#but. i love television even when i can see the cracks in it!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherry-leclerc · 12 days ago

Text

lust ☆ fc43

genre: smut, angst, unreliable narrator(s), pathological liars, forbidden “love”, douchebag!franco, journalist!reader, mentions of sexuality

word count: 16.6k

lust (noun) — intense, often uncontrolled, sexual desire or craving, but can also refer to a strong desire for something else, like power or material possessions.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...unprotected sex, f!receiving, oral sex, missionary sex

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]

cherry here!... don’t ask me who’s lying because boy i don’t even know lol this is messyyyy

“Logan Sargeant is out, Franco Colapinto is in!”

Face mask dried up. Towel tied up. The Sound of Music plays. You let out a muffled scream, eyes growing wide with shock.

“Are you serious?”

Lissie nods, jumping onto the open space beside you on the bed, grabbing a chocolate covered pretzel and popping it into her mouth. “As serious as a heart attack.”

“Woah,” you say, letting out a sigh, sympathy washing over at the thought of someone’s dream coming to an end. “That…woah.” A beat. “Wait. How do you know?”

The brunette wiggles her brows theatrically. “I don’t—it’s a rumor.”

You roll your eyes, shoulders drooping as you go back to relaxing. “You’re so silly, Elisabella.”

By now, you’ve reached for the control and switched off the television, opting into the idea of a book. The one you’ve been dragging all over the world for the past few months, but you haven’t managed to actually flip through a single page. And it looks like today isn’t the day, either.

Lissie scoffs, ripping the novel straight out of your hands. “I’m providing you with the juiciest piece of information, and you’re taking it with a grain of salt?” Bewildered, she skims through the pages, using it as a fan, then tosses it into the unknown, making you frown. “I’m telling the truth!”

“Are you, though?” you challenge. “I mean, you said it yourself—it’s a rumor.”

“Yeah, and rumors are the truth,” she retorts quickly.

“Not always,” you push back, wagging a finger as she pushes it down, making you want to crack a smile. “It could also be nothing but a hoax.”

“Since when?” As soon as you open your mouth, she’s quick to slap a hand over your lips, causing the mask to break. Lissie! you squeal against her hand as she lets out a snort and a poor apology. “You’re just choosing to ignore it because you were rooting for the American.”

Finally, pushing her away, you stick your tongue out. “The American has a name. Plus, the sport has treated him like dirt, how could I not cheer him on?”

She pops another pretzel, crumbs falling onto her lap. “Look, I know you’re being an empath and all, but that’s life for ya.”

And you know she’s right, but over the course of time, given the very few chances you’ve gotten to interview Logan, you’ve come to realize how much of a softie he is and you like that, because in a way, you see yourself in him. “When is the news coming out?”

Buzz! Buzz!

Darting her eyes down to her phone, she lets out a sad smile, and you know she feels just as bad as you.

“Looks like it just did.”

The paddock has been swirling with anticipation ever since the news and it’s safe to say that every journalist has their eyes set on the smiley Argentinian who enters it without a single care in the world. Camera’s flash, people stare, and he seems to like it. Why wouldn’t he?

“I heard he likes to be interviewed mainly in Spanish,” Lissie hums besides you, spectating just the same as everyone else. Sipping on her iced tea, she squints, watching as the brunette disappears against the crowd. “Diva.”

You laugh. “How so?”

“He thinks his fans interact more with him in his native language, but that just can't be true—can it?” Another sip. “Probably not. Nobody speaks Spanish in this sport.”

“Carlos? Fernando?” you question with a soft smile, one that she ignores.

“Excluding drivers,” she clarifies. “He’s just looking for attention because he knows he can.”

Spinning to face your friend, your brows pinch together with curiosity. “Can what?”

Lissie snickers, biting down on her straw. You’ve always been this way—naive. She sees things you don’t, and sure, that adds to your charm, but sometimes, she genuinely worries. “Get it.” When you fail to understand, she lets out a dramatic sigh, patting your head like a dog, causing you to blink with wonder. “Attention. I’m referring to attention.”

Heat surfaces towards your face as you look away, brushing the embarrassment off. “Duh. Of course, that's what I was thinking….”

Minus the constant cheers for him, there's silence where you two stand, taking part in people watching as if your lives depended on it. And somewhere in between the line—the thin, thin line— he turns to face in your direction.

Instantly connecting his gaze—with you.

As if it's a daily occurrence, your breath hitches, making you flinch with surprise. He seems to notice—the effect he's made on you—and this gets a smile out of him, loopy and mischievous, all at once. You don't like the way he's looking at you, like he knows you. Like he can tell you things about yourself that you haven't figured out yet. Overall, you hate it.

Especially with how fast your heart is beating.

“Damn it.” The Brit groans. “Even I miss the American. This lad just seems to be full of himself already, don’t you think?”

Except, you don't, because your mind is no longer in control and you're no longer sane. It appears all of that has gone out the window the moment he's walked into the paddock, chased by girls. And you despise the way you can feel yourself becoming one of them.

Oh yeah, you murmur, still not looking away, but he has, already signing a bunch of merch. You blush, shaking your head in complete daze. “Way too, uh…full of himself, indeed.”

Franco Colapinto is one of a kind.

He never takes anything seriously, never lets his mistakes bother him for too long. He thinks lingering in moments like those is stupid and unnecessary, and he'd rather just have fun. Very few get it, but that’s not something he cares about, to be quite honest.

He had gotten the call last minute. He was in Brazil with…friends.

And without a doubt in mind, he accepted to drive for Williams. Things apparently haven't been working out for Logan, and while he felt pity for his distant friend, he couldn't help but feel ecstatic to get the chance to drive a Formula One car. This was his dream.

And it all went down the way he had pictured. All eyes were on him, not a singular second passed without someone turning to look. He can tell some were confused, he can tell some were shocked, but he enjoyed every last bit of it.

He loved the way girls stared, admiring him in ways he’s gotten quite used to. He loved sending sly smiles and seeing them burn up in return. He loved knowing he’s figured out things that other guys haven't had the time of day to figure out themselves.

He just loved the attention.

“I’ve had a blast, uh, driving with those I’ve looked up to ever since I was a little boy,” he says with a sheepish smile, eyes crinkling as Will nods, taking notes and raising the microphone. Franco chuckles. “I can’t wait to continue.”

He gets along with everyone and they all want to be his friend. This is normal and he likes that he’s fitting in with ease. Though, for some odd reason—

“I don’t think they like me much,” he admits once the interview is over, making Will quirk a thick brow, turning his attention to where you and Lissie stand, waiting impatiently for him.

The journalist snickers. “You’re joking, right?”

Only, he’s not. He knows when people tolerate him and you two aren’t one of them. He doesn’t know why he suddenly cares given he doesn’t really know either of you, but he just knows that he does. Very much, actually. Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, the brunette looks away, ignoring the laser being aimed at him, particularly from the British girl.

He doesn’t say anything after that, just makes his way closer, watching as you whisper something to your grumpy friend before flashing him a warm smile.

“Oh God, he’s coming.”

“Relax,” Lissie quips, standing straight. “We can’t inflate his ego, remember?”

“What ego?” you hiss, palms sweating as he inches closer. You gulp. “I have to be nice, I’m always nice!”

“Yeah, well not this time, you aren’t,” she declares adamantly, causing you to shake your head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this, look at him, he’s smiling at us!” Flashing a dopey grin, you hear her sigh, obviously disappointed in the fact that you’re blindly giving into his games. Then, he’s in front of you two, extending his hand out as a formal introduction.

“Hi, I’m Franco—”

“We know,” Lissie cuts him off, a slight edge in her voice. He blinks, completely frazzled by her tone. Shrugging, she mocks a smile of her own, downright confusing the fuck out of him. “Welcome, mate.”

“Thanks?” he mumbles, shaking her hand deliberately slowly as her eyes remain as sharp as knives. He’s intrigued by now, as to why she’s treating him this way. Then, to his right, there you are. Fragile. Shy. Round eyed. Not a single thought behind them. Feeling his personality come right back as if nothing, the Williams driver sends a wink. “Hola.”

“H-hola,” you return, copying him, but your accent is mediocre, at best. It’d be lame if you weren’t so beautiful. You cough, clearing your throat as you lend your hand into his, and immediately, you feel a pull. Not physically, no, but rather—energetically. It’s a scary thing, but something tells you not to question it and that this is all a part of his charisma. “I’m—”

“Not interested.” At once, both you and Franco turn to face Lissie who stands with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot strictly. “She’s not interested.”

“I wasn’t—” he tries to speak, but she’s fast to shut him down.

“Yes. You were.” Rolling her eyes, she tugs you back from your wrist, making you let out a yelp by the sudden clutch. “Look, how about you mind your business and we’ll mind ours, yeah?”

“Lissie…” you warn with a slight crack, ignoring the rush of blood. Biting down on your lip nervously, your eyes flicker back and forth, feeling the cool weather suddenly suffocate you with shame. “He hasn’t done anything.”

“He was about to, though.” A scoff. “I’ve heard all about you and your games—Franco.”

She says his name in a way that makes you aware that she isn’t fond of the idea of him in any shape or form. And he seems to pick up on that too, eyebrows raising with amusement. “Have you now?” Cocking his head to the side, a smile starts to spread. “And what exactly have you heard about me?”

“That you're nothing but a deceiving flirt,” she responds without missing a beat—zero pressure, zero problem, zero intimidation. Flustered, you fiercely start to shake your head, but it's too late, Lissie is on a roll. “I know your intentions aren't genuine, so how about we save ourselves the trouble and keep this professional. It's not like you'll be seeing much of us, anyways.”

“Yeah?” he questions, accent deep and raw, making you squirm, and of course he picks up on that too.

The brunette girl sighs, feigning indifference, or maybe it was real, who knows. “As you may have noticed, Will interviewed you, right?” Still, he says nothing, standing there with a blank expression. She lets out a sour chuckle, one that even catches you by surprise. “It's going to stay that way.”

“I still need an interviewer for my Spanish debriefs, who's to say it's not going to be you?” he challenges, focusing on her now and enjoying the twist in her face.

“I don't speak Spanish, so no—it won't be me, thank God.”

“You don't?” he asks, clearly shocked.. “I thought you were Latina—”

“Oh, so you're quick to jump to conclusions, too?” Rolling her jaw, you can tell your best friend is close to the breaking point. And while you've seen it before, you haven't seen it much, but you were pretty certain it wasn't going to make her look any better. Plus, people were starting to stare, and that alone was making your skin itch and shift uncomfortably, wishing to vanish into thin air. “You really are a know-it-all.”

Franco ignores the dig. He ignores the murmurs.

But he doesn't ignore you.

“What about you?”

“Me?” you squeak, looking around as if there might have been someone else. Like a blushing mess, you open your dry lips, feeling a catch in your throat. “I, uh…I, um.” You don't. Oh, definitely not. But the way he's looking at you makes your head spin, and the need to answer correctly makes you believe this just might be it. What exactly? That you don't know yet, but it.

A firm nod. I do.

“You do?” Lissie and Franco say in chorus, and while she's bewildered, he's over the moon.

Another nod, this time more secure. “I've been practicing.”

“Since when?” the Brit interrogates, not choosing to believe what you're saying.

You gulp, lips wobbling into a slippery smile. “Ever since the rumors started.” Her face darkens, clenching her jaw. “Since I heard he might be entering the grid—I wanted to be r-r-ready, just in case…”

Lissie snarls. “So you do believe in rumors.”

A wince. “Lissie, I—”

“Would you be interested in conducting my Spanish interviews?” Franco asks, vibrant eyes dedicated to you as your heartbeat spikes. He smiles charmingly, eyes squinting in a way that makes your body feel the need to jolt. “I like you.” A beat. “You're sweet.”

He thinks I'm sweet, you cheer to yourself, keeping a straight face on the outside. Besides you, Lissie pokes your hip, and you know what that means—decline his proposition. There's got to be a million different reasons as to why this probably isn't a good idea, you're sure she has them ready to lay out to you with a whining noise like I told you so. But in a moment like this—where you can't even seem to comprehend—you choose to ignore them.

Snapping your berry lips into a thin line, you just slightly—ever so slightly—nod, making Lissie disinflate and Franco grin brightly.

And dear God—were there signs.

You've been avoiding him for the past few days and the problem is he doesn’t know why.

At first, he thinks you're intimidated by the idea of being caught with his presence—maybe it was too much to handle for you. He liked thinking that to be true. Then, he thought maybe you were backing out. Perhaps Lissie had said something that made you come to a realization, and sure, he can easily find someone else, but it needed to be you.

Why?

Well, because he liked knowing he could get a pretty girl to choose him over her best friend.

It was all about power for him. Power, fun, and games.

So, when he crosses with you in the hotel he didn’t think journalists like you could ever afford, he takes a chance to cage you in and get some answers. And that just so happens to be in an elevator.

Crap, you think to yourself as he enters, ever the giddy guy he is. He presses a button—fifty. And he doesn’t say anything at first, but when you fail to acknowledge him with a greeting, he looks over with those brown eyes that make you wish you were blind. “I didn't know you were staying here,” he chokes out, gently inhaling your soft perfume. It makes his eyes flutter, just for a minute.

Forcing a light hearted laugh, you shake your head. “I'm not. I'm just…visiting a friend, that's all.”

And just like that, his stomach drops. Were you here for some rendezvous? Was it with someone he knew? And yes—yes—it must be because the entire grid was staying on the fiftieth floor.

“Cool,” he murmured, gritting his teeth, passing time by counting every floor. “Cool, cool, cool—can I ask who?”

Taken aback, you giggle awkwardly, resting against the metal wall. Brown orbs are aimlessly looking for an answer as you struggle to give it up. You lick your lips, shrugging as if no big deal. “Carlos.”

“What?” he screeches, eyes practically flying out of their sockets, making you flinch. Running a hand quickly over his rosy face, Franco tries his best to calm down. “I'm sorry, but…” he trails off, cringing. “Isn't he old enough to be your dad?”

“Huh?” you mutter with genuine confusion. Then, it dawns on you what he was thinking. The tip of your ears burn bright red as you laugh nervously, waving a finger strictly. “I-It's not like that.” He nods robotically, attention still unsteady and not at all convinced. “He's just giving me private lessons.”

Franco's jaw drops, not making sense of what you're saying. Because while he doesn't know you to the full extent quite yet, he hadn't had that impression over you. Here you seemed kind and innocent, not…

Again, you realize your choice of words aren't so great, so you play it off with a poor grin. “How's your first week been?”

You're obviously changing the conversation, and he's sort of grateful for that, but he still remains curious about the situation with you and the Spaniard. “Just fine.” Silence. “What kind of lessons?”

He’s overstepping—he's well aware. And he should stop asking questions—he's well aware. And he's trying, he really is, but he just—can't.

Embarrassed, you chew on your bottom lip with a subtle smile, making his jaw tick and his fists clench. Why is he acting this way? Why is he bothered so much? And why does he want to curse out Carlos fucking Sainz?

“Spanish lessons.”

It's said just high enough to be a whisper, and just low enough to let him know that you're somewhat embarrassed by your confession. And still, he lets out a breath, feeling his shoulders relax and the tenseness roll away. A laugh. “Wait—I thought you already spoke Spanish.”

Plump lips open feverishly before you swipe your pink tongue along it. His stomach flips cruelly at the sight that leaves him wondering about your mouth in other places. Places not even the dirtiest would think of. Because seeing as you stand there, like an angel, he pictures what it��s feel like to fuck someone like you.

“I don't…” Your brows knit together with apology. “I'm sorry about lying to you, I really am—”

“I can teach you.”

It's an offer that catches you off guard. Off guard because why would he take time from his busy schedule—for you? But for him, it was a simple one, one that made sense.

One that meant you wouldn't need Carlos—because honestly—fuck that.

Blinking feverishly, you shake your head, as stiff as an animatronic. Embarrassment practically flows out of you as you look away, orbs flying up to where the number fifty flashes, indicating the floor you’ve finally reached. Pressing down on the open door button, Franco smiles at you without missing a beat, making you think this was serious.

He was being completely serious.

“There's n-no need,” you fight back numbly, because the way he's begging with those brown eyes makes you think you might accept just about anything he'd say to you in this weak moment of yours. “I shouldn't have lied, and you deserve someone who actually spe—” You trail off, heat rising to your cheekbones. “I'll find you someone, don't worry.”

“There's no need,” he mimics, but with more confidence in his tone than yours. “I’ll teach you.”

“But—”

The Argentenian rolls his eyes light heartedly, going in for your hand and finally leading you out the tight spaced box, and thank goodness for that, because you're quite sure you would have fainted if you stayed in there for a second longer. He wiggles his brows, making you crack a soft smile. “I’ve taught a bunch of other girls. Teaching you shouldn't be too hard if I've done it a million times before.”

Wincing, you take a small step back, and he doesn't know what for. He doesn't know why you've reacted this way, he doesn't know why you haven't accepted yet, and he doesn't know why he feels the tiniest bit satisfied by it all.

“I think I’ll stick with Carlos for now,” you whisper, still not looking at him. Bewildered, he frowns, not able to hide his shock. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

That said, you leave him there, standing alone, eyes roaming your body and left wondering what you didn’t fucking say yes.

So, he isn’t doing Spanish interviews until later notice.

He sticks to English, he struggles in English, and he lives and breathes English. It's exhausting, it's starting to bore him and you still haven't spoken to him since that day.

He can tell Lissie is over the moon by your sudden detachment from the Williams drivers and that doesn't do him any better. He should have you by now, and the British girl should be warning you, too, but it seems like nothing is happening the way he's used to.

From the other side of the paddock, where you sip on your green juice, trying not to gag from how nasty it was, your friend side eyes you suspiciously before separating her own lips from her straw. “So, uh…”

Blinking, you look up.. “Uh what?”

And she's left it alone for long enough now and the curiosity has finally reached its brim. “What happened between you and what's his name?”

Chuckling, you cross your legs, resting your arms against the table. “You know his name, Lis, there's no need to be dismissive.”

“If I admit that I do know, will you finally tell me what happened?” You think about it, pouting subtly. And you're messing with her—teasing—you both know it. The brunette groans, gently kicking your leg under the table, making you squeak. “Oh, come on, don't be like that.”

“Be like what?” you ask, playing coy for a second longer before sighing. “He didn't do anything wrong, actually. He just…spoke like a boy.”

Thick brows draw in together with confusion. “A boy?”

You nod. “Yeah—egotistical, in a sense.”

Right away, the British girl claps, pointing at you boldly. “I told you so, didn't I?” she cheers, clearly enjoying the fact that she was right and thriving that you've finally realized it.

Twisting your mouth from side to side, you shrug lamely. “You know I hate it when you say that.” A beat. “But yeah, you did.” A certain silence lingers for a split second before you rub your temples harshly. “I just…just—why did he have to be this way?”

She knows what you mean by that—immature. Why did Franco Colapinto have to be immature?

Out of the many years Lissie has known you, from worst to best, she's come to figure out that you hate men like that, but despise boys even worse. They just weren't at your standard, and for a million different reasons. For starters, they think they're Gods. Second of all, they think they could get away with their shitty behavior. And third of all, they probably are some version of God and they probably could get away with just about anything.

And that's why you hate them—because they're easy to fall for, guys like him.

“Who knows,” Lissie responds with a smug expression, one you wish to wipe off. “But think of it as a sign—you dodged a bullet with that one.”

But no you didnt—no, you fucking didn’t.

You wish you had walked a little faster, you wish you had acted a bit soon, and you wish the word no was a part of your vocabulary.

At a nearby cafe, close to the paddock, you went out for coffee. You specifically chose this one because quite frankly, there were less people. It made things easier for you, but apparently for Franco, too.

Ignoring him, you push past, acting as if you had no idea he was standing there, but as soon as he calls your name out in that accent that rolls off his tongue like honey, you freeze, turning to face the truth. The curly haired boy waves. “What are you doing here?”

“Just…grabbing coffee.”

He nods. In hand, he has his own cup, raising it up like a toast before taking a sip. “Ignoring me or something?” Shame fills you up as he's come to notice what you had been totally doing. Waving you off as if nothing, the Williams driver scrunches his nose for a second. “Ah, it's alright, don't worry about it. Can’t say I'm surprised.”

You freeze, narrowing your neat brows with blame.“Wha-what do you mean by that?”

“See ya,” he hums, already heading towards the exit all high and mighty.

In a state of disorientation, you stare at his back before snapping out of the trace he had you in and chasing after like a madwoman. “What do you mean by that?” you yell, panting with the struggle to keep up. Stopping dead in his tracks, Franco grins to himself before turning around with a phony frown like a wallscreen.

“You're being told what to do, what to think,” he speaks up given the distance you have from one another, so you take a couple steps forward before leaving it as it is.

“That's not true,” you mumble weakly.

The Argentinian scoffs, causing you to pinch yourself to make sure this wasn't some nightmare he's snuck into. But no. It's not. “Tell me one thing—and I want you to be completely honest with me.” Doll Like, you blink, nodding to his instructions. He quirks a sharp brow. “Has Lissie talked bad about me to you?”

No fucking doubt, you want to snicker, but something in his mannerism shows that he knows she has, and that he’s just waiting for you to say it. “What does that have to do with anything?”

But he's not letting go, not yet, at least. Closing the final gap between you two, you find yourself, nose to nose basically, with someone as intimidating as Franco Colapinto, which is a weird sight, because usually he's out having fun, and not doing…this. He opens his mouth and it's stupid how you find yourself doing the same before coming to the realization and clamping your lips shut. The corner of his lips quirk with amusement.

Disconnecting from you again, he inches away, leaving you there feeling like a hopeless romantic with her heart caught in her throat. You want to rub your eyes, but you have a feeling that if you do, he might laugh from how much this has already affected you.

Instead, he speaks up first. “You said you’d be honest. Go on now—be honest.”

Pursing your lips, you wince pathetically. “She has.”

You've said the right thing in his eyes, you've given him the answer he was looking for because this makes his point much more valid. And you're starting to realize, yeah. Maybe it is.

“There you go.” Another sip. “She's playing you like a puppet.”

She is Lissie, and Lissie is your best friend. Lissie can't be manipulating you—can she?

“You're right,” you find yourself accepting in a quiet whisper like you can barely even believe it. As if you're having some sort of epiphany. Bringing a delicate hand up to your lips, you shake your head, a trace of sadness lost in your eyes, one he caused for bringing you down to reality. If you're seeing this now, how long has this been going on for? “I don’t have my own opinions because…of her.”

He notices then that he could potentially be ruining a perfectly good friendship, but he also notices that he doesn't seem to care. He never liked Lissie and Lissie never liked him and now…

Now there was a winner amongst them.

Still with a pinched and sour expression, you nod repeatedly. “I’m in—I want to work for you.”

For me, he finds himself replaying your words as a similar glow pours across his features. One that you don't pick up on because you think this was your doing, not his. But none of this actually was, because as it came, you’re as clueless as a toddler.

He plays the role of modesty first, and he plays it well. Forcing a small frown, Franco clicks his tongue softly. “You don’t have to. I get it. Lissie has made you think that—”

“Fuck what Lissie said,” you cut him off, suddenly enraged by what your so-called friend had been doing all along. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

No, you’re doing it because I made you think so, he thinks to himself and bites his cheeks in order to hide his creeping smile. That was the thing—he always knew he had you, before you even knew it yourself.

That day at the paddock, when he first laid eyes on you, your reaction told him. The way you stiffened, the way your cheeks became blotchy. It was a dead giveaway, your infatuation, and that’s something he became interested in. But then, as unexpected as the unexpected can get, you had someone to look out for you.

And that someone was sweet ‘ol Elisabella.

She was right, right off the bat. He was a flirt. He was a no-good. But he hid it well and she knew that—but you didn’t.

Then, for some reason, he lost the plot and you were no longer googly eyed for him. It fucking ticked him off. He kept watchful eyes on you for the time being, watched you come and go as if he was no one to you.

But he knew that wasn’t true. That you probably didn’t believe that lie yourself.

He saw the way Lissie held onto your arm like a protective older sister. As if you were someone pretty little lamb who knew no better than to stay away from someone like him. The way she smiles as if saying—“I won”—is what made his blood boil because that wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.

He was supposed to have you by now.

And sure, there was a bump on the road, and for a minute he thought it might have not worked out—but look at you now.

“I’m tired of being controlled,” you admit as if it all finally caught up to you. “Lissie told me to stay away from you and that’s exactly what I did because that’s what she does best—control me.” Fuming, you throw away one of the coffee cups, one he notices has the Brit’s name written on it in neat cursive. “Well, not anymore, I’m done.”

And I’m all in.

“What did you say to her?”

Once the Argentenian glances up from his phone, he finds himself with an angry looking Lissie who seems just about ready to bite his head off. He kind of wishes she would just cause.

“To who?”

The Brit girl's eye twitches. “You know who I’m talking about.” Letting out a raw groan, she pushes her hair back, suddenly irritated with anything in her way. “Why would you tell her a whole bunch of lies about me?”

“I don’t know, why would you?” he challenges without missing a beat.

This practically gets a snarl out of the journalist, rolling her jaw before speaking. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing,” he answered, but too fast and too defensively.

A chuckle. “No, no, I want to know—what the fuck are you watching, Franco?”

“I already told you, nothi—”

In one swift movement, one that even is too fast for someone like him, she snatches the phone from his grasp before he even has a chance to turn it off. And there, in all its glory, is a naked woman moaning erotically as she self pleasures herself. Lissie scoffs, tossing it back, rolling her eyes.

“You see! You’re too lustful. All you think about it sex, sex, sex.” A beat. “What’s your problem, huh?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he shoots back, digging his phone back into his pocket, grateful that no one is around to witness any of this. “And no. I’m not. I’m just looking out for my friend.”

“Your friend?” Lissie repeats dryly. “Oh, darling, don’t get things mixed up—she is not a friend of yours.”

“Yeah?” he questions smugly, finally standing up and towering above. “And who did she just drop?” And that seems to do it, because in a single second, her eyes slowly begin to water. He grins, eyes crinkling with humor. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

No one says anything for a minute, no one says anything for two, but as soon as a droplet slides down her rosy cheeks, she’s quick to wipe it away, sniffling like some poor bunny. “You’re a fucking dick and she’s going to realize that sooner or later, you’ll see—”

“She’s going to realize when I want her to realize,” he says, filled with content. “Besides, you shouldn't worry too much.” Leaning down, he grabs her arms, holding her in place and whispers in her ear as she stands there numbly.

I promise I’ll make her feel so good, she won’t even remember calling you her friend.

Your lessons start right away.

There’s no room for mistakes, and yet, you find yourselves making them. You can tell that he’s losing his patience at times, but he always tries his best to hide it. It sort of works, it sort of doesn't, but nevertheless, you feel stupid.

“Say it back to me again,” Franco commands, rubbing his jaw with a slight clench. He’s stressed out, you’ve made him stressed out, and now you want to leave his room.

Licking your lips, you nod gently. You process the sentences one more time before opening your mouth hesitantly. “Mi…”

“Color,” he says, helping you out.

Heat rushes towards your cheeks. “Right—mi color. Mi color favorito es…es…” What was it again? Panicking, you look up at him, and he’s just staring so gingerly, so supportive, and so sweet, and you can’t let him down. “Mi color favorito es el rosa.”

His eyes light up, instantly grinning. “¡Bravo! Yes! You got it!”

“Really?” you ask in disbelief, laughing loudly. “Did I?”

“¡Si, si!” he chants excitedly, and honestly, kind of relieved that you finally got it down after so long. “That was good, you did good, you did so good.”

Something about his praise makes your stomach burn and your thighs press against one another. It’s both humbling and new, all at once. Flustered, you purse your lips, looking away as you toss your hair over your shoulder, searching for any reason to just not make eye contact with him anymore. Because what if he can read your mind?

You shouldn’t be doing that.

He doesn’t typically see you in dresses—especially dresses like this one you’re wearing right now. It’s short—it is hot where you’re staying, after all. Lacey—teasing him into barely getting the chance to see your skin. Dark—a royal blue that bleeds a bit harsher than normal. He thinks you did this on purpose—you did this for him.

Coughing, he watches as you flinch gingerly at the sound, attention back on him like before. He likes that. Your eyes on him, he means. “Won’t lie, it took you a bit longer than expected.” You blush, wobbly lips forming a foolish smile that makes your features soften like a cloud. He grins back. “But you got it, and that’s all that matters.”

“Sure,” you quip. “And for what it’s worth, I really am sorry for wasting your time!”

You were. You were wasting his time. He could have easily been out with friends, meeting new people he probably wouldn’t even remember meeting. But he had to do this. Not for you, but for himself. He couldn’t stand the idea of Carlos teaching you such an intimate language, he couldn't stand the possibility of you rekindling with Lissie and marching off, leaving him to be the loser amongst them both.

Plus, the way you act around him makes him think it’s only a matter of time.

He’s going to get his way with you, he’s sure of it.

“Don’t say that, cariño,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to be here with you.”

Your heart beats fast against your ribcage and a tingle runs along your legs. “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you think? You should rest before your race tomorrow.”

Right. Makes sense. Nodding, the Argentinian stands up, watching you do the same as you fix your dress up a bit and smile gracefully. He leads you down the hallway towards the door, making easy conversation, but as soon as he finally reaches for the knob, he pauses.

“Hey—it’s actually really dark out now.”

You blink. “I suppose it is, yeah…”

Franco tilts his head flirtatiously, even you can tell. “A pretty girl like you probably shouldn’t be walking alone at a time like this.”

You blink faster, lashes fluttering. What was he trying to say? I mean, you knew what he was trying to say, but what was going on? And you’ve never been the kind to…to…God, was the room suddenly spinning?

“I can do it,” you whisper meekly. “I’ll be fine.”

She’ll. Be. Fine. She. Said, he thinks to himself sourly. Did you not catch the hint? Did you not want to take up this opportunity that many girls would die to have? Are you stupid or what?

But he doesn’t want to seem like a jerk, even if he sort of is one, so, instead, he grabs his jacket and opens the doors, signaling for you to go first. This gets a smile out of you, not a tight lipped one or a forced one—a real, genuine smile. Huh? So you’re the kind of girl who likes romantics. Maybe that’s what he needs to be.

He can pretend.

Placing his jacket over your shoulder, he finds you chewing down on your lip, suppressing your smile from growing any wider. Thanks, you mumble as you finally reach the lobby, walking past the people in fancy suits who open doors for you. What were they called? Honestly, who even cares because here you were—with Franco—and nothing could ever have been as important as this moment.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he starts, hands dug into his pockets. “What ended up happening between you and Lissie?”

You grimace. “What didn’t happen between me and Lissie?”

“You’re not listening!” she yells as she chases after you. Marching up to your suitcase, you angrily start to pick up all your belongings and stash them in with no need to fold anything. “He’s just using you!”

“Stop saying that,” you demand, still not looking at her. “And stop feeding me lies, seriously, you’re starting to sound obnoxious.”

She doesn’t mind you degrading her, she doesn’t mind you belittling her, but she does mind the fact that you’re ready to erase her from your life and draw him in as a replacement. It’s not fair. The Brit girl rubs her eyes feverishly, hearing them squish harshly. “I don’t care, I just want you to realize that you’re making a mistake!”

You freeze, insides burning with fury as you collect your reason, but there seems to be none left. Turning slowly to face her, your lips turn into somewhat of a snarl, making her flinch in return. “You know what? Yes. I have made a mistake, a big one.” A beat. “By ever calling you a friend.”

Lissie doesn’t say anything, but you can tell that she’s deeply hurt. Of course she is. You’ve finally done it.

Chosen someone you just met—over her.

Blinking rapidly, the brunette runs a hand through her long hair, letting out a heavy breath. “Franco will never see you the way you want him to. The way you think he does.” She chuckles, making your blood boil at this point. “For God’s sake! You’ve read the thousand of tabloids surrounding him and his habits. Have you ever—ever—read a good one that has nothing to do with his driving skills?”

And that’s when it hits you. “Lissie—are you jealous?” There’s a string of silence that engulfs you two, letting it hang there for a minute too long. And you just have to, you just have to laugh. “Oh my God, you are!”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are! You have a thing for Franco!” With wide eyes, you clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the sound that makes her skin burn with irritation at the mere thought of you thinking she would ever have a thing for a guy like him. “How could I not see it?”

“I don’t like him!” she yells, aware that the people next door are probably enjoying these five seconds of drama. “I could never like someone who treats girls like fucking shit, are you kidding me?”

“He’s not like that, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you continue, picking up from where you left off. “If you actually took the time to get to know him, then maybe things could be different, and perhaps we wouldn’t be here, now would we?”

Lissie groans, eyes screwed tightly. “Fuck you.”

You gasp. “No— fuck you.” You march closer, eyebrows narrowed. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“You know what? Yeah. Maybe I do,” she spits, furrowing her brows the exact same way as yours. “And that might explain why I’m conscious about Franco’s nature and you’re not.”

“He’s a great guy!” you exclaim, pushing her back, making her gaze darken.

With the same energy, she reaches and pushes you too. “Fine, then! Get ridiculed, who fucking cares!”

That’s it. She just grabs her bag and walks towards the exit of the room you once shared. But at the very last minute, she turns to face you with soft eyes. Ones that almost—almost—make you break out of this trance he has you in because what if she’s right?

“I really hope you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

You shake your head, ignoring the sting. “She and I just…didn’t see eye to eye, is all.”

Franco stares ahead, feeling the hot breeze push his hair back. The night sky is a mixture of both beautiful and daunting, the vendors are hard at work, and he’s yet to get a solid answer from you. He thought he might know it, but he was sickeningly interested to hear if it was true.

And it was.

“I don’t know how to say this without making her sound unprofessional, but, well, um—she doesn’t quite like you.”

And there it was. He knew that—since day one, he knew that deep down in his bones. He saw the way she glared at him, like a know-it-all, standing guard next to you. It was obvious.

But he can twist this in a thousand different ways if he really wanted to.

“It’s because she’s in love with you, you see that, right?”

Bewildered, you stop dead in your tracks, unbeknownst of the smile that spreads across his lips before he turns to face you with a blank expression. You swallow, but even that suddenly seemed like hard labor. “That’s not …” you whisper weakly, fighting the urge to scrunch your nose with how taken aback you were. “That can’t be…”

He takes a look around, spotting the city lights and the way they surround you like a flashlight. And like that, he can note the slight redness painted across your cheeks, the way your chest rises hard and fast now that you’ve settled with a lie he completely ripped out from the farthest depths of hell. He knew what he was doing, he knew that he was being dishonest for no particular reason—but he just couldn’t have you running back to her to hear all the things he was keeping you from.

A minute ticks by. “I’d say it’s obvious.” He can see you begin to spiral out of control, chewing hard on your thumb now, like an anxious teen. And he sort of feels bad—sort of. “I always thought she looked at you a bit…differently.” He contains a snicker, settling with a small wince. “Compared to everybody else, at least. Come on. Think about it.”

You do. Suddenly every interaction you two ever had is making you second guess. All those times she insisted on sharing a room in order to ‘save money’. The way she’d lace her arm through yours, leaning her head against your shoulder. How she pushed and pushed the idea of Franco being wrong for you. It all made so much sense now that he’s brought it up.

Shaking your head rigidly, you squeeze your eyes shut, choosing not believing any of it, but then again, you know it is—true.

“You’re right.”

His lips flicker upward in the slightest of flickers before falling down.

You rub your eyes. “Wow. I mean…wow.” A beat. “That explains so much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being—”

Horrified, you nod, fast and hard. “Oh, yeah! Of course there’s nothing wrong with being…” You trail off, looking down to the floor, fixing his jacket that drapes over your shoulder once you feel it slipping. “I just feel so blinded, so…brainwashed, in a way.”

Franco nods gently. “I’m glad you know that. She was trying to keep you to herself.” You share a flinch. “But you don’t want that, no?”

“Want what?” you ask curiously.

He shares a smile, shrugging innocently. “To belong to anyone?”

You blink, not knowing why you feel an odd heat circle between your legs. Maybe it’s the way his voice has gone dark and raw by now. As if he’s just getting over some cold that’s been attacking his throat for the past few weeks. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, as if he’s offering something no one else could ever offer. But he hasn’t said anything, he hasn’t really said anything at all.

“I think I wouldn’t mind,” you find yourself confessing. “If it’s the right person with the right intention, then no. I wouldn’t mind belonging to someone.”

Franco knew you were naive, Franco knew you were the kind to daydream.

He just didn’t think you’d ever be this foolish.

The next time you see Lissie and find her already staring, you’re quick to walk away.

You don’t think you could ever fully explain what you’re feeling now that you know what you know, but there’s something that makes you feel a bit uncomfortable. I mean, the entire time you thought you two were friends—best friends, at that—and now you find out she’s always had a thing for you? It’s just a very hard pill to swallow.

“Welcome to your second official lesson,” Franco congratulates, making you giggle. “¿Lista?”

Dumbfounded, you stare, lips parted. “Pista? Like the car?”

She’ll be worth it, he thinks to himself, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Once you fuck her, this will all have been worth it.

“Let’s just get started,” he says, smiling tightly, but you don’t seem to notice, already nodding excitedly. It isn’t until halfway through—after he’s bitten his tongue about a thousand times—that you finally reach your breaking point.

“I’m sorry! I can’t!” you wail, covering your face with embarrassment for struggling continuously. “I thought this was supposed to be easy?”

“It is,” he responds, grinding his teeth, then smiling gingerly when you look up at him with surprise. “It is not for everyone,” he finishes off, shrugging lamely. “Sorry. English isn’t my first language.”

“Oh. Okay,” you mutter softly. Sitting up straight, you tilt your head with sudden interest. “Hold on a minute—how did you learn English?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, popping a berry into his mouth.

“Yeah,” you insist, propping both legs against the chair you're sitting on, skirt falling just a tiny bit. He stops chewing, brown eyes glued to the exposed area. “I figure you had your challenges at first.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but he feels like he’s floating.

You haven’t noticed yet, attention drawn to the open window, glow of the sun making you swoon for a second. “What had to happen in order for you to pick it up?”

He stares one more time before looking back at your pretty face, watching as you finally look back at him too. He shakes his head, curls swaying in a way that makes you smile. “I think all the prizes helped,” he admits. “Those were cool.”

“Prizes?”

Franco nods. “An award? A reward? A—”

“I get what you mean,” you cut him off. “I just…what kind of prizes?”

“Well,” he starts, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “For starters, I was lucky enough to have a private tutor.” Attentively, you listen, round eyes devoted to him and this crumb surrounding his upbringing. “Her name was Adelina.”

“Her?” you echo.

The Argentenian bops his head, aware of your interest now that you’ve mentioned a name that appears to be important to him. Now you’re engrossed to the point of no return and he likes to know that you care—that you’re desperate to know, though you’re trying your best to hide it. “She was much older than me, therefore, wiser.” He smiles at the memory of what once was. “She made learning fun.”

“That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He frowns, not expecting you to react this way. “No, it’s not.”

Yawning, you stand up, bending down momentarily to slip your flats back on. “It’s getting late and you still have quali later. You should rest before then.”

He figures you’re right, but he doesn’t like that you get to decide that. You don’t so much as say bye, you don’t promise to find him later in the paddock just like the other times, and he doesn’t like that you get to have the last word.

“Don’t you want to know what the prize was?”

You snort. “A lollipop? A brand new soccer ball?”

“Better.”

Squinting your eyes suspiciously with a bit of humor, you find yourself humming. “What could be better than that?”

“I was a hormonal teen—what could have been better than that?”

You freeze.

And he just…laughs. His eyes crinkle. His nose scrunches. His stomach shakes with the sound of joy. And you just stand there like a deer in headlights.

“I will say, I did learn a lot more than just English from Adelina.”

You don’t even get the proper chance to register any of what he’s saying before he walks up to you, like a wolf teasing its prey. You swallow, taking a step back until your back reaches the door. The brunette tilts his head.

“Would you be interested in me taking the same approach?”

He’s giving you an option—a fucked up one—but still. It’s either yes or no, of course it’s either yes or no. You could either stay or go. He’s letting you decide. And quite easily, you could say you don’t need it, any of it, but like always, the word no doesn’t mean a single thing when it comes to him and his magnetic field.

“Yes.”

“Hey.”

Looking up from your laptop, you purse your lips awkwardly. “Hey.”

Lissie takes a look around, finding a seat next to you before clearing her throat. “You look pretty. Pink is so your color.” You freeze and she continues without realizing. “Anyways, I know you were probably expecting Will, but he's a bit busy with the edits right now, so it looks like you're stuck with me.”

You haven't quite processed what needs to be processed, therefore, you can't hide your reluctance. “I really don't want to see you right now.”

This obviously catches the Brit a bit as expected, but damn. She shrugs, frowning. “I get that you and I aren't on the best terms, but there's no reason as to why we can't remain professional, right?”

You shake your head stubbornly. “Have you always been this annoying?”

She flinches. “I-I-I’m not trying to be—”

But you don't bother sticking around to hear the end of her sentences, because before she knows it, you've snapped your laptop shut and gone up and left, leaving her frazzled by your rudeness.

You in an obvious rush—“The American” can tell.

“Are you in too much of a hurry to not say hi?” Logan calls out after you, making you whip your head quickly, eyes wide with shock to have him standing right in front of you in the one place you could have sworn you would have never seen him step foot in again. He grins, waving boyishly.

“Wh-wh-what are you doing here?” you stutter, an unsteady smile starting to spread as you walk up closer to him now that you know this is actually happening.

The blue eyed boy chuckles. “Can’t I come around and visit from time to time?”

You two were never close—never really buddy-buddy—but you know when to be polite and so does he. It's one of the many reasons you two got along quite well during his time in Formula One.

“How are you, Logan?” you ask, beaming practically from the fact that he actually looks…okay. One would have pictured the opposite.

A tsk. “I’m great.” Another click. “Yourself?”

“Great,” you say, swaying a bit. And you don’t know why you feel so nervous talking to him. Maybe it starts with the fact that you’re close to the guy who practically stole his seat. You gulp. “You look younger.”

“I feel younger,” he responds with humor laced in his voice, glancing around. “I seriously think I was born again after leaving…” A snicker. “After I was asked to leave.”

“Stop it,” you warn, brows drawn together with pity. “What they did to you was uncalled for.”

“You think so?” Logan asks as both of you begin to walk with no clear indication as to where. People begin to stare, dazed and confused. It appears they truly believe someone just rose from the dead, and honestly, you’re beginning to think so too. “But you must really like my replacement.”

And there it was.

Cringing, you peek over at him quickly before looking back ahead. A couple mechanics do a double take, whispering things that make your stomach churn. This will definately be tomorrow's news, if not tonights. “Franco’s cool,” you let out, tension in the air. But he doesn’t feel it—only you.

He nods, blond hair shining against the rays of sunshine. “No, no, I agree.” A loopy grin. “To a certain extent.”

You snort, bumping your hip to his as he remains with a plain expression now. And now—now you’re confused, because now you don’t feel any tension—but he does.

Numbly, your eyes burn down to where he grabs your hand, pulling you behind a wall of tires. You can’t even tell who’s motorhome you’re standing in, all you know is that his eyes are similar...

Similar to Lissie’s.

“Don’t—”

“Just listen to me,” he pleads, buzzing with worry that you might push him away. And boy does it look like it. “Franco’s not the guy you think he is.”

“Lissie sent you here, didn’t see?” you accuse, a storm forming in your cloudy eyes, shaking your head with fury.

And it’s the hesitation that gives him away. Logan shrinks back. “She’s just looking out for you…”

“Looking out for me, how?” you hiss, a sour laughter mixed with it, making him flinch, because as far as he’s concerned, you’re quiet, you’re shy, and you’re not like this. “You know what? No. You tell me—how, Logan?—how is he not what he makes himself out to be?”

He sees it in you then, it hits him all at once, that Lissie was right about the situation. You’re no longer yourself, you’re no longer that sweet, innocent girl. You’ve changed—he’s changed you.

The blond takes a steady breath. “Franco is a good guy. The best.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter harshly, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms, indicating your irritation towards him and Lissie.

He continues. “But only when he feels like being one.”

“What are you talking about?” you groan, feeling a migraine rolling in like a tide.

Logan shakes his head, dragging a tired hand across his normally calm features. “When I first met him, I had my first girlfriend—Adelina.”

You freeze.

He licks his lips, animated hands jumping from side to side with his storytelling. “He barely spoke English, really sucked at it. And Adelina was kind enough to start teaching him.”

So this so-called Adelina was a real person, but she also wasn’t a tutor his parents had hired.

A million questions run through your head at the thought of Franco lying to you and all Logan does is wince. “While I was out racing, they’d meet up for a couple lessons. She grew up speaking Spanish because of her parents. And…and I thought it was nice.” He chuckles, as if living the moment once again. “Truthfully, it made me fall more and more in love with her—her kindness, that is.”

“But how was I to know, huh?” he asks pathetically. “How was I to know that a sixteen-year-old would ruin my relationship?” Silence, then he nods, letting out a heavy sigh. “She changed overnight, you know? Started trusting him more than me. I don’t know what he said to her, but it…but it worked.”

“And I get it—Adelina wasn’t perfect either. She was older than him, she should have known better, but fuck.” Blue eyes darken dangerously so, making you squirm, thankful to be somewhere you can run if you really needed to, though you doubt it it’d get that far. “He just has a way with words. He’s…a manipulator.”

“You sound ridiculous,” you speak for the first time since going cold.

And you hate that all he does is chuckle. That all he does is smile. Something about it makes your skin crawl because it tells you that it almost seems like he doesn’t care if you believe him or not, as long as he knows that it’s the truth.

Which it was.

“He’s a good friend, sure—but if he wants you?” A beat. “Forget it. He’ll find a way to have you. He won’t care if that requires sheltering you from everybody else. He won’t care if that requires ending friendships. He won’t care, period.”

“You’re just saying this…”

“Listen, I don’t hold grudges. I don’t hate Franco. I don’t mind that he fucked my girlfreind, I don’t mind that he took my seat, I don’t mind any of it at all anymore.” Pause. “But I know that I once did, and I know what it feels like to go through it.”

You blink.

“What I’m trying to say is that I know what Lissie’s feeling right now.”

“Lissie,” you say with resentment. “Was keeping me from living life. From experiencing things—and you want to know why?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Because she’s in love with me. Because she wanted to keep me to herself.”

“Yeah,” he challenges, grinning smugly. “And who told you that?”

It’s a reality check, all of this. It’s not a nice one, either. Taking a wobbly step back, you watch as he hums to himself, already knowing the answer to his question. Already knowing that he was onto you and your lack of better judgement. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks after that.

Pursing your lips, you push your hair back, you stand straighter, and you look him dead in the eye.

“It was nice seeing you, Logan—but do me a favor? Tell Lissie to fuck off.”

He notices your change in demeanor the second he finds you sitting by yourself.

By now he’s heard all about Logan being in the paddock, but what he doesn’t know is what he has said to you, which is why he thinks a milkshake might help you let it all out.

“I don’t like strawberry,” you whisper, almost as if your voice is gone. “I prefer vanilla.”

Of course you do.

Without thinking twice about it, he throws the sweet drink away into the nearest trash can, claiming his spot next to you as he fixes his hat. “I should have known,” he jokes, looking for a smile, but nope—nothing. “You look pretty, by the way.”

“Why did you lie to me, Franco?”

Okay. So you definitely know something.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finds himself responding, ignoring the way your head jerks swiftly.

“Don’t feed me with that bullshit,” you snap, reminding him that he can’t do the same as much as he wanted to. No. He needed you to believe him—not them.

“What did he say to you?” he asks carefully.

And you tell him, you tell him all of it, not leaving out a single piece of information that makes your head spin more with every passing second because how could you have fallen for it? Any of it?

“Adelina was my tutor,” he says adamantly. “Why would he say she was his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

The Argentenian clenches his jaw because there is no way he wasn’t going to let you trust them more than him, even if he was actually the one telling lies. “Don’t you find this suspicious?”

You say nothing.

The brunette nods, rolling his jaw as if he’s onto something you might’ve missed. “I mean, you stop talking to Lissie, and now what? She pulls out the big guns? Is she really that desperate to have you back by her side that now she’s gone as far as to make Logan lie to you just to make her look like the good guy?”

Still nothing. He’s losing you, he knows it. He sees it in the way you squint your eyes for a minute before furrowing your brows neatly. So, he does what he knows he does best—play the victim.

“Oye—what’s one thing they both share in common?” When you still fail to say anything, he clicks his fingers, startling you from the sudden sound. “Jealousy.” A beat. “They’re jealous of me.”

This time you do speak. “Why would they be jealous of you, Franco, why?”

“Have you forgotten that they think I’ve stolen something or someone from them?”

“Holy shit,” you whisper, sitting straight as you finally connect the dots. He nearly lets a rude chuckle slip before he swallows it down, frowning instead, along with a sad nod. “You stole me from Lissie. You stole the seat from Logan.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh my God…oh my God. How could I be so blind?”

He wonders the same thing. And genuinely, he begins to worry for your well being, for being so goddamn trusting. But hey—this was all working in his favor, so be it.

Those eyes—the ones that are half as pretty as your body—soften instantly. You’re grateful, you let him know, for being the only one to be honest with you. For taking the time to wake you up, to make you see things that were always right in front of you. They were never really good friends, they were never really good people, and now you know.

And that’s all thanks to Franco.

Somehow, he convinces you to sneak out to the beach with him. He’s had a shitty day in the car, he’s had an even worse meeting with both Alex and James, and according to him, this might help release some stress.

You owe it to me, eh? he teased when you first shook your head, claiming to be too tired. After that, you were quick to run back to your room and grab a thick sweater due to it being past curfew.

The moonlight isn’t beautiful tonight, which is a weird thing to say aloud, so, instead, you keep it to yourself. It’s a full moon, but it’s not white, it’s not yellow—it’s red.

“Scares you?” the Williams driver asks, raising his brows with curiosity. You blush, feeling awfully childish for actually being. Scared, that is. He chuckles, arms propped against the towel he stole from his room, the one that was too small to fit you both, but you managed to make it work. “Do I scare you?” he interrogates and you don’t know why that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Not at all. You’re—you’re.” You aim a ginger smile, one that reminds him close to sugar. “You’re sweet.”

“I was born during a red-moon,” he admits, watching as goosebumps run down your legs, the only area that wasn’t covered because stupidly enough, you thought it wouldn’t be that cold. “It scared my parents shitless.”

“Why?” you ask, interested to know more.

He shrugs. “Some believe it can cause birth defects like a cleft palate. Others think it brings in evil spirits.” He sees the way you squint at his lips, as if looking for a scar of any kind, no matter big or small. He snickers, making you feel ashamed for even searching for one. “I wasn’t born with a cleft palate, in case you’re wondering.”

I wasn’t, you wish to confess, but you know that's not true. Instead, you make a joke—an awful joke. One that doesn’t land for the first few seconds.

“Does this mean evil is within you?” You giggle. “Tell me, Franco Colapinto, were you born to be sinful?”

His jaw goes slack.

Your stomach drops. “I-I-I am so sorry—”

“It’s fine.” It’s not. “Forget about it.”

There’s a pressure in your chest now that you worry you’ve upset him. He doesn’t say anything after that, he doesn’t try to laugh it off, instead, he clears his throat, waiting for you to be washed away by the shore. Why was he wasting his time on you again?

He doesn’t know it. You don’t know it. But the reason your joke got to him is because—you’re right. He was out to get you, he was out to get Lissie, he was out to get Logan—he was out to get anyone who he felt like toying with in one way or another.

But he just doesn’t realize it. His destruction comes naturally, and that? That just might be the scariest thing of all.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat with a mumble, hair dancing against the wind. You feel awful. Maybe it came out harsher than intended, maybe not, but guilt slides down you, nonetheless. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I said it’s fine,” he restates, his features softening as he let out a toothy smile, as if he suddenly thought your joke was funny. It wasn’t, but whatever, fuck you, honestly. “Have you been practicing your Spanish?”

More guilt. “I haven’t…”

He wants to yell. Yeah, he wants to fucking scream because why are you wasting his time? Why is he wasting his?

But no—no. He nearly has you, he nearly has you, he nearly has you.

“No worries,” he reassures, sitting straight this time as he signals around. “We’re at the beach. We’re alone with no distractions.” And this guy—smirks. Devilishly. “Are you ready for your first real prize?”

Heat pools between your legs with eagerness, though you try not to overshow it.

But he notices—he notices everything when it comes to you. And there’s not a single thing you can hide.

“Well,” he teases, shrugging smugly. “That’s if I feel like you deserve it.”

You almost feel like you don’t. You don’t deserve attention of any kind from someone like Franco Colapinto. He’s not only handsome, but he’s also calculated. He’s not only easy going, but he’s also stern. And honestly, you don’t know what side of him you might get.

But you also don’t seem to care, and at this point, you’d take just about any attention.

“Lay down on the towel,” he instructs, a deep rumble mixed with his accent. Swallowing, you do just that, adjusting your skirt so it doesn’t slide up. But that’s not the plan—it never was. A single chuckle can be heard from him before he towers over you, his large hand going down to bunch up the thin fabric, pulling it up your hips. Your eyes grow wide with panic as he coos at you like a baby. “Relax—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Technically, yes. You had agreed a couple weeks back, but dear God, was this it? What were you doing? And he just does the best job at controlling your nerves, at making you let loose, because suddenly, your panties being fully exposed doesn’t feel that daunting anymore.

“There you go,” he whispers as he analyzes your breathing the more it becomes a lot less hard. He grins, eyes crinkling. “Mira que innocente.”

“Innocente,” you copy him, furrowing your brows as the word sounds extremely familiar. Just then, you burn up, giggling awkwardly. “You think I’m innocent?”

“And she knows how to use her brain, too,” he congratulates, making you blink with surprise for a second time due to the tone he says it in. “Well, aren’t you?”

You think of lying to him. At making up some crappy story about a first time you’ve never even had, but think—what if he can see past your lie? Oh, you’re sure you’d never leave the house ever again, no, you’d be too embarrassed to look him in the eye ever again.

So, ignoring his questions, you tilt your head against the towel, feeling the back of your head rub against sand without actually getting dirty. You bite down on your bottom lip once before letting go, watching as his breath hitches at the sight. You like that.

“I got it right, didn't I?” The ocean waves crash rapidly. “Where’s my prize?”

He’d be laughing right now if he weren’t so impressed by you. Here he was thinking you were some doll he had to take care of and look at you—you’re just as ready and desperate as him. He likes that.

Without a second to kill, the Argentinian leans down, clashing his lips against yours as your mouth opens pathetically in return, welcoming him in a way that makes his cock grow hard. He doesn’t just use his lips, he also uses his teeth. He doesn’t just stay silent, he also makes noises. He groans as if this is something he’s been craving for quite a while now, but you can’t judge him too much on that—you feel the same way.

You’re left panting the moment he pulls away, staring at you with dark eyes, irises blown out as his chest heaves in a struggle to catch his own breath. Looking up at him, your lips are plumper than ever before. Your nose is rosy and your cheekbones have a certain glow to them.

And would you look at that?

You’re in love.

You never thought a guy like him would notice you past a hundred other girls. In your mind, you never stood a chance, and now this? No one kisses like that and doesn’t fall in love. And you see it—you see it in his eyes. The way they glimmer and glisten as if saying—yes, yes I feel it too.

You smile, a sweet giggle sliding up your throat as your eyes begin to shut with tenderness.

So fucking stupid, he thinks to himself as he smiles back, so fucking easy.

Is this really all it took? If he had known, he would’ve kissed you ages ago and gotten his way and left, but alas, everything happens for a reason, right?

“Say something else,” he encourages.

You purse your berry lip, thinking long and hard because the thought of letting him down seems like too much now. That, and you were curious with what else he’d do to you. “Okay, um, so…soy periodista,” you mutter, tongue jittery. “Y trabajo contigo—Franco Colapinto.”

“Good enough,” he lets out, already sliding down as he comes to view with your white lace. You squirm, fixing yourself so you can keep an eye on him. It takes him a while, he doesn’t know why, for him to to loop his fingers around the thin string and pull down. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to taste you.”

“Wha—”

Just then, he mouth is pressed down against your core, licking up any wetness that was already there, causing more to slither down your legs as you squeal, twisting so much that he physically has to hold you down. You feel his nose brush against places that make you see white, you feel his tongue dive in until it’s practically inside of you, looking for any sign that you might like it. And of course you do—of course you do—he knows what girls like you are into.

“Sabes a dulce,” he murmurs against your thighs, already reaching up to throw them over his shoulders. The way his muscles twitch underneath your calves makes you moan louder, pulling the rest of your dress up and biting down on it to lessen the loud sounds you’re making. Franco chuckles, sending vibrations up your sweaty body. “Don’t do that…no one’s around.”

He’s right. Not a single soul is here, but you can’t quite figure out why your pornographic noise makes you feel wrong. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that you’ve never done anything like this before, and not your first time on the open beach—yeah. Maybe.

Adding a finger in as a test, you let out a yelp, not used to having anyone do that. You lurch up, locking eyes with him before he grins, slipping in another, admiring as you go limp. He’s seen this view a million different times. With blonds, with brunettes, with gingers, with all kinds of girls, but nothing excites him more than you.

And it’s not because he’s in love—God, no—but rather because all his scheming was worthwhile. All his lies, all his irritation…was worth having you like this. Usually, girls throw themselves at him, but you were, truly, truly, truly the hardest to get at, and it wasn’t even your fault.

It was Lissie’s.

He hopes you two make up. After all is said and done, he really does pray now that a rekindling can happen amongst you two. The Brit will probably still hate him, probably write a ton of articles in order to make him look back, but who would ever believe her? Everyone sees him as a bubbly personality. The kind of guy to get shy sometimes. The one who blushes even with the smallest compliments.

Of course no one would believe her.

And you?

You’d probably regret it all.

And he doesn’t even care.

But that’s all a persona—one that works wonders. I mean, shit…it worked on you.

“Oh…” you whimper, as you feel your stomach tighten, seeing all the stars despite having your eyes closed. “Fuck, fuck, Franco, I’m gonna—”

Grunting wildly, he open mouth kisses your pussy all over, collecting the warm liquid that finally spills out of you, growling beneath his breath because he just can’t get enough, because this—

This is what a virgin tastes like.

“God,” he moans as he pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as you try to recollect the rest of your sanity that seems to have slipped away ever since he entered your life. “You taste sweeter than Adelina ever did.”

You flinch—hard.

You think that if you were to ask if you had a slap marked across your cheek, the answer would be yes. He’s too busy telling you how great you were, he’s too busy comforting you, rubbing small circles against your hips as he grins brightly, a small dimple forming in the corner of his lips. And then, there’s you—dumbfounded as ever.

“I used to do this with her all the time,” he continues, drawing shapes on your arms, chuckling to himself, clearly diving back to the past. And realistically, that’s fine. He’s allowed to do that. But in front of you? Your lack of words is what ultimately makes him frown with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you not…” You trail off, feeling a sting burn your eyes, forcing them to flutter dramatically.

Are you serious? he wants to ask dryly. Were you seriously getting butthurt over something so long ago? For fucks sake, you two weren’t even together.

Licking his lips, he nods fiercely, faking an apologetic look, but inside, he’s burning with annoyance. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” Wincing, you gently push him off, fixing yourself and throwing on your puffer jacket. “I’m sorry—”

“I just want to go to bed,” you say weakly, looking down at the sand, spotting a tiny crab crawling away in a hurry. Almost as much hurry as you. You sniffle, scoffing at the fact that you’re crying. How would he ever take you seriously if all you do is act like a child? Wiping away a small droplet, you force a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I hope you feel better.”

Right. He was supposedly stressed out after the day he had. Nodding robotically, and a bit lost, he jumps up, grabbing the towel and shaking it off before following after you.

There’s really no room to talk. Or maybe there is but neither of you take it.

Not until you reach your slightly cheaper hotel. Well. A lot cheaper. “Goodnight, Franco,” you say awkwardly, swaying from side to side as he remains as blank as a naked canvas.

“Lo siento,” he says, suddenly agitated. “It was never my intention to hurt your feelings.” And the thing is—he’s telling the truth. He wasn’t looking to do any of that, but the moment he did, it didn’t feel like a big deal either. Girls were just always overly dramatic. But they’re also sickeningly beautiful, so he’d make sure to fix this mess. “Forgive me?”

This is another test of his. To see if you either have some dignity or not.

Newsflash—you don’t.

How you manage to end up in his bed, you don’t know, because last thing you remember, you were at the entrance of your hotel, not his.

Because that’s not what’s important right now.

What’s important is the way he’s talking you through it, saying it isn’t going to hurt, which turns out to be an outrageous lie because honest to God, you feel as if your entire body has been set on fire. A fire he fuels with his praises, calling you things like preciosa and linda. He makes it difficult to speak, so you stick to your whimpers and mewls. You stick with letting him fuck you until you feel ready to pass out.

Back arched, you gasp as the tip of his cock reaches a place even you haven’t been able to reach, no matter how many times you’ve touched yourself. It makes your mind go haywire and his jaw go slack as he lets out a whine that catches both of you off guard.

“You.” Thrust. “Feel.” Thrust. “Perfect.” Thrust.

He’s talking about your body. He’s talking about your tiny cunt that takes him like no other. He’s talking about the fact that later on, he will able to brag on and on about the virgin he fucked in Miami to all of his cocky friends with dicks smaller than the size of their brains.

He’s not talking about you.

He’s not talking about the fact that you’re clinging onto him as if he’s your only savior in this life and the next. He’s not talking about the way you say his name, as if he’s the most special person to you. He’s not talking about the fact that you’re in love with him, and he’s not.

Because that’s not what’s important right now.

“Shit—” He tosses his head back, struggling to breathe as he pounds into you harder, trying to erase the view of you, mouth hung open, sweaty body under his. Because if he thinks about it for too long, he might just come right there and then. “Mierda, mierda, mierda—me tienes jodidamente adicto.”

You don’t know what he’s saying, you’re not that advanced to understand, but something about it makes you grin, glancing up at him as he finally looks down at you, watching you slide higher and higher up the bed from how fast he’s sinking into you.

“F–F-Franco Colapinto,” you stutter, giving it your all to not let your eyes fall shut with how good you feel.

“Yeah, baby?” he encourages, large hands going in to cradle your face against them, making you feel more than sure about what you’re about to say.

Your smile expands. “Te amo.”

Fuck, he grunts one last time, very animal like, and cums into you as you do the same, moaning at the sensitivity and new emotion.

You just never expected—never, ever, ever expected—for him to react this way.

It all happens so fast, him changing. You barely have a chance to register that he no longer has that afterglow, that he no longer wears that smile that millions of camera’s and fan’s love to see. All of it is gone—in the span of a second.

“You don’t know what you're saying.”

You blink, suddenly feeling dirty of being left bare on the bed. Quickly, you grab a nearby blacket and toss it over your body, standing and carefully walking up to him, wearing a wobbly smile, as if you’re still debating whether to fully show it or not.

“Sorry?” you question, bothered by the fact that he's invalidating your feelings. You frown, neat brows knit together. “I’m telling you I love you because I know what I’m saying.”

Franco rolls his eyes, a thing you’ve never seen before, and it’s not something you like, either. It makes him look distant, and cold, and almost…irritated by your existence. By the fact that you’re still in his room, the room he practically begged you to come back to with him.

And deep in his soul, he finally felt it—a snap in him.

Getting rid of the distance between you two, his eyes soften, just like honey. They’ve gone delicate and kind and that’s the Franco you know and love.

But that's just for show—that’s just what he wants you to see.

And now—now he’s done.

You think he’s going to kiss you, like in the movie’s. You think he’s going to confess his undying love for you, too. You think he’s about to prove everyone wrong, those being Logan and Lissie. But that’s not the case, it was never going to be.

“You should’ve listened to them,” he whispered into your ear, making your stomach drop, a strong pain going straight to your heart. A minute ticks by. “You’re a sweet girl,” he says, taking a step back. “I still think so—can’t that be enough for you to live with?”

Your lips open and close lamely. “I-I’m confused…”

“You girls always expect too much from men,” he says, sighing and saying ‘girls’ as if it’s a thing that costs him to respect. Seeing it now, you might think that’s true. “What do you want me to say? That I’m in love with you?”

Silence.

The brunette scoffs, rolling his tongue as he raises a dark brow. “See. This is exactly what I mean. It’s not your fault, though. You were born naive, you can’t help it. It’s adorable.”

This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.

“The rumors,” you whispher beneath your breath, eyes welling with tears. “They were right all along…”

He sighs, crossing his arms. “Cariño, a thousand rumors surround my name on a day to day basis, could you be more specific?”

An eye twitch is what makes a single tear slide down your face, but you’re not crying out of heartbreak anymore, no—you’re crying out of pure anger. You feel a hatred like never before, seeing him standing there all nonchalant.

The fame. The money. The attention. It’s all gone straight to his head.

“That you’re a flirt,” you accuse. “That you’re egotistical. That you’re too full of yourself. That you’re vain. That you’re a player.” You let out a delirious laugh, nearly letting go of the sheets that cover you whole. Mascara stains the corner of your eyes as you shake your head in disbelief. “That you’re nothing but a manipulator who thrives on deceiving those around you.” Your hand shakes with fury as you glare at the Argentinian. “Lissie and Logan…they were right about you all along.”

He can’t even deny that, so he says nothing indeed. But that just angers you even more. Grabbing him by the collar, you yank him down to look at you straight in the eyes of the girl he just broke with zero mercy.

“Lissie was never in love with me, was she?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Adelina wasn’t your tutor, she was Logan’s girlfriend, wasn't she?”

He doesn't say anything.

Hiccupping, his face becomes far too blurry as your shoulders shake with every sob. It's filled with suffering, and agony, and he sincerely starts to worry about your wellbeing. You don't look good anymore—your eyes are puffy and lifeless, your lips are swollen from how often you keep biting them to try and suppress your tears, your makeup smears tragically, and that…pains him to see.

“You were never going to take me serious, were you?”

A lump enters his throat, cruelly making him realize that for some reason, and for the first time in his life—he cares.

He feels guilty.

But feeling at fault does not make the reality any less true.

Slowly, he grimaces, shaking head full of curls and making you let him go, chucking to yourself. “I’m not mad at you, Franco.” You scoff, rolling your eyes and using the sheets as a tissue. “I’m mad at myself.” This time, you narrow your eyes, sharp and threatening, contradicting your prior sentence. “For letting some boy get in between my best friend and I. For letting some boy feed me lies. For letting some boy drag me to hell and back. For letting some boy think he was a man.”

He flinches harshly at your words that are laced with venom. He’s had this happen to him before—grls cursing him out, girls belittling him for doing it first to them.

So then why—why does this hurt him?

“Don’t you feel funny knowing that people know you for what you are?” you ask, curling a brow. “That all the rumors are true.”

“Not always,” he answers weakly, still not meeting your eyes, too ashamed. “They could also be a hoax, at times.”

“Mmm,” you mumble, thinking back to a couple months ago where you and Lissie had a similar conversation. Christ, were you just as stubborn as him? “Since when?”

All he does is blink. All he does is stare.

All you do is change.

All you both do—is learn a very valuable lesson.

Rightfully so, Lissie kept her distance despite you texting her hundreds of times begging to meet up and talk. To make things right amongst you both.

And honestly, there would have been no chance of sitting in front of one another if Logan had not been the first one to accept your apology, forcing you two to talk about everything.

“Okay, um—” An awkward giggle. “I’m sorry, I don't know how to do this…”Twiddling her thumbs, the Brit sighs, probably just as nervous as you, and Logan snickers during the whole thing. Gulp. “I want to start off by saying that you were right. About—well. Franco.”

Stillness is your enemy because suddenly her lack of words makes your entire world begin to flip on its axis, too horrified to begin and imagine the worst. But Lissie has never been one to hold grudges—well—when it comes to you.

“I know I was.”

Okay, but maybe she’ll put up a good fight for the first few seconds.

You nod feverishly. “Yeah…and I, um, should have listened to you. To both of you.”

“You should have,” she responds dryly, still with her head held up high.

Okay, you deserve this.

“Lissie, I’m so sorry,” you say, firm and desperate, round eyes softening as she remains stoic for a second. “You were just looking out for me, and I was acting childish.” Or two. “And I would understand if you never want to see or hear from me again, but—I really wish that's not the case.”

Or three.

Pursuing her pink lips, the journalist gets up from her place on the couch, making you stomach drop at the thought of her leaving, putting a definite end to your guys’ friendship. But you wouldn't be able to say you were surprised. She had every right to do just that.

And by some miracle, she stays.

Walking up to with eagerness, she happily throws her arms around you, making you laugh and do the same, digging your face into her neck. How could you have ever pushed something as sacred as this away for someone like Franco?

“I forgive you, of course, I forgive you,” she says with enlightenment, smiling from ear to ear. “And I'm sorry you had to go through all that, I hope he rots for the rest of eternity.”

You let out a giggle, pulling back, eyes flickering over at Logan. “Come here, dude.” It's a bear hug, one that suffocates you, but you couldn't have asked for anything better. “Ah. I can't believe I let him get to my head,” you yelp, bumping your hand against your temple over and over again. “I feel so stupid.”

“Stop it,” Lissie warns, brown eyes painted with subtle threat, like an older sister. “How could you have known?”

“Because you told me countless times to stay away,” you return, deadpan.

Logan snickers. “True.”

The brunette girl swats his arms, making him let out a yelp in slight pain. You smile gingerly at the interaction, realizing how much you missed this. “Whatever, you live and you learn, right?”

“Right,” they chorus.

You three spend the next few hours cooped up in Lissie’s flat, ordering shitty pizza from the parlor down the street. It takes like cardboard, you all agree after the first few bites. You beg for an update from both of them, hit with surprise when Logan opens up about seeing someone—Riley, you think her name is—and how he might be joining IndyCar, but only time will tell.

“He’s already had a couple test rounds,” Lissie brags for him, watching as he blushes, nursing his soda. “And he’s fantastic. I really think you have a fair shot at getting an offer. Plus, your racing history is killer, it’ll help.”

“Thank, Lis,” he mumbles timidly beneath his breath. “Oh. Tell her about Marcus.”

“Marcus?” you repeat, clearly interested in knowing more. You lean forward, shimming as she rolls her eyes over at the blond. “Who’s that?”

“No one—”

“Yeah, right!” he yelps. “Only the hotshot you're dating.”

A beat. “Wait, Lis, you have a boyfriend?”

The Brit burns burgundy. “No, no, no. We’ve just gone out a couple times, that's all.”

“Oooh,” you tease. “And what? You love him?” you sing, enjoying the way she withers away with embarrassment. “Oh, come on, Lissie, tell me, tell me!”

“I don't love him,” she groans, digging her face into a pillow and sounds far too muffled. “Fuck you two.”

“I didn't say anything,” he says, chuckling with amusement before getting up to use the bathroom.

Once he's far out of view, you jump to the spot next to her, ripping the cushion out of her hands. She frowns, long hair messy. You wiggle your neat brows. “I swear I won't tell.”

“There's nothing to say.”

“Oh, so it was physical?”

“I will kick you.”

Raising your arms up in surrender, you giggle wholeheartedly, making her start to giggle too. And just like that, it feels like old times.

As if he never even happened.

“Tell me one thing,” she speaks up, gathering her breath. “Did you fall in love with him?”

A rude flinch, then: “I did.”

“But you regret it?”

This you don't have to think twice about. “Of course, I do, are you kidding me? Franco quite literally shattered my heart.”

A beat.

“I told you so.”

You glare. “Seriously?”

Lissie waves her arms theatrically. “I'm sorry, but it's true! Didn’t I?”

She did. She told you millions of times, but you never listened. But God, you really, really, really wish you had. “Wanna hear something crazy?”

“Uh, duh,” she responds, propping her arms to face you.

You laugh, already feeling silly about what you're about to say. “Franco swore you were in love with me and that's why you didn't want me near him.”

She freezes. “What?”

Picking up a slice of pizza that's gone cold by now, you nod, snorting at the thought you once believed something as outrageous as that. “Yeah, he said that you just acted differently around me.” Another bite. “Told you it was crazy.”

“It is,” she mutters, brows furrowed as she watches you chew. “The lengths he would go to just to keep you to himself, Jesus Christ.”

“I know,” you respond. “And I know you love me, but not like that. He was actually sick for making up lies like that without even flinching.” A giggle. “Anyways, now I know that the person you do love is baby face, Marcus Armstrong.”

The Brit blushes, pushes her curtain bangs away from her face. “Leave us alone.”

“Us,” you squeal, getting up once Logan comes back into the living room with a new can of soda. “Where do you keep the cherry colas?”

“In the mini-fridge,” she yells, sighing contentedly as the couch dips once again.

Logan looks behind him swiftly, then back at Lissie who scrolls through her phone.

“I feel bad for lying to her.”

Flicking her gaze back up quickly, the British girl glares hard enough to make him wince and regret saying anything in the first place. “Don’t,” she states, brown eyes darker than ever. “Say that ever again.”

“Why not?” Agitatedly, he runs a hand through his hair, glancing around before narrowing his blue eyes, matching her scowl. “This isn’t what you do when you love someone.”

“Be quiet,” Lissie hisses, inching closer to him, afraid of you walking in and catching their conversation. “I told you that in confidence.”

The blond sighs, going in and holding her small hand against his. In a way, he feels sympathy for his friend at this moment because he's sure being secretly in love with someone is a challenge of its own. She opened up to him about it, told him how she was confused at first, but now she was sure. How she said it all came to be the moment you introduced her to a couple of your hometown friends a few years ago and she realized, yeah, I want to belong to her world.

But what she hadn’t expected was for Franco—out of all people, Franco—to be able to tell how she feels. And sure. Maybe he thought of it as a lie, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he nailed it right in the bullseye. Lissie just couldn’t—couldn’t—imagine him having you. It was impossible, it didn’t make sense.

But you and her did. You just didn’t know it yet.

“You have to tell her how you feel, she’s going to find out!” he hisses, gritting his teeth, trying to make her understand that would lead them to no good.

“No—she won’t,” she reassures him more than herself. “She wasn’t able to tell that Franco was a douchebag, do you really think she’ll be able to tell that her best friend is in love with her?” A beat. “Even I can admit that she’s a bit dumb.”

“That’s low, Lissie, so fucking low,” he says, taken over by a wave of sympathy for seeing how others view you when you’re not around. “How does that make you any better than him?”

“Please,” she grits. “Franco and I are not the same. What’s my crime? That I haven’t confessed my feelings? And what about him? That he manipulated her, told her lies, fucked her, then left her to figure it out by herself all with a broken heart?”

Who’s the real villain here, Logan, huh?

In hindsight, he is. Franco is the one who caused the most harm.

But Lissie? Lissie’s not that far behind.

“What about Adelina?” he counterstrikes pathetically. “She was never even my girlfriend!”

“Yes, she was.” The brunette tilts her head slowly. “Why are you suddenly backtracking on all of this? I thought you were onboard.”

“I was!” Pause. “I mean, I-I-I am. Fuck…I don’t know.”

But she’s seen this happen before. She’s seen it happen with you.

Lissie squints her eyes, long lashes fluttering dangerously. “Franco got to you, didn’t he?” Logan looks away and that’s a valid answer in her dictionary. Sitting straight, the Brit girl lets out a sigh. “Which side are you on?”

“Yours.” Right? “Franco’s?” Right? A loud exhale. “Shit, I don’t know!”

“She’s lying to you, Logan, can’t you see?” Franco explains, somewhere in Texas. Formula One and IndyCar cross paths here, and while the Argentinian is here to race, well, Logan was here for testing because he thinks—thinks—he might have a shot at landing a strong contract by the end of the month. “She’s good at doing that.”

The blond shakes his head. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she hates me,” he responds as if it were the most obvious answer. “Lissie…she’s never liked me. I swear, I think she might be in love with—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Logan says, cutting him off. But it’s too late—he can tell Franco is skeptical.

“Hold on a minute—am I right?”

“No,” the blue eyed boy responds with such a hurry, that not even the stupidest idiot on Earth would think he was being honest. “Are you cra—no, of course not.”

“Dios, what is going on?” the William's driver mumbled, head growing dizzy from how complicated this has all gotten. And it was all your fault, for being so goddamn alluring. Or maybe it was his. Or maybe it was Lissie’s.

Who’s fucking keeping score anymore?

Logan reaches for the tab, simply looking for a reason to get up and go, but the brunette is quick to grab it, sliding his card against the folder. “Thanks,” the blond stutter, standing up and pushing his chair in. “I can’t tell anymore.”

Franco freezes. “What do you mean?”

“Who’s telling the truth and who’s telling lies.”

“I don’t trust you,” Logan whispers, almost letting out a wince from how hard Lissie is glaring at him now. “But I don’t trust him, either.”

And it’s confusing because you two are such good people, deep down, but the way you both are able to lie, and lie, and lie—

“I couldn’t find it,” you say, barging back into the room, panting softly, mouth open. “I know you said the mini fridge, but I didn’t see anything.”

Both your friends blink blanky, looking up. The journalist is the first to break the silence, giggling to herself. “Don’t worry, I can help.”

“Great!” you cheer, disappearing back in the direction you came from.

And before she leaves, before she goes out of view as well, Lissie leans down, face to face with Logan who shifts uncomfortably.

“Why do you think Franco might be lying to you?” she asks, voice deep with tranquility.

Blue eyes connect with brown ones.

She smiles, a childlike dimple popping innocently.

“Could it be that maybe he's in love—with you?”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting @chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @wanderingreigns @aykxz98 @ruti26-11 @esposamultifandom @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @r0nnsblog @aeriblu @inchidentofftrack @natashaklein @rutaceae-gelato @bowielovesyou @lilypat @folklaur21 @dustie-faerie @ajordan2020 @oscobabe @briefkittenearthquake @anayaverse @cassielikereading @satorinnie @ginsengi @n3versatisfied @koalalafications @ashley-k @mxm47max @jaejer-chan @oddends @sweetwh0re @fortunapre

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hcneymooners · 26 days ago

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౨ৎ when i feel you (from within), i exist.

wnba!paige x wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

cw: that weird blurring of lines in your friendship when you're both in love with each other, non-sexual intimacy, mentions of drugs, weed (p!smoking), being desperately affectionate but refusing to call it what it is, ambiguous but hopeful ending.

notes: not necessarily my best, but it's what i needed. giving credit to where credit is due. this was written because i reread everything @loeysoi has written because every single one of her works is a comfort to me, and then i was inspired to write this. i love you.

anyway, i hope you enjoy. coucou.

no matter how late the phone rings, azzi always picks up. paige knows she’s good for it.

an unspoken rule of their friendship is the constant space they leave for one of them to hopelessly, helplessly need the other. it's one of the few constants between them. the quiet latitude they give each other—the open-ended kind.

i’ll be there. no explanation needed.

so when the wings lose on national television, and paige’s face does that thing—just a little twist, like a split second of everything cracking before she smooths it back over—azzi doesn’t wait. she already knows. even when the phone doesn’t ring.

especially then.

one a.m. passes. the silence stays. she books the flight.

she doesn’t deliberate. doesn’t change. just grabs her black weekender and slides in a travel charger, the deep red pajamas she always brings to paige’s, and the toiletries still packed from last time. she doesn’t bother changing out of her black skims maxi dress, the matching kitten heels, or the oversized uconn alumni sweatshirt she’s been meaning to return to her mom.

her skin’s still warm from the day; sweat slick at the back of her neck, humidity sitting heavy on her shoulders. she loops her curls into a high bun, gets irritated when she can’t catch the shorter strands at the base of her neck, and then lets it go, recognizing the impulse to fixate. the way she always does when she’s nervous, but doesn’t want to call it that.

outside, her driver’s waiting, the a/c humming. the partition stays down, and they stare out of their respective windows—he to the front, she to the side. the city slides past in streaks of grey, red, and a dusky yellow. she doesn’t check her phone until they’re a few blocks out.

fifteen minutes in, she texts arike.

think her phone’s dead. need the address.

she keeps it simple. doesn’t say what she means: i’m worried.

arike sends it back without extra words. some story about a party. some attempt from paige to “let loose”. azzi knows better. she knows paige, knows that this is her trying to “be better” about losing because she can’t help but beat herself down about anything she can think of.

when the plane lands, dallas is quiet. the city hums quietly, and even the passing cars seem only to purr. azzi calls an uber, sitting on top of her bag instead of the stained sidewalk. she prays no one asks for a photo if they recognize her. she’s not up for it.

upon arrival, the place is exactly what she expects. upscale, impersonal. gleaming glass and brushed metal. it’s someone’s penthouse, a luxe space that was built to photograph well but feels immeasurably cold when you’re actually in it. security lets her up without question. maybe she appears more desperate than she feels.

when she arrives, the elevator opens with a sad unlatching, and the party seems to be going the same way, settling and thinning like blood after a pill.

somebody’s aux’d up a frank ocean song, and now everything feels a little easier, like the night’s keen to finally sleep. she walks in, stepping carefully around bodies busy with meaningless action. she sees someone do a line and she starts feeling stress, her chest tightening at the dry sniff and the easy disappearance of the powder.

she continues despite the anxiety making her ears ring. by now, her heels are pinching, and she’s had enough of people pressing into her space with their sugar-rushed energy and red cup breath. she weaves her way through the house, whispering paige’s name a couple of times, softly. it’s muscle memory.

no answer.

her feet are starting to ache. she exhales, tugs her heels off at the base of the stairs, and toes the rest of the way barefoot.

azzi finds her near the back, a cracked door casting a warm, flickering glow across the hallway. paige is lying on the bed, one leg bent, the other dangling off the edge. she’s so beautiful, almost relentlessly so: hoodie stretched loose over her thighs, silver chain peeking from the collar and catching what little light there is.

there’s a half-finished joint in the dark green ashtray on the windowsill, the porcelain pressed with a pop art image of kendrick lamar’s grinning face; the soft scent of weed mingles with leftover body heat and laundry detergent.

“yo,” paige says, barely lifting her head. her voice is low, rough with smoke and sleep. she sounds annoyed that someone is in a space that’s only temporarily hers.

azzi sighs and leans against the door. “hey. been looking for you.”

paige sits up on her elbows then, her brow scrunching as her low eyes lock onto the phantom of her best friend in the doorway. a myriad of emotions scrape over her face, running her ragged, until something like relief decides to be the one that stays.

“hey, az. you found me,” paige murmurs, gaze drifting down her body and back up again. “lucky you.”

azzi doesn’t answer. just rolls her eyes and steps forward, dropping her heels off to the side as she crawls onto the bed, slow and unbothered, one knee then the other sinking into the mattress. her dress hikes up higher with each movement, second-skin, clinging to her waist and hips like it was sewn on. paige watches her, eyes half-lidded, pulse skipping for no good reason.

azzi moves like she’s done this before—because she has. the bed dips under her weight. she sinks beside her, trying to settle.

“don’t sit there,” paige says suddenly, tugging on azzi’s arm.

azzi pauses, brows pulling together. “why not?”

paige shrugs, eyes glinting. “zone of sin.”

azzi resists the urge to scoff, a bright pop of jealousy fireworking in her hindbrain. she tells herself to ignore it and smooths her voice like static.

“jesus, paige.” she makes a face instead. “you’re disgusting.”

“mhm,” paige hums. “but you love me, mama.”

before azzi can roll away or say something smart, paige’s hands are on her waist, strong and warm, and she bodily lifts her, pulling her up and over so azzi ends up on top of her, straddling her lap.

azzi’s breath catches, but she lets it happen. she always does. with paige, she can afford to be less active within her own life.

her dress stretches just a bit more over her thighs. paige’s hands linger on her lower back, her thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. azzi settles, carefully, her hands braced on either side of paige’s shoulders.

“you’re high,” she says.

paige grins, the kind of easy smile that makes azzi want to hit her and kiss her all at once. “only a little.”

they fall quiet. paige shifts beneath her just enough to make azzi feel the heat creeping up her neck. her eyes are steady, though, hooded and dark and weirdly honest under all the bravado. azzi can’t take the attention, so she slides down until she’s lying on the other woman’s chest. her head is cushioned tenderly by paige’s body. she can smell her cologne: bourbon, vanilla, and jasmine.

“did your phone die?” azzi murmurs after a moment, voice careful.

paige’s torso shifts beneath her. “yeah. sorry. didn’t mean to stress you.”

azzi sighs. “i know, p. don’t worry about it. i think stress is a permanent part of me anyway.”

there’s a beat. paige reaches up, smooths a loose curl behind azzi’s ear like it’s instinct. then she leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead—warm, firm, and much too long to be casual.

“you been stressed?” she asks, right against azzi’s skin. “what’s going on, mama?”

azzi’s fingers twitch against the fabric of the comforter. her heartbeat’s loud enough that she’s sure paige can feel it. paige smells like weed and a late night, and that stupid fabric softener azzi’s always secretly liked.

something is shifting.

“nothing, just game shit. don’t distract me. it’s about you right now.”

“you’re annoying,” paige says back, but azzi can tell she doesn’t mean it.

“i know,” azzi says. “still here though.”

paige sits up at that, her hands gentle on azzi’s shoulder as she brings them to a sitting position. azzi is still somewhat on her lap, and she can feel paige’s knee between her thighs. the pressure makes her shiver and slide off.

the music from the party is still playing low from someone’s half-dead speaker downstairs. now, it’s some rap song chopped up by bluetooth lag. paige doesn’t touch her, but sits across from her, close enough that she can reach out and hold on to her if she needs to.

“i’m fine,” paige says, voice flat.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she curls a leg under herself, watching paige from beneath her lashes.

“i know, p,” she answers finally. “you always are.”

that’s all they say for a while. azzi can better smell the memory of this room, of what it had been like before she intruded. it’s a heady mixture of sweat and an unidentifiable sweetness, probably spilled liquor. paige leans back and exhales through her nose like she’s trying to hold it all together with silence. azzi only gives her time, bending her neck to look down at her hands as she plays with a stack of favored rings—all gifted by paige.

she looks back up—lets herself really look at paige—at the curve of her jaw in the dim light, the tension sitting just behind her mouth, like a pressed-in secret. there’s something about being here, in this strange city apartment with its ambient lighting and perfect sadness, that makes the night feel too long.

paige meets her gaze, and azzi slides her hand across the sheets, flips it over so that the palm is up. paige’s lips part, and she makes an odd noise, but slides her hand into her best friend’s empty one. she makes sure to interlace their fingers so it’s more of an effort to break apart.

“can i take you home?” azzi asks.

paige hums, then leans forward and pulls azzi into a hug that settles the brunette’s face deep into her neck. she kisses the tip of azzi’s ear, then pulls back.

“‘course, ma.”

they leave.

✈︎

azzi drives paige’s car. she tries not to think too hard about the fact that paige drove here; maybe even planned to drive back drunk. her anger simmers and snakes around her heart, ready for when she’s better able to firm it.

paige’s place is only thirty minutes away, and when azzi pulls into the parking deck, it feels all too soon. the door clicks shut behind them as they clear the landing, and it’s dark except for the muted glow of the kitchen light left on. paige drops her duffel bag by the door, the bag as wilted and sad as it had looked in the backseat, and kicks off her sneakers without untying them.

her hoodie is pulled over her face. she’d yanked it low the second she buckled in, and it hasn’t moved since. in her own domain, she looks worse. azzi can tell she’s been trying not to fall apart for hours.

she steps in behind her, quiet, giving her space, but not too much. she watches as paige looks down the dark hallway that leads to her bedroom with a drawn expression, her jaw working as she tries to articulate her desires.

“can you—fuck,” paige starts, voice scratchy, almost shy. she stops. still, azzi is silent. “can you—will you shower with me?”

azzi blinks. “you want me to shower with you?”

“not like—not like that,” paige says quickly, shaking her head. azzi feels her stomach twist at the swift correction.“i just don’t want to be alone right now. i don’t want to think.”

azzi softens immediately. “yeah, i get it.” she tilts her head, puts her weekender on the counter. “of course, p.”

paige relaxes and reaches out a hand, relinking their hands as she guides azzi to her bedroom. paige dips into her closet to grab something to wear for the night, and azzi moves into the suite’s bathroom, tipping the handle until water begins to run steadily and warm.

they undress in the soft silence, steam already beginning to curl against the mirror. paige’s movements are slow, almost clumsy, with exhaustion and her inebriation. azzi steps in first, holding the door open until paige follows.

when she does, she doesn’t say anything. she only slides in and rests her forehead on azzi’s shoulder, the water cascading over both of them.

azzi runs her hands gently over paige’s back, slow and soothing, like it’s instinct. she holds her under the warm stream, teaches her to breathe. paige’s arms come up around azzi’s waist, not tight, but close. close enough. as the minutes pass, she feels paige getting more comfortable. she can tell she’s starting to come down from her high, her body lax and pressing in.

azzi lets her have free rein because there’s not any part of her that doesn’t belong wholly to paige already. sometimes, she wishes she could slip inside paige’s skin if only to have her blood, bone, and flesh. she trembles as her best friend’s fingers climb up the ridges of her spine, callouses pressing against the spheres of bone.

paige’s exploration comes forward, fingers gliding across azzi’s ribs and then lowering to her tummy. she pokes a finger into azzi’s belly button and listens to her laugh. then her hands rise again, traveling upward as paige leans back to allow for a modicum of space in between them.

azzi watches with a tight throat as paige’s hands cup the soft fat of her chest, her fingers pressing into the tissue. she focuses on breathing through her nose as paige thumbs at her wet nipples, adjusting her grip to better hold the weight of azzi’s breasts. it’s not sexual—not really, but there is something about being touched.

azzi sees her mouth twitch, watches her lips come apart like she’s debating placing one in between them. after a minute, paige speaks.

“you’re so fucking pretty, azzi.”

the use of her full name is like a final, blissful blow. soft and staggering. azzi’s voice gets stuck in her throat, so she leans up and presses a kiss to paige’s temple. the blonde of her hair has gone dark gold with an oversaturation of water.

“thank you,” she finally manages, and paige squeezes her side in response.

from there, paige brings her hands down to azzi’s lower back, then her hips, and then the back of her thighs. she lifts azzi carefully, turning to sit on the bench with the other woman in her lap. the shower’s head is perfectly angled to still soak them, the spray sending soapy rivulets off their limbs and onto the floor.

“i just needed to feel someone,” paige murmurs, water dripping off her lashes.

“i know, p,” azzi tells her, sounding like a broken record. “i know you.”

paige sighs and braces her head on azzi’s shoulder. azzi feels a hot stream that she knows can only be paired with the salt of tears.

i’m here,” azzi whispers, pressing her cheek to the crown of paige’s head. “i got you.”

they stay like that until the water starts to cool, and even then paige lingers, always so reluctant to let go.

✈︎

after, azzi pulls on one of paige’s oversized tees and a pair of shorts, barefoot on the tile. she doesn’t know why she always packs pajamas she rarely ends up wearing.

she’s moving around the kitchen like she’s done it a thousand times. because she has. she makes pasta with garlic and oil, simple and warm. comfort food.

paige doesn’t say much. she leans against the counter, hair wet and dragged into a messy bun at the base of her neck. she looks young in her boxers and her vintage, navy yale sweatshirt. her face is soft but unreadable. azzi is unsure of what she needs, but she trusts paige will find a way to tell her.

true to form, when azzi tries to hand her a plate to go eat on the couch, paige just shakes her head and says, “c’mere.”

azzi looks at her. “why?”

“why you always gotta ask a question? just sit with me, ma,” paige says, already moving to the floor with her plate, back against the lower cabinets. “here.”

azzi hesitates for a second, then she follows, curling into paige’s lap as requested, letting herself be cradled. paige wraps one arm around her waist, chin on her shoulder, and they eat like that: quiet, warm, close.

“don’t think i’ve ever eaten like this,” azzi mumbles with a small laugh, mouth full of pasta.

paige hums. “don’t think i’ve ever needed someone like this,” she says back, quieter.

azzi isn’t sure if she was meant to hear it, but she does.

they both leave it alone.

when they finish, azzi tidies the kitchen, rinses their dishes, and checks that the stove’s off. she locks the door with the care of someone who’s made herself at home here before, who’s always had a key. paige watches her do it until azzi tells her she’s acting like a fucking creep. paige leaves her alone with a wry smile, and azzi calls after her to remind her to brush her teeth.

when she pads back to the bedroom, paige is already curled up on her side, sweatshirt swapped for a loose tee, blankets pulled to her chin. her eyes are blue and open, like the ocean when it mirrors the sky, watching azzi quietly.

“you staying?”

azzi smiles gently. “nope, i only brought my weekender for decoration. of course, i’m staying.”

paige doesn’t answer immediately, just lifts the blanket in a silent invitation. azzi climbs in, tucks paige in tighter, and strokes her hair back. the sheets are muslin and broken in, smelling thickly of the organic guava room spray paige buys straight from puerto rico. the pillows on her side are extra fluffed, with three instead of paige’s normal two. azzi’s chest warms as she thinks of paige making the bed while knowing exactly what she likes.

“thank you for coming, az. you ain’t have to do all that.”

“you would do it all if it were me,” azzi mumbles back. her exhaustion is tickling the back of her throat, coaxing her into its arms like a mother to a child.

paige rolls onto her side, tucking a loose curl back into azzi’s bonnet.

“i know, but still,” she says. “i want you to know i appreciate you.”

“never doubted it,” azzi murmurs. “now, go to sleep. i’ll be here in the morning.”

and paige finally allows herself a kindness and falls straight under.

azzi stays awake a little longer, hand resting on paige’s waist, the rhythm of their breathing slowly syncing. as the world begins to fade out, she thinks about the ache in her chest. about how the lines keep getting blurred every time she and paige see one another. about how there’s no word to describe what it feels like when they’re together.

well, there is. but neither of them is ready to say it yet.

✈︎

the apartment is still wrapped in the velvet hush of pre-dawn when azzi wakes. paige’s alarm is going off, but it’s the one that paige has specifically tailored to her.

azzi had once read an article that said changing your alarm to something soothing, rather than the jarring iphone default, helps better start the day. she’d sent it to paige, who had responded with “if i do that, then i won’t wake up, az.” but then the night after, when azzi stayed over yet again, she’d woken up to the mellow strings of an acoustic guitar.

it was a section of one of her favorite songs: “air forces” by mustafa. she’d lain there in the rising morning, the melodic sudanese tribal chant carrying her from the moon’s pull into the sun’s capable hands.

now, she listens to it all over again as she blinks into that grey-blue silence where time feels like it’s holding its breath. the only sound apart from the alarm is the slow hum of the shower and the low murmur of paige’s voice as she talks to someone on the phone.

eventually, azzi rises. she has a plane to catch.

the same thing plays out again: paige and azzi’s bodies moving in sync, together under water and soap with their feet bare on the shower’s tiled floor. they keep brushing against each other like they forgot how to be apart.

at one point, azzi stands behind paige in the tub, fingers gently massaging her coconut milk shampoo into her hair. the water is hot, almost scalding, fogging up the glass. paige tilts her head back slightly, eyes closed, pink lips parted, breathing easily for the first time in what feels like days.

azzi is careful, reverent. her thumbs trace little circles near paige’s temples, her nails gently scraping her scalp.

“you tryna put me to sleep again,” paige mumbles, smiling lazily.

“maybe,” azzi says softly, “but you never sleep enough anyway.”

paige shrugs, and azzi pinches her side at her constant lack of care toward herself. the water pelts down paige’s back as if to punish her, too. she leans into azzi without thinking; her body already knows who it belongs to when it’s soft like this.

when azzi rinses the suds from her hair, she lets her hands linger for a moment, sliding over paige’s shoulders and down her arms. they don’t speak again until they’re toweling off, wrapped in clean cotton, and slipping back into the half-light of the bedroom.

the sky outside is still dark as azzi dresses. her hair is damp, and her bag is slung over her shoulder. paige wanted to skip practice to drive her, but azzi knows she’ll be irritated with herself later if she does.

she’s got a flight to make, but she moves with a stark lack of urgency. she watches paige stand in the kitchen, one sock tucked halfway on, eyes still bleary. there are two travel mugs in her hands.

“which one’s mine?” azzi asks, her hands flexing by her sides.

“the one with almond milk,” paige says, offering it over. “obviously.”

azzi smiles. “thank you.”

paige reaches out before azzi can turn away, tucks her hoodie sleeve into place, and presses a kiss to the plush skin of her cheeks. she feels azzi’s smile rise. she feels her own come alive.

“have a good flight, mama,” paige says, still close. “let me know when you get home, okay?”

azzi nods. her breath catches, just for a second. she can feel the tears coming, the salt beginning to pack against her nose and throat. she blinks fervently.

“‘kay,” she says, trying to keep her voice light, teasing. it doesn’t work.

“hey, c'mon. don’t cry, az,” paige tells her, her voice deceptively teasing. “imma see you soon, promise. gotta get you back.”

“you don’t have to get me back for anything, paige. this wasn't a big deal in the slightest. i’m your best friend. it’s what i’m supposed to do.”

paige shifts backward and looks at her. long and heavy-lidded, with something thick and syrupy swirling underneath.

“mmm,” she hums, low in her throat. like she’s accepting it. like she’s not.

azzi tucks a curl behind her ear and glances at the door, needing to move before something slips.

“you have a good day too,” she says quietly, opening it. “don’t go too hard at practice.”

they watch each other, the distance between them crippling. azzi is haloed by the sunlight as she stands in the mouth of the open door, her brown skin glowing like a spill of sugar. paige only gives herself two seconds to think it through before she closes the gap.

paige’s fingers are sure as they slide from azzi’s chin to her jaw. she pauses, giving azzi space. but azzi refuses to run. and so, just barely, paige kisses her. soft, questioning, scared.

it lasts all of three seconds.

paige pulls back like she’s touched fire.

“i’m sorry,” she breathes.

azzi shakes her head. “no. please. please, don’t be.”

paige looks at her, watches every line they’d ever drawn in the sand get drowned by the tide. “i didn’t—i didn’t plan that. swear. i just couldn’t not.”

azzi’s voice is a whisper. “i know.”

paige’s lips quirk up at that, and azzi thumbs across the curve. she leans in, gathering all the bravery she has left, and kisses paige again. this time it’s harder, and her tongue slips into paige’s mouth. she licks the coffee off of her teeth, mewls as paige guides her by the back of her neck.

paige, again, is the one to pull away. she presses their foreheads together, fixes azzi’s necklace with the golden scale pendant at the end. it’s paige’s star sign—libra.

“you gotta go, mama. you’re gonna miss your flight.”

azzi nods, her heart held just behind her teeth.

“okay,” she whispers.

paige practically has to rip her hands off of the other woman. she’s always struggling to loosen her grip. she tells herself she has to trust that the things she loves will always return.

with one last wide-eyed glance, azzi is gone. the door clicks shut behind her, and it sounds like a gun.

paige leans against it, closes her eyes, and starts to pray.

they won’t talk about this tomorrow.

that’s another rule.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #wnba basketball #dallas wings

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tinyd3ath · 3 months ago

Text

🎀🩰 Bulking Weight 🎀🩰

“Come on mama, fuck! Just be a good girl and take it so I can give you all my cum. That’s what you want right.”

Bakugou gets a little insecure about the extra weight he gained while bulking, and you fuck the insecurity out of him.

Originally posted on A03

🎀🩰

“This was so much fun.” You practically bouncing with joy. It’s been forever since y’all have been on patrol together.

“Whatever dumbass, don’t slow me down.” You throw a glare his way.

“Don’t forget I’m still your wife, your ass will be on the couch if you keep talking to me like that.”

He scuffs in response knowing not to test you, but still wanting to have the last “word”. You giggle at him. You find it cute how unbothered he tries to seem.

Today seemed to be a pretty calm day for patrol. So far you’ve only broken up two fights, saved a cat, and taken pictures with a few fans.

You guys got a call that you can end the day early since it’s been pretty slow all over the city. You two are walking back to the agency now. Bakugou can feel the excitement rolling off you. He can’t help, but crack a little smirk. Seeing his pretty wife practically glow with excitement lights something inside him. He thought he’d be over all the puppy love by now, but watching you walk down the street smiling while the sun hits your skin making your cheeks look like those caramel/chocolate commercials makes him just wanna sink his teeth in you. In a good way of course.

“What are you so excited about anyways?”

“I was planning on watching the new game of thrones series when we got back, and now I get to watch it earlier than planned” You squeal.

Gosh you’re such a nerd. He never understood why you like those British shows. They all look like their bodies, and breath smell like ass. Yeah, the fight scenes are cool, but other than that what do you watch it for?

He was too busy thinking about how weird your taste in television was to notice a group of teenagers boys walking down the sidewalk towards y’all. He’s shaken out of his thoughts by the force of the tallest in the group shoulder checking him.

“Watch old man.” The tall box dyed blonde says to Bakugou. The kid’s friends all snicker. Bakugou stops , and turns to the group.

“Didn’t your parents teach you to respect your superiors? Especially the ones out here keeping your ass safe.”

The blonde teen just rolled his eyes.

“You should be less worried about my parents, and more worried about your beer belly. Fat ass.” Before he can stop, and think about it Bakugou goes to grab the kid by the collar. But you are quicker, and grab his arm before he can do so.

“Come on I wanna go home.” You plead with your eyes for him to let it go. He really wants to teach these fuckers a lesson, but his need to please you outweighs his need to rub some random brat’s face in the dirt. He grunts in agreement, and lets you drag him away. He can hear the boys laughing as y’all walk away. But all he cares about is getting his pretty wife on the couch surrounded by your favorite snacks.

You use your quirk to knock the kid on his ass before you guys get too far. Teenagers fucking suck.

—

While sitting on the couch with you later he couldn’t help replay what that brat said earlier. He noticed he’d gained a little fat, but it’s because he’s bulking. Was it really that noticeable? Why haven’t you said anything? He started to feel as if he led you on.

When you first meet back in school he wasn’t all jacked, but he was far from fat. The body you feel in love with. The one you loved so much your panties would get wet just from looking at isn’t the same anymore.

Did you still even find him attractive?

Bakugou can’t bring himself to ask you about it. He says that he’ll just watch you carefully to see any signs of discomfort . The problem was you look so unfazed. He can’t tell if it’s because you haven’t noticed, don’t care, or if you’re trying to look unbothered to not hurt his feelings.

His feelings weren’t hurt, maybe his ego was a little bruised. But the fact you’re the type to go around problems that aren’t problems to protect other’s feelings only adds to the uncertainty.

What Bakugou didn’t notice was that you picked up on his discomfort. You noticed the long looks in the mirror after every shower. The not wanting to cuddle every night like he usually does. Most of all the lack of intimacy.

You guys haven’t had sex in almost a week. Every time y’all start to get hot, and heavy he just eats you out the rolls over and says goodnight.

Head is great. But fuck, you wanna feel the weight of your husband on top of you as he makes love to you.

You decid you’ve had enough. Whatever is worrying him so much you’re going find out and fix. At dinner you decide to finally speak about it.

“Katsuki.” Almost immediately Bakugou looks up at you.

“Yes?” Worry lines your face. Bakugou starts to panic thinking something happened to make you upset. Just as he was about to ask if you were okay you cut him off.

“What’s wrong? You’ve been acting different. You haven’t been as affectionate or intimate. Are you not attracted to me anymore?”

Now he really starts to panic. How could you, his beautiful perfect wife ever think you were the problem? How could he not be attracted to you? You were hand crafted by God himself. You are the only woman he could ever love. Never once had he ever questioned your beauty. Even in school when he thought you were annoying, he still found you breathtaking.

“Are you crazy there’s no way I couldn’t be attracted to you.”

“Then what’s the problem?” He pauses, and shaky breath in. Should he lie, or let you know that some punk made him a little insecure?

No, he can’t lie to you. For this whole ‘death do us part’ thing to work he’s gonna have to be honest with you. Even if it makes him uncomfortable.

“…I’m afraid that you don’t find me attractive now that I’ve put on some pounds.” He’s too embarrassed to even look up from his plate. There’s silence for a minute. He starts to worry that he’s actually right. But when he looks up to see your face it’s filled with nothing, but love. You get up from your seat, and walk over to him. You reach out to stroke his cheek.

“There’s nothing that would make me stop loving, or finding you unattractive. And I have noticed the extra pounds, but honestly it’s kinda doing it for me.” You giggle at his stunned face. You pull him in for a kiss. It starts off tinder. Full of the love you two share. But with new found confidence Bakugou starts to get impatient. He missed this. Your body against his. The kiss becomes more intense as he pulls you closer to him.

He lifts you by the back of your knees, and carries you to your shared bedroom. You let out a squeal as you’re dropped on the bed. Bakugou chuckles at you, but you aren’t given enough time to say anything about before he reconnects your lips. He starts moving his kisses lower, and nips at your jaw.

Between nibbles, and kisses Baukgou breathes out “God I’ve missed this”.

You let out a startled moan when he goes lower, and sucks your nipple through your thin shirt. You feel his lips curve into a smirk at your reaction.

You start to get impatient from all the nipping,and kissing. You’ve been deprived of him for too long. You whine as you tug on his shirt letting him know you want it off. Bakugou can’t help,

but coo at you, and give a kiss to your pouty lips.

“I know pretty girl, I know. Just let me taste you first baby.” He peels your clothes off before laying between your legs. His mouth waters every time he see your beautiful cunt. He watches as more slick leaks from you. He uses his thumb to spread it across your lips, before giving your clit the tiniest rub. It’s a ghost of a touch, and it drives you crazy. You start whining down at your husband begging with your pretty eyes for more, and who is he to tell you no? He replaces his hand with his mouth.

He loves the smell, and taste of you. He never thought there’d be a day he would be obsessed with a vagina, but after y’all’s first time he’s been hooked. He licks you like it give him just as much pleasure. The room is filled with your moans, and the sloppy sound of your dripping hole and his mouth . You grab at his hair, and start rolling your hips up into his face. Bakugou’s eyes rolling back at the feeling of you rubbing your juices all over his lower face and nose.

Bakugou sucks your clit between his lips while flicking the tip of his tongue against it. The clinching in your stomach gets tighter, and you know you’re close. But when he slightly nibbles on your clit you know it’s over. You cry out as you ride your orgasm out on his face. After you calm down Bakugou sits up on his knees to see your fucked out expression, and heaving chest.

As good as him eating you out was, it wasn’t what you wanted. You tug at his pants with pleading eyes, expressing what you really want.

“What pretty girl you can’t use your words?” He says in that mockingly sweet voice. He likes seeing his pretty wife like this. All desperate, and sparkling eyed. It’s impossible not to get hard while watching you squirm, and beg for his cock. It’s when you pout up to him all big eyed, and desperate that he gives you what you want. No matter how hard he tries he can’t say no to you. His beautiful sweet wife. If he could he’d give you the universe. He pulls his shirt off, and tosses it across the room. He then removes his belt, and pants leaving him in just his underwear. He starts to feel a little uneasy showing all this extra skin to you, but seeing the hungry look on your face burns it all away.

You feel yourself getting wetter as you stare at your husband’s changed body. You felt the extra weight, but seeing it makes you so much more hornier than you expected. All his bulging muscles. Instead of being lean like before he’s fuller. His stomach has become slightly rounder, and his shoulders, chest, and biceps meatier.

“Fuck I need you.” A evil smirk breaks out across Bakugou’s face.

“Come get it baby.” You tug his underwear down causing his cock to flop out. The swollen pink tip leaks with precum. You give him a few strokes before leaning down, and giving the tip a sweet kiss. You suck the tip into your mouth while wiggling your hips in the air knowing how much he loves seeing your ass move. Bakugou groans at the display. But you only get two head bobs in before he’s pulling you off, and pushing you on your back.

“That can wait for later. Weren’t you just begging me to fuck you. I gotta give my baby what she want.” He smugly says to you.

Bakugou pushes your knees apart and, taps his fat dick on your pussy. He enjoys watching the slight jiggle of your fat lips. He sit his dick between your lips, and lets his dick sit snug between the two. He thrust slowly. His tip catching your clit with every upward thrust. He loves watching the contrast of his dick sliding between your brown lips.

After an impatient “Katsuki” he lines his tip up with your hole, and slowly pushes into you. You both can’t stop the low whines from leaving your lips as he stretches your tight spongy walls around him. He looks to make sure he wasn’t hurting you, and almost blows his load right there.

Seeing your mouth agape, and face scrunched up in pressure causes his dick to twitch inside you.

He can’t stop himself from breathing out a “Fuck baby” at the sight of you laid out so pretty. He starts moving at a steady pace. He leaves kisses all over your face, and shoulders. He can’t stop himself from telling you how good you are between kisses. Something about your gummy walls makes his mind go foggy, and his tongue loose.

“You’re doing so good baby.”

“Taking all of me so well.”

“Come on pretty girl give it to me.”

“Can’t believe this pretty pussy is all mine.” The steady pace was amazing while you were getting use to his size again,but now you were getting impatient and wanting more.

Bakugou is caught off guard when you suddenly pulled him down by his neck, and cross your ankles around his waist. You can’t stand the no skin to skin. All you want is to feel the weight of your husband on top of you while he beats your walls in.

You look up at him with glossy eyes, and beg “please Katsuki, i need more”.

And who the hell was he to tell you no. He gives you one last peck before getting up on his elbows, and thrusting into you like it was his only purpose in life. Your squeals plus the sloppy sound your cunt starts making, makes his mind go hazy. All he can think about is getting you to cum on his cock then stuffing you full of his cum.

You reach between your bodies to give your clit the attention she’s throbbing for. The added sensation makes you squeeze even tighter around him. It’s too much for you both. Bakugou can’t even hold himself up anymore causing him to lay his full body on you,and starts humping into wet soft heat. He subconsciously starts sucking and licking on your neck like a fucking virgin that’s having their first kiss.

You can’t stop your sobs. It’s all too much, and not enough at the same time. You feel so full, yet you want to suck him in deeper. His tip rubbing against your cervix isn’t enough. You want him inside it, smearing his cum against each area of it.

“Katsuki, fuck!” you wail.

“Daddy please!”

“It’s okay baby you can take.” He coos at you.

“No I can’t, it’s too much!”

“Come on baby take it for me.” He pulls you into a sloppy kiss. When you pull apart he says

“Come on mama, fuck! Just be a good girl and take it so I can give you all my cum. That’s what you want right.”

You get out a little ‘mhm’ between sobs.

You feel your climax on the tip of your tongue. He can tell you need a little something more. Bakugou reaches his hand up, and rolls your nipple between his fingers before giving it a pinch.

Your climax hits you like a wave, and drags Bakugou down with you. He continues thrusting making sure he covers all your walls with his cum.

You two lay there holding each other after coming down from your highs. You run your nails through his hair while waiting for your heartbeats to go back to normal. After a few minutes you decide to break the silence.

“You know, nothing could make me stop loving you.” Bakugou feels an intense swell of emotion in his chest. He tries to hide his red cheeks, and teary eyes by burying his face between your breast.

“Fuck how’d I get so lucky?”

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou smut #aged up characters #bulking #thick men

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littlelamy · 3 months ago

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can you make a series where rafe and reader broke up 3 years ago, but she comes back to Outer Banks only now she has a daughter(who looks just like Rafe) and a husband (Whom she doesn't really love) and rafe still loves her.

notes: part 1; once i have more time ill create a whole masterlist and moodboard 🤍

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

leaving the beach that day, gripping your daughter’s tiny hand like a lifeline, you told yourself it was just a coincidence. a cruel twist of fate. but deep down, you knew better.

rafe cameron never let go of things that belonged to him.

and you? you were his biggest unfinished business.

so when you see him again, it’s not a surprise. but that doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.

it’s late, your daughter is asleep in her room, and the quiet hum of the television does little to calm the storm brewing in your chest. your husband is still at work, leaving you alone with your thoughts—until a knock at the door sends a jolt through your spine.

you freeze, heart hammering.

you don’t have to open it to know who it is.

but you do anyway.

rafe stands there, leaning against the doorframe like he has every right to be here. his hair’s messier than before, shirt slightly wrinkled, like he’s been running his hands through it all night. his eyes flicker past you, scanning the house before landing back on you.

"you weren’t gonna call me, were you?" his voice is low, rough.

"rafe—"

"don’t lie to me." he steps closer, and you instinctively grip the door, as if that’ll keep him out. as if you could ever keep him out. "we need to talk."

"there’s nothing to talk about," you whisper, even though you both know that’s not true.

he scoffs, shaking his head. "you really think you can just pretend I don’t exist? That she doesn’t—"

"don’t." your voice is sharp, cutting through the air between you. you swallow hard, glancing over your shoulder, but your daughter’s still asleep. "please, rafe. not here."

his jaw clenches, and takes a long exhale through his nose. "but we’re not done."

before you can stop him, he steps inside, pushing the door shut behind him. his presence fills the space instantly, suffocating, electrifying. he smells the same—cologne and salt and something distinctly rafe. something that used to make your head spin in the best way. now it just makes you dizzy with memories you’ve spent three years trying to bury.

"so this is your life now?" he murmurs, eyes sweeping over the modest living room, the framed photos of a life he wasn’t part of. "picket fences and a husband who works late?"

your fingers tighten around your arms, nails pressing into your skin. "it’s a good life."

"bullshit." he steps closer, gaze burning into you. "you’re a good liar, but not with me. never with me."

your breath shudders, your resolve cracking. "rafe, please—"

"please what? leave? forget? pretend that kid doesn’t have my eyes?" his voice is bitter, his anger barely restrained. "because i fucking can’t."

you shake your head, but the words won’t come. because what is there to say? he’s right. she does have his eyes. and he was never meant to see her.

he sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "i’m not here to ruin your life," he says, quieter now. "but i’m not walking away either. not this time."

your stomach twists. you should fight him on this, tell him to leave, slam the door in his face. but you don’t. because a part of you—the part that still remembers how it felt to love him, to be loved by him—wants to hear what he has to say.

and that scares you more than anything.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

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sttoru · 1 year ago

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⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. trying to get your cold boyfriend to crack a smile !

tags. toji fushiguro x female reader. fluff, suggestive at the end. reader gets called ‘girl, doll (face)’

“you should smile some more,” you comment unexpectedly as the television runs in the background. toji raises an eyebrow, amused yet curious at the way you interrupted the peaceful atmosphere.

your sluggish lover looks down at you as you sit up on his lap. his arms loosen up around your waist, though his manly hands don’t leave their favorite spot—your ass. toji gives it a squeeze, huffing at the way you’re blocking his sight with your head, “what ‘re ya on, girl?”

he figures it’s just you trying to strike up a silly little conversation again, for the sake of entertainment. he tilts his head to the side so he could continue watching the show playing on the big screen.

your hands come to cup his face. your palms are actively being prickled by his stubble, the man not having bothered to shave this morning. not that you’re complaining. you love it when toji leaves that stubble on his face. it gives him a more manly look.

“smileeeee,” you exclaim and use both your index fingers to turn the corners of his mouth upwards. his lips are morphed into an awkward, forced smile that makes you frown.

you secretly hoped that toji would go along with your request, but he doesn’t. that same expressionless face stares right back at you. his ‘smile’ instantly disappears the moment you drop your hands to your sides.

the black-haired man runs his fingers up your waist. and arms. he eventually pinches your cheeks for a second, properly positioning your body so he could watch the television in peace. toji places his chin on your shoulder, half lidded eyes lazily following the people on screen.

“i wanna see you smile again, c’mon,” you whine and try to push toji’s head back, but he stubbornly refuses. he easily overpowers you and pins your wrists down against your sides, nearly crushing you in a ‘hug’.

he takes a deep breath and sniffs your perfume. he places a quick kiss on your throat, thinking it’d pacify you for now.

“i would if y’ could make me laugh, doll,” toji answers in a gruff voice. he falls silent again as he’s too focused on the show playing.

you frown at his comment and can’t help but feel slightly offended. you roll your eyes and push back from toji’s tight embrace, if that’s what you can even call it. you pout and cross your arms over your chest. you stare at him, his green eyes glancing back at you for a second.

seeing you get all sulky because of what’s supposed to have been a lighthearted comment, is adorable. though toji doesn’t say that stuff out loud.

“you’re saying i’m not funny?” you ask. it’s more of a rhetorical question. your partner shrugs and yawns, one hand of his sneakily slipping under your shirt. his meaty fingers glide up to your bra, tracing the outline.

it’s another action of his in attempt to distract your mind from this entire conversation. however, it fails as you swat his hand away. toji clicks his tongue and gently swats you back— resulting into a mini fight between the two of you.

your slaps against his biceps may seem hard to you, but to the bulky man they’re child’s play. it feels like nothing, while you’re trying your best to stand up for yourself. toji’s revenge smacks are light taps against your bum and hands.

he’s clearly not putting in any effort unlike you.

“if that’s how you wanna take it, then yeah, y’ ain’t funny,” toji adds fuel to the fire, amused by how upset you’re getting. he doesn’t mean anything he’s saying; he’s simply interested in your adorable reactions. you look cute—thinking you’re doing something to him while you slap his bicep as response to his sneaky remarks.

you huff and roll your eyes. the little unserious tussle between toji and you continues. “bastard,” you answer and stick your tongue out to him. your lover lets out a puff of air through his nose at your weak attempt of insulting him.

he indulges you again.

“what’ddya say there?” toji questions in a low tone. he easily grips your wrists and flips you over until your back hits the soft sofa. your hands are gathered above your head and his face is close to yours.

that doesn’t stop you from being bratty, however, no matter how intimating toji tries to act. his black bangs brush against your forehead due to the proximity between you both.

“bastaaaaaard, you’re an asshole,” you shamelessly continue, your voice echoing in his ear. the black-haired man stares at you with a blank stare for a couple seconds, letting you blow off some steam.

you don’t know how cute you are right now to him. toji could just eat you up right then and there. having his girl try to act fierce around him is such an endearing sight.

without knowing it, toji’s scarred lips curl up, a faint smile appearing on his face. he doesn’t bother moving or setting your hands free.

“heh, right—i am, aye?” your lover nods and places a chaste kiss against your jawline, biting that same place not a second later. he lifts his head up and stares down at you with that same subtle smile.

you’re a bit shocked by the fact that he actually smiled. you love seeing toji show hints of happiness, which he rarely does. but when he smiles, you know it’s going to be a beautiful sight.

and it sure is now.

you’re too caught up staring at his handsome face to realise that that cherished smile has turned into a teasing grin. toji’s free hand slides up to grab your bottom lip, pulling back and letting go to watch it bounce back in place. his warm breath gently hits your cheek and you feel a shiver run down your spine;

“y’know if y’ want to, i can show ya how much of an asshole i really can be, doll face.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #toji x you #toji x y/n #jjk fluff #toji fluff

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put-me-through-the-wall · 1 year ago

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Girl Next Door

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader

Word count: 1.8k

Summary: Simon is a simple man who doesn't ask for much. Just a bit of peace to come home to. When suddenly you pop in to interrupt his tranquility. Maybe he doesn't completely hate it...

A/N: This is fluff if you squint. Slow burn?? This will probably just be part one if y'all dig the concept. Let me know what you think.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

Simon loves sitting on his balcony in the evening. He loved it before his new neighbor moved in. He wasn't the type to be overly concerned about the actions of other tenants. If someone was too loud, he'd just turn up the television. Banging from upstairs, he'd play some music. Smoking pot outside, that's fine he smokes cigarettes. And he was never one to meddle in others personal lives. He sought sanctuary in his alone time.

While unlocking his front door one day he couldn't ignore the soft grunting coming from down the hallway behind him. He turns to see someone coming out of the stairwell with a box so big he can only make out a pair of hands on the sides and little legs coming out the bottom. He watched as you waddled all the way to the door right next to his own. You drop the box with a huff, leaning forward on the cardboard to catch your breath.

"Hi neighbor," you greet between pants. You're wearing some baggy clothes and a beat up baseball cap, wide eyes staring up at him from under its brim. Just a hint of sweat speckling your temples. "Sorry for the noise, I promise I'm not a normally noisy person." you smile.

"Hope not," he grunts and enters his own residence. Closing the door firmly without a second look.

𝜗𝜚

The next day while he's drinking his morning coffee and going through his emails he is disturbed by a politely quiet knock on the door. When he looks through the peephole he sees you again. This time with your hair down, wearing a sundress. Looking a lot more put together. You're holding a tray in your hands. He opens the door but does not release the door chain, leaving only a crack in the door to reveal himself.

"Can I help you," he grumbles in a flat tone.

"Hey neighbor!" You don't let the small allowance of space dampen your spirit or at least you don't show it. "I made some cookies. I'd like to think it's good luck to christen a new place by making something sweet in it. The recipe ended up making way more than I planned for so I figured it would be the neighborly thing to do to offer you some." You give your brightest smile hoping to win him over.

"I don't like sweets," he states.

"Oh, really? I thought everyone liked sweets..." Your shoulders slump the smallest bit as you pause for a moment in thought. "Well, I've got a baked ziti in the oven. It should be ready in about thirty minutes. I could pop by and drop off some when it's done, if you'd like?"

"Yeah, no thanks." He doesn't allow you to respond when he closes the door in your face. Simon is a distrustful man by nature and he won't let a sweet girl with a tray of goodies change that. They did smell really good though. He can't help himself when he looks through his peephole to watch you leave. You let out a defeated sigh and shuffle back to your apartment next door.

𝜗𝜚

A few days later he runs into you again. He steps into the elevator, presses the button for the lobby, when he hears a familiar voice calling.

"Wait, hold the elevator please!" You shout down the hallway. You jog towards the lift, trying to get your purse on your shoulder with one hand while balancing your phone, keys, and a travel mug in the other. Your jacket is only half on and the straps on your shoes are undone. Simon groans under his breath but, out of a second of sympathy, he holds his arm out to block the doors from closing.

"Thank you," you say breathlessly and duck underneath his outstretched arm. "I'm a running little behind this morning."

"No problem." His eyes remain forward, watching the doors slide shut as the two of you start descending. You finish putting on your jacket and run your fingers to settle your frazzled hair.

"Can you hold this for a second?"

"Uh.." He doesn't get a chance to answer when you're thrusting your warm cup into his hands. He watches as you shove your phone and keys into your purse then bend down to finish buckling the straps on your shoes. Unbothered when your skirt rides up your leg exposing your upper thigh.

You stand back up, straightening your blouse. "Thanks again" You take the cup back allowing him to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Hey, I'm sorry if I came off as strong the other day."

"It's fine"

"I'm not the best with first impressions." He doesn't respond so you continue. "I didn't mean to intrude either. I'm sure you're a very busy man. Me too, I'm pretty busy with work and stuff. I write for the paper. Well, I am writing the cooking column right now but I'm hoping to get bumped up soon. Maybe something like crime would be cool. What about you? What do you do for work?"

The elevator's ding signals you've arrived at the lobby. As the doors open Simon turns to his head slowly to look at you and nods towards the open doors.

"Ladies first"

He wasn't fooled by your clumsy persona, he could feel an ulterior motive in you. He watched as you sauntered off. You are much more professional now, as you pull out a pair of sunglasses and slide them on. He watched the way your hips swayed in your tight skirt. You looked over your shoulder and smiled sweetly at him. Simon waits until you're pushing open the glass paneled double doors before he heads out of the lift himself.

As you make it onto the city sidewalk, a man runs right into you, causing your coffee to spill down the front of your shirt. You gasp as the hot liquid splashes onto your freshly ironed blouse and down your chest. The man hardly pauses before redirecting around you looking irritated. You spin back around with a huff and shove back into the lobby, pacing to the elevator.

"Hold the door, please" you groan, marching back while Simon blocks the doors again, containing his laugh into a tight smirk.

𝜗𝜚

Whenever you caught a glimpse of Simon you were quick to skip over and start a conversation. Which was quite a bit. It seemed he was always running into you. The elevator, the apartment gym, while taking out trash, in the parking garage, as he unlocks his door. Most of the conversation being one sided. He was starting to learn more about your life, all the information against his will, of course.

You were a recipe columnist, also a great cook. You liked dogs but really wanted a cat. You were a single child. You moved here to get a fresh start after a bad relationship. You don't have many friends, that one is pretty obvious.

Then one night, while Simon is trying to enjoy a smoke outside on his balcony he's disturbed by loud shouting in your apartment. Not in your usual bubbly tone, no you sounded angry. He couldn't understand the words you were saying through the glass of your patio door. Then a deep voice is shouting back at you. After a few minutes of listening to the back and forth, your front door slams and then there is stillness. The moment is interrupted when you storm onto your own balcony, slamming the glass door shut behind you.

You brace yourself on the railing edge. He watches your shoulders heave with a few heavy breaths then start to shutter. Your head falls weakly into your hands and you begin to cry. Cry hard at that, sobbing that shakes your whole body. You cover your mouth to keep yourself quiet but your pathetic whimpers still slip though.

For a moment Simon actually feels bad for you. In fact he feels angry, angry at whoever could have made you feel that way. Sure, you could be annoying at times. Okay annoying all the time but he has never heard you say a harsh word about anyone before. He can't fathom what you could have possibly done to deserve such harshness. You are a sweet girl. He considers saying something to comfort you in some way but after another minute of watching you cry meekly into your hands he thinks maybe not. It would be better to let you be alone. His own patio door is still open, perhaps and can slip back inside with you noticing...

Then he drops his lighter.

Your head turns sharply to the direction of the clattering plastic against the floor. You lock your watery eyes with Simon and he feels an unexpected pang in his heart. You swiftly wipe your eyes and brush your ruffled hair in place the best you can. Even in the dim lighting illuminating from the city below he can still see how flushed your cheeks have become.

You draw in a shaky inhale before speaking. "How long have you been out here?"

"Not long," He sees your eyes flick down to the half smoked cigarette between his fingers, giving away his lie. "You want one?" He asks, unsure how to comfort you.

"I don't smoke," then a pause. "Can I just have a bit of yours?" Your voice is so feeble it's almost a whisper. As you look at him with big round eyes and pouty lips, he can't deny your request.

He passes the half burnt cigarette over the small stone wall separating your balconies. You're shaky fingers brush against his, careful not to drop it. You bring it to your lips to pull a slow drag. Your eyes flutter shut before you release the puff of smoke, carefully not to blow it in his direction. Simon watches the cloud drift out of your mouth, disappearing into the chilled night air. You lean on the wall connecting your balcony to Simon's. You stare down at the glowing red ember emitting a thin plume of smoke.

"You alright?" It's him this time who breaks the silence.

"Yeah," you mumble, not lifting your gaze.

"You sure?"

"No," you release a tired sigh.

He waits a beat before speaking. "You told me you weren't gonna be a noisy neighbor."

A smile begins to creep onto your face. "I'm sorry, I broke my promise. How can I make it up to you?" When you look at him now, he sees a shimmer return back to your eyes.

You pass the cigarette back over to him. It's basically down to the filter when he brings it to his own lips and takes a final drag, blowing the smoke between the two of you. It disperses around your features while you watch him. He stubs it out in an ashtray on his little patio table. The cool night dries his chapped mouth. He licks his lips and tastes an unfamiliar cherry flavoring. He looks down at the butt in his ashtray and observes the faintest red ring of lipgloss on the smushed filter.

"You know, I could go for some baked ziti."

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

Part II

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#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #call of duty #cod #cod x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley fic

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fauustic · 2 years ago

Text

late night bubble bath

((oh yeah the brainrot has hit HARD!!! IM IN LOVE!!! please send me asks / requests about miguel o’hara i might just melt ...))

gender-nonconforming reader x miguel “spider-man 2099″ o’hara

comfort, fluff. a needy miguel who is just a big kitty.

warnings: mention of wounds, very little blood. taking care of him after a night of insomnia. use of spanish pet names, yet a translator helped me because my spanish isn’t the best. lmk if i missed anything!

word count: 3027

A sigh escapes your lips as you shakily grasp the cup of water along your bedside table. You weren't one to have intense insomnia, yet the anxiety bubbling within your gut served as a painful reminder that you haven't been blessed with a moment of shuteye.

Was it something you had forgotten? You ran through a mental checklist that consisted of taking after Miguel's late nights, and not a single chore was unfinished.

Leftovers for dinner could be found neatly packed away in the place he always checks in the fridge, so there was no need for your love returning from work hungry and tired. Today's laundry was already fluffed and ironed, which will make it easier to begin the upcoming morning. Miguel mentioned off-handedly to you how an important board meeting at his lab had been stressing him out, so you couldn't help but surprise him when he got back home even if it was just prepared outfits.

You leaned back against your pillow before rolling towards Miguel's side of your queen sized bed. You felt so jumpy, your hands itching to do anything. Nights like these you craved Miguel's presence tenfold, as he would be snuggled right in your arms, smoothing the stress out from the tips of your fingers through a careful massage. You could remember the sleepy rambles he'd murmur into the air over the ambience of the television, "Pasar tiempo contigo, brillante. Encantador. Mi pequeño amor. Could bask in your presence always, mi conejito." Miguel would whisper into your ears with a cute sleepiness, peppering your jaw with his lips. It's almost as if he was right beside you, brushing his thumb against your skin as he held your hands.

Thinking so fondly of your boyfriend's habits soothed the anxiety of your insomnia as you tried to remind yourself that he always stays safe and remembers you love him. Once coming home for the first time from work, he can't help but smother you in kisses and silly pet names, showering you in soft reminders of how much love and affection he has for you. And then the second time of the night, he'd do the same thing under different circumstances. It had happened the night before, and it'll happen again.

Miguel, soft groans escaping his bruised lips, would come through the balcony of your shared apartment that stored your little collection of flowers and greenery, slip through the door you always made sure to crack, and wake you up in the dead of the night to be bandaged and treated by your caring touch with hushed pleas. Whispering sweet things, neediness in every touch. "I missed you, cariño. Been waiting to see your pretty face all day, can I kiss you? P-please, let me kiss you."

And so you did, resting your fingers on his shoulders and slowly trailing up until they cupped his bloodied face by the jaw. Then, you'd painstakingly kiss him until his blood would mix with spit, his fangs desperately wanting to sink into your tongue.

Getting so caught up in your little dream, the blaring of a shrill beeping car down below your apartment startled you. Interrupting the glass upon your lips, it spilled onto your nightgown with a gasp.

"Fuck.." you mumbled to yourself, missing your boyfriend more than ever. Changing in a rush, you pulled over one of his flimsy lounge shirts over your head to bask in his smell as a reminder of his presence.

Nueva York was a city that didn't sleep, as the chatter of passersby rang through busy traffic. Bars down below thrived under the limelight, people not in their right mind hid in the shadows of skyscrapers.

You wondered what Miguel could be doing right now. Scouting the vibrant lights as his claws dug into the beam of a building? Knocking someone senseless under the conditions of justice? Saving a civilian as they fall from great heights?

Wondering made you sick, the anxiety bubbling in your stomach as if you were the one downing margaritas and cocktails in a scummy bar down below. You needed to distract yourself. So you did anything an adult on a late night would do.

So when you finally came to your senses, you slapped a flour dusted hand over your mouth and groaned.

Apron tied to your waist, hair in a loose bun– nothing too serious, in fact you appreciated how this style still kept your androgynous but still staying practical. Wisps of hair straying from the hold would cloud your vision every now and then, which you'd have to blow out of the way subconsciously while preparing the whipped frosting. The TV, distantly able to still be heard from the living room, echoed quietly through the apartment with an ambience that lulled you to a calm. It was the news, you couldn't help yourself due to late night paranoia, but your hands were busy and your attention was snatched away from your beloved creation.

You've truly outdone yourself this time, you decide as you watch the oven in front of you with an exhausted gaze and a yawn. The kitchen was messy with egg residue and splashes of water and vinegar oil, the clock on the microwave read "2:49" in the morning. It was a kind of chaos you normally wouldn't find yourself to, as Miguel loved a schedule, a routine. It wasn't as if he didn't want you to have your fun, far from that, he simply just loved doing whatever was eventful with you. And you couldn't help but find baking amusing as you observed the small cakes in the shaped pans inflate as time went on.

You found yourself in the middle of your small apartment kitchen floor, sleepily peering into the oven until that sleepiness shifted into fully dozing off. It couldn't be helped, crashing so hard after pulling off a mission to pump out more than a dozen cupcakes, half chocolate batter and the rest strawberry flavoring. Thankfully, you were able to stay awake long enough to take the cakes out to cool, but as soon as the oven made the beep to turn off– the couch was the closest thing to fall into a needed rest.

It's hard to know how long you had exactly fallen asleep for, yet the frantic arms encompassing your form must have been any kind of indicator. It was a startle to wake from, as your mouth couldn't keep quiet before your brain began working.

"Eeugh! I- God Miguel, you scared me so badly–" You heaved into his shoulder as he practically slumped on top of you, whispering his usual panicky tangents he'd spew after returning from his late nights.

"Lo siento, lo siento mucho." Miguel buried his face into your neck, nose pushing against your pulse. "Would never purposely scare you, mi lucero del alba. But not seeing you in bed, that made me feel… not like myself." Miguel confessed with a shaky breath and a pause, breathing in the floury smell and just you, swearing a purr erupted from his throat. "Would have fallen on the floor of our apartment if you weren't here, in my arms. "Te necesito más que al propio aire, baby."

A subtle smile peeked through his tone despite the desperation, the longing in his touch. His forearms pushed against your back ever so slightly, reminding himself that you're here. That you're safe. His hands met your sides, thumbs circling in a soothing motion. You knew it calmed him down to trace shapes within your skin, but you wouldn't be lying if you said you loved the burn of his touch when he isn't even truly doing anything on purpose. It was as if the warmth of his finger tips ignited into flames, searing his touch into you. You'll never be able to forget each circle, heart, or even a very rare star traced into your skin, accompanying every freckle or birthmark you have. Every part of you is adored, loved, cherished.

"I'm going to be here, waiting for you. No matter where you are or where I have to be."

"I hope so." Miguel hummed, "If anything happens to you," His claws found themselves underneath his shirt that you wore to bed that night, trailing your sides like handing a delicate doll. "Tengo miedo de lo que pueda hacerles. For you I'd do anything."

His body didn't feel suffocating to be lying beneath, as he cradled the both of you to be meeting halfway. It was heartwarming, being clung to like a teddy bear by a man who's trying to hold up an entire city with his own two hands.

You realized his suit was only partially off, head uncovered as well as part of his chest– the suit clung to his waist like a lifeline. Needing to see his soft little smile that he held so selfishly against your neck, you led his face to be held over yours. A soft whine escaped his lips, missing the warmth your neck provided, but a quick hush quieted himself easily.

"Don't act like a sad puppy, my love." You whispered into his lips, breath fanning an old cut just underneath. Inspecting the damage, Miguel's eyes fluttered shut as you smoothed over the stress lines between his eyebrows. Not too rough today, expect a few cuts and bruises. So in your terms and conditions, today may even be considered a great day. "Aww, look at you. You did so well today, didn't you?" Awarding him with a kiss, Miguel melted into you like a weighted blanket.

Both hands cupping his jaw, you held him there for a long while, relishing in the moments of peace and quiet with him. Peppering quick, feathery kisses over his lips and gliding over cheekbones and freckles upon the nose, kissing the stress line you smoothed out, before doing the routine all over again. You strayed, always did– couldn't resist his alluring features and soft pleas to continue kissing him.

Miguel isn't always so docile. Some nights he'd storm into your bedroom in a trance of pent-up frustration and stress with bruising kisses and bites that took home amongst hidden skin. But most nights, he could be handled like putty. It was an adorable sight to see, as his fangs peeked through his plush lips from the tension going slack in his jaw.

Your lips finally met his for the first time that night, yet it wasn't heated or filled with ulterior motives. Miguel's mouth met yours, and he lazily tasted every inch of your mouth, grazing his fangs against your tongue by accident. He needed to know every inch of you, and remind himself a hundred times over.

"Miggy.." you mumbled between his kisses, and happiness dripped from your voice as he barely let out a "mm?" Separating for just a moment, he decided to simply nuzzle your hand as a substitute.

"Let me run you a bath."

This sparked his attention, a quirk of the eyebrow and a stare of disbelief. "Eh?" Miguel chuckled stiffly, his nuzzles coming to an abrupt end. "¿Qué piensas de mí, un niño pequeño? I'm no toddler." By his response, he hasn't heard such things in ages. But as you slipped away from underneath his grasp, you padded towards your shared bathroom without a word. He was the one to bicker, but once the plan was in motion Miguel couldn't help but abide with a light begrudge in his step.

"The little cakes can wait, honey. Don't try to use those as an argument to get out of this." Your words would come out as a scold to anyone else, but as you turned to start the water it was clear you simply just cared. Too much for your own good. "Let me just do this for you, I missed you today." You admitted.

"It's too late for this still, cariño." He groaned with a tint of guilt as you started helping him undress. "I'll just shower, go on. Vete a dormir." Yet he did not swat away your advancements to prepare a towel, nor even the drop of bubble bath mix in the water. Miguel looked at you like a deer in headlights, mouth agape as you did so.

"I added the bubble bath formula only because you told me to sleep." You said deadpan, grabbing the suit that's fallen to the floor to hang it on the rack. Miguel's expressions contorted to annoyed, then shocked, to just downright amused of your antics that always had him guessing. He cackled as you kept yourself busy, until you finally signaled to get in.

It was as if you tried to get a cat in the water, as he stared at the mountain of bubbles that rivalled the skies. "I'm not getting in. I can't lose the rest of my dignity." This time, his tone was solid– nothing sounded as if it could get through to him. But you could read your boyfriend like a book, solve him like a puzzle in a matter of seconds.

"Miggy, my love. My other half. My everything." You cooed, dropping to your knees to poke at the bubbles. "You don't get in this forsaken bathtub with just the right warmth and the bubbles I made with my own blood, sweat and tears, you will sleep on the couch until I give you explicit permission to lay with me." His scarlet eyes glowed with genuine fear in his eyes. "And then, you will just lie with me. You would not be able to hold my hands or waist or twirl your finger around my hair– you will be in timeout. No bed, no holding–"

A splash interrupted your words, wetting your legs as his size struggled to stay in the tub. His arm hung out of the side as his feet kicked up on the tile walls, and he looked as flustered as ever. "No me lo puedo creer." Miguel blew at the bubbles that settled on his face. "I'm no dog who needs a bath, cariño."

Shaking your head at his rare childish antics, you leaned over the tub to kiss the bubbles upon his nose. It was a sweet, domestic little moment between the two of you.

Small little scars littered his form as you glided a soft wash cloth over the grime of the city that washed off onto him. When the fabric slid over a sensitive muscle or wound, he'd hiss a curse and a "be gentle with me, love." You only responded with a lick into his mouth, which earned you a bite to your lips. "I'm not trying to hurt you, just wanna take care of you, my angel." You whispered into the bubbles, shuffling your knees the closest you can to the tub without falling into it– and massaged the tension in his shoulders.

This elicited a groan to rip through the bathroom walls, a low rumble that he couldn't contain to himself following. Miguel was like a domesticated tiger, all bark and bite yet the rare moments of silly tenderness peeking through his rough exterior. "Ah, that feels–" Miguel hisses again in pleasure, his brain short circuiting under your graze. ".. increíble. Tú eres mi medicina."

His forearm hanging off the side of the tub twisted to bring his grasp to your face, locking the both of you into a heated kiss, one that stored the unspoken words of lonely nights as Miguel's shifts grew longer and more tiresome. "Missed you, baby. I need you, need you always with me. Wouldn't know what to do without you, I'd go crazy." He rambled as one of your soap filled hands snaked into his hair, to lather his curls and simultaneously scratch where he loves.

It was an endearing sight whenever Miguel openly expressed his adoration of you, both his thoughts and worries.

"I love you more, Miguel." You giggled as his nose scrunched together at the abrupt sensation of water cascading over his head, the bubbles falling from the softness of his hair and down the ridges of his jaw and nose.

Silence comfortably enveloped the two of you as you rinsed him off, scattering kisses on his skin whenever he mumbled declarations of affection.

As you wrapped his curls in a soft, small towel, his sleepy grumble of a question caught your attention. "What about your little sweets, mi amor? Do you need me to help you finish them?"

Laughing, you shook your head only to shush him softly. "No, no baby. Let's just do it together tomorrow once you get some rest." Leading him to stand, you began draining the tub.

Miguel didn't argue with the idea of that, purring softly as he imagined the two of you frosting little delicacies– something incredibly cozy and lovely. He loved that about you, the way you reminded him about his own humanity, the little hanging reminder that he needs his own time to help to heal and thrive.

"All done, baby." You slid your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest with a sigh. The towel hung around his waist was as soft as the fleece of a sheep, lulling you into the serene sleepiness your body craved to have. "How was your bubble bath?" The words tumbled from your lips as Miguel led the both of you to your shared bed, tucking you into the bundle of blankets scattering about.

Before long, he slid into the opposite side with his own sigh of relief. Your hands grabbed at his now clothed chest, peeking at his exhausted, but content expression staring right back at your own. "Perfect, mi conejito." Miguel whispered with honesty, bringing you closer than ever as his breath fanned the crook of your neck.

Sleep began to take you as the strong scent of bubblegum flooded your senses, the slightly damp curls of Miguel tickling your neck and cheek. He intertwined his soul with yours, purring with a calm he could only achieve with you.

"Cupcakes tomorrow?" You murmured into his shoulder, soft and sleepy.

"Cupcakes tomorrow, cariño." A kiss to your neck. "Dulces sueños, goodnight."

#miguel o'hara #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara comfort #miguel o'hara fluff #x gender neutral reader #x fluff #x comfort #comfort #fluff

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fligniuz · 2 months ago

Text

your building’s on fire (and i’ll catch you)

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ your boyfriend feels bad. you take care of him. ‘nuff said.

word count: 3k • sfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @nephris

warnings : none really! gender neutral reader; some language; hurt/comfort; soft sweet fluffy good times :-)

notes : this was written after gi’s feb. court appearance and i think that mullet had crack in it or something like i was on one…also title frommmmm:

Luigi has been down lately.

It only makes sense, of course—the past few weeks have been nothing to write home about. Work is slow and family is still as complicated and annoying as before and sleep has not come easily of late.

And his back, as is typical, has been of no help whatsoever. His back, as is typical, has made his problems worse, rubbed and irritated them, like salt in a wound; some might think he would be quite used to his entire mood being hampered by his condition for a month or so, a slump every once in a while, but the truth is that it’s never “familiar” for him. His pain is not “familiar”, not a daily obstacle he manages to break through—it’s invasive, violating, downright sadistic. It’s overbearing and petty. It sucks the passion out of him, locks even his dearest comforts far, far away from him, leaving him to bang against the cage with his fists and chew his way through its metal bars to escape.

What is one blessed with a jacked-up spine and a heart that yearns for activity meant to do? Fuck all, apparently, since there’s no magic pill he could take that can fix a slipped vertebrae, and getting his back sliced open for a fusion sure as hell hasn’t proven itself to be of much use (so far). Luigi has always been welcome to a challenge, but chronic pain is a beast with no solution, and he’s had about enough of dealing with it.

So much for pain management.

It’s safe to say that Luigi has quite a lot to complain about—but Luigi doesn’t complain. He internalizes. He carries his burdens deep inside of him.

You find him on the couch when you come downstairs, curled up on his side and mindlessly watching Seinfeld reruns on the television. This was nothing unusual, but still never any less heart-wrenching to see; you’ve always tried to be as supportive of Luigi as you can be, especially during his dark days—you accompany him to his appointments, remind him to take his meds when needed, massage him with your gentle hands, encourage and reassure him every chance you get. But the one thing you can’t do is take his pain away from him.

“Hey, babe,” you greet softly. “Whatcha doing?”

Luigi makes a sound between a grunt and a sigh, a little harumph. “Moping,” he says simply.

Kneeling down to meet his height, you ask, “bad day?”

“Not a bad day,” he clarifies. You cup his face with one warm hand and he burrows into your palm, long lashes fluttering. “Just feeling bad.”

“Hurting?”

He nods, meekly. “A little.”

In Luigiese, “a little” tends to mean “a lot”. And there isn’t much that helps him when he hurts a lot. Not much but you.

“Why don’t you let me run you a hot bath?” you offer, smiling tenderly. “You can relax and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Luigi usually does quite like it when you join him in the shower and help him care for himself—but right now he slumps further into the couch, looking sort of guilty.

“You don’t have to do that for me,” he says.

You sigh. “Sweetheart, I want to.”

He cringes, like it’s physically too much for him to come to terms with how much you love him. Truly. Not the fake, choreographed shit in movies and romance novels and even Seinfeld, for god’s sake—whatever it is you feel for him is as real as the heart in his chest, beating with an intensity that could stand a chance against a tsunami.

“But it’s weird,” he protests. “I’m not a baby.”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“It is not weird for me to take care of my boyfriend, Luigi.” You tilt his chin up slightly so that he can look you in the eyes, watch your lips move as you speak. “And you’re not a baby. You’re a grown man with a disability and you deserve to be tended to when you need it, and you certainly shouldn’t feel wrong for accepting that from someone who cares for you.”

Well, he feels a bit like an idiot now. Sometimes you say things that leave him speechless, which is rare—but it’s one of his favorite traits of yours. Always has been. You blow him away.

“Oh, and another thing:” you add, “so what if it’s weird? I’m weird; you’re weird; we’re fuckin’ weirdos, baby. We’re the weirdest people in the world and I love it. Why should we be normal?”

Luigi smiles. Chuckles to himself. Kisses you. “Go start the water.”

And you do, skipping to the bathroom to turn on the faucet and prepare some towels for him. You grab his Sun Bum shampoo and conditioner from the tub to have them closer to you and when you leave briefly to grab a cup from the kitchen you pass him with a grin—but ultimately you beat him back to the bathroom, fingers testing the water as he walks in.

“Hi,” you greet. You’re sitting on a stool right next to the bathtub, sleeves rolled up above your elbows.

He blushes under your stare. “Hi, baby.”

It takes him a minute or two of lingering and looking around, like he’s never seen his own bathroom before, but eventually he starts to strip, ducking shyly into the filled tub.

“How’s the water?” you ask as he sinks into it.

Warm. Warm and like a salve for his spine, holding him tight between invisible arms.

“Good,” Luigi nods. “Splendid.”

So you come closer to the tub with your cup and scoop some water up, guiding him to tilt back so that you can wet his hair. He winces slightly at first as you begin to pour it over his head, but he eases quickly, eyes closed and pretty face rested. Yes, this is nice. The water is the perfect temperature, enveloping his strained skull, soothing the headache that’s been slowly building all day long—and your hands are like magic, so delicate and kind. He could almost fall asleep right here in the tub, but he resists the urge so as not to drown. You would be quite upset if he were to be so clumsy during a moment like this, he thinks.

And sleep will come later. Easily. Always does when you take care of him like this, when he gets to fall asleep in your arms knowing that even if the world were crumbling to pieces you’d be right here, in this apartment, waiting for him.

When his hair is sufficiently wet you set down the cup and reach for the shampoo, squeezing a dollop into your palm and then rubbing your hands together. You work them into a lather quickly and slather your fingers through his curls—you can only guess that he hasn’t paid himself such attention in a very long time, so you make sure to wash him right, scrunching the froth into his hair thoroughly, sluicing each individual lock until not a single spot on his head is left untouched. Eventually you move your hands up to massage his scalp, curling your fingers slowly, and you smile with pride and overwhelming fondness when Luigi’s eyes flutter shut in tranquility.

“Lean back, my love,” you murmur, coaxing him with a soapy hand on his chest.

And when he does you collect water in your cup again, dousing his curls and taking extra care to rinse the shampoo meticulously. With his face so close to you and his eyes closed you can admire him all you want; you resist the temptation to trace the light freckles on his cheekbones, his strong nose, further down, just to feel the uneven stubble growing on his jawline against your palms. His furry eyebrows are neutral and his soft lips are set in a straight line, pouting slightly. If you weren’t bathing him you would be kissing his face all over.

You dip your hands in the bathwater to rinse them clean before you reach for his conditioner, again working it into his hair, just a little at a time. As you brush it through his curls from top to bottom he speaks up:

“You’re very gentle,” Luigi says, hardly more than a whisper.

“Yeah?” you smile. “Is that a good thing?”

He hums, a soft mhm rumbling in his throat. Then:

“I’m sorry about what I said before,” he adds. “This isn’t weird. It’s really nice.”

He’s the sweetest boy with the most tender heart. You hold his head steady and lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead, catching soap on your lips.

“You can have this anytime you need it, sweetheart,” you whisper.

And then you rinse your hands again and stand, turning towards the cabinet.

“What’re you doing?” Luigi asks.

You retrieve his shaving cream and razor, smiling. “You’re getting hairy. You need a shave.”

He blinks, heart swarming with the knowledge that you’re willing to dedicate so much of your time to grooming him and helping him look his best. “You’re not going to rinse my hair?” he asks.

Sitting next to him again, you shake your head. “Not yet. The conditioner needs to sit for a few minutes.”

“It does?”

You nod.

“I guess I’ve been using conditioner wrong until now,” he says, grinning. And he soars when you smile back and lean forward to kiss him, this time on the lips, quick and soft.

His face is somewhat damp from having washed his hair, but you dip your fingers into the bathwater and bring them up to his cheeks, jaw, and neck, wetting his stubble to your liking. Once the lower half of his face is sufficiently slick, you grab the can of shaving cream and pump foam along his jawline, smearing it into his skin.

Luigi has never had anyone shave him before, most certainly not you—and he likes this quite a lot. It feels candid, domestic, sickly sweet like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and he’s starting to think that he might be perfectly fine with letting you shave him all the time, for as long as you’re together. And he feels more like himself when he’s clean-shaven; crisp and handsome. He’s definitely not complaining if it’s you helping him.

You hum a little tune as you drag the razor along the slope of his jaw—something that’s been on the radio recently, for sure, because it sounds fresh to his ears. He relaxes under your touch and puts all his effort into sitting still, more so for his sake, but your hands are careful (if not a little shaky) and slow, moving with utmost caution.

“You don’t like me when I’m hairy?” he jokes when you move to swirl the razor in the water.

“Babe, I’d like you if you were a werewolf,” you laugh. “It just gets in the way sometimes. You know?”

With two fingers you tilt his chin up so that you can stroke his throat with the razor.

“I’d be a very hairy werewolf,” Luigi says.

You make a quizzical face. “Do you think your wolf self would carry over your Italian genes? Like, would you be an Italian werewolf?”

“It’s not like I’d lose them when I transform.”

Smiling, you shave the other half of his neck and ask, “well, would your fur be as curly as the hair on your head?”

“It would have to be,” he answers, like it’s obvious. “My hair type wouldn’t just change, just like my genes wouldn’t change. I’d be a curly Italian werewolf and I’d howl at the moon for you.”

“You’ve thought a lot about this,” you quip.

He smirks. “You’re the one who brought up werewolves.”

Shaving him does not take long. You finish up the other side of his face easily and wipe him clean with a damp washcloth, admiring the smoothness of his skin under your hands. There’s already much more light and color in his face than when you found him sulking on the couch—the thought brings a pleased smile to your lips, and at the sight Luigi leans forward to kiss you, now bare-faced and feeling back to himself again.

“Mmm,” you hum with delight when you pull away. “Now I don��t feel like I’m kissing a cactus.”

Luigi giggles like a child. “You’ll never guess what my Reddit username is.”

“What? Something about cacti?” You roll your eyes playfully. “You’re a dork, babe.”

“That’s Mister Cactus to you.”

“Oh, I see,” you nod with faux disapproval painted on your face. “I suppose I’d still love you if you were a cactus.”

He kisses you again. And again. And again. Until you pull away.

He whines.

“Hold on,” you whisper. “You can kiss me as much as you want once I get you out of this bathtub.”

You grab your cup again and fill it up, guiding him back and soaking his slick curls in water. The wild hairs at the nape of his neck and over his scalp get the most attention as you rinse him, stroking his sensitive skin with your blunt nails, and Luigi can’t help but smile to himself at the feeling of it. Everything you do to him feels so right. Feels like it’s meant to be, like he’s never known anything else other than this, you taking care of him. He feels silly for trying to deny himself this peace when you first offered it to him—he had never imagined how much relief your loving hands could provide.

“All done,” you announce, running a hand through his clean, wet curls, glistening under the bathroom light. “Feeling better?”

“Good as new,” he confirms. For the most part, it’s true. You can’t take away his pain, but you can make it easier to forget about. And you’re really, really talented at that.

“Want to stay in the bath a little longer?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Water’s getting cold. And I want to cuddle you.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” You plant a kiss on his lips and grin at him. “C’mon. Let’s get you dry.”

Luigi stands up and you are quick to hand him a fluffy towel, giving him room to step out of the bath. He sweeps over his arms, legs, and torso and wraps it around his hips, sitting down onto the toilet seat as you come close to him with another clean towel.

The sound of the tub draining fills the room as you speak. “Let me know if I hurt you,” you urge him, and he nods.

And then you bring the towel up to his hair and ruffle it over his head, working it in your hands like you’re drying a wet dog. His giggles are muffled under cotton. Precious. You want to bottle them, wear them around your neck like a music box. After a while his curls begin to lose their moisture, so you throw the towel into the hamper and disappear quickly to grab some comfy clothes for him—but not without muttering a “be right back”, of course.

When you come back to the bathroom he’s looking at himself in the mirror, smiling like an idiot.

“What are you giggling about?” you ask, handing him his clothes—boxers and lounge shorts first, “You had me at Hello World” shirt next.

“My hair,” Luigi says, pointing at it simply, like the humor is right in front of you. “I look like Kramer.”

“That the one who dresses like a thrift shop?” you ask.

“Kramer?” He looks at you curiously, then shrugs. “I guess he dresses kinda weird. But he’s got crazy hair. Looks like he got struck by lightning.”

“I like your crazy hair,” you say, reaching up to thread your fingers through it. It’s still a little damp and leaves your hands feeling slimy. “You’re cute.”

He blushes, blooming mauve pink in his cheeks and his marked nose. One of your favorite views in the whole world. “Whatever. Let’s go to bed.”

You lead him to the bedroom by his hand, not even bothering to tidy up the bathroom—it can wait until tomorrow, because it always can. When the two of you are tucked away in your safe space you go to pull down the covers, gesturing toward the bed, and he follows your directions without question, laying down on his back.

And as you pull the sheets and the duvet on top of him, he asks, “are you tucking me in?”

Chuckling, you shush him. “I’m making you comfortable. Don’t be a grump.”

Once Luigi is settled in bed you shuffle around the room to get changed yourself (your shirt is quite damp by now), sneaking glances over your shoulder between each article of clothing you pull off and on; he’s already quite cozy, eyes shut, blanket rising and falling with the force of his breathing. When you’re finally in your pajamas you crawl into bed next to him, and he flips onto his other side to face you instinctively.

“Hi,” you smile, pulling him close to you under the covers.

He smiles back. “Hey.”

For a while the two of you bask in the silence—Luigi particularly enjoys the feeling of your hands in his hair, petting softly, the sound of your own breathing slowly lulling him deeper, deeper, deeper into sleep…

But before he’s out entirely, he speaks:

“Thank you for tonight.” He nuzzles into your warmth, presses his forehead against yours. “Thank you for caring so deeply. Not that you don’t always care, but tonight it felt especially strong for me.”

And, after a beat, he adds, “I really appreciate that you take time for me. I’m not used to that. I’m trying to handle it better, I guess.”

Your thumb traces his brow bone, strokes over his cheek and beside his eye. “I love you, Luigi. I love taking care of you.” You kiss him and conclude, “I hope you let me do it for as long as we live.”

A lazy smile spreads across his face. “Love you,” he murmurs, already closing his eyes again.

Your hands still brushing through his hair doesn’t help keep him awake much longer.

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione imagine #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione fanfiction #flig’s work

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catsoupki · 19 days ago

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A GOD, A DUTY, AND A SINNER (1.0K)

pairing - katsuki bakugou x reader

synopsis - having not seen you since that fateful day at your doorstep, bakugou receives a call that lets him back into your life. (or, when you’re a heap of bones, bakugou tries to put you back together)

cw - implied/referenced self-harm & suicide attempt !!!!!!!!!! hurt/comfort, fem!reader, bakugou-centric

a/n - i AM a week late to his birthday (HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAKUGOUUUU) but . better late than never i guess?

taglist - @staraxiaa @hatsukeii @cashmoneyyysstuff @peachsukii lmk if u don’t wanna be tagged anymore, no hard feelings !

Bakugou hates birthdays— more specifically: his own birthday. For the first twenty six of them, he had disliked it for its over-the-top celebration. A waste of time, he thinks. Now, he hates his twenty-seventh birthday. It begins not with the loud surprises that his classmates used to spring up on him, where confetti and cake end up everywhere (on his hair, his body), but instead he is woken up before the crack of dawn by a number without a caller ID.

“This is the Musutafu General Hospital. Is this Katsuki Bakugou?”

His eyes weren’t even fully opened. His house is still dark and the city lights barely peek from behind his blinds before flooding into his room. But he is a God with a duty, so vigilance seeps into his body like ink, and he says yes.

“You were saved as the sole emergency contact number for—“ God, he hates his birthday.

Exhaustion is laden, so evidently, in his bones. When he forces himself into his car and onto the highway, he is mocked by the moon and its light, white against his dashboard. A violent, brutal clash is stuck between his ribs. A stalemate. Disappointed: that he is still your emergency contact despite everything. Grateful: that it is still him who can take care of you, despite everything. But above all, he is frustrated. Frustrated with you and the sky and everything else because the progress he had had in the past few months is rendered as nothing beyond ashes and tinder when he hears your name pressed up against the shell of his ears again.

The room you sleep in is sterile like the moon; its white sheets, tiled floor. You would’ve moaned about the insipidity. Should’ve. It nips at his pale heart like a hyena to bone. He sees the stitches that run from your temple down to your cheekbone, the white casts that incapacitate you. On your face, your limbs.

All roads lead back to you. If he had spent more time with you and in your home, maybe you would have chosen to stay. If he called you that night when your face crossed his mind, maybe you would’ve stayed on the seventeenth floor of your building.

When he comes back the next day, he sees the spare cards and single flowers that lay next to you. Brittle, lifeless, not given much thought.

You were never easy. Bad moods come and go like the rain but he stayed. There’d be days when he came home from a gruelling day of work only to find you drained and bleeding in the bathtub. You scratch at him like an abused animal, but cuts heal. You aren’t as easy as breathing, loving you came harder than it probably needed to be. And with the nights he spent passed out at work instead of by your side, the scars you apologise so hard for reopened. But loving you was as instinctual as a beating heart. When the weather sours, he will sit with you on the sofa with the television turned on, your cold feet pressed up against his warm body.

Today, your fingers are icy between his palms. He wants you to wake up, but you’ve always been stubborn. He brushes the stray hairs that he imagines are tickling your stitches away. He pushes them away.

Your condition is stable, they said. Your vitals get better and more alive with each and every passing second. But Bakugou somewhat wishes this excuse could stay forever and not expire, so he could spend his remaining vacation days here with you, in this sterile white room.

What is a God without a duty?

You wake up a day later.

Bakugou thinks he cries first before he could ask you in a quiet voice: how are you doing?

Goodbyes are difficult, but now, he realises that maybe reunions are harder. When he left your door with his life in bags, saying goodbye was heart-wrenching. It stabbed his ribs until his lungs punctured, goodbyes are difficult because there was nothing good about it when he laced his goodbye with hidden meanings that he wasn’t sure you’d read between the lines for.

(Let me see you again.)

But he could hold onto hope. And after two months had gone, hope still left him defenceless and beaten, so he scrambled for closure. Your contact that he left rotting in his phone was blocked, deleted, and then regretted.

He pictured your reunion to be different. He imagined, in an ideal world where he was brave enough to face you and the reflection in your eyes head on, he imagined that he would’ve begged for your hand and for your forgiveness at the door which he left his life behind. Where the guilt hangs on the enclosed doors in his heart and banged on yours, he would’ve let it out while you let him in. He would have hugged you, kissed you, and loved you properly. This time. He would have done it right.

He never meant to go for easy. He wanted difficult. He didn’t mind the cuts and scratches that your talons left behind. On his flesh, his soul. He would endure the wounds that left his skin ajar for a millennia, and a millennia more, as long as you were holding the knife. Enmity can fill the cracks in his skin like broken porcelain, but he stays anyway.

He never got to apologise. For the dinners he left cold, for the nights he left you alone. Maybe this is his karma.

What is a God without a sinner?

“How are you doing?” He asks, with a tangled tongue and a cold throat. He’s here now. And he is willing to learn about you and your uneasiness all over again.

“I’m living,” You whisper with a wobbly smile. A broken voice. “Happy birthday, Katsuki.”

thank you for reading, i hope u enjoyed it ! reblog are appreciated, hv a good day :)

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100vern · 4 months ago

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the great british fake-off | xmh

you thought the guy in the hawaiian-print shirt who seems physically incapable of being quiet would be the most annoying person here, so imagine your shock when it's xu minghao, who has seemingly decided you're the enemy and keeps sabotaging you. a baking competition for charity might have others on their best behavior, but what's a little sugar without some spice?

❆ pairing: minghao x reader ❆ genre: great british bake-off, holiday au; crack, fluff ❆ wordcount: 5.5k ❆ rating: e for everyone ❆ warnings: some swearing, minghao is a saboteur, idiots abound. ❆ credits: this netflix psd template for the banner. this recipe for the yule log; this recipe for the gingerbread house; and this recipe for the entremet. divider from here. this post for the divider. this was roughly edited by me, so any and all mistakes are my own. ❆ written for: the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories as they're posted. ♡ ❆ author's note: i had this rotting away in my wips since literally 2021, so even though it started as a completely different story, i'm so glad it's finally seeing the light of day even if it's not what i originally intended. (also, i know the banner says 12 contestants but the holiday specials only had a couple, okay. i forgot when i made it and i wasn't going back to fix it.)

The obnoxious one is wearing an aloha-print shirt.

He’s also extremely loud, his raucous, fake laughter filling every corner of the large warehouse you’ve been assigned to for filming. Makes a show of batting his eyelashes, throwing his head back every time someone cracks a joke that’s not even funny, comes up with nonsensical nicknames for the entire crew just to suck up to them.

“John Davies? Mind if I call you Joe?”

Joe doesn’t even make sense as a nickname for John, but John fucking loves it, apparently. Looks at the annoying guy like he just watched him string the stars in the sky.

But it’s the shirt—god, the shirt drives you absolutely crazy. He’s about to go on national television, be a household name, and some ill-fitting, charity shop Hawaiian print shirt is what he woke up and chose to wear. What’s his angle here? Appeal to the public with some sob story about only being able to afford second-hand clothes so that’s why he’s competing? Needs the money to care for a sick relative?

(The expensive watch on his wrist and his limited-drop sneakers tell an entirely different story, but you’re keeping that to yourself for now. No reason to play your hand so early.)

As much as you hate the shirt, you have to admit it suits him. The colors are garish and unsightly, just as obnoxious as he is, and you can’t stare at it too long because you start going cross-eyed. Looking at him feels about the same as stuffing your mouth with a bunch of sour candies: you get that same burn in the back of your jaw, same scrunched-up, grossed-out look on your face; have to squeeze your eyes shut to blink back tears.

You don’t even know his name, but you hate him immediately.

Your eyes scan the other contestants. None of them inspire the same level of animosity within you as the annoying one does; all of them nearly unremarkable. A variety of ages, appearances, backgrounds. You hear one say they’re a retired investment banker. There’s an accountant, a teacher, a fucking aerospace engineer.

And then it’s his turn to introduce himself. He clears his throat, speaks with an easy, practiced confidence. Completely void of nerves. Makes eye contact with everyone in your conversation circle. Gesticulates wildly as he speaks, immediately endears everyone to him.

“I’m Tim,” he says, and you nearly recoil at how honeyed his voice is. “But you can call me Tim. I’m thirty-eight, originally from a small town. Work as a…”

You can barely stand to listen to it anymore, each “Nice to meet you, Tim!” like another punch to the gut. How can’t these people see right through him? How are they falling for his bullshit? You should’ve known. Producers always throw in at least one bomb to up the ratings—a secret millionaire, someone rude and confrontational, a flat-earther. Even if you’re competing in a charity baking competition, of all things, it’s still reality television at the end of the day.

Just because the bunch of you are going to spend the next few days creating confections out of sugar, spice, and everything nice, doesn’t mean you have to be part of that ‘everything.’

Tim thinks he’s got this in the bag. Thinks he’s going to show up and win easily, the rest of you be damned, and even if you are typically a very nice person, you’re also highly competitive. There’ll be no rolling over done by you, and if Tim wants to play dirty—

Game on.

As you introduce yourself, you feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of your head. Probably because you don’t bother with the faux-humility the rest of the contestants have. Polite and charming but firm, just the way your mother had taught you. You’re not boisterous, don’t crack silly jokes to play up to the cameras the way Tim loves to do, and you know he’s scrutinizing you the way you’d done to him, trying to figure out your angle.

Well, joke’s on him—you don’t need one.

And you really, really hope it drives him crazy.

Except maybe the joke is on you, too, because you don’t account for Xu Minghao.

In true reality television fashion, the tent is boiling hot.

As if the universe itself had looked down on all of you and decided what you all needed was a heatwave uncharacteristic of this time of year, just to up the ante. Not even ten minutes in the tent and you’re all fanning yourselves and wafting air up your shirts. Which is great, really, because it isn’t like you need to use ovens or stand over hot burners. It’s not like you aren’t going to be soaking through your clothes with anxiety sweats, either! Sweat dripping off your brow into your eyes won’t matter because you don’t need to use them.

Everything’s going to be fine!

But everything is not fine. Not only has the universe gifted you with sweltering heat, it’s given you the work station directly next to Tim’s. You’ll have to feel his annoying, off-putting aura near you for the entire competition. There’s always the possibility of him bungling it and making an early exit, but you know that’s unlikely. Obnoxious he may be, you also know a strong opponent when you see one, and something tells you you’re going to be stuck with him for the long haul.

Think of the cats, you tell yourself. All of this is for the cats.

It’s not like you never would’ve returned here of your own volition. No, your first go-round with feel-good, competition-based reality television had gone fine. You hadn’t won, of course, because you wouldn’t be here again if you had, but you placed respectably in the top three. Became a fan favorite, too, which was arguably more lucrative than winning. People make a living on social media these days.

So, it’s not the competition itself that has you white-knuckled gripping onto the edge of your station. It’s the man at the one beside you, cracking all these stupid jokes about the weather and how it’s a horrible day for tempering chocolate, so he bets that’s going to be the first challenge!

You suck in a deep breath. Try to remember the breathing exercises from that one yoga class your sister had dragged you to. It had been about the same temperature then, too—well duh, it’s hot yoga, your sister had said, which was news to you, because you never would’ve signed up for something called hot yoga willingly. Still, you endured it, just like you’ll endure this, and a little sweat is not going to get in the way of you delivering a check to all those poor, sad cats without families.

“Psst, hey,” you hear from behind you. When you turn, a man is smirking at you as he finishes tying his apron around his waist—has to wrap the strings around twice, you notice, because only someone hand-picked by the gods themselves would have that shoulder-to-waist ratio.

You don’t really recognize him. Can’t recall his name or where he��s from; can’t remember what he mentioned doing for a living. Probably something artsy, if you had to guess—he definitely has the style and demeanor of a creative, with his trendy shag-mullet and the multicolored, glitter-y snowflakes decorating his nails.

You aren’t sure he introduced himself at all, but the confidence with which he holds himself—easy, like it’d take a national emergency to rattle him even a little—implies he doesn’t really have to. Most of the people here already know him, if you had to guess, and he gives the impression that he’s not fussed with impressing any of them.

If only Tim was so inclined.

You clear your throat, vaguely aware you need to respond. “Yeah?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Ah, I don’t think so? We’ve done this before, after all. We should be seasoned veterans by now.”

He smirks. “Should be,” he emphasizes. “Feels different when it’s for charity. Extra serious, you know?”

“Right,” you agree, taking a look around the tent. “Anything for the cats.”

There’s an immediate shift in the atmosphere. What was friendly and carefree is now tense; where a smile and a floral giggle sat on the man’s lips has been replaced with a crooked scowl. And it doesn’t make sense, all you’d done was agree with what he said, but then the producers are yelling something at the front of the tent, cameramen are rushing to their equipment, and a woman appears at your side and starts clipping equipment to your clothes, and there’s no time to question it. On your right, Tim’s laughing and joking around with some crew members like they’re old drinking buddies. It drives you nuts, has annoyance pricking at your skin, flushing your cheeks—

So much so that the woman at your side leans in and asks, “Should I get hair and makeup over here?”

“I—no, it’s fine.”

The unnecessary members of the production team scatter away after a loud countdown. Hair and makeup don’t come to wipe the sweat tracks from your skin. You already know Man Behind You is standing there looking perfect because he’s equally as attractive as he is mysterious. God truly has favorites, and this guy somehow made the top five.

You stare down at the instructions in front of you, confident in your ability to read but not so confident in your ability to make sense of any of it. And it’s your own recipe, which is the worst part. You’d typed this recipe yourself. These are your hand-written notes in the margins. You’ve conceptualized, tweaked, baked, and eaten this recipe more times than you can count, and now all you can do is thousand-yard-stare into the ether.

In the time since you were on the show, you’d somehow forgotten about the chaos. Not unlike that hormone women have that makes them forget about the pain and agony of childbirth, you reckon.

In addition to being one of the most bothersome people in history, Tim apparently doubles as a prophet.

Because it is a terrible day to temper chocolate, and you’ve got a bûche de Noël on the horizon that requires you to do so. You can pivot, maybe make some kind of buttercream, but a basic chocolate buttercream is not going to win you a world-renowned baking competition even if it is Swiss meringue. A child could make that.

You sigh. Push that wave of panic to the back of your mind. In a setting like this, you have approximately ten seconds to come up with a back-up plan and execute it and you wasted your time thinking, so you’re just going to have to temper the stupid chocolate and stick to your original plan. God, you have a headache.

But the show must go on, so you do too.

Step 1: Preheat the oven.

Easy enough. If nothing else, you can preheat an oven.

Step 2: Make the sponge.

Not as easy, but you’ve made so many sponge cakes throughout your life you could probably do it in your sleep. Whisk attachment on the stand mixer. Four eggs. Sugar meticulously weighed and added to the bowl. Sugar and eggs whisked together until the mixture is the color and consistency you’re looking for. Flour, cocoa powder, and salt sifted in. Metal spoon to fold it all together as delicately as possible. You won’t have a sponge cake if you beat all the air out of it, now will you?

“Good enough,” you mutter to yourself, staring down at the bowl.

At least you’d had the foresight to grease and line your baking tray, because the entire entourage arrives at your station just as you’re meant to be pouring the batter into it and sticking it in the oven.

“Ah, we meet again,” the group choruses, genuine smiles peeking through as if you’re old friends separated only by time and distance.

That’s the weird thing about being on television. For as long as you’re able, you exist within a microcosm of daily life. A world exists outside of your bubble, you know, but you don’t see much proof of it. All of your meals are eaten together; all of your conversations are had with one another. You share temporary living quarters and oftentimes too much of yourselves, and you’re thankful the show encourages teamwork and kindness because that’s the kind of thing that can grow sour if you leave it unchecked too long.

And then it just—ends.

Bubble burst, you all go back to your regular lives. You look back on that time fondly, but the friendships are thinned out by time and distance. Eventually it all starts to feel like a dream, except every now and then something breaks through the haze to remind you it actually happened: a stranger recognizing you at the store, a message on social media, the casting team contacting you to ask if you’d be interested in competing in a holiday special for charity.

“We certainly do,” you retort, smile matching everyone else’s.

All things considered, you are happy to be back. Even if the tent is crowded and far too warm, the atmosphere is unmatched, especially when it’s decorated for the holidays.

“What are you working on?”

You explain the general workings of your yule log: chocolate sponge, hazelnut liqueur cream filling, and chocolate icing to top it off. You aren’t sure how you’re going to decorate it yet—you’ll figure it out once you get there, depending on how much time you have—but you guarantee them it’ll look festive and professional.

Satisfied with your plan, they wish you luck and move on to the man behind you. It’s so great to see you again, Minghao, someone says, and you’re grateful they’ve spared you the embarrassment of having to ask for his name. It still doesn’t ring a bell, and you can’t recall what season he’d been on for the life of you, but he speaks with a patience and a gentleness that is so unlike Tim that you nearly drop to the floor in thanks.

But as the commotion of the tent reminds you, you don’t have time to waste thinking about Minghao. You’ve only been given an hour for your signature, and you’re going to need all sixty of those minutes if you have any hopes of presenting a finished product.

It doesn’t register at first.

It doesn’t register at second or third, either.

In fact, you’re sure you’re hallucinating when you open the oven door to pop the sponge inside and you aren’t hit with a blast of hot air. Room temperature. Perhaps a bit on the cooler side, if you’re being honest.

And that can’t be, because you know you preheat your oven. It was the first thing you did, because it’s always the first thing you do. It’s just… automatic, like opening your mouth to eat or washing between your toes in the shower. Instinctual. Not something that needs to even be considered, because it’s always the first thing you do.

No, this cannot be. Forgetting to preheat the oven is a rookie mistake and you’re not a rookie.

…Could it be?

Perhaps you were so caught up in the lights and buzz, the thrill of returning to the tent, that it had slipped your mind? Perhaps you’d pressed the wrong buttons and turned the wrong dials? While it’s not likely you’d somehow bumped into the oven and turned it off, nothing is impossible, so… maybe?

“Shit,” you hiss through your teeth. The producers are not going to be happy about your swearing. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Everything okay up there?” Minghao asks from behind you. When you turn, he’s got a flour-dusted towel thrown over his shoulder as he nurses a cup of tea, and his composure in the face of your hysteria has your head spinning.

Your mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Minghao is drinking tea without a care in the world and your oven isn’t even halfway to the temperature you need. “I—yes? No? I don’t know. I could’ve sworn I preheated the oven, but—”

“Don’t panic,” he offers, his top lip catching on the rim of his mug. “You got this. Work on something else while you wait.”

Something else. Right, you can work on something else. Both the filling and the frosting still have to be made, and quick mental math tells you there should just be enough time to get everything done if you’re efficient. Of course, that’s a big if, but that’s why you’d chosen a yule log, after all: sponge cake doesn’t need that long to bake, and anything can happen (and go wrong) in this tent.

So, you get to work on something else. Measure out a sheet of parchment paper, dust it with cocoa powder, and set it to the side. Decide to get to work on the frosting, because if one thing has already gone wrong, you don’t trust the universe to let you temper chocolate correctly.

The chocolate is halfway melted when the oven dings. A small harrumph of victory and you’re finally good to go, setting a timer for twelve minutes. Minghao offers you a discreet thumbs-up, fingers covered in something sticky you assume is marzipan.

Time flies after that. You get both the frosting and your filling made, and it’s only through divine intervention that your sponge cake comes out perfectly and with enough time to score and cool. When you dare a look around the room, everyone seems to be in a similar position as you: frazzled and covered in powdered sugar, making frantic trips to and from the refrigerators, chucking seized-up caramel into the trash and starting over for the third time with a pained expression.

A holiday special—it was supposed to be more laid-back, more for the vibes and festivity than actual competition, but it looks to you like everyone’s taking it just as seriously as your first go-rounds.

“Fifteen minutes!” someone calls, and your competitors fade out of focus. You’ve got a yule log to ice and fondant to roll out.

You make it by the skin of your teeth.

It isn’t perfect, of course, as few things on this show ever are, but it’s more than acceptable. It looks great and tastes even better which is all you can hope for. Much to your dismay, Tim also gets top marks, but it’s Minghao that shocks you all. His stollen wreath earns him a handshake and a lot of clandestine, private glares, but he’d been kind to you earlier, helped untangle that knot of pandemonium, so you return the thumbs-up he’d given you earlier with a smile that feels akin to getting away with murder.

Something is wrong.

On its own, this is not necessarily surprising. Gingerbread, tasked with bearing the weight of an entire house, can be fickle. On any other day you wouldn’t blame it if it wanted to rebel and go sideways, but the thing is—you’ve made gingerbread before. Tons of times. Another thing you could probably make in your sleep if you absolutely had to. So it doesn’t make sense when you look down in your mixing bowl and it just… doesn’t look right.

You tell yourself it’ll get better when you knead it. Maybe the color just looks off because it’s underworked, and a few good punches will set it straight.

But it doesn’t. The dough sits at your station like a sad, formless lump, giving you no indication it intends to become anything at all. Which is, admittedly, a problem. Your technical challenge is to build a gingerbread house—one complete with little windows and golden-toned nightlights, a scalloped roof dusted with powdered sugar to look like fresh snow, a working door!—and you’re far from an engineer, but you don’t think you can have a gingerbread house without gingerbread.

You sneak a peek at Tim’s station, where he’s well into measuring an immaculate-looking dough with a ruler. The contestant in front of you is in a similar place, too, so it’s with an oh fuck I’m doomed sigh that you turn around and hope to find a comrade in Minghao again.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying not to draw attention to yourself. “Does this look right to you?” You jerk a thumb in the direction of your dough-lump. Minghao, bless him, looks around you and tries his best to hide his grimace.

He does not succeed.

“Um. Well, no.”

You sigh. Place one flour-dusted hand on your waist and pinch the bridge of your nose with the other. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. I’ve made gingerbread a million times.”

“Looks pale,” he offers. Of course, this is the exact moment he dumps his own dough—his beautiful dough, flawless chestnut brown—onto his station to knead it. “Was the sugar right?”

A strangled, disbelieving laugh escapes you. Was the sugar right—of course the sugar was right! Dark muscovado sugar. Everyone knows that's what you use for gingerbread, so of course the sugar was right because no one, both in their right mind and at this stage of competition, would use anything else.

Before you can respond, Minghao’s pointing at your jar of sugar. Your jar of pale, producer-supplied sugar, which even a blind person could tell does not resemble dark muscovado sugar.

A million thoughts race through your head at once, but it boils down to instinct, you think. Your brain had seen flour, butter, and sugar and went into baking mode, not stopping to take in the color of anything. Maybe a smarter, more perceptive person would put two and two together and get sabotage, but you don’t have enough time to play detective.

“Here, here,” Minghao says, hurriedly handing over his (correct) sugar. “It’ll be close, but you should have just enough time to redo the dough.”

You’re going to throw up.

In the end, a chunk of chocolate buttons is missing from the roof and the piping around the edges is far from your neatest work, but it’s passable. You already lamented your loss during the signature bake, because anything less than perfection was not going to win you much of anything, and you’re now 0-for-2 on showstopping, unbelievable, awe-inspiring confections.

Just like the devil, your fall from grace will be studied.

Overthinking isn’t going to get you anywhere, but you can’t help it.

You collapse sideways into a chair, immediately face-planting into the catering table. Everyone else buzzes around you—animated conversations that have your head spinning, words that jumble together and start to sound like nothing at all—but you’re a million miles away. One mistake is out of character for you, but two? It’s unheard of. Something you would’ve said was impossible if it didn’t happen to you just a few hours ago.

This is something you need to file away for later so you can think about it just as you’re about to fall asleep, horror and embarrassment there to keep you company when it keeps you awake until the wee hours of the morning.

A chill runs down your spine.

“Hi. Do you mind?” You startle. Bang your knee on the underside of the table. “Sorry,” Minghao apologizes, but he doesn’t look sorry at all. You shake your head. Gesture to the empty seat across from you as if to say it’s all yours. “I brought you some tea,” he continues, setting it in front of you. “I find it’s easier than coffee when you don’t know how someone takes theirs. Less chance of getting it wrong.”

You smile. Wrap your hands around the Styrofoam cup and delight in the warmth. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”

“Seemed like you had a rough day.”

Groaning, you try to wave away his words. “Please don’t speak of it.” Minghao jokingly salutes you before miming his lips sealed. “Anyway. Let’s talk about something that is not reality television or baking or a reality baking competition.”

So, you do. Most of the talking comes from you, to be fair, but Minghao is a good listener: nods along, chimes in when appropriate, keeps the spit in his mouth where it belongs. You talk about your hometown and what made you apply for the show the first time. He tells you about growing up in Haicheng and all the things he grew up baking with his mother. You swap stories from your respective seasons; Minghao shares anecdotes with a straight face that have you clutching at your stomach.

Hours pass this way, and you end the night feeling like you’ve made an honest-to-god friend.

Xu Minghao ends the night feeling the guilt weigh him down like an albatross.

In retrospect, it is probably a bad idea to make another sponge, but no one can accuse you of learning from your mistakes.

“It’ll be a patterned joconde sponge with two mousse layers—chocolate and raspberry—and a raspberry jelly. Then I’m going to attempt to top it with chocolate and raspberry decorations.” The judges blink. Are you sure that’s a good idea? you know they want to ask, but this is a holiday competition for charity, so they’re trying not to be pessimists. “Anything is possible through holiday cheer,” you tack on, hoping your smile doesn’t look crazed.

They nod. “Right, right,” they say in unison. “Well, good luck!”

And then they’re off.

Determined to nail this, you triple-check your oven, which is preheating to a crisp 400 degrees; you double-check all your ingredients and confirm they’re correct; when you can spare the time, you watch your refrigerator like a hawk, making sure no one tries to sneak their own work in there and displace yours when you aren’t looking, but everyone’s engrossed in their respective showstoppers.

Tim’s planning a shadow box of sorts, with blown-sugar baubles and isomalt fire. Someone else is stressing over their three-tiered cake, asking the presenter if they think they’ve taken on too much. From what you can piece together, Minghao is making a three-dimensional house, also made from cake that he imported special pistachios for.

“Special pistachios?”

“Mm, from Iran. They have a better color.”

“Iranian pistachios! Can you believe it!”

But you don’t have time to worry about Minghao and his special Iranian pistachios. You have so much to do and not enough time to complete it. Your paste is in the freezer and the sponge is in the oven, but you’ve still got two mousses to make, a jelly to infuse, and little chocolate trees to create—and all of this wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t pointless, but you don’t want to disappoint the cats by half-assing it. They deserve your whole ass, and your whole ass is what they’re going to get.

The result is stunning—not necessarily in stature, but rather craftsmanship and effort. This is what you’re capable of. This is why you came back to the tent. For all your complaining and wanting to put your head through a concrete wall, there’s nothing like seeing the judges ooh and ahh when you present your work to them. There’s nothing like the ego boost of someone taking a bite and watching their eyes light up. There’s nothing like carrying your cake back to your station feeling proud of yourself.

“Great job,” Minghao says, a genuine smile stretched across his face. He also exceeds expectations, of course. Must be those special pistachios, you think, but your congratulations are also sincere.

Production makes a spectacle of judging, much like they always do.

The set is decorated to look like a winter wonderland, even though you’re still in the midst of autumn: a giant Christmas tree in the center decked to the nines with garland and baubles; warm, golden bulbs strung from every awning they could find; all the participants bundled up tight in festive sweaters and scarves all the way to your chins, cheeks and tips of noses dusted with red-pink blush to mimic the cold that’s nowhere to be found. Fake snow falls from the sky, and it doesn’t feel real, but it does feel magical.

One of the hosts catches you by the elbow, asks who you think is going to win. “Oh, I’d have to say Minghao,” you answer, because you’d rather die than give Tim the satisfaction. “His showstopper was incredible, but he was really great the whole competition.”

In the end, however, neither of them wins—it’s Jeon Wonwoo, three-tiered cake guy, who comes out of nowhere to claim first place. He’s bashful as he accepts his prize and says he’s going to donate the prize money to an organization that provides underprivileged kids with video game equipment. No one has a whole lot to say about that.

Once most of the hubbub dies down (and you give Tim a half-assed you did great, so sorry you didn’t win), you find Minghao near the refreshments table. He’s frowning around another mug of tea. “Alright?” you ask, helping yourself to some cider.

“For some reason, I’m no longer feeling very festive,” he replies, which is a very funny thing to say while wearing a hat with a little pom-pom on the top.

You roll your lips to keep from laughing. Sidle in a little closer and knock his shoulder with your own. “Ah, I know how you feel, but you really did do great. You were my pick to win, for what it’s worth.”

“Please don’t tell me that. It only makes me feel worse for losing.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “Would’ve been nice to donate some money to the cats, but shit, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn some dark force was sabotaging me. Like, come on—forgetting to preheat the oven? Using the wrong sugar? Not even a kid would’ve made those mistakes.”

Two things happen in rapid succession: beside you, Minghao goes very, very stiff, and you realize you had been sabotaged. And not by some dark, evil force, either. You were sabotaged by the very man standing beside you—the man you shared thumbs-up with and thought was your friend. The man whose cake you complimented and picked to win. The man who is now standing ramrod straight, as tense as a corpse, and the thought of sabotaging someone in a charity baking competition is so ridiculous and unbelievable that you just—

You just laugh.

At first, it’s a bark of stunned laughter. Then, the more it sinks in how absurd, how nonsensical all of this is, you can’t stop. Tears are rolling down your cheeks. You gasp for breath as your stomach begins to ache. People are staring, including Minghao, who sort of can’t believe what he’s seeing, but none of it does anything to deter you.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “I can’t believe it was you—”

Minghao groans. “In my defense, it was for the cats!”

This was not the answer you were expecting. It makes you laugh harder. “What do you mean it was for the cats?”

He swallows. Removes the mitten from one hand to run it through his hair as if that one tic was enough to distract you from everything that’s happened in the last sixty seconds. (It is.) “Listen, you told me you were going to donate the money to a cat charity if you won and I just—so was I, was the thing. I was also going to donate the money to a cat charity if I won—”

“Okay, but which one, though?”

“The Cat’s Paw-jamas.” Much to Minghao’s horror, this sets you off again. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Minghao,” you try to choke out, but you can barely breathe around the cramp in your stomach. “Minghao, that’s the charity I was going to donate to. Oh my god, you sabotaged me and I was going to donate to—to the same fucking place. Jesus Christ, this is some Gift of the Magi shit.”

Your saboteur, who has gone deathly pale, is quiet for a very long time. Every now and then he’ll open his mouth like he’s going to say something before it snaps shut again. When he does manage to speak, what comes out are mangled apologies that sound like gibberish, and you wave all of them away. “It’s water under the bridge.”

“I—I really don’t think it should be?”

“Minghao, it’s fine, trust me, this was just for fun—”

“No, I really insist.”

You sigh, good-natured and exasperated. Something about the fake snow has you feeling romantic and a little bold, so you turn, grab him by the lapels of his coat. “Please tell me if I’m misreading this, but if you insist, maybe you can start by taking me to dinner…?”

This was clearly not what MInghao was expecting you to say. Dazed, he recovers quickly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a half-smirk. “Dinner, hm?” You nod. “I think I can manage that.”

You smile. “Great. How do you feel about cat cafes?”

#winterwithyoucollab #minghao x reader #seventeen x reader #minghao fluff #seventeen imagines #minghao imagines #seventeen fluff

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