#fic: by boring brick

[mechieonu]

i really love the idea of bonnie realizing he's under an afton takeover and asking monty to be the one to dismantle him

[mintedwitcher]

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

[avocado-writing]

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!)

“I spy with my little eye…”

“Wade, I swear to god…” Logan’s voice is a low rumble, a warning.

“Awww c’mon, peanut! What else do we have to do? Indulge me in my childlike whimsy.”

“Let me guess,” you say, shelling a pistachio before throwing it in the air to catch it on your waiting tongue, “you spy something beginning with R-D, which is the rising damp, which is the fourth goddamn time you spied it because there’s nothing else in this fucking place.”

Wade huffs and throws himself back in his chair. 

“Killjoy,” he mutters, and goes back to carving obscene doodles into the side table with baby knife. 

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 it’s been five of them, stacking on top of each other and getting claustrophobic-heavy, the three of you crowded into each other’s space and on the razor’s edge.

Something is going to break, and you’re worried it’ll be Wade’s nose under Logan’s 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. Couldn’t be anyone from the mansion, they’re 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.

It’s a stakeout. Which means sitting and waiting and holy fuck is it boring. 

You can tell something is going on in the alley across the street but you’ve 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 he’s involved, you’ll 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 they’re 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 isn’t easy to drift off when it feels like the mattresses are made of cinder blocks stuffed with broken glass. It isn’t that you’re unused to being in each others’ spaces - if you’re not at their apartment they’re 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, you’re stuck until you’re done with the job. You’re all tired, irritated, and desperate for entertainment. You’ve even considered chopping off your own hand to watch it grow back, just for something to do.

And the thing is that’s not the worst of it. Ever since the three of you returned from the Void there’s 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. 

Oh, right. You sort of really want to fuck them both.

You don’t go through something that traumatic and not have deep-rooted feelings which surpass normal boundaries. You fought for each others’ lives. You’re 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. You’ve seen both of them stare at you - and each other - when they think you’re not looking, so you’re sure this isn’t something that only you are harbouring. It’s a secret desire harboured by all three of you.

Like you said, something is gonna break. And in this shitty little surveillance room? It’s gonna break soon.

A movement outside. The three of you sit forward to take a look at the evening’s street view, only to fall back into your chairs as it turns out to be a false alarm. Just a pedestrian walking by. You’re going to go insane.

You drum your fingers on your thighs just to keep them busy, then turn to Logan. 

“You got a smoke?”

He cocks a brow at you.

“You want a cigar?”

“Nothing else to fucking do.”

“Whoa, hey!” says Wade, putting his hand on Logan’s arm as he roots around in his jacket pocket, “No no no, you quit last year! Don’t start up bad habits again unless I’m the one convincing you to, pookie.”

“Wade, c’mon. I’m gonna lose my mind if I don’t have something to do,” you groan. Plus, really, you’d 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.

“Well if you’re that desperate to use your mouth, I know what we could play to pass the time…”

You and Logan groan in unison, and he balls his fist in a way which suggests it’s not long until the claws come out. Wade holds up his hands to signify peace.

“Whoa, chill out, honeybadger. No need to get scratchy. You don’t have to join in if you don’t want to… but it’s more fun the more people there are.”

Accepting there’s 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.

“We could play blowjob roulette.”

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, “what?!”

“Well, oral roulette I guess, if we’re being PC about it.”

“Oh my god,” 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.

“It doesn’t 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 it’s fun to see how long everyone lasts.”

Your mouth is open, you’re sure of it. You’re 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 he’s serious.

Logan drinks. You stare. Wade rabbits on.

“I’m just saying we used to play it at Sister Margaret’s all the time, when we were waiting for new marks to come in and didn’t have anything better to do! It wasn’t gay or anything except for, you know, the rampant homoeroticism of slurping everyone’s gherkin.”

“Did you… did you ever have to do it?” you ask, morbid fascination taking over. He scoffs.

“Did I ever have to… pookie, I’ve taken more loads than my building’s washing machine. Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty fucking great at it.”

He’s staring at you with an intensity which makes you feel like you’re on fire, but from embarrassment or enthusiasm you’re not sure. 

“So?” he asks, quietly, putting a hand on your knee. Your body burns. You swallow. You look to Logan. 

He sighs. Finishes his beer, but in a way which suggests he’s giving in. You see the way Logan’s teeth touch his bottom lip. The start of a fricative. 

He’s going to say fine.

Movement out of the window. You bolt up, knocking Wade’s hand away. He deflates.

“Aww. But I really wanted to - ”

“No, guys - look!”

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.

“There’s our guy,” you say, “let’s go.”

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 Brügger & Thomet MP9s as the three of you come face-to-face with the door you’ve been monitoring all week.

“So are we going in sneaky style, or—”

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.

“Okiedokie, asked and answered I guess,” he sighs, grabbing his Desert Eagles from his holsters.

You both follow Logan who’s 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.

“Cover me!” you shout to Wade. He pulls his katana out of a guy’s head and throws you a bloodied thumbs-up.

“Got your back, pookie! Hate to see you leave, love to watch you spill entrails as you go!”

As if he was predicting your next action, you whip your knife out of your belt and stab it in an assailant’s 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.

“Shit!” you mutter as you’re 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. It’d be cute if you weren’t 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 you’re dragged to your feet. 

Of course, it goes unnoticed…but all three of you take in a deep breath.

“You okay, baby?” rasps Logan. 

“Yeah, I’m f— move!” 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. 

‘Baby’? Where did that come from?

Not that it isn’t nice, obviously, but… it’s 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 ‘low blow’ before which isn’t incorrect but honestly, there’s no time for fighting fair when it’s 3-versus-30. 

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 you’re worried might actually have dented one of your friend’s ribs. Wade uses the distraction to stab a katana into the guy’s 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 there’s 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 ‘peekaboo!’ as he pops up over the boss’s shoulder, pressing his pistol into the meat of his neck and firing. Blood sprays across the floor but somehow the guy doesn’t 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 boss’s skull with a dull thunk.

A line of blood dribbles out of his mouth. He starts to fall.

“Uh oh - call me Ke$ha, because I’m yelling timber!” Wade warns. With a snarl Logan rips his claws free from muscle, snatching you off of the boss’s 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. 

Suddenly, his hands clasp around your hips. Probably you move you off of him…

And then you’re on fire. 

Like gasoline has made a line from his touch to your cunt, everything in you is set ablaze. Your pussy clenches and you’ve never felt so empty before - or at least not so aware of it.

There is a cock-shaped hole and it’s begging to be filled.

You expect Logan to freak out, you’re freaking out - you never thought you had a murder kink but you guess you’re never too old to find out something new about yourself - but he doesn’t.

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 it’s 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. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” he breathes. Yeah. You want to, that’s 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.

“We should call in and let the others know we’re done,” he manages. You nod.

“Yeah. Can we… can we go back across the street? I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh, don’t you go Spider-Man Infinity War Part 1 on me,” Wade chuckles. You don’t have the energy to work out what he’s referencing, especially when a jolt goes through your body to your cunt when you feel his eyes meet yours. 

Damn. This is bad. 

“Yeah. Of course, honey,” 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. 

You didn’t 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 you’d 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.

“What’s happening?” 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.

“I’ve not felt like this since I first discovered how easy it was to masturbate to Good Housekeeping,” 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. It’s so sexy. You want to lick the muscles in his neck.

“It’s a pollen,” 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. “Only has a reaction in mutants. Charles said it was something about putting the id into overdrive, like a fuckin’ adrenaline shot to the libido.”

“It… it makes you aroused?” you manage, attempting not to rock your cunt into the palm of your hand. Logan grunts.

“Was trying to be more tactful, but yeah, honey. That’s the idea.”

Honey. The pet name once again goes down your spine.

“Fucking sorry,” says Wade, “someone was manufacturing this stuff as a drug for what? To make mutants too horny to fight?”

Logan shrugs, still not tearing his gaze from his empty bottle, as if to agree it’s his best guess. Wade’s head falls back against the sofa’s arm.

“I 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.”

Something about the way Logan talks sticks out to you, you circle back around to it. 

“Logan, you seem to know a lot about this stuff… have you encountered it before?”

Another beer grabbed and chugged down, the forward hunch in his shoulders physical evidence of his walls raising. 

“Once. Back in the day with the other X-Men.”

“How did you get through it? Does it go away?”

Logan doesn’t reply. Drinks.

The unspoken answer sinks in.

“Oh my god, you had to fuck it out, didn’t you?” gasps Wade. Logan doesn’t even growl. Jesus Christ he’s right. “Who was it? Storm? Beast? By the love of all things 100k+ enemies-to-lovers-slowburn, tell me it was Cyclops.”

Logan doesn’t dignify him with an answer, instead putting the empty bottle down with enough force you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter.

“It’ll pass. I just need to sit it out,” he reasons, the grit in his jaw suggesting this isn’t the optimal solution. You feel your eyebrows tug together, a crease of concern settling between them.

“But…”

“I’ll be fine.” The way he says it, he’s 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.

“So, uh,” he starts, shifting himself awkwardly where his hard-on is trapped in his suit, “you read any good books lately?”

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.

“Wade…”

As soon as you say his name he’s rushing over to you, helping you sit down on the ruined chair. You both moan as hot skin slides against hot skin. 

“Look, it isn’t…” you groan as you slide your hand up his bicep. Fuck, he’s strong. “...it isn’t a crazy idea to help each other out, right? We’re friends. It’s just two friends giving each other a hand…”

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.

“Just friends…” he mutters. You buck up into nothing. Oh, god. You’re going to die here. “Baby?”

Oh shit, oh fuck. You want him to call you that over and over again, stamp it into your fucking mind.

“Yeah?” you reply, the word ripped rawly from your throat.

“I wanted to do this before we even left this goddamn apartment, you think I might have changed my mind after the mutant viagra?”

He pulls back just enough for you to see the seriousness on his face. No, he’s not joking, not saying something dirty just because he thinks it’s funny. 

He’s saying it because it’s true, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying. 

“Can I?”

Oh, it’s 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.

“Wade?”

“Mmm?”

“Ask me properly.”

His breath hitches in his throat, and you’re pretty sure he’s making a mess in his suit.

“Fuck, can I eat you out, baby? Please?”

You nod so fast you fear you’ll 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, you’re going to be fucking ruined.

“Fuck. Never seen a pussy look this good,” he breathes as he finds himself face-to-face with your dripping cunt. You’re already so wet that it’s embarrassing and, while it would be easy enough to blame on the pollen, you know that you’ve wanted this for months. When he drags his tongue up your puffy, desperate folds, you pretty much combust.

“Oh shit,” you groan, wrapping your other leg round his face to hold him flush against you - not that Wade needs any convincing though, because you’ve 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.

Wade’s eyes flit upwards to see how you’re reacting as he moves his whole face side to side to bury himself into your cunt deeper. It’s like he’s trying to find where your scent is the strongest and, honestly? With what you’ve 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 don’t have the ability to vocalise it. You sink your fingernails in so he knows, though.

Holy hell you’ve never felt so good. The pollen is heightening everything, each movement he makes into you shooting shockwaves through your nerves. Wade’s tongue is insistent in exploring every inch of you, pressing bluntly into your clit; lapping at the wetness seeping from you like he’ll die if he can’t taste what he’s 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.

“Holy shit, babe. What’s gotten into you?” he chuckles, pupils so blown wide with lust that his eyes are eclipsed with black. You chase after him with your hips.

“Not you, and that’s the problem,” you harrumph. He grins and you see how covered with your slick he is and fuck you are going to die here. 

“I’ll take care of you. That’s what friends do, right?” he asks, putting emphasis on the word you’re 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 he’ll 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 you’re chasing and chasing…

Stars explode in your vision and in your blood. The noise you let out is feral, a euphony of pleasure and you don’t care who hears. Wade’s eyes drift close as he tastes your orgasm directly at his lips, drinking you down. You’re certain his hips stutter as he comes just from getting you off. Oh god it’s so hot.

Oh god, you’re not done.

Wade surges up your body and kisses you ferociously, you moan at the taste of yourself he gives back. 

“Fuck, yes, do you taste that, baby? What did I do to you? Holy fuck you are the hottest thing I’ve ever seen…”

“Wade, I need you.”

“Yeah, fuck, okay. Let me get this stupid sexy suit off…”

Hands begin to fumble messily, needily at each other’s zippers in order to strip. You sit up to get a better handle on him—

And freeze when you see you have an audience.

Wade follows your gaze to where Logan is standing in the bedroom doorway. He’s managed to get his suit off and change back into his jeans, though you can’t imagine he’ll want to stay in them for long the way his trapped cock is staining dark blue denim even darker. He’s gripping the doorframe with such force that his claws have popped out, eyes a matching pitch black to Wade’s, chest heaving as he watches the show.

“You okay, honey badger?” Wade drawls, a cocky smile dragging across him. Logan grunts. Swallows hard. You go for a softer tactic.

“Logan, sweetheart, you wanna join in?” 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.

“Get into the goddamn bedroom, both of you,” 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 you’re within arms’ 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, you’ll 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 didn’t just pull an orgasm out of you.

“Fuckin’ needy little thing,” he snarls, delighted. You reach down to grab the bulge he’s rocking, squeezing hard enough to get him to groan.

“Look who’s talking,” you chuckle. He taps at the top of your suit, an instruction. 

“Off,” he says, but that’s 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 needn’t have worried - Logan moans into your friend’s mouth, grabbing a handful of Wade’s pretty decent ass and digging in his fingers. While they’re busy you finish stripping, going for the zipper on the back of the red suit and pulling it down. It’s such a goddamn stupid design having it at the back like a goddamn prom dress - but at the moment you’re kinda thankful for it because it means you get to kiss along the revealed plain of skin. Wade has such beautiful fucking back muscles, you’ve 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.

“Fuck, are you gonna rim me? Because if so I’m a thousand percent down,” he chokes, pulling away from Logan’s mouth and leaving a string of spit between them, evidence of a messy kiss. You shrug.

“You want me to, baby?”

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.

“No, I wanna be inside you, like, yesterday,” he confesses. 

“I’ve got enough room for two,” you state, so absolutely sure the pollen will accommodate that you don’t even need to think about it. Both Wade and Logan suck in a breath at that idea.

“Fuck, baby, aren’t you just perfect,” 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 it’s 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, Wade’s voice in your head pipes up).

You paw at his jeans, desperate to have all three of you naked and ready. There’s nothing to hide between you any more. Any boundaries have been not only crossed but decimated, absolutely destroyed beyond repair, and you couldn’t be happier. When his cock falls heavy into your palm you can’t help but suck air in through your teeth at its sheer size. Logan chuckles, gravelly and tempting.

“Oh it’ll fit, baby,” he coos, as if reading your mind. Fuck. Yep, it will. There’s no two ways about it. You’re 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. There’s a slapping noise and you realise it’s Wade’s hand on Logan’s thigh, encouraging him to move up the bed.

“Big boy, you know you have to scoot up if this is happening. I’m all for fucking the same pussy together but you have to be realistic…”

Obscured by your body, only you get to see the way Logan rolls his eyes fondly at Wade’s 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.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, body on fire and desperate to be extinguished by them. Logan hums in your ear.

“I know, baby, I know. We’ll take care of you.”

“And each other. I got sex-pollened too, old man,” Wade harrumphs, rubbing his head against the slick lips of your cunt. 

“Nobody’s forgetting you, princess,” he murmurs, “now be good and put me inside.”

Logan probably misses the soft hiss Wade lets out at that, but you feel the way the mercenary’s 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 you’d be falling apart by now, but the way your body pumps with desperation suggests one dick alone isn’t going to be enough.

“You okay?” Logan rumbles by your ear. You cling onto him for dear life, nodding.

“Yeah. Fuck, Wade, I know you’ll fit, you’ve gotta fuck me too.”

Wade doesn’t 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 you’re plugged. Another cock begins to press at your already stuffed hole and you whine.

“S’okay, I gotcha,” Logan says through gritted teeth as he feels Wade’s 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.

“Fuck, never felt anything so goddamn tight in my life…” Wade manages. Eventually he bottoms out alongside Logan, both of them sitting snugly inside of you, sharing you, clutched in your warmth. 

“There we go,” Logan growls. “You okay, baby?”

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.

“I’m gonna move now.”

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 Logan’s rhythm it is too much of a competition for him not to match it. The mercenary’s 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 Logan’s chest hair and he curses at the glorious rawness of it all.

Above you, Wade has finally found his voice again.

“Look at you taking us so well. Oh, fuck, goddamn. I’ve 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 fucked…”

You make a pathetic little noise which spurs him onwards. Wade’s mouth drops to your ear.

“...and I used to get angry because I knew I could do it better myself.”

“Oh my god Wade…” you whisper. Tears are beginning to pool in your eyes at the way you’re 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 you’re sure you’d need to tap out.

“And you?” Wade’s hand grips Logan’s bicep, squeezing appreciatively. “Do you know what it’s 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 swear…”

Logan chuckles again, that deep honey-rich sound eked out in magnitudes. 

“And what if I do, Red?”

Wade pauses in his thrusting, you don’t have to see him to know that his eyes are wide.

“Wait, what? For real?”

“Wade!” you whine, reaching over to slap at his arm, annoyed that he’s stopped moving. “Can we all just agree we’ve gotten off to the thought of each other and we’d have fucked eventually anyway?”

The men either side of you seem to think it’s a good compromise to come to and redouble their efforts. All you can do is to cling onto whatever muscles you’re 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. 

They speed up, thrusts getting messy and arrhythmic and yet still somehow matching, and you know that they’re going to come together. What a fucking treat, how divine, oh god. Logan’s hands sink into your ass to keep you anchored as his cock goes faster, skin slapping on skin as his sac moves against Wade’s - causing the merc to let out a string of curses - and you’re suddenly flooded with his warm, sticky cum pumping inside you in jets. Wade whines at the feeling of himself being doused and follows Logan’s 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.

“Holy fuck,” you sigh. Logan hums an affirmative note, fingers playing with the small of your back as Wade peppers kisses across your shoulderblades.

“We should go on stakeouts more often, if this is the nice little bow everything gets tied up in,” Wade sighs, dreamily. You nod against Logan’s chest. His hair rubs your cheek deliciously. Your pussy throbs again, reminding you this dirty escapade needs to continue soon. “So what does this mean? Are we a little mutant charcuterie now?”

Your brow furrows as you try to parse what Wade has just said.

“Oh. Wade, baby, do you mean ‘coterie’?”

Logan bursts out laughing, a noise you’ve 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, it’s nice to know that whatever the three of you face at the end of this will be happy.

Three days later, you’re laid across the couch, head in Wade’s lap and legs in Logan’s, all tangled together as you get the single worst telling-off of your life.

“Non-lethal mission, Wade! How many times did I have to tell you, it was meant to be non-lethal!” Piotr shouts down the line. Wade grimaces.

“Look, there were other things we had to sort out first, okay? We kinda forgot about the no-killing part. Besides the guy can’t traffic drugs if he’s dead,” he confesses. You can picture Piotr’s disappointed face.

“Other things!? WHAT other things, Wade?!”

“Okay so there was this horny pollen, and we all had to—”

Logan grabs Wade’s phone and hurls it across the room. It shatters into pieces against the wall. Wade gawps.

“Hey! That was new! Well, okay, not new, but it wasn’t cracked. Well, it was cracked, but it had all my best dick pics on there!”

“You can take new ones,” Logan states. 

You smile. Yeah. The charcuterie is nice.

[bucks-babe]

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 Bucky’s 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 (don’t do that), implied creampie, Bucky loves his girl’s 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 I’m 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. You’ve 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. It’s 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. 

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 don’t 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 weren’t supposed to eat anything fatty or fried, nothing you did was ever good enough for him. 

Over the course of that relationship you did end up losing the extra weight you had, but also weight that you didn’t need to lose, and soon you were “too skinny” and “didn’t have enough meat on your bones for him.” He left you soon after - over text. It was something along the lines of, “I wanted to see if I could make you attractive, but you don’t look good, fat or skinny.” 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 didn’t even notice until it was too late. 

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.

“What’cha doing, honey,” you murmur into his back, peppering it with kisses.

“Makin’ something to eat after runnin’ with Steve all mornin’. Hope I didn’t wake ya up, Love.” You feel the shiver that shoots up his spine at your touch.

“No, I was just about to get up anyway, just so happens that I woke up to this sight.” 

Bucky turns only his head to look down at you, a crooked smile adorning his scruffy face, “And 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? I’ll be there in a minute.”

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 don’t 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. 

You hear his heavy foot fall as you’re 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. 

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 don’t even notice that Bucky has you eating until the deep rumble of ‘good girl’ 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 you’ve 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.

“Love, what is this movie even about? I’m so confused.” The smile in his voice was impossible to miss. With him against the headboard and your back resting against his chest, you couldn’t see his face. Whatever explanation you gave, Bucky didn’t 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. 

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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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. You’ve 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 you’ve 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, you’ve been doing better than ever, and Bucky couldn’t 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 Bucky’s favorite pair of lingerie and putting them on, you huff. You don’t 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 couldn’t ignore was how your favorite dress wasn’t fitting. It took way too much wiggling to get it past your hips and waist. What really set you off though, was that you couldn’t zip it. Already too tight on you before zipping, now you couldn’t 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. 

Turning to the side, you saw just how much it was coming out. You could’ve 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 didn’t.

Tears sprung in your eyes. How could Bucky find this attractive? Why hasn’t he said anything about this? How could you let yourself go like this? All these horrible thoughts raced through your head, before you heard Bucky’s 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 doesn’t look at what you can’t 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. “Love, what’s wrong?” 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. Bucky’s right palm slides down your back and he tries to squeeze your waist when you jerk away from him.

“No! Don’t touch me there!” Bucky feels his heart crack in his chest at your repulsion, not understanding why you don’t want him to touch your waist. He doesn’t let you leave his lap however, keeping you in place.

“Why, Love? What did I do?” 

“You didn’t do anything. Look at my stomach, Buck!” You bite back another sob when he does, confusion written all over his face, not understanding what you’re trying to convey. “It’s FAT!” You all but scream, failing at trying to escape when his arms pull you down once again.

“Love…” 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. 

A few minutes pass by before Bucky can’t 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. 

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.

“Buc..”

“No, Love. Look at how fucking sexy you are.” With his right hand still holding your chin, his left trails down your body, stopping over the swell of your tummy. “So goddamn pretty, you know that?” 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. “God, Love, don’t you see how pretty you are, so soft and strong and all mine.” You try to pull away, the feeling of looking at yourself too much, but Bucky’s strong hands don’t let you move an inch. “Feel what you do to me? Feel how hard my cock is?”

 It’s 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. “Can’t, Bucky. I-I…” You have to close your eyes; you can't look at yourself any longer.

“Shhh, Love, you can, baby. Let Daddy take care of you. Let him show you how pretty you are. Open your eyes for Daddy.” 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. 

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. “I love you so fucking much, you know that? Never met a stronger,” Bucky plants a kiss on your cheek, “more beautiful,” another kiss, “smarter, sweeter, perfect woman in all my life.” 

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, Bucky’s scent enveloping all your senses, and you can’t think properly, your brain feeling fuzzy at the heedy stare Bucky is giving you.

“Daddy, I don’t, I can’t.” You don’t even know what you are trying to say, words no longer coming to you, but Bucky does, he always knows what you need.

“I know, Love. You just need Daddy to make you feel better, make you see how perfect you are for him.” 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.

“All those tears, and all you wanted was Daddy’s cock, huh? Just want Daddy to fuck you dumb, turn that little brain off for you? Don’t worry, Love, Daddy’ll take care of you.” 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 doesn’t wait for you to beg, he can’t, not now, he needs to be inside of you, lining himself up, he pushes in, inch by perfect inch.”Shit, Love, you feel how perfect you are for me?”

Your lips part, letting a breathy whine out. Bucky doesn’t wait, slowly pulling out until only his plush tip is still inside, just to roll his hips back in. “Fuck. Look at Daddy, look at what you do to him.” 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. 

“Good girl, see that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Without warning, Bucky rolls the both of you over, with you on his lap. “Since you listen to Daddy so well, why don’t you ride his cock, let him look at his pretty girl bounce?” This snaps you out of your stupor, there’s no way you’re going to let him see your stomach jiggle.

“Bucky, I can’t, not this way. What about the other way?” 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. 

“Ah, ah, ah, Daddy wants to see your face. You hear me?” 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 doesn’t let up, thrust after thrust, pounding into your pussy.

“Oh, fuck! Daddy, right there, shit, please!” You don’t know what you’re begging for, just that you don’t 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.

“So 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. You’re. So. Fucking. Gorgeous.” Each word was punctuated by a vicious thrust. Ice pours down your spine, in the midst of pleasure you completely forgot why you didn’t want to do this position. He’s fucking staring right at your belly, hands gripping at your extra fat, just watching it ripple with each brutal thrust of his hips.

“Bucky stop, don’t look there, I don’t…” The rest of your sentence gets cut off when Bucky somehow fucks you even harder, effectively making your tummy move more. It’s 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 Bucky’s voice, “There you go, give it to Daddy. So good for me, soaking my cock. God, I fucking love you.” 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. You’re pulled out of your haze by Bucky. “Think you can give me one more? I think you can.”

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 he’s 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 don’t want to do the things you love to do, that you aren’t afraid to eat what you want. That’s 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.

“Love, you don’t understand how fucking sexy you are, do you? Look at how well we fit together.” He cups the back of your head, making you look at your stomach as he enters you again, making your belly bulge more. “Do you see this, Love? See how pretty you are, and it's all for me, isn’t it?” 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 wasn’t fucking you anymore, he was making love to you, showing you how much you mean to him. 

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. “Daddy, feels so good. Fuck. Love you so much.” Bucky’s 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.

“I know, Love. Can’t even begin to describe how much I love you.” Bucky can feel you getting closer again, pussy clenching around him, hands scrambling to grab onto something: his hair, back, hands, sheets, you can’t decide, the pleasure coursing through you too much. “Give it to me Love, make your Daddy proud and cum on his cock. Know you want to, just let go.” 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. 

It takes a few minutes, but the both of you calm down, hearts returning back to normal. You’re the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. “You knew I was gaining weight, didn’t you?” With his softening cock still buried deep inside you, Bucky lifts his head up a small smirk adorning his face. 

“Of course, but this little pudge,” he grabs your tummy and almost kneads it, “is because you’re 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.”

You don’t 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.

[vxsellie]

would you be willing write bodyguard!ellie x burlesque!reader fic??? or ellie could literally be whatever i have no preference!! 🪲

┆𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐬 - E.W ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆₊˚. ᵎᵎ

♯ 𝘪'𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 !

summary. to become a vedette was the dream of many ⎯ including yourself. unfortunately, though, you learned the hard way that some dreams were meant to remain fanciful. because, once achieved, the reality of such an industry was far from what you'd imagined it to be. as your underground burlesque club rose in popularity, you alongside it, your personal safety began to deteriorate. in an attempt to salvage yourself from the predatory audience, a bodyguard was hired. notes. the way pink won by 1.1% is so funny to me, but pink it is! also! i had no idea what a burlesque dancer was before this. i did tons of research and watched tons of videos, but in no way whatsoever is this historically accurate. burlesque was popular from 1860s-1930s, getting most traction in the 70s. but i'm frankly a bit shitty at history, so i don't really know what the world was like in the 1800s, so i set this oneshot in the 1920s bc i have the most prior knowledge on that time frame. but, again, this is NOT historically correct whatsoever. certain things i mention might not even be invented at that time, the way people talk might be super incorrect, etc etc etc. so pls just have that in mind. warnings. mentions of assault, illegal selling & purchasing of alcohol, depictions of violence and blood, injury, suggestive ending wc. 8.2k

when ellie accepted this job, she hadn't expected to be roped into such deep shit.

she'd envisaged being dragged through shops and taverns with some random rich transient, told to scare off some creeps, then fired once the opulent stranger grew bored of her monotonous company. what she hadn't expected was you ⎯ someone completely ordinary among passerbyers whilst simultaneously being the most powerful and sought after woman come nightfall.

you own a club, you see, having started your business two decembers prior to present. it began small, only a few people visiting due to mere curiosity and rarely returning. struggling to amass a crowd, you became your own patron; you became a burlesque dancer at your own cabernet. this quickly gained the attention of those who dared wander into the debauched street where your club resides. an underground business run by the alluring woman advertised ⎯ what promiscuous standee wouldn't be intrigued? plus, by the time you were making hundreds nightly, you were in too deep to quit as a dancer. those who visited did so for you. to turn only to a business woman was out of the question.

but, as stated, your club was underground and therefore unknown by the average citizens, only spoken of by those sinful enough to indulge. this way, you were a mysteriously rich woman by day and a desirably powerful one by night. it wasn't exactly what you'd intended to become when first creating your business, but you'd be a fool to complain when making such wealth.

however, nothing ignominious lasts long before the reason for such shame rears its beastly head.

and when it did, you were unable to escape unscathed. you'd been cornered in an alley on your way home, pinned to a brick wall by one of your frequent customers, barely having gotten away intact. after landing a solid hit to the back of his skull with a nearby object turned weapon, you staggered the rest of the way home. a bruise was forming on your jaw from the perpetrator's aggression and a small cut was trailing blood down your bicep from your own lack of attention to your surroundings as you'd accidentally scraped yourself on a stone as you ran from the scene. yeah, so, that's when you made the decision that you needed a bodyguard.

when ellie first laid her eyes on you, she recognized you in an instant. see, she'd never been to your burlesque club on her own; she didn't much care for that form of self deprecation. rather, she'd heard your name spoken many times before by disreputable miscreants and seen your face on a few posters in the more shady parts of town.

tonight was her first official night to be spent with you. the two of you had met once or twice beforehand, getting the payments and conditions in check as well as making her sign and NDA for fear of her causing your cabernet to be found. though, she'd never seen your house and you'd never seen hers, the two of you having met in public settings such as bakeries or parks to discuss such matters. it was entirely professional.

but tonight, now that everything has been put in order, she is to accompany you to the bar. you already told her what you expected of her ⎯ blend in with the crowd and keep watch from afar, only intervene if deemed absolutely necessary. yes yes, she replayed the sentence over and over in her head, just to be sure it's cemented into her memory. totally not because she likes to replay the smoothness of your voice nor the gentility of your tone when attempting to speak quietly as to not draw attention. yeah, no. definitely not that.

"fuck, it's cold." she hisses, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders as the two of you walk down the sidewalk. your sparkly heels click against the concrete with your every step, only visible under the dull illumination of the sparse streetlights. you're wearing a long coat that covers your neck down to your mid-calf, black in color yet thin in efficiency. "i dunno how you're not freezing your ass off, right now." she comments through chattering teeth.

you huff a laugh, "suppose i've grown used to it."

the air is frigid, your breaths coming out in puffed clouds. snow has yet to fall, but it's surely not far from doing so. the night is black, shadows looming over shabby buildings ⎯ venturing from the rich side of town where you live to the more decrepit side of town where law enforcement is thinned and as is people's class. the perfect place for a speakeasy.

you turn down a random alley where streetlights no longer provide a blanket of comfort. ellie trails behind you, entire body shivering as she takes in her foreign surroundings. on either side are sordid buildings, the brick chipped and paint flaking and wood rotting.

the sound of knocking draws her attention back to you, gaze landing on where you now stand at the very end of the alley. she jogs over to you just in time to hear your knocking in a certain pattern on an old wooden door that she hadn't noticed prior. there's not even an exterior handle, the door almost invisible when paired with the darkness of the alley and its similarity to the wall that embodies it.

knock knock, knock. a pause. creaking.

the door opens with a creak, a man's head peeking out the crack. he sets his eyes on you and instantly swings it open fully to allow you entry. you nod at him before sauntering past. ellie continues to trail behind you, though she's stopped when the man holds out an arm across her chest.

his hair is long and greasy, thick brows overhanging deep brown eyes. a miasma of alcohol and cigarettes clouds him in the form of a malodorous aura. ellie's nose crinkles as she scowls at him.

"not you." he says coldly, shoving her back outside into the alley. she staggers backward, the cold air clinging to her. anger licks up her spine at the aggression of his shove, but she buries it as soon as you enter the scene.

"fuck off, george, she works for me." you huff, moving past him to open the door wider for ellie. she glares at george as she passes, entering the cabernet with a distasteful expression. as she walks past the entrance, you remain in the doorway to reprimand your employee. she'd usually mind her business but, seeing as it's her job to be in your business, she remains closeby as you harshly explain the situation him.

ellie looms over you like an intimidating shadow as you rebuke george. she doesn't listen into the conversation, well aware of it not being her concern. still, she watches him closely, daring the man to step a toe out of line. thankfully, he seems to know better.

a few minutes pass before the two of you leave him to enter the cabernet fully. ellie takes in the sight of the place, never having been inside of one before. the floors are wooden and glossy, laid in a diamond pattern. the walls are satin, embedded with intricate golden designs. there are circular tables crowding the space, all faced toward an elevated stage, which ellie assumes is where the burlesque dancers preform. to the left is a bar, a woman behind the counter serving alcohol to a few people ⎯ though there aren't many customers seeing as the star of the show hadn't yet arrived. to the right are bathrooms and dressing rooms for the dancers.

the rest of the night is spent rather normally. you do your job as usual, dancing suggestively whilst telling satire stories to keep the guests entertained. as the night goes on, the tables fill and the bar grows impossibly busy, now needing extra employees to work behind the counter alongside the priorly singular barista.

ellie stands near the back, arms crossed as she watches over the scene. she tries her hardest not to get distracted by you; by the way your hips sway, the way your chest bounces, the way your legs move, the way your voice hums. all things considered, she'd say she did a pretty good job at the attempt. she averted her gaze more times than she can count, but that's to be expected, is it not?

thankfully, nobody tried anything. the drunken guests made lewd comments and lustful expressions, but never tried touching you or anything else out of line.

it's three hours past midnight when you decide it was time to head back home. as the crowd thins out, you retreat to your dressing room. ellie remains in the corner, standing around awkwardly as you exit the stage. she watches the people file out of the tiny door and into the darkened alley, cold air brushing inside via the opened door.

"so," your voice suddenly speaks, tone nigh a drawl. ellie turns her head toward the sound to see you buttoning your chesterfield coat as you approach. you shoot her a grin, "how was it?"

"good." she replies, perhaps a bit too hastily. she blinks a few times before clearing her throat, "it- uh, yeah. it was good."

you chuckle, walking toward the door as she follows behind you. "no need to be such a prude, williams. you sulked in the corner all night like a disciplined child. i just want to make sure you're not having second thoughts concerning your job."

"what?" she questions, head whipping to face you. "no, not at all! i've just never been to a place like this before, that's all. i don't know how to act."

the two of you pass through the doorway, george having held it open for you. the chill of the air traces up your spine, goosebumps coating your skin. you pull your coat tighter around yourself, though you're careful to not appear too cold as to avoid ellie's concern.

"well, if you'd like, i can help you in that endeavor." you say.

"help me?" she narrows her eyes in inquiry. "in making me feel less awkward?"

"in teaching you how to act." you correct with an amused expression, turning a corner. ellie's brows furrow, urging you digress. "look, there are tons of ways to blend in with everyone else. first of all, try looking a bit less flustered when seeing the dancers strip. second, uncross your arms for it makes you look displeased. third, sit down. you were standing against the wall the whole time and it's unnatural. just take a seat, buy a drink, and enjoy yourself."

she frowns, "easier said than done."

"you act like you've never seen a woman nude, williams." you say with a laugh. "maybe get a bit tipsy before the show and you'll feel more at ease, yeah?"

"i'm not allowed to be drunk on the job." she tells you. "i'm supposed to stay alert in the case of something happening."

you let out a sigh, carbon dioxide exiting visibly. "you won't be drunk, you'll just be a bit tipsy. plus, if you sit in the front, you'll be able to get to me quicker. that way, even if you're a bit disoriented, you'll have the upper hand in proximity's case."

ellie thinks on this for a moment, weighing her options. on one hand, she knows that bodyguard are not supposed to drink, smoke, or do anything else that could impair their ability to do their job. but on the other, you're the one pulling the strings here; she technically works for you. and you're asking her to drink. so, in a certain sense of things, who would she be to decline you?

"fine." she gives in. "but if anything happens to you and i'm too fucking wasted to help, i'll never forgive myself. or you."

you laugh, patting her arm lightly, "oh c'mon, i trust you'll be able to help me even if you're a bit drunk. also, nobody will do anything during the show. it's the before and after that we have to worry about; the spooky walk home in the dark."

she purses her lips at this, suddenly made aware of your guys' surroundings. you're walking along the same sidewalk you'd taken to get to the cabernet, your heels clicking with each step just as they had before. the streetlamps provide a dim yellow glow, but that's it. the moon is naught but a skinny crescent and the stars are rather dull. she'd been on edge, of course she had. but now that it's been spoken aloud to her attention, she's been made extra aware of it.

the rest of the walk back to your house was spent in easy conversation and light laughter. she glanced over her shoulder every few minutes, but nobody was ever behind you.

and, before long, the two of you've reached your destination ⎯ no longer surrounded by the shady alleys near your club, but now surrounded by huge mansions and cars, your own home among them.

"do you want me to walk you inside?" ellie offers as you fumble with your key to unlock your front door, your fingers too cold to operate fully. she notices, but says nothing on the matter.

"i can walk though my own house, williams." you laugh. "but thank you."

she nods, holding the door open for you once you've managed to get it unlocked. you give her a grateful smile before entering and she shuts the door behind you. as it clicks shut, she huffs out a breath.

standing on the porch of your mansion, she can't help but feel out of place here. not due to wealth but to merit. with a sigh, she turns on her heel and leaves your porch, descending the steps and beginning to walk down the sidewalk once more.

on her walk to her own house, she can't stop replaying the night over and over in her head ⎯ the sound of your laughter under the moonlight, the sight of your skin being teased to the audience. there's just something about you that she can't get out of her fucking head. it's only been one night and you've managed to drive her insane.

the following night is spent in a similar fashion. walking together to the cabernet, laughing and talking the whole way there, knocking a certain pattern on the decrepit wooden door, having to remind george that ellie is now allowed inside without payment.

"okay," you say, undoing the top button of your chesterfield coat as ellie trails behind you into the club. nobody else is here yet, the two of you having arrived earlier to make sure ellie can get front seats. "i'm heading back to the dressing rooms. while i do, you can go get a drink or two and sit down, yeah?"

"yeah." she's quick to agree with a nod.

"perfect," you smile, slipping your coat off your shoulders. ellie averts her eyes, cheeks suddenly feeling warm. you huff a laugh, "see you in a bit, williams."

with that, you walk over to the dressing rooms, disappearing behind a beaded doorway. now alone in the center of an empty club, ellie sighs before sauntering over to the bar. she perches atop a wooden stool, the fabric of its seat a thin velvet. she places her elbows on the shiny countertop, resting her chin in her palm.

she takes in the sight of the bottles behind the counter and the low lighting of the bar in general. despite it's prohibition, it's not rare to see alcohol. nobody really abides the law when it comes to intoxication. what's uncommon is to see so much of it. not only is it crazy expensive to buy booze nowadays, but it's also easier to be tracked down and apprehended for it if you have so much.

after a few minutes of wait, a barista eventually rounds the corner, approaching ellie with an apologetic expression. her fiery red hair catches the light, pale skin even paler as she rushes to tend to the customer. "i'm so sorry, ma'am." she rushes out while still tying her apron behind her waist. "i hadn't a clue someone would arrive so early."

"it's fine," ellie assures her, "i don't mind waiting if you need some more time to get ready."

"that's very kind of you." she smiles. "but no, i needn't more time."

ellie shrugs, accepting her response. she then turns back to looking at the bottles that line the wall behind the barista. "can i get the gin rickey?"

"of course." the ginger smiles before turning around to grab a bottle of gin alongside a glass from under the counter. she mixes the drink, adding lime juice and club soda before sliding it across the countertop.

see, ellie doesn't go out drinking often. especially not after the ban of alcohol, as it became harder to find. but she knows that gin rickey is a rather common drink within speakeasies, the taste and convenience of the drink making them quite popular at this time. so, she assumed it wouldn't hurt to see what was so great about it. and, needless to say, she comes to enjoy it.

as the club begins to fill up with guests, she decides it's time to take her seat in the front. ellie ends up having about three more drinks before taking a fourth to go, sauntering over to a table closest to the stage. the circular table is covered with a cream white cloth, the chair wooden with the same velvet cushion as the barstools.

there, she continues to sip on her drink as she awaits your arrival.

she feels her eyelids begin to weigh down a bit, her shoulders feeling uncharacteristically heavy. she recalls the conversation from last night and the way she had to remind you that she couldn't be too drunk on the job. she ends up having to remind herself of the same thing, telling herself that this is the last drink she'll be having for the night ⎯ enough to be more at ease as you'd requested, yet not too much that she feels unable to tend to you if needed. a perfect level.

people crowd the cabernet as it grows darker outside, guests rushing to the bar to get a free stool before they're all taken, then staggering over to an empty table once they're well inebriated.

when the first dancer walks onto the stage, the crowd cheers. she does a few dances, tells a few jokes, takes off her top, and then rotates for the next dancer to come forward. to ellie, it feels rather quick. but when she checks the grandfather clock against the wall, it'd apparently taken the dancer about half an hour before she leaves the stage.

the next dancer is a blonde woman who winks at ellie when she first comes out. the man behind ellie cheers loudly, almost making her go deaf with his boisterous assumption of the woman's favor. she does a more sensual dance than the woman prior to her, taking off her skirt and top, tossing them out to the crowd. she remains in her bra and panties, both of which are adorned with gems that twinkle in the spotlight.

ellie's instincts are to look away, to avert her gaze as to be respectful. but she recalls the way you'd made fun of her for doing so last night, calling her a prude. her cheeks heat as her mind traitorously reminds her of the sound of your laughter. evidently, the blonde dancer on the stage takes her blush as being directed toward her and she shoots her another wink, which leads to the man behind her cheering loudly again. ellie curse herself for the series of events and the way they'd played out so easily despite their involuntary origin.

as the blonde woman walks off the stage, she give one last wink in ellie's direction. she blows her a kiss, waving with her fingers before disappearing behind the curtains. the man behind her goes absolutely insane, ellie's ears ringing from his noisiness. she sucks in a breath, hoping this mistake doesn't lead to anything adverse.

the next and final person to take the stage is you.

the crowd goes crazy, you being the most popular vedette among all burlesque dancers in this city. they clap and cheer and whoop as you just smile and wave, heels clacking in that familiar pattern that reminds ellie of her walks with you. her face is suddenly heating up again. she curses herself mentally, picking up her glass and taking a long sip from her drink in hopes of the rim covering her reddened cheeks.

you move languidly, almost fluid in your leisure. your body shifts with ease, dancing in a sensual peace. your heels click, your hips sway, your hair cascades. everything about you is reeling ellie in, alluring and captivating yet seductive and lewd. she can't seem to tear her eyes away, memorizing every inch of your body as one would adore a piece of art. she takes in your body as though its made of brush strokes and paint and it could vanish in an instant.

you remove your top in one swift movement, pulling the fabric over your head and allowing it to fall to the floor with a gentle brush. the crowd cheers and ellie is painfully reminded that she's not the only one in here. though your chest remains covered by a frilly bra, she feels a weight in her belly at the sharp reminder ⎯ an aching possessiveness that yearns to be special, to be the only one to see you this way.

your eyes meet hers, something passing between you. something sharp and steady and intimate. something striking in its rarity. though, just as fast as it'd happened, it's gone. you turn away, shifting your gaze over the crowd as you continue to sway and oscillate.

ellie takes another swig of her drink, hoping to swallow down her rising emotions. hoping to drown them.

before she even realizes it, the clock strikes three and you're disappearing off the stage with a flourish. the crowd cheers as you walk away, whistling and whooping.

they all begin to slowly file out of the club once it's made aware that the show is over, taking their loud voices with them. of course, ellie doesn't follow suit. she stays seated, swirling the last drop of her drink around in her glass. she watches the liquid swish around, her drunken mind easily entertained by the sight.

when she hears footsteps exit the dressing room, she assumes it's you and turns around with a grin. her face quickly falls when she sees the blonde dancer from earlier walking up to her with a suggestive smirk.

"waiting for someone?" she questions, eyes glinting with a hint of lust.

"uh, yeah." ellie replies, far too awkward and drunk to think of something clever to say in response. her cheeks heat with embarrassment, though the blonde is quick to take it wrong.

"no need to be so flustered." she coos, walking over to where ellie remains seated. she places her hand on the table in front of ellie, leaning down so their faces are mere inches apart. in a gentle croon, she says, "i don't bite."

"well," ellie leans back a little to put distance between them, "i'm not-"

"ruth, leave her alone." your voice comes from the other side of the room, the sound of your heels serving as a bit of familiar comfort to ellie. the blonde woman lifts her head, expression falling when she sees you approaching.

"mind your business." the blonde ⎯ whose name ellie has gathered to be ruth ⎯ groans. "must you steal every person i show interest in?"

ellie opens her mouth to intervene, ready to say something to ease the nigh palpable tension in the air. but you beat her to it, not having noticed ellie's futile attempt to interrupt.

you roll your eyes, still buttoning the top buttons of your coat. "first of all, i've never stolen someone from you because i frankly don't give a shit. second, that poor woman is clearly not interested in you."

"don't speak for her when you don't even know her." ruth frowns, placing her hands on her hips. "and yes she is interested."

"how about you let her choose then." you suggest, crossing your arms after gesturing to ellie with raised brows. "maybe, for once, let the person you're bothering have a say in this."

"fine." ruth snaps, practically fuming at this point. despite her anger, she turns to ellie pleadingly. "tell her."

ellie almost feels bad for ruth. despite the way you'd insinuated that she has a history of not asking for people's opinions on matters such as these, she feels a bit guilty. she'd blushed at ruth multiple times ⎯ though they'd all happened to be unrelated. anyone would be able to get the wrong impression in ruth's position.

"listen, i'm just a bodyguard." ellie says carefully, holding her hands up in defense. "i'm not trying to sleep with anyone. i'm just⎯"

"bodyguard?" ruth mutters, brows furrowing. she glances between you and ellie, the dots slowly connecting. her lip then raises in disgusted rage. "what the fuck!? you hired a goddam bodyguard!"

"i was getting followed home." you explain, equally irritated though you attempt keep your tone calm.

"so just because you're the most fucking popular, you think your safety is more important than any of the other dancers!?" ruth seethes.

"don't put words in my mouth, asshole." you shoot back. "you can hire any bodyguard you fucking want, nobody's stopping you. it's not my fault i thought of it first and you happened to be fucking horny for who i hired."

as you and ruth continue to argue back and forth, the tension steadily rises higher and higher. ellie watches with wide eyes, trying to determine when exactly she should get involved. but, at the same time, you and ruth appear to have been working together for quite a long time, maybe this was an inevitable argument she should let happen? maybe she's just drunk and thinks that it's worse than it is? yeah. she leans back, settling with her decision to allow the two of you to just fight it out. it'll be good for you to⎯

her thoughts are interrupted when ruth snatches up ellie's glass and breaks it on the side of the table, the lip of it now a pointed blade that she holds out at you. it's sharp, the glass fully able to cut through skin if needed.

"ruth.." you breathe, holding your hands up in surrender. "ruth, just calm down..."

at the sound of glass breaking and your shaky voice, ellie is suddenly on her feet, putting herself between you and ruth. she holds an arm across your chest, acting as a human shield.

"get out of my fucking way." ruth snaps. "i don't wanna hurt you, just the cocky bitch you're protecting."

"put the glass down." ellie demands, voice suddenly lowered a few octaves.

the baristas are long gone, having left the club alongside the rest of the guests a good twenty minutes ago. the only person in here except for the three of you is george. he watches from the doorway, eyes wide and shoulders tense. he can't call the cops or the cabernet will be found out and promptly shut down. and he knows better than to get involved. so he's simply forced to watch from afar, poor guy.

ruth glares at ellie, sidestepping in an attempt to get to you. but ellie moves in unison, remaining in her way. ruth curses, jaw clenched. ellie holds you close to her, your chest flush against her back as she holds you by the wrist, her other arm out to ruth in a calming gesture which mirrors one that'd be used when approaching a feral animal.

"fuck you!" ruth spits at ellie, lower lips trembling. her grip on the glass shakes as well, though she remains holding it tightly. "i thought someone fucking liked me! for once, i thought someone would take interest in me! but no. no, i should've known. as always, you were more interested in her!"

"look, i understand you're mad, just⎯"

ellie's words are interrupted by ruth surging forward and stabbing the sharp end of the glass into ellie's thigh, yanking it back out and tossing the bloody glass to the floor.

ellie buckles over in pain, blood seeping down the leg of her pants. when she looks back up, ruth is already across the room, shoving past george as she runs from the scene. george is frozen in place, lips parted as he glances between ellie's bloody form and ruth's depleting one.

"fuck," you mutter, eyes wide as you move to pull out a chair for ellie to sit in. you hold onto her shoulders, helping to ease her into the seat. "fuckfuckfuck."

"calm down," ellie says between heavy breaths. her chest is heaving, her hand keeping pressure on the wound. despite the pain, she stares up at you with blown pupils and parted lips. "take a deep breath, i'm fine."

you shake your head, completely ignoring ellie's attempts to calm you. god, you can't fucking believe her right now. a shard of glass is on the floor, covered in her blood and here she is insisting she's fine. trying to keep you calm. you squeeze your eyes shut, pacing in circles as you try to formulate some sort of plan.

you can't call the police or your club will be revealed. but you also can't go home, wandering the streets with a girl bleeding out on your back. fuck. no matter what you do, it's incriminating.

your pacing ceases as an idea pops into your head.

"george." you call out over your shoulder. the man lifts his head, entire face having gone pale from the sight of all that's happened in front of him. "in the dressing room, under the vanity, there's a first aid kit. bring it to me."

george nods quickly, staggering away from his place by the door and heading toward the dressing room as asked. with him now gone to get the med kit, you turn back to ellie. you crouch down in front of her, your hands shaking as you reach forward to remove her own hand from the wound to examine its severity.

blood soaks her pants, almost coating her entire thigh crimson. the material is torn where the glass was inserted, showing where her skin is sliced right open. right across the muscle.

"okay," you breathe shakily, pressing your palm against the injury to prevent too much bloodloss. "okay, um-"

"calm down," she murmurs again, voice a bit groggy. "look, i'm fine. once george comes back with the med kit, i can patch myself up and i'll walk you home. how's that sound?"

"what!? no!" you shake your head at her incredulously. "no, i got you into this mess. the least i can do is help."

"but you don't have to." she insists. "i can stitch myself just fine, and-"

"ellie, shut the fuck up." you snap, her eyes widening at your sudden harsh tone. not only that but the sound of her first name leaving your lips makes her chest flutter. you shake your head, unaware of the bodily reaction you engendered. "i'll stitch you up, then i'll find some place for us to stay. somewhere nearby that won't ask a million questions."

"uh," she blinks, trying to remember what you guys passed on your journey here, trying her best to do something to help. "wait, yeah. i think saw a motel not too far from here. a block or two down the road, maybe?"

"oh, yes. perfect!" you grin up at her. "i know exactly what you're talking about. i know the owner, too. we might not even have to pay if i promise him free drinks."

ellie's face flushes at the sight of your smile. the combination of everything is getting to her. her inebriation, the feel of your hand on her thigh, the sight of your beaming smile. yeah, she's in fucking heaven.

it's a few minutes later when george returns with the med kit, his hands shaking slightly as he nears you and ellie. his widened eyes appear to be nigh incapable of looking away from her bloodied leg. he swallows harshly before placing the kit on the tabletop.

you offer him a soft smile, grabbing the kit from the surface. you open it as you speak. "thank you, george. you can go home now, if you'd like. get some rest."

"okay." he nods, frankly a bit frantic. "okay, just⎯ just let me know if you need anything, yeah?"

"yeah, of course." you assure him, watching as he rushes to leave the building, pulling on his coat as he shoves the door open. once it closes behind him, you turn back to ellie and the med kit.

one of your hands remains on ellie's thigh, keeping pressure on the open gash. the other pulls the kit into you lap, cracking it open before you sift through the contents. you can feel every movement ellie makes, every shift or wince or twitch. despite the situation being far less than ideal, it all feels oddly intimate. to be so close, to see her in such a vulnerable way. especially when you're now the only two people in the club. you shake your head to rid your mind of the thoughts clouding it.

you pull out a tube of antibiotic ointment, struggling to twist off the cap with one hand. ellie notices your struggle and leans forward, having to bury a wince as she does so.

"here," she says, placing one of her hands over yours as she takes the ointment from your grasp. she pops it open before handing it back to you. "no need to be so independent, you can ask me to open one measly tube."

"i don't want to ask you anything." you grumble, squeezing a drop of the ointment onto your forefingers. "you're wounded, let me do the work."

"you're acting like i lost a limb," she says with an airy chuckle, making you frown. "i have a cut on my thigh. i can still use my hands."

you remove your hand from the wound and begin to dab the ointment onto the reddened skin around it. ellie shivers, but says nothing. if anything, this should feel good. it's supposed to ease the pain and allow the injury to heal faster. as you continue to coat the gash in the ointment, you glance up at her. "maybe i'm not dramatic and you're just too calm, ever consider that?"

"there's no such thing as too calm." she defends herself, feigning a sense of untouchable pride.

you huff out a laugh, "oh shut up."

ellie can't help the way her eyes are pinned to your face, her pale green eyes studying every expression that grazes your features. every dip or crevice of your skin, every furrow of your brow, every twitch of your lips; she memorizes it all. and when you laugh? oh, when you laugh she swears her heart stops beating.

you twist the ointment closed, placing it back in the kit before digging through it for some bandages. you find a roll of gauze, frowning as you'd hoped to find a patch instead. but you can't complain too much as you're lucky to even have a first aid kit at all. in fact, you only bought one because one of the baristas sliced their hand open a few weeks ago and george insisted that it'd be a good idea to at least own bandaids. so, had this happened last month, ellie would have been fucked.

"okay," you mutter as you turn back to ellie, suddenly noticing her staring. you narrow your eyes at her playfully. "what is it?"

her cheeks burn bright red, blinking as she averts her gaze to look at something random on the wall over your head. "nothing, i just⎯ i really like that statue."

you raise a brow, glancing over your shoulder to follow her gaze. when you see the nude statue she was referring to, you almost laugh. it's a naked man, his legs spread seductively, his abs so sharp that it's literally impossible for a human to obtain. you turn back to her, her cheeks now even more red than before.

"fuck," she breathes, hanging her head between her shoulders in embarrassment.

you laugh, "you really like that statue, huh?"

"shut up." she groans, holding her face in her hands. "i wasn't even looking at that statue, i didn't know it was a naked dude."

you begin to unravel the gauze as you continue to tease her. you're well aware that ellie was staring at you. and the only reasons she'd try to hide that fact is if she either didn't mean to or if she's into you. and, as someone who's hit on almost daily, you're pretty skilled at noticing when someone likes you. and ellie has a bad crush. its kinda cute, so you decide to act oblivious, just to see how many lies she can make up.

"well, if you weren't looking at the state, what were you looking at?" you ask her, tilting your head to feign innocent curiosity.

"uh," she sputters, her cheeks so hot that it's painful. you raise your brow, urging her to respond. you notice that the tips of her ears are red as well and you almost feel guilty for teasing her like this. "i don't⎯"

"it's fine, ellie," you chuckle, tearing the gauze to have a long strip in your hand. "i'm just picking on you."

"oh. yeah. right." she nods, mentally cursing herself.

you glance back down at the gauze in your hand, shifting it around so it's ready to wrap around. you look back up at ellie before placing one hand under her knee and lifting it a bit. she winces and your heart clenches, "i know, i'm sorry, i just need to⎯"

"quit that," she murmurs, placing her own hand under her knee and pulling it a bit higher up so you can wrap the gauze around her thigh. "quit apologizing. you're helping me, there's nothing to be sorry for."

"for hurting you." you grumble, wrapping the gauze around her thigh thrice before tying it off onto itself and she eases her leg back down onto the chair.

"you're not hurting me," she chuckles. "my leg is hurting me. not you."

you laugh, "so now you're personifying your leg? how much did you drink?"

"hey, i'm trying to comfort you." she defends herself. "i'm not even drunk anymore. getting stabbed in the thigh sobered me up quite a bit, y'know."

you laugh again and ellie finds herself drowning in the wave of emotions that overcomes her. you're like a fucking tsunami of feelings, like an entire ocean coming to wash her away after having constructed a dam to keep them in. regardless of the prior amount, you're enough to overflow it. to take her by surprise and fucking waterboard her with your easy perfection.

"you're doing it again." you say, standing up from your crouched position. ellie looks up at you, her eyes following your every movement as though by instinctive impulse.

"doing what?" she asks dumbly.

you chuckle, holding your hand out to help her to her feet. "staring at the naked dude statue."

"oh no, please don't make that a thing." she groans.

"it's already a thing, baby." you respond as she takes your hand to aid her in hauling herself up. the sound of the nickname is enough to make her head spin, even more than it already is from having stood up so abruptly. her cheeks burn and you fucking love it. seeing ellie blush is your favorite way to see her; considering how stoic and indifferent she usually is, to see her flustered like this is surreal. and to be able to do it so easily, too? yeah.

ellie drapes an arm over your shoulders, using you as a crutch as the two of you stagger toward the door. you push it open with a boisterous creak, the frigid air stinging your cheeks and hands instantly. but the coldness isn't what shocks you. it's the small flakes of ice that dust through the air.

"it's snowing," you murmur, staring up at the starry sky in awe. a smile warms your features in spite of the chill. "oh, i've always loved the snow."

ellie, frankly, has never much cared for the snow. but the moment she sees you looking up at it like this, she can't help but see the beauty in it; rather the beauty that stands in it. but still, regardless of witticism, she ends up adoring the snow from this day on, the sparkly elegance of the flakes alluring against the biting shivery it induces. the way one is only able to within it for short increments almost adds to its magnetism, making one yearn for more whilst simultaneously rushing to be out of it.

the two of you saunter down the sidewalk toward the nearby inn you'd discussed priorly. ellie leans on you heavily, her limp slowing you down so it almost takes half an hour to walk two blocks. but, once you two finally arrive at the motel, the results are just as you'd hoped.

the innkeeper, once having recognized you, agrees to not ask questions nor to make you pay in exchange for a week of free alcohol at your cabernet. with that, he passes you a key and assigns you two a shared room down the hall.

the inn is old and dilapidated. the floorboards creak with each step, the windows are all stained and foggy, the wallpaper is torn and chipped in placed, cobwebs lining the corners and walls. but the room is, at least, a bit better than all else. there's a small dusty bed in one corner a dresser in the other. a small window files moonlight into the space, a chipped wooden nightstand to the side of the bed. you help to ease ellie onto the bed, the mattress creaking under her weight.

she tips her head back with a sigh, muscles relaxing against the mattress as she finds herself rather grateful to be able to rest her limbs.

"how's your leg?" you ask her tentatively, standing to the side of the bed wearing a weary expression. you're unsure on how to go about this; do you make jokes as to carry on with the usual badinage or do you take this seriously because she's fucking injured?

ellie glances up, the gentility of your voice almost foreign. when she sees your evident trepidation, she softens and pats the empty space on the mattress beside her. "who's the awkward one now?"

you huff out a laugh, "still you."

you step forward, the floor creaking noisily under your feet. though, if you found the floorboards to be clamorous, the bed is even worse. the mattress squeaks under you, springs poking through the thin material so you can feel them under your butt and thighs. it's extremely uncomfortable, but you say nothing.

ellie watches you closely, her eyes sharp and steady. once you're sitting beside her, your posture awkwardly straightened, she can't help but stare. you're still wearing your heels and frilly burlesque clothes, but your black overcoat shields the attire completely. but she knows what resides underneath and she almost aches to know of it.

"i'm never drinking alcohol again." ellie groans before flopping backward, the bed announcing her every movement. her legs remain hanging off the side, as she lands on her back, auburn hair splayed across the dusty duvet.

"how much did you even have?" you question, leaning back on your hand to loom over her face. "you didn't seem that drunk to me."

"four glasses of gin rickey." she says, narrowing her eyes as she attempts to do the math in her head to puzzle out the percentage. in the end, she gives up and just gazes up at you. "i just wish i was sober for your performance."

your cheeks suddenly feel hot at the insinuation. "it wasn't even that good."

"are you kidding?" she scoffs, in genuine disbelief at your statement. "you were fucking amazing tonight. literally all i could think was 'god, i wish i was sober so she wasn't so goddamn blurry'."

"seriously?" you laugh, unintentionally leaning a bit closer as you're caught up in the incredulous humor of her statement. despite your lack of attention, the act doesn't go unnoticed by ellie. every nerve in her body ignites as your face inadvertently grows nearer, her instincts screaming at her to reach out and touch you; nothing lustful about it, just the pure need to hold you. to be near you.

as your laughter dies down, you notice how close the two of you are. your breath hitches, but you don't move away. ellie looks so perfect like this, under you with her pupils all blown and her hair all unkempt. you find yourself staring at her.

"naked dude statue?" she whispers, the inside joke only adding to the intimacy of the moment.

you nod, eyes flicking between her eyes and her lips. in a whisper, you confirm, "naked guy statue."

honestly, looking back on it, that's a quite strange thing to say before kissing someone for the first time. but then again, nothing about yours and ellie's relationship is necessarily normal. she's your bodyguard and you're an esteemed stripper who sells illegal alcohol, for god's sake. not to mention, it's your second day of knowing each other and ellie has been stabbed with a shard of broken glass via your insane coworker.

but the details hardly matter in the moment of it. because everything else blurs when your lips meet hers, the entire world suddenly gone quiet. it begins gentle, her mouth barely moving as though she's scared to do something wrong. but once the two of you find a mutual rhythm, you're grabbing her face and shifting atop her.

she remains sprawled across the bed as you straddle her hips, knees placed on either side of her body. the kiss ventures farther from unsure benign and closure to vehement desperation. you cradle her face in your hands, her own hands coming up to hold you by the hips.

the flow is suddenly interrupted when you try to shift more comfortably, completely clouded by desire that you don't notice your weight being pressed against her wound. ellie's grip on your hips tightens, the kiss breaking as she yanks her head back in a wince. your eyes widen in realization, guilt gripping you by the throat.

"fuck," you breathe, instantly moving to get off of her, "i'm so sorry."

"no." she says, almost pleadingly. she's still holding you by the hips when she sits up and attempts to guide you back on top of her. "no, i'm fine. don't stop."

your brows furrow. you hurt her, you were so caught up in the moment that you caused her pain. and yet, here she is, just as needy as you in spite of the pain. fucking ellie williams, everyone. laughter bubbles in your chest as you give in, returning to your place atop her lap.

"what?" her cheeks are burning bright red. "are you laughing at me?"

you're still giggling when you press a kiss to her lips, "you're just so perfect."

she's still confused, but doesn't much care for answers when you're kissing her like this. so she simply nods, feigning cognizance as she pulls you impossibly closer to her.

it's just as she reaches to unbutton your coat when the door swings wide open and the innkeeper comes sweeping in, the poor old man unaware. "oh, i forgot to⎯" his words are cut off when he realizes what he'd just walked in on. you and ellie both turn to look at him.

you're sitting on her lap, one of her hands on your chest as the other is on your hip. it's no mistaking what was going on here. the elderly innkeeper curses, covering his eyes before promptly exiting the room and shutting the door behind him, his previous reason for entry completely forgotten.

you and ellie stare at the closed door wordlessly for a split second, only for the silence to be ended by you bursting into laughter. you turn back to ellie, laughing your ass off as she soon joins in. you press your forehead to hers, eyes shut as you struggle to catch your breath. her eyes, on the other hand, remain wide open as she stares at you, admiring the scene before her ⎯ the ambiance of a moonlit motel room, the sound of your melodic laughter, the feel of your body on her lap, the sight of your smile and shut eyes. fucking hell.

when ellie accepted this job, she hadn't expected to be roped into such deep shit. and by 'deep shit' she means falling in love with a vedette.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo @kasqnxx @xlovla @ilovewomenfr @zzombiegirl @shawangel @defnoteleonor @fatbootymuncher

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 fic taglist @prettygirlfemme @bartshart @autisticintr0vert @mellifluousgirll @jastoo46 @femmepoet

[dollyhyuckii]

BROOKLYN’S PRETTY BABY —!⋆୨୧˚ (엔시티 드림)

📞 ⋆୨୧˚ based on brooklyn baby by lana del ray ⋆୨୧˚

in which… in brooklyn’s chaos, jeno adores you, his “pretty baby,” but love blurs who’s in control. — 이제노 x fem!reader ⋆୨୧˚ suggestive /full fic ⋆୨୧˚ wc • 935 pet names such as my baby, pretty baby, pretty girl, baby! made with love by autum ⋆୨୧˚

⋆୨୧˚ authors note- likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated, everything is in lowercase on purpose, enjoy reading ⋆୨୧˚

the loft is loud with laughter and cigarette smoke, the hum of a pretentious jazz record playing from a beaten up vinyl player in the corner. you sit on the floor by the window, your back against the peeling brick wall, a notebook sprawled open in your lap, your pen hovers over the page, thoughts half formed as you glance around at the crowd.

jeno across the room, leaning against a rusted radiator, his arms crossed and his head tipped slightly to the side. he’s watching you. he always is. you can feel his gaze even when you don’t meet it , heavy and steady, like your the only thing worth noticing in the whole chaotic scene.

“my baby” he calls over the din, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. his voice carries, low and familiar sending a ripple through the group. heads turn, but he doesn’t care. he only had eyes for you

you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “what, jeno?”

he crouches down beside you, his leather jacket creaking softly as he moves “what masterpiece are you working on now, pretty girl?”

“it’s not for you” you said, closing the notebook before he can peek inside. “i don’t expect you to get it”

jeno laughs, and the sound feels warm against your skin. “your so full of it” he plucks the pen from your fingers like it belongs to him and twirls it between his fingers. “but that’s why i like you. you’re my baby, even when you’re acting all untouchable”

you roll your eyes, through you can’t help the small grin tugging at the corners of your lips. jeno always knows how to disarm you, breaking through your carefully crafted armor with a single well placed word or trust.

the night wears on, and the conversation around you blurs into white noise. jeno says by your side, his presence steady and grounding in a way you don’t like to admit. he doesn’t try to join the debates about the art and politics, he just sat there, his arm slung casually over the back of your chair, watching you with that soft look in his eyes.

at some point, his lips find your ear, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. “lets get out of here baby”

you hesitate, glancing around the room. these people, the scene it’s your world, the one you created so carefully. but jeno doesnt belong here, and somehow, neither do you.

“fine” you say, standing and grabbing your jacket. “but only because this place is boring”

he laughs, low and teasing, but he doesn’t argue. instead, he takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as he leads you out into the cold brooklyn night.

the city is alive, the streets buzzing with honking cars and the chatter of strangers. neon signs flicker overhead, casting their glow on the slick pavement. jeno walked beside you, his hands warm and steady in yours. he doesn’t ask where you want to go, he just keeps walking, weaving through the chaos like he knows exactly where you’re meant to end up

eventually, the noise fades, and you find yourselves alone on a quiet street, a single street lamp flickering above. jeno leaned against the lamppost, his dark eyes meeting yours in the dim light.

“you think you’re better than everyone in that room” he says, his tone teasing but his gaze serious. “and you are.., but you’re also mine”

you cross your arms, tilting your head. “oh im yours now?”

he steeped closer, his hands finding your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “yeah, my pretty baby, you are. even with your big words and your bigger attitude”

you don’t reply, not with words, anyway. instead, you let him kiss you, his lips soft, his touch grounding you. in the moment. jeno has a way of making you feel small and infinite all at once , like your both the queen of the city and the girl who can’t resist the boy who calls her “baby”

when the kiss breaks, he smirks, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “see?, told you”

you scoffed, stepping back but letting your hands linger in his “you’re insufferable”

“and you love it” he says, his grin widening as he tugs you closer again.

maybe you do, but you’d never admit it.

as the two of you wander further down the quiet street, he suddenly stops by a graffiti covered wall. the bright colors and the bold strokes of paint are almost hypnotizing under the streetlights. he pulls you close, resting his chin on top of your head.

“someday, im gonna paint you” he muttered, his voice soft. “something that’ll last forever. you’d look good up there, don’t you think? my pretty baby on ever wall in brooklyn”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re delusional, jeno”

“maybe..” he says with a grin, titling you’re face up to meet his gaze. “but you’d love it, don’t lie”

the truth is , you would. you’d love to see yourself up there, to know that even in the chaos of the city, you’d left your mark. for now though, you left jeno to think he’s the dreamer, the artist, the one with the vision

but between the two of you, you know who the real muse is.

and the city?, it can wait. tonight, it’s just you, your boy, and the dream you both keep pretending doesn’t scare you.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

takin’ what’s 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 that’s 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

“You’re gonna change the world, Ford.”

“Only if you’re there to see it.”

***

Backsmore University. What a fucking place.

It wasn’t 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 weren’t 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. 

You’d laugh about it with your friends, the way he avoided talking to anyone. Classic “genius who’s too good for people” 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 didn’t 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. He’d 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 wouldn’t even tell anyone else about. And you’d 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 Ford’s opinion, the one who could hold a conversation about quantum theory and drag Ford to a campus party all in the same breath. He’d grumble the whole way, saying it was a waste of time, rolling his eyes at your insistence that he needed a little break. He’d follow you through those sticky, badly lit student lounges, watching you laugh with people he’d probably never even look at twice.

These late nights when you’d drag him out to stargaze, pointing out constellations, half-naming stars you didn’t know, laughing when he’d 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 “after party of the year.” 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 he’d finally unlocked a new version of himself. 

The Stanford Pines himself, recipient of Backsmore’s largest grant for his “eccentric” 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 do— you adjusted his cap for him, (plus you wanted an excuse to touch him), made some dumb joke about how he’d better not screw it up. He’d roll his eyes, but you knew he liked it. He needed it.

“Hey,” you grinned, “looking pretty fancy for someone who spends all their time talking to aliens or whatever.”

Ford smirked. “I’ve already got a date with a space-time continuum. But you can join if you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile didn’t 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.

It’s quiet here, but it’s not peaceful. Silence feels heavy, like it’s watching him.

His thoughts are pulled back to a time that feels both recent and impossibly distant.

Ten years. Ten goddamn years. It’s been a decade since he's seen Ford’s face. Well, of course he doesn't expect Ford to look like something completely different, they’re 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 Stan’s understanding. And now. . . after all these years of silence, Ford finally decides he needs him. It’s 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 brother’s 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. 

Stan shakes his head, letting out a breath that forms a small cloud in the icy air.

“Ten years, and you drag me here for what, Stanford?” he thinks.

Stan takes a deep breath, the cold seeps right down to his bones, but it’s not the winter’s 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 couldn’t touch them. But that was more than a lifetime ago.

He mutters to himself, “you haven’t seen your brother in over ten years. It’s okay. He’s family. . . He won’t bite.” 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, Ford’s voice booms through the biting air. "WHO IS IT?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!” his trembling hands grip a crossbow, pointed directly at Stan, and the first thing Stan notices are his brother’s eyes — 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, “Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome.”

Ford lowers the weapon slightly, narrowing his eyes suspiciously and then, as if finally recognizing the person standing before him, he blurts, “Stanley, did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

“Eh, hello to you too, pal.” 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 Stan’s eyes, his fingers trembling as he holds it, blinding his brother. “What is this?!” Stan shoves the flashlight away.

Deep down, though, he tries to mask the pang that Ford’s 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,” Stanford answers quickly, studying Stan’s face as if looking for lies hidden in his eyes. “I just had to make sure you weren’t. . . It’s nothing. Come in, come in.”

Stan follows him, the warmth he thought he’d feel upon seeing his brother slowly cooling into something he doesn’t want to admit that feels like disappointment. He watches Ford flit around the room, casting paranoid glances, clutching onto a battered old journal like it’s 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.

“Uh, you gonna explain what’s going on here? you’re acting like mom after her tenth cup of coffee.” 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? It’s almost too much to bear.

Ford, ignoring the gentle jab, clutches the journal tighter. “Listen, there isn’t much time. I’ve made huge mistakes and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.” he doesn’t meet Stan’s eyes as he glances at a skeleton in the corner, twisting its head away from him.

Stan’s heart drops. This is bad, worse than he thought.

He steps forward, placing a hand on Ford’s shoulder, a touch he hopes can somehow bridge the miles and years between them. “Hey, easy there. Let’s talk this through, okay?”

But Ford pulls back, a strange, paranoid look in his eyes. His fingers trace the spine of the journal as he glances at Stan. “I have something to show you. Something you won’t believe.”

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 hasn’t aged a day physically, but the exhaustion, the fear, the isolation, it all is painted on his brother’s face. It’s painful to see. It’s 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, I’ve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll understand."

That twist in your chest, that awful, prickling feeling that something’s wrong.

You’re curled up at your kitchen table, sipping your tea with that kind of numbness you get when you’ve been overthinking too much. You told yourself to back off. He needed space. He needed time.

But when Stan’s eyes scan the giant, hulking portal machine in front of him, he can’t hide the bewilderment as he adds, “There’s nothing about this I understand.”

Ford’s hand wrapped tight protective around his journal. It’s the only one left, his last remaining key to understanding, to protecting everything he’s worked for. 

But now Stan stands across from him and his face clearly shows something what can be called betrayal.

Ford’s been distant. Secretive, even. The last time you two spoke, it was tense, full of anger and words you didn’t mean. It shouldn’t 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. “It'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.” he steps forward, holding the journal out to Stan, eyes pleading. “I have something to ask of you: remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” Stan’s face shines with smile until he hears next shit his brother say. “Take 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!”

I should’ve just stayed, I shouldn’t 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. It’s just the storm, it’s just you being overdramatic. It doesn’t mean anything.

But the knot in your stomach refuses to untangle.

Something’s wrong.

“That’s it? You finally show your face after ten fucking years and all you’ve got to say is ‘get away’?”

Ford's hand drops and disappointment flashes across his face. “Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against! What I've been through!”

“Oh, yeah?” Stan can't contain his emotions. How dare he?! “You don’t understand what I’ve been through! Three different prisons, Stanford! I’ve 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!”

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. “I’m selfish? I’m 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 can’t get it through your head!”

You glance over at your dog, a scruffy, affectionate spaniel with big brown eyes who’s been staring at you from the corner of the room.

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? You want this fucking book gone?” he yanks a lighter from his pocket, the flame flaring up as he flicks it. “Fine. I’ll get rid of it right fucking now.” he holds the journal over the flame, daring Ford to make a move.

You can’t shake this feeling, this urge to go find Ford, even if it means dragging yourself out into the goddamn blizzard.

“I’ll be back soon, girl,” you murmur, pulling on your coat. You don’t know what you’re looking for, don’t even know what you’re hoping to find. But you have to see him. You have to know

Ford’s eyes widen, panic flashing across his face. “No!” he lunges for it, reaching out, but Stan yanks it back. “You don’t understand!” Ford shouts, desperation pouring through him.

But Stan takes a step back, holding the journal dangerously close to the flame. “You want me to take it? Well, then, I’ll decide what to do with it.”

“My research!” 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 can’t shake the feeling, it’s like something’s dragging you forward, pulling you toward him, toward the unknown.

It’s late and the woods are fucking silent, which is weird for Gravity Falls. You’ve been running for what feels like hours, your chest burning, your mind tangled in a mess of thoughts you can’t quite shake. Every goddamn thing with Ford lately has been a disaster, hasn’t it? One fight after another, with him shutting down, disappearing into his head like he’s always been known to do.

The last words you shared with him are still fresh in your mind, “this is it, okay?! I can’t do this anymore.” he didn’t even fight back, just. . . stared at you like you were the problem. Maybe you were the problem, you don’t know, but damn it, you cared. You couldn’t just pretend like everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. That’s why you’re out here, because you’re 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 Ford’s place was way worse than you thought.

When you enter, you hear the kind of noise— angry, violent, something breaking and you know Ford’s involved, you just know it. You don’t care if you two haven’t spoken in days, if things between you and him are a mess of unsaid things and frustrated silences. He’s been acting so off, and now, hearing the absolute mayhem erupting inside, you’re 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. You’re not thinking, not caring that maybe you shouldn’t be here, but it’s 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 that’s when it hits you: this isn’t just some bizarre mirror trick. There’s Ford and then there’s someone who looks a whole lot like him, but is definitely, absolutely not him.

“What the fuck is going on?” your voice rings out much louder than you meant, but you don’t care. Your heart is pounding way too hard and your feet are planted, legs shaking with adrenaline and worry. You’ve 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 it’s the mulleted guy who speaks first. “So you got yourself a chick now, huh? Thought you were too busy playing goddamn Einstein to bother with things like that.” his angry eyes narrow at you, and you’re not sure if it’s anger or. . . jealousy? Frustration? You don’t 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 he’d been living a life Ford would never survive.

And your blood boils.

“No, fuck that,” you snap, glaring at mullet-man. “You don’t talk about me like that.” then you glance at Ford. “Ford, why the fuck didn’t you tell me about—”

but you get interrupted by Ford’s clone, Ford’s twin, whatever. “Name’s Stan. Stanley Pines. The brother of this genius. Bet he’s never even mentioned me, huh?”

Your stomach churns at the words. Fuck that, no way. This isn’t about you, this is about Ford.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” 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. “What’s going on? Where have you been? I couldn’t get ahold of you. You just. . . left. And I—” you stop yourself, biting your lip. This isn’t the time to scream at him for all the unanswered questions, for all the shit that’s been left hanging. Not yet.

Ford doesn’t seem to get it. His eyes flick between you and Stan like he’s trying to piece it together, but nothing adds up. "I don’t— what are you doing here? We— we said goodbye," his voice is strained, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“No, Ford. You said goodbye! You fucking disappeared! I don’t even know why, and I— fuck, just explain yourself, okay?” you can’t 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 didn’t want you involved in this. . .  anyone involved. This, this thing with the portal, you wouldn’t understand—"

You don’t even let him finish. “Stop. Just stop, yeah? You don’t get to just disappear like that, Ford. I don’t 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?”

Ford tries to get himself together, though he looks like he’s been caught with every secret he’s ever buried. “This— this doesn’t concern you, alright? Just— just leave, go, this is between me and him.”

Stan scoffs. “Oh, yeah, classy, Sixer. Let’s bring her in just to shove her right back out, huh? Really hitting your all-time high here.”

“Shut up,” his brother snaps.

But Stan’s just as stubborn, glaring right back. “No, I don’t think I will. Not when you’ve dragged some poor girl into this whole shitshow. Real nice, by the way, real nice! Does she even know what you’ve been up to, huh? All the crap you’re into?”

“I said shut up, Stanley. I shouldn’t have called you— God, I regret calling you! You’re just here to make things worse, like always.”

The words land harder than you thought they would. It's not like you didn’t know Ford could be an asshole, but hearing him say that directly to his brother hits a nerve, like a punch to the gut. 

You see Stan’s face change, his mouth drops open, his eyes so wide, like he’s been slapped across the face. He looks like he’s 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 didn’t know what was worse — the fact that they were tearing into each other or the fact that Ford could say something like that to his own brother. It’s too much, even for you. You want to scream at Ford, demand that he stop, that this isn’t helping anyone, but you’re paralyzed.

But Stan’s hurt turns into something else and he spits back, “You think I wanted this, Ford?! You think I wanted to be the fuck-up brother?! You’re the one who dragged me into this whole goddamn mess now. You asked me to come! You! So don’t go acting all high and mighty like I’m the one screwing your life up right now!”

And then, in that moment, everything goes to hell.

Before you know it, they’re back at each other’s throats. Ford lunges forward, grabbing the journal, but Stan’s not letting go, the damn thing passed back and forth between them like it’s a live wire, all anger and resentment boiled down to this one book as each of them trying to get a hand on it. 

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.

Ford’s eyes snap to you instantly, widening in horror. “Oh my god— I’m s-so sorry! are you alri—“ he reaches toward you, himself can’t believe he just did that to you, but he barely gets a word out before Stan’s 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 he’s going to fall right in.

You’re 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 Ford’s arm, pulling him back, using every ounce of strength you have to pull him back. “Ford, no! Get back!”

Stan’s 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 brother’s body half in portal, but the guilt is written all over Stan’s face. His bruised hand is still raised, like he wants to hit Ford again, but it’s shaking. Did he. . . did he just. . ? God, he didn’t mean—

“You!” you scream, still tugging Ford away from the edge, but the portal’s pulling like a magnet and you’re fighting with everything you have. “Help me, now!”

Snapped out of his daze, Stanley rushes over, grabbing Ford. You tug harder, your muscles screaming as Ford’s 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.

You’re gasping for breath, hands still fisted in Ford’s coat, both of you holding on like if you let go, he’ll slip right back toward that nightmare.

Ford’s breathing heavily, disoriented, his hands gripping your arms in fear. 

Stan’s still looking at Ford, his face torn up because he doesn’t know whether to say sorry, to yell or to just walk the fuck out to not ruin something else. There’s realisation in his eyes and, for the first time, Stanley is seeing what his anger’s capable of. That punch could’ve been the end of everything.

“Brother. . .” Stan’s voice trembles. “I didn’t mean to—”

You don’t let him finish. “No, you didn’t mean to. None of you meant to,” you snap, but it’s not anger in your tone, it’s damn fear, panic, it’s this deep fucking worry. You turn to Ford. “But this shit needs to stop, okay? Right now. Please.”

The silence between you, Ford and Stan stretches out as if it’s some aftermath of a bomb going off. Ford’s still on the floor, breathing hard and it’s not the near-death experience that’s fucking him up, but the bitter realisation of what could have really happened if that damn portal had taken him in.

“So that’s it, huh? After ten goddamn years, this is how you treat me? Almost shove me into a portal like it’s nothing?”

Stan opens his mouth, but Ford isn’t letting him get a word in, he’s too riled up now, all that anger and pride churning in him, boiling over. “Do you even understand what could’ve happened? What you almost did? You haven’t changed one bit, Stanley. I should’ve known better. Should’ve known you’d just fuck everything up, again. Just like you did back then.” Ford’s voice sounds colder than the winter outside. “Remember the science fair, Stan? You destroyed my experiment because you were too fucking selfish to think about anyone but yourself. I could’ve 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?”

It hits Stan harder than any punch ever could. Stan doesn’t even blink, his whole body stiff, shoulders slump.

His mouth opens like he wants to fight back, but there’s no fight left in him, the words are stuck in his throat. He doesn’t say shit, trying to process everything at once. But there’s nothing to process. Ford’s right.

“Yeah, I get it,” Stan mutters, holding back tears. “I’m a fucking failure. I know that, Sixer. Always have been. I’m sorry.”

But then he does the one thing you didn’t 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 doesn’t look back, doesn’t say a word, but he wishes Ford would care, at least once. 

You’re fucking shocked, feeling helpless rage and anger, heart pounding with confusion and disbelief. You thought. . . well, you don’t even know what you thought! That they’d 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 Stan’s back as he walks away, not moving an inch. The pride, the stubbornness, the wall he’s built around himself. Oh god, that guy is so fucking smart he doesn’t know how to feel anymore.

You look back at Ford, at his rigid stance, he won’t even move, won’t even try to call Stan back. You can’t believe it and something snaps in you, something fierce and hot because you’re done with all this bullshit.

“You’re not even gonna ask him to stay? Fuck, what is wrong with you both?”

Ford’s face tightens, but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch. And it drives you insane, watching him cling to that pride, that goddamn logic of his that’s somehow more important than his own damn family. No fucking way is this ending like this. Not after everything you’ve 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. “wait!” you shout. But Stan doesn’t stop, doesn’t even glance over his shoulder.

“Stan!”

“What?” he snaps at you.

You step closer. “You’re not leaving,” you say, staring him down like it’s a challenge.

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Trust me, sweetheart, it’s better if I do. I don’t belong here.” he jerks his thumb back in Ford’s direction. “Pretty clear I’m not welcome.”

“Bullshit,” you respond, what makes Stanley raise an eyebrow, looking a little surprised at your bluntness. “I don’t care if he’s too proud to say it, but you’re his brother— I mean, you think this is how family’s supposed to be? You think he doesn’t want you here?”

“Look, kid, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Me ‘n’ Ford? We’re a lost cause. Always been. Ain’t no point in tryin' to fix it now.”

“Oh, come on! So you fuck up, he fucks up— you’re both disasters. That doesn’t mean you just give up. I don’t care if it’s been years or what the hell happened between you two. You don’t just fuckin’ quit on family. That’s not how this works.”

Stan’s mouth twitches and he looks like he’s gonna bite back with something snarky, but he doesn’t. He just lets out this tired sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. “I don’t wanna hurt him more than I already have. I always mess things up. I’ll just make it worse. So what’s the point?”

You take a deep breath, trying to rein in the frustration pounding through you. “The point is, you’re his brother! And if you don’t stay, if you don’t try to work this out, you’ll both regret it. You can’t just leave him to deal with this shit alone.” 

Stanley opens his mouth, ready to throw out another excuse, but you cut him off.

“Look, Stan,” you change the intonation to softer one, “I don’t know the whole story here. I don’t know what went down between you two and I’m sure as hell not saying it doesn’t hurt like hell. But this whole thing you guys are doing? Pushing each other away? It’s not gonna make anything better.“

“Fine, fine. But don’t expect me to be the hero, alright? I ain’t got no magic words to fix this shit.” Stan sighs and looks down like he’s 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. “So, Sixer, when’d ya start collectin’ all this junk? don’t tell me you got a whole damn museum in here.”

Suddenly, Ford huffs a dry laugh that sounds a little bitter coming from someone like him. “Wouldn’t expect you to get it. Takes more than a few brain cells to appreciate real science.”

Stan’s 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. “Ha, yeah, same ol’ Ford. Ya always had a way with words, didn’t ya?”

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 it’s no big deal?

Stan raises an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Hey, bro, you planning on hunting something tonight or just ready to, I dunno, take out some deer in the backyard?”

[leonkennedybreedingkink]

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY

bestie!leon kennedy x reader

warnings: 18+, dubcon lol, mental health issues for both leon and reader… he’s a pervert and again ooc but that’s the fun of things. dacryphillia and he’s a little mean and sleazy.

tumblr removes fics with nsfw tags from the tag. ergo i’ve flagged the content at the beginning. you’re also responsible for your own media consumption, so if this bugs you, don’t read it.

Leon sat there on the edge of the bed with you, rubbing your back as you hid your face in your hands. “I just feel like I’m going in circles.” You tell him, lifting your head out of your hands to rest your chin on them. “I mean, I don’t feel like I’m ever gonna get better.”

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 wouldn’t feel so bad. Eat a fucking vegetable or two while you’re at it.

You, believing the best in him, don’t really notice. “I just—“ 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 can’t breathe through your nose. When it’s Leon, though, your best friend, it’s a little worse because you’d bet he looks cute when he cries, him and his stupid Botticelli angel face.

And, oh, that’s not really the right move.

He doesn’t 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 he’s never really had to think while going down on someone.

Leon shifts a little and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s not seriously getting bricked up by you crying. Nope, it’s not going down, shit, he hopes you don’t 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. “‘M sorry,” You tell him, voice wobbling before you blow your nose and toss the used tissue away.

“It’s fine.” Leon tells you, his voice just a little strained. He wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his lap and prays you don’t notice that he’s bricked up just from you crying. God, Leon, that’s so fucked up. At least those girls—nameless pornstar and ex-girlfriend—were enjoying it, you’re crying because you’re sad and mentally ill.

Again, fucked up.

You cry a little harder when he’s 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, that’s when you notice that he’s fully hard beneath you. You lift your head up after a pause, wiping one eye as you look at Leon. “Leon… are you…?”

He can’t quite hide a grimace. “I’m—um, I’m really—I’m not—“ And when he catches sight of your red face and tear-streaked cheeks, he nearly groans, his throat suddenly dry. That’s when he flips you onto your back.

You land in the pillows with a soft grunt, giving him a bewildered look. “What are you doing?” You ask him in a little voice, sniffling and wiping your runny nose.

“Do you ever stop feeling sorry for yourself?” 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. “What?” You ask him, eyes close to brimming with tears again.

“Jesus,” Leon swears, undoing his belt buckle one handed cause he’s had enough practice. “You wanna know what I think? I think you like wallowing, I think you like having people consoling you.” 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 you’re wearing, hands wandering up to squeeze handfuls of your tits.

You yelp, back arching of your own accord—he’s 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.

He’s never had that problem, obviously.

A slightly mean smile crawls across his face before he leans down to lick a tear track up. “Poor, unloved little thing.” 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. “You 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 sun’s real nice, a natural antidote to depression.”

Humiliation and an orgasm lick up your spine a few seconds after he’s 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. “C’mon, I know how make you feel better.” 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 he’s balls-deep.

Your chest heaves and he kisses your collarbone—poor thing, it must be a little much for you, he’s 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 door’s open, but he doesn’t 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. “I know, I know, baby.” he tells you, lips ghosting over your cheek before he licks up more salty tears that overflow. “I’ve got you. You’re all empty inside, I’ll fill you up.”

But not before you come, Leon’s 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. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles after a long silence, “I was out of line.”

You shake your head and stay silent, wiping your eyes as you two cuddle in silence.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

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: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The hollowness remains. It feels like there’s stones rattling around in your chest. You don’t think you ever truly understood the word frazzled until that moment. 

And each time you glance over and see Rogers’ 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. 

He finally pulls up to a grey brick building. You look at your watch. It’s been barely half an hour since you left the firm but it feels like a lifetime. 

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. 

You stand and teeter in your short heels. Where are you? Scratch that. You don’t want to know. You know that it’s best to know nothing and not ask any questions. 

“Hurry up,” Rogers hand curls around the top of the car door. You step away and he swings it shut. He points tersely to the building, “in.” 

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. 

There are two men standing outside the doors of the building. You look between them with wide eyes. They don’t seem to see you but are quick to nod to the man at your tail. 

“Rogers,” one intones and gets as much answer as you have so far. 

The blond henchman opens the door and you flit inside. This is like a cartoon. It’s absurd. You don’t 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. 

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way,” Rogers calls as you turn left without thinking. “Up.” 

He points upstairs and you turn back and nod. You show your teeth and push your shoulders up, “sorry.” 

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? 

You trip over the top step and he catches your arm before you can topple. You suck in air, terrified, and right yourself. 

“Sorry, er, thanks,” you utter. 

He lets you go with a sigh and points to his right. You’re going to mess this up. God, why did Brenner send you? You’re a new accountant, you aren’t prepared for any of this. Well, they didn’t exactly offer a class on the underworld, did they? 

“You’re breathing loudly,” Rogers says as he stops at a door. 

You blanch and hold your breath. You look at him and blink. His brows arch. 

“You can breathe, just... quietly,” he shakes his head. 

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. 

You walk into the room as you wring the handles of your briefcase. There’s a man inside. Is he the big bad? Then what does that make Rogers? 

You look between them and sway. Your head is spinning. You haven’t had breakfast yet. 

“Buck,” Rogers says dully.  

“That them?” 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. 

“She can count,” Rogers says. 

“Great,” the other man replies flatly. “And she understands?”  

“She does.” Rogers assures. 

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 you’re looking at the bloody knuckles. 

“You been scrapping?” The man behind the desk accuses. 

“Keeping order,” Rogers crosses his arms. 

The other man tuts and looks at you, “what did he do?” 

Your eyes round and your head swirls. You tilt your head one way then the other. You can feel Rogers watching you. You don’t know much about being bad, you’re a good girl, but you know you don’t snitch. 

Again the scene plays like a reel in your head. That man’s face smeared across the pavement, the horrible sound of his ribs cracking against leather shoes. 

“I... He did...” you wisp and lock your knees, “he did what needs to be done. You know... he...” 

Your eyes roll back and you tip backwards. You don’t feel the crash. You sink into the black cushion of your subconscious, content to escape into the void. 

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. 

“She okay?” The dark-haired man asks. 

“She does that,” Rogers puts his hands on his hips. “She’s awake.” 

“I can see.” 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. “Time for the talk,” he reaches his other arm above you and leans in. “You hear me?” 

You nod as you stare at the gun. 

“Look at me,” the man demands. Rogers grunts, a warning. You look into the man’s bold blue eyes. “Anyone asks you anything about me, or him, or anything that happens inside these walls, you keep your mouth shut.” 

You slump as your head throbs. You feel the blackness creeping up. He snaps his fingers in front of your face. 

“Stay with me here,” he says. “Look, we aren’t gonna hurt you. Not unless you give us a reason. So, you keep those lips zipped and do your work, you’re good as gold. You understand me?” 

You show your teeth and nod. 

“And as long as you’re working for me, you’re under my protection. Got it? Rogers will take care of you.” He pushes himself straight and turns to face the other man, “get her some water before she passes out again.” 

[scarletwinterxx]

cluelessly yours - jeon wonwoo imagine

helloo ~ i'm back, was gone for a while bcs i was busy with work and life in general🥺 it's almost the end of 2024. i'm not sure yet how many more fics i'll post before this year ends but for now here's another cute story. hope you enjoyyyyy

for my other svt fics, check them here

if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re in your favorite café with a slice of chocolate cake and a steaming mug of hot cocoa. It’s your sanctuary—sweet, cozy, and entirely stress-free. That is, until Wonwoo slides into the seat across from you, wearing his usual hoodie and that slightly smug but mostly unreadable expression.

“Hey,” he greets casually, sipping his black coffee like it’s the nectar of life.

“Hey,” you mumble back through a mouthful of cake, barely glancing up. You’re trying not to think about how soft his hair looks today.

“So…” He leans forward slightly, setting his coffee down. “What kind of chocolates do girls like?”

Your fork freezes mid-air. “What?”

“Chocolates,” he repeats, his voice almost suspiciously nonchalant. “Like…what’s a good kind to buy? You know…for a girl.”

Oh. For a girl. Your heart sinks, but you keep your expression neutral. Of course, it’s for her.

“Uh, I guess…” You poke at your cake, suddenly uninterested in eating. “Milk chocolate is a safe bet. Might be boring to some, but personally it's my fave”

He nods thoughtfully, like you just revealed the secret to the universe. “What about flowers? Roses? Or is that…too much?”

You feel your patience thinning. How considerate he is. For her. “Roses are fine, daises are cute too. Or sunflowers” you say, trying not to sound clipped. “Why? Who’s the lucky girl?”

Wonwoo nearly chokes on his coffee. “No one!” he blurts, a little too quickly. “I was just…curious.”

From a table nearby, Mingyu and Hao exchange wide-eyed glances. You and Wonwoo complete unaware your other friends are also a the cafe.

Mingyu gestures wildly with his spoon, clearly saying something like, Are you seeing this? Hao just shakes his head, muttering, “Idiots.”

“Well,” you say, plastering on a fake smile. “Good luck impressing her.”

Wonwoo frowns slightly but doesn’t respond. He just sips his coffee in silence, while you silently curse the unfairness of the universe.

The next day, you walk into your first class of the day to find a small box of chocolates sitting on your usual seat.

“For me?” you whisper to yourself, picking it up.

It’s a fancy box, with a ribbon and everything. You examine it like it’s a puzzle, your brain spinning. Is this from Wonwoo? Or maybe Mingyu, pulling some kind of prank?

As if summoned by your thoughts, Wonwoo appears in the doorway. He stops short when he sees you holding the chocolates.

“Oh, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “You found those.”

You tilt your head at him. “You…left these for me?”

“Yeah.” He shuffles his feet awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. “You like chocolate, right?”

“I mean, yeah,” you say, your heart doing an involuntary somersault. “But I thought you didn’t like chocolate?”

“I don’t,” he admits, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “But…you do.”

The simplicity of his words hits you like a ton of bricks. You stare at him, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or throw the chocolates at him.

From the other side of the library, Mingyu peeks out from behind a shelf. “Can you believe this guy?” he whispers to Hao.

Hao just shakes his head again. “She’s not getting it. And he’s terrible at this. We might actually need a miracle.”

You don’t know how you got roped into this. One moment you were joking with Wonwoo about his gaming obsession, and the next you were sitting on his couch, controller in hand, with the eerie music of a zombie horror game echoing around the room.

“Are you sure about this?” you ask nervously

“You’ll be fine,” Wonwoo says, smirking as he starts the game. “Just follow me.”

You squint at the screen. “How do I even move?!”

Wonwoo laughs, leaning over to press a button on your controller. His shoulder brushes yours, and you momentarily forget how to breathe

“There,” he says, sitting back. “Now just keep up.”

Easier said than done. The first zombie jumps out, and you scream so loudly that Wonwoo pauses the game, laughing so hard he doubles over

“Okay, okay,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Let’s take a deep breath. I’ll protect you, alright?”

You glare at him, clutching a pillow for moral support. “If I die, it’s your fault.”

Of course, ten minutes later, your character is cornered by a horde of zombies, and instead of helping, Wonwoo is laughing too hard to aim properly.

“You’re useless!” you yell, swatting at him with the pillow.

“You’re the one who threw the controller at me!” he retorts, holding his stomach as he laughs. It ended a few rounds later when you threatened to throw his controller out the window when he won't stop laughing at you.

The next time you hangout with him it was like any other evening with your group of friends.

You, Wonwoo, Mingyu, and Hao had gathered in the living room, sprawled across the couches and floor, the usual banter flying around. The air was relaxed, yet you couldn’t help but notice how quiet Wonwoo had been. You assumed it was just his usual introspective mood.

You were snuggled up on the couch, trying to avoid looking at him too much, your heart betraying you every time his voice sounded a little too close.

However, it didn’t take long for Mingyu and Hao to notice the silent war happening between you two. You were both pretending like nothing was going on, when, clearly, everything was going on.

Mingyu, as usual, didn’t have the patience to wait for you both to work things out on your own. He got up from the couch with a dramatic flair and walked toward the center of the room, crossing his arms.

“Alright,” he announces, his voice carrying a sense of authority that you knew meant trouble. “I’ve had enough.”

You and Wonwoo both look at him, completely clueless.

Mingyu takes a deep breath, looking between the two of you. “This nonsense ends today. No more pretending. I’m putting an end to this charade.”

“Charade? What charade?” you stammer, glancing at Wonwoo, who is equally confused

Minghao, who had been sitting quietly with his phone, lets out an exaggerated sigh, clearly more annoyed than anything else. He taps the screen for a moment before looking up, his voice dry as ever. “You two are hopeless.”

“Totally hopeless,” Mingyu agrees, then points directly at you. “You like him.”

You blink. “What? I—no, I don’t.”

“Oh, please,” Mingyu scoffs, rolling his eyes “You literally get flustered when he speaks to you. And let’s not forget how you always act weird when he does something nice. Like the chocolates he brought you? Come on.”

You glare at Mingyu. “You’re imagining things. I like sweets, that’s all.”

Mingyu leans closer, voice dropping to a mockingly serious tone. “Sweets, huh? That’s what they’re calling it these days?”

“I—” You start to protest, but before you can finish, Mingyu swivels toward Wonwoo with a pointed look

“And you!” Mingyu practically growls. “What’s with all the mysterious questions about what girls like? The whole ‘do girls like milk chocolate?’ and ‘roses or something else?’” He throws his arms up dramatically. “You don’t need a whole investigation, Wonwoo. We all know you’re talking about her. Stop playing dumb!”

You freeze.

Wonwoo, who had been fiddling with the corner of his hoodie sleeve, stiffens and turns an alarming shade of red. “I’m not… I wasn’t asking about her,” he stammers. “I mean, I… I thought…”

“Oh my god, he’s so obvious,” Mingyu mutters, rubbing his temples. He shoots a glare at Hao. “This is painful.”

Hao looks up from his phone, sighs deeply, then slowly stands up. “Okay, okay. I’ll handle this.” He walks over to you and Wonwoo, leaning in dramatically

“You two are in love with each other,” he declares matter-of-factly, as though he’s just stating the obvious.

You blink, your face lighting up in horror. “W-What?! No!”

Hao looks at you deadpan. “Come on. The way you two can’t look at each other without blushing, the way he buys you chocolate even though he hates it, and you, you’re terrified of scary games, but you still play them with him. Stop lying to yourselves.”

You turn to Wonwoo, who’s practically the color of a tomato. His eyes are wide, but he’s too embarrassed to speak. You feel your heart thudding loudly in your chest

“You... like me?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly, trying to hold back your surprise

Wonwoo shifts nervously on his feet. “I thought… I thought you liked someone else.”

“I thought you liked someone else!” you say, now feeling utterly ridiculous.

Mingyu, who had been watching this whole conversation unfold with the kind of smug satisfaction only he could have, claps his hands loudly. “Finally! Thank you, Hao. That took way too long.”

Minghao crosses his arms and leans against the wall, clearly satisfied with himself. “You two could have saved us all a lot of trouble, but fine. We’ll take the credit.”

You stare at Wonwoo, unsure what to say. The silence stretches on.

“So,” Mingyu begins with a grin, “now that you’re both on the same page… what’s the next step?”

Wonwoo looks at you, his face softening a little. “So… you don’t like someone else?”

You laugh nervously, glancing at Mingyu and Hao for moral support. “No, I don’t. You… you really thought that?”

He nods sheepishly, clearly relieved. “Well, I thought you were being kind of weird about everything, so…”

You smile softly, your heart racing. “I thought you were being weird.”

Mingyu claps his hands. “Look at that. You two are adorable. Don’t go making things awkward again, okay?”

“Yeah, no pressure,” Hao adds, “but seriously, finally.”

A week later, you’re back at the same spot on the couch. No more confusing, awkward questions. No more playing games to dodge the truth.

Just you and Wonwoo, finally figuring things out.

“So, you still hate chocolate?” you ask with a smirk, holding out a piece of your favorite chocolate, teasing him. It's cute because he got the chocolate, again.

“I hate it,” Wonwoo admits, but this time, he doesn't protest when you hand it to him. He takes the piece, chewing it slowly as he grimaces.

“You don’t have to eat it just because I like it,” you say with a laugh, watching him struggle with the sweetness

“I’m suffering for you,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips now, something you’ve never seen him wear before

From the kitchen, Mingyu peeks his head out with a knowing look. “Told you it would work.”

Minghao follows him, rolling his eyes. “Do I get credit for this? Or are you two going to keep pretending we didn’t help?”

You roll your eyes playfully but can’t help the smile spreading across your face. You glance at Wonwoo, catching him staring at you with that soft, shy smile of his.

“Guess we owe them one,” you say quietly, not breaking eye contact.

“Guess so,” he agrees, his voice gentle. He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, making your heart skip a beat.

Mingyu, hearing the sudden silence, turns to Hao and shrugs. “Well, they’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Hao agrees, grinning. “They’re hopeless, but cute.”

And for the first time, it really feels like everything has finally clicked into place.

[rninies]

✮ silly love

౨ৎ scaramouche x reader. fluff, gn!reader, scara's a tease here lol, modern!au — wc: 647

notes. scara fic for my bday :3

“so, what's going on between you and scaramouche recently? you guys seem to have gotten close all of a sudden.” one of your friends suddenly asks and you choked on the french fry you were eating, quickly drinking some water.

“what?”

“you heard me.” your friend gives you a knowing smile. “what’s going on between you and scaramouche? last i heard, he hates talking with people and now he’s all sweet and cute with you.”

your face turns red. “i-i don’t know what you’re talking about. besides, he’s opening up to more people! it’s not just me he’s talking with.”

your friend hums. “mm, then why is he walking this way with a scowl on his face?”

“what-?” you turned your head and they were right. scaramouche is indeed walking here with a scowl on his face. “scara? what’s wrong-”

“i thought you promised we were going to eat lunch together.” 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.

“w-well, i couldn’t find you when class ended! i didn’t want to sit alone like a loser waiting for you to come.” you said with a nervous laugh at the end. “besides, aren’t you bored eating with me every single day?”

“who said i would get bored of you?” scaramouche replies, grabbing a french fry and eats it. he looks at you with a confused look on his face. “why would i get bored of you?”

“you’re saying that as if you have a crush on me.” 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 don’t 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. “you-”

“i’m going to need you to stop for one second because i just find it so incredibly rude that you think i’m not head over heels in love with your stupid, oblivious ass.” scaramouche glares at you, obviously upset. “are you a brick? because you’re dense as fuck.”

your mouth hangs open, still clearly shocked from the sudden confession. “you- what?! when did you start having a crush on me?”

“do i have to explain in detail why i’m in love with you?” he asks, pushing his tray forward. he places his elbow on the table, his hand supporting his head. “well? are you just going to continue to gape at me or are you going to say anything else?” you instantly snap back into reality, clearing your throat.

“ahem,” you fiddled with your thumbs, nervous. “i thought you were the type to not fall in love with anyone.” you avoided eye contact, looking at everything except scaramouche.

scaramouche raises his eyebrows, obviously amused by your nervousness. “what, am i not allowed to have feelings? am i just a puppet to you?”

“okay who said-” you lift your head only to bump your nose against scaramouche’s. you stopped what you were saying, eyes meeting his. scaramouche’s lips slowly turns into a smile and he eventually lets out a laugh, quickly snapping you back to reality. “stop distracting me!”

“what do you mean?” scaramouche asks in a teasing tone. “i have no idea what you’re talking about. me? distracting you? doesn't sound like me at all!”

“haha fuck you.” you glared at scaramouche, picking up your tray, preparing to leave. “i’m leaving. have fun eating alone.”

“wha-” scaramouche quickly gets up, following you. “hey you haven’t replied whether you like me back or not!”

you turned back, giving him a cheeky smile. “you think?” you winked and turned your back to him, not giving scaramouche a chance to reply.

he scoffs. “this brat.”

[leaentries]

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 🕺 this one’s a lil bit heavier than most of my nico fics, but don’t worry! i have some new spicy things coming up!

the captain’s 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 couldn’t be happier.

You stood by Nico’s 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 tonight’s 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. 

His dark shirt clung tightly to his sweaty body, the heat around you two making a visible impression. 

You sat next to him at a table with some of the team, celebrating their win. Seeing the wide smile on Nico’s face made you want to take everything bad in the world and toss it away. That way Nico could smile forever. 

His arm rested on your thigh, corded with thick veins, squeezed slightly, just as reassurance. You squeezed his hand back. 

“You know, I still can’t believe that Merc just left like that! I was in the middle of talking too. What an ass.”

You looked over to where Jack’s 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 Nico’s arm in an attempt to smother it. 

Nico looked down at you with amused eyes, “What’s so funny, schatzi?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head, “Nothing much, Neeks. Just Jacky.” 

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. 

“You tired, pretty? You’ve been awfully quiet.” 

This was true, but only because you enjoyed watching Nico so much. To you, that was more entertaining than talking. 

“Yep, I’m all good!” 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. 

After half an hour or so, your drink had finally run out, your empty cup now urging to be filled. You nudged Nico’s arm, gaining his attention. 

“I’m gonna go get a refill,” You shook your empty cup, proving your point. 

His brows furrowed, “Want me to come with you?” His eyes flickered to the large number of people, “It’s a bit crowded over by the bar.” 

You smiled at his concern, but denied his request, “No thank you, baby. I’ll be fine.” 

He hesitantly agreed, placing a kiss on your temple and a quick, “Be careful,” as you left. 

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 didn’t have the balls to approach you, but alas, luck wasn’t on your side tonight. 

A lean man, of about 5’8, 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. 

“Hey, sexy. What’s your name?” 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.

“None of your business, but thanks for asking.” You gave him a snide smile, hoping he would take the very obvious hint that you weren’t interested. 

“Whoa, attitude, missy. I just asked your name.”

“And I don’t care.” You rolled your eyes, the strange man not making an effort to leave.

“Damn, if you’re this feisty all the time, I know a much better way to put that mouth to use.”  

Fear pitted deep in your stomach at the dark look on the man’s 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. 

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 man’s 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 man’s 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. 

Nico reached down, gripping the man’s collar, dragging him to his feet, and slamming him against the nearest wall. 

“What the fuck, do you think you’re doing?” Nico’s eyes were ablaze with fury, a hard look resting on his once-happy face. 

“I-I don’t know man,” The stranger was gasping, obviously terrified of the much larger man holding him to the wall, “I was just trying to get some pussy, like every other guy in the bar.” His meek words only fueled Nico’s anger. 

“Don’t you ever fucking touch my woman like that again. Don’t ever touch any woman like that. You’re a fucking pussy.” Nico’s 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. 

Nico was by your side within seconds, pulling your shaking form into his arms. He tucked you under his chin, tightly holding you, “It’s okay, schatzi,” He brought up a hand to cradle your head, “You’re okay. I’m here now, Nico’s here.” 

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 wouldn’t 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. 

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 Nico’s 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 couldn’t help you, but he hated even more that he was in the building when it happened and didn’t get to you soon enough.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Nico sniffed, “It’s all my fault this happened.” 

You shook your head against his chest, slightly pulling away to look into his deeply saddened eyes, “No, don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control.” 

“I knew I should have gone with you. If I was there then he wouldn’t have hurt you.” 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. 

“Stop, Nico. It was not your fault,” You held his face gently, forcing him to meet your eyes, “Please, stop blaming yourself. I chose to go by myself, that’s not on you.” He opened his mouth to protest, but you were too quick, “Don’t say anything else. Please, for me? Stop.” 

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.

 “Let me get you home, schatzi. Wanna take care of you.” 

[kunasthiast]

Blackmail

Playing boardgames and Stardew Valley are your and your husband's favorite pastimes. But, do you really have to take it so seriously? Even going as far as blackmailing your husband?

a/n: i've just been SOOO addicted with playing Catan and Stardew this holidays that i actually "craved" for some wholesome, crack Sukuna fic playing these!! also, if u don't know, Catan is a classic boardgame where u really need to strategize LOL (and i always take games so competitively serious) >.<

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: fluff, Husband AU, Gamer AU, board game playing Word Count: 882 Warnings: cursing, laughing hard (please) All characters are of age.

“Oh my God, I needed that fucking ore! Come on, here’s 3 sheeps for 1 ore.”

Your husband then laughed at what you just said. You both have been playing Catan for the past 3 hours, with all 3 games owned by your husband. And now, you just need 1 point to win but instead he rolled a ‘7’ on the dice and stole your one and only ore resource – to upgrade your settlement into a city (which is worth 2 points, by the way). Thank God, you still have your 2 hay resources.

“No can do, babe.” Sukuna continued snickering at your misfortune. “This is a game of luck and I’m one lucky guy,” he continued and winked at you from across the table.

Groaning, you rolled the dice for your turn and landed on a ‘4.’ And you got a sheep resource, again. For the 5th time. “What the fuck am I gonna do with 5 sheeps?”

“Make ‘em steak,” Your husband said as he collected the dice to roll them, landing on a ‘7.’ Laughing at this, he said “Told ‘ya, the Catan gods are with me today.” He then moved the robber from your mountain territory to your wood territory – making you give up all your lumber resources, which amounts to a total of 3 by the way.

“Oh come on, why are you sabotaging me? I thought you love me?!” You’re overreacting at this point.

“Who else am I gonna sabotage? Me?! You just need luck today, babe,” Sukuna answered with a fucking boisterous laugh that makes your ears bleed.

“If I don’t fucking get a ‘9,’ I’ll be ignoring you for a whole week,” you said and rolled the dice. Sukuna laughed at you so hard with your dice ending up at the number you said. “Aww, see? The Catan gods love me so much that they wouldn’t allow you to ignore me.”

 With a ‘9,’ you got a brick resource. Not the ore. Please, Catan gods – just two more ores.

Glaring at your smug husband, “You know what? After this round, we’re not playing this game anymore. Clearly, this isn’t for me. I’m just gonna play Stardew Valley and water all my seeds there – thinking about how that made me happier than ever playing this game.”

“Babe, it’s just a board game. Why are you taking this seriously?” Sukuna stared at you and yes, he’s still laughing. But, this time. Hard laughing.

“No. This is betrayal!” You said so seriously. How you said it without laughing made Sukuna fell down the chair and now literally rolling, laughing at you from the floor.

“As if you can play long enough at Stardew without bothering me,” he said in between his laughs. And yes, you two play Stardew Valley in co-op mode because it gets boring when you play it alone – so you always, always play it with Sukuna. He does the mining, fishing, and other heavy works there and you just water the seeds.

Crossing your arms and glaring down at him who is laughing like he just won the fucking lottery, you then said, “Keep laughing, ‘Kuna. When we’re done here, I’m selling all the gold ores you mined. Every. Single. One.”

That finally shut him up. He sat up so fast, you swore you heard his back crack, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s sabotage! Let me remind you that it’s our livelihood. You can’t sell that – they have to be gold bars before we sell that!”

“As if you didn’t sabotage me here. Stealing my ore and lumber?!” You leaned closer, poking his chest for emphasis. “Not just that. I’ll also marry Elliot just to spite you.”

Now Sukuna was actually frowning as he sat back up on his chair. “Elliott?! The poetry guy with the flowy, long hair?”

You grinned. “Yep. And I’ll make him recite me sonnets every morning.”

Sukuna grabbed the dice, clearly forgetting it’s his turn and now desperate to shift the power dynamic. “Roll. Right now. You’re not marrying that Shakespeare wannabe.”

You picked up the dice, shaking them dramatically before dropping them onto the board. And lo and behold—a ‘7.’ 

“YES!” You screamed, throwing your hands in the air as you finally get to move the robber and drop it on Sukuna’s mountain territory – robbing him off all his fucking ores. Sukuna groaned, throwing his head back.

“No! No, no, no!”

Looking at him, you stick your tongue out, “Oops, I think the Catan gods had a change of heart, babe.” You then upgraded one of your settlements into a city. “And now? I’m building my city. Suck on that!”

Sukuna looked at you like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline, “This isn’t over.”

“But, it is,” you leaned over the board and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You just lost to a girl with five sheeps and one brick.”

As Sukuna sat there, counting all your victory points and comparing it to his for ‘fairness of the game’, you added, “Also, Elliott and I are getting married this fall.”

That’s when Sukuna lunged to tackle you—and the game board—straight onto the couch, laughing so hard that you almost forgot why you’d been mad in the first place.

Almost.

[juniperdugong]

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 ⟡HE 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

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ 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 Sports’ 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

You’re 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 you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re 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 didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

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.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s 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.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

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. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

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. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

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 it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

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.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re 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!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

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.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s 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 you’re 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 you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” 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. “Ten 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 haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s 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 don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re 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 voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” 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 you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve 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?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) 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, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t 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. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve 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-boyfriend’s 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. He’s 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.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re 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.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t 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 it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ 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, you’re 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. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s 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 drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ 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 for—

“Carlos,” 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 he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s 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. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re 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 you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re 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 you’ll 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.

—

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 “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” 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.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t 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.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t 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 it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” 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.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” 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 doesn’t 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. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re 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. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s 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 don’t notice it’s 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 you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s 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. 

—

You’d 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.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” 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 cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re 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. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s 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 don’t 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 it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what 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?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

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. “I’ll be outside.” 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. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s 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. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” 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.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

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.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t 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.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

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 DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d 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 you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s 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.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

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 don’t need one just yet—they 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 Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t 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. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t 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.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s 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. “Don’t 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.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But 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.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s 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.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

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, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to 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 farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d 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.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” 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.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” 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, either—he 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 70’s 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. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” 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.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” 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.

—

It’s 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.

It’s 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 you’ve 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 that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s 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. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s 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? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and 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 can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re 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.

—

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 he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” 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 shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

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 don’t 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. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s 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. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s 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.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s 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 you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re 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. He’s 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, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a 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. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ 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.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t 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.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s 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.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ 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 don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, 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 points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” 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 video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” 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 you’ve 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 don’t 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. They’ve 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: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” 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.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

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. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

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. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d 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.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” 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. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” 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 you’ve 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.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re 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 you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve 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. Don’t 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. 

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, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” 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. You’re 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 Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” 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 they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re 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.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s 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 door’s 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.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

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 he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve 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 he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re 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. You’re 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 deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” 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. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t 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 couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s 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 you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops 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. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

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. You’d 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.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m 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 should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d 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. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s 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.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d 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 he’d 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 time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t 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?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t 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, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re 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. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

[fandomfucker]

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!🏳️‍🌈 Im actually on vaca rn (where I got the idea for this) so get ready for a couple more (long) fic drops this week. 

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. 

"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.