly long in case you are intimidated by the older language. And it’s very different than any movie that has Frankenstein in the name.” You tap the other. “The Talented Mr. Ripley–”

“Also has a movie or two.”

“Yes, but I thought, with you being an actor and that’s basically what Tom is doing, you might enjoy it. It’s a series, so if you do like it, there’s more. Though it’s really dark, so I don’t know if you are into that.” You start to second-guess yourself. “Nor is it that recent…It’s from the fifties. Give it back.” You reach for it, but he holds it out of your range.

“No. These are the ones you picked and I’m intrigued.” He shrugs. “I also like that neither is like, Game of Thrones-sized.”

“You read those?”

“God, no. I thought about it when I watched the show. Then saw the number of books in the series and the page numbers and decided: not for me.”

“If you like fantasy, I can–” You start to scrabble off the floor.

“Yeonin…I’m happy with these. Thank you.” He doesn’t say anything for a second, smile still bright. “Want to browse more? Or should we go get a drink before dinner?”

“You don’t drink.”

“I don’t, but there are some really good mocktails out there.” He stands up, holding out his hand for you. You take it, letting him pull you up with ease.

You bend down to gather the books that you pulled in your pursuit of finding some for him, and start to put them back. He doesn’t say anything, but shadows the retracing of your steps, humming something you don’t recognize, but is comforting. When you're done, he plucks the L’Engle book out of your hand and heads toward the till.

“Chris…” You hurry to follow. “Don’t you…Christopher.”

He turns at that, surprised. “Oh, good thing you don’t know my full name if this is all it takes.”

“If you’re going to buy my book,” you say as the clerk takes the stack he holds. “I should buy yours.”

“No.”

You actually harumph. “Then I’m paying for dinner.”

He opens his mouth, says nothing, then closes it. “We’ll see about that.” He thanks the clerk, who seems amused by the both of you. He hands you the brown paper bag. “You can–No, I can’t even let you do that. I’ll carry them.”

You huff, “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins at you, holding the door open. “I’m okay with that.”

You wait for him to step alongside you. “I’m certainly fine with drinks, but do we need to change for dinner?” You were in what you’d put on this morning: shorts, a soft and fluttery blouse. He was in jeans and t-shirt (it sounds simple, but the way the t-shirt fits him is illegal).

“I meant to ask. Did you want to go fancy?” He stops you both at a red ‘don’t walk’ light.

You think about it, noticing how your arm is almost touching his, thinking maybe you should take his hand again, stay in that moment for a bit. But you feel his gaze on you as the light changes and you both make your way across the street, so you don’t, trying to remember his question.

“I don’t feel like you could fit a suit in that one bag of yours.”

“You really are fixated on me in a suit.”

“You put that image in my head,” you reply, enjoying his grin. “It’s really your fault.”

“Sure it is. I do not have a suit, though I could probably do a bit better than this, if you wanted to?” He looked down at himself before switching the bag of books to his other hand and taking yours. He does it so easily without a concern or second-guessing. You wish you could have his confidence.

“I didn’t pack my ball gown.”

“Pity.”

“I’m okay with wherever, really. We’ve already established neither of us can do spicy, so I trust whatever you decide on.” You laugh. “I think I just like not having to make a decision.”

“You can make the decisions later,” he says so casually as he leads you to a bar, more tavern, but a bar. You almost stumble at his words, the implications of later sending a wave of heat through you. It reminds you of the decision he’d coaxed out of you an hour or more ago.

You’re so flushed, it’s like you already had spicy food.

He squeezes your hand and pulls you into a stool at the long curved wooden bar. The bartender hands you both a menu which includes food, but you flip to the cocktails while Chris looks at the ‘zero-proof’ section. You smile over the top of the menu at him.

“What are you smiling for?” he asks, not even looking up. His observational skills are off the charts.

“No reason.” How can you tell him that every detail about him makes you smile? You wouldn’t have minded if he did drink, but the fact he chooses not to strikes you as admirable, and cute.

You are so far gone on him, it’s concerning.

The bartender comes back to take your order: for you a rosemary gin fizz and for Chris, something with papaya.

“Thank you for the book, again.”

“I hope you like it.”

Can you ask for some sort of contact from him? So you can tell him what you think once you finish it? Can you ask for a phone number so you can hear what he thinks of his books?

But you signed a contract about confidentiality. You could request him again if you wanted to have another weekend, night, hour, but this truly had been a venture and dent in your financial security.

You’d be so tempted to use every cent to see him as much as you could.

“I’m sure I will.” You can’t look away from him, happy to soak in the brightness that he radiates.

“Stop.” He laughs at you.

“You’re handsome, Chris. I can’t help it.” It’s nice to be on this end of the teasing, to see the red in his skin, the duck of his head and glancing away of his eyes.

“Please stop.”

“Fine,” you sigh in mock-exasperation.

He looks back and grins before resting his hand on your thigh. Your drinks are delivered and there’s a swapping to try the other before settling and discussing favorite books read in school. During the entire conversation, he doesn’t stop touching you in some form. None of it is inappropriate (you almost wish it was, a little), staying in the realm of casual and affectionate.

But you are so stirred by it. You’ve spent years seeing how your friends and their partners interact in public, and casual touch is a thing you envy so much. The reassurance of someone’s presence by you, always.

Chris is saying something about Fahrenheit 451, and your eyes are welling up with your everlong internal monologue.

He says your name, interrupting himself.

You shake your head. “Sorry. Thoughts.”

“Gonna share them?”

You sort of want to. Because nothing you’ve revealed to him has backfired; he has not shamed or chastised you for being open and vulnerable.

But these thoughts put a burden on him, a possibly very unwanted burden. They shove your feelings and wants and needs on a man who is only next to you to fulfill a contract. There is no longevity in this transaction.

You’re lucky he turned out to be as wonderful as he is.

You shake your head again in answer to his question. “Not this time.”

He looks skeptical, but lets it pass, before asking if you want another cocktail. It was exceptionally good, but you don’t want a buzz from any substance. He’s enough. You’re also a lightweight with spirits and you don’t want to hinder any part of tonight.

He nods and asks for the check. You protest again, and he smiles winsomely as he hands the bartender his credit card.

“Can I buy dinner then?”

He sighs dramatically. “You make it very hard to properly court you.”

You laugh at the old-fashioned word. “Is that what you’re doing? I feel like I’m already very wooed.”

He shrugs, signing the receipt before standing up, hand out to you even though sliding off a barstool does not require assistance.

Like you’d deny yourself the chance to hold his hand.

“So,” you begin, curling an arm around his as you move into the nearly-gone sunshine outside. “What’s for dinner, since we’ve dispensed with the fancy?”

He leads you across the street, his other hand resting on your arm that’s tucked into his. Perhaps ‘courting’ is the correct word.

You wish it was an autumnal day, with chilling wind so you could have an excuse to burrow into his warmth even more.

“Hotpot?” he says, stopping in front of a restaurant with that in its title. “I never go to these with friends because they get it so spicy, but I figure, you and me…”

“The non-spicy ones.”

He laughs and opens the door for you. “I like that. The non-spicy ones.”

You’re directed to a table, and you’re chuckling as Chris explains to your server that, basically, you want the blandest option they have. He, your server, looks unimpressed by the both of you. But the food is delightful, and filling, and not too spicy, though it does come very close to your threshold of tolerance.

You both drink a lot of water.

Dessert is bingsu three doors down from the hotpot restaurant, with strawberry and chocolate. He playfully smears some chocolate sauce on your lips, giving you no time to lick it off before doing so himself as though he’s reminding you how easily he can turn you on.You don’t need reminders, but you enjoy them.

Which leads you back to the hotel, and your room, and the bed.

He sits on the end of the bed, leaning back on his hands with a glint in his eyes. “So…you said something about lingerie last night.”

“After that dinner?”

He smirks. “You think that’s gonna matter?”

“Of course I think that’s gonna matter,” you argue, hands immediately going for your stomach which is…quite full.

He rolls his eyes and gets up, helping himself to your suitcase.

“Chris!”

“You can’t tell me you have lingerie and not let me see you in it. You aren’t that cruel.”

You had felt very optimistic when you’d bought it, but that positivity is fleeting and currently absent.

He pulls it out, finger-hooked in one of the shoulder straps. “Wow.” He looks at you. “Please?”

You try to argue again, but it’s hard to deny him anything, not with heat in his eyes, and a pout on his lips.

Taking the garment from him, you squat down to grab the second piece, the bottoms, and he doesn’t move away.

“You don’t have to put those on.”

Bashfully, you look up at him. “No?”

He shrugs. “Just saying.” He winks and walks over to the window to look out. “Up to you.”

“He says after begging for me to put it on.”

“Begging?” He turns to see you heading to the bathroom to change, but you waver at his tone. “You haven’t seen me beg…do you want to?”

“I…” You’re completely at a loss. “Do I?”

His smile verges on the arrogance of a smirk. “Maybe.”

You hurry into the bathroom and assess yourself as well as the lingerie. It’s difficult to see yourself as attractive to someone you find attractive, but surely with the evidence of the past day, you can accept that Chris does, on some level. And all things that are attractive can be enhanced with something pretty: makeup, a perfectly wrapped present, a book with sprayed edges.

You repeat these mantras in your head as you undress and pull on the lace and satin. It’s a fairly simple piece, not in the realm of scandalous according to your friends who helped you pick it out. But as you remind them, and yourself, your deep end is not others’ deep end. You adjust the top, so it fits and holds in what it needs to hold in.

You assess again, full view in the mirror. You tidy up your leftover makeup, and accept your hair (you can’t work miracles) as is.

Deep breath. You look fine.

You open the door, and peek out. He’s still by the window, the city lit up below him. He makes such a lovely silhouette that you forget what you’re supposed to be doing (what are you supposed to be doing? A grand reveal? Should you say ‘tada’?) and walk out fully into the room.

He turns.

“So…yeah.” Not much better than ‘tada’.

He doesn’t say anything, but comes over. The silence of the hotel room is deafening. You fidget because he doesn’t move quickly at all. You also look everywhere but at him. So when his hands take yours (and cease your fidgeting), you’re staring at his socked feet before allowing yourself to look up.

You regret taking no photos of him because his face is art.

“It’s okay?” you ask as he still hasn’t spoken. His eyes travel, feet to the top of your head, down each arm to your fingertips and back up to your neck, then face.

“‘Okay’ is not the word I’d use,” he says, voice in that lower octave that makes you shiver.

“Above average?”

The corner of his lips lift in amusement. “A bit more than that.” He takes a step closer, his hands releasing yours and settling at your waist instead. He leans in, mouth at your ear. “You look extraordinary.”

You blink at him as he draws back, the word reverberating in your mind. You choose to believe him, actor or not. You choose to accept his admiration and desire.

And enjoy it.

“Thank you,” you reply. His answering smile is proud (of you, you think, for not dismissing the compliment) before he kisses you, his fingers tightening against the satin. You lean into him, convinced that kissing him for decades wouldn’t be any sort of difficulty, would never get old even as you and he got old.

Oh. That thought does not need to be chased.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, mouth parted from yours. “Did you want to try anything new tonight?”

Do you? You’ve liked everything, and you know there’s a whole gamut of positions to be explored. Probably most beyond your imagination.

But.

“I want–” You swallow as your throat is a bit dry.

“Tell me.”

“I want everything we’ve done. Again.”

He half-laughs. “All of it?”

“Yes, please.”

He’s kissing you, laughing against your lips as he maneuvers you to the bed. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands sliding underneath the hem of your top, finding your skin. There’s a slight roughness to his fingers, grazing that makes you quiver. With hands in his hair, you kiss him as deeply as you can, tasting, tongues playing. He groans when you roll your hips, subconscious as your body works to quiet your mind. You do it again, feeling how hard he’s become in minutes, the friction almost too harsh for the thin and delicate fabric you wear.

You want and crave, and break away to start on the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Baby,” he whispers, lips pressed to your shoulder and collarbone. “You first…”

“Can I…? Can you show me how to…suck you off?”

It’s his turn to blink, to take a moment to comprehend your question. “You wanna…fuck, yeah, of course. But in a minute, okay? I need to taste you first.” With hands spread on your back, he moves so you're lying down beneath him. His hands slip to your underwear like he’s going to take them off, but he pauses.

“What is it?”

He’s staring at you, specifically that underwear. “I’m always so grateful for lingerie. It’s the best thing.”

You try to hit his arm as he starts to giggle. He dodges you and drops down to press an open mouth kiss right to your clothed core. Your hips buck and he pushes them down.

“You know I’m gonna drag this out, yeonin.”

It’s such a tease, to get his mouth, but have something in the way. To feel the heat and the wet, but not fully.

“Christopher…” There’s nothing but whine and need in your voice.

He hums, sending pleasant vibrations against your sensitive skin.

“Please…take it off.” He may still be holding you down with his hand on your hip, but you can squirm, desperate to be closer, to have more.

“I thought you wanted me to beg.”

“Chris…” It’s plaintive and without shame.

He acquiesces and the sodden underwear is removed. But there’s not an immediate return.

“Fuck, you really are dragging it out.” You lift your head to see him watching you with all the arrogance someone as gifted with his mouth could be.

“Maybe I like hearing you curse.” He leans back down, but kisses right below your navel, one hand finding purchase on your thigh. “Maybe we need a lesson in delayed gratification.”

You cover your face with your hand. “You seemed so nice till now. What if I write a complaint letter to the company?”

He moves up so he’s face to face with you, his expression stern. “That a threat?”

“Maybe.”

He drops his head to kiss under your jaw, near your ear. He bides his time, sucking the skin in just the right spot. You moan wantonly, unable to keep your hands twisted in the sheets, seeking his shoulders and arms to cling to.

He’s still dressed.

You pull at his shirt when he finally withdraws from your jaw, undoubtedly leaving a mark (you know you’ll look at it in the coming days, remembering). He indulges you, removing his t-shirt so your greedy hands can caress the bared skin. But he doesn’t stay put, returning to where he’s left you so wanting.

You feel his breath at your entrance.

Your next ‘please’ is broken and without sound.

When you feel his tongue glide up to your clit, you are gasping nonsense into the quiet of the room. He sucks and licks lazily, taking breaks whenever you feel the imminent high. You curse several more times, words catching when he adds his fingers to coax the build even more, curling inside you as his mouth reengages.

And finally, finally, you break, pleasure throbbing and pulsating.

He doesn’t stop when you come down from it.

“What–what are you–”

“You can give me another.”

And you can, to your surprise. It’s almost like an aftershock of the first one, remnants of bliss sweeping through.

Only then does he lie next to you, wiping your essence from his mouth. Minutes go by as you come down.

“So, do you still want to–” He doesn’t finish his question because you’ve rolled over, one leg over his hips so you’re straddling him. You go back to that button and zipper of his jeans, ignoring his hands trying to do it himself. You tug down his jeans, pulling them off before climbing back on top of him, palming his cock.

“Fuck..wow, okay.” He props himself onto his elbows as you discard his boxer-briefs as well. You wrap your hand around him, thumb at his tip, a little shaky. “You can use–” You cut him off again, this time when you bend down to lick. “Holy..fuck…yeah.” You look up at him, sucking the head before sliding down to take in more of him. You think what he says next is another curse, but you don’t recognize it. “You said to teach you…”

You slide off. “Wait, it’s good? It’s…well, it’s not much different than having a popsicle.”

He falls back, laughing bewilderedly. “I guess that’s not wrong…but–”

It’s really quite fun to stop him talking with your mouth.

He gives you sparse instructions (‘hands where your mouth can’t reach’, ‘suck harder’), but when his dick hits the back of your throat, he pulls you off.

“But…”

“No,” he states, reaching for a condom. “I won’t last much longer if you keep that up. Damn, you were good.” He slides the condom on in record time, then places a pillow under your lower back. He pauses when you cup his face in your hands, needing his mouth. He sighs at your kiss, his tongue entwining with yours, his hands gripping your thighs, moving them so they’re wrapped around his hips. Still kissing, he pushes in; it’s still a stretch, but it doesn’t jolt you. It feels:

“Decadent.”

He retreats slightly. “What?”

“You feel decadent,” you say, uncaring that you’re breathy and needy. You trace along his shoulders and chest. “Hedonistic.”

He doesn't say anything, sheathed entirely in you, letting your body adjust to him. You’re smiling, eyes half-open; your ability to filter eradicated.

“I always think of decadent…for like, sweets.”

You rub noses with him, delighted. “A very very excellent dessert, Christopher. Can’t stop from having another bite.” You punctuate this with a nip on his neck, causing him to shudder. He pulls out of you to thrust back in. You’re wrapped around him, hooking your ankles together at the small of his back. “So. Fucking. Good.” Staccato, nearly in time with his thrusts. You clench when he lifts your leg to his shoulder, the angle changing. “Oh god.”

“Almost there, baby?” he pants out, the drag of his cock along your walls making you to tense even more.

You nod frantically, seeking any skin to kiss, bite, taste, your hands scrambling for purchase on his back, nails digging. His works your clit, fingers practiced and you feel the drop in your stomach chased by the spread of elation through your limbs; you feel drunk and you force your eyes to stay open, watching as he thrusts faster. You smooth his hair as he stutters, spilling into the condom; his weight heavy on top of you.

You draw your index finger up and down the middle of his back, relaxed and sated.

Eventually, he lifts his head, setting his chin on his hands that rest above your breasts. You wonder if you both wear identical sleepy smiles and tired eyes.

“Hi,” you whisper into the quiet of the evening.

“Hi yourself.” He raises his head just enough to meet your lips before returning. “Am I too heavy?”

“No. Feels good.” You let your other hand drift down to the curve of his ass. He jumps at your grip. “Very good.”

He chuckles. “Not so timid now. Confident woman.” He takes a deep breath, words a little slower. “Wanna shower with me?”

You’re hesitant, but the looming deadline of this escapade is making you bolder, so you say yes. To have Chris wash your hair, his big hands massaging your scalp…shoulders and back with a loofah…

Still decadent.

“So…since you seem like the expert.” You soap up his hair, returning the massage. He rests against you, his back to your front and you use the shower wall to hold you both up.

“Hmm?”

“Shower sex? As sexy as it sounds in books or is it an accident waiting to happen?”

You wish you could record his gleeful laughter, uninhibited.

“Um. You have to be really careful. Would recommend bathtub mats.” He turns to you, your hands still in his hair. “Is that a suggestion?”

You can’t help it, you glance down to see he’s already half-hard.

“Wow. You were half-asleep ten minutes ago.”

He leans close to you, kissing you softly. “You can’t beat the clean up when you fuck in a shower though.”

Now you’re laughing, then gasping because he’s slipped his fingers into you, mouth on yours. You don’t protest, you just hold onto his shoulders as your muscles tighten and tighten–

He swallows your moan, holding you up as you tremble. When you can stand on your own, he moves you both under the spray of water. He tilts his head to you, rinsing it, and you shakily run your hands through his hair to rid it of the shampoo. He flips it out of his eyes before reaching to turn off the water, but he freezes when you encircle his dick with your fingers.

“You don’t have to–”

“Easy clean up, right?” It’s empowering to feel how he stiffens at your touch, how stroking, gently squeezing works him into short breaths and his head thrown back. You keep playing with him as you eliminate the distance between you, mouth to his neck, sucking and licking.

“Fuck…I’m…”

It’s messy, but the shower washes it away. He slumps against the wall, energy depleted. He opens one eye to look at you.

“Very confident.”

The shower is turned off, and you both wrap up in towels. You rub his hair dry, smiling at its wildness. He tugs your towel off in retaliation, and makes a plea for you to sleep naked with him.

“Or the lingerie?”

“I can’t imagine that’s comfortable to sleep in,” you retort, still naked, but pulling on your pajamas quickly. He’s pouting on the bed, your towel in his hand. You plop next to him, toying with his towel, wrapped around his waist. “But feel free to sleep naked.”

He makes a not-really-chagrined face at you before finding his own pajamas. Teeth are brushed, your hair is somewhat dried, and you both are in bed with the lights off. The dark and quiet take over. You look at the clock on the nightstand, time continuing to move toward his departure. It hits you again, in this moment, how much you like this man.

Chris drapes his arm over your middle, curling closer. “Good?”

“Yes, good…good night, then.” You work hard to not let any tell-tale emotion into your voice, and though you have been more open with him in these two days than anyone outside of your closest friends, you are adept at hiding how you feel. It’s a way of surviving and that’s what you need right now.

He nuzzles you. “No kiss?” The playful teasing lilt to his voice has you hesitating, but you turn your head and kiss him, languid. “You’re really good at that.”

“Kissing?”

“Mmmm,” he affirms. “I like kissing you.”

You swallow, shoving down the incessant ache of feelings. “I like kissing you too.” You can barely see in the lack of light, but you know he smiles at you. You can sense it, attuned to him.

When his breathing seems to slow, you turn away carefully. You don’t move his arm from your stomach, but you don’t cover it either, lace your fingers with his. Half your brain is saying, ‘do it! Take this moment, this affection and enjoy it. You’ll never have it again!’. The other half, the stronger half that is built from the past, experiences and disappointments, doesn’t yell. Doesn’t need to. The voice is unrelenting and mocking; ‘don’t enjoy too much, because when he leaves tomorrow, you’re gonna hurt. You absolute idiot, you’ve gone and fallen for him. Keep as much distance as you can, because maybe then you won’t be devastated tomorrow in an empty hotel room, in your empty home.’

You hate that voice, the one that tells you the truth. You didn’t think there was danger of actually becoming attached to a man you hired for sex. Yes, sex produced oxytocin which gave anyone cuddly feelings, but this is no longer about the sex. You’re more devastated by the warm smile that wasn’t trying to seduce, the laugh, the hand-holding while walking in the park, the furrowed brow when you talked about books he hadn’t read. The compliments that had nothing to do with your looks, the compliments that did.

You feel your eyes burn with impending tears, but you force them back and down. There will be time for that tomorrow. When you’re back home, in reality.

–

It’s hazy, the sounds you hear. Rustling, movement. Something being zipped opened or closed. Then there’s a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I’m gonna go grab some coffee, okay?” whispers, soft and low. You mumble something before hearing the door. You blink open your eyes to see that it's very early, before seven.

Seven.

When he arrived.

You bolt up in bed (it’s not quite that as you’re still seventy-five percent asleep), nearly falling as you scramble to the bathroom. He isn’t exactly paid by the hour, but you bought two days, forty-eight hours.

That forty-eight is over in fifteen minutes.

You wash your face, brush your teeth as quickly as you can, then stumble back out into the bedroom, wondering about changing. Do you want Chris to see you in just your pjs as his last image of you? You are really overthinking this. It’s not cold, but you slip on a soft sweatshirt for coziness. You open up your purse for chapstick, a regular morning routine, and as you do you see the small stack of business cards. Your business cards.

You rarely use them. You aren’t much good at promoting yourself and your skills, even worse your workplace. But the employee handbook insists on having them, so there they are in your purse, metaphorically collecting dust.

You look at Chris’ bag, unzipped, open.

Surnames are not shared from the company, for confidentiality purposes obviously. You do not know his. He does not know yours. You imagine that during an engagement, assignation, whatever one calls this, the escort or the client could share their last name, their actual place of work, their town or city, anything that grounded them in actual reality.

But Chris never offered his. You aren’t about to cross that line and ask.

He might not want to know. He might not feel anything close to what you’re feeling. It’s his job. He might be incredibly good at connecting with his client every time, and you’re only another client.

But you’re bad at letting go.

So you drop one business card into the open bag. It could never be found, crumpled after several re-packings for his many trips…his many jobs.

But you’re no good at letting go.

You hear the sound of the key card scanning and the door opens with Chris, dressed in a black henley and dark jeans, his hair as fluffy as air-drying makes it. He smiles to find you sitting on the bed, hands clasped in your lap. He offers you one of the two to-go cups.

“Morning,” he says as you take it, dropping his head to kiss you softly.

“Good morning.”

He tilts his head toward the large window and seating area. “Come.” Your hand finds his as you walk over to sit on the couch, looking out at the waking city.

“What did you get?” you ask, gesturing to his cup. “Since you don’t like coffee.”

“Tea…I need something this morning,” he replies, shooting you a wink. The reference to last night’s activities and their endurance normally would embarrass you, heat your skin and cause you to drop your gaze from him, but you stare at his profile as he looks out the window, your mind full of saying goodbye. He takes the lid off his cup and blows on it. He glances at his watch.

You wonder if he’s as hyper-aware of the dwindling minutes as you are.

“Do you have a break before your next job? Or is it all work, no play?”

He half-grins, looking over at you. “Do you really want to know?”

He’s got you there.

“Do you get enough time off?”

“I do. If I don’t, my friends make sure I do.”

“They sound lovely.”

“They can be.” He sets down his tea, leans toward you. “You good this morning?”

“Of course.”

“I thought of waking you when I woke up, but I figured you needed your sleep?” He rests his hand on your knee, much like the first night, but so different from the first night. “I’m sorry we can’t–” He tilts his head to the side in apology, his silence filling in the rest of the sentence.

“Having coffee…or tea with you in the morning for a few minutes is really nice.” You don’t know if you can explain to him how much of the non-sex parts of this weekend were as meaningful and special as the rest. Is that appropriate when so much of his job is sex?

His hand molds to your knee. “Yeah, it is.” You can feel his gaze as you sip your coffee, doctored like you like, which means he paid attention yesterday at the diner.

Of course he did.

“Chris…” you begin, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.”

He waits until you meet his eyes before nodding. “You’re welcome.” He takes your cup from you, setting it on the table and cups your cheek in his hand. “You’re very welcome.”

You try not to lean into his kiss too much. You try to memorize how he feels, tastes, smells; to tuck it away in your memory bank like an old photo album that you can look through from time to time. You savor for as long as it lasts.

“So…is there a place that I go to, like Yelp, and leave a good review?” you murmur when he draws back.

You get his laughter, the bright sound of it, the image of shaking shoulders and eye-crinkles. Something else to add to that album.

“I think the company does contact you with a survey.” His eyes sparkle when he looks at you, before he reaches for his tea.

“It’ll be glowing.”

He shakes his head, amused and maybe a little embarrassed. That rosy hue highlights his cheeks and twists your heart in ways you don’t want to think about. He is the most devastating man.

It’s quiet for a few, you sipping your coffee, him his tea. Then you hear him check his watch when something beeps.

Seven am.

“You have to go,” you say before he can. He glances up from his watch, looking at you. You smile, probably tinged with sadness, but it’s a real smile at least. “Be safe.”

He doesn’t move as you do, to stand up. To walk him to the door and bid him goodbye. You walk to the bed, unmade and haphazard. You zip up his bag as you hear his footsteps follow. He’s very close when you hold out his bag.

He takes it, but lets it drop to the floor before pulling you into his arms. He’d be a good hugger too, of course. You hug back, hands splayed against the breadth of his back, the ribbed henley scratching your fingers lightly.

“You be good to yourself, okay?” he whispers in your ear. He draws back only a little. “Say a nice thing about yourself every once and awhile.”

You look up at him as he traces his finger along your eyebrows and nose, seeming to take you in.

“You too.”

He smiles at you, kissing your nose then your lips. You let go and he grabs his bag. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, then nods before opening the door and disappearing through it.

You let yourself fall back on the bed the moment the door shuts. You don’t think you’ll be able to move for a while.

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans.

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belowablue · 15 days ago

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I've Never Seen Brown Eyes Look So Blue - Post Breakup James Potter x Reader

Thank you Ethel Cain for this title. Angsty one guys. No happy ending. 931 words.

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

James sighed dejectedly at breakfast. He’d been doing that a lot recently. Ever since you ended things.

Now Peter would say, “c’mon James its been weeks, surely you’re over her by now?” Then, like clockwork, Sirius would chime in, “Just go and get laid mate, that’ll smooth a lot of things over.” He’d give James a conciliatory pat on the arm and go back to his coffee.

His friends tired to cheer him up everyday, and he was grateful for that but,

‘They’ll never be able to fill the hole you’ve left behind’ he thought miserably.

From your perspective, James should have seen the breakup coming from a mile away even without his glasses. When you’d first gotten together it felt like the whole world was bathed in a golden light. You were so happy you could hardly breathe. The two of you were so in love, nothing should’ve been able to come between you.

Except James didn’t need anything to. He did it himself. He got too comfortable. Blew you off too many times to do other stuff, because he thought you’d always be there when he got back. He stopped talking to you so much. Not the regular ‘pass the marmalade please?’ But the deeper, meaningful talks you used to have late at night, curled up in a window somewhere. He stopped confiding in you. He stopped putting effort in.

All in all, he took you for granted.

You put up with it for a while. Forcing strained smiles when he came stumbling back through the portrait swearing on his life that he would come on the next date you planned- because it was always you doing the planning. You defended him to your friends, saying he was busy with Quidditch or his friends and you didn’t want to be the overly-clingy girlfriend anyway. Pretending it didn’t bother you when all the bouquets he got you withered and he never replaced them.

Until you couldn’t stand it any longer.

The kicker was your anniversary date. What was supposed to be your six months anniversary date. You considered yourself pretty low-maintenance and decided a picnic by the lake would be fine. You’d given James a good weeks notice and he nodded, grinning, telling you he’d be there. How naive you were to believe him.

You got all dressed up in your nicest clothes, lugged all the food and blankets and pillows across the grounds. Set everything up, making it all pretty. You even charmed a couple of candles to float when the sun set. You fussed around for what felt like hours until everything was finally perfect. Then you perched yourself on a pillow and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

You continued waiting for hours because the alternative was too painful to bear thinking about.

Eventually you were forced inside when it began to rain. You’d gotten past the sad stage, now entering anger.

You stepped into the common room, soaked through, hair sticking to you, to find James, warm and dry, curled up in a circle with his friends laughing his head off.

Catching sight of your bedraggled state, his laugher stopped quickly, “I was wondering about you. Where have you been?”

He said it so innocently that your anger deflated, leaving you with nothing.

You stared.

Concerned, he got up and came to stand in front of you, brushing hair out of your eyes.

“Whats’s going on hmm?” He asked, so gently it was almost enough to make you melt right into his arms. Almost.

Wordlessly you handed your anniversary present to him. It was a pair of concert tickets to his favourite band that was playing in the holidays. It had been sold out for weeks and they were an absolute bitch to find but you did it, because you loved him. Fuck, you hadn’t even expected him to take you, predicting he’d ask Sirius instead and you were going to be okay with it because this time, this time you thought he would actually bother to show up.

He took the tickets and his eyes lit up. “No fucking way,” He gasped, “How the fuck did you manage this you absolute angel!” The smile on his face was obnoxious.

‘Don’t do it’ you silently begged in your head, ‘Please for the love of God don’t-‘

He turned away. He raced over to Sirius to wave the tickets in his face. “Look!” He crowed, “Look at this! Look what she’s found.”

The two of them began celebrating in front of the fire, jumping and laughing. Peter stared up at them, bemused. It was only Remus who had the thought to turn back to you.

Standing in a puddle from your dipping clothes, shivering, your last labour of love being paraded around in James’ hands.

You knew it was over then.

You went up to the dorm and didn’t look back, not even when you heard James calling your name confusedly. You didn’t want him to see the tears mingling with the rain drops on your face.

Now when you walked past him out of breakfast, you pretended he didn’t exist. You had to start putting yourself first and that meant no more letting James Potter walk all over you.

But you also couldn’t bare to look at him. Not when you knew you’d see such sadness in his eyes. You knew you’d melt and go running back to him. So you held your head high and marched on past him, ignoring the way his gaze followed you out of every room, watching you walk out of his life again and again.

AN: guys I don't know what got into me to write something sad. Anyways.

#james potter #james potter angst #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #hurtnocomfort #marauders #james potter is a douche #no happy ending #james potter drabble

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oikarma · 2 months ago

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sometimes the fall kills you 𝜗𝜚 ln4, mv1

navigation / masterlist

summary: (19k) it begins the winter of ‘28. you know this is how ghost stories start. a season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something.

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

notes: this ended up so much longer than i expected, so this is part one only ☹️ freaking tumblr would not let me post my 1000+ blocks. max is literally not in this, sorry for the clickbait, but reading this is important to understanding the next part where he comes in.

lando is a manipulative and unstable person in this fic. his and yn’s relationship might seem romantic or alluring, to have someone so attached to you, but it’s not healthy at all. from what i’ve seen lando is a sweet person and speaks out about mental health, this fic does not claim to represent him in any way. his behavior here is a figment of my imagination.

anyway, this is the first fic i wrote in google docs, i bled, sweat, and teared my way through it, please be nice. i’m sorry in advance. hope you enjoy!

18+... fingering, blowjob, half-choking, unprotected sex, suggestions of oral (smut is in a specific section, i've marked it in bold, please scroll past if you're a minor)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Most days, you feel like the shittest boot-licking piece of trash ever thrown away. It stems from your phone, what all the preaching psychoanalysts tell schoolchildren. Don’t compare yourself. Humans weren’t meant to see their own faces. Fuck that. Mirrors are an age-old invention. Every goddamn thing on this planet is a comparison. You know what they won’t admit: the problem is you, in every lifetime.

So. There’s you, and there’s Lando Norris, Formula 1 world champion, certified ladies’ man since his early twenties and maybe the owner of the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen, right down to his perfect nose. There is no overlap in your venn diagrams, save for the fact that you carved out a piece of him and fit yourself there, like you were born to. You didn’t mean it. But, like you already said, you were born to.

It begins the winter of ‘28. You know this is how ghost stories start. A season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something. The death of what, exactly?

You’re getting ahead of yourself. 29 is hardly old—it doesn’t show on Norris’s face, not yet. It is too early to say “middle-aged,” contrary to popular belief. It is also too early to become a sugar daddy. Then again, standards don’t apply to him. He’s 29 and rolling in cash. It would not be a stretch to say he’s in his prime.

This is not how you find him in the winter of ‘28. The man slumped over a table at a dingy bar in Bristol is nothing like the Lando Norris the world knows. You don’t even recognize him when he’s a bit more sober, only noting that bleary-eyed and slurring somehow suits him. He’s well into the two-digit rounds when your shift begins. Your co-worker shrugs helplessly, tells you to keep an eye on this one (poor thing, drunk out of his mind), and drops the keys into your dumbfounded hands. Consolation has never been your strong suit. You’re allergic to pity, incapable of giving it or swallowing it quietly. The only move you make to help him is to water down each passing drink, more and more, before the ratio is unmissable. By that point, you’re not sure if he can tell the difference between piss and what he’s ordered. Maybe he can, but he’s not drinking anymore.

Now he’s slumped forward, forehead pressed to the sticky wood. His fingers are loose around a glass he’s forgotten how to lift.

“Hey,” you call, leaning over with the rag in hand. “We’re closing soon.”

Nothing.

You sigh and toss the rag on the counter. When you get closer, the smell hits you. Maybe you weren’t close enough, before, in your attempts to stay out of his single-minded drinking. You catch expensive cologne, drowned under sweat and whiskey. Up close, he’s younger than you thought. Late thirties? You might know that face.

“Hey, man.” You tap his wrist, careful not to provoke any sudden movements. Fuck, you’re tired and you don’t want an angry, stubborn man to start a bar fight now. “Time to go.”

His head lifts slowly. It’s too heavy for his neck. This is the first time you see those ridiculous eyelashes, the sharp jaw softened by stubble, the mouth parted. He’s halfway between a laugh and a cry. You’ll get very familiar with those features, in the months to come.

“Where’d she go?” he slurs, blinking up at you like you have the answer. “Where the fuck did she go?”

You freeze for a second. No, this is bad. A sleepy man is okay, as long as he’s not causing trouble. A crazy, inebriated man is a little more than you can take right now. “Who?”

He lets out this bitter little laugh. “My mum,” he mutters, keeling back over and miraculously not splitting his skull in half. “Dead. Just gone. S’fucked, yeah?”

You exhale. The bar is empty. It’s just you and a guy with a dead mom fraying on your counter.

“Okay.” You walk around, crouch slightly, resting a light hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”

He flinches under your touch but doesn’t pull away. Just mumbles, “did you know…did you know she kept every helmet I ever…” His words dissolve into a dry laugh. They then evaporate into silence. You manage to get his arm around your frame, hoisting him up with more effort than you thought you would need. He leans into you, a sandbag with no intention of helping, murmuring nonsense as you steer him toward the door.

“C’mon, champ,” you mutter under your breath, only half-mocking. You’re not cruel.

Outside, the cold air hits his face. It must be enough to jolt his senses a little. He sways, blinking hard at the streetlights like they’ve just been invented.

“Where—” he starts, before bursting into more giggles. “Where am I supposed to go?”

You exhale. This man, half-draped over you, a stranger whose grief is soaking through your clothes, a spilled drink of something you shouldn’t know about. You don’t know yet that his name is Lando Norris. You don’t know yet that—no, you’re getting ahead of yourself again. At this moment, your priority is not having a dead man and a murder investigation in your name.

At this moment, all you know is you need to get him into a cab before he collapses on your doorstep.

“Home,” you say, and hope to God he remembers where that is.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Two nights later, he walks in, a reassurance that, yes, he did remember where home was.

He’s so different that you almost don’t recognize him, if not for the same cologne, honey and saffron that wafts into the air. It oozes confidence and allure, just the way the man that wears it does. He does now, at least, with a crisp white shirt (loose, but precise enough to show that it’s been tailored) and a watch that probably costs more than all your student debt combined.

You watch him from behind the counter, heart sinking into your shoes. Of course. Because God forbid one night of decency go unpunished.

He slides onto a stool (right in front of you, of course) and leans in with this easy, practiced charm that makes you want to punch something. It’s so fake, so unlike everything you know about him. He has no right being able to compose himself. You hate rich douchebags who act like they have no problems; this man’s signature is halfway onto that list.

“Evening,” he says. “Miss me?”

You snort before you can help it. The audacity. It’s a wonder he remembers your face, considering he’d forgotten what lamps looked like. You think he’s pathetic. Pity, as you’ve already said, isn’t in your dictionary. He’s a poser who pretends he’s not sad.

“Wow,” you deadpan, draping the rag over your shoulder. “Back to slum it with the peasants so soon? We’re honored.”

He smiles with all his face, from his mouth to his eyes, from his laugh lines to his immaculately set teeth. There are no canine fangs in this man’s mouth, but his grin still comes off sharp and pleased. He was hoping you’d bite.

“You’re quick. I like that.”

You arch a brow. “What do you want, fancy boy? Another blackout? You know, I usually charge extra for babysitting drunks, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

He smiles again, this time with a laugh. You hate the way you notice the way his fingers through his hair, the effortless grace of it.

“Came to settle my tab.” He reaches into his pocket—wallet? You don’t see clearly—and places a black card on the counter. To him, it’s nothing. “And maybe buy the bartender a drink for her trouble.”

You glance at the card, then back at him. You know how to look helpless, how to mold yourself to what a customer wants. You also know how to look unimpressed, in an attempt to ward off this preening pretty boy. “I think you’re overestimating how much I care about your conscience.”

Not once does his smile falter. “Oh, I’m not here to clear my conscience.” His eyes flick over you. Not in that greasy, leering way you’re used to. It’s as if he’s cataloging you for future use, pulling you apart in his head. “I just don’t like owing people.”

You push the card back toward him. Your fingers tap the bar once. “Then consider us square. You lived, I didn’t get vomit on my shoes. We both win.”

You see his eyes widen, just for a moment—you’ve surprised him—and then the grin snaps back into place, looser now. This is a game he’s decided he wants to play.

He leans back on the stool, thumb brushing his bottom lip. He’s savoring something. You don’t know what. “Alright,” he says to himself. “Square, then.”

You nod once, already turning away.

“See you around, bartender.”

You don’t look back. You won’t look back. You’re walking away, carried by your feet and better judgement. There’s a hook under your skin. You know, with a sinking in your chest, that he’ll be back. You don’t even know his name, but you know that much. Not because he owes you, not because he should.

Now, you’re interesting. And men like him never let interesting go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through a paper when your laptop freezes. You stare at the spinning cursor. It’s the montage people talk of when they’re about to die. It is, in its own right, a death sentence.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, fingers hammering at the keys. Please, please, let it save you. The library around you is packed. Someone two tables over is crying, not-so-quietly, into their sleeve.

You drag your hands through your hair, tug hard at the roots, blink down the burn in your eyes. Coffee-stained hoodie, cracked phone screen, empty energy drink cans rattling in your bag—who’s going to give in first, your body or your mind?

Understandably, you’re a little too occupied to care about who’s around you. They’re all tired and equally as demotivated, so you think. Your chest gives a sick lurch to inform you otherwise.

Leaning against the archway across the room is the devil, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He wears a dark jacket and a faint smirk.

No, you think wildly, almost laughing. What the fuck? This is not happening.

But it is. Your drunken spoils, in the flesh. He pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. You still don’t know his name.

“Didn’t peg you for the overachieving type,” he says when he reaches your table, voice pitched low enough it curls right under your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, slamming your laptop shut. It’s already broken, might as well end its misery now. “Are you following me now?”

He raises both hands. “Relax. I’m giving a talk here.” He tips his head toward the auditorium doors down the hall. “Motivation, hard work, all that crap they pay me for. But you,” he adds, eyes flicking over the mess of your table, “you’re making us all look bad.”

Your chest is tight, your breathing ragged. You’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or exhaustion laced in your bones. Probably all three. “Look,” you snap, shoving papers into your bag, “why don’t you stick daddy’s money up your ass and find your way home. Go harass someone who gives a shit. Maybe someone with money, so they’ll be more sympathetic than me.”

When you lurch to your feet, he’s suddenly right in front of you. You see the lashes again, long and tantalizing, about to pull you to your death. You’re going to suffocate on his cologne.

“Burning out, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s no mockery in his voice now. “You should pace yourself.”

You shove past him hard enough your shoulder clips his arm. Asshole. You hope he trips down the stairs and chips his veneers. You know exactly why he’s here—it’s not the first time you’ve seen a man cracked open and raw on that barstool, trying to drown themselves in grief and whiskey. Men like him don’t let anyone keep hold of that kind of power. So yeah, you’re overworked, underpaid, and too close to your deadlines.

He’s going to be pulling on that string for a while. He’s going to enjoy dragging out your inevitable unraveling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next day at work, it’s quiet. You’re restocking glasses behind the bar. Your eyes are gritty from no sleep, brain still fried. Right now, you’re trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to make this month’s rent. Bartending is great when people give good tips. Today it’s hell.

Your manager taps your shoulder, frowning. “Hey, someone left this for you.” You turn and take what’s in his hands, an envelope with your first name on it. It’s handwritten, a surprising gesture of humility compared to the numbers on the check inside.

You stare at it for a long, long time. Long enough that your hands start to go numb. It’s made out to you. Enough to clear everything. Rent, loans, student debt…fuck, it’s enough to buy you a new car, too.

There’s no note or explanation. Although you’ve never seen his handwriting before—from Lando Norris, the check says, and this is how you finally get his name—you know somewhere across the city, Lando Norris is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You find him outside a hotel, and obviously, it’s the most expensive one in town. You did a little research on him when you got his name. He’s from here. So he has a house, probably, and he’s at a hotel anyway because the cash burning his pocket is oh-too-much to bear. He’s stepping out of a sleek black car, sunglasses pushed into his hair, scrolling lazily through his phone. The world doesn’t touch him. He practically tosses his keys at you.

“What the fuck, man?” you burst out, voice sharp enough to turn a few heads.

Lando looks up. “Afternoon to you, too. I thought you were the valet.”

You stop in front of him and jab the envelope toward his chest. “You’re not a mafia boss, you know that, right? You can’t just—you can’t just throw money at people like they’re strays and then disappear.”

His brows lift slightly. “Didn’t realize helping was a crime.”

“Helping?” You bite back a laugh. “I know what you’re doing.” Your fingers tighten on the paper, knuckles white. “You want me to owe you. You want me tied to you. You think if you pull hard enough, I’ll snap, and—and what? You’ll own me?”

You see his eyes darken at the suggestion.

“Sweetheart,” he says. He’s talking to a scared cat, pushing off the car, closing the distance between you in one easy step, “you already owe me. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

He grins again, now with all his teeth, and says it so casually it makes your head spin: “I want you to be my sugar baby.”

“You’re insane,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You’re insane. They need to put you in a psych ward. You can’t say that to people you barely know—”

Lando tips his head slightly. He’s a cat watching the mouse try to run. “Why not? I always say what I want. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just buy people. You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” he cuts in smoothly, like he always does. He seems advertent to letting you finish your sentences. “Help you? Save you some time? Give you a way out before you collapse in that library corner you’ve been camping in for weeks?”

You glare at him, but your chest is tight and you can’t force the words out.

“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, smile slipping softer now, almost gentle. “What people are willing to let me buy.”

For one furious, helpless second, you want to slap him. Or start crying. Or do something, something that’ll make him feel out of control. What you do is step back, trying to muster venom, voice cracking on the words: “Go to hell, Norris.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.” He winks and hands the actual valet, who’s snuck up behind you two, a nice wad of money. “You’ll come around.”

The check burns in your fist, even as he vanishes between the golden hotel doors.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You crash through your apartment door at midnight, still tasting the metallic buzz of panic on your tongue. It might also be blood. You have a nasty habit of opening cuts on your lips.

The envelope goes on the counter, torn halfway open, the check peeking out, mocking you, taunting you. You slap a hand over your face and groan into your palm. What the actual hell is happening?

Your phone buzzes.

mara(malade) holy fuck

mara(malade) u alive? shift was hell

You practically sag with relief. Mara, your coworker—ex-roommate (now she’s got a bit more money of her own), bartender, chaos magnet, saint. You fire back a desperate come over please bring wine before you can overthink it. Twenty minutes later, she’s on your couch, a bottle of grocery store rosé cradled like it’s a baby.

“So,” she says, fumbling around for a bottle-opener, “what’s the emergency? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or committed tax fraud.”

You shove the check at her. She squints at it, reads the amount, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Who’d you rob?”

“Lando Norris,” you blurt, and immediately regret it.

“You wish.” You don’t laugh, a sign something’s wrong and this is not a joke. She looks up, finger pointing accusingly. “Fuck me. Lando Norris as in Formula 1 driver, millionaire, owns-half-of-Monte-Carlo Lando Norris?”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know about all the rest, but yes, Lando Norris!”

Mara lets out a snort of disbelief. “Okay, back up. Why is Lando Norris writing you a check that could wipe my student loans and buy me a new liver? Did you save his life or something?”

“I—” You collapse onto the couch, pressing your knuckles to your mouth. “He was drunk at the bar. Like, blackout. I stopped him from, I don’t know, choking on his own tongue? And now he thinks I’m some charity case or—”

Mara raises both brows, an impressed little smirk tugging at her mouth. “Babe, respectfully…why you?”

Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

“I love you. Don’t get me wrong,” Mara says, hands raised, “but he’s…him. And you’re.” She gestures vaguely. “You’re, like, you. You’re brilliant and broke and working three jobs and I know you, and no offense, but you have no chill. What do you have on him? Are you blackmailing him? Did you see him cry in the bathroom?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, useless.

“Oh my God,” Mara cackles. “You did.”

You groan, dragging the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your face. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nightmare? This is the plot of every bad Netflix movie I’ve ever binged.” Mara unleashes the rosé with a nice pop. Hardly one for decorum, she takes a sip right out of the bottle. “So. Are you gonna cash it?”

You think of Lando’s smile—smug, that’s the best way to describe it—and the way he looked at you. To him, you were a puzzle he adored having his hands on. You think of the way your stomach twisted when he leaned in close. He already knew how you’d break.

“I don’t know.”

Mara’s grin fades. “Careful, babe. Guys like that, they don’t just give. They take.”

You know. God, you know.

You spend the next hour pacing the apartment, a lunatic. Mara refreshes your instagram every other minute. She says it’s bad for you, but in your state, maybe she should be doing it instead. The current report: “Nothing. No messages, no tags, no random follows.”

You check the bar’s security footage on your phone and it’s just his blurry back slipping into a car.

You Google him (why did you Google him, why, it was normal the first time and now it’s dangerously close to stalking) and end up falling into a YouTube spiral. Lando’s podium interviews, Lando’s champagne-soaked parties, Lando’s Monaco apartment tour, and Lando’s something with his trainer that makes your stomach do an ugly little flip. Somewhere between the videos, Mara falls asleep on the couch, too tired to be your better judgement. But his number? His email? A way in? You have nothing. Now you’re the desperate one. You should stop, really.

“God, you coward. You can just drop a check on someone’s life and walk away? What are you, Batman? What am I supposed to do with this, frame it?”

You curl forward, forehead pressed to your knees. You laugh under your breath in that shaky, half-hysterical way that’s closer to a cry. You’re not even sure what’s eating you alive more—the fact that he did this, or the fact that some awful part of you wants him to show up again, wants him to walk back through the bar doors like it was just some normal Tuesday, like this hasn’t cracked open something huge and stupid and terrifying inside you.

He doesn’t, in that infuriating way of his, and you can’t find him.

When you fall asleep on the couch at four in the morning, the check is still there on the table, its stupid smooth paper whispering you’re already in too deep, sweetheart, every time you roll over.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando doesn’t plan on showing up again, that’s the thing.

He tells himself it’s done. Box checked, debt cleared, one good deed in a life otherwise soaked in champagne and carbon fiber and a mile-long string of bad decisions. Hey, he’s a marginally less shitty asshole. He’s sitting on the balcony of his hotel suite when it starts gnawing at him.

You didn’t cash the check.

He knows because his assistant flagged it. That’s the kind of man he is now—detached, insulated, always three degrees removed from the mess he makes. He sends the money, someone else watches. He screws up, someone else cleans it. But you didn’t play the part.

He hasn’t gotten a thank-you (you told him to go to hell, actually) letter. He hasn’t gotten any gratitude, not even for the money (you told him to stick it up his ass). You didn’t even try to contact him. He leans back in the chair, tipping his head toward the sky. He lets out a slow exhale. There’s a bitter curl of something in his chest, and it has nothing to do with grief or guilt. It’s irritation.

He can’t stand that you saw him wrecked, sprawled across that bar, drunk out of his mind, cracked open and human. He can’t stand that you walked away. Now you’re out there, a loose thread in his neatly stitched life, and it’s driving him fucking insane. So yeah, he’s going to give it a few more days and then he’s going to go back. He hasn’t any intentions of apologizing or explaining. This is for him only. Lando Norris has never been the type to walk away without solving the goddamn puzzle.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

His patience pays itself over in gold.

You cashed the check. Of course you did.

He knows the exact day, in fact. His assistant texts him with a one-line update (“it cleared this morning”) while he’s halfway through an espresso and a team meeting he hasn’t listened to in twenty minutes. For a moment, Lando just sits there, thumb running along the rim of his cup, that devilish smile peeking out. You finally cracked.

Now he gives it three days before he shows up. He does it quietly, just him at the edge of the bar.

Your head jerks up when you see him, eyes wide. Lando feels it like a hit of adrenaline, clean down his spine.

“You.”

“Me,” he agrees. “Been a while, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” You’re rattled. “I didn’t—I only cashed it because—”

“Relax. No strings, remember?”

Your jaw works, teeth catching on the inside of your cheek. “Why are you here?”

His smile tilts with his head, so lopsided it might seem innocent. “To see you.”

“You don’t even know me, asshole.”

“But I know enough,” Lando says, lowering his voice. He knows your name, he knows your situation—well, he cleared all that—, and he knows you’re nervous. You’re breathing too fast. He leans on the bar, eyes half-lidded. He loves watching you scramble for ground. “You’re working two jobs. You’re barely sleeping. You think you can handle everything by yourself, and you hate that you can’t. “You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day you cashed that check.”

He hears you gulp. He waits a bit longer, two heartbeats, maybe.

And then, with a wicked little grin, he says, “So. How about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Lando says again. You’re sharing a secret. “You eat, don’t you?”

You flounder. When you get riled up, it wakes something inside him. Maybe that’s why he’s been coming back, not just because he needs to do charity, but because you entice him.

“I’m not your little project,” you snap. “You wanted me to take the money, I took the money, will you please just leave me alone instead of trying to…” You don’t want to finish the sentence. You can’t even find your arsenal of vulgarity.

“Seduce you?” Lando supplies lightly. “Mmm. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Before you can throw another insult, before you can spit him out, he’s sliding a card across the counter, tapping it once with his finger. You’ve seen this film before. You know what you should do next: push him aside, push all of this down so you don’t think about it. You’ve done it before, can’t you do it again?

“Tonight. Seven. Wear something dangerous.”

Like the shitbag he is, he just walks away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He came back and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. In your defense, it’s only been a few hours. Your shift ends and you half-stumble home. You shut the door to your apartment, sag against it, and press your fists to your eyes, hoping you can squeeze Lando Norris out of your skull.

You’re not a project. You’re not his charity case. You’re not going to whore it out for more money. Greed is dangerous. You’re satisfied. Do this one thing and let it go.

Your bank account is whole for the first time in a year. The past-due notices are gone. The constant panic is still there, but now it’s now less mechanical notices and more an unspeakable Brit.

Mara’s on your couch when you finally topple over. She’s digging into a bag of chips.

“You’re a mess,” she announces. “Also, is it true Lando Norris tipped you a down payment on a house?”

“Not a house. Not—” you’re muffled by the pillow that your face sinks into.

“Babe,” she says through a mouthful of salt and vinegar, “do you have any idea how hot, rich, and deeply emotionally unavailable that man is? He must really hate what you saw.”

“I don’t know!” you groan. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—”

You don’t tell Mara about the card he left. You don’t tell her that it’s still in your jeans pocket. You don’t take it out. If you do, you’re worried it’ll manifest into a contract with the devil, one you are a little too eager to sign.

You shouldn’t have worried so much, in retrospect. Now you’re face-to-face with Lando, your fear of the card is replaced by a constant need to fidget with the napkin. It’s brutally wrinkled. You’ve been twisting it in your fists since the appetizers.

Lando, of course, looks completely at ease. The glass turns slowly in his hand. You’re half-convinced he’s heard your every thought and is simply waiting for you to confess them.

“I can’t believe I came,” you mutter.

“You say that like I put a gun to your head.”

You scowl. No one’s looking at you, but you still feel eyes crawling over your skin. Maybe it’s just him. “You left me a check.”

“Mm. So I did.”

“Enough to clear my loans. Rent. Half my fucking soul.”

He leans in across the table, his halfway unbuttoned shirt dipping down in a way that strains you to keep your eyes up. “You’re welcome.”

You bristle. “You think this is charming? Is this how you get girls? Buy their dignity and then flash them a smile like they should be grateful?”

Lando’s brow arches. It’s not in surprise, because he was waiting for that, too. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” His mouth twitches. “Darling, if I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t have picked the most hostile bartender in Bristol. You think you’re the first woman who’s ever told me to fuck off?”

It stings. “So why me?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Right. Like a bug.”

“No. Like a puzzle. One I want to take apart with my teeth.”

What the fuck? For a second, all you can hear is the soft click of silverware, someone laughing across the room. Did he just say he wanted to take me apart with his teeth? You were stupid for coming here. You’re going to beat yourself up about it later.

“I’m not a puzzle,” you snap. “I’m a person. A tired one. Who works too many hours and hasn’t taken a proper day off in months. You don’t get to walk in and play white knight just because you’re bored.”

“Who says I’m bored? Maybe I just liked the way you looked at me that night.”

You go still. “That night,” you say carefully, “you were a wreck. You were just another wreck. I had no idea who you were.”

He smiles, almost genuinely this time. “Exactly.”

You pick at the edge of your plate, push around your roasted carrots. They’ve offended you.

“I don’t want to owe you,” you say finally.

“Like I said before, you already do.”

He doesn’t smile. “You cashed the check. You came to dinner. And you’re still here. With me. Which means a part of you wants to know what happens next.”

You’re going to choke on all of this. “What do you want from me?”

All his smiles are wicked. This one is particularly knowing. “Honesty? Time. Your attention. Eventually, your mouth. But I’m patient.”

Egotistical, much? Demanding, much? You’re compiling a list of unflattering words to describe him in your head. It makes the issue feel a bit more manageable. He stretches out like a man completely at home, and says, “you think I’m dangerous. You’re not running. Either you’re stupid or you’re curious.”

You don’t have an answer. At least, not one you can say out loud. You finish your drink in one long, burning swallow and stare at the man across the table who just might end your entire life and make you beg for it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now, the flowers. You come home from work, fingers raw with cold. Your shoes are damp with spilled beer—another asshole; this one couldn’t even tip well—only to trip over a box sitting outside your apartment door. You stare at it for a full minute before crouching down. It’s ridiculous, a bouquet four times the size of your head and more colorful than any plants you’ve seen in your life. You think they might all be roses, but you don’t know your flowers very well.

The card is small, white, blank except for a few words:

For the tired girl.—L

You know that handwriting. You’ve seen it on the envelope that decided your fate. You don’t take them inside. You leave them in the stairwell, daring the universe to care.

The next night, he’s waiting. Not at your door, no, that would be obvious. He’s at the bar, same corner stool.

“Figured you’d show up.” Your voice is flat.

“Did you?”

You slam a glass into the rack a little too hard. “Didn’t figure you were the type to stalk.”

“I’m not.” Lando’s long legs kick under the bar. His designer coat is thrown over the adjacent stool. To him, it’s nothing. Probably sent for free, for exposure. “You left the flowers outside.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like wasting effort.”

At least he’s honest. “So what? You’re here to monitor your investment?”

“I’m here,” Lando murmurs, “because you’re the first person in months who hasn’t wanted something from me. Well, until you cashed the check.”

“Fuck you.”

He says, “careful. You might make me fall in love.”

You whirl on him. “Why me? You could have anyone. Any rich little hanger-on, any girl looking for a payday. Why this?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve already had this conversation. What are you drinking after your shift?”

You shake your head. “Not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is bad news. You are bad news.”

“And yet here we are.”

Lando Norris loves giving things, like they might buy your interest. First the card, then the check, then the card again—fuck, you shouldn’t have used it—and now a piece of folded paper. What now, marriage papers?

No. On it is a string of numbers. His number.

He tugs on his coat. The smile he flashes you a smile so uncaring it makes your knees weak.

“Call me. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you soon.”

You don’t touch the note for the rest of the night. When you lock up hours later, it’s gone. You know exactly where it is: folded in the bottom of your bag.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

you you’re fucking insane

Delivered. Read.

Lando and you kept the number

You bite down on a curse, drop your head back against the fridge. Why the fuck did you text him? You’re crazy and deserving of whatever comes next, that’s what you are.

you what do you want

Lando a lot of things

Lando you’re at the top of the list

You huff under your breath, disgust growing under your ribs. You should end this here. You should block him, delete the number, set your phone on fire for good measure. But it won’t do anything, you decide. If he truly means to mess with you, it will do absolutely no good. He’ll show up at your job. He’ll do something about the very generous amount of money he gave you, even if he said “no strings attached.” You owe him, that’s the ugly truth.

you go bother someone else

Lando a few things, sweetheart

Lando you texted me first you’re so much fun when you’re madand besides. no one else keeps me entertained like you.

you i’m not your fidget toy

Lando not yet

You actually breathe when you hear he’s gone. Thank god for that millionare job he’s got, driving in circles. It’ll keep him out of your hair for a good amount of time, according to the information you’ve got online. Racing is a very demanding schedule, and now winter’s drawing to an end, he can’t afford to waste his time on you.

You work the bar in peace. You go home in peace. You wake up, no trace of him in the corner booth or at your barstool or leaning against your car with that maddening smirk. You’ve only seen Lando Norris a few times, yet every time you do, your heartbeat goes up like you’re about to die.

Of course, good things never last. His texts start coming a few days after he’s left your life.

Lando do you miss me yet

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

you i didn’t even notice you were gone

Lando liar

You toss the phone facedown on the couch. The next morning, there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, there’s a courier with a fucking bouquet. It’s the second one, somehow larger, more obnoxious. There’s no card this time.

You snap a photo and send it to him.

you seriously?

Lando what kind of asshole would i be if i left you alone completely

The next night, it’s a box, no flowers this time, just expensive chocolate you would never buy yourself. You don’t even like sweets. You text him anyway.

you stop

Lando make me

You grind your teeth. You tell yourself not to engage, but you can’t resist sending a:

you you know, i really wish i could

You don’t mean it with any connotation. You just wish he’d shut up and fall off a cliff or something. Then all your debt would be miraculously cleared.

By day four, you’re jumpy, checking your phone when you swore you wouldn’t. Waiting for a message that makes you want to scream.

Like clockwork:

Lando you thinking about me? be honest

You flop down on your bed and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a week. You’re not supposed to want this. You hate him, you really do, and you know that’s true to a certain degree. When he comes by, your fists clench and you try to look anywhere by him. His name brings irritation, gets under your skin, and then it turns into something else. You heard someone say once that hate and love aren’t very different things. Bullshit. Hate and want, more so. That feeling, that despisement, is intoxicating.

Lando i’ll be back soon, sweetheart

You scream into your hands.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara nudges you. You don’t need to look up. He’s back.

This time, you have a response prepared. You smile coquettishly, the way you do when you need good tips. You aren’t privy to swaying your hips a little, maybe angling yourself so the curves of your waist are more enunciated. “Did you cry on the plane or after you landed?”

Oh, he’s glaring. You love that. It makes it easy to maintain your perfect picture of innocence, so eager to be happy. “Oh, sorry. Did you not want anyone mentioning Monaco?”

“Funny.”

You reach for another glass. “Did Oscar at least send you a thank-you basket for letting him win?”

Lando’s jaw flexes, a tiny tic. “You keeping up with the races now, sweetheart? Or just the standings?”

You grin. “Just the losses. Yours, specifically.”

Every inch of him is coiled tight. His shirt is rumpled and the sleeves shoved up. You notice how his throat his exposed, like he dressed in a rush, like he couldn’t stand being away from this city another second. Away from you. You’re flattering yourself. Maybe Monaco really did suck and he was so, so, sad he had to live in a million-dollar penthouse that he came back to this city.

“You know,” he says, “I could’ve stayed in Monaco. Big party tomorrow. But no. I flew home.” His eyes flick over your face, unapologetic. “Guess why.”

Dry as sandpaper, you say, “miss your favorite bartender?”

“You make a mean whiskey sour.”

“I also make a mean ‘get out of my bar, you gosh-darned cunt.’”

He chuckles under his breath, but the sound isn’t fully natural. Lando’s holding something back “You’re good, you know that? Gosh-darned cunt, really?”

“At what?”

You see his knee bounce. “At getting under my skin. You rile me up like you’re trying to start something.”

“Maybe I am,” you say.

“Careful.”

“Is this the part where you try to scare me?”

“No.” His composure is back. He knows something—at the very least, he thinks he knows something. “This is the part where I wonder how long you’re going to pretend you don’t want me.”

Heat licks up your spine. You hate him. You hate how good he is at this. What would it be like, you wonder for a moment, to be rich and good looking and cocky as a man with a two-inch dick.

“You’re right, Lando. I want you so bad I’m shaking,” you say, voice husky. You let your eyelids lower, as if you’re staring at him in a post-orgasmic haze.

His expression changes.

Then you smile a toothy grin. “For a restraining order.” The snort that bursts out of him might be a little impressed.

“You’re insufferable,” Lando mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“And you’re still here,” you shoot back.

He slouches back on the barstool.

“Fuck, you drive me insane.”

You turn so he can’t see you biting your lip to keep from smiling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The texts are still a thing, something to keep your wits sharp while Lando’s out of town. Getting to bicker and not having to see his face? The gods made this arrangement just for you. To be fair, you haven’t asked for anything aside from what he gives you of his own free will. He never says the words “sugar baby” anymore, but there’s an unspoken agreement that he pays. You can afford some of it, sure, but investments are better. You still have the rest of your life to spend money.

Your phone lights up on the counter. For one second, you consider ignoring it, you really do.

Then you swipe, anyway.

“Hello,” you say, with that voice you only use with him, like you’re about to fall asleep from how dull he is.

“Thought you’d never pick up.”

It’s great he can’t see your face. Your stomach dips, traitorous, and you are absolutely not bored by him.

“What do you want?” you mutter, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you scrub harder at the countertop.

“Relax,” Lando says. “I’m not asking for your soul.”

“I think I already signed it away,” you quip.

There’s a pause. You can hear the faint sound of city traffic behind him, the rustle of fabric as he moves. You can picture it too clearly: his fingers at his collar, half-distracted, grinning to himself because to him, this is all a game.

“I need a favor,” he allows.

Your laugh is mean. “Oh, do you.”

“Don’t get excited, sweetheart. It’s not that kind of favor.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

You often send him chuckling, as he does now. “You’re really something.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere near your little circus. Whatever it is, I’m sure you have a dozen girls on speed dial who’d jump at the chance.”

“Sure,” Lando says smoothly. “But they’re not you.” Too cheesy. You won’t give it to him. Still, that lands somewhere you don’t want to admit. You pace behind the bar.

“Look, I’m not some accessory. I thought we already agreed on this. Fuck it. Dinner, okay. If you want to text me, I guess you can have that, asshole. If you have to show up at work, okay, but anything aside from that…”

“Calm down.” His voice dips, completely unriled which only makes you angrier. “It’s just an event. Monaco. Black tie. Tomorrow night.”

You stop pacing. “Tomorrow? Monaco, like, France? Which son of a bitch crashed into your car and gave you a concussion?”

“Mm,” he says. You can hear him smile. “It’s a shame you’re going to say no. Especially since I already had the dress sent over.”

“You what?”

“Check the door.”

You lunge for it, yank it open, and there’s a hotel courier on the stoop of your bar. The garment bag in their hand, something out of a fever dream. You whip back around, phone still pressed to your ear. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you’re still on the line, sweetheart. I had my assistant email the plane tickets.”

“My god. This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage.

“Of course not. See you tomorrow.”

You wave away the courier weakly (they say no need for tip, it’s been covered) and toss the garment bag onto the barstool like it’s radioactive. Mara looks up from her ramen, mouth full, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. “Is that a dress? Please tell me that’s not a dress. Shit, that bag looks expensive.”

“It’s a dress. Kill me.”

Mara sets her wrinkled noodle cup down. “Okay, back up. Shit. You’re going to have to explain. You had a couture gown delivered to your workplace?”

“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I, fuck, I don’t even know what I said. He just called. I guess he knew I was still at work and sent it here instead.”

“Oh, he called.” Mara clearly wasn’t listening. It was valid, because you would’ve been very invested in your noodles too. “And you picked up. Shocking.”

“I was caught off guard, okay?”

Mara leans back, arms crossed. She’s settling in for a show. “Mm-hm. Off guard, even though you have his contact. And what exactly did our emotionally unstable sugar daddy.”

“He’s not my—whatever, he wants me to go with him. To this stupid black-tie thing. In Monaco—Mara, I’ve never been outside the country, and he wants me to meet more pissy millionaire with egos just like his? Goddamnit, I’m a blasted idiot. I should’ve hung up.”

“And now you’re here,” Mara finishes, “having a full-on meltdown over a man you keep calling a pissy millionaire, but whose name you’ve Googled so much your phone probably thinks you’re a fan account.”

You shoot her a betrayed look.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “Just, are you sure you’re not into him? I don’t know, if you really hated it, you’d be gone.”

You throw a dirty, soaking towel at her. She catches it easily and puts it down. “Fine, fine. But listen, babe. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, even if you think he’s hot.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mara says, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “But you are going to text me photos once you get dressed. If you’re going to dance with the devil, baby, you might as well look smoking doing it.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

At some point, after pacing the suite, after staring too long at the ocean view, after wondering what the hell you were even doing in Monaco, the dress ended up on your skin. Now you’re cursing again, fingers fumbling at the clasp behind your neck. It’s a bit worrying how well the dress fits you. You’d be more worried if you had a spare thought. Currently, you’re occupied with trying to get this fucking clasp doe.

There’s a knock at the door. You wonder who it could be, because the hotel people usually announce themselves. One culprit.

“Lando, if you come in here—”

The door swings open. How the fuck does he have a key?

“Relax,” he drawls, stepping inside like it’s his suite, his eyes sweeping over you in one slow, sinfully amused pass. Well, he did order the room. Maybe he had a spare he didn’t bother letting you know about. “I knocked.”

You scowl. “Get out.”

But your hands are still twisted up at the clasp and he sees it.

“Need help, sweetheart?”

You spin halfway, trying to yank the zipper yourself, but it only slips lower, baring more skin, making you hiss under your breath. “No. Go away.”

He’s already crossing the room. There it is, that cologne, honey and saffron, so inebriating you almost close your eyes to savor the smell. It makes your pulse spike. You know that body heat amplifies the notes. Lando Norris is warm and right next to you.

“Stay still,” he says. His fingers brush yours, gentle yet firm, easing you out of the way. His knuckles graze your nape and your breath hitches before you can bite it back.

“I hate you,” you mutter, as his fingers work the clasp. You wonder if he’s done this many times before. The answer is probably yes.

“Mm,” Lando hums, mouth too close to your ear. “You keep saying that.”

He lingers, too long, his thumb ghosting over your bare skin. Your chest tightens; your hands flex at your sides.

“You think this is charming? Bursting into my room when I’m trying to change?” you snap, half-turning toward him. “Is this how you—”

He cuts you off, his eyes flicking down. “You’re beautiful when you’re pissed off.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

“Not yet.” Lando smirks. His voice is gasoline, about to set your insides—everything, really—on fire. You shove at his chest. He doesn’t move, but the contact jolts both of you. One hand is still on your back, holding you like he’s about to dance.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whisper.

“Guilty.” He lets go then. “I’ll wait downstairs. Ten minutes. Though I think you look ready.”

“And if I don’t come?”

Lando’s already at the door. “Oh, you’ll come.” His voice is absolutely certain.

You tell yourself you’re only going down because you need to tell him to his face you’re not doing this. That’s it. That’s the only reason. When you step into the elevator, your palms sweaty, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

The car is waiting outside (probably his, judging from the custom initials ‘LN’) with, you note, tinted windows. Lando’s hair is raked back.

“Took you long enough,” he says, opening the door with a theatrical little flourish.

“Fucking wanker,” you say. There’s no malice behind it.

The door closes with a soft, expensive thunk. You press yourself against the far side of the seat. You can still feel the heat of him even across the car, the subtle glance he steals when you cross your legs, the way his hand ‘accidentally’ finds your thigh instead of the gear shift.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You want to wipe that smirk of this face. “Like I can’t decide if I want to ruin you or worship you?”

There’s a thought you have often when it comes to Lando Norris. What the fuck? You, who cusses every other sentence, have more decorum than this man. And he’s saying all this with a straight face. It might be sincere, if you didn’t know him any better. You dig your nails into your palm. “You’re such a fucking nightmare.”

Lando looks away from the road. He’s way too confident to be driving safely. “Maybe. But you’re still in my car, wearing my dress, going to my party. You can tell yourself whatever you need to, sweetheart, but you already chose.”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, watching the glittering coastline smear past in a blur of gold, watch it turn into a cathedral of money and ego. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, women in dresses you’d need a mortgage to afford. Well, now you have a willing bankroller, maybe you don’t.

Lando doesn’t so much escort you as claim you. His hand remains at the small of your back, hot breath brushing your ear as he murmurs names you don’t recognize, introductions you don’t want. You slip away from him the moment he’s distracted by some sponsor, ducking toward the balcony again for air. As it turns out, you’re not alone.

“Big crowd, huh?”

You turn, startled, and find a brunette against the railing, glass of water in hand. His tie’s loose, hair slightly mussed like someone’s been messing with it all night. His smile is easy, genuine, the kind that makes your shoulders drop without meaning to. You let out a breath. Lando gets you all tense.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s a lot.”

Alex chuckles. “First one?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little.” He grins. “But you’re doing fine. Better than I did my first one. I tripped over a server. Champagne everywhere.”

Your laugh is genuine, this time. That makes the first nice person you’ve met all evening.

“I’m Alex, by the way.” He offers his hand and you shake it, thankful for the small, normal gesture in a night that’s felt anything but.

You introduce yourself and he brightens. “Oh, you’re with Lando tonight?” he asks lightly, with only curiosity. “How’d you two meet?”

You freeze for half a second—how do you even explain that? That he crashed into your life like a hurricane, arrogant and infuriating, with a check big enough to clear your debts and a smirk that’s been haunting your sleep ever since?

“Long story,” you hedge, a little helpless. “Sort of accidental.”

Alex chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He nudges your shoulder gently. “He’s not all bad, you know. A menace, sure, but not all bad.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice.”

“Well, someone has to balance him out. You okay, though?”

Hell no, you want to say. Your mouths are already forming the words, before you smell that goddamn cologne. It’s like the electrical smell that precedes a storm, a warning. You turn and there’s Lando.

His eyes flick to Alex, then to you. “Making friends without me, sweetheart?”

Alex winks. “Just keeping her company, mate.”

Lando’s mouth falls into a frown, before he catches himself. “Right.” His gaze cuts to you. “Come dance,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You glance at Alex, completely helpless. He just squeezes your arm gently. “Go on. He’s useless without you.”

He leads you into the throng of people, fingers pressing into the silk at your hip. “Why’ve you been hiding?”

You twist, glaring up at him. “I wasn’t hiding. You dumped me for the wolves.”

“I was making the rounds.”

“And now what, you want a medal?” you snap. God, your heart is about to give out, as his thumb strokes a slow, deliberate line against your side. He spins you into him, just like that, the room tipping for half a second. His chest brushes yours. You feel the hard line of his arm at your back.

“Tell me,” Lando says, “how many of them have come over tonight? Kimi, Charles, George…they’re all wondering what you’re doing with me.”

“Makes sense,” you mutter, “so am I.”

“You’re not a model. You’re not anyone’s plus-one. You’re not chasing some influencer deal.” He lists them, all while keeping his eyes on you. “And you’re the only one in this room who actually wants me to fuck off all of the time.”

“Where’s this going, Norris?”

The edge of his thumb grazes your jaw. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t see you looking? You think I don’t know why you stayed?”

You snap, “I stayed because you booked me a goddamn plane ticket. And you keep showing up. And you don’t let people walk away.”

He leans in until there’s barely any air between you. You can’t breathe without inhaling every bit of him. “Neither do you. Couldn’t leave me without getting the last word, could you?”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I know. You like to tell me that a lot.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Inside the suite, it’s all hush and gold. You sigh, dig your thumbs under the straps of your heels, and nearly groan when they drop to the floor. God, why did you tolerate them? Your feet are crying with relief.

He clears his throat.

Lando.

He has one hand braced above his head, elbow to the doorframe, watching you with a kind of feigned indifference. You can tell it’s fake because his searching eyes are anything but lazy. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, from champagne or the night air or maybe just arrogance. His curls are mussed in that artful, infuriating way that makes you want to bury your hands in them and tug until he curses, letting out a guttural sound in spite of himself.

Fucking hell. It’s obscene, really, how beautiful he is. How sculpted his mouth is, the flash of gold at his throat, though gold isn’t the right word when you look at his tan skin. You should not be noticing any of this. You should not be noticing how his shoulders fill out that jacket or how his chest looks under the thin black shirt or how his lips parted, just slightly, when you caught his gaze.

“Why are you still here?”

He pouts. “Missed you.”

“You barely even know me.”

He pushes off the door, saunters in. “That’s the thing. Don’t know you, but I do know you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a trophy.”

You shake your head. “‘Course not. Trophy’s a little too nice to describe you.”

“You’ve been pulling away.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No I haven’t.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“You can’t just fly me to Monaco, drop me in a five-star hotel, and expect me to—”

“To what?” His voice drops. “Want me?”

Your throat clicks when you swallow.

“Don’t.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t get it, do you? You walk into a room and it bends around you, like you’re a fucking messiah. I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.”

And then he’s in front of you, crouching, one hand on your knee. Lando’s always had beautiful eyelashes. You’ve known since you first saw them that they would be the end of you. Now, they frame his eyes, those mesmerizing pools of light. They never stay one color. They might actually be clear, only reflecting what you want to see in them. He looks at you like you’re the moon, the stars, the sun.

His fingers are warm. Solid. For a moment you wonder what it would be like if you stopped fighting this, if you leaned in, if you let him win.

“I don’t want you to keep your head on straight. Not with me.”

“Maybe I should’ve been nicer to you.”

The adoration lingers in his eyes, but there’s a glint. “Oh, I like you mean.”

God help you, you want to kiss him. You want to shove him back on the bed, crawl into his lap, see if his mouth tastes like champagne or heat or both. You want to know if his hands shake when they touch skin or if he’s always this sure of himself.

All you can do is whisper, “Are you staying?”

His fingers curl a little tighter around your knee.

“Unless you tell me to go.”

You’ve never seen him so compliant to your wants. It does something to you. You’ve been demanding to him, always swearing, always telling him to go fuck himself. Still, he’s patient in a way that makes you ache, beautiful in a way that makes you furious.

You might owe him a moment. Just one, you swear to yourself. Just this once.

You pull him by the collar. He’s shocked, lips forming a perfect circle before they crash into yours with the urgency of someone who has waited far too long. Honey and saffron. Honey and saffron. You’ve associated it with him so long you’re certain someone wearing the same cologne is enough to make your knees buckle in public. His mouth is soft and prying, bringing out a soundless intake of breath from you. His mouth melds to yours.

Lando’s lips part, his tongue teasing against yours. You pull back, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows, his lips trailing down your jaw, then your neck. It’s like he can’t get enough.

You grip his shoulders, trying to steady yourself. It’s useless. Everything about him is a magnet, pulling you back in. You see him in his euphoric haze, his lowered eyelids. He makes a noise like a whine when you leave, as if he physically cannot bear being separated from you, and you think you might actually drown in want.

“Lando,” you whisper. God, your senses. Your head feels light, dizzy with the taste of him.

“Mm, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Just once, you told yourself. Just once.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re still half-wrapped in the robe you swore you’d only wear for five minutes after your shower, hair damp, skin bare and a little too aware of itself. But it’s so comfy, like being wrapped in a cloud, and you really can’t bear to take it off.

The door flies open once more, only seconds after you hear the buzz of an accepted keycard. Lando Norris is hardly a gentleman. He doesn’t even knock!

What he is, however, is a vision of casual, expensive sin—white tee hugging his shoulders, curls damp like he’s only just come from his own shower—okay, those are places your thoughts absolutely should not be going. He smiles. He knows exactly how pretty he looks standing in your suite.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”

Lando gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug. “You looked like you might sleep all day. Figured I’d save you from the crushing boredom.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Why did you even book the hotel for longer? The event is over.”

For a second, you swear he’s surprised you noticed. “I wanted to show you around. Monaco’s wasted on you if all you’re seeing is room service menus and the inside of a suite.”

You fold your arms tighter, suspicion prickling up your spine. “Are you serious? You could have just texted.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to see your face when I said it.”

Your pulse jumps. Stupid, traitorous heart. You still need to talk to him about that whole kiss last night. Is now a good time?

He pushes off the doorframe. “You coming or not?”

Once more, the everlasting train of no, I really shouldn’t, what the fuck? You should remind him you’re not some prize to be paraded around, not some girl in his endless rotation of models and influencers. You’ve done that many times now. But it doesn’t matter. The real problem is, he knows you’re not, and it’s why you’re still standing here.

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. There’s probably some sunscreen (expired, years old, from the last time you saw the light of the sun) and a water bottle in there. “But if you start acting like you own the place, I’m leaving you on the yacht or whatever ridiculous thing you have planned.”

“I’ll do my best. Deal.”

As you brush past him to the closet, you feel his fingers ghost lightly over your back. It’s nothing overt, just enough to set your skin humming, a sensation that’s only amplified when he pulls away.

“By the way, you look good in that robe.”

You nearly trip on the marble floor. Fuck. And he’s gone, before you can have him answer any of your other questions.

The café he drives you to is perched on the edge of the cliffs, all whitewashed stone and trailing flowers. Below, the sea stretches blue and endless. It’s so stupidly picturesque you almost laugh when you get out of the car.

He notices. “Yeah, yeah,” Lando says with a crooked grin. “I’m disgustingly good at this.”

“You? No, you probably have an assistant on speed dial for this kind of thing.”

He presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I need help to be this charming?”

Inside, you settle at a little table by the window. He orders for you without asking (of course he does) and the worst part is, he gets it right. When the waiter leaves, his eyes flicker to yours.

“So. About that kiss.”

You busy yourself unwrapping the sugar packet. Hey, you were going to ask about it. He keeps beating you to the punch. Fucker. God, you want to punch him. “It wasn’t a thing.”

“Oh, wasn’t it? Didn’t feel like nothing to me. Actually, didn’t sound like nothing to me either.”

You flush, scowl at your coffee. There’s a foam design on it, swirling hearts, little stars, and you have an itching suspicion that’s not the way they make all the coffees. “I was, well, I don’t fucking know, man. I was tired, it was late, you were being—”

“Devastatingly handsome? I recall being on my knees for you, too, if that helps.”

“A pain in the ass.”

Lando’s grin widens. He sets his foot against yours under the table, light and shameless. “You know, you can just admit you like me. We’re past pretending, sweetheart. You’ve already travelled the globe just to be with me.”

You kick at his ankle half-heartedly, to which he recoils, then returns. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, you have no idea what’s in my dreams.” His voice drops. You have to look away because, honestly, you don’t trust yourself enough to keep making rational decisions.

“You’re such a fucking menace.”

Lando’s foot nudges yours again under the table, a teasing little tap that makes you jolt. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”

“You’re lucky this is good coffee, or I’d have thrown it in your face by now.”

He grins, all teeth and trouble. “You like me like this.”

“Fuck off.” You kick his ankle harder, but it’s not much of a deterrent. His leg just shifts, stretching out under the table, and now the toe of his shoe is tracing up your calf. “Christ, Lando.” You squirm in your seat, swatting at his knee under the table. That’ll stop him. No, it doesn’t. It only enhances that shit-eating grin.

“What?” he says innocently. “Just stretching my legs.”

“Stretch them in your own damn space,” you hiss. There’s no bite in it, not really, not when your skin feels hot where his foot brushes yours, not when he’s watching you like that.

“Tell me you didn’t think about it last night.”

You scowl. “Bullshit.”

“Mm.” His foot hooks lightly around your ankle. “Didn’t deny it, though.”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. “For fuck’s sake, you are relentless.”

“You’re cute when you swear at me.”

You flip him off without lifting your head.

“Adorable,” he says, chuckling.

After you have another cup of coffee (it really is that good, you wish you could bring it back to Bristol), he finally gets you to leave. “So, tell me. You’re wearing all this, and we’re on a beach in Monaco. Aren’t you hot in that?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, though you can already feel the heat creeping up your neck.

“I mean, that dress. You’re practically suffocating in it. You should’ve gone for something lighter. You know, something a little more practical for the heat.”

His gaze traces over every inch of you. “It’s a fucking dress, not a snowsuit, Norris,” you say, feeling that faint heat rise between your legs from his words alone.

Lando steps closer to you, matching your pace, his shoulder brushing against yours. You want to push him away, to keep some distance. “I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve got all these layers on. Don’t you want to take them off?”

The way he says it, so casually, so confident…you freeze.

Lando sees you hesitate. “What, you can’t handle the heat? I could help you cool down, you know.”

“No, we are not shagging in a public space.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, and his hand brushes yours. “Who said anything about shagging? You’re not fooling me. I can see it in the way you’re walking.”

“Don’t,” you warn him.

“What? Don’t what? Don’t call you out for being so hot and bothered? You’re practically begging me to notice.”

You can’t stop the sigh that escapes your lips, not when his words are like a drug running straight through you. You step away from him slightly. Like all the other attempts you’ve made to clear yourself of his presence, it’s futile. He’s there, his voice in your mind, the ghost of his touch on your skin. He’s still right there. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You trail behind Lando as he unlocks the door to his apartment. You already bumped into two other drivers, one you don’t know, the other who looked like he belonged in a museum. Some French name, you forget. His girlfriend was also exceedingly pretty.

You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe sleek bachelor minimalism or cold, show-off money. But it’s surprisingly cozy. There are a few race helmets. The scent hits you next, nice laundry detergent layered with leather, engine oil, and beneath it all, unmistakably him. Sweet like honey.

Lando drops his keys into a bowl, sauntering off toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.

Your eyes wander. There’s the massive racing simulator near the window. It’s absurdly expensive, obviously. Framed photos of him on podiums, some with friends you half recognize (Max, you think his name is, Lando’s best mate.) Some are just his grinning face in a champagne shower. Photos, photos, trophies…a small handbag, perched on the back of the couch.

Next to it, delicate sunglasses, definitely not his. They’re too small to cover his face. And a hair clip, one of those pearly ones, girly and pink, resting on the coffee table like it belongs here.

You frown, fingers brushing the edge of the bag without thinking. “Uh…Lando?”

“Yeah?”

You pick up the clip, turning it over in your fingers. “Whose stuff is this?”

For the first time, there’s a pause. He stills in his movements. Then, “Oh, uh, Magui’s.”

You blink. You repeat, “Magwee?”

He pokes his head out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in one hand. “She’s a friend.” Lando’s tone is light, breezy. “Mostly PR.”

“Mostly?” you repeat.

“Why? You jealous, sweetheart?”

You scoff, dropping the clip back onto the table. “No.”

“Mm. Could’ve fooled me.”

The handbag. The sunglasses. That hair clip. Now it’s flipped onto the other side, you see gems spelling out ‘Magui.’ Magui. Who the hell is Magui? More accurately, what the hell is Magui? Who even names their kid Magui? Is it short for something? Marguerite? Magnolia? Some cool European thing?

You watch Lando move casually back into the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter as he opens the water. You cross your arms, aiming for indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like we’re a thing anyway.”

His brow twitches. You almost miss it, because then he’s sauntering toward you. “Not a thing, huh?” he murmurs.

“Exactly.”

“Hmm. Funny.”

“What’s funny?” You glare at him.

“That you care so much for someone who’s not a thing.”

You answer, too quickly to seem casual, “I don’t care.”

“Sure, sweetheart. That’s why you’re glaring at a hair clip like it killed your cat.”

You open your mouth, splutter, “I don’t even have a cat—”

Lando plucks the clip from the table and twirls it between his fingers. “She’s just a friend,” he says, “we have fun at events. She knows the game.”

The game. Right. You know exactly what game. And yet, the thought of him with someone else—all golden skin and quiet smiles and easy laughs, God, you can imagine her already—punches straight through your stomach.

“Good for you.”

“You know, she always said I should bring someone to the next Grand Prix.”

“So?”

“So…” He flashes a slow grin. “Guess I already have someone, don’t I?”

“Lando, I have a job. A real one. With hours and a boss and everything.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need a job. You have me.”

Your heart trips, stumbles, tries to right itself. “No, not really.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a cut slice of abs, just to be a menace. “When’s the last time you took a real break? You deserve one.”

“When is it even?”

“Miami. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Hell no. I already followed you to Monaco. I got to go back, I have assignments due. Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he drawls, sinking onto the couch and one knee brushing yours. “You’d look so good on my arm. You can do your work when we get back to the hotel, baby. It’s not all day.”

You try not to feel your insides go liquid. “I hate eagles.”

“What?”

“Miami. Eagles. I don’t know.”

His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “You would’ve loved Logan.”

You pull a cushion onto your lap, hugging it to your chest. “Is there another one? Somewhere…less Miami?”

“There’s always another one. But you might have to stay longer.”

“Whatever. Okay. This one.”

His whole face lights up. “Yay,” he says, and it’s so cute your heartbeat picks up. He brushes his fingers over your wrist like he can’t help himself. You hope he doesn’t realize.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Baby.”

You ignore him.

“Baby.”

You click aggressively on your document. It’s crazy that planes have WiFi. Thank god Lando’s rich, you can’t imagine how much it must cost to get this good of a connection.

“Sweetheart.”

You sigh, yanking one headphone out. “What, Lando?”

He’s sprawled across the leather seat across from you. He has one socked foot propped on the table and his hoodie looks very comfy. You’ve been working for two hours. Come nap with me.”

“Some of us have to pass our classes.”

“Some of us are world champions.”

You roll your eyes. “Go flex that on someone else.”

He does, apparently. Miami hits you like a slap in the face, like it’s annoyed you’re taking up so much of its mistress’s time, the mistress being Lando. You can tell he loves this place. You do not. You’re not going to miss the heat, the flashing cameras, the chaos outside the airport. Lando’s security team pushes through the crowd as reporters yell his name.

“Who’s this? Lando, is this your girlfriend?”

“Miss, what’s your name? Are you coming to the paddock, too?”

You’re stunned into silence. Lando’s arm finds itself around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Alright, that’s enough, guys,” he says coolly. He wears a practiced smile as he steers you through the crowd. He’s probably done this thousands of times. You barely remember how you get to the car.

“Breathe,” Lando coos, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

You shoot him a flat look. “You owe me so much coffee for this.”

So, you’ve never watched Formula One—aside from that one time Mara sent you a video of someone passing Lando—but this looks a lot more stressful than that clip. Speaking of Mara, you pick up your phone and dash a quick message:

you bloody hell i hate this place

She doesn’t see it. She’s still sleeping, which is much nicer than your current situation. Cameras flash in your face. Women with glossy hair and model-long legs float past in designer dresses and tiny heels that shouldn’t work on gravel but somehow do. You grip the pass hanging from your lanyard so tight your fingers ache.

Lando’s hand is still on your lower back, an anchor you can’t leave. To be honest, you don’t want to. He’s the least irritating thing at the moment.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re with the coolest guy here.”

“That is so debatable. We walked past Florence Pugh five minutes ago.”

“I said guy.” He grins, one-handedly signing a cap handed to him, posing for a photo, laughing with a sponsor. Lando looks perfectly at ease here. The attention craves him.

You just want to disappear.

“Hey!” a voice cuts through the noise. You turn and nearly crash into Alex Albon, beaming, casual in his shirt. “Hey, hey. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” There’s a gorgeous woman next to him, who he gestures at and says, “This is Lily.”

“Hi Lily, hi Alex.”

You hear someone say “Babe!” and it’s sure as hell not Lily, because her mouth hasn’t even opened yet. Your head snaps up. A girl with sun-streaked hair and model cheekbones walks up and kisses Lando’s cheek.

“I’m Magui,” she purrs, eyes flicking over you dismissively. She’s already decided you aren’t a threat.

“Oh. Hi,” you say, because what else is there? You hear yourself, how flat and awkward you sound, and you want to punch a wall.

Lando glances at you, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know Magui. Magui, careful, this one tends to cuss.”

This one. Not your name. Not even a soft tease. Just…this one. Magui laughs like she’s heard this joke before and tucks herself closer to him. You’re going to lose your mind.

When the clock ticks closer to the start of the race, you’re left largely to your own devices. There’s no Lando to latch onto now.You try not to look for Magui—you try—but your eyes keep flicking toward where she disappeared into the swarm of PR people. The lights go out.

It’s chaos into Turn 1. Lando’s there, starting in fourth (or something, maybe you heard wrong) carving his way through like a man possessed. P3 by lap 10, P2 by lap 25, and you can hear his engineer crackling through the headset:

“Let’s bring this home.”

Lap 40. P1.

P1.

You know, it would be a lot more interesting if you understood this a little more. P1 is at the front, you know. Everyone’s glued to the screens, to the track. You’re just worried he’s going to crash. Fuck, these cars are loud. And fast, but you already knew that. By the last ten laps, the whole McLaren garage is on its feet, the mechanics shouting, banging on the pit wall.

When the checkered flag waves, it’s like the world explodes. The crowd is screaming. The McLaren crew goes ballistic and you’re just frozen, stunned, chest so tight it hurts.

P1. Miami winner.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The champagne is still stuck to him after the podium spray. His cheeks hurt from smiling, his throat’s raw from shouting over the team radio (“fuck yeah, well done, team!” Or, more accurately ‘f***yeah, well done team!) because the FIA censors everything. You know, he almost slipped in a few more expletives, thanks to your bad influence), and there’s only one thing that could make his day better. Lando’s eyes dart through the crowd. Everyone wants a piece of him. Everyone but you.

Where the hell are you?

A hand wraps around his arm. “Lando! Oh my god, you were insane out there!” Her arms are around his neck, perfume sugary-sweet. She presses a kiss to his cheek, laughing for the cameras, pulling him in like she belongs in this moment. He stiffens.

“Magui,” he says quietly, trying to peel her off. He’s still looking for you and she’s blocking half of his line of sight. “Not now.”

She just giggles and loops her arm tighter. She’s basking in the spotlight, it’s too late to get her to snap out of it. Lando’s patience snaps like a wire.

“Magui,” he barks. It’s sharp enough that she flinches. “Did you say something to her?”

Her eyes go wide, faux-innocent. “What? Who?”

“You know who. Where the fuck is she? Did you say something to her? Did you screw this up?”

Magui’s lips part in a little gasp, that wounded look she pulls out when it’s convenient. Hell, the cameras are going to love this. “Lando, I didn’t—”

He swears under his breath, before yanking her limbs off him. He twists on his heel to scan the crowd again. The garage. Check. The gates. Check. The pit lane. Check. All the people chanting his name, all the cameras flashing. Normally, he loves it. Right now, none of it matters. None of it means a damn thing if you’re not here.

I just won Miami. Why the fuck aren’t you here?

He kicks at the ground.

“Maybe she left,” Magui suggests from behind him. Her voice irritates him, a little stab between his ribs.

His fingers twitch. Is he panicking, right now? His breath shallows, oppressed by the noise. His mind is a whirl. Did you see something? Did Magui corner you? Did you think you weren’t wanted here? That you didn’t matter? He can’t breathe, it’s like your presence is the only thing keeping the rock off his chest, and now you’re gone its plunging, weighing him down and—

You. His whole body kicks into motion before his brain can catch up.

There you are.

He hears someone yell his name, probably for an interview, maybe for a photo, and he ignores it, almost knocking over a cameraman.

He only wants you.

You looked pretty overwhelmed, shoved forward by the crowd but still somehow trying to disappear.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then you’re in his arms. Lando buries his face in your hair, the scent of you cutting through all the smoke. His fingers tremble a little where they clutch at you. He was going insane looking for you. “I couldn’t fucking find you. Jesus, you.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His large hands cradle your jaw.

“I just won Miami,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “And the only thing I could think was where the hell is she—” Lando surges forward, hungry, desperate. All these people and he just wants you to anchor him.

You flinch back, hands on his chest.

“Lando,” you whisper, lips just brushing his. “no. Not here. I don’t want…”

He readjusts, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Okay. Okay. Not here.”

“Mate!” You’re not seriously leaving, are you?” He hears Max holler. You back off instinctively.

“I don’t know,” he says, glancing back at his best friend, then at you. “My girl—”

Max whistles low, “Didn’t know we were calling her that yet.”

Lando flips him off half-heartedly, before pulling him into a quick hug. “Shut up.”

He side steps toward you, but you beat him to it, pushing off the wall, sliding in beside him, and you’re trying so hard to be relaxed but he can read it all over your face: the tight shoulders, the too-wide eyes, the quiet little “ugh” under your breath when another cluster of reporters swarms over. “Hey, hey.” Lando ducks his head to you. “You good?”

You sigh. “Fucking hell, man. Sure. Let’s go. I’m a bartender, I’ll make drinks for your cocky ass or something.” You wave a hand. Your eyes flick to the cameras and your mouth pulls tight again.

“That’s why I keep you around, sweetheart.” Before Lando can say more, the media hits.

“Lando! One quick word!”

“Lando, what changed after quali?”

“Who’s the mystery girl, Lando?”

“Will you be celebrating together tonight?”

“Is this your girlfriend? Are you confirming?”

You freeze. You’re plastered to his side. Lando leans into the mic with a smirk, his arm around you. “You’ll have to wait for the documentary, mate.” He’s still grinning when he steers you out of the crush. Obviously, a win brings a hell lot of adrenaline; but this, this right here, with your fingers knotting nervously into the hem of his sleeve?

This is what’s making him dizzy.

Lando’s enamored with how you lean on him, how your trust in him is something sacred. It’s something earned, something he has carved slowly with every word and every action. From pity to hatred to tolerance to…well, you kissed him, didn’t you? There’s a sweetness in the way you depend on him now, even if you can’t do it without cursing him and his mother, too.

He doesn’t want you to slip away, to ever feel like you could. It’s simple, really. Lando just wants to keep you close and needing him. Because you don’t, not all the time, not like all the others. He’s earned this.

To hell if he’s going to let it go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

There’s plenty for him to focus on at the club, with bodies packed tight. There’s bass rattling his chest and too many drinks being passed around. Lando’s friends are out there, hollering, getting wasted, but he can’t look at anything but you.

You in that dress, that little black thing that glimmers every time you move. It rides scandalously high on your thighs, straps slipping just barely off your shoulders like they’re exhausted from the fight to stay up. Your skin practically glows under the club lights. You’re flushed from dancing, laughing, drinking. God, the way you laugh with your head tipped back. Lando swears it’s rewiring his brain. He’s never seen you so carefree before. Usually, you’re all sweet behind the bar, testy when its necessary, but that’s all to make the customers happy. You’re happy right now and its out of duty to no one.

“Jesus Christ,” Lando mutters, eyes glued to you. He doesn’t even hear Max at first.

“Mate.” Max elbows him. “You coming or just gonna stand here having a religious experience?”

“Fuck off,” he says jokingly. His eyes never leave you.

He’s not even drunk, not really. He’s had one, maybe two drinks, something shoved into his hand after the podium. And there was another raised in a messy toast when Max pulled him into a corner, but Lando feels wrecked.

Every inch of his skin is hot. He can’t stop touching you, can’t stop following you with his eyes. It’s like his body has locked onto yours, marking his territory. As usual, a palm on the small of your back. His fingers like to graze your wrist when you reach for a drink, almost like a nice bracelet. The way you fit under his arm, the way you lean into his space without even thinking about it, it’s all setting him on fire.

His mind is a mess:

You smell like vanilla and summer.

You feel like absolute sin pressed up against him.

He wants to ruin you. Desperately wants to pull you into a dark corner and shove you against the wall, mouth hot and desperate on your throat, hips pressed so tight you’ll feel him in your bones. He wants to peel you out of that dress, watch it pool at your feet while you look at him. Wants to sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, leave marks no one else can touch, can claim. He wants to leave them there for the whole world to see.

But more than that, more terrifying, is this ache in his chest. It’s not just lust, unfortunately. Lust is easy to deal with. If he just wanted to get in your pants, it would’ve ended that second time you met, when he was sober and at the bar. He wouldn’t have bothered to keep hounding you.

It’s the way you look at him like he’s just Lando, not the man on every billboard. It’s the way you call him out on his bullshit, the way you refuse to laugh at his terrible jokes, the way you chew on your straw when you’re tipsy and overthinking. It’s the way you make him feel seventeen again, half-drunk on adrenaline and dizzy with wanting. The way he turns clumsy and nervous and utterly gone for someone who could shatter him with a word.

And when you come back from the bathroom, eyes lost until they land on him, when you light up like the fucking sun just because he’s looking at you…Lando feels his knees damn near buckle.

“There you are,” you tease, somewhat out of breath from dancing, “thought you were supposed to be the life of the party. Disappointing.”

“Yeah? You gonna dance with me, sweetheart, or just torture me from across the room all night?”

Your mouth comes dangerously close to his ear. “You look thirsty.” You press your drink into his hand. “Try not to choke.”

“You’re fucking killing me.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I really do.”

“You know what I keep thinking about?” His fingers trail up your spine, making you shiver. “How fast I could get you out of this dress. How good you’d sound falling apart for me. How bad I want you right now.”

He feels your body react to the words. “Lando,” you warn, “behave.”

“Not a chance, baby.”

Max whistles as he passes, wiggling his eyebrows. “You two gonna come to the afters, or are you skipping straight to dessert?”

“I’m a bartender, Max, I am the afters,” you laugh, shaking your head. Then, lower, so Max doesn’t hear, “c’mon. I owe you a dance.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

(SMUT STARTS HERE)

You step into the elevator, your heels clicking against the polished floor. Lando follows, eyes hungry, already deprived of what he’s been begging for the entire car ride. You know you’re going to regret holding him off. Well, it’s going to be enjoyable on your part.

“Did you plan this, or are you just cruel by nature?”

You turned your head away, as not to distract him from the road. Who’s flustered now?”

His fingers slid a little bit higher. “You want me dead? Well, you’ll get your wish if you keep acting like this.”

The car jolted forward. Lando’s hand tightened instinctively on your thigh. God, his hands were too close to your core. You meant to shift away. If he knew how wet you are, it’d be the end of your ego and dignity.

“Lando.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rasped, “I know, I know.” But his hand was still there, his thumb tracing idle, maddening circles against your skin.

The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal the plush hallway. It doesn’t matter that you’re not inside the suite yet. Lando’s decided it’s close enough to get started, plump lips on yours. He tastes like the last drink you mixed for him and you feel a flush of pride at that. He’s what you make him, isn’t he?

Your arrogance doesn’t last very long, because he smirks against your mouth when he draws out a lewd moan. Fucking hell. Lando’s hands roam your body, shoving you against the walls as the two of you stumble to the door. Hopefully, you’re not causing too much of a commotion for the neighbors.

“Lando—” you choke out. He has a special reaction to his name, a brief moment of lucidity, and the door is finally open. He spins you around, pushing you against the door in order to close it.

His fingers find the hem of your dress, hiking it up to reveal your bare thighs.

“Lando!” you hiss again, “what are you doing?”

There are no more questions out of you, though, because you’re rendered to brief whimpers as his fingers brush against your entrance. He’s shoved your panties aside in the haste to get to you. Almost as an afterthought, he loops two fingers around each side and pulls them down your legs. You step out of them and allow him to resume.

He’s back at your folds, fingers sliding up and down the wetness, almost in preparation. Having collected enough lubricant, he dips inside, curling up to hit that sweet spot. It’s astounding, really, how easily he did so. As if he knows you already, inside and out. You sigh, your head falling back against the door, gaze falling away from him. In, out, in, out. You hear nothing but your own ragged breaths and the sound of his fingers pumping against your slick.

He doesn’t like that. Lando's other hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He angles his hand so he grasps you under the jaw. You can only keep your head up now. “Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers picking up pace.

Your hips buck against his hand, body begging for more.

"Such…a fucking asshole," you pant.

Lando chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and drawing his name, over and over, like that’s enough to bring you to exaltation.

Then he stops, the cruel thing he is. Lando pulls out his hand, leaving you empty, legs bare to the air around you. His fingers are dripping, and he makes sure you watch him as he takes a taste. “Mm. Sweet. Well, come on, sweetheart. Can’t have our first time be against a bloody door.”

God, you’re trembling. You have to hold your thighs together, desperate for friction, desperate for something to be where he once was. He’s ridiculously calm about all of this. You’re the one panting for more, he’s the one in control.

Lando watches as you stand before him, your body flushed with arousal. You know he can see your nipples, hardening under the dress’s sheer fabric. You didn’t wear a bra tonight. Bold choice. He’s noticing now, by the growing bulge in his pants.

"Clothes off," he commands. “I want to see you."

You hesitate for a moment, then your fingers fumble for the dress and yank down the flimsy material in one go. Lando's gaze never leaves you. He sits on the edge of the bed expectantly.

"Come here.”

You obey. You look at him, swollen lips, dark eyes, and wonder if he’s about to kiss you again.

“On your knees.”

Oh.

The words sink in. Want tightens, low in your belly. You drop, hands brushing the floor for balance, a shiver curling up your back as the cool air hits your skin.

How long has it even been since you’ve given a blowjob? You can barely remember, and that sharp flicker of panic slices through your arousal. What if it’s not good enough? What if this isn’t enough to hold him here?

No. You can’t have that. Now that you’ve finally let yourself give in, you’re going to make the most of it. Make him happy. Make him stay. God knows what you’d do without him, now you’ve gotten used to him. It’d be like trying to give up an addiction once you’re already useless without it.

You lift your eyes, fingers brushing lightly over his waistband. The way he looks at you—half-wild, like you’ve undone something inside him—makes the nerves fade a little. You work his belt loose, the sound of leather sliding through metal too much to bear. It only makes you think about what that belt would sound like against your skin. Stop daydreaming. He’s right there.

Above you, Lando’s breath hitches. When you glance up through your lashes, his hand is flexing at his side as a way of holding himself.

“Fuck…” he grunts, “baby, get on with it. Please.” His eyes are pinned to you, disbelieving. Like your mouth on his cock is something he’s wanted too long, and can’t quite believe he’s finally getting. You ease him free, feeling the weight of him in your hand. Bigger than what you’ve had before, definitely. You’d say six and a half, seven? Seven and a half? It’s hard to compare when your mind is so foggy.

“Look at you.” His thumb brushes your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth and prying open. “So fucking pretty like this.”

The praise hits you hard. Wetness pools again. Fuck. Such a tease. You let him guide your pretty mouth to his hardened erection, and lick at it, just a bit. You his breath punch out a muttered curse, his hips jerking just slightly.

“Jesus—”

You move slowly at first, widening your mouth and taking in him, bit by bit. You find your rhythm, your tongue tracing delicate patterns, learning every twitch of his body. Every choked-off sound that spills from his throat is a sign that you’re doing good, a beautiful sound you’re going to be replaying the next time you’re alone in your room. His fingers thread into your hair, tight enough to sting. For a second you wonder if he’s going to pull you back, but he just holds you there.

You try something new. You lick a slow line along the underside, feeling him twitch in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you, the muscles jumping as he swears again.

“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his hair teased with sweat that trickles down his neck. He’s golden, even now, a god in your palm. All yours to toy with. You have no doubt that if you asked for anything right now, he’d give it. His chest heaves, a flushed pink creeping down his body. He’s not even undressed yet and you can only dream about what’s under that shirt.

When you take him deeper, hitting the back of your throat, his whole body jolts. You hear a choked sound breaking out of him. The sound reverberates through his whole body, and in turn, through yours.

“Look at you,” he pants. You’re drooling a little from his sheer girth and he wipes it away. “So good for me, fuck! So good, baby.” You bob your head up and down, ignoring the urge to gag, trying to take his whole length. That does it.

“Shit—shit—baby—” His fingers yank hard on your head, wanting even more of you, wanting to fill you all the way, so nothing can ever come between you two. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—wait—”

He comes in your mouth, hot and salty. You have to move your head back so you don’t choke on all of him. You’re sure some of it makes it out of your mouth, drips onto your chin. He doesn’t mind. Lando drags you up roughly.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him. On the taste of him in your mouth, on the way his hands grip your hips like he’ll die if you move even an inch away, on the broken sounds that slip out of him like he’s never been this unmade.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice shaking, mouth grazing your jaw, your cheek, your temple like he’s blessing you with every kiss. “No one’s ever—”

And you realize it’s not even about sex, not anymore. This arrangement? Fuck, all the little details are lost in every moment you spend with him. He murmurs mine, mine, mine between half-kisses like a prayer.

“God.” Lando says, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. Really, it’s mixed with his, the culmination of whatever the hell this is. “You’ve fucking ruined me.”

You’re ruined right alongside him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs weak, lips parted. This hasn’t even started yet. No desperate, gasping stretch of bodies fitting together. You’ve only gotten the slightest taste of him, he only the slightest of you. There’s so much you don’t know yet, so much to discover.

“Come here. You’re mine, yeah? Say you’re mine.”

Your hands clutch at his shirt. “Yours.”

The sound he makes at that nearly undoes you both.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now it’s hours later. You’ve lost track of time. His shirt’s somewhere near the minibar, your dress is long discarded. The sheets are twisted, dirty, pulled halfway off the bed. Lando’s asleep. His arm is locked tight around your waist. Unconsciously, his head is still in the crook of your neck. You can feel him, his breath hot against your skin, and judging by how ragged he sounds, someone’s having fun in his dreams.

His fingers keep sliding over your skin, as if the act calms him.

“Baby, baby,” you whisper. You can’t do this either. Might as well get him up, let him have the real thing. “Baby.” You turn around and the loss of contact is enough to wake him. His eyes flutter open, dazed, beautifully clear.

He croaks your name, the one thing he’s certain of. His lips graze yours, then your shoulder.

You’re drunk on him. The warmth of his skin, the way his hands know exactly where to go, the softness under all that cocky charm. You haven’t left the room in days. Neither has he. You reach back, threading your fingers through his messy curls, and Lando groans, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck.

There’s a knock at the door. You both freeze, blinking at each other. You’ve forgotten anyone else exists.

“I’ll—I’ll get it,” he says, voice hoarse. Lando scrambles into sweatpants, hair sticking up wildly. You admire the view, the way his chest peeks out under the hastily buttoned shirt. He opens the door just enough to grab the tray, mumbling something to the waiter you can’t hear, and then he’s kicking the door shut again. He’s grinning like an idiot.

“Saved the day,” he says, collapsing onto the bed beside you. “Hero.”

The food goes mostly ignored. Fries are stolen between kisses; champagne is knocked over onto the carpet, bubbling and forgotten. He feeds you a piece of a burger with his fingers, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, asking for permission. You allow him, swallow the food, and yet his thumb lingers. His eyes are wide and pleading.

God, you’d do anything for him.

You glance up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Hours after his last orgasm, his pupils are once again blown wide, lips parted slightly. Slowly, you part your lips and let his thumb slip inside, just a little, your tongue barely grazing the pad.

The sound Lando makes is low in his throat, instant. His free hand fists the sheets, knuckles going white.

“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again. “Sweetheart…”

You pull his thumb deeper, hollow your cheeks a little, tongue brushing lazy circles over the tip. Your teeth grazing just enough to make him flinch and tighten his grip on the bed. You know exactly what it’s doing to him.

“So pretty for me, all for me.” he says. When you finally release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, his control snaps. His hands are on you in an instant, dragging you into his lap, kissing you open-mouthed, messy.

You can feel him, hard and aching beneath you. Lando’s not the only eager one here. You roll your hips, trying to find the right feeling. You rise up just enough to tug his sweats down, both of you breathless with laughter and gasps, trembling with how bad you need this, need each other. He’s perfect, red and angry, glistening with pre-cum.

Of course, this is no longer the first time. Your bodies know each other, have found the map to ecstasy. You sink onto him in one smooth plunge, swallowing him whole. Lando curses low and sharp, head falling back against the pillows.

You move slowly at first, a teasing roll of your hips. You spell his name, starting with the ‘L,’ a long roll downwards, then jerking to the side. It has him nearly sobbing beneath you, but you can’t stay slow for long. He bucks up into you, chasing every drag and slide. You hear his skin on yours, a slapping noise that reverberates around the room, his voice underneath you, pleading, praising, cursing. You bounce in his lap, legs on both sides of him.

And when it’s over, when you’re both boneless and shaking in the sheets, Lando’s hand slides lazily up your spine, caging you close. He starts, “oh, sweetheart, you’re—” but the words fall away.

You’re both still catching your breath when his phone, forgotten on the nightstand, starts to buzz insistently.

Lando groans, trying to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing.

Finally, he gives up and blindly grabs for it.

“Hello?” He winces. “Oh. Hi, yeah. Yeah, I know.”

You watch him, propped on one elbow, smiling as you stroke a hand down his chest. You draw little hearts on his abdomen, watching him breathe sharply with every ticklish sensation. He shoots you a helpless look as your hand wanders lower.

He says again into the phone, “I know I can’t stay in Miami forever…yeah, okay, okay, I promise.” Lando throws the phone to the side. “I can’t, technically, but I can bring you around, yeah?”

“Don’t talk about work,” you feign a yawn. “It’s boring me.”

“Oh yeah? Does this bore you?” he drawls, before shifting further away from you, towards the end of the bed. You raise your eyebrows, unsure of where this is going, before he pulls one of your legs across him, sitting you firmly on his face. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

His tongue laps at you and you squeal.

(SMUT ENDS HERE)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re hunched over your laptop on the hotel balcony, knees tucked to your chest. The blue glow of the screen painting your face. Hot air sticks to your skin, plastering your hair across your forehead. Your inbox is overflowing, your Google doc blinking a half-finished sentence back at you, and every five minutes your school portal pings another notification. One of your professors has flagged your last assignment as ‘significantly late.’ You close the tab fast. That might make it less real.

Inside, the room is still dark. Although it’s nearly noon, blackout curtains are drawn shut. Lando’s sprawled across the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single deadline to his name. He probably doesn’t.

“Come back to bed,” he calls, not looking up.

You shake your head. “I need to finish this. I’m behind.”

Then: “Behind on what? You’re on vacation, sweetheart. You’re with me.”

“I still have work,” you say, and a little bit of temper makes its way through to your voice. “Just because you hauled me off to another country doesn’t mean my life disappeared.”

You hear the sheets rustle. Then he’s there, barefoot and warm behind you, crouching down so his chin rests on your shoulder. He kisses just below your jaw, softly, and the resulting absence only deepens your craving.

Lando murmurs, “you’re always working. Even when you’re with me.”

You stiffen. “That’s because I have a degree I need to get. I can’t afford to screw this up, Lando.”

His arms slip down, under your arms, around your waist, and he nudges the laptop closed with one finger.

“Hey,” he says, “no one’s asking you to screw anything up. But you’ve been so stressed. You haven’t smiled properly in days.” His lips brush your collarbone. “Don’t you want to just breathe for a second?”

You hesitate. You want to say no, because breathing for a second is not going to help you get anything done. You want to say this is important. But Lando has a voice of silk, wrapping around your ribs, and the laptop is already closed. He shifts so he’s in front of you, and now his hands are warm on your thighs, slowly maneuvering upwards, upwards.

“I can help you. Just take a break. Come lay down with me. We’ll get someone to handle whatever you’re behind on. I’ll make some calls. Easy.”

“You can’t just make calls to fix my classes.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lando says. It’s a joke, but not really. “Baby, you don’t need to kill yourself over a few grades. You have me now.”

“I like working,” you say. It sounds weak.

He kisses you again, on your cheek. Both your hands are in his. “You like overthinking.”

“Come on. Ten minutes. No school. No stress. Just me.”

Ten minutes of heaven. Ten minutes turn into twenty, thirty, and you’re in Lando’s bed for at least an hour before you check the clock, maybe longer. He’s in the shower. Your phone buzzes on the pillow beside you.

mara(malade) babe you can’t be dying on me

mara(malade) hellloooo?

mara(malade) ANSWER MY FT

You answer, flipping the camera up too fast, revealing the luxurious headboard and the messy room behind you. There’s evidence of room service on the nightstand, a folded tablecloth under unused cutlery. Mara clocks it immediately.

“No. Are you in his hotel room again?”

You push your hair out of your face. “Yeah, just for a bit.”

“Don’t shit me.”

“I’m writing,” you lie, moving the laptop slightly to show the open doc, never mind that it’s been untouched for hours. “I’m almost done.”

“Dan told me you missed discussion again. Twice.” Dan is Mara’s boyfriend, a few years younger, and he’s in your class. What a snitch. You didn’t think he’d be watching your every action.

“I’ve been traveling. It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch up—”

Mara frowns. A little crease forms between her brows. “Babe, you said that last week. I’m just worried.”

You shift, tugging the blanket up higher even though it’s not cold. “I’m fine. I’m going home after this one. Just this race.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m not going to drop everything for some guy, okay?”

You hate how Mara looks at you. She doesn’t believe you. Her eyes are tired, emphasized by the smudged eyeliner she likes to wear, like she’s already mourning something you haven’t lost yet.

Behind you, the bathroom door clicks open. Lando walks out, a towel slung low on his hips. Steam curls out around him. He sees you on the phone and mouths who is it?

You wave him off and turn back to Mara. “I’ve got to go. We’re leaving for the track soon.”

Mara’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks more resigned. “Okay. Text me tonight, okay?”

“I will.”

You hang up before she can say anything else. Lando’s standing at the end of the bed now, rubbing his hair dry with another towel, bare chest still damp.

“Everything good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just Mara being dramatic.”

“Come here,” he says. “Come here.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara’s voice had been calm on the phone, but her words weren’t. “Just come back for a little. A week. You’re slipping, and I don’t mean your mental state—God, I don’t even want to touch on that. Babe, please. You’re scared to check your grades, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer that part. You just sighed and said, “Okay. Yeah. Maybe a few days.”

When you told Lando, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a while, not moving, and you were a little scared why you couldn’t read him. Then he nodded, real slowly. “Right. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s just a week.”

“Sure.”

You tried to kiss him before you left and he let you. His hands stayed in his pockets, though, and he turned away before you got into the car.

You feel it as soon as you land. A few hours pass with no text from him. No morning check-in, no “you up?” not even a dumb joke. You text him first. He replies and it’s short.

lan have fun with your school thing

You stare at your phone, heat prickling the back of your neck. Is he mad? He said it was okay. You try again later, sending a photo of the library, something neutral. This time, he doesn’t reply.

You lie awake that night wondering if you should’ve just stayed. If this means he’s over it. Over you.

You check your phone again. Still nothing. And you’re cold in your own bed, wondering when your own life started to feel less like yours and more like something you borrowed from him.

From your manager:

“Hope your break was fun. Let me know how many extra days you’ll be taking. If you’ll be back.”

You sit frozen in your desk chair, rereading the line over and over. You hadn’t even realized how many days you were gone. You think of Miami and Emilia Romagna as a blur of cameras, hotel sheets, and Lando’s breath against your skin. You think of how quiet it is now. How he hasn’t even texted today.

From your professor:

“Please come by office hours ASAP. I’m concerned about your last two assignments.”

You close the laptop. Everything feels loud. Your room looks like someone else’s now, dust on untouched things, half-opened drawers. You haven’t unpacked. You haven’t even told your friends much—ha! Aren’t you a regular comedian, what friends are you talking about? Mara? And maybe that one other co-worker who kept getting the same shifts as you, Lils? Mara, Mara, who has been so good to you. Mara keeps sending messages, checking in. You brush her off, saying it’s okay. You’re not sure if you believe that.

Lando hasn’t called. It’s worse without him here, without the promise that he can make it go away with a little wave of his finger. No. Fuck him. If he can’t even call, he can go with Magui and make her problems go away. You can do this. You haven’t needed him up until now—why does it have to change?

You show up to Professor Wilk’s office five minutes early. You tap your fingers against your folder, trying to remember what it feels like to be someone who’s on top of her work. Her door creaks open before you knock. “Come in,” she says. Her voice reveals nothing, but you know she’s already seen your grades. You sit down stiffly across from her desk.

“I’ll get right to it. You’ve been slipping.”

You open your mouth. No excuse comes. Nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous, at least. Sorry, I was off on vacation with my sugar daddy. Sorry, he said he would solve it and I believed him. At least until I realized the problem was big enough and maybe I should take care of it myself instead of crawling back into his bed. Sorry.

“I know the beginning of the term was strong,” she continues, looking at your file. “You wrote one of the best first essays I’ve read this year. And now you’re missing half your citations. You left a whole section blank.”

You swallow. All she’s saying is true. “I’ve been dealing with some things.”

Professor Wilk nods. “We all do. I’m not here to punish you. But I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

You hesitate. You think of telling her that you flew across the world with a man who called you sweetheart before he called you anything else, who you knew first as a wreck that couldn’t get himself out of a pub. That you forgot what day it was because he kissed you like it was the end of the world, like there was nothing else he had to do. That your job is probably gone and your friends are worried and you haven’t had a proper thought to yourself in weeks. That it’s all been Lando this and Lando that and Lando please come back.

You tell her, “I’ve been distracted.”

“I can see that. I’m going to offer you a rewrite. A clean slate for your last essay. But I want to see you in my office every week until finals. Deal?”

You nod. “Deal.” Already, you’re wondering how you’re going to manage this. Lando’s not going to fly you back every week, is he? There must be limits to even his abilities.

She watches you for a moment longer. Gently, she says, “Don’t lose yourself for someone else. You’re too smart for that.”

You wonder if she knows. Not exactly who, maybe, unless she’s seen the tabloids. After all, Lando Norris isn’t exactly nobody in Bristol. But the way you look right now, tired, expensive sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to you, the faint shadow of a bruise under your collar…maybe she doesn’t have to know everything to know enough.

You leave the office quietly.

lan everything okay

You pause and stare at the singular message. There are no question marks, even though he’s asking things. And this is the first time he’s texted. Maybe three days since he responded. What does he want now?

you she offered me a rewrite

lan great

you but i have to meet w her every week

The read receipt pops up almost immediately. No reply, though, and you know what this means. He only confirms it.

lan so you’re staying longer?

you only a few more days i want to get things under control

lan ok then, sweetheartdon’t let them stress you out yk you don’t have to prove anything to them

you i know

lan come back when you’re ready

lan or just come back now

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: part 1! i have beef with tumblr, why did it make me split my beautiful story into two parts.

#formula one #lando norris x reader #max verstappen x reader #f1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #mv1 #ln4 #lando norris #max verstappen #fanfic #oikarma ᯓᡣ𐭩

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desireangel · 10 months ago

Text

Dark Cherry [2] | Aemond Targaryen

Part Two

Summary: after months of a marriage that hardly harbours the passion that you'd dreamed about, you stumble across the reason for your husband's indifference and decide enough is enough. Aemond will learn just exactly what he's been missing out on.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader and also some Aemond x some random girly pop ;o

Word Count: (I'm... sorry?) 7.1k

Warnings: smut - mdni 18+!!! UNEDITED!! infidelity, kinda angsty? second-hand smut? power struggle both in bed and out, reader is a cheeky voyeur, oral (f receiving), thigh riding, degradation, Aemond is a fucking asshole but he's sexy, talk of masturbation. as always, let me know if I have missed anything!

Author's note: Entirely unedited because here I am posting this at 2:30AM having just finished writing this bad boy even though I have to be up for work at 7:30. yay :/. Anyways, thank you all so much for the love on this series so far! I'm thinking there could potentially be some more to come. Reader ain't done with her revenge so soon. I will reblog with the taglist tomorrow! or today I guess--after I've had some sleep! I would also love to hear your thoughts!! So pls hmu in my inbox to chat abt things xoxo kisses!!!! <3

Masterlist!

Part One

Distancing yourself from Aemond was not a difficult task. You’d barely see much of him aside from the meals you shared and your occasional stroll through the gardens anyway. It still felt odd, knowing that you were avoiding him when only days ago you had been grasping at whatever crumb of his attention you could reach.

His existence was ghostly. Always talked about but never seen and it made it remarkably easy to ignore him. You spent most days between your chambers and Helaena’s, idly passing time with embroidery and small talk. But you were distracted - your mind foggy and your usual grace and poise replaced by clumsiness and a constant flustered jumpiness.

It was always on your mind. Always.

Your mind was a problem of its own and as soon as you lay down amongst your sheets for a night of sleep, it took you back to the memory of your name lewdly falling from Aemond’s lips. As days had passed, you could have convinced yourself it was a hallucination - an odd dream of some sort.

And while it had become muscle memory for your hand to find your soaked sex at the midnight hour, the scene of your alluring husband in the throes of pleasure bringing you to a quick peak, the first two nights had been marred with silent tears of humiliation, hurt, betrayal–jealousy and anger.

Maybe it was for the best that you had not seen the face of the whore in his private chambers. If you had any idea of who she was, you would have had half a mind to have sought her out and suffocated her yourself.

You had to remind yourself that if she were, in fact, a whore then you could hardly let yourself seriously consider choking a woman out for simply doing her job.

Frustration was an understatement. No matter how hard you tried, there was nothing that you could do which would calm the mix of emotions inside you. You considered declaring Aemond’s infidelity at dinner–or even at the small feast that was held two nights ago. But it wouldn’t be enough and it was too early to show your hand.

If you had come out and made it known to all at Court, nothing would happen. At all.

Most husbands take on whores and mistresses. And despite the pain and hurt of it that the wives suffer, it’s simply accepted as the way things are. Men are innately animals and so they must fuck like it too. So nobody would bat an eyelid at Aemond. Instead, you knew that they’d turn it on you in one way or another.

On the sixth day, you were surprised when Ser Tunsley knocked on your door to announce your husband’s presence. When Aemond took a seat at the small table where you usually shared your breakfast, he barely spared you more than an inquisitive look before telling your handmaid to bring your breakfasts promptly.

Aemond leaned back, letting his legs rest comfortable but still maintained his effortlessly flawless posture. He reached for the book that lay forgotten on the side-table, holding it open with one hand and his other arm stretching over the back of the seat beside him, where you sat all tense and surprised. A barely-there frown crossed your face at the foreign gesture and you willed yourself not to think much of it.

You would have fumbled to snatch the book from his hands, if this had been a week earlier. But it wasn’t, and with a curious and conniving sense of calm, you let him read the first page of a story riddled with obscenity and romance. The first couple chapters were perfectly appropriate.

The prince looked at you with a gentle tilt of his head, unmoving aside from . “You have been withdrawn.”

Silence. You were sitting beside him, unable to meet his eye as you usually would, scoffing so softly at his words that he almost mistook it for a cough.

Aemond, who was far more observant of you than he knew you believed him to be, found that he was bothered by it. Whether it was because of the loss of the devotion that he had always seen in your doe-eyed gaze, or the flippant shift in your attitude, he did not want to know.

“Have I done something that has bothered you, dear wife?” His eye returned to the book and moved from one side of the page to the other as he read.

Aemond clearly did not see you watching them on that night. The fact that you had faced no repercussions for sneaking up on him and eavesdropping on such a moment was enough confirmation of that.

But Aemond’s presence re-ignited the red hot resentment you had for his actions and the hurt that you felt because of him. How any man could seek out the company of his wife for the first time in a week, sit beside her and pretend so shamelessly as if he cared for the repercussions of his own vile actions was beyond you.

Nonetheless, you forced a polite smile onto your lips and turned slightly to face him better. You let his question linger in the air between you as the maid returned, placing a plate of cheeses, fruits and an assortment of breads on the table in front of you.

Thanking her, you reached to pour yourself a cup of the sweet vanilla and rose tea that had become your favourite part of your mornings in the Keep. When you answered his question, it was purposefully less than what Aemond was seeking.

“I have been ill, lord husband,” you murmured. When you rested against the back of the seat, you tensed at the feeling of Aemond’s arm grazing your shoulder. You had forgotten it was there.

Your reaction to his proximity and while you had initially been shy around him–not so much since you had started your little performance–, you never flinched away from his touch.

Aemond placed the book down beside him and hummed in thought. He reached over you, to take a piece of fresh bread for his plate and to put some fruit on your plate, his chest pressing against your shoulder and his hair brushing past your nose.

If you had moved, just an inch, your lips would be against the milky skin of his throat. Despite your disdain for your husband, you could hear the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears and stopped yourself from dragging your fingers through his hair and tracing your lips across his jaw.

There was an unfamiliar sense of purpose behind what he was doing. It dawned on you that he knew what he was doing. The bread was already on his plate but the son of a bitch placed the fruits piece by piece on your plate, his movements lazy.

He smelled like lavender, leather and dragon smoke. Like an intoxicating drug that overwhelmed your mind until piety and sin were indiscernible. It was far too easy for you to see Aemond as more godly than just a mere man, to feel the need to worship him in the most sinful ways you could imagine.

No man in any realms was as strong, as beautiful, as terrifying, as educated as the prince who breathed fire onto your skin. And he was your prince.

A drop in your stomach was the least of your problems when the image of Aemond enjoying another woman’s passion invaded your thoughts. You wondered if his scent drove her just as mad as it made you and you had the urge to drive a knife through Aemond’s hand for you knew he’d have let her indulge in him.

But when he looked at you, his violet eye a mask of indifference yet still failing to hide something that you couldn’t for the life of you put into words, you hated that your desire for him burned just as strong as your rage.

Aemond’s eye met yours, humming in thought as he brought a cherry to his lips and glancing down at your own. He took a bite out of it first and then brought it to your mouth, dragging the open side across your bottom lip. The soft fruit dripped delicately onto your chin and left a stain on your perfect lips. The sight of you with reddened lips, gazing up at him with blown out pupils, shining with an uncorrupted devotion and a pure desire sent his blood rushing.

The cherry was sweet and chilled, a stark contrast to the darkened, heated want that Aemond watched you with. And again, you had an urge to ignore everything and take what it was that you had been hoping Aemond would give you. You obediently took the cherry into your mouth, holding his gaze, chewing the flesh of the fruit and rolling the pip on your tongue.

When you looked hard enough into Aemond’s eye, you could see the reflection of yourself morph into a reflection of the unnamed woman and you turned from him, turning away to drop the pip of the cherry onto a napkin.

Aemond’s hand fell softly to rest on your knee and he only moved back a nudge. You refused to meet his eye but you could feel his warm breath on your cheek as he spoke, his voice slightly strained yet still calm and smooth. “I’ll send for a maester.”

“Thank you,” you pushed the words out of your mouth and nodded towards the food. “You should eat your breakfast, my prince.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow as you rolled your eyes at him and slid back into his previous posture, sitting against the backrest of his own seat. An infuriating grin played on his lips. “Don’t worry about my breakfast. Why did you roll your eyes at me?”

You rolled your eyes again. “As if I cannot call for a maester myself.”

It crossed your mind that you could have told him right now of what you had seen. And the urge to scream at him became so strong you almost did.

But what would come of it? Not enough. Aemond would only offer you an apology if you were lucky and carry on as if nothing was amiss. Because that is just how it is for husbands–they could cheat and lie all they please to no consequence. And you wanted him to regret the moment he chose to disrespect you.

You wanted him to suffer for it. To feel as insulted, as embarrassed and as inferior as you have.

So he would suffer. But you had to be patient if you were to make it hurt.

A thought crossed your mind as Aemond said something you didn’t quite hear, with that unbothered expression he had mastered years ago.

He didn’t linger long after that. You ate your breakfast in silence, while Aemond, much to your distaste, finished the first chapter of your book. And when he finally left, he took it with him, giving you a knowing smirk as he tucked it under his arm.

One punch. Surely, you would be entitled to that.

Initially, the idea of seducing Jason Lannister was a gruesome one. But upon hearing of his prolonged and unbusy presence at King’s Landing, you recognised an opportunity as it presented itself to you. Simply because of pride and ego, there were few men who enjoyed the idea of his wife turning to another man for what they could not provide.

Alas, if there was any part of Aemond that made him weak, it was his pride and his arrogance.

And so here you were, enjoying your afternoon tea with the Lannister twin, listening to stories of his life at Casterly Rock. You made sure the house staff had known of Lannister’s presence and that the Kingsguard were well aware of the pot of tea you shared in the Courtyard. Easily within sight of where you knew Aemond was training with Ser Cole and some other men you had no interest in knowing.

For the past thirty minutes, you could feel him watching you. But when you lifted your head to look, pretending to the man across from you that you were interested in watching your husband train, Aemond would turn away. Yet he finally seemed to have finally had enough and you could see him walking over from behind Jason, his shoulders stiffer than usual with a sour expression.

“This tea,” you covered your mouth gently, letting out the remnants of a laugh that had been pulled from you. If you were being honest, Jason Lannister was turning out to be surprisingly fun company and the smile you had expected to fake ended up being real. Not bothering to look at Aemond, who was much closer now, you held your teacup towards the Lord Lannister with a pretty, sultry smile. “It is incredible–I’ve loved it so much, t’is the only tea I will drink. Have a taste of mine, I insist.”

With a look of blatant excitement, Jason leaned into where you held the cup, fingers grazing yours as he held the cup but never took it out of your hold and took a sip. It was slightly awkward, the way his eyes held onto yours, but you brightened your smile nonetheless.

Aemond visibly inhaled a sharp breath and cleared his throat, covering the both of you in a dark shade. The prince was looming over Lannister, who never looked away from you even as you peeled your eyes away from him with exaggerated difficulty to meet Aemond’s eye. You dropped your smile so slightly that only Aemond could notice.

There was a tense, awkward silence that lingered. Lannister’s head tilted ever so slightly and a wave of annoyance ran through you at the cocky tilt of his head regardless of the fact that it was exactly what you needed him to do. The two men stared at each other, Aemond’s typical dark repose and Lannister’s challenging chagrin at the disruption.

“How nice of you to join us, my prince,” you beamed. “Lord Lannister has been sharing this pot of tea with me. It’s lovely to enjoy some company for once.”

You took pleasure in the way he squared his shoulders at your remark. Lannister snickered but was quick to cover it up with a cough at Aemond’s narrowed eye.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Aemond’s voice was sharp. “I happen to have some time on my hands before I take Vhagar to flight, lady wife. Perhaps you would care to join me for a stroll through the gardens?”

Aemond was behind you in a blink, tugging your chair back gently into himself and holding a hand out to help you stand. The air around you became soft lavender and leather and something very Aemond. And despite the slight flutter of your eyelids, you straightened and held strong.

Weakness would get you nowhere. You were out here for a reason and no matter how strong the pull was, your lust to hurt him back was much stronger.

You shook your head gently, looking at Jason who seemed to stiffen under the prince’s eye. “What kind of host would I be if I were to abandon Lord Lannister? Considering it was I who invited him to tea. We can enjoy the gardens another time, my prince.”

The fire in Aemond’s eye rivalled Vhagar’s. It gave you a sense of satisfaction that was much unlike yourself and you wondered how he’d burn with rage if you decided to take Jason to your bed. You’d lose everything you had to your name but you knew it would not be difficult to convince yourself that it’d be worth it.

Jason Lannister was no fool. He understood the wrath of the Targaryen prince but he knew that you would never be subjected to the extent of it. As much as Prince Aemond pretended he did not care, the Lords and counsellors of the Red Keep knew that he had his weaknesses. At the end of the day, Aemond would not dishonour himself by tarnishing the image of his pious, kind wife who was loved by all.

Lannister also had his doubts about you. Again, he was no fool to fall for whatever game you were playing. An honourable, devoted Lady such as yourself would never actually be so easy to adulterate. Whatever it was, Jason was not against indulging himself in some fun here and there.

But he did prefer to keep his limbs and so he shook his head gently and stood from his seat.

“You have my thanks,” he took your hand in his and placed a kiss on your knuckles. A bold move from a man who could so strongly feel the Prince’s pointed glare. Jason turned and bowed his head gently towards Aemond. “But I fear I have some business to attend to, so do not stay back on my regard. It was lovely to sit with you, my Lady.”

Aemond scoffed loudly as the Lord took his leave. He waited for you to take his hand to help you out of your seat before dropping it to your waist.

“My prince-”

“If you are so starved of company, dear wife,” he drawled, looking straight ahead with a tightened jaw as he led you in the direction of the gardens. It was a habit now, whenever Aemond had you on his arm, to walk that route. Not surprising seeing how it was the only place where you two would see each other apart from your chambers. “I would expect you to call upon me rather than some toady Lord who would certainly misjudge your intentions. I am your husband, am I not?”

The thought of keeping a list of the times he spoke as if he were faithful crossed your mind for barely a second. Aemond was infuriating.

You offered him half of a smile and pulled him back slightly as you came to a stop. “You are. But your mind is never with me and I am well aware your time is far more precious to you than I am.”

If Aemond’s composure was not so ingrained into his existence, he may have spluttered and gawked at you. Instead, he barely frowned.

There was little he could do about the unemotional, unkind man that he had become perceived as. Aemond understood that it was his own actions that meant people viewed him as little less than a monster. And truly, it was how he tried to be perceived.

So why did it disturb Aemond that his own wife thought him so uncaring? He knew he had only himself to blame for it.

“I am afraid a stroll in the gardens will have to wait,” you continued in his silence. Being alone with Aemond was not how you intended to spend the afternoon. The risk that you’d lose your composure and tell him all that you had seen of him was still high. “I am still feeling fairly unwell. It may be better for me to rest in my chambers with a book.”

Aemond knew that you were retracting into yourself, pulling away from him where you would have been at his beck and call only a week ago. He hummed. “Tomorrow then.”

And with that, Aemond escorted you to your chambers in silence. It was hardly two hours that you had spent in the Courtyard with Lord Lannister but it had been tiring nonetheless. The peace and quiet that came with your reprieve from the man that had set your nerves into a frenzy just at the knowledge of his presence while you pressed at his patience was welcome.

A few hours passed slowly in your own company. Dinner was brought to your room at your request. The mere thought of sitting beside your husband and putting on a display for his family exhausted you.

The sounds of footsteps and conversation outside your door pulled your attention from the embroidery you had forced yourself to practise. Your chambers were fairly secluded compared to the rest and so it wasn’t often that anyone wandered this area. Expecting the Queen or your husband to be the source of the noise, you were hastily at the door, a sudden flush of anxiety shooting straight to your gut.

You waited barely five seconds for Ser Tunsley to knock on your door but your impatience pushed you to step out first. There was nobody there. You could see Ser Tunsley stalking away from the direction of the private chambers. You didn’t question it, assuming he was probably stepping away for a brief break, given that his position hadn’t been replaced.

Footsteps. Again.

Curiously turning your head in the direction of the sound, you saw a flash of brunette hair and a dark grey dress. Fuck.

It was impossible not to recognise her. Even as she walked away from you and clearly in the direction of Prince Aemond’s chambers, you knew who she was.

So with one final glance back into your room you followed her, thankful that you were barefoot so that your own footsteps couldn’t be heard. Even though your body was running hot with a mixture of heartache and rage, there was an icy stiffness that had spread from the back of your neck to your shoulders as you rounded a single corner after her and helplessly watched her enter Aemond’s chambers.

You held back tears. She had left the door open. Again. It did little to ease the knot in your throat when you realised that while she may be good enough for Aemond with her mouth, she was not the smartest.

Unable to move, you stood planted in that one spot a few feet away for what must have been ten minutes before you heard the same shuffling and muffled voices. You could hear her more clearly this time and it took you another two minutes to build the courage to see, once again, how Aemond dishonoured you.

If the circumstances were different, it may have been one of the sexiest sights you had ever laid your eyes upon. But it struck you in a way you couldn’t have expected and it took all of your willpower to stay standing.

But what else had you expected?

This time, the woman was sprawled out, her head hanging off of the bed and if her eyes weren’t screwed shut in bliss then she would have been looking directly at you. Her left hand gripped the sheets and the other was tangled amongst Aemond’s silver hair, her thighs on either side of his head.

Gods, you had never known anything like it.

Aemond was devouring her like he had been starved of her for weeks (you knew he hadn’t), the obscene sounds of his mouth against her sex striking you with distress. He held her down as she writhed against him, a strong, clothed arm keeping her in place at her waist.

You had hardly been watching them for thirty seconds and you didn’t even have time to consider turning around and walking away to save yourself the misery.

Because Aemond’s eye opened and he gazed straight through his lashes, lifting his head so he was looking directly at you. A piercing violet eye accompanied by a glimmering sapphire that watched you dangerously, as if he had seen you standing there the entire time and this was all entertaining to him.

For what may well have been the tenth time that night, you couldn’t move. You stood at the door, chest heaving and jaw slack as you felt a tightness in your throat. How could you feel so powerless in a game you managed to believe you had the upperhand in?

Aemond still held your eyes with his own, pulling away from the whore he was toying with, and fucking smirked.

Like things were going exactly how he had planned.

Red. And a loud gasp and then panic and a flash of arousal and all of a sudden you were running back to your chambers, falling to your knees over your empty bathtub and dry heaving. It was all too much.

The shock, the fear, the jealousy, the fear.

And it dawned on you as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Ignoring your arousal–you cursed your body for reacting faster than your mind once again–panic continued to flood your veins like an ice-cold burn.

Aemond had definitely seen you watching. But had he known all along?

It made no sense. Did he see you that night when he moaned your name instead of that damned woman’s?

You couldn’t even be sure how long Aemond had stared at you from his spot, his attention diverted entirely from the nameless woman, who whined and stirred incessantly at his distraction, to you. Caught like a thief in the act, wide-eyed and dazed.

Aemond knew. And he must have known the entire time. With the way he looked directly to you, as if he were waiting for you. As if Aemond knew exactly where you stood the first night. As if he had finally caught you in his trap.

He wanted you to see.

Aemond had already bested you at your own game with even more cleverness than you. Before you had even started to play.

Sleep did not come easy that night.

You were dressed and ready far earlier than usual the next morning. Even though you dreaded the worst - that Aemond had convened to have you punished for watching as you had, you let your scheme motivate you to take back the control you had lost. If you had ever had it in the first place.

The dress you wore was hardly decent and it left you bare from your chest up, a wide slit running through the skirts. It was a deep green that had a shine to it and clung to your skin, making it clear that you had foregone your smallclothes for the day.

For the sake of decency within the hallway, and because you detested the idea of either of the Cloaks at your doors seeing your attire, you donned a heavy cloak over top. It was Aemond’s; he had left it behind after breakfast once.

Aemond was still asleep when you had talked your way past the guard at his door and pushed through the doors to his chambers. You stood at the foot of his bed, tracing the place where that woman lay with your eyes. Quietly, you dropped the cloak to the floor.

It was your first time in Aemond’s private chambers. And would things have been different, you would have taken the time to observe all the things that made this space his. Instead, your eyes scanned every centimetre of every part of his chambers for any trace of that wretched woman.

There was none. Not a single strand of hair.

You sat at the edge of his plush bed, taking a moment to get your head straight before you stood and walked around to the side of the bed where he lay. The scent of him was overwhelming as you stood above him.

“Well,” Aemond barely moved aside from his lips as he spoke. His eye remained shut. “Look who finally figured it out. Why are you here?”

You let out a drawn out sigh, shivering gently. “I would like to talk.”

Aemond sat up lazily and you noticed he was naked save for the sheet that covered his lap. From the way he was sitting, you stood in between his legs and his head was slightly tilted as he looked at you over the swell of your breasts. His hands found a resting place on your hips and you were hyper-aware of his touch, which felt heavier than boulders and hotter than lava.

He looked at you as if he were ready to devour you. As if Aemond were a man starved of air and you were his only chance at breathing.

The prince let out a hum. “Dressed like this?”

“Since you seem to prefer a whore over your own wife, I figured I would dress akin to one,” you kept your voice stern and stepped further into him so that his chin almost had to rest in the valley of your breasts if he wished to keep his gaze on yours. “If this is what it will take to have your attention.”

Not once did Aemond’s heated stare falter. “I think you are well aware of where my attention lies. What with your childish attempts at seduction.”

“I did not think you cared to take note.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Aemond said, dragging a finger up and down the side of your waist. He enjoyed the soft feel of the fabric and the way your nipples perked through the dress at his touch had him resisting a primal urge to bite. His patience had been astounding thus far but it was wearing thin. “I would have expected that kind of behaviour from a common whore, not a lady such as yourself. You are a princess, after all.”

Trying your best not to squirm under his touch, you held firm in your hardened gaze. “You seem to enjoy whores.”

“I do not.”

You scoffed. “So you have been fucking her just to spite me? Or have you fallen in love?”

“Such filthy language from such a well behaved girl,” he mused. Aemond’s cursed smirk had you holding back from both cutting him and kissing him. “I never would have guessed that my wife is so full of surprises. It seems I do not know you as well as I believed.”

“Answer my question, Aemond.”

“I never fucked her properly, since you insist–”

“As if it makes a difference whether you fucked her cunt or her mouth,” you spat. He was maddening. “You are my husband. I should be the only woman you have in your bed.”

The grip on your hips tightened almost painfully before he brought one hand up to caress your jaw. Aemond didn’t hide the longing he felt, pulling you closer and admiring every inch of your skin tenderly. “If only you had been good and asked me nicely for what you need. Instead of acting like a desperate slut every time we were in the same space. Things could have been so much easier for you, my love.”

Aemond had always spoken to you with respect. And yet here he was, speaking to you as if he already knew exactly what sent your cunt wild with need. He harshly held your chin, forcing you to look up at the roof as he straightened, pressing his nose into the crevice of your neck. The tickle of his hot breath on your skin made you gasp and you felt the velvet of his lips smirking against your throat.

“The whole time,” you panted, bringing your hands to his shoulders and digging your nails into his skin. “You knew. It was-”

“Hm. It was for you.” Aemond let his teeth graze against the dip of your jaw.

There was a fire alight on your skin. You could barely make sense of his words but you forced yourself to hold it together. “You are insane.”

“I was only playing the game that you started,” Aemond chuckled. “Only, I have played it far better than you. Perhaps we are lucky that you did not present more of a challenge, considering I was not above taking her on your bed instead.”

Fuck that. You despised him and loved him and lusted for him all at the same time.

The control you had was slight to begin with but whatever little there was, it was slipping through your fingers. You threaded your fingers through Aemond’s hair–which was silkier than you had expected–and pulled him away from your neck.

When you saw the hunger for you in his eye, the slight pink flush of his cheeks, a warm flood of invigorating energy made it’s way through your veins. You fought the urge to run your hands down his shoulders, his chest, his bicep–any part of him you could reach.

You swallowed thickly. “You should have. I need only one more reason to cut her.”

“I shall have her hanged if that is what you wish.”

For a moment, you thought you might scratch the smug expression off of Aemond’s face. You groaned, pursing your lips at his indifference and squeezing your thighs together at the passion in his eye. “Fuck you, Aemond.”

“I’m going to give you another chance. Ask me nicely to fuck you until all those doubts you have are replaced by the empty space I will fill your pretty little head with,” He pulled at your hips, so that there was no empty space between you, your torso flush to his chest. Aemond felt deathly tense yet strangely relaxed at the feel of you gasping against him. “And we can put an end to this contest. I do regret that I have left you, my wife, unsatisfied but I want you begging first.”

You watched him closely, challenged him with your gaze. There was no chance you would beg and let him win. The air between you was charged with energy, hissing and stinging. It became heavy and despite the way both of you were breathing so heavily, chests rising and falling dramatically, you couldn’t get enough oxygen to fill your lungs.

The thickness in the air only became heavier as you gripped his wrists, and moved slowly so that you straddled his right thigh. Aemond fisted the thin fabric of your dress and when you lightly pressed your leg against the hardness at his crotch, you felt his steady breath against your lips which lingered above his own. The skirts of your dress rode up to your hips.

Lavender, leather and him.

“You want me to ask you nicely, my prince?” You purred, relishing in the way Aemond’s jaw clenched when he felt your bare cunt press against his thigh. It sends a wave of pleasure straight through your body. “You want me to beg you to tear this dress off of me? To fuck me until I can no longer think of any word other than your name? To make me yours properly? Beg you to fuck me how you should have every night since our wedding?”

Aemond’s hands were grasping at the flesh all over your body, pulling at the fabric of your pathetic excuse of a gown until it ripped. There was a weight on his chest that only grew at the sight of your perfect skin through the torn fabric, your nipples slipping into his view.

His voice was low and guttural. “The final chance. Be good and beg.”

“If you wish for me to be good,” you whispered into his ear, moving hastily to grip the back of his neck with one hand and the other holding his chin tightly as he had held yours minutes ago. He let out a strained sound through his teeth as you shifted against his cock, pretending to get comfortable. “You should not have indulged in that whore.”

Aemond scowled at you. And he could have thrown you off of him but his hands continued to scorch the skin on your hips.

You realised you had never been so close to Aemond as you pressed a trail of tender kisses to his jaw. You were infinitely closer to him than all the times you had held onto him while walking the gardes or while he had bedded you with feigned disinterest. And you were aching with want and desire just as he was, your wetness seeping onto Aemond’s thigh.

It was nothing in comparison to the rage that you had pent up. With a gasp you ground down on the strong muscle of his thigh, eyes fluttering at the sensation. Holding back a moan, you rested your forehead against Aemond’s and rocked your hips against him.

You tightened your legs, well aware that Aemond could overpower you and have you under him in seconds. He was allowing you to have your moment and you pulled your hand from his jaw only for it to stay tightly locked as his fingers dug into your hips.

There would be bruises left on your skin for weeks but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, almost groaning out loud when Aemond took control of your movements, pushing and pulling your hips so that your clit rubbed against him perfectly. “Prince Aemond Targaryen. You think you can just do as you like and that there would be no consequences. That I would come crawling back to you so easily?”

A moan slipped from your lips when Aemond shifted his leg. You knew you were getting carried away, that the power you had over him was getting to your head but fuck. It didn’t matter.

You dropped your hand to where Aemond’s cock pressed against one of your thighs, touching him gently over the sheet that covered him. It still surprised you just how perfectly big Aemond was, thick and hard in your palm. And then you held him firmly, rocking your weeping cunt against his thigh even harder when he groaned. It sent shock after shock straight through your core.

“Did you think I would be on my knees for you so easily just like she was?” You spat, whining at the pleasure that was incomparable to the way you had been touching yourself. Aemond hissed as you slid your hand up and then back down so slowly. “After those shows you put on for me, there is not a chance.”

Countermoves. Aemond was good at them, even when struggling to even out his breath and regain his composure. “Tell me, which part did you enjoy the most? Was it when I fucked my seed into her throat? Or when was calling your name?”

You gripped the back of his neck so hard, pushing your soaked pussy harder onto his leg. “Do not-”

Aemond hummed, his grip tightening painfully on your hips as he moved his leg in motion against you. He smirked when you shuddered, caressing your cheek with his nose as he spoke lowly into your ear once again. “I think I know. It was last night, when I had her on my tongue and thought only of how perfect your desperate little cunt would taste instead.”

“Aemond,” you couldn’t help but moan as he rolled your hips deliciously on his thigh. He let out a small, deep laugh at the way you trembled in his hands but you could hear that he was losing himself just as much as you were. “Gods.”

“I wish to know, princess. How many times have you touched yourself since that night, wishing you were in her place?”

You sucked in a breath, rutting against Aemond violently and he only pulled you in harder when you refused to answer his questions. Another moan. “Be quiet, Aemond.”

“Hm,” Aemond nipped at your earlobe. “Do you really want me to stop talking? You know that I can feel how wet it makes your perfect cunt. Desperate little slut.”

Whining and cursing him under your breath, you let yourself really look at him. Aemond’s sapphire eye shone under the early morning light that spilled in from the windows, his eye dark with lust and his jaw clenching as he watched you fall apart on his lap.

Hips buckling as he continued to pull you back and forth on his thigh, spreading your wetness on the soft expanse of his skin, your legs failed to hold your weight and you had clearly resigned to letting Aemond take control of your pleasure.

You were right at the edge and just as you started to ride out your orgasm, Aemond spoke.

“If you do not beg me,” he threatened. “I shall stop.”

“Gods, no–do not sto-”

Aemond held you still in response and no matter how you writhed against his grip, you couldn’t move. He was keeping you at the tipping point, smirking at the way you were gasping for air and squirming on his lap. But he was in no calmer state himself and you could tell his resolve was about to shatter.

“Stand up. I want you on the bed,” He demanded. And when you didn’t move, he let go of your hip to lay a stiff smack to your backside. “Now.”

“No.”

It was almost too easy and you snatched his wrist before he could return it to your hip, moving your hips and rubbing yourself against his leg again now that he only had one hand to try and control you.

Aemond’s leg was slick and your clit was sliding deliciously across his skin. Fingernails dug into the flesh of your hips and you could feel Aemond’s frustration as he yanked his hand out of yours. But you blindly grasped at it again, shockwaves of white hot pleasure striking you suddenly as you came undone, your forehead falling forward to rest on Aemond’s as you let out a loud, drawn out moan.

You shook through your orgasm, holding Aemond tightly. His cock throbbed against your thigh and you almost felt bad.

“You should understand, my prince, if you continue to bring that whore to your bed then I am not above bringing another man to mine.” You struggled to catch your breath and your legs were still trembling as you stood, stepping away to pick up the coat you had dropped to the floor.

Aemond glowered at you, his glare strong enough to have made you crumble before him were you not so high on adrenaline.

“You would not dare,” he all but growled.

“Have I not surprised you enough already, Lord Husband?”

Aemond stood, the sheet falling to the floor, entirely naked and stiff against his stomach as he watched you don his coat. The anger in his voice only served to spur you on. “You will not leave. You would not dare to leave.”

“I am a princess, after all,” you looked at him over your shoulder, lip caught between your teeth at the sight of him bare, hard and infuriated. There was disbelief written all over his expression. “You will need to work much harder than that if you want me to give in.”

There was something new in the way Aemond looked at you. As if he was impressed. Admiring you, even through his frustration. And without giving yourself the chance for second thoughts, you walked right out Aemond’s chambers with a triumphant smile.

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