#fic: by boring brick
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i really love the idea of bonnie realizing he's under an afton takeover and asking monty to be the one to dismantle him
#and it's a v gradual but v painful takeover#it starts w countingâjust COUNTING things#2 then 3 then 5 then 4#but it goes from miscellaneous things to actual people and he gets incredibly worried abt what would happen if there was just one#not only that. but he sleeps in his room and wakes up in places he wasn't even aware existed in the plex#his interactions w his friends become disguised advantages to get what he wants from them#and it's not even anything harmful! just info abt tedious day-to-day things that he wouldn't have known had he been his normal self#and somewhere in the back of his head#his memories get traded for something dark and bulbous and festeringâ a real tumor if there ever were one#and for the life of him he can't stop seeing purple everywhere he goes#more on this later but like. yeah#fic: by boring brick#hcs and aus#fnaf
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Being bored with adhd is such a fucking nightmare like what the fuck I'm sitting here wishing that I could physically peel the skin off my body just to have something to DO
#before anyone suggests it: i dont have the patience/attention span to read rn so books/fics are out#nornally when im bored id play sims but my pc wont even boot up so thats out#and i lost my word processor on my laptop during a reboot so i cant do any writing#so i have NOTHING to do and its making me actually angry#no i cant go out either i have no money#i couldnt go out even if i DID have money because i have to be at home to take care of my grandmother#i want to smash my head into a brick wall#boredom is fucking PAINFUL
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I am once again completely losing any interest or motivation to actually write anything đđđ
#it just poof! disappears! vanishes! gone! it has left the building!#I absolutely positively HAVE to write linearly I cannot go oh well I have the ideas for much later chapters so I'll start there#my brain does NOT work like that and quite frankly I hate the advice that's always like oh write the fun bits first then!#cause it's like bitch I KNOW myself I KNOW my brain I'd never finish ANYTHING#I am the ULTIMATE 'well this isn't fun anymore I'm dipping' bitch. QUEEN of hitting the bricks#and also my brain just. will not function in that way. things gotta be done in ORDER or it DOES. NOT. WORK. AT. ALL. EVEN. A LITTLE.#but I find myself getting very VERY self-conscious and outright repelled by own set-up and structuring if that makes any sense?#it's like I gotta BUILD to *the* part but when I work on the foundation and framework I'm like đŤ¤đđĽ´#it's like oh this just sounds like boring drab info dumping bullshit#and the thing is. I know it's not! I'm not a *bad* writer. I know anyone else reading it doesn't see it as#hollow paint by numbers blah blah blah bland af shit#but to ME it feels that way#and I just lose the desire to work on anything anymore#this has been going on for MONTHS now. MONTHS. I've not been able to write ANYTHING. for MONTHS. cause of this.#this stupid weird trepidation that all my setup work is just horrid awful runny dog shit#idk where it csme from. idk why it's stuck around so long. idk how to fix it. don't think it CAN be fixed at this point.#I just don't know what I'm doing man. I used to LOVE writing fic. now I'm like lol maybe DON'T do that.#erin explains it all
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pairing: logan howlett x reader x wade wilson
rating: E, minors dni, 18+ (mmf threesome; resolved sexual tension; sex pollen; unprotected p in v sex; oral [f receiving]; double penetration)
words: 6.7k
summary: you, logan and wade are on a stakeout after reports of a new drug which only affects mutants. but what happens when you accidentally get a hit of it yourselves� (the sex pollen fic from the poll! thank you @eupheme for betaing for me, i owe you my life!)
âI spy with my little eyeâŚâ
âWade, I swear to godâŚâ Loganâs voice is a low rumble, a warning.
âAwww câmon, peanut! What else do we have to do? Indulge me in my childlike whimsy.â
âLet me guess,â you say, shelling a pistachio before throwing it in the air to catch it on your waiting tongue, âyou spy something beginning with R-D, which is the rising damp, which is the fourth goddamn time you spied it because thereâs nothing else in this fucking place.â
Wade huffs and throws himself back in his chair.Â
âKilljoy,â he mutters, and goes back to carving obscene doodles into the side table with baby knife.Â
On the first day you were happy to play along, just to ease the boredom and tension which came hand-in-hand with this arrangement. Now itâs been five of them, stacking on top of each other and getting claustrophobic-heavy, the three of you crowded into each otherâs space and on the razorâs edge.
Something is going to break, and youâre worried itâll be Wadeâs nose under Loganâs fist.
What a stupid fucking mission. You should never have said yes.
Ever since the whole Void situation was resolved you, Logan and Wade have been X-Men adjacent. Not part of the group exactly but happy to play along if needed. This most recent assignment had been a request from Piotr - there was something going on downtown to do with trafficking drugs which affected mutants, and someone needed to keep an eye on it. Couldnât be anyone from the mansion, theyâre all hands on deck at the moment keeping an influx of kids in check. But the three of you? With no jobs between you and an urge to do good?
It was a problem with an obvious solution.
Itâs a stakeout. Which means sitting and waiting and holy fuck is it boring.Â
You can tell something is going on in the alley across the street but youâve had strict instructions not to take action until you see the guy in charge: thickset man with a penchant for misdeeds and built like a brick shithouse. Once you have proof heâs involved, youâll get the go-ahead to close in and shut the place down in whatever manner you see fit.
But until he comes in, your little trio has no choice but to stay put, watching petty criminals come and go with no idea theyâre being monitored.
Life has revolved around watches from the dingy window. Usually two of you will stay up while one of you tries to get some sleep on one of the uncomfortable twin beds that have been provided, but it isnât easy to drift off when it feels like the mattresses are made of cinder blocks stuffed with broken glass. It isnât that youâre unused to being in each othersâ spaces - if youâre not at their apartment theyâre at yours, after all, you are friends - but this is different. You have the luxury of walking away from each other in normal day-to-day life when things gets too much. Here? Here, youâre stuck until youâre done with the job. Youâre all tired, irritated, and desperate for entertainment. Youâve even considered chopping off your own hand to watch it grow back, just for something to do.
And the thing is thatâs not the worst of it. Ever since the three of you returned from the Void thereâs been something there. Something difficult to pin down, exactly. A niggling little feeling worming its way through your body. Something which thrums every time Wade flexes the muscles in his hand and you see his long, strong fingers; every time Logan grits his jaw and the tendons in his neck throb.Â
Oh, right. You sort of really want to fuck them both.
You donât go through something that traumatic and not have deep-rooted feelings which surpass normal boundaries. You fought for each othersâ lives. Youâre bonded in a way people rarely are. And the more time you spend with them the blurrier the lines between platonic and fucking soulmate become. Youâve seen both of them stare at you - and each other - when they think youâre not looking, so youâre sure this isnât something that only you are harbouring. Itâs a secret desire harboured by all three of you.
Like you said, something is gonna break. And in this shitty little surveillance room? Itâs gonna break soon.
A movement outside. The three of you sit forward to take a look at the eveningâs street view, only to fall back into your chairs as it turns out to be a false alarm. Just a pedestrian walking by. Youâre going to go insane.
You drum your fingers on your thighs just to keep them busy, then turn to Logan.Â
âYou got a smoke?â
He cocks a brow at you.
âYou want a cigar?â
âNothing else to fucking do.â
âWhoa, hey!â says Wade, putting his hand on Loganâs arm as he roots around in his jacket pocket, âNo no no, you quit last year! Donât start up bad habits again unless Iâm the one convincing you to, pookie.â
âWade, câmon. Iâm gonna lose my mind if I donât have something to do,â you groan. Plus, really, youâd kinda like something to suck on, just to relieve some of the ache in your belly.
As if Wade can hear your thoughts he pipes up again.
âWell if youâre that desperate to use your mouth, I know what we could play to pass the timeâŚâ
You and Logan groan in unison, and he balls his fist in a way which suggests itâs not long until the claws come out. Wade holds up his hands to signify peace.
âWhoa, chill out, honeybadger. No need to get scratchy. You donât have to join in if you donât want to⌠but itâs more fun the more people there are.â
Accepting thereâs nothing else to pass the time, Logan lets out a long, exhausted sigh and lets Wade continue.
The mercenary licks his lips as if, for once, considering his phrasing. Then blurts out what he wanted to say anyway.
âWe could play blowjob roulette.â
It was a foolish time to take a drink of your soda, because you spurt it out your nose. After a moment of mopping yourself up with your sleeve you manage a, âwhat?!â
âWell, oral roulette I guess, if weâre being PC about it.â
âOh my god,â Logan groans, getting to his feet and stomping into the tiny excuse for a kitchenette, grabbing a beer and opening it with such gusto that the cap bounces off an adjacent wall.
âIt doesnât have to mean anything! We just spin the bottle and whoever it ends up pointing out deals out a round of Australian kisses for the other players. Relieves the boredom, and itâs fun to see how long everyone lasts.â
Your mouth is open, youâre sure of it. Youâre looking at Wade in abject horror. This has got to just be part of his stupid bravado, right? Making an ill-timed joke?
Because the other option is heâs serious.
Logan drinks. You stare. Wade rabbits on.
âIâm just saying we used to play it at Sister Margaretâs all the time, when we were waiting for new marks to come in and didnât have anything better to do! It wasnât gay or anything except for, you know, the rampant homoeroticism of slurping everyoneâs gherkin.â
âDid you⌠did you ever have to do it?â you ask, morbid fascination taking over. He scoffs.
âDid I ever have to⌠pookie, Iâve taken more loads than my buildingâs washing machine. Yeah, Iâd say Iâm pretty fucking great at it.â
Heâs staring at you with an intensity which makes you feel like youâre on fire, but from embarrassment or enthusiasm youâre not sure.Â
âSo?â he asks, quietly, putting a hand on your knee. Your body burns. You swallow. You look to Logan.Â
He sighs. Finishes his beer, but in a way which suggests heâs giving in. You see the way Loganâs teeth touch his bottom lip. The start of a fricative.Â
Heâs going to say fine.
Movement out of the window. You bolt up, knocking Wadeâs hand away. He deflates.
âAww. But I really wanted to - â
âNo, guys - look!â
They quickly crowd you, following where you point. A huge man walks into the alleyway, flanked by underlings, the bulk of him taking up the small space.
âThereâs our guy,â you say, âletâs go.â
You descend upon the alleyway in a flash of swords and claws. You tug your cowl up over your nose to protect your face, hand on one of your BrĂźgger & Thomet MP9s as the three of you come face-to-face with the door youâve been monitoring all week.
âSo are we going in sneaky style, orââ
Logan rips the door off its hinges, throwing it down the length of the alley; he is desperate to be done with this. You exchange a look with Wade.
âOkiedokie, asked and answered I guess,â he sighs, grabbing his Desert Eagles from his holsters.
You both follow Logan whoâs thrown himself into the middle of the lab claws-first. Two-thirds of the people scream and flee, the others stand their guard and grab their guns.
Fingers on triggers, you take a beat to examine the situation.
Equipment everywhere. Beakers and cylinders you can possibly guess the use for, set up on desks and synthesising something nasty. The boss is standing in the middle of the room, eyebrow cocked and mild annoyance plastered on his face. Bingo. You make a beeline for him, taking a couple of bullets in your flank as you go.
âCover me!â you shout to Wade. He pulls his katana out of a guyâs head and throws you a bloodied thumbs-up.
âGot your back, pookie! Hate to see you leave, love to watch you spill entrails as you go!â
As if he was predicting your next action, you whip your knife out of your belt and stab it in an assailantâs belly, watching his warm guts slide onto the floor. He releases a strangled noise as he drops to his knees - you make a move to continue on your way to the boss only to feel someone pick you up.
âShit!â you mutter as youâre hoisted into the air. Wade and Logan stop their onslaught to turn at the sound of your panic, their eyes both going wide as they see you restrained. With a twinned shout of your name they come running to help.
Aww, your boys. Itâd be cute if you werenât bracing yourself for the pain.
Your attacker launches you across the room. A couple of seconds go by as you fly through the air - and then into a table full of test tubes and pipettes.
A great cloud rises into the air. A cloud of spores?
Before you can get a chance to properly read the situation, Wade and Logan are at your side. Sturdy hands grasp around your forearms and youâre dragged to your feet.Â
Of course, it goes unnoticedâŚbut all three of you take in a deep breath.
âYou okay, baby?â rasps Logan.Â
âYeah, Iâm fâ move!â you scream, shouldering him out of the way so you can sink your knife into the neck of the man about to spray bullets down his spine. As you rip through the soft skin at his throat something occurs to you.Â
âBabyâ? Where did that come from?
Not that it isnât nice, obviously, but⌠itâs unlike Logan to show that much tenderness ever. Especially with pet names.
Oh well, no time to dwell.
Picking bits of glass from your biceps you tank a punch from a man closing in on your left, parry his next couple of blows, then shoot him in the dick. Wade has called this a âlow blowâ before which isnât incorrect but honestly, thereâs no time for fighting fair when itâs 3-versus-30.Â
The boss has finally gotten involved. A pair of brass knuckles shines against his fist as he swings at Logan, a meaty crack filling the air in a way which youâre worried might actually have dented one of your friendâs ribs. Wade uses the distraction to stab a katana into the guyâs back, then another one a little further up - using him like a goddamn climbing wall. The boss roars like an animal and attempts to swat him off but thereâs no use. His massive bulk is working against him, and Wade can be a fast little motherfucker when he wants to be.
Wade lets out a âpeekaboo!â as he pops up over the bossâs shoulder, pressing his pistol into the meat of his neck and firing. Blood sprays across the floor but somehow the guy doesnât stop, not even when Logan picks himself back up and sinks both his claws into his stomach; it only elicits another snarl.
Okay, time to close.
You sheath your guns and go back to your knife, using Logan as a launchpad as you throw yourself off the arch of his back and into the air - stabbing down into the bossâs skull with a dull thunk.
A line of blood dribbles out of his mouth. He starts to fall.
âUh oh - call me Ke$ha, because Iâm yelling timber!â Wade warns. With a snarl Logan rips his claws free from muscle, snatching you off of the bossâs corpse as he stumbles forward under his own weight. Pulling you free you both lose your footing, and you crash down onto your friend.
You look at Logan.
He looks at you.Â
Suddenly, his hands clasp around your hips. Probably you move you off of himâŚ
And then youâre on fire.Â
Like gasoline has made a line from his touch to your cunt, everything in you is set ablaze. Your pussy clenches and youâve never felt so empty before - or at least not so aware of it.
There is a cock-shaped hole and itâs begging to be filled.
You expect Logan to freak out, youâre freaking out - you never thought you had a murder kink but you guess youâre never too old to find out something new about yourself - but he doesnât.
Instead you just see him furrow his brow as if processing something; then acknowledge the press of his hardening cock rub against your thigh as he bucks up into you.
Oh no. Something is wrong.
When you feel Wade grab your shoulder and haul you back to your feet itâs the same, that delicious burning sensation rocketing through you⌠and from the way he moans as soon as his hands are on you, the feeling is mutual.Â
âFuck. Fuck,â he breathes. Yeah. You want to, thatâs the issue.
You stagger away from him with wide eyes and electric skin, a beat passing between the three of you as the people left in the lab decide to give up the fight now their boss is toast. Hearts racing, hands wanting to reach out and touch.
Logan is the one to break the silence.
âWe should call in and let the others know weâre done,â he manages. You nod.
âYeah. Can we⌠can we go back across the street? I donât feel so good.â
âOh, donât you go Spider-Man Infinity War Part 1 on me,â Wade chuckles. You donât have the energy to work out what heâs referencing, especially when a jolt goes through your body to your cunt when you feel his eyes meet yours.Â
Damn. This is bad.Â
âYeah. Of course, honey,â Logan manages. He goes to put his hand on the small of your back and then thinks better of it, though you can feel its nearness like a magnetic pull. You almost moan when he retracts his touch instead. Wade whips his phone out and fires off a message to let someone know a cleanup crew is needed as you stagger out of the alleyway and back across the street.Â
You didnât bother closing the door when you ran out, too desperate to monopolise on the chance of getting your mark. The three of you tumble back into the room youâd been dying to get out of just a scant few minutes ago, relieved to be in the privacy of its confines again.
A moment passes as all three of you adjust to the feeling coursing through your bodies.
âWhatâs happening?â you breathe, bracing your hands on the back of your go-to wooden chair and breaking it with the force of your grip. You wince at the sound of splintering, blood dripping down your palms before you feel it heal over.
âIâve not felt like this since I first discovered how easy it was to masturbate to Good Housekeeping,â Wade groans, whipping off his mask as he flops down onto the battered-up-couch. Logan has made his way to the fridge again, practically ripping its door off to get to a beer which he downs in one swig. Fuck. Itâs so sexy. You want to lick the muscles in his neck.
âItâs a pollen,â he states, voice rocky in a way which goes straight to the burning pit of your stomach. You and Wade exchange a look and then turn to him, waiting for further explanation. âOnly has a reaction in mutants. Charles said it was something about putting the id into overdrive, like a fuckinâ adrenaline shot to the libido.â
âIt⌠it makes you aroused?â you manage, attempting not to rock your cunt into the palm of your hand. Logan grunts.
âWas trying to be more tactful, but yeah, honey. Thatâs the idea.â
Honey. The pet name once again goes down your spine.
âFucking sorry,â says Wade, âsomeone was manufacturing this stuff as a drug for what? To make mutants too horny to fight?â
Logan shrugs, still not tearing his gaze from his empty bottle, as if to agree itâs his best guess. Wadeâs head falls back against the sofaâs arm.
âI mean, damn, they could have just shown me any frame from Magic Mike XXL and it would have had the same result. Seems like a lot of effort.â
Something about the way Logan talks sticks out to you, you circle back around to it.Â
âLogan, you seem to know a lot about this stuff⌠have you encountered it before?â
Another beer grabbed and chugged down, the forward hunch in his shoulders physical evidence of his walls raising.Â
âOnce. Back in the day with the other X-Men.â
âHow did you get through it? Does it go away?â
Logan doesnât reply. Drinks.
The unspoken answer sinks in.
âOh my god, you had to fuck it out, didnât you?â gasps Wade. Logan doesnât even growl. Jesus Christ heâs right. âWho was it? Storm? Beast? By the love of all things 100k+ enemies-to-lovers-slowburn, tell me it was Cyclops.â
Logan doesnât dignify him with an answer, instead putting the empty bottle down with enough force youâre surprised it doesnât shatter.
âItâll pass. I just need to sit it out,â he reasons, the grit in his jaw suggesting this isnât the optimal solution. You feel your eyebrows tug together, a crease of concern settling between them.
âButâŚâ
âIâll be fine.â The way he says it, heâs trying to convince himself more than anyone. With the room in the air practically throbbing he heads to the bedroom, leaving you and Wade alone.
Holy shit. You and Wade are alone.
Your eyes wander over to him, to find his gaze is already resting heavy on you. Your skin lights up.
âSo, uh,â he starts, shifting himself awkwardly where his hard-on is trapped in his suit, âyou read any good books lately?â
That does help to alleviate the tension and you find yourself chuckling, only for the relief to be ablated when your empty pussy pulses. You whine.
âWadeâŚâ
As soon as you say his name heâs rushing over to you, helping you sit down on the ruined chair. You both moan as hot skin slides against hot skin.Â
âLook, it isnâtâŚâ you groan as you slide your hand up his bicep. Fuck, heâs strong. â...it isnât a crazy idea to help each other out, right? Weâre friends. Itâs just two friends giving each other a handâŚâ
Wade dips down to run the bridge of nose along the line of your jaw, letting his lips drop to the pulse in your neck.
âJust friendsâŚâ he mutters. You buck up into nothing. Oh, god. Youâre going to die here. âBaby?â
Oh shit, oh fuck. You want him to call you that over and over again, stamp it into your fucking mind.
âYeah?â you reply, the word ripped rawly from your throat.
âI wanted to do this before we even left this goddamn apartment, you think I might have changed my mind after the mutant viagra?â
He pulls back just enough for you to see the seriousness on his face. No, heâs not joking, not saying something dirty just because he thinks itâs funny.Â
Heâs saying it because itâs true, and itâs both thrilling and terrifying.Â
âCan I?â
Oh, itâs so tempting to say yes yes yes⌠but the more tempting thing is to tease him. Just a little.
You hook your leg over his shoulder and he groans as you dig your heel into the muscle of his back. He groans loud and long.
âWade?â
âMmm?â
âAsk me properly.â
His breath hitches in his throat, and youâre pretty sure heâs making a mess in his suit.
âFuck, can I eat you out, baby? Please?â
You nod so fast you fear youâll break your neck.
Wade lifts you like you weigh fucking nothing at all, strong arms scooping you up and bringing you to the couch - desperate for more space. His hands move quick and roughly as he goes to the pants on your suit, so wracked with need his fingers shake just from the promise of getting to touch you properly. You help him as much as you can, toeing off your boots and helping him tug your underwear off along with your waistband. His eyes widen as he realises your panties are in his hands. He takes a moment to run his thumb over the cotton of them and he fucking moans. Oh, god damn it, youâre going to be fucking ruined.
âFuck. Never seen a pussy look this good,â he breathes as he finds himself face-to-face with your dripping cunt. Youâre already so wet that itâs embarrassing and, while it would be easy enough to blame on the pollen, you know that youâve wanted this for months. When he drags his tongue up your puffy, desperate folds, you pretty much combust.
âOh shit,â you groan, wrapping your other leg round his face to hold him flush against you - not that Wade needs any convincing though, because youâve never seen a man so desperate to fuck you with his mouth before. He buries himself in you, scarred hands reaching up to dig into the soft skin of your thighs and keep you steady. He wants you at his own pace, it seems, and is strong enough to make it happen. Fuck, you are not complaining.
Wadeâs eyes flit upwards to see how youâre reacting as he moves his whole face side to side to bury himself into your cunt deeper. Itâs like heâs trying to find where your scent is the strongest and, honestly? With what youâve heard about this pollen stuff? Seems right on track. He has no hair for you to bury your fingers in so instead you press your hand to the top of his head and pull him closer, because god knows you donât have the ability to vocalise it. You sink your fingernails in so he knows, though.
Holy hell youâve never felt so good. The pollen is heightening everything, each movement he makes into you shooting shockwaves through your nerves. Wadeâs tongue is insistent in exploring every inch of you, pressing bluntly into your clit; lapping at the wetness seeping from you like heâll die if he canât taste what heâs doing to you; dragging down to your ass and toying with you there, too. Yes, fuck, anything he goddamn wants. When his teeth skim the needy folds of your cunt you jackknife into his mouth, almost breaking them clean out of his gums.
âHoly shit, babe. Whatâs gotten into you?â he chuckles, pupils so blown wide with lust that his eyes are eclipsed with black. You chase after him with your hips.
âNot you, and thatâs the problem,â you harrumph. He grins and you see how covered with your slick he is and fuck you are going to die here.Â
âIâll take care of you. Thatâs what friends do, right?â he asks, putting emphasis on the word youâre both masquerading behind. When you reach out with a searching hand he threads his finger through yours wordlessly, using the other to grab a pillow so he has something to fuck up against. You feel a tiny bit bad for not offering to help but you know heâll get his in time - in fact just thinking about sucking his cock your mouth begins to water.
He presses his palm into yours as he goes back to your cunt with his mouth. It takes only moments for him to start up his desperate pace again, tongue sinfully sweet, and youâre chasing and chasingâŚ
Stars explode in your vision and in your blood. The noise you let out is feral, a euphony of pleasure and you donât care who hears. Wadeâs eyes drift close as he tastes your orgasm directly at his lips, drinking you down. Youâre certain his hips stutter as he comes just from getting you off. Oh god itâs so hot.
Oh god, youâre not done.
Wade surges up your body and kisses you ferociously, you moan at the taste of yourself he gives back.Â
âFuck, yes, do you taste that, baby? What did I do to you? Holy fuck you are the hottest thing Iâve ever seenâŚâ
âWade, I need you.â
âYeah, fuck, okay. Let me get this stupid sexy suit offâŚâ
Hands begin to fumble messily, needily at each otherâs zippers in order to strip. You sit up to get a better handle on himâ
And freeze when you see you have an audience.
Wade follows your gaze to where Logan is standing in the bedroom doorway. Heâs managed to get his suit off and change back into his jeans, though you canât imagine heâll want to stay in them for long the way his trapped cock is staining dark blue denim even darker. Heâs gripping the doorframe with such force that his claws have popped out, eyes a matching pitch black to Wadeâs, chest heaving as he watches the show.
âYou okay, honey badger?â Wade drawls, a cocky smile dragging across him. Logan grunts. Swallows hard. You go for a softer tactic.
âLogan, sweetheart, you wanna join in?â your voice is husky as you ask, oh so inviting. Logan squeezes his eyes shut and his fist tight, taking a chunk out of the wall.
âGet into the goddamn bedroom, both of you,â he growls. The two of you absolutely do not need to be told twice. Partially undressed you vault over the back of the dishevelled sofa, letting Logan lead the way. As soon as youâre within armsâ reach he snags you around the waist and pulls you in for a kiss.
Logan kisses like he wants to devour you. Rough, commanding, dragging his tongue into your mouth as if trying to claim you. Oh, youâll let him a hundred times over. You mewl when his hand reaches down you cup your still dripping pussy, immediately swiping a thumb against your clit. It pulses as if Wade didnât just pull an orgasm out of you.
âFuckinâ needy little thing,â he snarls, delighted. You reach down to grab the bulge heâs rocking, squeezing hard enough to get him to groan.
âLook whoâs talking,â you chuckle. He taps at the top of your suit, an instruction.Â
âOff,â he says, but thatâs as much as he gets to say, because Wade grabs him by the beard and steers him in for a kiss. You pause for just a second to see what will happen but clearly you neednât have worried - Logan moans into your friendâs mouth, grabbing a handful of Wadeâs pretty decent ass and digging in his fingers. While theyâre busy you finish stripping, going for the zipper on the back of the red suit and pulling it down. Itâs such a goddamn stupid design having it at the back like a goddamn prom dress - but at the moment youâre kinda thankful for it because it means you get to kiss along the revealed plain of skin. Wade has such beautiful fucking back muscles, youâve stared at them for long enough to memorise every damned one.
He steps out of the suit when you get to his feet - yeah, he did come just from eating you out earlier and holy fuck are you proud - and lets out a strangled noise when you bite the meat of his asscheek hard enough to leave a mark.
âFuck, are you gonna rim me? Because if so Iâm a thousand percent down,â he chokes, pulling away from Loganâs mouth and leaving a string of spit between them, evidence of a messy kiss. You shrug.
âYou want me to, baby?â
Wade seems to have a crisis of faith as he considers this, letting Logan nibble down the length of his neck; eventually he shakes his head though.
âNo, I wanna be inside you, like, yesterday,â he confesses.Â
âIâve got enough room for two,â you state, so absolutely sure the pollen will accommodate that you donât even need to think about it. Both Wade and Logan suck in a breath at that idea.
âFuck, baby, arenât you just perfect,â Logan drawls, grabbing you by the hips as you stand up and pulling you to the pathetic twin bed this apartment was provided with. Not how you wanted this first time to go down but hey, at least itâs going down at all. No longer just a dirty fantasy you bury your fingers into your cunt imagining but a real bonafide liaison (boner-fide liaison, Wadeâs voice in your head pipes up).
You paw at his jeans, desperate to have all three of you naked and ready. Thereâs nothing to hide between you any more. Any boundaries have been not only crossed but decimated, absolutely destroyed beyond repair, and you couldnât be happier. When his cock falls heavy into your palm you canât help but suck air in through your teeth at its sheer size. Logan chuckles, gravelly and tempting.
âOh itâll fit, baby,â he coos, as if reading your mind. Fuck. Yep, it will. Thereâs no two ways about it. Youâre having both Wade and Logan inside you if it kills you.
He wraps you in his arms before you can have any more thoughts on the matter and pulls you down onto the mattress with him, the pollen in your veins making you feel every touch like the end of a live wire - yet you keep coming back to get shocked. Logan positions himself under you, chest-to-chest, grinning at the way your nipples rub against the coarse and gorgeous hair of his chest. Thereâs a slapping noise and you realise itâs Wadeâs hand on Loganâs thigh, encouraging him to move up the bed.
âBig boy, you know you have to scoot up if this is happening. Iâm all for fucking the same pussy together but you have to be realisticâŚâ
Obscured by your body, only you get to see the way Logan rolls his eyes fondly at Wadeâs blabbering. He manouveurs you both to allow Wade room to kneel on the mattress behind you and you gasp at the feeling of their cocks bullying at your entrance.
âOh my god,â you gasp, body on fire and desperate to be extinguished by them. Logan hums in your ear.
âI know, baby, I know. Weâll take care of you.â
âAnd each other. I got sex-pollened too, old man,â Wade harrumphs, rubbing his head against the slick lips of your cunt.Â
âNobodyâs forgetting you, princess,â he murmurs, ânow be good and put me inside.â
Logan probably misses the soft hiss Wade lets out at that, but you feel the way the mercenaryâs hand wraps around his cock and presses Logan to your empty cunt. You moan in pleasure as he follows the path Wade has laid out and pushes himself inside of you, no resistance given. It takes you only a couple of seconds to adjust to the pure size of him. Holy shit, if this were any other time youâd be falling apart by now, but the way your body pumps with desperation suggests one dick alone isnât going to be enough.
âYou okay?â Logan rumbles by your ear. You cling onto him for dear life, nodding.
âYeah. Fuck, Wade, I know youâll fit, youâve gotta fuck me too.â
Wade doesnât even have an answer for that. Instead you feel his thumb tug at your lips, stretching you for him - or just watching the way Logan fills you, getting off on the filthy way youâre plugged. Another cock begins to press at your already stuffed hole and you whine.
âSâokay, I gotcha,â Logan says through gritted teeth as he feels Wadeâs length slide along his own, the feeling almost overwhelming for him. You drop your head to his shoulder and choke on your own spit as Wade forces himself inside of you. Your cunt feels like it is about to burst into flames in the most satisfying way possible, flowering open between them both.
âFuck, never felt anything so goddamn tight in my lifeâŚâ Wade manages. Eventually he bottoms out alongside Logan, both of them sitting snugly inside of you, sharing you, clutched in your warmth.Â
âThere we go,â Logan growls. âYou okay, baby?â
Not knowing if the question is aimed at you or Wade you both whine a yes. Logan laughs and you feel his chest move beneath you, all muscle and heat.
âIâm gonna move now.â
He drags himself out of you, inch by glorious inch, like a match striking against a box and sparking an ember. A deep ragged breath shudders through you at the feeling of it but it is nothing compared to how he slams back inside. Lights flood your periphery. You are going to fucking die between these two men and that is fine. Heaven, even.
Once Wade feels Loganâs rhythm it is too much of a competition for him not to match it. The mercenaryâs arms fall either side of your bodies to support himself as he works himself in and out of you, sliding deep as Logan retreats to the tip. Your cunt makes a lewd noise as they piston inside of you and you have never cared about anything less in your life. You are bathed in light, high off this, euphoric over being fucked. A tiny rivulet of drool falls from the edge of your mouth into Loganâs chest hair and he curses at the glorious rawness of it all.
Above you, Wade has finally found his voice again.
âLook at you taking us so well. Oh, fuck, goddamn. Iâve wanted you like this for so long. Remember when we were neighbours, honey? Those guys who you used to bring home⌠fuck, baby⌠I used to give myself the old low-five to the sound of you getting fuckedâŚâ
You make a pathetic little noise which spurs him onwards. Wadeâs mouth drops to your ear.
â...and I used to get angry because I knew I could do it better myself.â
âOh my god WadeâŚâ you whisper. Tears are beginning to pool in your eyes at the way youâre starting to get overstimulated, two cocks hitting that sweet spot inside you verges on being too much. Were the pollen not still in full force youâre sure youâd need to tap out.
âAnd you?â Wadeâs hand grips Loganâs bicep, squeezing appreciatively. âDo you know what itâs like to wake up every morning and see you shirtless on my couch, and not be able to fuck you? You do it on purpose, peanut, I swearâŚâ
Logan chuckles again, that deep honey-rich sound eked out in magnitudes.Â
âAnd what if I do, Red?â
Wade pauses in his thrusting, you donât have to see him to know that his eyes are wide.
âWait, what? For real?â
âWade!â you whine, reaching over to slap at his arm, annoyed that heâs stopped moving. âCan we all just agree weâve gotten off to the thought of each other and weâd have fucked eventually anyway?â
The men either side of you seem to think itâs a good compromise to come to and redouble their efforts. All you can do is to cling onto whatever muscles youâre able to find and ride the wave of pleasure. Fireworks go off in your synapses, brain a messy goo of euphoria, cunt fucked out and thoroughly taken care of.Â
They speed up, thrusts getting messy and arrhythmic and yet still somehow matching, and you know that theyâre going to come together. What a fucking treat, how divine, oh god. Loganâs hands sink into your ass to keep you anchored as his cock goes faster, skin slapping on skin as his sac moves against Wadeâs - causing the merc to let out a string of curses - and youâre suddenly flooded with his warm, sticky cum pumping inside you in jets. Wade whines at the feeling of himself being doused and follows Loganâs lead. The filthy cocktail of them drips around both their lengths and out of your hole, falling onto the pathetic mattress below. One last little nudge of the hips is all it takes to push you over the edge again. Your next orgasm is dragged out of you⌠but you know your body will demand more.
For now, though, respite. The urge to reach that peak again immediately has at least settled for the moment.
âHoly fuck,â you sigh. Logan hums an affirmative note, fingers playing with the small of your back as Wade peppers kisses across your shoulderblades.
âWe should go on stakeouts more often, if this is the nice little bow everything gets tied up in,â Wade sighs, dreamily. You nod against Loganâs chest. His hair rubs your cheek deliciously. Your pussy throbs again, reminding you this dirty escapade needs to continue soon. âSo what does this mean? Are we a little mutant charcuterie now?â
Your brow furrows as you try to parse what Wade has just said.
âOh. Wade, baby, do you mean âcoterieâ?â
Logan bursts out laughing, a noise youâve never properly heard before, and it has you grinning - and Wade, too, even though he grumbles a little at being corrected. Their cocks jostle inside you and you feel them getting hard again and, as you prepare yourself for round two, itâs nice to know that whatever the three of you face at the end of this will be happy.
Three days later, youâre laid across the couch, head in Wadeâs lap and legs in Loganâs, all tangled together as you get the single worst telling-off of your life.
âNon-lethal mission, Wade! How many times did I have to tell you, it was meant to be non-lethal!â Piotr shouts down the line. Wade grimaces.
âLook, there were other things we had to sort out first, okay? We kinda forgot about the no-killing part. Besides the guy canât traffic drugs if heâs dead,â he confesses. You can picture Piotrâs disappointed face.
âOther things!? WHAT other things, Wade?!â
âOkay so there was this horny pollen, and we all had toââ
Logan grabs Wadeâs phone and hurls it across the room. It shatters into pieces against the wall. Wade gawps.
âHey! That was new! Well, okay, not new, but it wasnât cracked. Well, it was cracked, but it had all my best dick pics on there!â
âYou can take new ones,â Logan states.Â
You smile. Yeah. The charcuterie is nice.
#my writing#james logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x reader#logan x reader#wolverine x reader#x men x reader#logan howlett imagine#marvel x reader#marvel imagine#marvel fanfiction#mcu fanfiction#mcu imagine#wolverine fanfiction#mcu fandom#Deadpool x reader#wade wilson x reader#deadpool x reader x wolverine#wolverine x reader x deadpool
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More to Love
Pairing: Bucky x f!reader
Summary: Bucky wants to take care of you in every sense of the term; so what if you gain a bit of extra fat because of it?
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Slight angst, mentions of past relationships, kind of told in flashbacks, shitty ex boyfriend who forces reader to lose weight (not Bucky), Bucky is so in love it hurts, Bucky takes care of his woman, body insecurity, weight gain because of a healthy relationship, smut, CMNF (only for a little bit), looking in the mirror while on Buckyâs lap (yes, that needs a warning), crying during sex, daddy kink, soft!dom Bucky, so much fluff, no use of Y/N, Bucky calls reader love, p in v, unprotected sex (donât do that), implied creampie, Bucky loves his girlâs tummy, emotions.
A/N: This is NOT fetishizing weight gain, nor unhealthy habits. Bucky is not forcing the reader to gain weight to make her attractive to him; he loves his girl at any weight and just wants to take care of her. I made this fic because I want to feel like the parts of my body that Iâm insecure about can still be desirable. Also this turned out way softer than the drabble, but there is still smut going on. Thank you to the amazing @buckys-wintersoldier for beta reading; however, any and all mistakes are my own.
Ever since you started dating Bucky, you have noticed how different he is compared to your previous partners. Not just because he is a 6 foot something brick house, but also in the way he treats you. Youâve never experienced such raw and untamed love directed solely at you, or the way his eyes seem to bore into your soul, memorizing every quirk and tick you possess. Itâs almost overwhelming how much he loves you.
Never before have you felt so comfortable in a relationship. Previous boyfriends never really felt like boyfriends, rather personal trainers. Maybe you were bad at picking them out, but your last partner was a gym rat, constantly obsessing over what he was eating and how many hours he put into the gym that week. The obsession he had for the gym followed through into your relationship. If you wanted to spend time with him, it had to be at the gym.Â
He would construct fitness plans for you, saying that the softness of your stomach needed to go to make him happy, and you let him. You donât know why you let him weasel his way into your head, but he did. Eventually, it went past the gym, and he would only allow you to go to a certain restaurant to eat because the others had way too many unhealthy options, side-eyeing you for ordering a side of fries instead of a salad. Cooking at home became a battle since you werenât supposed to eat anything fatty or fried, nothing you did was ever good enough for him.Â
Over the course of that relationship you did end up losing the extra weight you had, but also weight that you didnât need to lose, and soon you were âtoo skinnyâ and âdidnât have enough meat on your bones for him.â He left you soon after - over text. It was something along the lines of, âI wanted to see if I could make you attractive, but you donât look good, fat or skinny.â It crushed you. The man that you thought you were in love with, and who loved you, broke your heart. You never gained the weight back, hoping against hope that he could come back and realize he was wrong about you. He never did.
It took you a long time to get over that piece of shit, but what he said about your body never left - you were still terrified to gain weight. But then you met Bucky, and for a while you forgot about that asshole. You had the sweetest, sexiest, kindest man that you were able to call yours, so why would you even think about your past? It started so slow you didnât even notice until it was too late.Â
You groaned, stretching out in bed, arm reaching out for your boyfriend, only to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Squinting, you try to open your eyes, sunlight forcing them to close. After a few tries, you get them open and look at the time - 7:19. Bucky must be back from his morning run. Searching the floor for his henley, you walk into the kitchen to find Bucky cutting up your favorite fruit in a bowl, shirtless. The both of you know that he can hear you walk up to him, hell he probably heard you the moment you woke up, but he humors you when you wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder as he jumps in surprise.
âWhatâcha doing, honey,â you murmur into his back, peppering it with kisses.
âMakinâ something to eat after runninâ with Steve all morninâ. Hope I didnât wake ya up, Love.â You feel the shiver that shoots up his spine at your touch.
âNo, I was just about to get up anyway, just so happens that I woke up to this sight.âÂ
Bucky turns only his head to look down at you, a crooked smile adorning his scruffy face, âAnd you can wake up to it every day. Now how about you go sit your pretty little ass down on the couch and get our show ready? Iâll be there in a minute.â
You place a chaste kiss to his cheek before slapping his ass on the way out earning a glare from him. Bucky knows that you donât eat in the morning but he has devised a plan because you not eating in the morning will follow to you only eating at dinner tonight.Â
You hear his heavy foot fall as youâre getting comfy on the couch only for him to pick you up and rest his back against the arm of the couch, setting you down in his lap, his chest to your back. He ignores your squeals and settles down.Â
While you are watching your show, Bucky is watching you, and before you know it, a piece of pineapple is passing your lips. Chewing happily, you donât even notice that Bucky has you eating until the deep rumble of âgood girlâ is whispered in your ear. A deep throb settles in your core as you continue to eat each piece he puts in your mouth, desperate to hear his praise again and again.
That was how it started, Bucky feeding you in the mornings. But it slowly progressed from that. He was always making sure that youâve eaten your three meals a day, no if, ands or buts. You were an Avenger after all so of course you needed to eat to stay healthy with all the missions and training you go through. Bucky noticed the pudge on your belly coming back way before you did.
âLove, what is this movie even about? Iâm so confused.â The smile in his voice was impossible to miss. With him against the headboard and your back resting against his chest, you couldnât see his face. Whatever explanation you gave, Bucky didnât hear a word of it. As you repositioned in his lap, you sat up, just a bit, but his hands on your stomach felt it, the small bit of fat soft and warm in his hands.Â
To this day you have no idea why Bucky stripped off both of your clothes and pounded you for hours, but he did, and that little bit of soft flesh made him go a little crazy.
During this time you didnât even realize that you were gaining your weight back because for the first time since you met your last boyfriend, you had so much more energy. You didnât need extra naps throughout the day, or feel dead tired after doing absolutely nothing. Now, your body had enough nutrients to function properly, the hump of your belly was there because you were healthy. Youâve had it all your life, nothing getting rid of it. To you it made you feel like you were fat, but to Bucky, oh, it showed him that you were a strong, healthy woman.
Everyday after training, you would boast to him about how much better youâve been doing in training, claiming Natasha said so. Of course you have always been a very capable agent, but now that you had enough fuel to support the vigorous Avenger training, youâve been doing better than ever, and Bucky couldnât have been more proud; however, it all came to a head when you finally caught on to your weight gain.
Fresh out of the shower, you head over to your closet. It was no special occasion but Bucky being the perfect boyfriend that he is, wanted to take you out on a date, just because. After finding Buckyâs favorite pair of lingerie and putting them on, you huff. You donât remember the bottoms feeling so tight. You passed it off however, thinking that maybe you did something to them in the wash.
But what you couldnât ignore was how your favorite dress wasnât fitting. It took way too much wiggling to get it past your hips and waist. What really set you off though, was that you couldnât zip it. Already too tight on you before zipping, now you couldnât get the damn thing to move more than an inch. Looking in the mirror you found the reason why the zipper refused to move. The small pocket of fat on your tummy that you thought you got rid of, was back, and larger than it ever was.Â
Turning to the side, you saw just how much it was coming out. You couldâve sworn you were a few months pregnant. How could you have missed this? It took a while, but you got the dress off so you could investigate the fat on your stomach. Gasping, you tried to suck in, in the hope that it would disappear. It didnât.
Tears sprung in your eyes. How could Bucky find this attractive? Why hasnât he said anything about this? How could you let yourself go like this? All these horrible thoughts raced through your head, before you heard Buckyâs sweet voice through the door asking if you were ready.
All of those little moments lead you to where you are now, standing in front of your mirror crying, while Bucky patiently waits on the other side of the door, thinking all is right with the world, as yours is falling apart right before your eyes. Before you can hide yourself, Bucky opens the door. Immediately, you move to cover yourself up, disgusted with the shape of your body hoping that he doesnât look at what you canât cover. Bucky, however, looks directly into your eyes first, seeing the pain and tears.
In two steps he reaches you and his strong arms envelop you, hands running up and down your back. âLove, whatâs wrong?â You only bury your face in his chest further. He walks back to the bed, pulling you in his lap as he sits. Your naked body pressed up against his fully clothed one. Buckyâs right palm slides down your back and he tries to squeeze your waist when you jerk away from him.
âNo! Donât touch me there!â Bucky feels his heart crack in his chest at your repulsion, not understanding why you donât want him to touch your waist. He doesnât let you leave his lap however, keeping you in place.
âWhy, Love? What did I do?âÂ
âYou didnât do anything. Look at my stomach, Buck!â You bite back another sob when he does, confusion written all over his face, not understanding what youâre trying to convey. âItâs FAT!â You all but scream, failing at trying to escape when his arms pull you down once again.
âLoveâŚâ He gets cut off by another sob falling from your lips. Instead of trying to talk you down, Bucky brings your lips to his and keeps your head in place. The only movement is the wobble of your lower lip as you try to contain your sobs.Â
A few minutes pass by before Bucky canât stand it anymore, and he tilts your head and moves his lips. The kiss tastes of your tears but neither of you care. Clawing at his back, you try to get closer to him, wanting him to consume you.Â
When his hands trail down your sides, you pull away. Strong arms spin you around, naked back to clothed chest. The warm palm of his right hand forces you to look at yourself in the mirror.
âBuc..â
âNo, Love. Look at how fucking sexy you are.â With his right hand still holding your chin, his left trails down your body, stopping over the swell of your tummy. âSo goddamn pretty, you know that?â He whispers in your ear, kissing down your neck, cock twitching under your ass.
He spreads his legs, forcing yours to open as well and he groans deep and long at the sight of your pussy. âGod, Love, donât you see how pretty you are, so soft and strong and all mine.â You try to pull away, the feeling of looking at yourself too much, but Buckyâs strong hands donât let you move an inch. âFeel what you do to me? Feel how hard my cock is?â
 Itâs too much, all of it. His praise, his touch, the sight of you. More tears well in your eyes and a pitiful whine leaves you. âCanât, Bucky. I-IâŚâ You have to close your eyes; you can't look at yourself any longer.
âShhh, Love, you can, baby. Let Daddy take care of you. Let him show you how pretty you are. Open your eyes for Daddy.â At his request, you open your eyes, only to find his already on you. With tears still pouring from your eyes, Bucky wipes them away before laying you down on your back.Â
If there was anyone who knew your limits better than yourself, it was Bucky. He knows that having you look at yourself right now would only do more harm than good, but showing you how much he loves you is a whole different story. Before laying down with you, Bucky takes his clothes off, needing to feel you against his bare skin. âI love you so fucking much, you know that? Never met a stronger,â Bucky plants a kiss on your cheek, âmore beautiful,â another kiss, âsmarter, sweeter, perfect woman in all my life.âÂ
With each kiss you can't tell if your erratic heart is slowing down or speeding up. This is such a foreign feeling for you, such unbridled love. Your head falls deeper into the pillows, Buckyâs scent enveloping all your senses, and you canât think properly, your brain feeling fuzzy at the heedy stare Bucky is giving you.
âDaddy, I donât, I canât.â You donât even know what you are trying to say, words no longer coming to you, but Bucky does, he always knows what you need.
âI know, Love. You just need Daddy to make you feel better, make you see how perfect you are for him.â Wrapping his arms around your back, he pulls you in closer to him, both of you gasping when his hard cock presses up against your naked core. Without thought, you grind your hips up, chasing the friction of his silky skin.
âAll those tears, and all you wanted was Daddyâs cock, huh? Just want Daddy to fuck you dumb, turn that little brain off for you? Donât worry, Love, Daddyâll take care of you.â You wrap your arms and legs around him, pulling him closer, not leaving any space between the two of you, the hard planes of his abdomen pressed against the soft swell of yours.
Bucky doesnât wait for you to beg, he canât, not now, he needs to be inside of you, lining himself up, he pushes in, inch by perfect inch.âShit, Love, you feel how perfect you are for me?â
Your lips part, letting a breathy whine out. Bucky doesnât wait, slowly pulling out until only his plush tip is still inside, just to roll his hips back in. âFuck. Look at Daddy, look at what you do to him.â It takes everything in your power to open your eyes and look at Bucky, the pleasure almost too much just after one thrust, but when you do, the sight that meets you is glorious. Face flushed, brows drawn together, lips parted, Bucky looked debauched.Â
âGood girl, see that wasnât so hard, was it?â Without warning, Bucky rolls the both of you over, with you on his lap. âSince you listen to Daddy so well, why donât you ride his cock, let him look at his pretty girl bounce?â This snaps you out of your stupor, thereâs no way youâre going to let him see your stomach jiggle.
âBucky, I canât, not this way. What about the other way?â You try to turn around, but his left hand grabs your waist while his right lands a harsh slap to your ass causing you to clench around him.Â
âAh, ah, ah, Daddy wants to see your face. You hear me?â Before you can complain again, Bucky thrusts his hips up, hard. You both moan, caught up in the sensation of his cock inside of you. Your hands fly to his chest, trying to balance yourself before you tumble off. Bucky doesnât let up, thrust after thrust, pounding into your pussy.
âOh, fuck! Daddy, right there, shit, please!â You donât know what youâre begging for, just that you donât want him to stop. The room is filled with the salacious sounds of your combined moans along with the clapclapclap of his thighs meeting your ass.
âSo fucking good, Love, you know that? This pussy was made for me. Fucking perfect. Look at this little belly jiggling while I fuck you, shit, gonna make me blow my fucking load early. Youâre. So. Fucking. Gorgeous.â Each word was punctuated by a vicious thrust. Ice pours down your spine, in the midst of pleasure you completely forgot why you didnât want to do this position. Heâs fucking staring right at your belly, hands gripping at your extra fat, just watching it ripple with each brutal thrust of his hips.
âBucky stop, donât look there, I donâtâŚâ The rest of your sentence gets cut off when Bucky somehow fucks you even harder, effectively making your tummy move more. Itâs too much: the feral look in his eyes, the perfect angle of his cock, and his beautiful moans. Despite your best efforts, you feel your orgasm building up. The little coil hidden under the small hump of your belly pulls tighter and tighter, and Bucky can feel it. He can feel your pussy pulsing around him so he moves his hands from your belly to your hips, grinding them against his coarse hairs with sharp thrust.
It pulls tighter and tighter until it snaps, dragging you under, blood roaring through your ears. You vaguely hear Buckyâs voice, âThere you go, give it to Daddy. So good for me, soaking my cock. God, I fucking love you.â Bucky stops moving, giving you time to come down from your high. Still gasping for air, you fall down onto his sweaty chest, basking in the afterglow of your orgasm. Youâre pulled out of your haze by Bucky. âThink you can give me one more? I think you can.â
He flips you over, back landing on the bed while he throws your legs over his shoulders, effectively causing your stomach to roll up, small pockets of fat pushing out. You whine, not wanting Bucky to see it, but he fucking loves this. Loves the bit of extra fat that has found its way under your chin, the soft flesh around your strong thighs, and the belly that fits perfectly in his hands. He loves it because it proves your healthy, that heâs feeding you well, well enough that you can train to your full potential, have the energy to do what you want to, not always be so tired you donât want to do the things you love to do, that you arenât afraid to eat what you want. Thatâs what he fucking loves, taking care of you and the way your body has changed has absolutely zero affect on his attraction to you. He will always think you are the most beautiful woman in the entire universe.
âLove, you donât understand how fucking sexy you are, do you? Look at how well we fit together.â He cups the back of your head, making you look at your stomach as he enters you again, making your belly bulge more. âDo you see this, Love? See how pretty you are, and it's all for me, isnât it?â The adoration in his eyes was almost too much, the swell in your chest threatening to burst as tears welled up in your eyes, feeling his love with every stroke. Bucky wasnât fucking you anymore, he was making love to you, showing you how much you mean to him.Â
Bucky takes one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together, placing your hand on your tummy, feeling the bulge of his cock underneath your softness. âDaddy, feels so good. Fuck. Love you so much.â Buckyâs hips stutter when you say you love him, it has always been his weakness, the utter devotion and vulnerability that you allow him to experience is something he will never take for granted. Tears were streaming down your face, eyes probably red and puffy. Leaning forward, Bucky places his forehead on yours, eyes locked into yours.
âI know, Love. Canât even begin to describe how much I love you.â Bucky can feel you getting closer again, pussy clenching around him, hands scrambling to grab onto something: his hair, back, hands, sheets, you canât decide, the pleasure coursing through you too much. âGive it to me Love, make your Daddy proud and cum on his cock. Know you want to, just let go.â With two more thrusts, your eyes roll back, another orgasm rolling through you. This one shorter than the last, but no less intense. Bucky finds his release right after, burrowing his face into your neck, holding you to him, wanting to be as close as possible.Â
It takes a few minutes, but the both of you calm down, hearts returning back to normal. Youâre the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. âYou knew I was gaining weight, didnât you?â With his softening cock still buried deep inside you, Bucky lifts his head up a small smirk adorning his face.Â
âOf course, but this little pudge,â he grabs your tummy and almost kneads it, âis because youâre healthy. You have so much more energy recently, and I fall deeper in love with you every single time I see how fucking happy you are now. You make me so proud to be able to call myself your boyfriend. You're so beautiful and I promise you that I will spend everyday for the rest of my life proving that to you.â
You donât have any words to respond, so you just wrap your arms around him, breathing in his scent. And of course Bucky keeps true to his promise, and you believe him when he tells you that you are the most beautiful woman because he proves it to you everyday, in and outside of the bedroom.
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x you#bucky x reader#bucky x female reader#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes smut#bucky x you#bucky imagine#bucky smut#sebastian stan x reader
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PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY
bestie!leon kennedy x reader
warnings: 18+, dubcon lol, mental health issues for both leon and reader⌠heâs a pervert and again ooc but thatâs the fun of things. dacryphillia and heâs a little mean and sleazy.
tumblr removes fics with nsfw tags from the tag. ergo iâve flagged the content at the beginning. youâre also responsible for your own media consumption, so if this bugs you, donât read it.
Leon sat there on the edge of the bed with you, rubbing your back as you hid your face in your hands. âI just feel like Iâm going in circles.â You tell him, lifting your head out of your hands to rest your chin on them. âI mean, I donât feel like Iâm ever gonna get better.â
He can sympathize, he really can, especially when he was in boot camp post Raccoon City and laid awake at night because he had nightmares otherwise.
He rubs your back in circles on autopilot, trying not to get bored or indulge in an impulsive thought that tells you to shut the fuck up and quit fucking crying, maybe open your blinds once or twice a day and you wouldnât feel so bad. Eat a fucking vegetable or two while youâre at it.
You, believing the best in him, donât really notice. âI justââ and your voice breaks, face warming all the way to your neck as you hide your face in your hands again and kick yourself internally for crying in front of him.
You hate crying in front of everyone, your face gets splotchy and you canât breathe through your nose. When itâs Leon, though, your best friend, itâs a little worse because youâd bet he looks cute when he cries, him and his stupid Botticelli angel face.
And, oh, thatâs not really the right move.
He doesnât remember when watching someone cry would be enough to get him off, except for an adult video he watched had a girl get fucked so good he could watch tears leak out of her eyes, openly sobbing when she squirted because that faceless phallus hit the right spot inside her.
Or when his ex-girlfriend was on her fourth orgasm of the night and she cried just a little while his face was between her legs.
He needed a stress reliever that day, it was a tough time; and heâs never really had to think while going down on someone.
Leon shifts a little and prays to a God he doesnât believe in that heâs not seriously getting bricked up by you crying. Nope, itâs not going down, shit, he hopes you donât notice.
You stifle sobs into your palms for a good thirty minutes, face and ears hot enough to power a fucking house. You take a break to wipe your eyes with your sleeve, sniffling wetly before you reach over to blow your nose. ââM sorry,â You tell him, voice wobbling before you blow your nose and toss the used tissue away.
âItâs fine.â Leon tells you, his voice just a little strained. He wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his lap and prays you donât notice that heâs bricked up just from you crying. God, Leon, thatâs so fucked up. At least those girlsânameless pornstar and ex-girlfriendâwere enjoying it, youâre crying because youâre sad and mentally ill.
Again, fucked up.
You cry a little harder when heâs being so kind to comfort you, hiding your face in his shoulder as you sniffle and keep the sobbing to a minimum. When your tears come to an end, thatâs when you notice that heâs fully hard beneath you. You lift your head up after a pause, wiping one eye as you look at Leon. âLeon⌠are youâŚ?â
He canât quite hide a grimace. âIâmâum, Iâm reallyâIâm notââ And when he catches sight of your red face and tear-streaked cheeks, he nearly groans, his throat suddenly dry. Thatâs when he flips you onto your back.
You land in the pillows with a soft grunt, giving him a bewildered look. âWhat are you doing?â You ask him in a little voice, sniffling and wiping your runny nose.
âDo you ever stop feeling sorry for yourself?â He asks you, one hand planting in the pillow beside your head, the other untucking his shirt.
Your stomach turns and he can visibly see his words hit the mark. âWhat?â You ask him, eyes close to brimming with tears again.
âJesus,â Leon swears, undoing his belt buckle one handed cause heâs had enough practice. âYou wanna know what I think? I think you like wallowing, I think you like having people consoling you.â His belt comes undone with a rattle, his button and fly next.
You stare at him with your mouth agape before a couple tears slip out. He takes the chance to push up your shirt and lets out a groan when he sees the cute black bra youâre wearing, hands wandering up to squeeze handfuls of your tits.
You yelp, back arching of your own accordâheâs glad that worked, you told him enough of what you liked when venting about your ex-boyfriends not being able to find the clit or eat pussy right.
Heâs never had that problem, obviously.
A slightly mean smile crawls across his face before he leans down to lick a tear track up. âPoor, unloved little thing.â He coos, sticking his hands down the front of your sweatpants to find you damp.
Leon rubs circles on your clit to see you grind your teeth and twitch, one of his hands still on your tit as you try not to react further. âYou just sit here in your depression cave and feel bad for yourself, huh? Do you even open up your curtains to get some sun? The sunâs real nice, a natural antidote to depression.â
Humiliation and an orgasm lick up your spine a few seconds after heâs done talking, body locking up as your hands fist in the sheets. He tuts at you and sticks his used finger in your mouth, kneeling between your spread legs as he pulls down your sweatpants with the other hand.
Aw, you left a cute little wet spot on your panties, just for him.
You lift up your hips when he tells you to, he throws the flimsy garments on the floor where they land with a soft slap. âCâmon, I know how make you feel better.â He tells you, one hand cupping your knee to put one over his shoulder as he finally pulls down his jeans and boxers to mid-thigh.
Leon sinks in with a stifled groan, then wraps your other leg around his waist, turning his head and kissing your knee once heâs balls-deep.
Your chest heaves and he kisses your collarboneâpoor thing, it must be a little much for you, heâs not even moving.
You scrabble at him when he finally does move, nails catching on his shirt before you manage to tug him closer. Each short, staccato thrust makes the bed rock and punches little squeaks from you.
Your doorâs open, but he doesnât feel like closing it, so he puts a hand over your mouth as he covers your body with his, hips grinding to hear you whimper against his palm. âI know, I know, baby.â he tells you, lips ghosting over your cheek before he licks up more salty tears that overflow. âIâve got you. Youâre all empty inside, Iâll fill you up.â
But not before you come, Leonâs a gentleman like that. He loops his arm beneath you and pulls you into his thrusts, you grow a little louder beneath his palm. He shifts so his pubic bone can grind a little harder against your clit and your thigh twitches before you sob against his palm, brows furrowing as you lurch up, more tears squeezing out.
He fucks you through it before pulling out and painting your tummy white, collapsing by your side and panting softly. You sniffle loudly and Leon feels a little bad, rolling over when you do and spooning you from behind, his release staining your sheets as you cry quietly.
He holds you through it, kissing your shoulder and the nape of your neck before hiding his face in your hair. âIâm sorry.â He mumbles after a long silence, âI was out of line.â
You shake your head and stay silent, wiping your eyes as you two cuddle in silence.
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takinâ whatâs not yours (ford x reader x stan)
chapter 1
tags: pre portal, hurt/comfort, angst, Stan & Ford needs a hug, reader too, emotional manipulation, everyone needs therapy but thatâs not happening, mystery trio dynamics if you squint, billford?? hmmm
author note: guys i swear this was supposed to be a shameless porn threesome fic, but then Ford and Stan showed up with a whole suitcase of unresolved issues im so sorry
âYouâre gonna change the world, Ford.â
âOnly if youâre there to see it.â
***
Backsmore University. What a fucking place.
It wasnât just the old brick buildings or the ivy creeping up the sides. Not really. It was the people. The crazy mix of the smartest, weirdest people you could imagine. You were one of them, no doubt. An absolute nerd with a lab coat on 90% of the time, a mess of papers and equations in your backpack and a head full of ideas and knowledge. But unlike Ford, you werenât shy about showing it. You thrived in it, honestly. Lectures? Boring as hell, but the energy in the halls? The potential of every single person you met? Yeah, you were there for it.
One of these was Ford Filbrick Pines.
The ultimate BMU enigma, the textbook definition of nerdy. For some reason, his persona always made you think he was hiding some secret genius-level insanity behind his weirdly serious face.Â
Youâd laugh about it with your friends, the way he avoided talking to anyone. Classic âgenius whoâs too good for peopleâ type.
He was everywhere, and yet, nowhere at all. Seriously, you could walk through the student lounge, see him hunched over a pile of research papers in the corner and just know you were witnessing something profound. He didnât get what you were about at first.
You were funny, obnoxious even, always the first to crack a joke or make a ridiculous observation in class. Meanwhile Ford would just stare at you with those big eyes like he was trying to figure out if you were some kind of social experiment.
But then you started talking, typical nerds topics. About quantum physics, mathematics, about the mysteries of the universe, about everything. Heâd scoff at how crazy your ideas were but then, just a second later, he'd be scribbling down some insane theory of his own that he wouldnât even tell anyone else about. And youâd get it. You both would sit in the library, trading theories and arguing about the tiniest details of space-time.
You were the loud one, in Fordâs opinion, the one who could hold a conversation about quantum theory and drag Ford to a campus party all in the same breath. Heâd grumble the whole way, saying it was a waste of time, rolling his eyes at your insistence that he needed a little break. Heâd follow you through those sticky, badly lit student lounges, watching you laugh with people heâd probably never even look at twice.
These late nights when youâd drag him out to stargaze, pointing out constellations, half-naming stars you didnât know, laughing when heâd shake his head, muttering about inaccurate astronomy. But he always went along with it, always ended up laying beside you on the grass, looking up at a sky he could never quite make sense of but was desperate to understand.
The graduation day. You clearly remember that one.
The sun was so bright you could barely keep your eyes open and everything felt like a dream. You had your cap crooked on your head (you were probably running late, as usual), your tassel swinging as you walked across the field, your friends beside you, shouting and celebrating like you were all in the fucking âafter party of the year.â But then you turned and your eyes saw Ford, who was clutching that damn diploma like it was a golden ticket. He looked different somehow, like heâd finally unlocked a new version of himself.Â
The Stanford Pines himself, recipient of Backsmoreâs largest grant for his âeccentricâ research, standing with his square academic cap, although it was comically slipping off his head. He looked out of place, like a scientist among a sea of partying students who could barely remember their names half the time.
So, you did what any good friend would doâ you adjusted his cap for him, (plus you wanted an excuse to touch him), made some dumb joke about how heâd better not screw it up. Heâd roll his eyes, but you knew he liked it. He needed it.
âHey,â you grinned, âlooking pretty fancy for someone who spends all their time talking to aliens or whatever.â
Ford smirked. âIâve already got a date with a space-time continuum. But you can join if you want.â
You rolled your eyes, but the smile didnât leave.
***
Outside, the world has turned into a kind of cold, quiet hell. Snow falls in thick slow flakes, burying everything in a suffocating blanket of white. And Stan stands there, jacket pulled tight against his chest, staring up at the looming silhouette of his brother's house.
It's freezing, but Stan hardly feels the cold. Not really.
Itâs quiet here, but itâs not peaceful. Silence feels heavy, like itâs watching him.
His thoughts are pulled back to a time that feels both recent and impossibly distant.
Ten years. Ten goddamn years. Itâs been a decade since he's seen Fordâs face. Well, of course he doesn't expect Ford to look like something completely different, theyâre twins after all. But at least now Stan knows what Ford would look like with a mullet.
Stanford was always the smart one, the golden kid, with big brains and hands that tinkered with mysteries beyond Stanâs understanding. And now. . . after all these years of silence, Ford finally decides he needs him. Itâs a postcard, a single damn postcard, that drags Stan out of the muck and dumps him back here in this town, holding secrets and god knows what kind of twisted shit his brotherâs got himself mixed up in.
After everything Ford did, after leaving, after barely even thinking to check in after all these years, Stan knows he shouldn't feel this way. But here he is. Waiting. Hoping. Hoping against hope, as if somehow, that tall figure would come striding down the snowy path, arms filled with books and that same serious look on his face. That same one he had as a kid when something big was on his mind.Â
Stan shakes his head, letting out a breath that forms a small cloud in the icy air.
âTen years, and you drag me here for what, Stanford?â he thinks.
Stan takes a deep breath, the cold seeps right down to his bones, but itâs not the winterâs chill that makes him shiver. His heart pounds as he stares at the weathered door in front of him, trying to shake off the surge of memories of the two of them, inseparable, back when they thought the world couldnât touch them. But that was more than a lifetime ago.
He mutters to himself, ���you havenât seen your brother in over ten years. Itâs okay. Heâs family. . . He wonât bite.â or at least Stan hopes so and then he knocks, half-heartedly, already bracing himself.
The door swings open with a sudden jolt. Before Stan can even greet him, Fordâs voice booms through the biting air. "WHO IS IT?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!â his trembling hands grip a crossbow, pointed directly at Stan, and the first thing Stan notices are his brotherâs eyes â wide and paranoid.
Stan looks at Ford, steps back a little, blinks, then blinks again. He tries to mask the pang of hurt as he lets out a shaky laugh, âWell, I can always count on you for a warm welcome.â
Ford lowers the weapon slightly, narrowing his eyes suspiciously and then, as if finally recognizing the person standing before him, he blurts, âStanley, did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?â
âEh, hello to you too, pal.â Stan grumbles, but to his surprise, Ford grabs him by the clothes, yanking him roughly inside before he can even process it. "Ah!" he exclaims, stumbling forward, before the door slams shut behind them.
Ford, still skittish, shines a flashlight in Stanâs eyes, his fingers trembling as he holds it, blinding his brother. âWhat is this?!â Stan shoves the flashlight away.
Deep down, though, he tries to mask the pang that Fordâs mistrust strikes in him. What happened between you two? Mom would be so upset about their relationship. They used to share everything, trust each other without question, without even a word. Now here they are, stumbling through a reunion that feels like walking on broken glass.
"Sorry,â Stanford answers quickly, studying Stanâs face as if looking for lies hidden in his eyes. âI just had to make sure you werenât. . . Itâs nothing. Come in, come in.â
Stan follows him, the warmth he thought heâd feel upon seeing his brother slowly cooling into something he doesnât want to admit that feels like disappointment. He watches Ford flit around the room, casting paranoid glances, clutching onto a battered old journal like itâs the only thing holding him together.
The shack is cluttered, papers scattered on the floor, strange devices cluttering the tables, books piled high. Wow, Stan thinks, the whole place screams my brother has been here alone too long.
It makes Stan's chest tighten.
âUh, you gonna explain whatâs going on here? youâre acting like mom after her tenth cup of coffee.â he is trying to defuse the atmosphere somehow, to make contact, but inside, his heart aches. He missed Ford; he missed him like hell. And to finally be here, standing right next to him, only to find him. . . like this. Seriously? Itâs almost too much to bear.
Ford, ignoring the gentle jab, clutches the journal tighter. âListen, there isnât much time. Iâve made huge mistakes and I donât know who I can trust anymore.â he doesnât meet Stanâs eyes as he glances at a skeleton in the corner, twisting its head away from him.
Stanâs heart drops. This is bad, worse than he thought.
He steps forward, placing a hand on Fordâs shoulder, a touch he hopes can somehow bridge the miles and years between them. âHey, easy there. Letâs talk this through, okay?â
But Ford pulls back, a strange, paranoid look in his eyes. His fingers trace the spine of the journal as he glances at Stan. âI have something to show you. Something you wonât believe.â
Stan's brow furrows, his curiosity piqued despite himself. What could it be? Some kind of super scientific bullshit that opens doors to parallel worlds? A time machine? A wormhole? Black hole made at home?
He looks at Ford, how the man hasnât aged a day physically, but the exhaustion, the fear, the isolation, it all is painted on his brotherâs face. Itâs painful to see. Itâs heartbreaking to think how Ford might have been living in this place, alone with nothing but his thoughts, trapped in his own world of mistakes and fears.
Stan manages a weak grin, masking his own fear for brothers sanity in his heart. "Look, Iâve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, Iâll understand."
That twist in your chest, that awful, prickling feeling that somethingâs wrong.
Youâre curled up at your kitchen table, sipping your tea with that kind of numbness you get when youâve been overthinking too much. You told yourself to back off. He needed space. He needed time.
But when Stanâs eyes scan the giant, hulking portal machine in front of him, he canât hide the bewilderment as he adds, âThereâs nothing about this I understand.â
Fordâs hand wrapped tight protective around his journal. Itâs the only one left, his last remaining key to understanding, to protecting everything heâs worked for.Â
But now Stan stands across from him and his face clearly shows something what can be called betrayal.
Fordâs been distant. Secretive, even. The last time you two spoke, it was tense, full of anger and words you didnât mean. It shouldnât matter, you tell yourself, but the thought of him out there, alone, is like a weight pressing down on your chest.
Ford tries to explain as if Stan would understand. âIt's a trans-universal gateway, a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe. But it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. That's why I shut it down and hid my journals, which explain how to operate it. There's only one journal left. . . and you are the only person I can trust to take it.â he steps forward, holding the journal out to Stan, eyes pleading. âI have something to ask of you: remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?â Stanâs face shines with smile until he hears next shit his brother say. âTake this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as ya can! To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!â
I shouldâve just stayed, I shouldnât have left.
Your fingers curl around the warm mug, but sadly the heat doing nothing to soothe the anxiety creeping up your throat.
You set it down on the counter, trying to shake off the feeling. Itâs just the storm, itâs just you being overdramatic. It doesnât mean anything.
But the knot in your stomach refuses to untangle.
Somethingâs wrong.
âThatâs it? You finally show your face after ten fucking years and all youâve got to say is âget awayâ?â
Ford's hand drops and disappointment flashes across his face. âStanley, you don't understand what I'm up against! What I've been through!â
âOh, yeah?â Stan can't contain his emotions. How dare he?! âYou donât understand what Iâve been through! Three different prisons, Stanford! Iâve chewed my way out of a goddamn car trunk! Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods! Selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only care about yourself!â
With a sigh, you stand up, setting the mug down on the table as your dog, a sweet, eager little spaniel, looks up at you with wide, curious eyes.
Ford's temper snaps because he can't believe what the fuck his brother is talking about. âIâm selfish? Iâm selfish, Stanley? You ruined my shot at a real life! At my dream school! And here I am, giving you a chance to do something meaningful and you still canât get it through your head!â
You glance over at your dog, a scruffy, affectionate spaniel with big brown eyes whoâs been staring at you from the corner of the room.
Stan raises his eyebrows. âYeah? You want this fucking book gone?â he yanks a lighter from his pocket, the flame flaring up as he flicks it. âFine. Iâll get rid of it right fucking now.â he holds the journal over the flame, daring Ford to make a move.
You canât shake this feeling, this urge to go find Ford, even if it means dragging yourself out into the goddamn blizzard.
âIâll be back soon, girl,â you murmur, pulling on your coat. You donât know what youâre looking for, donât even know what youâre hoping to find. But you have to see him. You have to know
Fordâs eyes widen, panic flashing across his face. âNo!â he lunges for it, reaching out, but Stan yanks it back. âYou donât understand!â Ford shouts, desperation pouring through him.
But Stan takes a step back, holding the journal dangerously close to the flame. âYou want me to take it? Well, then, Iâll decide what to do with it.â
âMy research!â they jerk the book back and forth, playing a fucked up game of tug of war, their yells echoing through the lab as they struggle over it.
You canât shake the feeling, itâs like somethingâs dragging you forward, pulling you toward him, toward the unknown.
Itâs late and the woods are fucking silent, which is weird for Gravity Falls. Youâve been running for what feels like hours, your chest burning, your mind tangled in a mess of thoughts you canât quite shake. Every goddamn thing with Ford lately has been a disaster, hasnât it? One fight after another, with him shutting down, disappearing into his head like heâs always been known to do.
The last words you shared with him are still fresh in your mind, âthis is it, okay?! I canât do this anymore.â he didnât even fight back, just. . . stared at you like you were the problem. Maybe you were the problem, you donât know, but damn it, you cared. You couldnât just pretend like everything was fine when it clearly wasnât. Thatâs why youâre out here, because youâre not about to let him get swallowed up by whatever the hell is going on in that messed-up head of his.
And now, here you are, halfway to his place with nothing but your gut telling you that whatever was going down at Fordâs place was way worse than you thought.
When you enter, you hear the kind of noiseâ angry, violent, something breaking and you know Fordâs involved, you just know it. You donât care if you two havenât spoken in days, if things between you and him are a mess of unsaid things and frustrated silences. Heâs been acting so off, and now, hearing the absolute mayhem erupting inside, youâre terrified.
The sounds are loud, shouting voices, furniture crashing, angry grunts. Your heart fucking stops as you push the door open so fast it slams against the wall. Youâre not thinking, not caring that maybe you shouldnât be here, but itâs too late to stop now.
At first, you think you've completely lost your mind, because you're seeing two Ford Pines. And then you think, either you're the one who's gone crazy, or Ford has, because he's literally fighting with himself.
But as you take a breath, both Fords turn to look at you, and thatâs when it hits you: this isnât just some bizarre mirror trick. Thereâs Ford and then thereâs someone who looks a whole lot like him, but is definitely, absolutely not him.
âWhat the fuck is going on?â your voice rings out much louder than you meant, but you donât care. Your heart is pounding way too hard and your feet are planted, legs shaking with adrenaline and worry. Youâve seen Ford in a mess of emotions, but never like this. Not this bad.
The second the door slams open, both of them freeze, but itâs the mulleted guy who speaks first. âSo you got yourself a chick now, huh? Thought you were too busy playing goddamn Einstein to bother with things like that.â his angry eyes narrow at you, and youâre not sure if itâs anger or. . . jealousy? Frustration? You donât have time to decode it.
This guy have absolutely the same features, same nose, same intense, serious brow, but his whole look is just rougher, like heâd been living a life Ford would never survive.
And your blood boils.
âNo, fuck that,â you snap, glaring at mullet-man. âYou donât talk about me like that.â then you glance at Ford. âFord, why the fuck didnât you tell me aboutââ
but you get interrupted by Fordâs clone, Fordâs twin, whatever. âNameâs Stan. Stanley Pines. The brother of this genius. Bet heâs never even mentioned me, huh?â
Your stomach churns at the words. Fuck that, no way. This isnât about you, this is about Ford.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you two?â now you are shivering not only from the winter cold, but also from the absolute chaos of what is happening. You turn to Ford, eyes desperate, desperate to know, to understand, to find answers. âWhatâs going on? Where have you been? I couldnât get ahold of you. You just. . . left. And Iââ you stop yourself, biting your lip. This isnât the time to scream at him for all the unanswered questions, for all the shit thatâs been left hanging. Not yet.
Ford doesnât seem to get it. His eyes flick between you and Stan like heâs trying to piece it together, but nothing adds up. "I donâtâ what are you doing here? Weâ we said goodbye," his voice is strained, like heâs trying to convince himself.
âNo, Ford. You said goodbye! You fucking disappeared! I donât even know why, and Iâ fuck, just explain yourself, okay?â you canât keep the desperation out of your voice anymore.
Stan is watching with his arms crossed over his chest, and he still doesn't look too pleased, but it's not just anger. Although you don't have time to deal with his point of view. You need answers. You need Ford to talk.
Ford opens his mouth to say something, but then the anger, the frustration, all of it just snaps. "I didnât want you involved in this. . .  anyone involved. This, this thing with the portal, you wouldnât understandâ"
You donât even let him finish. âStop. Just stop, yeah? You donât get to just disappear like that, Ford. I donât care about the journal or the goddamn portal anymore. I care about you. Why the hell are you so fucking determined to push everyone away?â
Ford tries to get himself together, though he looks like heâs been caught with every secret heâs ever buried. âThisâ this doesnât concern you, alright? Justâ just leave, go, this is between me and him.â
Stan scoffs. âOh, yeah, classy, Sixer. Letâs bring her in just to shove her right back out, huh? Really hitting your all-time high here.â
âShut up,â his brother snaps.
But Stanâs just as stubborn, glaring right back. âNo, I donât think I will. Not when youâve dragged some poor girl into this whole shitshow. Real nice, by the way, real nice! Does she even know what youâve been up to, huh? All the crap youâre into?â
âI said shut up, Stanley. I shouldnât have called youâ God, I regret calling you! Youâre just here to make things worse, like always.â
The words land harder than you thought they would. It's not like you didnât know Ford could be an asshole, but hearing him say that directly to his brother hits a nerve, like a punch to the gut.Â
You see Stanâs face change, his mouth drops open, his eyes so wide, like heâs been slapped across the face. He looks like heâs been gutted. It takes his breath away, because he didn't expect to hear this ten years later, and it's obvious that Ford's words hit him too deeply.
However, your own heart drop to your stomach too. Fuck. You didnât know what was worse â the fact that they were tearing into each other or the fact that Ford could say something like that to his own brother. Itâs too much, even for you. You want to scream at Ford, demand that he stop, that this isnât helping anyone, but youâre paralyzed.
But Stanâs hurt turns into something else and he spits back, âYou think I wanted this, Ford?! You think I wanted to be the fuck-up brother?! Youâre the one who dragged me into this whole goddamn mess now. You asked me to come! You! So donât go acting all high and mighty like Iâm the one screwing your life up right now!â
And then, in that moment, everything goes to hell.
Before you know it, theyâre back at each otherâs throats. Ford lunges forward, grabbing the journal, but Stanâs not letting go, the damn thing passed back and forth between them like itâs a live wire, all anger and resentment boiled down to this one book as each of them trying to get a hand on it.Â
You rush forward, hands outstretched to push them apart, anything to stop this from going too far, but in the heat of it all, Ford jerks back, elbow flying and you feel it land in your ribs, knocking the wind right out of you and it really fucking hurts. The pain shocks you so hard you gasp.
Fordâs eyes snap to you instantly, widening in horror. âOh my godâ Iâm s-so sorry! are you alriââ he reaches toward you, himself canât believe he just did that to you, but he barely gets a word out before Stanâs fist slams into his jaw.
This time, Stan hits so hard, putting all his resentment into the punch that Ford stumbles dangerously close to the portal, which is buzzing. You watch in absolute horror as his body goes too close, the fucking thing flickering and humming like a beast about to devour him whole and for a heart-stopping second, Ford looks like heâs going to fall right in.
Youâre out of your mind in an instant as you scramble to your feet, adrenaline spiking, crazy fear in your eyes. Without thinking, you reach out, grabbing Fordâs arm, pulling him back, using every ounce of strength you have to pull him back. âFord, no! Get back!â
Stanâs standing there, frozen for a second, scared himself by how far he had come. His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths and his face is fucking pale as he stares at his brotherâs body half in portal, but the guilt is written all over Stanâs face. His bruised hand is still raised, like he wants to hit Ford again, but itâs shaking. Did he. . . did he just. . ? God, he didnât meanâ
âYou!â you scream, still tugging Ford away from the edge, but the portalâs pulling like a magnet and youâre fighting with everything you have. âHelp me, now!â
Snapped out of his daze, Stanley rushes over, grabbing Ford. You tug harder, your muscles screaming as Fordâs body gives a last push toward the rift, but finally, finally, together, you both heave him back, dragging him away from the portal and out of that damn pull. His feet hit solid ground and you both just collapse.
Youâre gasping for breath, hands still fisted in Fordâs coat, both of you holding on like if you let go, heâll slip right back toward that nightmare.
Fordâs breathing heavily, disoriented, his hands gripping your arms in fear.Â
Stanâs still looking at Ford, his face torn up because he doesnât know whether to say sorry, to yell or to just walk the fuck out to not ruin something else. Thereâs realisation in his eyes and, for the first time, Stanley is seeing what his angerâs capable of. That punch couldâve been the end of everything.
âBrother. . .â Stanâs voice trembles. âI didnât mean toââ
You donât let him finish. âNo, you didnât mean to. None of you meant to,â you snap, but itâs not anger in your tone, itâs damn fear, panic, itâs this deep fucking worry. You turn to Ford. âBut this shit needs to stop, okay? Right now. Please.â
The silence between you, Ford and Stan stretches out as if itâs some aftermath of a bomb going off. Fordâs still on the floor, breathing hard and itâs not the near-death experience thatâs fucking him up, but the bitter realisation of what could have really happened if that damn portal had taken him in.
âSo thatâs it, huh? After ten goddamn years, this is how you treat me? Almost shove me into a portal like itâs nothing?â
Stan opens his mouth, but Ford isnât letting him get a word in, heâs too riled up now, all that anger and pride churning in him, boiling over. âDo you even understand what couldâve happened? What you almost did? You havenât changed one bit, Stanley. I shouldâve known better. Shouldâve known youâd just fuck everything up, again. Just like you did back then.â Fordâs voice sounds colder than the winter outside. âRemember the science fair, Stan? You destroyed my experiment because you were too fucking selfish to think about anyone but yourself. I couldâve had everything. You took that from me, my chance at West Coast Tech, my chance at anything and then you have the nerve to make me the villain?â
It hits Stan harder than any punch ever could. Stan doesnât even blink, his whole body stiff, shoulders slump.
His mouth opens like he wants to fight back, but thereâs no fight left in him, the words are stuck in his throat. He doesnât say shit, trying to process everything at once. But thereâs nothing to process. Fordâs right.
âYeah, I get it,â Stan mutters, holding back tears. âIâm a fucking failure. I know that, Sixer. Always have been. Iâm sorry.â
But then he does the one thing you didnât think he would. He turns around, slow, defeated, too fucking tired to argue and fight anymore.
And just like that, he starts walking away. But deep inside Stanley is crying like a child, expecting Ford to stop him. He doesnât look back, doesnât say a word, but he wishes Ford would care, at least once.Â
Youâre fucking shocked, feeling helpless rage and anger, heart pounding with confusion and disbelief. You thought. . . well, you donât even know what you thought! That theyâd hug it out? Have some big, tearful reunion? Not really! But this mess of accusations and bitterness and old scars is so fucked up. Completely and utterly fucked up.
Ford stands there, all silent, watching Stanâs back as he walks away, not moving an inch. The pride, the stubbornness, the wall heâs built around himself. Oh god, that guy is so fucking smart he doesnât know how to feel anymore.
You look back at Ford, at his rigid stance, he wonât even move, wonât even try to call Stan back. You canât believe it and something snaps in you, something fierce and hot because youâre done with all this bullshit.
âYouâre not even gonna ask him to stay? Fuck, what is wrong with you both?â
Fordâs face tightens, but he doesnât respond, doesnât even flinch. And it drives you insane, watching him cling to that pride, that goddamn logic of his thatâs somehow more important than his own damn family. No fucking way is this ending like this. Not after everything youâve just seen, not with Ford standing there like a goddamn statue, too proud or too blind or too stupid to do anything but let his brother walk out.
You storm past Ford, ignoring his surprised look as you push past him, practically running after Stan. âwait!â you shout. But Stan doesnât stop, doesnât even glance over his shoulder.
âStan!â
âWhat?â he snaps at you.
You step closer. âYouâre not leaving,â you say, staring him down like itâs a challenge.
He lets out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. âTrust me, sweetheart, itâs better if I do. I donât belong here.â he jerks his thumb back in Fordâs direction. âPretty clear Iâm not welcome.â
âBullshit,â you respond, what makes Stanley raise an eyebrow, looking a little surprised at your bluntness. âI donât care if heâs too proud to say it, but youâre his brotherâ I mean, you think this is how familyâs supposed to be? You think he doesnât want you here?â
âLook, kid, you donât know what youâre talkinâ about. Me ânâ Ford? Weâre a lost cause. Always been. Ainât no point in tryin' to fix it now.â
âOh, come on! So you fuck up, he fucks upâ youâre both disasters. That doesnât mean you just give up. I donât care if itâs been years or what the hell happened between you two. You donât just fuckinâ quit on family. Thatâs not how this works.â
Stanâs mouth twitches and he looks like heâs gonna bite back with something snarky, but he doesnât. He just lets out this tired sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. âI donât wanna hurt him more than I already have. I always mess things up. Iâll just make it worse. So whatâs the point?â
You take a deep breath, trying to rein in the frustration pounding through you. âThe point is, youâre his brother! And if you donât stay, if you donât try to work this out, youâll both regret it. You canât just leave him to deal with this shit alone.âÂ
Stanley opens his mouth, ready to throw out another excuse, but you cut him off.
âLook, Stan,â you change the intonation to softer one, âI donât know the whole story here. I donât know what went down between you two and Iâm sure as hell not saying it doesnât hurt like hell. But this whole thing you guys are doing? Pushing each other away? Itâs not gonna make anything better.â
âFine, fine. But donât expect me to be the hero, alright? I ainât got no magic words to fix this shit.â Stan sighs and looks down like heâs too damn tired for this conversation.
When you and Stan make your way back inside, you see Ford still there with his back to you.
Stanley huffs out a laugh, trying to shake off the tension. âSo, Sixer, whenâd ya start collectinâ all this junk? donât tell me you got a whole damn museum in here.â
Suddenly, Ford huffs a dry laugh that sounds a little bitter coming from someone like him. âWouldnât expect you to get it. Takes more than a few brain cells to appreciate real science.â
Stanâs smile falters, well, it was pretty rude, but he thinks he deserved it. You and Stan share a look, but before you can say anything, Stan just shrugs it off, letting out a forced chuckle, his voice trying to stay light. âHa, yeah, same olâ Ford. Ya always had a way with words, didnât ya?â
There is only silence in response, but when you come a little closer, you finally take in the sight of Ford holding a goddamn crossbow.
Wait, what?
Your eyes go wide and the first thing that hits you is the cold sweat creeping up your spine.
Stan and you freeze. Confusion mixing with a little fear as you both look at Ford, What the hell is going on with him? Since when does Ford carry a crossbow around like itâs no big deal?
Stan raises an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. âHey, bro, you planning on hunting something tonight or just ready to, I dunno, take out some deer in the backyard?â
#gravity falls x reader#x reader#gravity falls#gravity falls x you#gravity falls smut#ford pines x reader#stanford pines#ford pines smut#stan pines smut#stan pines x reader#stan pines x you#ford pines x you#stanford pines x you#stanford pines x reader#stanley pines x you#stanley pines#gravity falls fanfic#mullet stan x reader
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⎠silly love
๨ৠscaramouche x reader. fluff, gn!reader, scara's a tease here lol, modern!au â wc: 647
notes. scara fic for my bday :3
âso, what's going on between you and scaramouche recently? you guys seem to have gotten close all of a sudden.â one of your friends suddenly asks and you choked on the french fry you were eating, quickly drinking some water.
âwhat?â
âyou heard me.â your friend gives you a knowing smile. âwhatâs going on between you and scaramouche? last i heard, he hates talking with people and now heâs all sweet and cute with you.â
your face turns red. âi-i donât know what youâre talking about. besides, heâs opening up to more people! itâs not just me heâs talking with.â
your friend hums. âmm, then why is he walking this way with a scowl on his face?â
âwhat-?â you turned your head and they were right. scaramouche is indeed walking here with a scowl on his face. âscara? whatâs wrong-â
âi thought you promised we were going to eat lunch together.â scaramouche cuts you off swiftly, sitting down next to you and placing his tray on the table. your friends could only watch in amusement as you tried to find an excuse to calm scaramouche down.
âw-well, i couldnât find you when class ended! i didnât want to sit alone like a loser waiting for you to come.â you said with a nervous laugh at the end. âbesides, arenât you bored eating with me every single day?â
âwho said i would get bored of you?â scaramouche replies, grabbing a french fry and eats it. he looks at you with a confused look on his face. âwhy would i get bored of you?â
âyouâre saying that as if you have a crush on me.â you let out a laugh, doubling over, smacking your hand on the table as if you said the funniest thing in the world. when you donât hear a snarky remark from scaramouche, you stop laughing. your friends whispered to each other and quietly left the table, leaving you and scaramouche alone. âyou-â
âiâm going to need you to stop for one second because i just find it so incredibly rude that you think iâm not head over heels in love with your stupid, oblivious ass.â scaramouche glares at you, obviously upset. âare you a brick? because youâre dense as fuck.â
your mouth hangs open, still clearly shocked from the sudden confession. âyou- what?! when did you start having a crush on me?â
âdo i have to explain in detail why iâm in love with you?â he asks, pushing his tray forward. he places his elbow on the table, his hand supporting his head. âwell? are you just going to continue to gape at me or are you going to say anything else?â you instantly snap back into reality, clearing your throat.
âahem,â you fiddled with your thumbs, nervous. âi thought you were the type to not fall in love with anyone.â you avoided eye contact, looking at everything except scaramouche.
scaramouche raises his eyebrows, obviously amused by your nervousness. âwhat, am i not allowed to have feelings? am i just a puppet to you?â
âokay who said-â you lift your head only to bump your nose against scaramoucheâs. you stopped what you were saying, eyes meeting his. scaramoucheâs lips slowly turns into a smile and he eventually lets out a laugh, quickly snapping you back to reality. âstop distracting me!â
âwhat do you mean?â scaramouche asks in a teasing tone. âi have no idea what youâre talking about. me? distracting you? doesn't sound like me at all!â
âhaha fuck you.â you glared at scaramouche, picking up your tray, preparing to leave. âiâm leaving. have fun eating alone.â
âwha-â scaramouche quickly gets up, following you. âhey you havenât replied whether you like me back or not!â
you turned back, giving him a cheeky smile. âyou think?â you winked and turned your back to him, not giving scaramouche a chance to reply.
he scoffs. âthis brat.â
#kylin.writes#scaramouche#scaramouche x reader#scaramouche x you#scaramouche x y/n#scaramouche fluff#scaramouche genshin impact#genshin impact#genshin impact x y/n#genshin impact x you#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact scaramouche#genshin impact wanderer#genshin impact fluff#genshin#genshin x y/n#genshin x you#genshin x reader#genshin fluff#genshin scaramouche#genshin wanderer
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Sum of All 3
Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: mob!Steve Rogers
Part of the mob drabbles au
Summary:Â you are given an unexpected assignment.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Iâm happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging â¤ď¸
The hollowness remains. It feels like thereâs stones rattling around in your chest. You donât think you ever truly understood the word frazzled until that moment.Â
And each time you glance over and see Rogersâ bloody knuckles, it adds to the frenetic energy trapped inside you. Your mind flashes with the sight of him on top of that man, fists raining down, blood on the asphalt. Each time, a tide of dizziness threatens to sweep you away.Â
He finally pulls up to a grey brick building. You look at your watch. Itâs been barely half an hour since you left the firm but it feels like a lifetime.Â
He gets out without a word. You follow suit, or try to. You push the door open, only to be trapped by the seat belt still strapped across you. You grunt and unclick it. You grab your briefcase and lean heavily on the door as you set your feet on the ground.Â
You stand and teeter in your short heels. Where are you? Scratch that. You donât want to know. You know that itâs best to know nothing and not ask any questions.Â
âHurry up,â Rogers hand curls around the top of the car door. You step away and he swings it shut. He points tersely to the building, âin.âÂ
You obey, gripping tight the leather handles of your bag, and scurry ahead of him. You feel like a mouse with a cat slowly stalking you from behind.Â
There are two men standing outside the doors of the building. You look between them with wide eyes. They donât seem to see you but are quick to nod to the man at your tail.Â
âRogers,â one intones and gets as much answer as you have so far.Â
The blond henchman opens the door and you flit inside. This is like a cartoon. Itâs absurd. You donât know much about these type of people, you were never into those movies. Kind of boring in your opinion and besides, this is real life.Â
âHey, youâre going the wrong way,â Rogers calls as you turn left without thinking. âUp.âÂ
He points upstairs and you turn back and nod. You show your teeth and push your shoulders up, âsorry.âÂ
He waits and walks up at your side. Your eyes trail again to his hand. His long fingers twiddle in agitation. Would he do the same to you if you step out of line?Â
You trip over the top step and he catches your arm before you can topple. You suck in air, terrified, and right yourself.Â
âSorry, er, thanks,â you utter.Â
He lets you go with a sigh and points to his right. Youâre going to mess this up. God, why did Brenner send you? Youâre a new accountant, you arenât prepared for any of this. Well, they didnât exactly offer a class on the underworld, did they?Â
âYouâre breathing loudly,â Rogers says as he stops at a door.Â
You blanch and hold your breath. You look at him and blink. His brows arch.Â
âYou can breathe, just... quietly,â he shakes his head.Â
He taps on the left door in the double set before you. He drops his hand to the curled candle and pushes inward. You stare at his knuckles again. He nudges you ahead of him.Â
You walk into the room as you wring the handles of your briefcase. Thereâs a man inside. Is he the big bad? Then what does that make Rogers?Â
You look between them and sway. Your head is spinning. You havenât had breakfast yet.Â
âBuck,â Rogers says dully. Â
âThat them?â The man behind the desk asks. His dark hair is swept back as his thick beard defines his already square jaw. He wears a silver tie and a black suit. These men might be criminals but they dress well.Â
âShe can count,â Rogers says.Â
âGreat,â the other man replies flatly. âAnd she understands?â Â
âShe does.â Rogers assures.Â
Your eyes skitter back and forth. What are they talking about? What do you understand?
The man he calls Buck exhales. His eyes lower and you follow them. Once more youâre looking at the bloody knuckles.Â
âYou been scrapping?â The man behind the desk accuses.Â
âKeeping order,â Rogers crosses his arms.Â
The other man tuts and looks at you, âwhat did he do?âÂ
Your eyes round and your head swirls. You tilt your head one way then the other. You can feel Rogers watching you. You donât know much about being bad, youâre a good girl, but you know you donât snitch.Â
Again the scene plays like a reel in your head. That manâs face smeared across the pavement, the horrible sound of his ribs cracking against leather shoes.Â
âI... He did...â you wisp and lock your knees, âhe did what needs to be done. You know... he...âÂ
Your eyes roll back and you tip backwards. You donât feel the crash. You sink into the black cushion of your subconscious, content to escape into the void.Â
You wake in a leather chair. The two men stand before you, looking down at you as your head lolls. You grumble and flutter your lashes.Â
âShe okay?â The dark-haired man asks.Â
âShe does that,â Rogers puts his hands on his hips. âSheâs awake.âÂ
âI can see.â The other man sneers and reaches under his jacket. You follow his hand as he rests it on his holster. You gulp at the silver butt of the handgun there. âTime for the talk,â he reaches his other arm above you and leans in. âYou hear me?âÂ
You nod as you stare at the gun.Â
âLook at me,â the man demands. Rogers grunts, a warning. You look into the manâs bold blue eyes. âAnyone asks you anything about me, or him, or anything that happens inside these walls, you keep your mouth shut.âÂ
You slump as your head throbs. You feel the blackness creeping up. He snaps his fingers in front of your face.Â
âStay with me here,â he says. âLook, we arenât gonna hurt you. Not unless you give us a reason. So, you keep those lips zipped and do your work, youâre good as gold. You understand me?âÂ
You show your teeth and nod.Â
âAnd as long as youâre working for me, youâre under my protection. Got it? Rogers will take care of you.â He pushes himself straight and turns to face the other man, âget her some water before she passes out again.âÂ
#steve rogers#dark steve rogers#dark!steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#drabble#au#mob au#sum of all#marvel#mcu#captain america#avengers
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shield | nico hischier
summary: nico is very protective of his girl, so when someone hurts her, he takes it personally.
warnings: protective nico, physical harassment, swearing, slight violent themes
wc: 1.6k+
a/n: another 3am nico fic đş this oneâs a lil bit heavier than most of my nico fics, but donât worry! i have some new spicy things coming up!
the captainâs girl masterlist
The bar was jammed. Sweaty bodies pressed into every corner of the bricked building, the heat almost unbearable. A door in the back, propped open was your only solace, serving nicely with the winter air wafting in. Although, despite the sticky air and stench of beer, you couldnât be happier.
You stood by Nicoâs side, practically glued to him, not that he would complain. Nico loved the feeling of your body against his, it brought him comfort knowing you were safely tucked away from the world. He was over the moon, still riding the high of tonightâs win. It was a solid win too. Nico got out with a 3-point night, his ego soaring.
Now, you would never admit this sober, but you loved when he got cocky. The way his body demeanor would change and he would have a special swagger in his step. The sexy smirk that never seemed to leave his face every time his gleaming eyes would settle down to yours. It was almost embarrassing the grasp this man had on you, but you loved every second of it.Â
His dark shirt clung tightly to his sweaty body, the heat around you two making a visible impression.Â
You sat next to him at a table with some of the team, celebrating their win. Seeing the wide smile on Nicoâs face made you want to take everything bad in the world and toss it away. That way Nico could smile forever.Â
His arm rested on your thigh, corded with thick veins, squeezed slightly, just as reassurance. You squeezed his hand back.Â
âYou know, I still canât believe that Merc just left like that! I was in the middle of talking too. What an ass.â
You looked over to where Jackâs voice echoed. His annoyed face set on where Dawson was talking to some girl near the bar. You felt a chuckle rise in your throat, causing you to shove your face into Nicoâs arm in an attempt to smother it.Â
Nico looked down at you with amused eyes, âWhatâs so funny, schatzi?â
You let out a breath, shaking your head, âNothing much, Neeks. Just Jacky.âÂ
Nico glanced over his shoulder at Jack, who was still complaining to his, very bored, little brother. He nodded his head slowly in understanding. When he turned back to the table, he noticed your tired eyes.Â
âYou tired, pretty? Youâve been awfully quiet.âÂ
This was true, but only because you enjoyed watching Nico so much. To you, that was more entertaining than talking.Â
âYep, Iâm all good!â You gave him a big smile. Nico searched your eyes for any insincerity but failed to find any. Accepting your answer, he turned back to Holtz, engaging in a spirited conversation about certain plays during the game.Â
After half an hour or so, your drink had finally run out, your empty cup now urging to be filled. You nudged Nicoâs arm, gaining his attention.Â
âIâm gonna go get a refill,â You shook your empty cup, proving your point.Â
His brows furrowed, âWant me to come with you?â His eyes flickered to the large number of people, âItâs a bit crowded over by the bar.âÂ
You smiled at his concern, but denied his request, âNo thank you, baby. Iâll be fine.âÂ
He hesitantly agreed, placing a kiss on your temple and a quick, âBe careful,â as you left.Â
Shimmying your way through the dense population proved to be a lot harder than you originally anticipated, getting bumped back and forth violently. By the time you had reached the bar, you could have sworn you had whiplash.
Quickly flagging down a bartender, you ordered your drink and secured a spot to wait. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly feeling uncomfortable by the obvious male gazes from every direction. You could only hope that one didnât have the balls to approach you, but alas, luck wasnât on your side tonight.Â
A lean man, of about 5â8, approached you, clearly too inebriated to be thinking correctly. His scruff was patchy and gross, the tell-tail signs of a failed attempt at growing a beard. His red shirt loosely hung on his body, beer wetting the sides of it. At least, you hoped it was beer. He stumbled into the slot beside you, almost on top of you.Â
âHey, sexy. Whatâs your name?â His voice was grating, not a sultry tone to be heard. You found yourself repulsed by his presence, now desperately wishing Nico had come with you.
âNone of your business, but thanks for asking.â You gave him a snide smile, hoping he would take the very obvious hint that you werenât interested.Â
âWhoa, attitude, missy. I just asked your name.â
âAnd I donât care.â You rolled your eyes, the strange man not making an effort to leave.
âDamn, if youâre this feisty all the time, I know a much better way to put that mouth to use.â Â
Fear pitted deep in your stomach at the dark look on the manâs face. Needing toi escape, you tried to make a move to leave, but he blocked your way, now caging you to the bar top. Your breath picked up in a panic, frantically searching for someone to help. It was far too loud to call for anyone and everyone around you was already preoccupied with their own conversations.Â
Deciding to fight back, you lifted your arm to slap the man who was rapidly approaching you. His hand came up to grip your arm harshly, drawing a hiss from your lips as pain spiked through your wrist. Tears sprung in your eyes as you tried your hardest to free yourself from the manâs body. You felt helpless as your voice died in your throat, shutting your eyes tightly.
You prepared yourself for the worst until you felt the manâs weight abruptly leave. Your eyes shot open, seeing a blur of the man get thrown to the ground. The familiar figure of your boyfriend towered over the cowering stranger.Â
Nico reached down, gripping the manâs collar, dragging him to his feet, and slamming him against the nearest wall.Â
âWhat the fuck, do you think youâre doing?â Nicoâs eyes were ablaze with fury, a hard look resting on his once-happy face.Â
âI-I donât know man,â The stranger was gasping, obviously terrified of the much larger man holding him to the wall, âI was just trying to get some pussy, like every other guy in the bar.â His meek words only fueled Nicoâs anger.Â
âDonât you ever fucking touch my woman like that again. Donât ever touch any woman like that. Youâre a fucking pussy.â Nicoâs voice was laced with disgust as he spat at the man. Holtz and Jack rushed over, attempting to pull Nico away. He dropped the guy, worry for you now seeping into his clouded mind.Â
Nico was by your side within seconds, pulling your shaking form into his arms. He tucked you under his chin, tightly holding you, âItâs okay, schatzi,â He brought up a hand to cradle your head, âYouâre okay. Iâm here now, Nicoâs here.âÂ
You let out a slight sob, your arms recoiling into your body as you gingerly held your bruising wrist. Nico pulled away, eyes desperately raking your body to determine the cause of your pain. Once his eyes settled on your wrist, he held out his hand, silently asking to inspect the damage.
Nico felt a new wave of anger take over his body, now practically shaking as he tried his hardest to not go beat the shit out of the guy. The man had hurt you. Hurt his girl. If it were up to Nico, that guy wouldnât be breathing right now, but fortunately for the stranger, murder is illegal. Nico carefully guided your body to the exit, not bothering to bid goodbyes.Â
Only once the two of you hit the cold parking lot and the adrenaline started to wear off, did you fully begin to comprehend the severity of what had happened. A fresh batch of tears formed in your eyes, sobs rapidly pouring from your lips. Your body shook with the pure force of the cries that pierced their way through Nicoâs chest.
He immediately pulled you tightly into his body, making sure to be mindful of your wrist. Nico felt his own tears well up in his eyes at your pain. He hated that he couldnât help you, but he hated even more that he was in the building when it happened and didnât get to you soon enough.
âIâm so sorry, baby.â Nico sniffed, âItâs all my fault this happened.âÂ
You shook your head against his chest, slightly pulling away to look into his deeply saddened eyes, âNo, donât do that. Donât blame yourself for something you couldnât control.âÂ
âI knew I should have gone with you. If I was there then he wouldnât have hurt you.â He looked away biting his lip as he tried not to cry. His broken voice stabbed your heart. It was gut-wrenching to see Nico blame himself for what that man did.Â
âStop, Nico. It was not your fault,â You held his face gently, forcing him to meet your eyes, âPlease, stop blaming yourself. I chose to go by myself, thatâs not on you.â He opened his mouth to protest, but you were too quick, âDonât say anything else. Please, for me? Stop.âÂ
He nodded slowly as tears silently slid down his cheeks. Nico reached up, carefully cradling your wrist that was near his face, leaning to place a sweet kiss on the black and blue splotches.
 âLet me get you home, schatzi. Wanna take care of you.âÂ
#the captainâs girl au!#nico hischier#nico hischier x reader#nico hischier x y/n#nico hischier blurb#nico hischier smut#nico hischier imagine#njd#new jersey devils#jack hughes#luke hughes#dawson mercer#leawritesđ
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Jewelry that they'd gift you 95's ver.
Warnings: Mentions of body piercings, Slightly Suggestive (?) || 95s || 96s || 97s || Maknae Line ||
SCOUPS ⥠Okay, my first thought is super boring...it's either a necklace or bracelet with a little cherry charm! ⥠Still extremely cute though~ ⥠This is deffo the gift he'd get you a couple months into the relationship, something expensive that you can brag about to your friend (trust he wants you to show it off) ⥠Later down the road though (once he knows this is serious) he would gift you a promise ring ⥠On the inner band he'd engrave your initials or small symbols you correlate with each other ⥠And he'd get a matching one! ⥠The outside would be pretty plain though - for privacy reasons (Lore drop: I got piercings so lemme indulge in my lil fantasy real quick hehehe)
⥠HE'D GET YOU A BELLY RING WITH EITHER A CHERRY OR HEART ON IT!!! HERE YE HERE YE! ⥠I just know this man drools at the thought of a belly piercing on his partner and them wearing something that represents him?!?!?! Bricked up.
YOU CAN'T TELL ME I'M WRONG! CAN YOU SEE THE VISION?
JEONGHAN ⥠This man likes understated pieces on himself ⥠So he LOVES understated pieces on you, especially "couple" related items! ⥠If you like to go all out and are flashy with your personal jewelry he doesn't mind but he likes the idea of all the relationship stuff being just for you and him âĄHE KNOWS he's got you wrapped around his finger (bc it's Jeonghan obvi) so he doesn't need to show off with anything fancy ⥠His opinion is, "Well who are they coming home to? That's right, me." ⥠He'd get you a simple bracelet or necklace, something that would go with every outfit ⥠Obsessed with the idea that he would get you an anklet though!! ⥠It's not visible every day but he knows it's there...whew~ (Lemme indulge in this crazy fantasy too) ⥠Permanent jewelry. ⥠Once he knows you're the one, he would gift you some permanent jewelry. ⥠It's essentially a simple chain, usually a bracelet or anklet, that is welded on and can't be taken off without tools ⥠Hehehe he's so crazy for this one ⥠Lowkey I think he would like this idea more than wedding rings for y'all
(I go feral for the idea of lowkey possessive Jeonghannie)
JOSHUA ⥠We all know it's true...bracelets. ⥠Adores seeing you in anything he buys really ⥠But bracelets take this man out! ⥠Especially if they're ones he designed or made ⥠Like the ones he showed off on live forever ago ⥠Totally the type of guy to get you a Pandora bracelet and get you new charms for birthdays or special occasions ⥠Overall I think customizable things that can grow with your relationship are very much Josh's vibe ⥠Because what's more sentimental than something that you create together? ⥠Plus. no one but you guys has to know the meaning and that's a point of pride for him ⥠Seeing you explain what they mean or even seeing you refuse to explain what they mean, just knowing that whatever he buys you is going to remind you of him makes his entire heart melt into a puddle ⥠I have a heavy fantasy about this man touring and picking up a charm every place he goes and gifting you a bracelet (or two) of all of them once he gets back or for your anniversary! ⥠Certified sweetheart, certified sentimental man (when it comes to you)
(Quick someone write a fic about him making a bracelet for his S/O!)
A/N: Teehee, just some headcanons to fill the space between things atm (I am very obsessed with all of these tho...like an unhealthy amount of imagining going on here) Hope y'all like it though! And have a great week lovelies! Please Reblog and Comment if you enjoyed ! (They act as power-ups for me)
Taglist (OPEN): @bemybabiibish @bath1lda
#juniperdugong#juniperdugong fic#seventeen fluff#svt fanfic#seventeen#svt#svt fluff#svt x reader#seventeen fic#svt fic#joshua fluff#svt scenarios#svt imagines#seventeen scenarios#seventeen imagines#seventeen x reader#seventeen smut#svt scoups#scoups x reader#scoups fluff#scoups#choi seungcheol#jeonghan#jeonghan imagines#jeonghan scenarios#jeonghan fanfic#jeonghan fluff#jeonghan x reader#joshua x reader#joshua
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has yet to pass â´ď¸ cs55
centre image by tony belobrajdic
genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension
word count: 12.5k
Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sportsâ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.
notes... internet translated spanish lol
auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write
Youâre half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.
At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.
The time on your Panthère tells you youâre curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as youâre about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didnât specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.
âMorning,â you offer once the doorâs been shut behind you.Â
âSorry for the wait,â he says politely. âWeâve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. Itâs all proper boring.â
You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.
âRight, so this is all related to GQ, actually. Theyâre doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. Youâre our best right now, reallyâyour article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, thereâs, ah⌠thereâs tennis, yeah, thereâs footie, obviously, andâunder usual circumstances, youâd get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.â
The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.
âRacing.â You repeat curtly.
âItâs gotten proper viral this year!â He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. âEvery teenage girlâs got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.â
âIâve got a tiny bit of a qualm about thââ
âSo itâs decided. GQâs going to pick out the driver for you, and youâll be introduced at a gala next week.â
âWaitââ you laugh uncomfortably. âIâm thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?â You clear your throat. âI mean, Iâm spinning the story.â
âI know,â he sighs. âBut this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Donât worry, thoughâa lot of the drivers will have great stories, Iâm sure. Youâve got Lewis, youâve got the Verstappen guy, youâve got the Rosberg fellowâŚâ
âRosberg retired in 2016.â
âOh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.â
â
The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. Itâs all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you thereâs more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person youâre familiar with in the world of racing.
âLewis,â you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), âkill me now.â
âOn the off chance youâre seriousâIâm actually willing to do so.â You slap his arm and he scowls.
âIâm supposed to meet the driver Iâm writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasnât texted me. Christ, I hope itâs you. At least I have yearsâ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.â
He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. âYou donât think itâsâŚ?â
âI think they keep track of those things,â he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. âConflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?â You nod. âSo itâs not impossible, I suppose.â
Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but itâs cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder.Â
âHi. Iâm Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,â says the man behind you with an excited smile. âWhy donât weâŚ?â
He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.
Heâs right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. âOkay. Youâre one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!â
âThey whââ
âRight, here we are. Meet your shadowâor, subjectâfor the next six-ish months.â He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, ââŚCarlos Sainz Jr.!â
Yeah. This is fucking rich.Â
Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.
âCarlos,â you say politely. âWhat a nice surprise.â
There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. Thereâs oh, what a surprise!, didnât expect to see you here, you look well. Itâs limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So youâre really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.
Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now youâre two professionals. Really. You really are professional.
âI refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,â you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. âTen metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and havenât seen in four years?! I had it all sussedâget assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.â
ââSheâs joking,â coughs Lewis.
âOh, but now? Now, itâs get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I donât want this. Iâd rather go back to writing normal articles.â You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.
âDonât.â Sebastianâs voice is gentle, but firm. âThis is a test of character, donât you think? More than thatâitâs a test of how good you are as a writer.â
âTrue,â interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. âIf you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I meanâyouâre just proper talented. But itâs also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.â
âIâm perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,â you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about itâbut your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.
You end up deciding when youâre kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voiceââHowâs my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.â
âAbout thatâŚâ you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards youâve garnered in your professionâin fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the frontâs frosty surface.Â
Four years ago. And youâve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?
âEarth toâyeah, hello? About what?â Jonathanâs voice breaks you out of your thought train.
â⌠I just, uh,â you say, nodding, âI wanted to say Iâm really excited.â
âÂ
Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula Oneâs most talented drivers⌠(add more infoâŚ) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLEâAND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR
âThe team will be here in just a minute,â says the lady whoâd ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear sheâll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesnât seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. Youâre expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattiaâthe bossâand Charles, his teammate. Jonathanâs already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.
This meeting is pointless. Youâve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriendâs arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.
He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. Heâs pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.
âOver at GQ Sports, weâre really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.â
âThatâs no problem,â Mattia says. âAnything for the article.â
You end up being introduced to Charles, tooâCharles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and wonât stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but itâs still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. âHey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.â
You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlosâ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.
Of course, though, youâre stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. Youâd already known it was himâhe was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to youâbut itâs still a sour surprise.
âWhat?â
âLetâsââhe pauses to take a breathââtalk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that Iâm 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, Iâll be willing to give you that.â
âI donât care what youâre okay with,â you say blankly. âAnd Iâve got Google.â
âRight.â He stares. âUm. Okay, well, letâsâcan we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?â
You consider the truce. As much as youâd like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, youâre also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around hisâand yourâcolleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. âOkay.â
He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didnât even consider.
âForget anything ever happened,â he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.
Yeah, youâre fucked.
â
Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.
Despite Jonathanâs texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more driversâMick, Esteban, Alexâbut also Lando, one of Carlosâ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.
Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search forâ
âCarlos,â you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either heâs avoiding you or heâs truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.
âYes?â
âI need a couple of words from you.â You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. âLike, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?â
âI have a playlist,â he says, humming. âI like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.â He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. Youâve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. âAnd I say a prayer, trust the car.â
âTrust the car?â You type the last few words onto your laptop, which youâd been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. âAny follow-ups to that, considering thereâs been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?â
âI just do what I do best,â he replies, steadfast. âThe rest is a gamble Iâm willing to take.â
âPerfect.â You finish. âThat was a great line. Thanks so much, really.â Itâs your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. Itâs awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how youâre going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:
âGood luck, by the way.â Your voice falls soft.Â
He looks up, momentarily surprised. âThank you.â
You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.
Carlos ends up getting second placeâyouâre beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?
Much later, when youâre wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.
Youâre aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words youâll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.
â
Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.
You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was âin the motorhome,â then it was âin a meeting,â then it was âhanging out with Charlesâânone of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesnât question your presence (he hasnât much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.
âFavorite song?â You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.
âNot even a hello or a buenas noches,â he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. âWhatâs this for?â
âYou already know,â you say, humming as you sift through notes. âListen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?â
âWhat theâyou are a serious stalker.â He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.
âItâs kind of my job, Carlos,â you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. âJust answer.â
âSĂ, sĂ. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess⌠rock, indie, 80âs. Youâd be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.â
âTell me more,â you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead.Â
âMusic is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, Iâm good with it. It doesnât have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.â Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. âItâs just release. Lately, Iâve been listening to the same few ones on loop.â
âCare to share?â Music = release. Same songs looped.
He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. âThis.â
Baby Iâm Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what youâre writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. Youâve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now itâs on full blast. In Carlosâ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.
Back thenâwhen nobody knew much of this song and it hadnât yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.
But now itâs just a song.
âCarlos,â you say. Itâs supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But youâre so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. âCome on.â
âDo you remember when you first showed me this song?â He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.
âYeah,â you profess. âOn my iPhoneâwhat was it then? iPhone 5, or something.â You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesnât feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.
A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. Itâs the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, youâre already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.
The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.
Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. Heâs usually responsible, but if heâs cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You donât notice itâs there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.
Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself youâre capable of relaxing, butâand it feels like a heavy thing to admitâalso because you like the feeling.
So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like heâs trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast.Â
â
Youâd spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.
âPierre and Yuki have soooo done it,â whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.
âShut up!â You clap a hand over your mouth. âI mean, I had my suspicions. But really? Theyâve shagged?â
âOh.â He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. âI meant theyâve done marijuana.â
âDamn it, Charles,â bemoans Lando. âYouâre a sodding buzzkill. Weâve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex wouldâve been.â
The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports componentâCarlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope heâll be, and find him packing shit up inside.
âGood work out there,â you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.
He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The clothâs eaten it, a problem thatâs been plaguing his race suits as of lateâa problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if heâd just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem youâre familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.
You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. âIâm going to ask you about the race later.â
âAlright. What specifically?â He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance.Â
âWhatever you can give,â you reply, nonchalant. âMaybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of likeâyeah, youâre on the podium, but itâs not P1.â
âThanks for the reminder,â he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasnât fully undone the zipper yet. âUm, sure. Iâll meet you outside afterward.â
âThanks. Andââ You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. ââBe patient with the zip.â
He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. âRight. Bueno.â He turns and throws his hands up, looks like heâs surrendering almost. âHelp me out?â
Youâre incredulousâitâs a highly compromising position.
But heâs not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You donât notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.
Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how itâd feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.
âJust give me a second,â you say, but youâre not even paying attention to the zipper.
Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what ifâwhat if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?
âTake your time.â His voice is deep, gentle.Â
His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.
You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. âIâll be outside.â The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time.Â
â
âFine. Fifty euros.â
âFifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.âÂ
âIf youâre in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.âÂ
âDeal.â The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. âLetâs talk terms.â
Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. âShe and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.â
âTheyâre exes, innit?â Lando laughs. âYouâre wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes donât date.â
âUnless theyâre soulmates,â he reasons.
âPsh, what do you know about soulmates?â The younger raises a condescending brow. âYou dated a girl and then her best friend.â
âBack off,â insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, heâd said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. âWe shall see.â
âYou will definitely be paying me up,â Charles says proudly. âJust you wait.â
â
âCare to listen to me?â You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.
âAlways,â says Lewis, immediately facing you. Heâs always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. Heâs known you forever, and heâs the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.
You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. âCarlos and I⌠I donât know if this is going to work.â
âThe article?â
âBeing with him.â You pause to reword it. âAround him.â
âI see. Hasnât it been, whatâfour years now, though?â
âYeah, butâŚâ But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.
âLew, itâs justâand you should know thisâwhen you break up with someone, youâre forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.â You sigh. âAll the⌠just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you canât, then fine, itâs still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I havenât forgotten anything, and now heâs back in my life.â
Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
âSo now I see him, and it feels like heâs likeââyou inhaleââthis sounds⌠bad, but like⌠Iâm⌠like heâs a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I donât know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile⌠but I know everything.â And what a heavy burden it is.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly.Â
âNo, donât be. Iâm pretty sure this is all one-sided.â You take a long sip. âThatâs the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.â
âJust think,â he muses out loud. âWhen this is all over and youâre accepting your Pulitzer, you wonât even be thinking of him one bit.â
âRight,â you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. Heâs the only thing on your mind. âRight.â
You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and lifeâs driving forces.
â
Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNFâracing vernacular for âDid Not Finish,â a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.
A double kill vibrates through Carlos.
Itâs a consecutive hit thatâs both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile youâre busy writing. In Australia heâd been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. Heâd congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.
Tonight youâre in Imola. Heâd been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.
No hard feelings, heâd said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. Itâs a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.
âMaaate!â He cries gleefully when he sees you. âWhereâs the muppet?â
âMourning,â you drone. âReasonably so, I guess.â
âTough crowd,â he says, kissing his teeth. âBut, yeah. Heyâshots on me!â
âTempting offer.â You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. âBut I think Iâll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.â
âAll good. Have fun being a loser,â he says, watching you leave. Â
The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.
You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you donât need one just yetâthey usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.
In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainzâs favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.
Itâs a surpriseâyou donât spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. Thereâs Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who youâd grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.
It couldâve been any of them, but itâs not. Itâs somebody else.
âIâm sorry.â His voice threatens to break. âI didnât know who else I could talk to.â
âCarlos?â You blink.Â
You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesnât pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.
Heâs quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. âSorry, again.â
âSâokay.â
You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. âWanna?â
âAwful habit.â But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. âI need this, though.â
âI donât do it regularly,â you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. âSome situations call for them.â
âThis definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?â You nod. âIâm sorry.â The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why.Â
Like itâs the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. âDonât beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.â
âI feel⌠complimented.â You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. âI meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.â
âDoes it?â Smoke again, another whiff of it.
âThey only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.â He lets the words fizzle. âBut here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.â
Itâs not the underdogs, you think. Itâs just because of you.Â
âMore like the shit drivers,â you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and itâs a dead issue.
Later, before he leaves, when the roomâs much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.
âThank you.â He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.
â
Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT
Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.
With two free days, youâd followed a small group of driversâCarlos includedâto soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmerâs market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and theyâd gone biking together.
This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.
âYouâre going to give me cholesterol problems,â you quip. âThis pasta is too good.â
âCacio e pepe.â He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.
âAny favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?â You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). âLike, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.â
âThis,â he says, pointing to the pan. âThis is fuel.â
âAmen.â Loves cacio e pepe.
âAnd itâs good with chicken.â He points to the oven, where heâs been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. âOh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.â
Cooks w/ music. âWhy do you need to mention that?â
âLadies love a chef,â he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. âAnd I love ladies.â
âOkay, slag.â
âFuck off!â He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, eitherâhe always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.
Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70âs disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.
Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. âLet me taste the chicken, by the way,â you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.
âOpen,â he says. âItâs hot.â
Itâs too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You donât even realize it until youâre chewing, and by then heâs back to dancing to the song thatâs now reaching its end. âIt, uh,â you stutter, a bit nervous, âitâs really good.â
âOf course, I cooked it,â he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.
Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.
â
Itâs much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.
You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.
Itâs a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations youâve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so thatâs that.
FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. Itâs crowded everywhere, and youâre pretty sure Lewis isnât here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.
Itâs Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. âAll alone?â
âUnfortunately,â you tease, turning to face him. âMan, I thought guys were confident in Florida.â
âCuidado,â he warns, smiling. âThis dress is pretty difficult to resist.â His tongueâs definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober?Â
âNobodyâs inviting me, so why donât you and I dance instead?â
He licks over his lipsâhe never seems to keep his tongue in his mouthâand winks, nodding.
And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.
His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.
His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you canât really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easyâ
And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. Youâd almost fucking kissed. However youâre going to tell this to Lewis, you donât even know.
And youâre not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.
â
Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.
You convince him to agree, even if he thinks heâs no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. Thereâs a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.
âHi. Is this for GQ?â You ask the photographer. âTest shots?â
âOh, hi.â He stands and shakes your hand. âIâm Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?â
âBueno,â Carlos says behind you with a smile.
You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shotâeven one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his teeâlooks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.
Itâs a bit awkward to admit you canât help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when heâs in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlosâ natural skill for modeling, the ordealâs over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.
âOh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&Bâs wedding anniversary in September.â Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.
âR&B. The⌠music genre?â You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.
âSilly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.â
âOh, I get it.â You smile. âWell, weâre sorry for keeping you.â
âYouââhe stops both you and Carlos, pacing in frontââyou two wouldnât⌠mind, would you?â
âMind⌠mind what, now?â Your eyes flit toward Carlosâ and you both laugh nervously.
âBeing my mannequins for the bridal shoot!â
Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and youâre against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky posesâa piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos canât stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look.Â
Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why donât you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?
You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. âCareful,â you whisper when heâs right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.
Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. Itâd been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now itâs different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking.Â
Itâs like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.
âI said we were good like a minute ago, guys,â he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.
â
Lewis advises you to avert your pent up âromanticâ tension to another boy. Itâs difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or youâve unfortunately ghosted them, so theyâre all out.
After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. Heâs British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, youâll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above itâa gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.
Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. âThis is so cool,â says James animatedly. âI feel like a regular Schumacher.â
You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. âIâm going to get something real quick, okay? Stay putâŚâ You point at a lone chair. âOver there.â
âAlright,â he says with a smile. âI canât roam arouâ?â
âNo!â You say, a tad too quickly. âI mean, sorry. Donât. Just. Iâll be back really quickly.â Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlosâ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.
âHi,â Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on Jamesâ timid figure. âYou are?â
âHer date,â James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. âJames. Huge fan of you. Of the team.â
âSure.â He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting Jamesâ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.
Itâs awkward, is what it isâawkward and stuffy and Carlos wonât look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. âYou, uh⌠how long have you guys beenâŚ?â He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.
âNotânot long, really.â James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. âA month?â
âA month?â Carlos repeats, arms crossed.
âWe havenât even, like, had seââ
âThatâsââ you cut in, sharp and apologetic, âwow, thatâs plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? Iâll have a beer.â
âItâs one-thirty,â he says.
âYeah,â you respond. âA beer.â
He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlosâ intense expression.
His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hairâbut he doesnât say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.
âAre you okay?â You ask, even if he knows you know whatâs up.
âTotally. Muy bien.â He shrugs, drinking water again. âShould I not be?â
âNever said that,â you say, raising both eyebrows.Â
âOkay. Well enjoy the beer.â
So heâs jealous. Fine, sue him. Heâs jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.
âYou look like youâve just seen a ghost, mate,â says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. âMaybe the ghost of James?â He flicks the guyâs forehead, laughing.
P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, âCongratulations, hombre!â in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.
â
âAlright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and weâre going to play some fun trivia games.â Charlesâ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.
You honestly donât know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewisâ gentle persuasion or your bossâ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness thatâs been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, orâand itâs probably thisâthe fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you âclearly have a thing with Sainz, and I donât wanna be a homewrecker.â Whatever it is, youâre apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment.Â
Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and youâve all been given a general guide to what the questions entailâmath, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall pointsâand no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.
Charles is a little shit, so heâs made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. Andâwho are you kidding, reallyâCarlos is also a little shit, so heâs game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.
âI got it,â you say snappily when he hasnât stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. âI got it.â
âOh, did you got it?â He asks sassily. âOkay. When did Ferraââ
âWeâre starting in three,â says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.
He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The videoâand the gameâstart off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly.Â
âStay calm and collected,â Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. âOur team motto.â He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing.Â
âI think itâs, ah, alwaysâalways cheat, mate,â Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger.Â
âYou are sooooâtch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,â retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like youâve been since the start of the video.
The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams donât lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?
What a relief, you think. Theyâve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.
Everyone stares. Then: âTeam Charles wins!â
âQue?!â Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.
âCarlos. What is eight squared?â
âEight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, andâitâs right here.â A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.
16
âEres un tonto,â you quip, remembering bits of teasing youâd used on him years before. âCarlos, itâs 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.â
âAy, putaââ He shuts his eyes and laughs. âLo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.â
Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.
Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. âSorry again. I forgot.â
âForgot?â Your brows furrow, confused. âWhat?â
âThat, you knowââhe points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holdsââitâs supposed to be 64.â
 âOh.â You laugh, a light sound. âWhaaat?! Itâs not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, donât worry about it. It was all fun.â
âWell, Iâm glad you had fun,â he says softly, smiling.
âYeah, me too,â you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you canâtâand refuse toâname.
â
You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. Youâre the one whoâd said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded youâd never been before.
Youâd read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But youâd never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.
âIâve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,â you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesnât tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.
âWell, youâre here now.â He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. âHow is it?â
âItâs as beautiful as I imagined it to be,â you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. ClichĂŠ as it is, you feel like youâve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like itâs going to evaporate into thin air.Â
Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. âI know.â
âOh, do you?â You laugh. âAre you in the business of admiring beautiful things?â You tease, looking up at the stars.
Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words youâve now forgotten, lost track of.
Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his. ââŚParis.â The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. âItâs always reminded me of you.â
 âNot Spain?â He asks, leveling your volume. Youâre closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing youâll decipher whatever he has to say.
You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. âI⌠love it so much, is why. Always have.â
Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they wouldâve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They wouldâve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Donât stray any further.
A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him.Â
You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.
The door shakes with several knocks, Landoâs voice seeping from the other side of it. âMate, weâre gonna be late for dinner!â He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.
Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. Youâre warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathanâs emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.
Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. âMate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and yâoh.â He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. âHey, dude. Youâre here?â
âYeah, to, uhâto get Carlos to OK some edits,â you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isnât too shaky. âI needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.â
âOh. Right, obviously.â His eyes narrow a little, but he doesnât relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. âWell, if youâre not busy, weâre having dinner?â
âIâm good,â you decline, a touch too quickly. âItâs getting late.â
âAlright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,â Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant theyâre going to, and how good it seems to be.
The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Landoâs words to come across as unfazed, even if youâre so totally not. Once youâre alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You donât know if itâs from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.
â
LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J
âHuh. Do you have any regrets?â You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. Youâre on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.
âEveryone does, no?â He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. âBut yes, I have some specific ones.â
âLike?â You ask weakly.
âI was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you couldâve done right, years too late. Thereâs a proverb I heard once that goesâcamarĂłn que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means toâto stay alert. Donât let things pass you by.â
âAnd do you think you followed that advice?â
His eyes meet yours. âDo you?â
â
Itâs quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.
He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom doorâs half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.
ââŚEstĂĄs bien?â
You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but itâs unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, âYeah, yeah.â
âIâm sorry,â he says honestly. âI didnât know the thing was earlier.â His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one youâd hoped he would watch you receive tonight.
âI said Iâm fine,â you say. âJustââyou sniffleââitâs fine, Carlos, just get out.â
Youâre standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows youâre incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. âLetâs have dinner tomorrow,â he suggests in a low voice. âOn me. Right? To celebrate.â
âLeave me alone, Carlos.â
âI wanted to go,â he insists. âI had a meeting that ended late, andââ
âIt doesnât fucking matter,â you assert, turning. Youâve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. âJust go.â
âI know how much this mattered to you.â
âAnd yet you didnât go.â You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. âCarlos, justâŚâ Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness.Â
âCut me some slack.â Carlos argues softly.
âNo, I just⌠I donât even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, itâs like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, IâI cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if Iâve gotten calls, promotions that you donât even ever⌠ever ask about, just everything. I donât think⌠I donât feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. Youâve never shown it, not lately especially.â
âYou shouldâve told me,â he says, hurt.
âThis kind of thing, itâŚâ you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. âIt doesnât need to be said.â
âLet me make it up to you.â He steps closer but youâre quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.
âNo,â you protest, âjust go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.â
âCariĂąoââ
âGo,â you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. âGo, Carlos.â
So he does.
He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc heâd bought you a few months prior, and the jacket youâd bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily.Â
He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.
And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he wouldâve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe heâd even let himself leave you so broken.
â
You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.
Heâs won two games in a row at this point, and youâre almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. Youâre a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.
Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deckâa plus four card. âOh, come on, Carlos,â you say, almost actually irritated.
âIâll kiss it better,â he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.
He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. âIâm sorry! I didnât know youâd be so upset about theââ
You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesnât matter to you.
What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.
So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldnât he have come back? More importantlyâwhy did he let you go so easily?
The truth is, youâve drowned yourself in work so long youâve forgotten what itâs like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then youâve yearned for nothing.
âThis isnât about the game, Carlos!â It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.
He stopsâstops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.
He stutters your name out in a feeble response. Itâs mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.
You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. âGood for you,â you say shakily, âyou canâyou can fool around, kiss me like itâs nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how weâve ended up here again, back, together.â You inhale, but itâs no use; youâre crying even as you speak. âAnd Iâll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But⌠Iâm soââ
The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. Youâd been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.
You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.
ââtired.â You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. âIâmâIâm tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I shouldâve trashed this the moment I learned Iâd be covering you. Because I knew then it wouldâve turned to shit, and I was right.â
He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. Heâd tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. CariĂąo. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.
You wipe a hand over your face. âLetâs just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This⌠this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.â
At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.
Itâs just as empty as youâd left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when heâd lay down his cards just minutes ago.
A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in timeâand you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like youâre drowning in them, dark and solemn.Â
âWait,â he says, and even with just one syllable heâs managed to stop your world from turning again. âYouâre right. Everything you said. When Iâm around you, I hurt. Iâm reminded of how awful I was then. Itâs painful to be together.â
Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.
âBut you didnât trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?â
Only you. Itâs only you.
âIâve missed you.â It rips through him. âI want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.â
âItâs useless,â you protest, tearily. âThis wonât work. Iâll get mad, youâll get fed up, Iâll get bored, youâll put work before us.â
âOkay.â He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. âIâll make it work.â
âCarlos,â you weep, âI donât know why you donât get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are⌠are good. So donât waste the moments like this. Letâs not waste the moments on this.â
âYouâre not a waste,â he saysâand you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.
A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. Youâve waited, yearned for so long, and finally youâre in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. Youâd do it again, but you donât have to.
You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. Iâm sorry, he says. Iâm sorry, I love you. Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry. Everything.
I love you, you say weakly. I love you, thatâs enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.
â
âYours really is the best selling one!â Nick pulls you in for a hug. âWe have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainzâs is selling like crazy. Your writing is justââ He kisses his fingers. âYou are amazing.â
âYou flatter me,â you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You donât need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.
The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, youâre not tacked onto Lewis, and youâre not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.
Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.
Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. âAha.What did I tell you, chat?â
âFive hundred euros,â moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. âYouâre an intuitive prick.â
âThose two are soulmates.â They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. âThe kind thatâll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.â
Lando shrugs. âHey, honestly, for once, Iâm glad I lost a bet.â
âI look great on the cover,â Carlos says, both of you staring at the screenâs display of it.Â
âShut up,â you smile, interlocking your fingers. âWell, my writing looks great inside.â
âReally does,â he says. âIâm so, so proud of you, cariĂąo.â
âProud of me?â You tease, staring up at him. âYou made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.â You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.
Carlos Sainzâon racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.
#f1#carlos sainz#carlos sainz drabble#carlos sainz smut#carlos sainz imagines#carlos sainz fanfic#f1 x reader#carlos sainz x reader
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Self-Conscious-Rhea Ripley X Gn!Reader
Summary: Reader gets uncomfortable in clothes while out on date with girlfriend Rhea Ripley, Rhea gives reader jacket
A/N: Happy pride month!đłď¸âđ Im actually on vaca rn (where I got the idea for this) so get ready for a couple more (long) fic drops this week.Â
Word Count: 1,192
2nd Person POV
With your girlfriend Rhea Ripley's wrestling career, she was constantly on the move. So, whenever she was home, you two always made the most of it.
And, to keep the relationship from getting boring or too repetitive, you tried to have as many date nights as you could.
You'd both dress up a little bit and then go out and have fun. Sometimes to a nearby theme park, the movies, coffee, bowling, zoos, or aquariums, you name it and it was at least on the list of date ideas if it hadn't already happened yet.
On this particular date night, the two of you had decided to go out and play minigolf before going to get ice cream. Since Rhea was currently out injured and you worked remotely, you had thought it was the perfect opportunity to take a cute little beach vacation for the week.
And while, yes, technically the whole week was one big date, having official little dates throughout the week intermitted between you just hanging out was really nice.
Finishing up getting dressed in the condo you'd rented, you did a quick turn in the mirror, looking at your new outfit from all angles. It was a pair of your favorite jean shorts and some plain black flip-flops paired with a new top you'd gotten from one of the beach stores.
It was a bit on the more revealing side, something you weren't quite as used to as your girlfriend who regularly went on live television in front of thousands wearing very little clothing.
Debating on whether or not to bring your trusty zip-up hoodie with you to wear should you get too cold or uncomfortable, you decided against it, feeling super hot and confident in your new outfit.
"Babe! Are you ready yet?" Rhea came bounding around the corner into your bedroom, swinging herself on the doorframe. "Ooh, babe you look good!"
She came up behind you and held your hips as she kissed your shoulder, looking at the way the two of you fit together in the mirror.
You smiled at her and pulled her arms around your hips to fully encircle you, holding on to them like a safety bar as you watched your movements in the mirror in front of you.
"Mmm." You hummed in agreement as you studied the two of you, "We look good, babe." You corrected.
"We do." She kissed your shoulder again before resting her chin on top of it. "You ready to go get your ass kicked?"
You feigned a large gasp as you turned around in her arms, gently pushing her away with one hand as the other went to your chest like you were clutching your pearls.
"My ass kicked? Oh, it is so on, Ripley." You taunted, inches from her face with a daring grin.
--------------
Once you had paid for your game and gotten your clubs and balls, you stood at the practice hole making small talk until the group in front of you had finished and you two were able to actually start playing.
Taking a look around at the other holes, you noticed an eye or two trained on you. You managed to look away without making any eye contact but the feeling of being watched was there.
Finally, the group in front had moved on and you and Rhea were able to start.
"Ladies first," She swung out her arm, showcasing you to the fake grass. You smiled at her and gave a mock bow as you walked up to the plate. You set the ball down, taking care as to where exactly you wanted it placed.
You made your calculations, pulled back, and swung hitting the ball just a tad too hard sending it flying down to the other side. You watched it bounce off the brick wall, rolling until it stopped about a foot away from the hole.
You groaned jokingly in annoyance as you stepped out of the way to make room for Rhea.
She made a show of walking up to what was essentially the pitcher, shaking out her legs and arms the same way she does before a match, getting ready for her first swing.
She pulled back, and she hit the ball. Unlike yours, hers wasn't hit hard enough and stopped about a foot away from the hole on the opposite side of where yours ended up.
Disappointedly, she shuffled her feet down to where her ball had landed as you laughed, making your way to where your own ball had landed.
"Shut up," She groaned, then motioned for you to go first.
You made it in two.
Rhea, however, made it in four.
Halfway through the game, you were almost tied, you were one point ahead. It was agreed that the overall loser would have to pay for the ice cream, and you did not want to pay.
You managed to not think about what you were wearing once so far, even though you had caught those same eyes from before on you once or twice more. That is until a large gust of wind came through and goosebumps danced along your skin. You could feel your nipples harden slightly but thought nothing of it until you caught another pair of wandering eyes on you, your shirt too tight to not see anything.
You lowered your eyes, embarrassment and anxiety clouding your mind and you went silent while Rhea excitedly told you about something or other. You wish you had brought your damn jacket. That way, you wouldn't be cold anymore or, super self-conscious.
It was while waiting for the next group to finish in front of you that Rhea noticed something was up.Â
"You've been quiet, babe. What's wrong?"
You tried to just brush it off, it wasn't serious, it was just you overthinking things again, like usual.
"Nothing, babe. I'm all good."
Rhea persisted, "No, I can tell when you're all good, and you're not. What's wrong, did something happen?"
Wanting the conversation to just be over at this point, you caved. "I'm just a little cold and uncomfortable in my new shirt, nothing to worry about."
Rhea frowned at this, taking obvious offense that this was "nothing to worry about" because you bet your ass she was going to worry about it.
Wordlessly, she shrugged off her own jacket and began swinging it around to lay it on your shoulders.
You stepped back, "No, no, no, Rhe. It's fine, keep your jacket. I'll get over it once the wind dies down."
At that very moment, the wind picked up even bigger than before, making Rhea's hair fly around your faces as your goosebumps increased tenfold.
She gave you that look like, "told you so" before continuing to put her jacket on you.
You blushed like it was the first date all over again as you slid your arms into the sleeves.
Rhea had a shit-eating grin on her face, looking super proud of herself as she looked you up and down wearing her jacket.
"You look good wearing my clothes. Should do that more often." She leaned forward and kissed your cheek before swaggering away to play the next hole, leaving you there a blushing mess.
Rhea wound up winning, but, being the best girlfriend ever she paid for your ice cream anyway. And, she let you keep the jacket. Just in case.
#rhea ripley#rhea ripley x reader#the judgement day#the judgment day#tjd x reader#the judgement day x reader#the judgment day wwe#wwe#wwe raw#the judgment day x reader#rhea ripley imagine#rhea ripley x gn!reader
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Dance with me?
Venture, aka Sloan Cameron x reader
You're at your friends wedding, and somehow meet the cutest damn person in the world.
Tags: fluff, strong language, slight sexual innuendo
Enjoy!!
[Note: I haven't written a fic in 192739 yrs, and my ass hasn't been to a wedding since I was 10 so forgive my ignorance abt how they go!!]
You weren't exactly a party person.
Parties are loud, crowded and really socially taxing. While yes, you'd attend parties here and there; mostly birthdays or accomplishments for friends and family. It still wasn't your favorite thing to do. You are actually pretty upfront with others about how little social interaction you can handle. That being said... fear of disappointing your friends usually got the better of you. They were fine, partying was fun.Â
Honestly, you'd be lying to everyone if you said you weren't thinking about your soft, cozy bed. Or how you were daydreaming about cuddling up to your pets and watching silly videos. Not even this beautiful wedding could curb your introvert nature.
It's evening now, the golden rays barely peeking over the horizon as it descends. A sweet, cool autumn breeze blows, ruffling your clothes and hair. A welcome comfort on this warm night.
The setting is truly beautiful. Soft, golden glowing lanterns are strung along the edges of the venue. Lush green plants in decorative pots line the edges. The pillars, stone and brick, are painted in the gentle glow of the lamps and lanterns. The style...is Greek? At least you think it's Greek. If someone told you otherwise, though, you'd take their word for it. Especially since half the people here are from the Wayfinder Society, all attending as friends of the groom. The wayfinders are sprinkled around the venue, chatting about and having a grand old time.
You? No such luck, you're only attending for your friend, who happens to be the other groom. While you know a handful of people, and did polite chit chat with them, you mostly stuck to yourself. Actually, that's a lie, you mostly stuck to the snack table. You're leaning by the side of it, plate in hand, trying just about anything there. I mean, what else are you supposed to do?Â
While eating a particularly good cube of cheese, you let your eyes wander the room. You see a group of people laughing, another group chattering amongst themselves, one enthusiastically waving their hands in the air, seemingly very passionate about the subject. You snort, amused. Drifting eyes finally move over to the husbands, who were talking to an older couple, a quick hug is given here and there.Â
Man. You were bored.
You weren't trying to be disrespectful here, you just didn't know anyone. Subconsciously, your leg starts bouncing, your thoughts dance to your fluffy, comfy bed. Reaching down for another snack on your plate, youâre disappointed to see they're all gone. Frowning a bit, you look over the table to see if there's anything else you'd like to try.
And boy, was there. The chocolate hair, the hazel skin, your eyes instantly locked onto the person plating their own food. They're dressed in a white button down, and black slacks, the sleeves of their dress shirt hugging them favorably. They even had a cute little yellow bowtie on. You couldn't tell their pronouns, so you figure you'd ask if you ever spoke. Which you weren't, you didn't want to intrude. They looked to be the same person absolutely raving earlier, you'd hate to keep them from it.
If they wanna speak to me, they will. You thought distantly, watching their hands as they pluck up a cupcake.Â
Workers' hands. You mused, they seemed rough, and strong. They must be one of those Wayfinders. Your eyes trail their fingers, the back of their hand, man...they have really nice hands. Unbeknownst to you, your staring hasn't gone unnoticed. Their hands stills, just before the confectionery hits the plate.Â
"Uhm... did you want this one?" They ask someone, curious, you look up to see who they're talking to. You finally get to see their face properly, and man they're gorgeous. Too bad you didn't have time to appreciate that fact, as your eyes instantly locked with theirs. You realize a little too late that you're the one they're talking to.
"Huh." Is all you manage to get out, unsure what the fuck to say to this stranger.
"The...cupcake?" They say, motioning it towards you. "Did you want it? You're staring at it like you want it." They say, clearly confused by the way you ogled their food.
"No- no I don't want it. I'm so sorry, ignore me." You cover your face and wave a hand in their direction, this is the worst thing you've ever done. Your face and ears burn in red hot embarrassment, you're just lucky they thought all you wanted was the damn cupcake.
They seem to find it a little funny now, how you're running away from the cupcake you were practically stalking as it left the platter. "Okayyyy, well then this is mine!" They joke, putting it onto their plate before strutting away, seemingly unperturbed by your god awful screw up.
God, you needed to sit down.Â
You're practically on fire, feeling like you're gonna break into a sweat. Shakily, you find a chair in a less populated area and take a seat. You bend over, putting your face in your hands and elbows on your knees, as if trying to hide yourself. While you know, reasonably, that this isn't the end of the world, you can't help but feel like it is. You got caught! Red handed!Â
Yes, they thought it was the cupcake, so maybe you weren't totally fucked. But also, you're totally fucked who are you kidding?!
You didn't exactly think you'd interact with them before, but it's awful your only interaction was weird and unseemly on your end. Groaning quietly, you remove one hand from your face to fan yourself, damn you feel stupid.Â
You fan open part of your outfit, hoping in vain to let more air in to cool yourself down. Freaking out like this isn't a good look. After a couple minutes, you start to feel a little better. The flush of your cheeks is fading, and you miraculously avoided breaking into an anxious sweat.Â
Sighing, you puff out your lips, you just sent texts to your closest friend about how massively you fumbled the bag. They laughed at you, while you scream-spammed the chat in horror. They did end up reassuring you that you were overreacting, that it was not in fact the end of the world. You thanked them before turning off your phone. You get up, dust yourself off a little before wandering back to the food table; finding yourself in front of the disposable drink cups, grabbing one. Gazing to the left, you find the water. You watch the water slowly drizzle into your cup, before downing the glass in a couple large gulps. Still thirsty, you fill it up again before returning to your seat.
Man, what a day, go to a beautiful wedding, see your friend get married, then fumble the biggest bag ever. You mentally kick yourself, even though on the outside, you look completely normal, sipping on your cup naturally.
Bouncing your foot a bit, you lean forward to scroll on your phone, hoping to find something interesting to pass the time and distract you. You're scrolling for about 5 minutes before someone sits next to you. Out of politeness you don't look, thinking it's another guest needing a seat.Â
"Soo, about that cupcake. I ate it, definitely. But I felt a little bad. Here." The person next to you says, snapping you out of your doom scrolling.Â
Why. Why why why. Is all you can think. They're fucking with you, haunting you. All over a cupcake. You look over and see they've got a small plate with another damn cupcake on it.
"Oh im- I'm not hungry anymore, thanks though." You try to nicely deflect, hoping they'll catch the hint and let you die in shame, alone.Â
"Hmm, okay!" They say, they turn to face forward, unwrapping it for themself. They take a bite and bounce one of their legs, and you wonder why they're torturing you. They hum to themself as they continue to eat.
God. Please just go away...
They put their plate down and dust their hands, somehow already finishing the sickeningly sweet treat. "So." They state, placing both hands on either side of their seat, leaning forward, looking towards you. "Whatcha doing over here all by yourself?" They ask curiously.
"Well uh-" You clear your throat, "My friendâs the groom, it's his wedding. But I don't really know anyone else but him." You shrug, trying to relax and ease into conversation with them.
"Yeah, know how that feels." They say, sympathetically. "Wellll." They draw out the word, as if to emphasize it. "I was thinkinâ you could come to our table! I hate seeing anyone left out." Their smile is reassuring, until they start smirking. "Even. If. They stare at other people's food."Â
Ok, you can't help it. You groan at their jab, while dragging a hand down your face. "Man, you will not drop that, huh?" You say, only a little less embarrassed this time.Â
"Nope!" They tease, clearly getting a kick outta this.Â
"You know what, I barely know you and you're already the worst." You joke, and your brain nearly breaks in two when they giggle at it. Their shoulders shake and they grin, still looking at you. You can't help but smile, even while trying really hard not to. They were stunning, cute and worst of all, infuriating.Â
"Sorry for staring earlier...I was trying to see... your cufflinks." You say, clearly lying. As if desperately attempting to get out of the cupcake joke jail.
"Hmmm." They hum, unbelieving, eyebrows raised and nodding. "Well, too bad I don't have those." They smile, raising a hand up to show off their sleeve.Â
You instantly cringe, caught once again. "Oh right." You mumble out, pursing your lips. Damn, you're fighting for your fucking life over here.
Your reaction makes them laugh. An honest to god laugh, and it's loud. They're finding WAY too much amusement in proving you wrong and you don't know why. Despite the embarrassment, you were now enjoying yourself. Talking to them, joking around, even if it's at your expense. Their laugh is almost contagious, and they've got the prettiest smile you've ever seen.Â
"So.. what's your name?" You ask, your left hand fiddling anxiously at your side. Their laugh simmers down, and they sigh like they just heard the funniest joke in the world.
They hold their hand out towards you, "Sloane, yours?" You grab their hand and shake it, their grip firm. Your brain almost short circuits, realizing how much larger their hand is to yours. You say your name, and they repeat it.Â
Â
"It's nice to meet you!" They say, shaking your hand once more before letting it go.
"Sloane is a really pretty name." You state, trying to make conversation. Totally, 100% not flirting with them, of course.
"Awe shucks, you think so? Well I like yours too." They shoot back, their cheerful glow never dropping. They look over, and you do the same. You see them eyeing the table they came from. It appears someone stole their seat.Â
"Oh, I'm sorry." You immediately apologize, feeling bad that their place was taken while talking to you. They shake their head and huff a little laugh, their curly hair bouncing.Â
"Why're you sorry? Don't be. Plus, it's no biggie." They say nonchalantly, genuinely unphased. They crack a smile and lean forward, as if they're sharing a secret. "Don't worry, I'll get back at them." They whisper, a mischievous gleam in their eyes.
You giggle, and pull back a little. "What're you gonna do huh?"
They pull an inquisitive face, staring up at the ceiling almost performatively. "I dunno! Maybe I'll put confetti in all of their tents!" They announce, toying with the idea. You couldn't tell if they're serious or not.Â
"You probably shouldn't do that." You jokingly warn, thinking abt how much of a pain confetti would be to get out of a tent. Much less the sleeping bags.Â
Sloane grins, shining that gorgeous smile again. They seem to be the happiest person in the world. "Well, that's what they get for kicking me out of my own seat!"
You shake your head and let out a small chuckle, "You really are something."
They push you by the shoulder a bit, "I'm a great something I'll have you know." They joke, before settling back in their seat.Â
Silence settles over the two of you for a bit, and it nearly becomes unbearable. That is until music begins to play. The lights towards the middle of the room light up, and the rest are dimmed to create a spotlight effect. The happy couple's chosen song is playing, and you watch as they approach the center of the room, beginning to dance. You smile, and awe at the sight. Seeing your friend so happy and glowing was truly a treat.
Sloane also watches, they love parties and weddings. Seeing two people so in love is one of life's many treasures. They look over towards you and see you recording your friends dance, they allow a small smile creep onto their face. They admire your side profile and the way your hair compliments you perfectly. You are eye-catching, and the way you practically folded over a cupcake earlier was hilarious. They love funny things, so they've GOT to get to know you. Exploring is one of their favorite things after all.Â
They settle back and turn their attention to the dance. Eventually the music begins to wind down, and one of the grooms leaves the dance floor. It's the parents' dance, they think. Now that it isn't your friend out there, you click off the record button and look over to Sloane.
"So, what brings you here?" You ask, making conversation with them. They turn their head to face you, their hands loosely clasped together on their lap.Â
"I'm from the wayfinders society! The other groom, Rey, is my good friend." They chirp, pointing at your friends now husband. "Yâknow, me and him got lost once in a cave! Scary stuff, didn't know if we'd make it out." They said dramatically, waggling their fingers in your direction.Â
"You serious??" You furrow your brow, and lean forward incredulously. Their warm dark eyes look back to their friend, and they nod. "Yeah, it was a couple years ago. We lost sight of our team, and couldn't find our way out. I ended up drilling us a new exit. Real risky doing that but we didn't have a choice." Sloane recounts, "Could've been worse!" They add, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
"That's crazy, I could never do anything like that." You tap your foot against the ground, even thinking about that type of stuff gets you wound up.
They turn back to you with a hum and smile, "Well, you never know until you try! Exploring is the best thing I've ever done for myself, I love it. Seeing what the world was like before us⌠finding the rocks and gems the earth has made. It's real worth it." Their passion is evident, every word they speak has them glowing. You admit it's rather charming, seeing them so in love with their work.Â
"Man, that's so cool." You state warmly. "You got a really cool job, Sloane. You got the job little kids dream of."Â
They smile genuinely, really happy with the thought. "Well my abuela always said to follow your dreams, so I did. What about you? What's your dream?" They gently nudge your shoe with theirs.
"Hmmm, well. I guess I'm still trying to figure that out." You hum, looking at the ground. Your interests aren't nearly as exciting as theirs. Working one dead end job to the next, just trying to make ends meet. "Thinking tattooing, honestly." You add, looking up at them.
Sloane gasps, eyes widening. "That's so awesome though! I love tattoos, I've got at least four or five." They pull down the collar of their button down to reveal more of the flames tattooed across their neck. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't already noticed it. Wanting to see how far down it goes.
Quickly, you bat those thoughts away. Sticking to complimenting the line work and blocking of their tattoo. You ask what others they've got, and they explain all the patchwork they've got done on their arms. Some historical, some cool, some just to have a piece of the places they've been. They even mention a larger one on their thigh, a dinosaur skull with flowers. You try not to sound too interested in seeing them while asking if they have pictures.Â
The conversation between you and Sloane runs smoothly, chattering about your lives and cracking jokes at one another's expense. The dancing at the party is now in full swing, guests of all types littering the dance floor. It's now completely dark outside, save for the lighting inside the venue. The lamps hanging from the ceiling are dimly glowing, the lanterns now back to their full glow. You even spot fireflies outside the venue, blinking on and off, flying into the wedding space and out. The place is truly beautiful.
The strumming of a bass fills the venue, an electronic guitar complimenting it perfectly. You recognize it instantly, as it's a song you've come to enjoy. Your new friend, Sloane, practically jumps out of their skin in excitement. They quickly whip their head to look at you while whisper shouting, "I love this song!!"
They bolt up, staring at the dance floor as both their feet hit the ground with a soft thud. They twirl their whole body around, looking at you with an outstretched hand, "Come dance with me??" They frantically blurt out.
You look dumbly at Sloane before slinking back into your chair a bit, cringing. "No no- I don't dance." While waving a hand in their direction dismissively. You're hesitant and it's obvious. The idea of getting in the middle of a bunch of people and dancing. God, not what you were made for.
You were telling the truth, you don't dance! Anyone seeing you attempt to dance may need an ambulance. Sloane slumps by your reaction, and pokes conversationally, "Aww câmonnn, pretty please? With cherries on top? One song?" They say, leaning backwards a bit on the heels of their feet while keeping their upper body forward. They begin pouting a lip out and sporting their best puppy dog eyes, hoping it'll help sway their case.Â
Nervously, you rub your pointer finger across your thumb. This is not what I signed up for, you think as your lips form a line, eyes locking with Sloanes, trying to will yourself into saying no.
Damn.
You can't. You can't say no! You know you'd kick yourself later if you left without dancing with them. They're everything you like in someone, striking, funny, passionate... You internally groan, searching their dark eyes for a way out. Sadly, there isn't one. Their eyes only plead and beg.
And well... who are you to deny them?
Breathing in a deep, deep sigh, you fold, "Okayy. Okay." You say, holding both hands up, signaling defeat.
Sloane is about to shout out a glorious, loud YES before you cut them off with a finger up. "But first, a shot of liquid courage." You say, pushing yourself up from your chair, walking towards the end of the food table. There lay countless plastic shot glasses full of vodka. You pluck one from the rim of the platter.
Sloane watches as you down the drink, admiring the way your throat moves to swallow. They snort when they see you pulling a face.
"C'mon- c'mon- the song is already going." They bounce, having to fight the urge to just drag you onto the dance floor themself. Shaking your head, you wipe away the grimace on your face and discard the tiny shot glass into the nearby garbage.
They grab your hand and pull you into the crowd, though they seem somewhat aware of your aversion to it. So they lead you towards a less populated end of the floor, despite this, nearly everyone at the wedding was dancing. So you were still around a decent amount of people. They smile wide, looking off into the gaggle of party goers. You find it ironic this is the song you're dancing to, the lyrics playing loudly.
We've got nowhere to go
We've got nothing to prove
Instead of dancing alone
I should be dancing with you
The lyrics are slightly erotic, even, but you don't have much time to ponder it when they turn back to face you. They release your hand, before snapping their fingers in tune with the beat and swaying their hips. You giggle, your cheeks and stomach buzzing from the alcohol. Unfortunately for Sloane, you do not know how to dance. Not well at least, they laugh, watching you sway awkwardly. "You don't dance do you?" They ask, almost having to shout to be heard over the clamor of people and music.
"No, not really!" You reply, before admitting, "I don't wanna look dumb!"Â
"Look dumb?! I'll show you dumb." They jest, backing up a bit to give themself some space. With their eyes locked onto yours, they bend their knees while bringing their right hand towards their head, palm open. They're walking towards you sideways, left hand swiping back and forth to their side and front. You about shit yourself, recoiling in shock and laughing. They continue though, bringing both hands up in fists towards their head, pumping them as they shake their hips, still approaching you.Â
"What are you doing!!" You shout, cracking up at their absurdity. They finally pivot fully towards you, bending forward and moving their hands in circles. They finish off their charade with a performative strut your way, palms open in a dramatic walk.Â
They laugh, grabbing one of your hands and pulling you further into the floor. "I'm dancing!! You should try it sometime!" They jive, sticking their tongue out. "I'm just saying, no one can look sillier than me!" You roll your eyes and shake your head. The smile never leaving your face.
They grab your other hand and start dancing for you, swaying you side to side. You can't help but giggle, letting them have their fun. You sway your hips and release their hands, moving yours back, snapping your fingers while doing circles and stepping side to side. Their grin widens and they yell, "Hell yeah! get it!!" Encouraging you.Â
Smiling big, you continue attempting to dance with them. Sloane closes their eyes and lets themself feel the music, they move their feet expertly, and their arm movements intentionally. Seeing this makes you realize they definitely know how to dance. Your eyes explore them, their body and the way they move. It feels dirty watching them like thisâŚBut they invited you to dance, you think maybe they want you to watch them. Enjoy them, drink them up.Â
It feels as though they've already wrapped you around their finger. You feel sadness bubble that the song is already ending. Luckily the next song that plays doesn't disappoint, more bass-y than the last. This one still just as popular as the day it released.Â
You let yourself loosen, swaying your full body in rhythm with the bass as the song goes on. Sloane is looking at you again, and you daringly strut around them, stepping in beat with the drums. Alcohol does wonders for self esteem. They wait for you to come back around before stepping close, pulling you in by the hand. You raise an eyebrow, checking them with a grin, before gleefully walking back, shuffling your feet in tune with the music then pulling them towards you. They follow excitedly, their foot work impressive as they step towards you. They raise your held hand up as they approach and you twirl around to face them once more. Confidence runs through you at this point, letting go of the hand above you. You bring your free hand up quickly, placing it on their chest before grabbing their opposite hand. They're grinning so hard, pulling back, until your arms are taunt. Then jerking you towards them, you turn so your back hits their chest. Sloane has one hand around your front, hugging you just beneath your chest. The other holding your hip, their head resting next to yours. You both just sway now, enjoying each other's company and the music. "This okay?" They ask in your ear, the tone in their voice dropping low.
"Huh?" You say loudly, turning to face them.Â
"I asked if this is okay!" They announced a little louder, and closer to your ear.
"Yeah!" You affirm happily, like this is the best day of your life.Â
Do I wanna know?
If these feelings flow both ways.
Sad to see you go.
Sorta hoping that you'd stay.
Baby we both know.
That the nights were mainly made for sayin' things.
That you can't say tomorrow day.
Dancing with them like this, swaying side to side feels almost romantic. And you're having a really hard time ignoring that fact. That coupled with your already burning attraction has you dizzy. You could stay here forever. Another song passes by, and you both continue dancing with one another. At one point, you fumble through a waltz before they twirl and dip you. Despite having the time of your life, exhaustion was quickly catching up. Feeling a bit hot, and tired, holding both their hands, you turn around.
Looking up at Sloane, you truly get to admire their beauty. They've got beautiful curls, swooping and gentle. Their hair is natural, soft looking, and when you danced you could even smell their shampoo. Their eyes are a deep brown, rich like the dirt they so love digging through. You finally notice their eyebrow piercing as well, and you bite your lip. It suits them. You think.Â
The longer you analyze their features, you wonder how the hell they're even real. How someone could look as perfect as them, be as charming as them. It nearly drives you mad. They smile a little, their eyes darting away. Their flushed cheeks grow a little redder at your prolonged staring. You smile a little, this is the first time you've seen them at least a little bashful. It's adorable.
The music is playing quietly now, seeing as most of the guests vacated the dance floor. Only a few stragglers are left, you included. So now you can properly talk to them.
"You know earlier... I wasn't exactly looking at the cupcakesâŚâ You purse your lips, and squint your eyes, as if to will yourself to get the words out.
âI was staring at you." You chew your lip, looking away shyly. This confession could make or break this⌠whatever this is. You certainly don't wanna break it. While nervous, you had a feeling they would respond positively.
Their eyes snap back towards you, and they let themself smile, raising an eyebrow. "Ohhh, I'm that pretty, huh?" They tease.
You sigh and roll your eyes, they really are such a bastard. "Yeah yeah, whatever." You mutter, playfully pushing their shoulder. Not risking stroking their ego any further.
"No no, tell me, was it the bowtie?" They snicker, pushing their chest out a bit to really show it off.Â
You shake your head, running your hands up from their own and readjusting their accessory. âYes, it was the bowtie, all I wanted was you, bowtie.â You whisper at their chest, pulling the sides of the bow.
âPsh,â They chuckle, âOkay for real! What was it, huh?â They say, flashing their signature grin while raising their eyebrows suggestively. Perhaps telling them was a bad idea, you purse your lips again, realizing they'll bother you forever until you tell them. It seems like they're DYING to know.
You hum, dropping your head onto their chest. With one hand still on their chest, you let your other trail down their arm before grasping theirs, bringing it up towards you. Flipping it palm up, you let your free hand lightly touch their palm. "Your hands, I like them. I was looking at them." Dragging your fingers along their palm, you feel every callous and rough patch of skin. You turn them over to admire their nail polish and knuckles. You even start to massage in-between their fingers, just soaking up the fact that you can touch them like this, and they're allowing you to.
They seem to be at a loss for words, and you figure that doesn't happen too often. Smiling, you walk your fingers up their arm and to their shoulder to rest it there, bringing your other arm up to mirror it. Their hands come up to your waist and bring you close. While enjoying the embrace, you weren't expecting them to shake you and hug you in tightly. They groan into your shoulder, as if frustrated. You puff out a laugh at their weirdness.Â
"Sorry- you're just so cute." They say, pulling back. "I just met you and you already got me in stitches." They admit, kicking the dirt by your feet. You figure instant attraction to a stranger is just as new to you as it is to them.
"Well..." You start, not even sure what to say. "We can⌠go back to my room? I'm staying at a hotel nearby. We can hang out, talk...see where it takes us?" Your voice raises at the end of your sentence, as if a little worried they'll say no. That's another lie, you were a LOT worried they'll say no, denying you any more of their time.
Your anxiety is evident as your eyes search their face for a clue, a glimmer of what they might say. Of what they could be thinking.Â
Sloane looks at you with tenderness. Such sweetness you could melt. They bring a hand up to cup the side of your face, rubbing their thumb across it. "I'd like that." They say, their voice seems to tighten as if they're both excited and nervous about the proposition.
Yeah, usually parties suck. But this one? This one was amazing.
#i proof read this like 2983 times and so did my bf and then also another friend so if theres a typo im sorry im stupid#venture x reader#sloane cameron#sloan cameron#overwatch#self insert#overwatch 2#venture overwatch#great googily moogily that thang is juicey#crazy i wrote a fanfiction#also the songs are out of control by she wants revenge and then do i wanna know by arctic monkeys
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The Girl Next Door - IX
A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics gif from pinterest, wick art from pinterest, prtty sure its AI, OPs unknown lemme kno
9. and be saved
You are left starstruck and gaping, slack-jawed and weak-kneed, when Constantine finally pulls back from the absolute claiming of your mouth, his dark gaze boring into you like he either wants to fuck you, or strangle you.Â
Maybe both, considering.Â
âAfter all this, thatâs what you think?â he snarls.Â
A low growl reminds you both of the danger not far enough away. âAnd why wouldnât she, after the way youâve treated her, you stupid boy?â snarls Wick, his accent thickening in his anger. âStop touching her.â
You jab a finger in the dhampirâs direction, putting yourself between them again. âThis doesnât mean you own me, buster, donât get comfortable.âÂ
The dhampir grumbles deep in his chest at this, glaring blue daggers at Constantine, but he stops his stalking advance. He seems to have enough self-control to weigh the consequences of breaking his promise not to hurt the man you obviously care about (for whatever reason he cannot understand), over the rewards of the deal you made. If he is patient, he will get what he wants. That should concern you, but at the moment you have one thing on your mind. You dare to turn back to your first beau, far from happy.Â
âAre you fucking kidding me?â you snap.Â
âI told you that I like you!âÂ
âAre we in third grade?â
âIt sure fucking feels like it!â he snarls, then starts coughing uncontrollably; horrible, racking hacks that convulse his whole body.Â
You see the flash of blood on his sleeve. He is literally coughing up his lungs, and your heart breaks all over again. You try to help brace him, and he tries to hold you away. Finally fed up with his nonsense, you use your superior strength to best him, supporting him while trying to send energy to him through the bond to soothe him.Â
Naturally, you find that goddammed brick wall erected between you again. You are so frustrated this time that you pound a metaphysical fist against it. At last it gives, and you push all that wonderful strength you went out in the first place to collect down the line to John. Life, for lack of a better word, and he closes his eyes as it washes through him, leaning on you heavily.Â
It almost feels too good, and his relief naturally mixes with his native suspicion. He realizes he doesnât actually remember what it feels like, to experience even the vaguest semblance of true health. Â Â
âShit,â he rasps, leaning against you, his face buried in your hair.Â
You know they say that still waters run deep, but you still donât understand the point of him hiding from you. Maybe there is no good reason, and maybe youâll never truly understand. Even with your arms full of Constantine, you remain painfully aware of the lurking dhampir watching you, too close for comfort.Â
What have you done?
When you draw back to look at John, the only word you can think to describe his expression is agony. In turn, you somehow feel relieved and wretched and angry, all at once.Â
âWhy didnât you tell me?â you whisper desperately. âWhy couldn't you just tell me?â
âI did,â he answers, and maybe he thinks that's true, but he'd practically spoken in code and it's not your fault that you didn't understand.Â
You should just tell him your side too, you reason. You've wasted so much time, and he's dying, and did you really hold back just because you were afraid he would laugh at you? You open your mouth, intending to get it out no matter what the cost, when Wick interrupts coldly, âThis is very touching. But I didnât come here to watch you two canoodle.âÂ
âI donât give a fuââÂ
You cut Constantine off before he can enrage the dhampir again. âHe came here to help us,â you insist. âCome upstairs.â
âThis asshole only knows how to help himself,â grouses the man in your arms, and you know he is glaring at Wick over your head. âI donât trust him.âÂ
âFine. Come talk to the vampire he brought us, then we can kick him out.âÂ
Wick snorts at that. âHe can try.â
âYou promised me,â you dare to remind the vampire hunter, even if there is a quaver in your voice.Â
âAs you promised me,â Wick counters right back, offering a mocking little bow with his hand over his heart and a heat in his eyes that involuntarily curls your toes.
Dear God. What have you gotten yourself into?
Constatineâs grip on your hip tightens to the point of bruising, had you still been human. You can hear him grinding his teeth, and you have to stop yourself from laughing or crying with exasperation. This man. Maybe you do have a screw loose. You should kick him in the balls for the way heâd treated you, but all you really want to do is wrap him up in your arms, and cloister yourselves away from the world for a very long time.Â
Unfortunately, time is not something you have right now.
â°â°â°
Does the Geneva Convention apply to vampires?Â
You're sure what Wick did to the vamp heâd captured is at least immoral, if not downright illegal. And yet, you know this sycophant of don Juanâs was no innocent. You find it hard to feel sorry for him.
It doesnât take much persuasion to get the injured vamp to spill the beans. Heâs already scared shitless of Wick, and adding Constantine only makes him talk faster in hope of some mercy. You doubt heâs going to get it, or maybe but only in the form of a quick death.Â
He tells you all that don Juan has had a bone to pick with the High Table for years. Squabbles over power, jurisdiction, and of course, money, resenting the steep tithe heâs had to pay as a matter of course. He formulated a plan to overthrow them, by somehow involving the Son of Satan to wipe the slate clean with a new reign of Hell on Earth. With the exception, of course, that Juan continues to rule in L.A.
Constantine keeps shaking his head in disbelief, now seated at the head of the kitchen table. Wick has taken the seat at the opposite end, and you lean with your arms crossed against the sink, lowkey ready to intervene if they go after each other again. Maybe youâre not the brightest crayon in the box, but you sense the peace between them is tenuous at best no matter what Wick promised you. Â
âItâs like going after a roach problem in your house with a nuclear bomb,â gripes Constantine. âWhat the fuck is he thinking?â
Wick shrugs. âI will kill him. You kill the demons. Problem solved.â
Constantine snorts at that. âYeah. Easy peasy.â
âIs it not?â
âIt never is with these assholes. When I deport them they return to their realm, but they donât die. They could just keep trying, unless we really figure out what they're up to.â
âHow do we do that?â
John lights a cigarette, ignoring you as you glare at him, the big idiot. He blows a cloud of smoke into the air, staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling like it holds the answer key.Â
âI gotta use the chair.â
âAt Midniteâs?âÂ
You have no idea what Johnâs talking about, but Wick seems to.Â
âYeah.âÂ
âCan you use it to find where Juanâs hiding? Heâs gone to ground like the rat he is. It would save me time.âÂ
âMaybe. ItâsâŚunpredictable.âÂ
âI might be able to find him,â you admit reluctantly, staring down at your bare feet.Â
Both pairs of dark eyes turn towards you. âHow?â they echo each other, almost eerily similar in that moment.Â
âThe last time you fed meâŚâ you say to John, your cheeks warming with the memory. âAfterwards, I kind ofâŚsurfed around the city, while you slept. In my head, I mean. But notâŚâÂ
Wick is impressed by this, an eyebrow lifting, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly. John, however, gives you a hard look. âYou justâŚwent frolicking around on the astral plane, huh? Do you know how dangerous that can be?â
You laugh, for once more amused than miffed by Johnâs irritation with you. It helps, that now youâre starting to suspect it comes from a place of caring, rather than contempt. Not that you can tell through the bond now. Heâs re-built his walls between you, twice as high and twice as thick as they were before. You know he has more experience with this psychic stuff than you do, but it seems unfair.Â
âWell, I did it, and I found Juan. He felt it too. He hit me with something. It woke you up.â
âYeah. I remember that.âÂ
You shrug. âI could probably do it again.â
John ashes his cigarette with a flick into an overflowing dish, staring at the reflection in the green glass. âIt took a little more than blood to invoke power like that.â Your ears feel like theyâre on fire, and how ridiculous is it, that even undead you still can blush?
You dare to meet his eyes, and find a matching warmth therein. Itâs his only tell.
âI can give you blood, malyshka,â offers Wick, breaking the heavy silence in the kitchen. âAnd whatever else you need.â You hate it, that just the thought makes a spear of warmth shoot straight to your loins.Â
Constantine narrows his eyes at the vampire hunter, pointing with the smoldering cigarette. âYou can keep your cursed blood to yourself, dhampir.â   Â
âI am not cursed.âÂ
âNo, but youâre a helluva traitor.âÂ
âPot, kettle, wizard boy. You think youâre the only one with a bone to pick with God?âÂ
âYeah, but you donât see me skipping off to work for the other side because of it.âÂ
âThe other side,â Wick scoffs. âTwo sides, same coin, Constantine.âÂ
John snorts in answer. âNot exactly.âÂ
âOh? Was it not God who gave you this gift you resent so? Was it not Godâs priests who fed my pregnant mother to a hungry vampire to create me, Godâs weapon against the darkness? My poor mother died in agony after my birth. The priests called her suffering Godâs will. Thatâs what they said when my Yelena and my little Irinushka died too. I finally told them all to go to Hell.â
âSo now you get your revenge on God by working for the Underworld?â
âI was made to kill vampires. So it is what I do.âÂ
Constantine barks with bitter laughter. âThis is what youâre getting with this guy, y/n. He doesn't kill vampires to help people. He does it to scare the other vamps into line, so they donât defy the High Table, and so the most powerful among them can go on exploiting human kind with ease. Trafficking, drugs, you name it, theyâve got their dirty fingers in it. When you said you would rob a drug cartel? Heâs the one they would send after you for it.âÂ
Itâs not like you thought Wick was a good man, but for some reason hearing all this hurts your heart. Shocked, you turn to Wick. âIs this true?â you ask hushedly.Â
He actually looks regretful, not meeting your eyes. âYes.â
âWhy?â
He shrugs. âI made a bargain, a long time ago. It is the only thing that matters to me now. I must honor it.â
Youâre not sure why hearing all this has made you feel sick. You donât really get stomach upset anymore, but you do not feel well.Â
âMilayaâŚâ says Wick pleadingly, willing you to look at him.Â
But you just shake your head, staring at the floor. Maybe deep down, there was a part of you that thought maybe, maybe, you wouldnât have to be so completely alone as the long years went by. But now you know this was a very stupid thought indeed.Â
âAsk me,â prompts Wick quietly. âAsk me what the bargain was for.âÂ
âShe doesnât care,â says Constantine, at the same time you ask:Â
âWhat was it for?âÂ
Ignoring John, his dark eyes bore into you. âI made a deal with a powerful witch of the High Table, that I would serve until the day I found my Yelena again. I was told that if I waited long enough, someday she would be reborn to me.â
You donât know why you feel dizzy in that moment, like the floor of the whole world has dropped out from under you. You close your eyes against it, screwing them shut tight as your fingersâclawsâdig into the countertop behind you.Â
This man has done terrible thingsâfor centuries, it sounds like. But he did them for love. Does that excuse them? No. Does it soften you to him? You hate to admit it, but the truth isâŚa little.Â
You entertain the possibility for a secondâyou only allow yourself a secondâthat maybe you are this woman the dhampir thinks you are. A reincarnated soul, searching for her long lost mate, like in the deliciously trashy romances you love to read. Shouldnât you have some sort of past life memories or dreams? Isnât that how it always goes in the stories?
You think about how youâve always felt adrift in this life. Not really interested or committed to anything. How itâs all always seemed kind of silly to you, meaningless even, and the only thing youâve ever been certain was truly important, was to be kind to others. Itâs ironic, maybe, that only after becoming a vampire that you truly gained a sense of purpose in your life, helping those who couldnât help themselves, and removing evil doers from the population at large.Â
You think about how you came to L.A. You practically moved here on a whim, because you were tired and off a bad breakup and you wanted to go somewhere exciting and new. Did fate guide that choice you made for yourself? Was it the unconscious searching for your soulâs true mate?Â
If thatâs true, then why didnât you go to New York instead?Â
You think about the day you moved into your apartment. Wrestling with your numerous boxes of stuff. Not much, really. Just what you fit into your compact hatchback car, which has since died an inglorious death on the 405. Some jerk had bumped into you on the stairs, nearly making you drop your heavy load of books, only to belatedly steady the box before it spilled, and maybe as an afterthought, you. You remember how youâd looked up, up, up because Jesus he was tall, to find the man now pulling on the addictive smoke that will prove to be his doom. Heâd looked down at you with bemused annoyance in those lovely dark eyes. Told you to âWatch it,â and went on his way down the stairs, two at a time on those long legs, clearly in a hurry.Â
Rushing off to save the world, or a little precious part of it, you know now.Â
You remember how youâd felt like youâd been hit with a frying pan, the first time you saw him. How your heart had seemed to stop then start again, racing doubletime. Â
If this was a movie, John Constantine would be your soulmate, the man you were meant to find, the one who fate seemed to be driving you towards. Because since the first time you set eyes on him, you havenât been able to look away. And if this was a movieâŚit would be a tragedy, because the man you love is dying, and there is no magic that can truly save him, only delay the inevitable.Â
You look between the two men seated at either head of the table. Both formidable, in their own ways, they could have been mistaken for brothers in their appearances. You wish you could deny that you felt a certain something for Wick too. It would be much simpler that way. You donât really like the idea that things are preordained. You want to believe that you have the power to make choices about life, be they good or bad. But there is something in this dilapidated kitchen, the warm night air whispering through the broken windows, that feels unmistakably like fate.Â
âI hope you find her someday,â you tell the dhampir, and you mean it, holding your hands wide in a gesture of peace. âBut I donât really think that Iâm the answer youâre looking for.âÂ
The too-long sleeve of your shirtâJohnâs shirtâflops as you gesture, and you roll up the sleeve again, feeling more than a little ridiculous despite the looks both men have been paying you. As you crease the fabric up your forearm Wick zeroes in on something peeking out of your sleeve.Â
âWhat is that?â he demands, with way more force than the situation demands.Â
You look at him quizzically. âA tattoo?âÂ
âLet me see.âÂ
Constantine frowns as he watches this exchange. You feel a little uneasy too, as you pull back the sleeve to reveal the black and white flowers emblazoned on your underarm. âItâs justâŚsomething I thought was pretty on the flash wall, when I turned 18.â It had called to you, for whatever reason, on that rebellious expedition with a friend who had also just crossed the threshold into adulthood. Luckily, you still liked it. Lord knows dumber late night decisions had been made in that tattoo parlor in your little town.Â
Wick, however, sits back in the chair, laughing to himself like you have told him an inside joke. âMargaritka. What do you call this flower in English?â
âDaisies?âÂ
Then you remember what heâd said, about the little white flower his late wife had loved to pick near their cabin.Â
Oh fuck.
#john constantine#constantine 2005#constantine x reader#constantine x you#john constantine x reader#john constantine x you#keanu reeves#keanuverse#keanuverse fic#constantine fic#constantine vampire au#the girl next door fic#john wick#don john#john wick x reader#john wick x you#don john x reader#don john x you#i feel like i should also add#brzrkr#bc Wick is turning into a B/Wick hybrid here đđ#even tho if he was full B everyone would just be dead#oops
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pure;citrus
c/w for this include: g!p, mommy kinks & bottom bada (youâre welcome) â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â a/n: this is my first y/n fic ever so be kind⌠this was very rushed and not my best, enjoy nonetheless.
SUMMARY? Bada is a dumb puppy.
âIâm going to fuck her.â your fingers bring a lonesome cigarette between your lips and you shove your hands in your pockets, searching sedately for a lighter. The air is muggy with the aftershocks of a thunderstorm. Brown pools of water have soaken into your soles and surely the back of your jacket is wet where you lean against the brick wall of your apartment building.
A rough hand comes to snatch the cigarette from between your lips, a scoff resounding between you and your best friend.
âSoobin-ah.â Your voice has an edge of warning, eyebrows trained high as you look down at her. She responds passively, a small smile on her face as she slips the cancerous stick into her back pocket. âEh? She wonât go for you. Too pure.â
âNobodyâs that pure.â You suggest.
Soobin rolls her eyes, rubbing a piece of her own hair dry of a stray droplet perched between her strands. âShe once had to be tutored on sex ed.â
You snort, trying to bite back a smile from bleeding into your features. âThe human body is complex.â Your stomach aches with a fiery want as you think about it.
The moment you had walked into your assigned dorm at the beginning of the semester, her big eyes framed by an obnoxious pair of glasses had entranced you. Itâs effortless, the way she looks down at you like you hold all the answers. Her naive approach at the world, the way she makes you feel needed. As if she wouldnât survive the semester without you as her roommate. It was addictive, a slow, drawn out drip of satisfaction you had been savoring daily. Yet it wasnât enough.
Nightly, you were plagued by these ideas, with a need to corrupt. An innate urge to push her against the wall and shove your hand in her pants, stroking her to completion. The way sheâd whine for you, oh.
Itâs no secret, Badaâs inexperience. She had admitted it to you herself one drunken night full of confessions. Tipsy on the first shot, she almost blacked out on the second.
Itâs almost obsessive how much you think about it; but itâs fascinating. Everything about Bada screams sex appeal, it flows off her in waves, its effect unkind to those of all genders. Imagine their shock when she turns them down not bluntly, but with a deep shade of red imprinting on her cheeks. A lack of eye contact.
You glance up at the entrance to your guysâ apartment. Something Soobin says is completely lost on you and she snaps in front of your face. âDonât be a creep.â Is what she offers before jutting her head towards where you had been looking, âEvery bone in my body doubts youâll be able to bed her. But if you do, I'll pay for your meals the rest of the semester.â
âConsider your kindness unwavering.â Youâre smug, your tongue running over the front of your teeth when Soobin rolls her eyes again, her tongue coming out to lick her middle finger as she holds it out at you before turning on her heel, beginning to walk away. âIâll text you.â Is what she offers as her farewell.
You watch her form disappear, smiling incredulously as you shake your head.
You pull your hands out of your pockets finally, turning towards the entrance of your apartment building and stepping inside. The sounds of your shoes squeaking on the linoleum is loud, almost ear grating. The wet of your jacket is fast drying and a nuisance. You canât wait to change your clothes.
âââââââââ
The sound of pots and pans clashing against each other makes your ears perk up, your eyes pulling away from the boring insistent text youâve been studying over the better half of an hour, the words have begun to blear into each other. You stare at the empty doorway, your door wide open to allow every noise in.
One more glance at the text and you decide, quickly that it can wait. You stand up, an eager bounce in your step as you pull the tank top youâve been lounging in slightly lower on your chest. The mission is clear, the want youâre experiencing now almost primal as you make your way towards the kitchen, hands behind your back to hide your less than innocent intentions.
âBada!â
She startles almost immediately, jumping slightly in her stature. âYou are so loud.â Her hand rubs over her heart dramatically as she takes in your form, assessing you like youâve prodded your way into her routine.
And to be completely fair, you have.
You cross the stretch of inches between the hallway and the kitchen then lean against the counter closest to you, looking down at Badaâs hands. Sheâs holding said pots she had been clanging earlier under running water from your shared faucet. Your eyes travel back up to her and sheâs still looking at you. âMaking something?â You ask, genuinely interested and she nods in return.
âA chef's day is never over.â
âYouâre a second year culinary student, Bada. Not Gordon.â She pushes your shoulder lightly, playfully and you snort, losing your balance in the movement and shifting onto your back leg. Her glasses slide down her nose and without a second thought you reach up, pushing them back onto her nose.
Her mouth clamps shut at that and she turns away slightly, busying herself with her prep work. âWant any of it?â She asks you, her voice light. You donât give an immediate response, taking advantage of her back being turned you slyly insert yourself behind her, wrapping your arms around her unexpecting frame. Thereâs a strain when you try to put your head on her shoulder and you have to stand on your tiptoes, âPromise to make it with love?â You turn towards the side of her face, watching as her cheeks heat up that prominent red they always do. She nods regardless, words caught in her throat and all you can do is giggle as you pull away, leaving her to focus.
Itâs hard, you come to realize quickly. Excruciating. Watching Bada every few minutes from your spot on your shared couch. The way her tongue presses against her bottom lip when sheâs focusing on somethingâthe way her eyebrows furrow with a craving for perfection. The little sighs that escape her when sheâs fucked up. All of it is turning you red.
Suddenly, your phone is all the more interesting, pulling you in as you swipe through various different applications as if youâre desperate for stimuli. Something that doesnât scream Bada at you. And despite your struggle at the beginning; it works.
By the time youâve become encapsulated in your algorithmic âFor Youâ page Bada has already finished. Sheâs pulling together the finishing touches, taking shaky glances at your position on the couch. Youâre halfway off of it, your hair falling down the arm of the couch as something on your phone steals all of your attention.
Bada smiles slightly to herself, finding your concentration cute. The ability to give something your utmost attention. Sheâs been the receiver of it once before and it warms you upâto be caught in your rays.
She turns her full focus now to two full plates, inspecting them to be to her liking. A stray dot of sauce stains the scene of one of the plates and she rips a paper towel off its roll, pressing her finger into one of the corners and swiping the sauce off. Satisfaction fills her and she brings out her phone, taking pictures of both plates from different playful angles.
Why not admire your own work?
Both plates now set on the table she turns back towards you, who hasnât moved yet despite the loud noises sheâs been making. Still completely entranced. âY/N.â She says it once, garnering no response. A huff from her before sheâs walking towards you on the couch, long fingers wrapping around your bare shoulder as she shakes you. âItâs done.â Is all she offers as you finally look up at her.
Shyness fills her effortlessly as you two make your way towards your small, shitty ikea table. âExplain it to me.â You say as you sit down in front of one of the plates, pulling it closer to you.
âSo..â her fingers dance around the back of the chair with a newfound nervousness. A gesture to the plate. âThe scallops are marinated in a kind of soy citrus mix and the soba noodles are seasoned with things like green onion, salt,â she points to the top of the dish, âAll of the extra shit is just presentation.â You nod approvingly, surveying your own plate which looks amazing if you were completely honest. You gesture to the seat in front of you, âSit, you did well.â
And Bada blushes at that, pulling her chair out and plopping down as she eyes you studying a healthy bite at the end of your utensils before putting it in your mouth. Her breath is held, tongue at the roof of her mouth as she waits for you to finish chewing.
You can feel her eyes on you, can tell her heart is pumping in her chest. Each bite you take her head moves forward slightly and you take it as an opportunity to mess with her. A groan slips out of you as you chew, tilting your head and scrunching your eyebrows together.
âWhat is it?â She asks suddenly, her eyes big as she peers over at you. âOr how is it?â You meet her gaze and swallow, leaning back in your seat. Her lip is pulled into her mouth by her teeth as she waits expectantly for an answer.
âItâs really fucking good, Bada.â Her face lights up almost instantaneously and you canât help but smile at that, the way her smile reaches her eyes. Youâre fucked.
Her reaction is immediate, digging into her own plate and nodding along with your sentiment. Itâs a comfortable silence that envelopes the both of you and you find yourself subconsciously leaning over, focused on the plate in front of you completely.
Youâre just about to speak up again when you glance up at her, expecting her to be just as enthralled in the dish as you had been but her eyes are already on you, not quite looking at you but slightly downward. She pulls her eyes away quickly, though, turning away as heat licks at her neck and you canât help but be confused. You look down expecting to see a mess on your shirt but all youâre met with is your own ever so slightly exposed chest.
Your first instinct is to laugh but you bite your lip instead, looking up at her, âLee Bada,â her body stiffens at your tone and she raises her eyebrows, eyes trained on the plate in front of her, âYes?â Her voice is shaky and that familiar red is overtaking her.
âAre you staring at my chest?â Bluntness had always gotten you far in life. In no situation has it failed you before.
Itâs silent for a moment, like Bada is taking in the question. âNoâŚ. I wasnât.â Yet her eyes are still completely trained in front of her, completely unmoving.
You sigh, tapping your finger on the table before standing up abruptly,
âIâm sor-â her voice cuts off when she notices you walking towards you, expecting a punch to the shoulder, a slap over the head, something.
Instead though, you stand behind her, hands sliding up from the back of her neck as you move her head up, forcing her to look at you. A whiny sigh slips from her lips almost immediately and it causes your mind to blank, suddenly the words forget you and your objective is unclear once more. âBada..â your voice trails off and she looks embarrassed, still trying to avoid eye contact.
âLook at me.â And she does, slowly finding your eyes with her own. âHave you ever done anything with anyone?â You ask suddenly, knowing the answer but still you canât help but hold your breath in anticipation. She shakes her head, swallowing hard and you nod, pushing a stray hair behind her ear, your eyes glancing down at her crotch.
It wasnât a secret, maybe it started out as one. You had walked into the bathroom without knocking one day and caught a glimpse of it once before. Bada hadnât talked to you for a week after that, never once meeting your eyes and it took a peace offering from your end to get her to start speaking to you again. As for you, it plagues your mind at the unholy hours of the night.
Your hand slides back behind her head, massaging the area there tenderly and her eyes flutter shut at that, mouth falling open in surprise. Eyes trained on her crotch you lean down, lips brushing against her ear as you whisper sweetly, âDo you want to?â
A whine slips out of her again, this one less breathy, more full and you feel heat surge through your stomach. You take a shaky breath and grab her arm, urging her to stand up to which she does, eagerly. Her eyes are avoiding contact with yours but sheâs leaning into you, waiting expectantly and that brings a smile to your face, pulling her closer so her heady scent fills all of your senses. âMy room?â You ask simply and she nods, pausing her movement before letting a âPlease.â Slip out, all quiet.
Thatâs all it takes for you to wrap your hand around her wrist and begin pulling her towards your room, her following so closely behind like a lust blind addict. Itâs cute.
Your mind is moving a million miles a minute, an endless stream of thoughts polluting it, none of them pure. The second you cross the threshold to your room you push her to the edge of your bed. âSit.â
And she does, obediently. Sheâs finally looking at you, more specifically up at you from this position and you have to bite your lip at the sight, big eyes so expectant, slightly watery.
You move to sit on top of her, one leg swinging over the side of her legs effortlessly and your hand comes under her chin to hold her in place. The feeling of your heart beating erratically in your chest and the growing pressure from where the two of you just barely touch is driving you insane; so you lean in. The kiss is light at first, just two lips touching each other yet surprisingly itâs her who deepens the kiss, her hands gripping at the back of your shirt desperately as she pulls your lip between her own, chasing your lips.
You exhale heavily, bringing your arms around her shoulders as you begin to move against her ever so slightly. And that drives her crazy. A gasp slips out of her and she struggles to keep her same pace against your lips, attention now completely on the way your hips are moving against her. You can feel her growing hard underneath you and suddenly itâs all thatâs on your mind.
âWhat do you want me to do?â You whisper against her lips, halting your movements while you try to gauge her reaction. She moves forward, chasing your lips again but you just pull back, expectant of her answer. âTouch me.â It comes out desperate and she sounds completely ruined. âPlease.â
And that stirs something in your gut, almost animalistic and primal. She barely has time to process anything before youâre pushing her back against the mattress, mouth now attacking her neck as your hands slide down to her sweats, pushing them down sloppily, âHelp me.â You say, breathing against her neck and she lifts her hips immediately, helping you pull them down further and leaving her to kick them off fully.
You sit up, sitting on her thighs and effectively locking her in place as you lick your hand flat. Sheâs gazing up at you expectantly and you smile down at her, taking her girth in your hand. Her face contorts immediately, just from your touch, eyes fluttering closed as she sighs.
âYouâre so big.â You note, mostly talking to yourself and she blushes a crimson. âYou know what to do with this thing, hm?â Youâre still looking at her as her eyes flutter open and your tone drips something teasing. She shakes her head slowly, clearly embarrassed and you squeeze her length harder between your hand. âDumb puppy.â And a moan preens out of her, loud and high pitched, her eyes rolling back.
Everything about how desperate she is, how sensitive has you clenching around nothing, your hand moving lazily around her cock as she whimpers with every stroke. Sheâs a mess, her lips bitten raw and her hips bucking as she chases the pleasure youâre giving her. Soft âpleaseâsâ are slipping out of her mouth and she sounds absolutely broken which only spurs you on even further.
You press your free hand onto her hip and hold her against the bed as you speed up your pace, your hand moving at an aggressive pace as you watch her choke up, her back arching off the bed while her hand flies down, trying to grasp at yours to which you swat away.
âTake it, it feels good right?â You squeeze harder, leaning forward while she nods pathetically, âSo good.â
âYeah? Puppy canât do anything right so you need me to help you. To feel good.â Everythingâs affecting her, sheâs so sensitive to the touch and the slide of your hand mixed with your spit is not helping at all. The stark difference of you being clothed while sheâs not is driving you mad.
âIâm gonnaâŚâ she cuts herself off and her eyes are welling up with tears, hips bucking trying to chase the pleasure even further as her orgasm approaches. Her mouth is dry as she leans her head back, trying to find purchase in the sheets between her fists.
All of a sudden it stops, your hand pulled away from her cock quickly, too quickly. She jerks with it, a tear sliding down her face as she looks up at you, cheeks red and eyes blown out. âPlease, please let me cum.â She whines, reaching for your hand in a pathetic attempt to bring it back to her. âPlease mommy, please.â And oh does that send electricity up your spine.
âSince youâre so good.â You whisper, not having it in your heart to tease her any longer. You wrap your hand back around her, squeezing lightly around her tip and watching the precum slide down before quickening your pace around her whole shaft. She whines, a series of âpleaseâsâ and âMommyâsâ falling out of her mouth.
âThank you mommy.â
âFuck.â
âI canâtâŚ. Please.â Her face is stained with her tears as she grips your wrist, her orgasm climbing up her throat threateningly.
She canât get any words out, them all turning into a mixture of half baked sentences and word vomit. One thing sticks out though, her insistence to call you mommy. You lean down, bringing your mouth down to her ear once more and biting at her earlobe gently before whispering one last time, âPuppy gonna cum?â
And she does, hard. Her back arches off the bed and her grip on your wrist tightens as she cums white hot down your hand, whining loud and pretty all for you, your name at the tip of her tongue as she does.
Her eyes flutter closed and sheâs breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly as she comes down from such an intense orgasm. She canât even think, can barely keep her eyes open and you examine her state, the pure mess youâve made out of her, the mess sheâs made out of your hand.
You smile a bit to yourself and bring your fingers to your lips, tasting her.
âI think Iâll keep you, Puppy.â
MY AO3 IS GOVENVAN GOODBYE!
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