#i am just he has such firm lines. such a strong face so it could be so easily >[ but its so SOFT

[grapecaseschoices]

Now we can SEE why Felix looked at this man and thought: I am going make this hottie SO flustered!! [Nat: You don't have to ... Felix: No, I'm gunna.]

Doesn't my baby look so fine and adorable? Thank you to @kirnetart for this beautiful piece of my srs nerd [also psst, if you haven't commissioned Mina you should!*]

[novaursa]

Web of Gold (aegon has a cold)

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Pairing: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: aegon in love

- Next part: aegon is jealous

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @purple-1995

Aegon lounges pathetically in his chamber, propped up by an unreasonable number of pillows, surrounded by the evidence of his misery. The usually bright and playful gleam in his eyes is dulled, his silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. A crimson flush colors his cheeks, but not from wine this time—no, it's from the fever that’s had him whining and moaning for hours. He coughs dramatically, letting out a moan that echoes through the chamber as if he’s on the brink of death.

Alicent stands at his bedside, her expression a mixture of concern and deep irritation. In her hand, she holds a small vial containing a thick, unpleasant-looking tonic, brought to her by Grand Maester Orwyle. She tries to smile, though it’s clear she’s struggling. “Aegon, you must take this tonic,” she says, her tone firm but coaxing. “It will bring down the fever.”

Aegon grimaces, turning his head to the side as though the very sight of the tonic might poison him on the spot. “No,” he mutters, voice muffled against the pillows. He pulls the blankets up to his chin like a petulant child. “It smells like the dungeons.”

Alicent’s smile tightens, and she takes a breath, clearly summoning her patience. “Aegon, you must be sensible. You’ll feel better once you take it. Orwyle says it will—”

But Aegon interrupts her with a dramatic groan, throwing an arm over his face. “No, Mother, I don’t want *Orwyle’s tonic! It’s foul, and it will probably kill me faster than the fever!” He opens one eye to gauge her reaction and, seeing her unimpressed look, he lets out an even louder groan. “Why don’t you just let me die in peace?”

Alicent's patience snaps, her voice growing sharper. “Aegon, stop being ridiculous. It’s just a tonic.”

Aegon, however, is already gearing up for a proper scene. He shifts dramatically under the covers, clutching his chest with a moan that would rival a dying knight on a battlefield. “I’m going to die, Mother, I can feel it. The fever’s too strong. I can barely lift my head. The end is near!” He pauses for dramatic effect before adding in a pitiful whine, “And if I am to die, I want Y/N here with me!”

Alicent blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Y/N?” she repeats, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “Aegon, you need medicine, not—”

“I need Y/N!” Aegon insists, reaching out to grab his mother’s hand with a feverish desperation. “She knows how to take care of me. She’s warm, and she’ll make me feel better with her presence. And she’ll bring honey cakes!” He glances at the tonic in her hand with a scowl. “Not that awful sludge Orwyle calls medicine.”

Alicent pulls her hand back, her lips thinning into a displeased line. “Aegon, Y/N isn’t a healer. She’s not going to make your fever go away.”

Aegon, determined to be as difficult as possible, shifts to stare up at the ceiling, adopting a pitiful, far-off look. “Then let me waste away. Alone. Unloved. Without the touch of my sweet lioness by my side.”

Alicent pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Aegon, you are not going to waste away. You have a cold, not greyscale.”

But Aegon is already in his own world of dramatics, ignoring her entirely. He clutches the blankets tighter, his voice dropping to a rasping murmur as if his strength is ebbing away. “Tell her I need her… Tell her it’s my last wish.” He glances sideways at his mother, his lips trembling with a pout that might almost be convincing if it weren’t so exaggerated. “You wouldn’t deny a dying man his last wish, would you, Mother?”

Alicent’s eye twitches, and she takes another breath, visibly trying to keep her composure. “You are not dying, Aegon. You’re being overdramatic.”

But Aegon ignores her, already raising his voice to the empty room. “Someone fetch Y/N!” he calls out to the ceiling. “Bring her here, or I shall succumb to this fever and perish before the day is done! I can feel the darkness closing in…”

Alicent looks heavenward as if praying for patience. She sets the vial of tonic down on the bedside table with a decisive thud, her expression turning steely. “Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “I will send for Y/N, if it will stop you from this nonsense. But you will take the tonic when she arrives.”

Aegon’s face immediately brightens, his sudden smile undermining all his previous complaints. “Oh, thank you, Mother! You won’t regret it. Y/N will make everything better, you’ll see.”

Alicent gives him a tight smile that looks more like a grimace. “Yes, I’m sure she will,” she mutters, turning on her heel and leaving the chamber with an air of resignation. She doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in her stride, the sharp click of her heels echoing through the hall as she goes to find the only person capable of soothing her impossible son.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Aegon relaxes back into the pillows with a contented sigh, a satisfied smile curling his lips. He reaches for the goblet of water by his bed and takes a sip, already picturing the way you’ll fuss over him and bring him sweet treats to “help with his strength.” For Aegon, being pampered by you is the cure to any illness—no tonic required.

You sweep into Aegon’s chambers with a swirl of your golden skirts, exuding the warm energy of someone who has absolutely no idea how to take care of a fever but is determined to make a show of it. Aegon, who is propped up in bed like a tragic hero, immediately brightens when he sees you. He looks as pitiful as ever, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a dramatic flush on his cheeks. The moment you step through the door, he gives a loud, exaggerated sigh of relief.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re finally here!” he croaks, though his voice is suspiciously more robust than it was when Alicent was present. He reaches out a hand to you, his expression one of desperate longing. “I feared I would perish before you arrived.”

You smile indulgently, sitting yourself on the edge of the bed and taking his hand in yours, patting it as if he’s a fragile, wilting flower. “Oh, Aegon, don’t be so dramatic. I’m sure you’ll make a full recovery,” you reply sweetly, though there’s a teasing glint in your eyes. “But I brought honey cakes just in case.”

Aegon’s expression lights up immediately, and he clutches your hand even tighter. “See? You understand me better than anyone. You know exactly what I need.” He leans back against his pillows, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “I’ve been telling Mother that you are my cure.”

You cast a look over your shoulder, catching Alicent’s displeased expression as she lingers by the doorway, but you offer her a serene smile. “It’s only natural for a wife-to-be to tend to her betrothed, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s expression tightens, but before she can respond, there’s the sound of footsteps approaching, and Aemond strides into the room, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. He takes in the scene with a raised brow, his single eye sweeping over you and Aegon in bed, with Alicent hovering nearby looking thoroughly exasperated. Aemond’s lips twitch in what might have been amusement, though his tone is as dry as ever.

“I heard that my brother was on his deathbed,” Aemond says, a slight edge of mockery in his voice as he crosses his arms and looks down at Aegon. “But it seems he’s found his miracle cure.”

Aegon, never one to miss a chance to exaggerate, clutches your hand to his chest with renewed fervor. “Oh, Aemond, it was terrible. The fever—it was like dragonfire coursing through my veins. I thought I wouldn’t make it through the night!” He glances over at you, batting his lashes in a way that he probably thinks is charming. “But now that Y/N is here, I feel hope returning to me.”

You play along with a sympathetic look, pressing a cool cloth to Aegon’s forehead as if that might truly stave off the fever. “He’s been so brave, Aemond,” you say, though there’s a teasing lilt to your voice. “But I think he just needs a bit of pampering. And perhaps a few more of these honey cakes.”

Aemond rolls his eye, clearly unimpressed by the theatrics. He looks from you to Aegon with a resigned expression, then sighs. “Brother, you’ve caught a cold, not the Grey Plague. Surely even you can endure a little discomfort without turning it into a full-blown tragedy.”

Aegon shoots his brother a wounded look, releasing your hand to point accusingly in Aemond’s direction. “You just don’t understand, Aemond! You’re all… stoic and serious. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to suffer through this kind of agony.” He lets out another dramatic sigh, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “But Y/N understands. She knows how to take care of me.”

You pat Aegon’s hand again, your smile turning a little smug as you glance at Aemond. “Well, I can’t fault him for wanting a little comfort in his time of need, can I, Aemond? Surely you wouldn’t begrudge him that.”

Aemond’s gaze flickers with barely concealed amusement. “Oh, I don’t begrudge him anything, Y/N. I merely question whether he is truly in as much peril as he claims to be.” He arches a brow at Aegon, who is now picking at the edge of a honey cake, nibbling on it like a spoiled child.

Aegon, catching his brother’s skeptical look, scowls and quickly adopts a pitiful expression, pressing the cloth to his head as though that might convince Aemond of his dire condition. “You see? Even now, my head is pounding. I’m practically burning up! Feel my forehead, Y/N. It’s like touching the sun.”

You humor him, pressing your hand to his forehead with the most serious expression you can manage. “Hmm,” you murmur thoughtfully, as if considering a grave diagnosis. “Yes, it’s very warm indeed. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long, Aegon.”

Aegon beams at your attention, thoroughly delighted by your pampering. “See, Aemond? Y/N understands. She’s the only one who truly cares about me.”

Aemond, however, just rolls his eye again, his expression one of long-suffering endurance. “If you’ve truly caught a fever, brother, then you should rest and stop talking so much.” He glances pointedly at the untouched vial of tonic on the bedside table. “And perhaps actually take the medicine that Orwyle prepared for you instead of relying solely on sweets.”

Aegon makes a face, shoving the tonic aside with a weak swipe of his hand. “I told you, that stuff is poison. I won’t drink it.” He turns to you, eyes wide and imploring. “You wouldn’t want me to suffer through that awful stuff, would you, Y/N?”

You offer Aegon a conspiratorial smile, tapping a finger to your lips. “Well, perhaps if you’re very good, I’ll bring you something that tastes better. A little wine, maybe?”

Aemond’s eye narrows at you both, clearly exasperated. “Yes, because what you need right now is more wine,” he mutters under his breath, though you catch the faintest twitch of his lips.

But Aegon’s already nodding eagerly, looking far more animated than any feverish man has a right to be. “Yes, yes, that’s what I need. Wine and Y/N. The two best remedies in the realm.”

Alicent, who has been silent but watching the entire exchange with a tightly controlled expression, finally speaks up, her voice clipped. “Aegon, please. Stop behaving like a child.”

Aegon gives her a wounded look, but his grip on your hand tightens as though you’re his only tether to this world. “But Mother, Y/N is taking such good care of me. Can’t you see how much better I feel already?” He turns his gaze back to you, his voice dropping to a more pitiful tone. “Y/N, don’t leave me. I need you.”

You give Aegon a reassuring pat, your tone soothing. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you, Aegon. Not until you’re feeling better.” Then, casting a look over your shoulder at Aemond, you add with a playful smile, “Besides, it’s not every day I get to dote on a king.”

Aemond meets your gaze, his mouth twisting into something resembling a smirk. “Indeed. Though I can’t say it’s doing wonders for his dignity.”

Aegon ignores the jab entirely, snuggling deeper into his blankets, content to have you by his side and blissfully unaware of the thinly veiled amusement on Aemond’s face—or the deep irritation on his mother’s. And you, for your part, settle in for what promises to be a thoroughly entertaining afternoon.

[sendpseuds]

[because you’re not the only one who needed a fuck, marry, kill part two]

“Well, I’m glad to hear you wouldn’t kill me.”

Despite years of fighting beside every man around that table, Anakin is certain he’s never seen them move so fast.

In an instant he’s alone, stuck to his seat with fear and deep mortifying shame as he takes in the unreadable expression on Obi-Wan’s face.

“Master, it’s not what it sounds like,” he blurts out hastily, desperately trying to remember exactly what he’d said and formulate a reasonable explanation, “It’s just a stupid game.”

“I am aware of the concept,” Obi-Wan replies matter-of-factly, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorway, “You forget, I was young once.”

Despite his frequent teasing, Anakin has never thought of Obi-Wan as old, though he does do his best to avoid thinking about what he must have been like as a younger man [especially given some of the stories he’s heard against his will.]

“You haven’t given your answer,” Obi-Wan says coolly, his head tilted slightly to side, his striking silver stare sharp and suffocating.

“I— I haven’t—“ Anakin stutters, struggling to school his muddled mind into some semblance of coherent thought, “What?”

“Fuck, marry, kill.”

Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever heard Obi-Wan say the word fuck before and he finds it an impossibility to suppress the shiver that single syllable sends down his spine.

“I— I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Obi-Wan repeats flatly, one eyebrow quirked in questioning curiosity, “Oh yes, I remember, you require clarification.” His eyes flash with wild amusement, his tone teasing and bordering on cruel as he pushes away from the door frame and takes one terrifying step forward.

“Tell me,” he continues consideringly as the door slides shut behind him, the air in the room suddenly sweltering, “Would you really trade a sexless marriage with the perfect husband for the chance to fuck him once?”

Not for the first time — that word so sinful in the man’s mouth — Anakin wishes he could simply become one with the Force.

“I’m sorry, Master—“ Anakin rushes to apologize, desperate for anything to excuse the horrible twisting truth of the words he’d spoken, “I’ve been drinking, I’m not thinking straight, you were never meant to hear—“

“Anakin.”

Usually, when Obi-Wan says his name it makes his heart leap— this time, it feels like sinking.

“Please, don’t hate me,” Anakin sobs, burying his head in his hands and shaking his head like he might be able to shake the mortification— like he might be able to wake himself from this nightmare, “I’m so sorry—“

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan repeats, his tone firm and commanding, the voice of a battle hardened general and not Anakin’s kind and caring master, “Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

He can’t

Even when he feels warm, calloused fingers graze gently along the sharp line of his jaw.

“I’m so sorry.”

Strong thick fingers twist in the soft short curls at the base of Anakin’s skull and tug. Hard. Hard enough to wrench his head back, tears springing to his eyes as they fly open to find Obi-Wan hovering over him, staring down with wild eyes so dark, Anakin barely recognizes the man.

“You really think anyone could wake up to Anakin Skywalker in their bed and not want to fuck you?”

[1] [2] [3] [4]

[anyaeras]

Moya litttle spider || N.Romanoff

Pairing || vampire Natasha Romanoff x AFAB reader

Warning || smut! ,, they/them pronouns ,, reader has a pussy ,, loss of virginity ,, innocent kink (kinda) ,,  possessive ,, a little manipulation ,, Russian usage 

Summary  || y/n was a vampire hunter in their village ,  ended up being fucked by the queen.

FYI || this is short and just smut plus I spent 20 min on it

Masterlist

────────────────────────────

Y/n was a hunter, a human hunter at that, known for being ever so brave, the society was split between multiple species, vampires, being one of the dominating species. humans seemed to be on the lower end of the totem pole and would wallow in fear, cowering down to the enhanced.

Tonight was no different than most, y/n was out with the rest of the hunters in the community, their human town was small, but well-kept, and they did well making a system which became their way of living, a few selective people became hunters each person had a different reason for why they were a hunter, which was the most dangerous job, being a Hunter meant constantly putting your life on the line in order to protect your people, most despised the thought of anybody going through that, yet y/n had no one to care for them anyway, their parents were preoccupied, and they never made any friends, they lived as the "wanderer" inside their small town.

"Come on get your shit and let's go, we need to be quick" Kent called out, he was a tall and large man, he was in charge of the hunters for this community, yelling specifically at y/n, they hadn't meant to fall behind just it was a lot for someone their size to carry, that's what they get for being a hunter, shit they only even took this job to try and prove they were worth something to their parents, to show they were just as good as their brothers....

Running to keep up, already a few steps behind y/n was able to catch up to the rest of the squad.

"Draw your weapons" was ordered after a quick rumble with heard between the bushes. Y/n was fumbling with their bow, proceeding to just brush it off and go for a dagger, removing it from their leg holder. Yet in a flash it seemed something had pulled the weapon away. There y/n watched as the whole team ran, fleeing from the situation, leaving no help or communication with y/n, who out of absolute instant stumble back tripping over a long root, cause them to tumble to the ground, as the hunter was trying to pull themself together getting up to run following their group a lengthy hand was felt grasping their arm , panic set in quickly, now holding no weapons having no way to fight back, all y/n could do was try and run, yet due to the firm grasp it seemed the attempts were absolutely pointless, finally the creature who had a hold on y/n flip them around becoming face-to-face with a vampire...not just a vampire clearly a royal vampire.

"Aren't you a little small to be a hunter Дорогой" the red headed women who stood tall above y/n spoke down to them.

Y/n was in a pickle that was for damn sure, no place to run, the idea that this was the end and that this vile creature who stood before them whom might they add was extremely pretty for being a vampire....well what was y/n to compare it to it's not like they've met any other vampires, the only had any idea about them due to story's which have been told throughout the community....but that's besides the point.

"I am not, I am just as capable to be a hunter as any of those men" every small ounce of braveness was pulled from their body as they stood as tall as they possible could in front of the much larger women.

"Aren't you cute, well I'm sure you are just as strong as those big bad men, but maybe even braver they just took off and left you here for me, isn't that right Дорогой" the soft voice was taunting to the young hunter, yet there was nothing they could do about it, the vampire had moved closer one hand reached under y/n's jaw forcing them to look up at the vampire meeting eye to eye.

Y/n tried to pull away but was to no success, being held in a state with the vampire.

"You smell....devine" Natasha's raspy tone was echoing in y/n's head, yet it was quick when Natasha made a move, pushing her lips into y/n's which when y/n didn't entirely pull away a smirk was stuck to her Crimson lips.

"Don't tell me, you enjoy the big scary vampire kissing your lips? Mmm?" The tall vampire teased get a firm "never"' from the human, but that didn't stop her, moving her kisses lower finally to her delight a strangled moan slipped prompting Natasha to go on, something was drawing her to the human clearly going to keep the small being.

"Y/n tell me are you a virgin?" The supernatural asked stoping the sloppy kissed abruptly to ask, noticing y/n's heart race increase telling they were about to lie

"No, I-I'm not" y/n tried to keep a straight face and seem confident in the lie yet the tell tale signs would clearly give y/n away.

"Would you like to say the truth now? Or will I have to do it for you?" The vampire stated with almost a cold expression, which cause the humans cheeks to rush to a rosey shade, the long skinny hands of Natasha started to rome y/n'a body, slipping down into the waistline of their pants feeling the soft underwear material slightly damp causing the women to let out a small laugh.

"Wow for a human who came to kill me, you seen wildly turned on" the teasing only turned y/n's face an even darker shade of red, while Natasha fingers moved pushing past their panties to run her fingers between their folds, coating her cold long fingers in y/n's warm juices, the action caused a choked moan to slip out from them only leading Natasha to smirk.

"Look at you doing so well for your first Дорогой (darling) you will be such a good pet for me, you'll like the castle, it's so much better than the village you come from" Natasha's words went right past y/n, the new found feeling of pleaser overtook their thought process.

Slowly Natasha kept going enjoying how y/n was reacting, getting them hot and bothered while their cunt was just dripping, easily only one finger slipped into y/n, causing them to Yelp at this brand new feeling

"My oh my y/n tell me doesn't that feel good, letting me play with your virgin cunt, you seemed to be enjoying it" Natasha pushed on thrusting the one finger in and out before adding a second one making y/n back arch

"Oh my god, please please don't...don't stop" y/n pleaded with Natasha the pleasure of being penetrated was mind blowing, y/n didn't have it in them to think logically about the fact a vampire was fingering their pussy, all they could do was melt into her hold.

Natasha speed up the movement of her fingers yet when the feeling of needed to Piss came over them they tried their best to push away from the supernatural.

"N-no please stop...gotta pee" the words made the vampire laugh, she then saw how innocent her pet was.

"Shh no, just let go" Natasha said keeping her voice soft, while her free hand moved from supporting y/n who also was leaning in a tree, to placing pressure on their clit. With all the motion y/n was thrown over the edge with a long moan, y/n's cum flushed onto Natasha fingers, yet the vampire didn't remove herself from their pussy until they had a moment to come down from their high, the vampire held the human up with one arm, removing her other hand from their pants licking her fingers clean before turning back to y/n.

"You'll be such, a good good pet Мой маленький паук (my little spider)

[dpennedit]

EXHALE

The last leg of your world tour has finally arrived, and you find yourself suffering from burnout. Thankfully, your boyfriend knows just how to rejuvenate you.

— [Content Warnings]: fluff, smut, cursing, descriptions of same sex relations (male oral), kissing.

As requested, EXHALE is here, and I hope that it meets the expectations of the anon who requested it (albeit, very apparent revisions have been made). This is my first smut, so feedback and constructive criticism will definitely be appreciated. I did my best to proofread, but if you happen upon any grammatical errors and such, please try and excuse them.

I have several other smuts lined up, but I am still very open to suggestions! [Please do keep in mind that I am more comfortable with writing MxM smuts].

Thank you for reading, and enjoy.

— APD 🧸

You push into the dressing room, closing the door behind you. The silence inside feels stifling, the lingering scent of sweat and stale air clinging to the cramped space. Your back hits the door, and you drag a calloused palm over your face, fingers pressing into your tired eyes. You wish you were anywhere else—maybe at Terry's small apartment in southern Louisiana, the scent of pine and tobacco in the air, cuddling as you watched horror movies in his dimly lit bedroom. The weight of his strong arms around you, the gentle rasp of his gravelly voice brushing against your ear, would be enough to drown out the deafening echoes of chaos closing in on you now.

You weakly lift yourself off the door, moving to the vanity mirrors. A stray bottle of whiskey rests idly on the dresser, beckoning to you. Plopping into a chair, you snatch the bottle by its neck, twisting off the cap and taking a long, deliberate swig. You snarl as the whiskey cooks the flesh in your throat, hoping that the tipsiness you're chasing will be enough to fill the time until Terry arrives from the hotel to pick you up.

There's a heat searing through your back. Your eyes flutter open, and you sleepily lift your head from resting on your arms. After blinking away the grogginess, a familiar figure manifests before you. It's Terry, kneeling at your side, brows knitted together in concern. The usual sharpness of his hazel-blue eyes has softened into a tender gaze. He rakes it over your figure, inspecting you for any signs of harm. Finally, his eyes lock with yours, and a charged silence passes between you two.

He gives a terse nod, as if he'd suspected your frustrations from a mile away. The palm on your back snakes up to your shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

You could burst into tears. This night has been the culmination of an impending burnout. Since your first platinum record, the world has been pulling you in all sorts of directions. There are millions of expectations to meet, creating an unbearable weight you feel can only be lifted by giving up.

But your salvation is here, just as he's always been—and his broad shoulders are more than ready to bear this cross with you. You can see it in the way he bites down on his jaw, chewing on a quiet determination to never let you fall anywhere except into his arms. A shuddery breath leaves your nostrils involuntarily, and you feel the familiar sting of salty moisture welling in your eyes.

Terry is alert, moving to scoop you into an embrace. It isn't until the wide expanse of his chest presses against yours, and his careful hands trace the outline of your body, that you realize how touch-deprived you are. It causes a shiver to course through your veins, highlighting how perfectly your frames mold together. Your arms find his back and pull him impossibly close, burying your face in the nook of his neck.

You breathe in his scent—a tender, masculine fragrance with earthy undertones, which only serves to enhance his already grounding nature. After another moment, you reluctantly pull apart, hands still braced on shoulders.

Terry catches a stray tear with his thumb, banishing it from your face as if to rebuke your sadness itself.

He hates to see you like this, you can tell. You take his hand in yours, in adoration of his empathetic ways. After all, the man is hardly anything but an overgrown teddy bear despite his militant stature.

He holds your gaze for a second longer before abruptly pressing his lips against yours. Terry is as impatient as he is caring—you've learned that in the years of your relationship—and you don't fault him. You relish in the fullness of his lips as they move to suck on your bottom one before retracting with a soft smack.

"Ready to go?" Terry rasps, that velvety baritone voice barely above a whisper.

You give a small nod and croak, "As I'll ever be."

"Sit down. I'll run you a bath."

Terry's words are just as gentle as they are commanding. You oblige, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He moves to store your things away, hauling them into the closet space. His tall frame bends down as he works, boasting a perfect arch molded by disciplined trips to the gym. Your lips can't help but crease into a smirk as you watch his posteriors spread.

Once the task is complete, he straightens up and turns toward you. Your smirk doesn't dissolve in time, and he catches on just before you try to mask it. He smiles and laughs, a thunderous rumble from the back of his throat. His teeth flash white against his tan skin, and crow's feet tug at the corners of his eyes, showcasing a wholesome sexiness that can't be denied.

"So we lookin' at asses now?" He cocks a brow, smirk never quite leaving his face as he stalks toward the bed. He plops down beside you, his weight causing the bed to groan.

You look at him, an incredulous scoff. "Are you saying I can't?"

"Are those the words that came out of my mouth?" He quips, sprawling out on the mattress, tucking his hands behind his head.

You release a laugh at his apparent sassiness and roll your eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be drawing a bath for me?"

Although you feign irritation, there's no real malice poisoning your tone. You actually appreciate the playful banter, as it serves to lift the thick fog of sadness you're under tonight. It always surprises you, how easily Terry pulls you out of your head, even when you're fighting to stay buried in your own frustrations.

Terry leans up, scooting to your side. "I am. But I figured you'd like to talk first."

You respond immediately, your words sharper than intended. "About?"

"Baby," Terry whines, his words lilting with that low, southern drawl. It's a subtle plea for honesty—and just as he is meek, he is also assured in knowing that he deserves nothing less. An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close. "Don't do me that."

Once again, you find yourself fighting against admitting your failures from tonight. Saying them out loud will only make it all—the shame, the exhaustion—undeniably real. While it is pride, it is equally fear. Terry knows that. He firmly squeezes the dip of your waist, as if to stress the notion. He's right here with you, for you.

You can't deny him any longer, and soon the words start welling up, flowing uninhibitedly. As you speak, Terry is attentive, soaking up the stream of pained explanations as best as possible. Like an angel receiving a prayer, the knowledge that he's listening is nearly the only comfort you need. But his graces aren't limited to only one sense; touch is just as viable.

Terry's hands instinctively find yours, fingers braiding with your own. As you conclude your rant, he lifts them toward his lips, pressing a soft kiss on the back of your palm.

"I'm proud of you," he mutters, locking gazes with you. "But don't be so hard on yourself."

You scoff brashly.

"I'm serious," Terry's voice is firm, leaving no room for protest. "You've been busting your ass nonstop. This was inevitable."

You dismiss him with a sigh and shake of your head. "I just need to step it up."

"You're not listening," Terry says flatly, tone laced with a barely perceptible frustration. He takes your chin in between his thumb and index finger, angling your head toward him so that you are forced to feel the heat in his steady gaze. "The only thing you need to do is slow down."

Your body stills at those words. Slow down. All signs proved them to be true—the pressure in your head is persistent, and there's a tightness in your chest. Your muscles are aflame, burning for recovery. But despite all of this, a conflict still wars within you. Slowing down would mean admitting that you're not as invincible as you'd promised yourself. You'd taken on this tour full throttle, driven by a determination to prove (to who, you're not even sure anymore), that you could push through anything.

Yet, deep down, you know that this pace is unsustainable. The exhaustion, the faltering notes on stage—it's all catching up to you. But giving in, even a little, feels like letting go of the last bit of control you have left.

As if sensing your hesitation, Terry huffs and stands from the bed. He stretches his palm, motioning for you to grab ahold of it. "C'mon."

You glance up. "What?"

"Get up," he commands you. "We'll bath together."

Laughter, soft and hushed, escapes you. "Terrence—"

Terry interjects, his voice a clear warning. "Get up, or I'll make you. I ain't about to watch you do this to yourself."

You know he means every word spoken. The conviction riding in the base in his voice slowly, but surely dismantles your pride. With your eyes on his, you take his hand and allow yourself to be guided from the bed.

God, how did you manage to find a man like Terry Richmond?

Leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, you watch as Terry kneels at the tub, agitating the soap suds rising from the steaming water with his hand. The muscles in his back flex as he twists off the faucet. He flicks the soaked hand over the tub before standing and turning toward you. There's a magnetic pull between you, both of you resisting the urge to make the first move.

Your mouth curves into a grateful half-smile, and Terry returns the gesture, releasing a breathy chuckle.

"You're far," he mutters, his gaze sweeping over you. "Why?"

You laugh inwardly, knowing the remark is both a question and a demand. Arms folded across your chest, you start toward him, your bare feet padding across the pristine tile. His eyes stay wired to you, glimmering in a way that complements the suggestive smugness on his face. You leave just enough space between you to tease him, because why not?

As expected, Terry is unamused. His smirk drops into an irritated grimace, warning you not to stand in the way of what he wants. But you're just as stubborn as he is impatient.

"C'mere," he tells you.

Feeling bold, you retort, "Or what? You'll make me?"

"No," Terry murmurs, "I'll just come to you."

Before the words fully escape his lips, he's already cornering you against the sink. Heat radiates from his body, his bull-like breath tickling your skin. Whatever sparks were flying earlier have now raged into full-blown wildfires, setting you ablaze with an all-consuming hunger. You need this—you need him.

Your breath hitches as Terry grips your hips, pulling your body flush against his. "Water's gonna go cold, fuckin' around with you."

Whatever reply you have is swallowed by a fervent, insatiable kiss. Staggering against the sink, Terry's tongue wages war against yours, and you're reminded that teddy bears are still bears. You can only repay his passion with feeble attempts to match his intensity. You're his jar of honey, and he's determined to devour every drop, tugging at your lips until they swell.

All your earlier troubles begin to melt away as Terry's lips move down your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses. Your hand instinctively claws at his back, your hips bucking toward his. The harmonic tension of his panting fuels your arousal, and you quickly pull your shirt over your head, discarding it to the floor. Terry takes care of the rest, unfastening your pants in one swift motion. You lift your legs to help, and he shucks them off with ease.

When he finds your collarbone, you think he won't go any lower—but he proves you wrong, nipping and sucking his way down. The man is a master at foreplay, his rough tongue flicking over your nipple while his fingers pinch and twist the other.

A guttural groan rips from deep within you, your body melting into the sensation. You're like clay in Terry's broad hands, allowing him to mold you into the relaxation he's intent on making you feel. Your hands enclose around the back of his shaven head, and you heatedly whisper his name—unsure if it's a plea for him to let up or never stop.

The sound of his name on your lips is like throwing gasoline on a fire. Terry hums against your skin, his deep voice vibrating through you as he trails his lips lower, venturing to your abdomen. His fingers dig into your waist with a possessive grip. He's on his knees now, ravenously lapping at the defined trail of hair leading down from your navel. The heat from his breath is agonizingly close to the waistband of your briefs, and a shiver races down your spine at the thought of what comes next.

He glances up, weighing the hesitance in your eyes. His hand presses gently against the small of your back as he reassures you, "You're okay. Just let me get you right."

You've never seen him so submissive, and yet somehow, he's managed to keep his signature dominance intact. He's still the captain of this ship, sailing the seas of ecstasy until he delivers you to the promising shores of climax. You have no choice but to ride along and let him take you there—to the place your body has so desperately wanted to go since the tour's inception. You then nod, giving him permission he doesn't need but has earned.

On cue, Terry hooks his fingers into the elastic of your briefs, slowly tugging them down. His eyes never leave yours, locking you into the moment as the cool air brushes over your exposed skin.

As the fabric clambers to your ankles, Terry ogles the sight before him. He's not one for wasting time, and without a word, his lips smooch along the outline of your hardening length. It's a slow, tantalizing graze down to the head. You writhe at the contact, but he doesn't react immediately—clearly wanting to draw this out.

But you're desperate and ready for him to close the gap. You part your lips, a breathless plea barely escaping them when Terry finally makes the move. He presses his mouth against the head before enveloping you in a slow, torturous manner that makes your knees buckle.

Without breaking eye contact, Terry hooks a hand around the base of your shaft, stroking slowly as his tongue flicks over the tip. His thumb rubs gently where the elastic had bitten into your skin, soothing the grooves there. You barely have time to register the sensation before his lips move further down your length, his mouth stretching as he takes more of you in.

Your hand instinctively reaches for his head, but Terry is still in control. He tightens his grip on your hips, silently commanding you to stay still.

Terry's movements grow more intense, and your hand slips to his shoulders for stability. Without warning, he pulls you deeper into his mouth, his throat tightening around you. Your body convulses, and a ragged moan erupts from your belly. Terry holds you there, hands gripping your waist firmly, and you know there's no way out until he’s confident he has delivered you.

When he finally pulls back, the cool air hits your wet skin, and you're left panting. But he doesn't stop. He wipes his lips with the back of his palm, watching your reaction, before diving back in. His hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, forcing you to surrender completely to him.

You feel the heat rising, your face flushed and body ready to give in. You beg him to finish you off, but Terry only hums in response, savoring the power he has over you.

It’s a sickening sexual cruelty, but he eventually picks up speed again, working you harder and faster. At last, climax crashes over you. You erupt with a booming cry, rivaling the roar of fanatics and audiences you entertain. Terry takes you well, welcoming the hot spurts of spend that’d been pent up inside you.

When he finally releases you, you're left gasping, barely able to stand. Terry rises to his feet, his lips glistening, and pulls you into a rough kiss. You can taste yourself, and it only serves to turn you on even further.

He smirks down at you, his breath heavy against your skin, before murmuring, "Told you I'd get you right."

The water in the tub remains a comfortable temperature, and the suds haven’t completely dissipated. Terry cradles you from behind, your body situated in between his legs. He swiftly dips the washcloth beneath the surface before bringing it across your back, gently bathing you, just as he promised he would. Your eyes flutter closed, and you cock your head backward to rest on his shoulder.

Terry takes the opportunity to kiss along your shoulders, and a familiar electricity shoots through you, reminding you that you’re still processing the pleasure. There’s a quiet stillness in the bathroom, sharply contrasting with the wet, obscene sounds that were bouncing off the walls several minutes ago. You bask in it—in everything.

Terry kept his word to you, which will undoubtedly deepen trust and add an all new layer to your relationship. What isn’t new, however, is the care and concern that he displayed tonight. Rather it is renewed in each time he finds you functioning below normal.

You don’t need to look to know that your boyfriend is surveying you, clearly curious about your state of being at the moment. A warm smile stretches over your face, and you angle your head to display it to Terry. He returns the gesture with a grin of his own, visibly reassured.

Terry resumes his acts of love, lulling you into relaxation. You find the pressure in your head has lifted, and your once tight chest is now loose, rising and falling naturally. You glance back at the man again, never having to make a request. His lips find yours, and finally, you can exhale.

[nausicaamusiclover20]

Hiiii!!!

Could u perchance do femdom with 2004 James?? Specifically how he looked at Big Day Out, AU :333

I feel like James has a poorly masked praise kink….

I hope you like it! 🔥❤

Warnings: explicit sexual content, power dynamics ( fem dominance/submission),graphic descriptions of intimacy and sexual acts, sensual and intimate themes, strong language, may contain scenes of sexual stimulation and teasing, sexual power exchange

_____

Lost in her touch

The hotel room hummed with the muffled noise of the street below, the city still alive even in the early hours of the morning. James sat on the edge of the bed, long hair damp from a quick shower, his tank top replaced by a loose shirt that hung open, revealing the sharp lines of his chest. His jeans rode low on his hips, undone but still hanging on, a tease of defiance.

I stood in front of him, arms crossed, a smirk playing on your lips as you let the silence stretch. His knees were spread, his posture casual, but the way his hands gripped the edge of the mattress betrayed him. He was waiting. For me.

“Funny,” I said, tapping your chin in mock contemplation. “On stage tonight, you looked so… in control.”

His lips twitched into a cocky grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I am in control,” he drawled, voice gravelly.

I stepped forward, the click of my heels against the floor sharp in the stillness. “Oh, James,” I murmured, stopping just short of him. “We both know that’s not true.”

His breath hitched as I leaned down, my fingers tracing along the curve of his jaw. He tilted his head into the touch instinctively, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face before he masked it with a smirk.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?” he challenged, though his voice was softer now, almost shaky.

I straightened, my smirk widening as you watched him. “I don’t think so. I know.” Slowly, I pushed his knees apart and stepped between them, towering over him even though I was the smaller one. His hands flexed against the bed, as if resisting the urge to reach for me.

“Take off the shirt,” I said simply.

For a moment, his eyes flicked up to yours, searching, maybe for a hint of softness, a shred of reprieve. He found none. With a shallow exhale, he obeyed, his hands coming forward to slide the fabric off his shoulders, letting it fall in a careless heap on the floor

.

“Good,” I murmured, letting my gaze rake over him, lingering on the strong lines of his chest, the sheen of sweat catching the dim light. “Now, hands back where they were.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant. He clasped his hands behind his back again, his shoulders rolling slightly as he adjusted to the vulnerable position. I stepped forward, my hand trailing over his collarbone, down the center of his chest, slow and deliberate.

“You follow directions so well when you want to,” I teased, your fingers stopping just at the waistband of his jeans. “Do you always play this nice, or is it just for me?”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, and you could feel the effort it took for him to stay still, to keep his hands where you’d ordered them. “Just for you,” he rasped, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

“That’s what I thought.” My lips quivered into a smile, and I leaned in, letting my breath ghost over his neck. He tilted his head instinctively, giving you access, and I rewarded him with a soft, lingering kiss just below his ear. His exhale came out shaky, and I felt his whole body shiver beneath my touch.

“Unbutton your jeans,” I commanded softly, pulling back just enough to watch his reaction. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and dark, his lips parting as though to question. But he caught himself, nodding instead as his hands moved to obey. The sound of the denim giving way was loud in the quiet room, and you bit back a satisfied grin as he slid the waistband just low enough to expose the sharp V of his hips.

“Stop,” I said, my  voice firm but calm, and he froze instantly, his hands hovering at his sides. I reached out, tracing a finger along the exposed skin just above the line of his boxers. He twitched under my touch, a soft sound escaping him before he could stop it.

“You’re doing so well,” I praised, and his breath caught the words. I could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, the faint flush creeping up his neck again. He craved it—the approval, the validation—and I wasn't above using it to keep him exactly where I wanted him.

“Kneel,” I said, stepping back and motioning to the space in front of me. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t argue. Slowly, he slid off the edge of the bed and dropped to his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor. His long hair fell forward, framing his face, and for a moment, I just watched him, the raw vulnerability of the moment settling over both of you.

I reached out, tilting his chin up so his eyes met yours. “Look at you,” I murmured, my  voice soft but firm. “So eager to please. Tell me, James—how far are you willing to go for me?”

“As far as you want,” he answered without hesitation, his voice low and steady. The sincerity in his tone sent a thrill through me, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

“Good,” I said, brushing my  thumb over his lower lip. “Because tonight, you’re mine. And you’ll do exactly as I say.”

He nodded, his dark eyes never leaving yours. “Yes,” he said, the word barely more than a whisper, but it was enough. Enough to seal the moment, to cement the dynamic between you.

I leaned down, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was both gentle and commanding, a reminder of who was in control. His response was immediate, fervent, but he let you lead, his hands staying obediently at his sides even as he leaned into the kiss, seeking more.

When I pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his pupils blown wide. “Now,” I said, your voice dropping into a near whisper as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp. “Let’s see how well you can follow orders.”

 James is beneath me, his eyes dark with need and hunger, and I can see how hard he’s trying to hold back. His chest rises and falls with each quick breath, his hands gripping the sheets as he fights to remain still. It’s intoxicating, seeing him so vulnerable, so exposed.

I drag my fingertips lightly across his chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his muscles. His body shudders under my touch, and I watch the way his breath catches. Every movement I make sends waves through him, and I’m enjoying every second of it—watching him writhe beneath my control.

His eyes lock with mine, full of silent pleading, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. I know exactly what he wants.

Slowly, I trace my fingers lower, over his stomach, and feel his muscles tense beneath my hand. I reach the waistband of his boxers, my fingertips barely grazing the fabric, teasing him just enough to make him ache for more. With deliberate slowness, I pull them down, inch by inch, and I watch the way his body responds to each movement. His breath hitches, his hips shift, but he doesn’t make a sound. He’s waiting for me, and I savor the anticipation.

Once I’ve stripped him completely, I look down at him, my breath catching for a moment. He’s perfect—his skin flushed with desire, his body tense and ready. But it’s not just his physicality I’m drawn to. It’s the way he looks at me, the way his eyes search mine for approval, for guidance. He’s waiting for me to tell him what to do.

“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, my voice low, filled with reverence and command. “So perfect.”

His breath shudders as if my words have pierced him. He can’t hold it in anymore. I can see the way his body betrays him, the way his hands flex, but he still doesn’t touch me. He’s waiting. I smile at the control I have over him, the way he’s trusting me with everything.

I move between his legs, my hands gliding up his thighs, the heat of his skin sending sparks through me. I lean forward, my body close to his, but I’m in no rush. I want to savor this moment. His muscles twitch under my fingers, his body trembling with anticipation. I can see the tension in his face, the way his jaw clenches as if trying to hold onto whatever restraint he has left.

I let my hand slide slowly down to him, and his body jerks as if it can’t believe it’s finally happening. I wrap my fingers around him, my grip firm but gentle. He gasps, his eyes widening as I start to stroke him slowly, deliberately. I feel the heat of him, his body’s reaction to every touch. He’s trembling now, his hands fisting the sheets, his breaths coming in sharp, quick bursts.

“Do you like it?” I whisper, my voice teasing, almost a challenge. I want to hear him say it, and want to know how much he craves this.

He looks up at me, his eyes dark with need, and his voice is barely a whisper when he answers. “Yes. I love it. I love everything about you.”

His words send a rush through me, his honesty breaking down my own control. The way he speaks—so raw, so vulnerable—makes my pulse quicken, and I increase the pressure, stroking him a little faster. I feel him tense beneath me, his hips bucking instinctively against my hand, but I don’t let him have more—not yet.

I stop, pulling my hand away completely, and his body jerks up in frustration. The sound he makes is almost a whimper, a soft plea that’s enough to make me smile. I press my palm to his chest, holding him down gently, and he obeys, his body trembling with the need to release.

“Not yet,” I murmur, my voice soft but commanding. “You’ll wait for me.”

He groans, his body straining against my touch, but he doesn’t disobey. “Please,” he breathes, his voice breaking, “I can’t take it anymore. I need you so badly.”

I lower myself slowly between his legs, positioning myself just above him. The tension between us is almost unbearable, and I feel my own desire building with every second. I want him, but I’m in control. I’m not letting go of this power.

I glance up at him, catching his gaze as I slowly lower myself, guiding him inside me. His body stiffens, and I feel the slight stretch as I take him inch by inch. He gasps, his eyes closing as if trying to hold onto the moment, but I can see the way his body betrays him, how much he needs me.

Once I’m fully seated, I pause, letting him feel every inch of me. I want him to savor the moment, to appreciate how completely he’s mine. I lean forward, pressing my hands to his chest for balance, and I begin to move, slow and deliberate. The sensation of him inside me is almost overwhelming, and I can feel my own breath hitch as I start to move against him.

He reacts instantly, his hands gripping my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as if trying to hold on. I watch the way his eyes flutter closed, how his mouth parts slightly, and I know he’s already lost in the sensation. But I want more. I want to feel him lose himself completely.

“Do you like this?” I whisper, my voice barely audible, but filled with authority. “Tell me how much you want me.”

His eyes snap open, and his voice is hoarse when he responds. “I want you so much. I need you, Y/N. Don’t stop.”

I smile, increasing the pace slightly. The tension builds between us, the heat rising, and I feel him begin to thrust up into me, matching my rhythm. Every movement brings us closer, and I can feel my own desire growing, building with every second. My body trembles under the pressure, but I don’t stop. I won’t stop until he’s undone completely.

His breathing quickens, his chest rising and falling with each thrust, and I know he’s close. I can feel the way his body tenses, how desperate he is to lose control. I lean in close, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice strained with need. “Please... I can’t hold back any longer.”

I increase the pace, my hips moving faster now, each stroke bringing us both to the edge. He grips me tighter, his eyes wild with pleasure, and I know he’s about to break. I feel his body shudder, his hands gripping my hips harder as he finally reaches his release, his moan spilling out as he comes undone beneath me.

The sight of him, the way he gives in completely, sends me over the edge as well. I follow him, my body trembling as the pleasure crashes over me, and for a moment, everything stops.

We collapse together, breathless, our bodies tangled, and I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. His arms wrap around me, holding me close.

“You were incredible,” I whisper, my voice filled with awe.

He smiles, his breath still ragged, and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

[ploompkin]

Idk whether I’ll have time to finish this, but…! Here- just a teaser of what could maybe-in-future be a full fic. Based on @ohsayit ‘s scenario I reblogged earlier 🤭

Summary: You steal Zevlor’s shirt. He wants it back. …And he’s willing to fight for it.

Pairing: (gender neutral) Zevlor/Reader ; Zevlor/Tav

Rating: T

Cw(s): Suggestive!! General sauciness, but nothing explicit.

—————————————————

“Tav.” Zevlor reaches out his hand, stance firm. “I need it. Give it here. Now, please.”

You prop your chin up on your knuckles, elbows on your knees, smug, because despite the irritation in his voice you can tell by his face that the sight of the oversized sleeves swallowing up your hands has him smitten.

With the most obnoxious smirk you can manage, you issue the challenge. “Come take it off me yourself.”

He sets his jaw, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You’re sure want to play this game?”

As an answer, you just lean back and undo another button— the shirt now gaping so wide it’s just short of exposing a nipple— and stick the tip of your tongue out. His reaction is priceless, body stiffening as his expression flits between aroused and annoyed too many times to count, until it settles on… neither. He looks at you blankly, and just when you’re wondering whether you’ve finally broken him, he lunges for you. You both fall backwards into your tent as you collide, landing in an awkward heap among the cushions. His initiative is better than yours though, and before you can even think what your next move will be, he has you pinned beneath him by the wrists. Both of your breaths mix, along with your gazes, heated. Then, you brace one foot on his thigh and lock your arms around his shoulder, throwing him off effortlessly- but he’s prepared for that, and immediately breaks into a roll to escape a counter attack, pushing himself up into a crouch. You mimic his stance (not like there’s room to stand in the tent anyway), and eye him warily. His tail swishes from side to side, a playful, but confident smile on his face.

“The shirt, Tav.”

But this is about more than the shirt now. This is about pride.

You lift your chin in defiance. “I’m starting to get attached to it, actually. Think I’ll keep it.”

He growls. “That wasn’t a request.”

“And that wasn’t a surrender.”

“Torm’s tears, you’re so…!—“ He grinds his teeth— “stubborn…!”

You just wink at him. “I am. And that’s why you love me.”

He huffs, but you see the lines of his face soften. Unfortunately though, although he calls you stubborn he’s much the same, and this fight is far from over. He stalks over to you, but before he can get close enough for whatever he has planned, you rush to tackle him at the waist. That proves to be a mistake. You might be agile and have a solid technique, but he has all of that and a set of infuriatingly strong muscles. So, you find yourself underneath him. Again. It’s enough to make your blood boil, irritating you as much as it is very rapidly turning you on— but when his teeth graze against your neck, your body quickly decides to favour the latter. A sigh falls from your lips as he kisses along the sensitive skin, followed by a shiver as he drags his tongue over your pulse, torturously slowly. His body feels so pleasantly firm against yours, and you’re suddenly desperate to have more of him, arching your hips up into his with what you’ll deny is a quiet whine. The adrenaline from the fight transforms into something else entirely, your head spinning with want as he encourages you, rocking against you.

Then, you feel it. Fingers creeping between you two, presumably trying to be stealthy, and moving to undo the rest of the shirt buttons.

Bastard!

Now he’s not expecting your resistance you’re more easily able to reverse your positions, pinning him in place with your thighs, doing your best to ignore the longing ache between them.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice you trying to steal it? Really?”

“Steal!” Zevlor scoffs, “I’m just taking back what is mine.”

“By seducing me.” You lean in closer, smiling sweetly. “What an underhanded technique for such an honourable soldier.”

He scowls at you. “If I remember correctly- and I most certainly do- you flashing me is the whole reason we’re in this mess.”

“Ahh, so it did get you hot and bothered. That’s good to know.”

“I’m only a man, Tav.” He grumbles. “I can hardly be blamed for it.”

“No.” Your smile widens, “but you can be for your actions. Tackling me into the tent?” You tsk. “Really, Zev. I took you for a gentleman.”

His lips twitch up at the corner, eyes hooded as he watches you. “You seemed to enjoy it well enough.”

Your mouths are only a hairs width apart now, and you can feel each heavy breath he takes as if it were your own. Just for a moment you forget yourself, and swallow thickly. He spots the bob of your throat and chuckles, hand sliding up the back of your neck and threading into your hair.

“One last chance,” he murmurs against your ear. “Return what you stole, and I’ll go easy on you. If not…”

He knows he doesn’t even need to finish the thought; your imagination will do the rest.

“You’re expecting me to beg for your mercy, rider?” He shudders as your lips brush, and your tongue darts out to kiss his lower lip. “Dream on.”

You groan lowly as his hands grab onto your hips, claws sinking in just shy of drawing blood.

“Mrag, your insolence knows no bounds.” A dark laugh tickles your cheek. “Very well. But don’t blame me if come tomorrow morning you regret it.”

[yujo-nishimura]

Red Hair or Red Nose? - Part 4

You guys are all amazing; thank you for reading and therefore motivating me to continue writing. This all starts off very slow, but I enjoy the tension between the characters and the slow development of this triangle... Part 5 coming tomorrow!

Feeling overwhelmed by the dominating presence of both Shanks and Buggy and their brainless masculinity, you instinctively attempt to break free from their grasp. Sensing your resistance, Shanks swiftly releases his hold on you, recognizing your denial. However, Buggy, less attuned to your boundaries, continues to hold onto your face, his grip remaining firm.

“You are both quite annoying. Nothing has changed. Me leaving the ship had no impact on both of you!”, you assert, directing your words squarely at Buggy while a laugh escapes your lips.

Shanks joins in with laughter, and as the sound fills the air, a moment of realization dawns upon Buggy. For a moment his clown face is frozen in shock. The signs of recognition and understanding become evident.

“Y/N!” he exclaims, immediately letting go of your face, detaching his body parts in surprise again. Shanks continues to laugh uncontrollably, clutching onto his glass and ordering three more drinks from the perplexed bartender, not following the communication at all. 

“Y/N! It is really you! Oh my god, why didn't you tell me, Shanks, you bastard?”

“How could you not realize, Buggy?” 

"But Y/N... you've grown so much!" Buggy exclaims, his gaze lingering on your chest, causing you to blush in embarrassment. Reacting swiftly to his inappropriate comment, you slap him across the face, much to Shanks' amusement, enjoying himself to the fullest.

"Just because I am a woman doesn't make me any less of a strong pirate captain compared to the two of you!" you exclaim, your words laced with determination and a hint of frustration. Memories of the past resurface, reminding you of the gender-based assignments you were often given aboard Gold D. Roger's ship, where cleaning and cooking tasks were expected of you. However, you refuse to let men judge your strength and power based on your appearance. You have a loyal crew, you've made it to the Grand Line, and your gender will not hinder you from competing with these renowned captains seated beside you. Especially if one of them was just a pervy clown!

Shanks, who finally has stopped laughing and already consumed a considerable amount of  Whiskey in a short span of time, speaks now in his usual calm manner: 

 “I am so glad to see you again, Y/N. And you appear like you have made remarkable progress.. I never doubted your potential, but I couldn't help but worry about you, venturing out there all on your own.”

"I have a crew," you retort firmly, your voice brimming with conviction. "We are a team of five at this point!"

Now it is Buggy who erupts into laughter at your response, his amusement echoing in the air. 

"Five people?" That's even fewer than that damned Straw Hat crew! How on earth are you still alive, sweetheart?" he jeers, his words stinging deep within you, striking a chord of defeat.

Yes, it was true that not many were willing to follow a female captain, and five may not have been a large number. But you had just embarked on your journey, and you were grateful for the loyal men who stood by your side.

The effects of the alcohol, combined with the emotional sting of Buggy's comment, overwhelmed you. Without uttering another word, you rose from your seat, determined to put an end to their childish behavior. You are fed up.  You've moved on from the past, and it's time they understood that.

As you turn towards the door, a sudden touch on your wrist startles you. Buggy's detached hand firmly grasps your wrist, refusing to let you go.

"I am sorry..." Buggy's apology sounds strained, his voice carrying a scratch of regret. 

As you turn around, you witness Shanks holding his sword, pointing it directly at Buggy. Shanks, ever the voice of reason, has stepped in to maintain control over Buggy's volatile temper. He does not want you to leave. 

“He is sorry. And so am I. Have one more drink with us and tell us about your adventures, Y/N!”

With a sigh, you come around and slowly return to your seat. The calm and rational demeanor of Shanks has once again persuaded you to reconsider your decision to leave. 

As the evening progresses into the late hours, the effects of the alcohol intensify, and the atmosphere grows increasingly noisy and lively. The three of you become intoxicated, with Shanks proving to be the most resilient drinker among the group. The pub is filled with laughter and animated storytelling. In this state, the barriers between you begin to dissolve, allowing the bonds of the friendship you shared since childhood to be rekindled.

As the clock approaches 3 am, the three of you finally stumble out of the pub. The tired barkeeper, happy about all the money you spent on his place, but exhausted by your laughter and singing, kicks you finally out. 

In a state of lightheartedness, Shanks, Buggy and you begin to sing sea shanties, filling the air with cheerful and drunken melodies as you make your way back to the harbor. To maintain balance and out of affection, you hold onto each other tightly, ensuring that no one stumbles. You feel wonderful. You had missed these two men in your life and you realize this now in your drunken state more than ever. Why did you leave them in the first place? The love and affection you feel for them seems endless at this moment, you remember you have always felt for them like this but now it mixes with a feeling of excitement since these two strong handsome men are holding you in their midst. What a bliss!

Shanks, making sure to walk slowly, holding you tightly and steadily, his shoulder gently pressing against yours. 

Meanwhile, Buggy's hands rest around your hips, his touch radiating heat and conveying a sense of intimacy and desire that contrasts with Shanks' more gentle demeanor. The combination of their touches leaves you feeling lightheaded, overwhelmed with a mixture of joy and excitement. 

"Hey guys, what if we kissed now?" you chuckle, your gaze shifting between Buggy and Shanks, attempting to decipher their reactions. You do not know, why you actually said that.

Buggy's expression morphs into surprise and his eyes widen, while Shanks, taken aback momentarily, raises an eyebrow with a curious glimmer in his eyes. The air around you becomes charged with an unexpected tension as you wait for their response.

To be continued..

[yanderejustforyou]

Day 6 ❄️ Present ❄️ Making a new Christmas tradition - blood play

Day 6

The cold winter air seeped through the cracked windows of the Impala, mingling with the earthy scent of pine and the faint whiff of smoke as the twinkling Christmas lights cast their warm glow through the small cabin.

Inside the cozy dwelling, the heat radiating from the fireplace engulfed the room, creating a stark contrast to the bitterness of the outside world. Shadows danced against the walls, elongating and stretching as if trying to escape the harshness that lay beyond the wooden structure. Yet, within that sanctum, a faint and unsettling odor lingered—blood, a smell both familiar and deeply unsettling . It was a stark reminder of the strange and twisted reality that had become their lives, where the boundaries between light and dark blurred beyond recognition.

Sam sat hunched near the crackling fire, his eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural crimson hue, radiating a chilling beauty that spoke to the darkness enveloping his soul. His once-warm, familiar face had transformed into a mask of dark allure, completely taken over by the demon within him. There was a disconcerting grace in the way he flexed his fingers, as if still adjusting to his new form, the demon blood rushing through his veins like a live wire, electric and unrestrained.

Just a few feet away , Dean stood , his gaze fixed on Sam like a predator sizing up its prey. A cocktail of emotions flickered in his eyes—part concern, part something far deeper , a possessive yearning that twisted in his gut like a knife. The demon had always lurked just beneath the surface of Sam's being, but now, Sam had embraced that darkness fully. An ache throbbed in Dean's chest, battling against a fire that burned within him, a hunger that felt ancient and all-consuming.

"S am, " Dean's voice was rough with an edge, laced with a subtle desire that made the air around them thick with tension. He stepped closer, the soles of his boots scraping against the worn wooden floor , the flickering firelight casting dramatic angles across his strong features, highlighting the battle within him. " You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you? " The teasing tone was unmistakable, but there was a dark weight to his words , a hint of something more.

Sam’s lips curled into a predatory smile, his demon eyes glinting with mischief and challenge in the dim light. " I don't know what you're talking about, Dean. " His voice, rough and drawn from the depths of some unreachable place, held a dark thrill. " Maybe you should be more specific ."

Dean let out a low chuckle, dark and rich, as he closed the gap between them, his warm hand resting possessively on Sam’s neck. His grip tightened, firm but not painful—just enough to remind Sam of his presence and his control. “ I think you know exactly what I mean, ” he replied, his tone dripping with a wicked blend of authority and temptation.

For a heartbeat, silence enveloped them, heavy with unspoken words, the air vibrating with electricity. Sam could feel the demon inside him almost clawing to break free, but Dean’s hand kept him anchored, held in place. “ Your blood, ” Dean whispered, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, fingers trailing down the line of Sam’s jaw with a gentleness that almost belied the raw power of the moment. “ It’s so tempting. Always has been. ” The words came close to a growl, his breath warm against Sam's ear, igniting a dark yearning that sparked between them. “ This Christmas, we make a new tradition .”

A dangerous excitement flickered in Sam’s eyes. His breath quickened, a familiar thrill of submission mixing with the cold, calculated persona of the demon that now inhabited him. There was an undeniable bond between them —one that twisted through their shared experiences, their histories, and the complex need that ran deeper than desire itself. His gaze locked onto Dean's , the pull of something darker drawing him toward the wicked edge of his emotions.

Dean needed no further invitation. His thumb brushed against Sam’s bottom lip, a casual movement that belied the gravity of what was to come. Sam felt the smoldering hunger in Dean’s eyes as palpable as the heat radiating from the fire. “ I’m going to make you feel every inch of this, ” Dean murmured, desire coating his voice like honey.

Sam let out a breathless laugh, the demon within him alight with the awareness of the impending pleasure and pain, the thrilling dichotomy of their connection. He leaned in, their lips almost touching, the proximity igniting sparks of longing , but Dean pulled away, leaving a void of yearning. “ Make me bleed, Dean, ” Sam whispered, the dark challenge in his tone undeniable. “ That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it ?”

Dean grinned darkly, taking a step back and unzipping his jacket, his gaze locked onto Sam—coiled, intense, and primal. The power dynamics between them was familiar yet charged; their shared history made the moment electric, crackling with an energy all its own. Dean moved with purpose now, hands rough as they grabbed Sam’s wrist and pulled him up from the warmth of his seat, guiding him toward the sturdy wooden table nestled near the flickering light of the fireplace.

“You’re mine tonight,” Dean growled, the words carrying a weight that reverberated through Sam’s very core. “And I’m going to mark you.”

Sam let out a breath, not of fear, but of exhilaration, the sound akin to a low growl that escaped from the depths of his chest. The demon blood had always made him volatile , but with Dean firmly taking control, he felt a unique blend of vulnerability and vigor course through him . He had never been so exposed, yet something profound about Dean’s touch—the way he spoke, the authority embodied in his grip—made Sam crave it, desire it, more than he had ever thought possible.

Dean's hand tightened around Sam’s wrist, guiding him towards the table with an intensity that left no room for protest. “This is a new tradition, Sammy. Christmas, family, blood.” His voice dripped with dark humor, but there was a sharper edge beneath that made Sam's pulse race, anticipation hanging thick in the air as if it had a life of its own.

Leaning in , Dean’s lips brushed against Sam’s ear, whispering, “ You know the rules, right ?”

Sam's eyes narrowed, darkening like a storm cloud as he responded, his voice husky and confident, “ I’m not some fragile thing. You can take what you want .”

Dean chuckled, low and menacing, his fingers trailing like fire against the nape of Sam’s neck, drawing him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. Sam's breath hitched, anticipation coiling tightly within him, as Dean’s knife, cold and glimmering, skimmed across his chest. The blade promised both pain and pleasure, and he reveled in the exhilarating rush it brought.

“ D on’t move, ” Dean commanded, the low timbre of his voice imbued with an undercurrent of danger, a promise of what was to come.

Sam’s body tensed, hands gripping the edge of the wooden table as Dean's blade bit into his skin, each slice sending waves of surreal exhilaration crashing through him. Blood welled up, spilling down his chest, life force mingling with the air thick with desire.

“ Y ou’re going to enjoy this, ” Dean murmured darkly, pressing his lips against the fresh wound, savoring the metallic taste of Sam’s blood—their connection deepening through the very act that marked them as one.

Sam let out a breathless moan, a shudder coursing through him under Dean’s touch. The delightful blend of pain and pleasure formed an intoxicating cocktail, making his heartbeat quicken with each stroke of Dean’s hand, each single word that dripped from his lips. This wasn’t just a Christmas tradition —it was a ritual , one that only they could understand.

Dean licked the blood from his lips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. " Merry Christmas, Sam, " he whispered darkly.

Sam’s eyes locked with his, filled with a mixture of need and something darker. He’d never been this close to the edge before, not with Dean, not like this. And it terrified him.

But the desire to let go, to submit completely to the man in front of him, overwhelmed everything else.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, feel free to leave a comment or share your thoughts. I’m always open to taking requests for any ship or prompt, so don’t hesitate to reach out with your ideas. I love creating more dark, twisted, and romantic tales for you all!

[elbertsbabygirl]

Title: Wounds of the heart

Nica X Y/n Reader

Note: Hello Robins I missed you all so much it's been A months since I started posting for Fanfiction story because of work I stopped posting for a while but I am here now to present on our new boy in our ikemen villians JP server I hope you enjoy our boy!! Love u all

A field hospital near the frontlines of the war between Germany and England. The sounds of distant gunfire and the occasional explosion can be heard outside, but within the tent, it’s quiet except for the soft rustling of bandages and the murmurs of the wounded.

Y/n is gently tending to the wounds of Nica Schwartz, a German soldier with a mix of pain and intrigue in his eyes. His face is marred by dirt and blood, but his gaze remains fixed on Y/n as she works.

Nica: (His voice is low, almost a whisper, as if testing the waters) "You’re far too kind for this place, Y/n. Someone like you shouldn’t be here, surrounded by all this death.

"Y/n: (She pauses, meeting his gaze with a mix of firmness and softness) "And what about you, Nica? You speak as if you’re any different. War has taken its toll on us all.

"Nica: (A ghost of a smile plays on his lips as he leans in slightly) "Perhaps. But I’ve never met someone like you. So gentle, yet strong. You make me forget, if only for a moment, that we’re on opposite sides of this madness."Y/n’s hands still for a brief second as she processes his words. She’s heard such lines before from soldiers trying to charm their way out of pain, but something about Nica’s tone is different—dangerously sincere.

Y/n: (A soft sigh escapes her as she resumes her work, her voice barely above a whisper) "This war… it’s not something we can forget, Nica. It’s always there, lurking in the background."

Nica: (His expression shifts, a flicker of something darker crossing his face before he softens again) "But what if, just for tonight, we pretended it wasn’t? Just for a few moments, Y/n… let’s be two people, not a nurse and a soldier. No England. No Germany. Just… us."

Y/n feels a tug at her heart, but she’s wary, knowing that Nica’s words could be just another game. Still, the way he looks at her, as if she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity, stirs something deep within her.

Y/n: (She finishes bandaging his wound and meets his gaze, her voice tender yet firm) "You speak as if we have a choice, Nica. But we don’t. Not really. The war will always be there, between us."

Nica: (He reaches out, gently taking her hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he speaks with a mix of sincerity and something more elusive) "Maybe. But I’ve never been one to follow the rules. And I think, deep down, neither are you."

Y/n’s heart skips a beat at his touch, and despite the alarm bells ringing in her mind, she doesn’t pull away. There’s something about Nica that draws her in, like a moth to a flame. She knows she should be cautious, but in this moment, all she feels is the warmth of his hand in hers.

Y/n: (Her voice is soft, almost hesitant) "Nica… I…

"Nica leans in closer, his voice a hushed whisper that sends shivers down Y/n’s spine.

Nica: "Just for tonight, Y/n. Let’s forget the world outside this tent. Let’s just be…

"The tension in the air is palpable as Y/n’s mind races. She knows she should step back, remind herself of the boundaries, but something in Nica’s eyes holds her there, teetering on the edge of something she can’t quite name.

Y/n: (She finally whispers, her voice barely audible) "Just for tonight…"

As the words leave her lips, Nica’s grip tightens slightly on her hand, a silent promise of something more, something dangerous yet alluring. And in that moment, as the world outside continues to burn, Y/n and Nica are just two souls seeking solace in each other’s presence, if only for a fleeting moment.

The night deepens, and the sounds of war outside become a distant hum. Inside the tent, the soft glow of a lantern casts flickering shadows on the canvas walls. Y/n and Nica sit close, their hands still entwined, the tension between them thickening with every passing second.

Nica: (He tilts his head slightly, his voice low and almost teasing) "Tell me, Y/n, have you ever thought about what you’d do when this is all over? When the war is just a memory?

Y/n: (She hesitates, her eyes searching his, trying to decipher his intentions) "I… I haven’t allowed myself to think that far ahead. It seems almost impossible to imagine a life beyond this."

Nica: (He leans closer, his breath warm against her skin as he speaks, his tone more serious now) "You should. A woman like you deserves to dream of something better. A life where you’re not surrounded by blood and pain."

Y/n feels a pang in her chest, a reminder of the harsh reality she’s living in. But Nica’s words, though seductive, are also tinged with a sadness that tugs at her heart.

Y/n: (She tries to pull back, to distance herself from the emotions swirling inside her, but Nica’s grip on her hand tightens, keeping her close) "And what about you, Nica? Do you dream of a life beyond the war?"

Nica: (His eyes darken slightly, a shadow passing over his face) "I used to. Before… everything. But now… my dreams feel as distant as the stars. Perhaps that’s why I find myself here, with you. You make me feel like there might still be something worth dreaming about."

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat at his words. She knows she should be wary, that Nica’s intentions might not be as pure as they seem. But there’s something in his voice, a vulnerability that she can’t ignore.

Y/n: (Her voice is soft, almost pleading) "Nica… I don’t know if I can trust you. We’re on opposite sides of this war. How can we even think about… anything beyond this moment?"

Nica: (He leans in, his forehead almost touching hers, his voice a hushed whisper filled with an intensity that sends shivers down her spine) "Trust is a fragile thing, Y/n. But I’m willing to take the risk, if you are. Let’s leave the war outside this tent. Just for tonight, let’s pretend…"

Y/n closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of Nica’s presence, the steady beat of his heart through his chest. She knows this is dangerous, that she’s treading on thin ice. But the way he looks at her, with a mix of desperation and hope, makes her want to believe in the possibility of something more.

Y/n: (Her voice is barely a whisper, filled with a mix of fear and longing) "What are we doing, Nica?"

Nica: (He gently cups her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he looks deeply into her eyes, his voice soft and sincere) "We’re holding onto the only thing that feels real in this madness. Each other."

For a moment, everything else fades away—the war, the pain, the uncertainty. All that exists is the two of them, caught in a moment of shared vulnerability and the flickering hope of something beyond the horrors of war.

Y/n’s heart races, her emotions a tangled mess of fear, desire, and the yearning for something more than the life she’s known. And in that moment, she makes a decision—a small, quiet one, but one that will change everything.

Y/n: (Her voice trembles slightly as she speaks, her heart in her words) "Just for tonight, Nica… let’s pretend."

Nica’s eyes soften, a rare, genuine smile curving his lips as he leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. The gesture is tender, almost reverent, and it makes Y/n’s heart ache with the realization of how much she’s come to care for this enigmatic, dangerous man.

Nica: (His voice is a whisper against her skin) "Just for tonight."

And as the night stretches on, Y/n allows herself to fall into the fantasy, if only for a few fleeting hours, knowing that when the dawn breaks, they will both have to face the harsh realities of the world outside. But for now, in the safety of the tent, they have each other—and for tonight, that is enough.

LOVE MAKING SCENE!! ( MINORS DON'T INTERACT SKIP THIS!!)

The night has grown quieter, with the distant sounds of the war almost completely muffled. Inside the tent, the lantern's soft glow bathes Y/n and Nica in a warm, golden light. They sit close together, their hands still entwined, hearts beating in sync as the tension between them reaches its peak.Y/n can feel the weight of Nica’s gaze on her, his eyes filled with a mixture of emotions—desire, tenderness, and something deeper, something that she’s been trying to ignore but can no longer deny.

Nica: (His voice is low, filled with an emotion he’s no longer trying to hide) "Y/n… I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re… everything I never knew I needed."

His words send a shiver down Y/n’s spine. She knows she should be cautious, that she’s walking a dangerous path, but she can’t stop the way her heart leaps at his confession. Her breath hitches as Nica’s hand gently cups her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek with a tenderness that makes her chest tighten.

Y/n: (Her voice is barely a whisper, filled with both fear and longing) "Nica… this is crazy. We shouldn’t…"

Nica: (He leans in closer, his forehead resting against hers as he speaks softly, his breath warm against her lips) "I know. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to think about what we should or shouldn’t do. I just want to be here, with you."

Y/n’s heart races, her resolve crumbling as she feels the warmth of Nica’s touch, the sincerity in his voice. She’s tried to resist, to keep her emotions in check, but in this moment, with the world outside forgotten, all she can think about is him.Slowly, almost hesitantly, Nica closes the small gap between them. His lips hover over hers for a brief, agonizing second, giving Y/n a moment to pull away, to stop this before it goes any further. But instead, she finds herself leaning in, closing the distance, her eyes fluttering shut as their lips finally meet.The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if both are afraid to fully give in. But as the seconds pass, the tension and longing that have been building between them finally break free. Nica’s hand slides to the back of Y/n’s neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss with a desperation that matches the pounding of his heart.Y/n melts into him, her hands slipping up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his uniform as she loses herself in the kiss. All the fear, the doubts, the war—all of it fades away, leaving only the two of them, connected in a moment of pure, unfiltered emotion.Nica’s kiss is filled with a passion that takes Y/n’s breath away, his lips moving against hers with an intensity that leaves her dizzy. She can feel the depth of his emotions in every movement, every touch—this is not just a kiss; it’s a confession, a plea, a promise.Y/n’s heart swells with emotions she can no longer deny. She’s falling, and she knows it, but she can’t bring herself to stop. Not now. Not when Nica is holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded, like she’s his last link to humanity in a world gone mad.As the kiss deepens, Nica pulls her even closer, his other hand wrapping around her waist, holding her as if he’s afraid she might disappear. Y/n responds in kind, her own arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in as if trying to fuse them together, to make this moment last forever.

Time seems to stand still as they pour everything they’ve been feeling into the kiss—every fear, every hope, every longing they’ve kept hidden. It’s as if the world outside has ceased to exist, and all that matters is the two of them, lost in each other.Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, they slowly pull back, their foreheads still pressed together, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. Y/n’s heart is pounding, her lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss, but she doesn’t pull away. Neither does Nica.

Nica: (His voice is hoarse, filled with raw emotion as he speaks, his lips brushing against hers as he does) "Y/n…"

Y/n doesn’t let him finish. Instead, she closes the distance again, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that’s just as desperate, just as full of love as the first. She’s no longer thinking, no longer worrying about the consequences. All she knows is that she needs this—needs him.They kiss again and again, each one more passionate than the last, as if trying to make up for all the time they’ve spent denying their feelings. Y/n can feel the love in every touch, every caress, and she knows, deep down, that this moment is real. This love is real.When they finally break apart again, both are breathless, their hearts racing, but neither pulls away. Nica rests his forehead against hers, his breath warm and uneven as he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nica: "I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, Y/n. But right now, I know that I love you."

Y/n’s eyes well up with tears at his words, and she can’t help but smile through them. She’s scared—terrified, even—but in this moment, she knows she feels the same.

Y/n: (Her voice is soft, filled with all the love she’s been holding back) "I love you too, Nica. I think… I always have."

And with that, they kiss again, sealing their confessions with the kind of love that can only be born in the midst of chaos. For tonight, at least, they have each other—and that’s all they need.

With that, they settle back into each other’s arms, holding on tightly as if afraid to let go. The night continues to stretch on, but for Y/n and Nica, time has lost its meaning. All that matters now is their love and the promise they’ve made to each other.As they drift off to sleep, their fingers still intertwined, the outside world fades away, leaving only the two of them—two souls bound together by love, determined to fight for their future, no matter the cost.

I hope you guys enjoyed This I love you guys so much and I promise to make it up to you all to post more fanfics🥰

Taglist: @lilaccosmic @sh0jun @natimiles @judejazza @candiedcoffeedrops

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(Clone Wars) Commander Wolffe x Jedi!Reader: Don’t Let Me Go

Author’s Note:  Hello!! This is a fic written especially for @ladysongmaster for the fic exchange that I am participating in-  @cloneficgiftexchange - run by @ghostofskywalker 

I really hope you enjoy!!!!

Word Count: 1,862

Warnings: Fluff

   The gardens presented an array of vibrant blossoms, greeting its visitors with a pleasant, sweet scent.  It was hard to feel gloomy when walking the stone path that wound its way through the maze of hedges and arches.

   Winged insects buzzed around, harvesting nectars from the plants peaceably.  The sound faded in and out as you passed by.

   Yet the steps you took were slow, unmotivated.  A contrast to the lighter, glad ones that you took whenever he was your destination.  Since being assigned to the protection detail of this young senator, you’d wandered these paths many times.  Memorized them.  Each turn, each slope, and each bench were ingrained into your mind.  It was where you’d spent much time sorting through forbidden thoughts and desires, after all.

   That was what brought you there once more.  

   Though the atmosphere was bright and airy at the senator’s palace, you could not completely enjoy it.  The dreaded silence that had weighed heavily over everyone when you’d first arrived gave way to whispers of gossip amongst the staff and lively conversation as they flitted about the halls.

   All you could think about were his eyes.  His voice.  How capable he was on the battlefield.  How strong his arms were.  How he started out as a complete and utter mystery to you, and now you could tell his mood simply by the tone of his grunt.

   A chuckle escaped your lips.  You’d been walking in silence for so long that your own voice sounded foreign to you.

   Footsteps approached from behind, carrying the familiar thud of trooper armor.  You knew who it was without him having to make himself known, having sensed his presence as he grew nearer.

   “Commander Wolffe.”

   He stopped a few feet away, letting out a huff at your greeting.  That was the sound he made whenever he witnessed you or Plo Koon’s jedi abilities.  It was the closest to bewilderment that you’d ever get out of him.

   “General,” he addressed you.  “Thought I’d find you here.”

   That piqued your interest. You turned around to face him.  “What can I do for you?”

   Wolffe stood there with bucket tucked under one arm in a semi-formal stance.

   He cleared his throat.  “Just checking in.  There’s been talk about transfers.”

   You nodded.  “It looks like our time here is coming to an end,” you said wistfully.  “The senator is safe.  The danger has passed.  I appreciate the measures you’ve taken when it comes to this mission, Commander.”

   “Just doing my duty,” he replied gruffly.  Typical.  The man would not take credit the entire time you’d known him.  Not even after a job well done.  “Any word on where we’ll be going?”

   Your eyes fell from his.  “Nothing is certain.  All I know is I am to return to Coruscant.  You and your men will be transferred elsewhere.”

   Were you imagining it?  The shift in his expression?  His lips pressed together in a firm line as he took the news, but the look vanished as quickly as it appeared.  Perhaps it was hopeful thinking on your part… to think the time spent working together meant something to him.  It meant a great deal to you.  The realization that you would part ways until who-knows-when weighed heavily on your heart.

   Wolffe gave a curt nod.  He sighed, hesitating.  “For what it’s worth, General-”

   “There she is!” an all-too-familiar voice interrupted. “My favorite jedi!  My, I was beginning to wonder where you’d run off to.”

   You bit your tongue and turned to see the approaching senator.  He was wearing a particularly elaborate tunic and cloak set that shone with shimmering stones sewn into it.

   “Senator Gil Illel,” you greeted in the most courteous tone you could muster.  “How may I be of service?”

   “You may do so by accompanying me to a dinner I am hosting in your honor.”  He reached forward, taking your hand in both of his in one of his eccentric gestures of regard.  “You have been a great help to me and my people.”

   Wolffe let out a quiet huff, restraining himself from an eyeroll.  You had to hold back your amusement as you politely retracted your hand and gave a nod.  “The Council was alarmed to hear of any possible danger to you.  I am glad that I could be of help, but with all due respect, Senator, we jedi are not ones for formal gatherings.”

   “Nonsense! This is your last evening here.  I would have it no other way.”  Senator Illel’s tone grew more insistent, as did the glimmer in his eye.  He leaned in, lowering his voice.  “I want to fully express my gratitude.”

   It wasn’t a secret that the senator you were assigned to developed a little crush.  He’d dropped plenty of unsubtle hints here and there in hopes of you reciprocating.  However, you did not feel the same.  Not only that, but your affections already belonged to another.

   Meanwhile, Wolffe looked as if he was barely holding in a comment.  His glare was fixated on some distant fountain or hedge, refusing to meet yours.  You weren’t sure what you were expecting… some sort of help?  The best thing to do would be to accept Illel’s invitation, get through the evening, and be glad that you wouldn’t have to see the senator again.

   You would still miss Wolffe.  Your heart already ached at the thought.

   “Alright,” you said finally.  “I suppose I can drop in for a little while.”

   Senator Illel grinned.  “Splendid.  I will have the maids deliver an extra special gown.”

   “Actually, I’m afraid I have to refuse.  I do have more formal robes that will do nicely.”

   He conceded with a reluctant nod.  “Very well.  I shall see you tonight.”  With an exaggerated bow, he bid you farewell.

   No sooner when you looked at Wolffe did he finally scoff and roll his eyes.  You couldn’t resist a chuckle.  But before you could make a joke on the matter, he excused himself rather abruptly.

   “I have some business to attend to with the men,” he said, turning and following the path until he was out of sight.  Your parted lips closed with the loss of words, and instead, a sigh escaped you.

. . . . 

   The party was over-the-top.  Not one for such gatherings, you made a point to only stay long enough to satisfy Senator Illel.  The event was in your honor, but he seemed rather preoccupied with his other guests for a time.  You took the opportunity to step out for a few minutes, embracing the cool night air with gladness.

   You found yourself in the place you always went to.

   It was the same garden, and yet it felt entirely different in the evening.  Everything was quiet.  The buzzing of insects was replaced with the chirping of their nocturnal counterparts.  Eye-catching hues were washed away by the light of a silver moon.

   Only a few minutes had passed before you sensed a familiar presence.  The unsettled feelings that the evening’s events brought on were gone almost instantaneously as footsteps approached on the path behind you.

   “General.”  This time he greeted you first.

   “Hello, Commander.”  You turned around and offered a smile, letting him know that his presence was most welcome.

   “Enjoying the festivities?” he asked, though there was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone.  He knew you well enough to understand how you truly felt about the whole thing.

   “Oh yes.  Most certainly,” you replied with a similar sharpness in your tone.  “If I’m honest, I prefer your company significantly more.”

   He didn’t respond right away, and you wondered if it had been the right thing to say.  Before you had the chance to comment further, Wolffe huffed a sigh.

   “I think you know by now I prefer yours.”

   You stole a glance at him in surprise.  You hadn’t expected such an admission from him.  He continued to gaze up at the moon that shone down over the estate.  You felt your resolve breaking.  If you were honest, it was being chipped away slowly as the days went by that you worked with Wolffe.  But standing there, with Wolffe, under the light of the moon… It was finally gone.

   “Wolffe,” you addressed him informally, and he turned to meet your gaze.  “You should know, I-”

   “Well, here you are!” Illel exclaimed.  You jumped, realizing you were so focused on the handsome commander that you hadn’t sensed the senator’s approach.  “Why, oh why, is the guest of honor all the way out here?”

   You chuckled nervously.  “Apologies, senator.  I was getting some fresh air.  It is quite the shindig you have going on in there-”

   Senator Illel held up a hand to silence you before turning to Wolffe.  “Commander- Wolffe, was it? You are dismissed.  I have no need for your service.”

   You didn’t miss the way Wolffe tightened his jaw.  The irritation that flashed in his expression.  The way his shoulder flexed as he excused himself and walked away.  Once he was out of earshot, Illel turned to you.

   “Every time I find you, you’re with that one...”

   Aaaand that was it.  That was the last straw.

   “With all due respect,” you said sharply.  “He is my Commander, and a very important part in your protection detail.  He is deserving of your respect.  If you will excuse me…”  You turned, your robes flowing out behind you, and followed after Wolffe.

   You saw him farther up the path, picking up your pace to catch up.  “Wolffe! Wait, please!”

   He froze, though he didn’t turn around to face you.  You were more than fine with that.  Considering the things you had to say, you weren’t sure you could look him in the eye while you bared your heart to him.  Throwing your arms around his form from behind, you pressed your cheek to the back of his armor.  Uncomfortable as it was, it was rather freeing to finally do so.

   “Wolffe.”

   “General…”  The surprise was evident in his tone.  You weren’t sure you’d ever heard that before.

   “I’m sorry, I…I just need to tell you that I care for you.  I have since the day we started working together to protect that pompous senator.”  

   “_______,” he rumbled lowly.  

   “And I know that it won’t be long before we’re separated…I don’t expect you to feel the same, but I had to at least let you know.”

   He tried to twist around toward you, though restricted due to your hold on his torso.  “Can you-?”

   “Oh, right.”

   Wolffe turned around fully to face you, his expression more tender than you ever expected it to be.  “I…”  he paused, struggling to find the right words.  He seemed to give up with a huff and simply pull you into an embrace against his chest with both arms.

   Your eyes widened, though you found yourself relaxing into it.  For a few moments, neither of you said a thing.  

   “Please, don’t let me go,” you murmured. You knew right away that he felt the same for you.  He didn’t need to say it, but even so, the next word he spoke meant the world to you.

   “Never,” he grunted.  

   To prove it, he held you even tighter.

[sparklyslug]

I HAVE FINISHED CHAPTER THREE, CRACKED 40K, ANNOUNCED THE POST DATE and according to my serial killer progress spreadsheet, am 68% to my new projected word count (original was 35k lol oh baby look as us now)

To celebrate all of that, here is a sneak peek of some assholes behaving extremely badly:

……

Steve is moodily drawing shapes into the spilled bit of sugar next to his cappuccino (ordered, depressingly, with the hope that he might need his energy for a long night of getting to know the love of his fucking life or whatever) when the chair across from him is finally pulled back. 

He startles, with a white-hot flash of near euphoric surprise, until all the light drains out of him a mere second later. 

“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” Eddie Munson jokes, the absolute last person Steve wants to see right now. 

He wonders if he’s dreaming for a second, less because of how totally unexpected it is to see Eddie here and right now, and more because of how unlike himself Eddie looks. Unlike the Eddie Steve has become used to, anyway: gone is the black suit, black shirt, black tie. Instead, Eddie appears to be wearing jeans (dark blue wash, but still), and a richly-saturated blue turtleneck. Steve’s used to him looking hard, and sharp, but the sweater is all softness, looks as luxurious to the eye as it doubtless feels to the touch. His hair looks a little different too– like he’s put a little pomade in it, or something, the curls pushed back from his face. That, and how Eddie has actually shaved the bit of scruffy stubble Steve had been just getting used to as a part of 1990s Eddie, kind of make his mouth goes dry. It takes a few years off him, it’s closer to the Eddie Steve had known more than ten years ago, but even more alarming than that is how there’s nothing hiding how the line of his jaw is firm. How his chin is stubbornly rounded and strong, and how impossible it is not to notice his full lips. Which are currently twisted up into a smile. Not a particularly genuine one, either. 

“No, no, no,” Steve hisses, once the horror dislodges itself from his throat enough for him to form actual words. “You can’t be here right now.”

“Man, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one,” Eddie remarks. “Granted, usually with a little more that-extradimensional-portal-wasn’t-here-a-second-ago dread to it, but–”

“I mean it, Eddie,” Steve says. “You can’t be here.”

Eddie considers him for a second. 

“And yet,” he says. “Here I am. What’s the big deal, Steve? Expecting someone?”

“I am, actually,” Steve says with a sneer. It’s not a lie, and Eddie certainly doesn’t need to know that PK is a depressing forty minutes late. 

“Wow, get a load of that blush. That, and the whole delectable, reach-out-and-touch-me ensemble, sure does make a guy wonder some things,” Eddie leans back in his seat, looking unfortunately like he has zero intention of clearing out. “Would this happen to be a date, Steve? Wait a minute– of course it is, you’ve even brought flowers. Well– flower. Singular. So maybe it’s not a hot date, but a date nonetheless.”

To Steve’s mounting horror, he picks up the sunflower laid across the cover of The Wizard of Oz. Waggles its drooping head towards Steve’s with a grin. 

“Would you believe me if I told you that this happens to be my favorite flower?” Eddie says, before slipping the stem between his teeth. Wiggles his eyebrows suggestively like he’s about to do a tango, or something. 

“I would not,” Steve says through gritted teeth, making a half-hearted gesture to try and get the flower out of Eddie’s mouth while also not drawing any attention to the two of them (it’s really impossible to accomplish both things, so he quickly gives up). “It would just be more bullshit, as usual.”

Eddie fortunately takes the flower out of his mouth, rubbing a thumb over the clear marks of where his teeth were pressed around the stem, as though he could smooth away the indentations they’d left behind. The sight of it makes Steve almost want to cry. 

“I don’t bullshit you, Steve,” Eddie says, and Steve would almost think it was serious from the look in his eyes, if it wasn’t for the way he’s still grinning at Steve’s discomfort. “And it’s true– one of many things you might find out, if you got to know me.”

[rep3llista]

Uncertainties and Confirmation | Bediguda

Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, the most chivalrous of them all, is currently Ritsuka’s favourite servant. Who can blame her? Especially after witnessing his determination to his King, which she secretly hopes he would do the same for her. He definitely would. But she wishes it was out of some kind of bias, not his unexclusive devotion.

Ritsuka’s little secret is every night; her mind would go to places she knew she shouldn’t, feeling his robust and veiny hands around her tiny waist, his sweet, deep voice, the precious emerald eyes, wishing he were hers.

Technically, he is hers. Her Servant, to be exact. She wouldn’t dare to cross the line. It’s not because she isn’t daring enough; she respects him too much and knows Bedivere has firm boundaries and principles. The last thing she wants to do is upset him.

It would instantly break her heart.

Speaking of breaking her heart, Ritsuka remembers when her heart first sank after being lightly scolded by him. His scolding was out of worry for his Master, but that day, her heart was softer than usual, and the slight change in his voice caused her to withdraw from him in the middle of a critical mission.

“Master, do not ever do that again. You are putting your life on the line! Let me do all the work—No, let me continue to protect you,” he firmly reminds her; his hands are holding hers, not letting her run away from this situation. Sir Bedivere is still a knight, and discipline is his way of showing that he cares. He wants Ritsuka to be responsible for her mistake. It is tough love.

Meanwhile, it is Ritsuka’s thing to be a bit headstrong and stubborn. Being the last Master of humanity forces her to be independent and strong. That is what she was until Bedivere came into her life. Bedivere’s ways will always find their way to break her hard shell. He only wants her to depend on him, but her circumstances don’t allow her to be one.

She is not privileged enough to be a damsel in distress.

She will never be the one for him. He hates her now.

She wants to run away, but his metal hand tightens its hold around hers as if it were hoping, no—believing she would eventually own up to her mistakes. He believes in her potential to grow. He always does.

“I am sorry, Bedivere,” she finally says out loud, her eyes desperately searching for his approval on his face. Then, it softens. And just like that, a heavy load is lifted from her back. She knows so well what that smile means. It means ‘I am proud of you.’

“Master…” he immediately pulls her into a warm embrace, rubbing her back in circular motions to ease her anxiety. During these short moments, Sir Bedivere’s boundaries are blurred. In the deepest crook of his heart, he hopes he is hugging the woman he loves. Not the woman he swore an oath to.

Could those two things overlap?

Maybe he is in love with her.

He quickly brushes his inappropriate thoughts away. Dreams should only stay in dreams. Now, he should focus on reality, where his precious Master looks like she could cry at any minute. He never want to see her cry.

“I don’t ever want to lose you, Master. You are so important to me, more important than my own life. So let me be your sword, depend on me, be selfish for me. Stay alive for me.”

His hug tightens like he doesn’t want to let her go.

“I cherish you. I truly do.”

In the midst of their shared uncertainties, they found solace and strength in each other's company, reaffirming their unbreakable bond.

[protect-daniel-james]

Ao3 wrapped ask game! 18, 27, 29 x

Thank you!!

18. The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

Already answered, so just to make it short - the Redknapps, since the Lampardverse is all about the Lampard(s) obsession with the Redknapp(s), and ofc that makes the Redknapp(s) hard to read/write/understand, since the only opportunity to see him/them is through the Lampardian gaze. Unreliable narrator, unreliable storytelling, and all that. Currently, I'm writing a Poch/Ange fic and I'm having a trouble to keep Ange's character in the "believable" spot, without making him a Zorba the Greek reincarnation lmao.

(tho I do want to see him teach Poch The Dance)

27. What do you listen to when writing?

That heavily depends on the story! So for example for "thematic" stories - like Txoria txori - I will listen to something that I imagine the characters listening to (so, in this case, Beti Mugan, Hertzainak, Oskorri...), or something that could accompany the scene if the fic was a movie.

Sometimes I will connect a song with characters for seemingly no reason whatsoever lmao. So for example to write emotional parts of Howe/Tindall fics, I will listen to Weather with you and The sun always shines on TV. I just imagine a movie with them as characters - two guys who weren't close in the playing days, but now are "made" to work together in very shitty circumstances, and they have to do everything on their own (cut the grass, repair stuff around the stadium, plan the trainings, scout the players...), and I just imagine them working their asses off, drinking bad strong coffee, driving for hours in a car together, eating awful egg sandwiches at gas stations, getting soaking wet outside, and growing closer and closer... All to the sound of very 1980s music (well, Eddie is an a-ha fan, so that could work).

But I think I am most productive when I listen to Binaural beats on Spotify, or some vaporwave/mall music with no lyrics, because then I can just concentrate fully on the scenes and sentences.

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

I am proud of the ending of Just a step from Heaven, hehe. I knew I wanted to end it on a sort of ... cliffhanger? Or, I just wanted the readers to follow Franko's messy thoughts the whole time, thinking "well, obviously he's not right in the head, he's imagining all this and giving it significance but he's unreliable" - and in the end, to realize that maybe he's not just wishing and dreaming and fantasizing, maybe Jamie ... knows. Or wants.

I'll put the rest under a read more cut since it's nsfw-ish and ... unai-esque.

"It was warm, he could feel it through the thin paper tissue, and he shivered as he focused on the two contrasting sensations, the warmth in his hand, and the cold, lifeless weight pressing against his face and he moaned, realizing that this was what turned him on so much, the contrast of the life and the lifeless, his body with its fluids and heartbeat and breath, against the firm and hard surface that couldn’t produce anything if the kind, his short, labored breathing against the definitive and firm shape of an item. He loved facts that couldn’t be argued with, he loved hard lines that couldn’t be changed, he loved concepts that couldn’t be touched at all – and the trophy combined all of it; his, virtuous, non-judgemental. He believed that on some level, the trophy could understand him."

As y'all might have noticed, I'm obsessed with objectum Unai. It's deffinitely more difficult than writing a regular smut I'd say? But it just makes a great opportunity to explore all the sensations that... a person can experience alone? just with their thoughts?

And of course all the stuff about Villa and Villa Park, and stadiums overall. Tbh, I'll never look at stadiums the same. And I might (?) get to go to Birmingham next year? (not just because of this; I have a friend studying in Coventry, but maybe on the way there ... ?)

He needed it to get a sense of any club he's ever been to, to be able to feel what the supporters felt, to walk into a stadium and breathe the club in, see the walls of the stadium, and not think of them as walls of a stadium covered in advertising boards, but to consider them part of the club's identity. Not think of the fastest way to make it past the walls, but think of the generations that have - or will have - seen them and walked along them in the rhythm of collective choreographies of congregation, interaction, rest, and relaxation, passing them in the secular rituals and pilgrimages in the quest of being there, at the stadium, where the club existed in its purest form, not just as a profitable cash-cow in the marketing team's wet dreams. The club wasn't an idea or a brand roaming the globe there; it was real, made of bricks and turf and wood and plastic seats in its colors, and it was tangible, present, smelling of fresh grass and soil and omelette bocadillos and cheap canned beer that was sold nowhere else but the stadiums, but also of the strong gassy smell of petrol that was used for travels to these places of worship. Unai has seen his fair share of stadiums during his playing and managing career, and even the smallest, most insignificant stadium in the Spanish third division left him with a strong sense of place - it was a place like nowhere else, it was unique, it was special, and he still remembered clearly all the travels, the excitement, the rushed parking of the car he and Juan Carlos shared for such travels to any available stadium in their proximity, the quick beer and an oily sausage on a paper tray - all these memories were like an appetizer, an introduction, the necessary and beloved part of the ritual, that had to be done because otherwise, the experience wouldn't be complete. Even when he used to watch fourth division bound clubs where the tactics consisted of instructions in the sense of 'try to score a goal and stop them from scoring one', he was mesmerized. When the game wasn't good or worthy of following, there was still so much to focus on, to watch, to take in; the smell of the pitch, the taste of the half-time beer, the humming sound of the crowd, and the wet smell of the pitch if it rained in the morning, the first raindrops splashing against the concrete steps of the stands.  There was nothing quite like it. It was always familiar, but never the same, there was always a reason to go again, to move on, to go to another nearby stadium. It was the loveliest thing there was.

I mean, all of this is pretty much a "normal" thing that people who do groundhopping and similar stuff do - it's just that Unai feels more strongly about it than a regular person.

When he walked onto the pitch for the first time, he knew he made the right choice. This was it. He got the right kind of kick, inhaled the air, and smelled football, football, football, football in everything, in every single color and shape, and smell and taste around the stadium. He saw the year 1874 displayed in golden numerals above the pompous staircase leading to the stadium, and he felt it, the breath of the passing decades, of the hundreds of thousands of fans who had to pass through the stairs and turnstiles. Villa. It felt like a piece of home away from home. The softness of the double "l" was familiar, so often harbored in his mouth that it felt like a natural fit. Aston was foreign, yes, but Villa always brought him home. The ending of the word, it wasn't lost in the air like Paris Saint-Germain or hidden under the tongue like in the name Arsenal  - Villa was a two-syllable whisper ending on a high, having a sense of expectation - Vil-la, Vil-la, there was hopefulness in the suffix; where Arsen-al was closed inwards, Vil-la curled outwards, reaching out to the new heights. He rolled the syllables around in his mouth and could taste them - in a way that no other club has ever made itself known to him.

God, I could put the whole fic over here - I said I am the most proud of it, and I wasn't lying ♥ (and I know you read the fic so it's probably pointless telling you hehe)

[unadulteratedkr]

Rules: Pick any ten of your fics, scroll roughly to the midpoint, pick a line (or three) and share it. Then tag ten people.

So @sdwolfpup did this a little while ago and said anyone who saw it should give it a go, so here I am, giving it a go! I decided to just do my most recent 10 fics, so it'll be almost entirely OFMD fic with a small dash of What We Do in the Shadows thrown in the mix.

Between the Sand and the Stardust (OFMD, Rated E)

He could hear the noise of the market behind him—Tongues for sale, give us your teeth for a new tongue—fuck off, last time you took my memories before I was three to get rid of my snores, and you fucking replaced my snores with a fucking train whistle—hey, come back—hey!—but they faded into the far-off sounds of the crashing waves. Ed focused on the waves, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, focused on anything except for the shards of his heart sloughing off to slice away at the only happiness he could ever remember holding tenderly in his hands.

2. plunge me deep (OFMD, Rated E)

“Sit up for me, beloved. I want—“ Stede takes a shuddering inhale, overcome with the simplicity of wanting. “I want to hold you.”

Ed doesn’t even need to push at the ground to sit up; the tentacle cradling his head has Ed upright before he can breathe his agreement with a word. Stede keeps kissing Ed as he maneuvers his way around him, careful, firm caresses of Stede’s lips to his neck, his shoulder, anywhere Stede can reach. Ed grasps at Stede helplessly, trying to return kiss for kiss with little success. It makes Stede laugh again, and Ed could weep now that he knows what that laugh tastes like.

“Love—please—"

Ed doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, all he knows is he trusts Stede enough to plead out loud. Stede takes Ed’s trust into his strong, sure hands and pulls Ed in against his back.

3. let it rain, 'cause you and I remain the same (OFMD, Rated E)

Lucius is swanning against the rat-lines with all the arrogance of a man who was rescued by mermaids. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this. What the fuck is going on, Ed?”

Ed splutters, and if Lucius hadn’t just called him out on the absolute absurdity that is his current situation, he’d be pretty pleased at how very Stede-like he sounds right now. Lucius—the little shit , Ed can’t help but think fondly—just arches his brow and waits for Ed to calm down enough to talk.

“Don’t have a clue, man. Oluwande thinks maybe our… souls have been switched.”

Lucius looks at him expectantly, and when Ed shrugs, he lets out a frustrated noise that sounds something like a strangled goose choking on a garlic bulb.

“Oh because that’s a helpful answer!” He glowers at Ed, settling his hands on his hips. “Anything else of merit you want to contribute?”

4. in the winter wind, be my warm (OFMD, Rated T)

Stede yelps as another snowflake plasters itself to his face. “They’re wet.”

Ed bites down on what Stede suspects mulishly is a laugh, and instead he nods solemnly. “Afraid so, love. Snow’s just frozen water, and you must have had some form of shaved ice at one of those fancy parties. I’ve raided enough ice-ships to know that’s a thing among the gentry.”

Stede huffs petulantly. “Well of course I have, but every story says snow is fine and powdery! I thought it would feel like… like icing sugar!” Ed’s shoulders shake with silent laughs, and Stede glowers at him, indignant. “Well, I did!”

5. crossed all the lines and broke all the rules (What We Do in the Shadows, Rated E)

“Do you have any idea, my darling, how much you’ve been driving me to utter madness since we met?” Viago’s tongue curls around “my darling” like it did around Anton’s tongue not a moment before. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted to know if you taste as irresistible as you smell?” Viago leans down, pressing the flat blade of his tongue into the punctures he’s left in Anton’s shoulder, a wrecked moan joining Anton’s blood on Viago’s lips. “You do, by the way. Dear Anton, do you have any idea how ruinously delicious you taste?”

“Viago—“ Anton manages to gasp, and honestly, it’s a fucking wonder he can form words, let alone Viago’s name at this point, “—please.”

Viago hums in pleasure, wetly lapping up the blood dripping down to stain Anton’s shirt. Anton’s not sure, but he’s fairly certain he’ll be able to reattach the buttons. Maybe he’ll keep it, maybe he’ll wait for the bloodstain to set before he washes it, maybe he’ll wear it to sleep every night and jack off to the irrefutable proof that he let Viago feed from him. He’s whimpering at the thought, and a single word falls from his mouth without a second thought.

“More.”

6. Stand to Face Me, Beloved (OFMD, Rated E)

If they were together, there wouldn’t be a sailor on board who could withstand Annie’s ability to fuck with their fears of two women independent on the sea or Mary sliding as effortlessly from lady to sniper as she used to slide from Mark to Mary.

But Annie isn’t here. And she won’t be alive and real and Mary’s until Mary can see her again, so Mary continues to weep and simper and debase every inch of strength she has.

“Please—I just want to know if her baby is doing well. I don’t mean any trouble. Neither of us ever meant any trouble.”

Mary’s tears chase the sailor out of the room with a half mumbled promise to find more information, and when the door shuts, Mary sinks to the floor, stifling her painfully real cries around the hand still emblazoned with Annie’s gold ring.

7. and as I go along, I want you with me (OFMD, Rated E)

Stede gives up trying to undo the last button and tugs Ed’s trousers down impatiently, but he freezes when the trousers are down to Ed’s knees, eyes fixed on the still-healing tattoo on Ed’s thigh.

Ed pushes himself up to his elbows, gazing down at Stede through an over-stimulated daze.

“You like it?” His voice is soft, like that lovely swath of cashmere Ed first stroked across his skin on the day he and Stede met. There’s a whole ocean between then and now, but Edward Teach is the world’s most notorious pirate; he can sail those choppy waters back to the softness of that moment.

“That’s—Edward.” Stede’s fingers are shaking, hovering a hair's breadth away from Ed’s skin. “That’s—that’s my name. You—you tattooed my name. On you.”

8. I'll follow the echoes (OFMD, Rated E)

Since Ed needs a measure more of courage before he can lift his eyes to the man he loves, he turns one more time–perhaps one last time–to the piano, and plays his heart.

If Ed were being objective about this piece, he’d say it was pretty fucking boring, all things considered. He’s not playing any complicated melodies, he’s not adding trills and flourishes. But he doesn’t need those tricks to share this quiet and vulnerable room in his heart with Stede. He’s saved all the good notes for this song, and he plays them without reservations for Stede to see his heart one more time.

9. sin is sacred again (OFMD, Rated E)

He lifts the tentacle in his hand to his mouth slowly, giving Ed every chance to pull away. In the dim moonlight, Stede can see some of Ed’s starry tattoos have become a delicate charcoal pattern on the smooth, black skin. It’s comforting to see something so familiar. It’s beautiful.

Stede presses his lips to the tip of the tentacle in his hand gently. It’s the second time he’s ever kissed Ed, and even though it’s certainly nowhere near how Stede imagined kissing Ed again, he can’t hold back a sigh. He’s grateful for the water and the other limbs supporting him because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to handle kissing Ed while standing. It’s never going to stop making his knees go weak.

Stede—

“Ed, I have made some truly wretched decisions since you kissed me. This— “ Stede punctuates the word with another kiss that sets Ed’s tentacles swirling,”—is not one of them.”

10. a mile of clean sand (OFMD, Rated E)

There is so much love brimming in Stede’s heart—a heart so young to love–he feels like he might burst. Stede’s voice cracks as he recounts the bullies of his youth, his father, his marriage, Chauncey’s last venomous words, all the things that had him running, all the while softly stroking the laugh lines and the tear troughs that form Ed’s beautiful, steady eyes.

“I didn’t become the Kraken, Ed. I just decided to let it hold me underwater until I got so used to drowning, I got scared when you asked me to breathe air again.” Stede’s fingers tremble as he works a lather up with the soap—lavender—and he lets them tremble as his fingers trace sudsy patterns in the creases. Stede feels like he has them memorized from seeing them crinkled in laughter.

Ed closes his eyes again, and Stede can feel the shifting tensions against his fingertips. He catches the first tear on his finger as he swipes a thumb through the streaks of paint.

“You left. ”

I don't know if I have ten people to tag, but I'm gonna throw this to @ignisentis, @thebrimmingheart, @bizarrelittlemew, @oatmilktruther and anyone else who wants to share off some words they're proud of 🥰

[rose-tinted-juls]

I'M SCREAMING OMG i should be packing rn bc i move into my new rent for uni today, instead what was i doing? reading this bc i couldn't stop thinking about a house a home and wanted to know what happens next. do i have to rush impossibly now with the packing? yes. do i regret choosing to read where do we go instead? 100% no.

1. THE PARALLELS!!!! i was honestly squealing after reading the first line and the last but let's talk about that later shall we so yeah, the "carlos sainz is a ..." sentences straight on killed me. from the very first second.

2. "charles's eyes are still bright, elated you had decidd to come alongside him. all he had to do now was fix every other mistake spanning over twelve months."

3. "however, his grasp, like the entirely of his actions over the past twenty-four hours, was different. charles' thumb gently stroked over your knuckle, his fingers gently resting against yours instead of the firm grip he usually held for the sake of actions. he'd taken a moment to look at you before entering the building, something he'd never done in the past, simply having dragged you into whatever location instead. it was as if his eyes told you a million things; that he had your back and the moment you wanted to leave, he was right behind you."

4. this conversation: "i didn't realise you'd be here, mariposa. come to make sure your husband behaves?" - "no. i came to see how his teammate is behaving. i'm a married woman, carlos." - *your marital status doesn't change the way i feel for you." I'M DEAD I'M SCREAMING I LOVE THESE TWO SO MUCH

5. "he tries to keep his breathing calm, your presense practically overpowering him." oh to be that woman who has that effect on carlos sainz jr himself.

6. "when you take a sip of the rich red, you're blissfully unaware of your husband's eyes; the ones which are never attached to you, but in that moment, don't want to focus on anything else." AHHHHH honestly jay you're killing me over here

7. also, "nobody misses the way he purposely sits between yourself and his teammate, fingers interlocked into yours tightly, the occasional kiss on the temple of your head. you were his wife, after all." EXCUSE ME. i don't even know why am i crying at this so hard i just do

8. "it didn't stop him from gently rubbing a makeup wipe over your features, knowing you'd regret your lack of attention to appearance in the morning." DOMESTIC CHARLES 😭😭 also this is finally something so husband of him why are you so late with this charles why couldn't you be like this a year ago 😭

9. "you can'thelp but hesitate when you pull back from his face, lingering within mere millimeters of his lips for a long moment; you could just lean forward, press your lips to his and give into all those nights you had dreamed of. but this wasn't a dream; this was your husband whom you needed to fix a relationship with first." SHE STRONG omg i could never be her, half broken relationship or not i would kiss charles leclerc no matter what.

10. CHARLES AND HER LITTLE SISTER 😭😭 and how she reminds him of baby arthur 😭 i'm not okay rn

11. "undeniably, carlos sainz looks good in any situation." *george russell voice* FACT. carlos is honestly unreal by how good he always looks.

12. again, the beginning and end of "carlos sainz is a best friend" and "carlos sainz is your best friend" ughh *chefs kiss* breathtaking writing once more

13. i FEAR that the photo carlos took of her sleeping will come back somehow and it will cause me pain i'm AFRAID

14. so back to the parallels. FINISHING AGAIN WITH A CONFESSING TEXT!!!! AND THIS TIME IT'S CHARLES ADMITTING TO BE IN LOVE WITH HER. I'M DECEASED AND IN HEAVEN FOR SURE. charles babe why are you so late and make things so much more complicated </3

another gorgeous chapter by the queen herself that i couldn't help but read asap. now i just have to find time to read the third part and my life will be complete. new fave c2 fic? easily. i ADORE everything about this fic and about its precious writer. there are no words that could properly express how much i love you, @forteafy <333

Where Do We Go? | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Charles will do anything to fix his marriage with you, Carlos will do anything to prove you're worth more. The question is where do you go between the two men fighting for your affection?

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: angst, a lotta angst, cheating, light smut, character death.

Note: You all really wanted a Part 2 to this one, and of course, I wanted to deliver! This is a little bit more angsty, we’re trying to save a relationship, after all. Or…are we? Also, a massive thank you to @formulaforza for proof-reading this for me and pulling me up on my addiction to italics; my brain is literally jelly right now. Enjoy, everybody!

You can read part 1, ‘A House, A Home,’ HERE!

Carlos Sainz is a best friend. 

Best friends, however, do not text a love confession to one another in the hours of a rising sun, especially not when their declaration is to a woman who is wrapped up in the arms of her husband. 

The confession had run cold through your veins; if it hadn’t been for the sheer exhaustion taking over your body from the events of the past 48 hours, you were certain you would have been up the entire night, contemplating the words he had sent to you. He wasn’t drunk; far from it, the man had driven you down the dusky streets to your home mere hours before. Was he lonely? Did he feel sorry for you? More importantly, did he mean those precious words that had lit up your screen?

Eventually, the desire for sleep, for the warmth of your estranged husband’s chest pillowing your back overtakes your body. You hadn’t slept in a bed with him since the last day of your supposed honeymoon; even then, you had slept with an infinite gap between the two of you, cuddling instead into a pillow, rageful tears in your eyes at the realization that this was now your life. 

This was entirely different. Charles pressed into you as if holding you together; his warm breath danced across the nape of your neck, a hand pressed into your stomach, cradling you between the warm blankets and soft cushions you had picked out when decorating your room. You didn’t rouse during the night, the two before had been filled with tears, constantly awakening to call for your mother as if you were a child again, the harsh realization that she wasn’t around anymore. 

When you did wake, the bed was empty. 

You had subconsciously turned in the blankets when you arose, expecting to see the figure of your husband next to you. The pillow was still rumpled, his glasses disappeared from the nightstand, every single trace of him had seemed to evaporate. Clearly, one night next to you had been a big enough mistake in his eyes. 

Instead, your attention turns towards your phone. Silently, you remove the device from its charger, the homescreen being flooded with sympathetic messages and photographs of you arriving at your father’s home. Luckily, no photographs of Carlos picking you up himself had been released; that would have caused a frenzy which wasn’t desired on either side. 

However, his last text to you that evening before still stayed burned into your screen. In curiosity, you’d once again opened the text thread, seeing th

e words stand strong, his confession to his feelings presents for your eyes. He had laid it out so clearly, Carlos Sainz was in love with you. 

But, were you in love with him? You loved your family; you loved the smell of fresh candles. You adored the sounds of the fastest cars in the world racing around a track whilst you watched with ease. Did you categorize your best friend into the love you so carefully crafted? Was the desire you felt for contact solely directed towards him? 

You never had time to answer yourself that morning. Your subconscious state recognised the sound of footsteps; it was most likely Charles, on his way to his own room for some private time. Maybe he’d have his mistress with him, having snuck out of bed early that morning to possibly go and pick her up himself. 

The footsteps get louder, the door to your room opens, much to your confusion. In the doorway, stands your husband. You’ve never seen him like this; a soft smile, hair pushed back by a bandana, glasses resting on the bridge of his small nose. He’s dressed in a soft, grey jumper and matching tracksuit bottoms, fluffy socks warming his feet. In one arm, he cradles a washing bag. Upon closer inspection, you see that it’s your washing from the case you had lugged in the night before, ironed and folded. In his other hand, he holds a steaming mug of tea. 

He looks beautiful like this, almost ethereal. He looks domestic. 

“Good morning.” He speaks gently, as if any sudden sound would hurt you. You looked…so precious, covered in blankets, your pajamas covering your modesty. “I’m sorry I had to leave early. I went to get your washing done and…pick up some tea.” He offers, holding up the bag of washing in confirmation. Charles offers you a smile as walks into the room, placing the pile of clothing on your vanity. Cradling the mug of hot tea in his hand, he walks back over to where you’re now sat up, surrounded by soft furnishings, offering you the drink which you gladly accept. 

It's a mediocre cup of tea at best; the teabag hasn’t diluted properly, there’s too little milk and too much sugar. Yet, the fact he had made the drink himself caused your heart to soften, despite the past twelve months of actions. You offer him a soft ‘thank you,’ as the drink touches your lips. You’re half-expecting him to stand up and leave immediately. Instead, Charles sits himself down on the edge of the bed, making certain he doesn’t sit on your outstretched legs. 

There’s a moment of bliss; you’re somewhat enjoying the drink cradled in your hands, your husband’s eyes trained on your movements. At one moment, he reaches out his hand towards your face. You flinch, not too sure on what was happening, before his palm simply tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You can’t bring your own eye gaze to meet him, simply focusing on the hot drink in your hand. You can’t help but notice the way his shoulders fall, clearly not satisfied with the lack of eye-contact. 

You can’t help it; it’s as if Charles believes with one night wrapped in his arms would solve the past twelve months. You couldn’t forget, not everything that had happened. Your husband had shattered this relationship, well and truly. He could only hope he’d realised in enough time to somehow win you back. Silently, he stands up from the edge of the comforter, walking towards the vanity, beginning to remove the clothing from its basket. It’s… humorous, to see him try and figure out where each category goes. It’s also a stark reminder of how this is ‘your’ room, not ‘our’ room.  

Whilst picking out a rather revealing pair of panties, folding them up and placing them into your draw, he begins to speak again. “What are you doing this afternoon?” His voice is soft, but in the silent room it carries well.

You shrug, before realizing Charles has his back to you. “I’m…nothing much.” You cut yourself off, placing the cup of tea on your bedside table, letting your hands pull up the comforter a little higher. “My father is going to the funeral parlor today.” Are you…having a conversation with your husband? “How about you?”

“I have lunch with the Ferrari team this afternoon. Nothing serious, just a talk on the next part of the season.” He explains. Charles isn’t stupid; he knows despite your father’s input that you constantly worry about his job. Not because you care about his fame, wealth or power; you care about him. 

“I was,” he takes a breath. “I was wondering if you would like to come along.” 

You feel goosebumps prickle across your exposed skin. Charles Leclerc never invited you to his lunches. He’d always have a reason as to why his darling Mrs. Leclerc could never attend their lunch meetings alongside him. The only time you’d ever appear by his side, fingers harshly interlinked and a cold barrier between you both was when your father insisted upon it. He wouldn’t be there today, there was no way he’d be present for any form of meeting for a while now. 

“You don’t have to, of course.” His explanation runs further. “I know it might be too much for you now. I just thought…maybe we could go for a drive after. Carlos and Xavi will be there, you’ll know some of the others from the Paddock…” His voice trails off in your mind. It had started to  the moment he had said the Spaniards name. 

Were you… ready to see Carlos? The day after a text message you had never thought you’d see. Would he acknowledge the message, was it a drunken mistake? Most importantly, did you want him to love you? 

When you come back out of your trail of thoughts, Charles is still talking, carefully hanging one of your summer dresses onto a velvet coat hanger. He takes a moment to brush the fabric under his fingertips, feeling the soft cotton under his touch. He’s so gentle. The touch is almost identical to the way he had held you mere hours ago.

“I’ll come.” You cut him off, watching as his head snaps in your direction, eyes bright underneath his glasses. “Yeah. It will be…nice.” You finish your sentence, trying not to ramble or to float off topic. Charles’ eyes are still bright, elated you had decided to come alongside him. All he had to do now was fix every other mistake spanning over twelve months. 

Carlos Sainz is a red-wine gentleman. 

You’d immediately spotted him the moment you had entered the waterside restaurant; his back was to the entrance, but you’d recognise the powdered blue shirt and dark wisps of hair in any circumstance. You could have just walked over, stood next to him and ordered a drink, but your fingers stayed tightly interlocked with your husbands, a force of habit in public at the current rate. 

However, his grasp, like the entirety of his actions over the past twenty-four hours, was different. Charles’ thumb gently stroked over your knuckle, his fingers gently resting against yours instead of the firm grip he usually held for the sake of actions. He’d taken a moment to look at you before entering the building, something he’d never done in the past, simply having dragged you into whatever location instead. It was as if his eyes told you a million things; that he had your back and the moment you wanted to leave, he was right behind you. 

The moment you’re in the presence of company, the façade still comes alive, the act you had been creating for all this time is still a force of habit. Charles’ hand comes around your waist, greeting the many members of the Scuderia Ferrari team, thanking them for his time and attention to the matter. As always, you tactfully excuse yourself from the side of your husband, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and removing yourself from the crowd. Usually, he wouldn’t so much as flinch from the chaste action, but you don’t miss his eyes longing for you to stay this time. 

Instead, your heel-clad feet press through the tiles of the place, making advancements towards the white marbled-bar. You receive a nod from the friendly-looking gentleman mixing cocktails, a silent signal to let him know when you’re ready. Maybe you stand too close to Carlos, so much so that you can smell his cologne, you can feel his body warmth radiating through that shirt. It doesn’t take long for him to notice your presence, his eyes widening upon the realization that it was, in fact, you–the woman he had confessed his feelings to less than twelve hours ago. 

“I didn’t realize you’d be here, Mariposa,” he taunts, pulling you into his side. You’re grinning immediately, happy to be reunited with your close friend after how he had left you last night, promising he’d be there if you needed anything. “Come to make sure your husband behaves?” 

“No. I came to see how his teammate is behaving.” You let him ponder for a moment, but he realizes, the blush growing from his neck to his cheeks. “I’m a married woman, Carlos.” You remind him but make no attempt to move further away. The idea is completely eradicated when his hand comes out to rest on the small of your back. His eyes are still fixed on you. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not fair to you. He couldn’t care less about his teammate’s position, the way he’s treated you all this time leaves a sour taste on his tongue. 

“Your marital status doesn’t change the way I feel for you.” He thinks back to that moment in the ocean. What on Earth would be happening if he had kissed you at that moment? He could never be certain, but something tells him you’d be his date to this luncheon right now. Sighing, Carlos turns to face you directly, the bottle of wine he had originally come to pick up having been left on the counter. 

“I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to respond.” He tries to keep his breathing calm, your presence practically overpowering him. “But...I would love to take you out for a date sometime. A proper date. With flowers and dinner and being able to make you smile.” Your heart is softening by the moment with the Spaniard’s pleads of everything your husband had never given you. “Would you like that?” 

“I would.” You don’t even have to think of your response. “I would like that, Carlos.” At that moment, your estranged husband is the last thought of your mind; instead it’s overpowered by the fantasies of a date with the man standing in front of you. This time, Carlos can’t help the grin on his lips, reaching for the bottle of red wine on the bar. His careful hands carefully unlatch the stopper, the liquid hitting two crystal glasses, one of which he passes to you.

“Well, shall we toast the idea, no?” he holds up the glass delicately, to which you raise your own, grinning at the satisfying sound of clinking crockery. When you take a sip of the rich red, you’re blissfully unaware of your husband’s eyes; the ones which are never attached to you, but in that moment, don’t want to focus on anything else. Nobody misses the way he purposely sits between yourself and his teammate, fingers interlocked into yours tightly, the occasional kiss on the temple of your head. 

You were his wife, after all. 

Carlos Sainz is a brilliant cook. 

The intimacy between yourself and your husband had oddly grown within the past week. To start, his messages became more frequent, checking in when he couldn’t be at the house. Your pantry had stocked overnight, begging for your home cooking whenever he could be there to sample it. Most importantly, the interaction. You’d been hesitant to even let your husband touch you in the beginning. You had kept it simple, a hug before you’d headed off to bed in your room, (sleeping in the same bed as him had been that one-off.) His arms would find their way onto your waist if you were cooking, his fingers would tuck a lock of hair behind your ear when you found yourself engrossed in studies. 

Your husband had been elated when you had spoken to him two days before he was due to leave for Qatar, announcing you would like to attend alongside him; it was also your father’s wishes to attend that race, wanting to signal to his fellow associates that he was okay, that you could pass on a message from your family. Charles’ eyes had glossed over with happiness, taking your hand in his own, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. 

You were ready for your entrance to the Paddock 72 hours later; after arriving in Qatar, you’d barely seen anything from the transport from his jet to the hotel. Your eyes had grown heavy the moment your feet were removed from their shoes, two large beds welcoming you with their soft blankets and heavy pillows. (He’d made sure to give you the sleeping space that you needed.) Charles’ heart had softened when he’d seen you curl into one bed. When he returned from the bathroom, you were out like a light. 

It didn’t stop him from gently rubbing a makeup wipe over your features, knowing you’d regret your lack of attention to appearance in the morning. Hesitantly, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your hairline, one hand stroking over the back of your head before he returns to unpacking both yours and his suitcase. 

You had been hesitant of attending the Paddock alongside Charles that morning, not because you were worried of the bombarding questions. No, this was the first time you had attended the paddock with a husband who seemed comforted by your presence. His heart felt gentle when he saw you look out of the front windscreen, eyes transfixed on the countless photographers standing by the barriers. Immediately, his hand finds yours, resting atop your thigh, the hot weather pleading for a cooler outfit. 

“You don’t have to do this.” He removes his sunglasses, those ocean eyes finding your own. “You can wait here, or I can have somebody drive you back to the hotel now.” He promises, the worry flickering over his face. Your hand removes itself from his firm grasp, instead reaching forward and resting your hand on his bristled cheek. 

“I’m okay.” You promise him, thumb dancing over his soft cheekbone. He offers you a soft smile, eyelashes fluttering as your face gets closer to his; you have no panic leaning over the console of the hire-car, gently pressing a warm kiss to the cheek your hand wasn’t resting upon. You can’t help but hesitate when you pull back from his face, lingering within mere millimeters of his lips for a long moment; you could just lean forward, press your lips to his and give into all those nights you had dreamed of. But this wasn’t a dream; this was your husband whom you needed to fix a relationship with first. 

Charles isn’t going to lean forward and kiss you himself, not until the signals you are giving him are crystal clear. Instead, he presses his forehead close to yours, tips of your noses gently brushing against one another before he steps out of the car, and you’re quick to follow. 

This time, he doesn’t walk in silence, ignoring your presence. Instead, as the two of you flash your paddock passes towards the security guards, he’s openly commenting on different happenings around Media Day, both of you falling into giggles upon seeing Toto Wolff’s broken arm; he was truly beginning to become an icon at the local emergency room. You’re happy. Subdued in a bubble alongside your husband, hands interlocked as you work your way through the paddock. 

You’ve never experienced such a harsh blow to reality when you see an all-too-familiar figure lurking outside of the Williams Racing building. Her hair is shorter, her skirt is skimpier and a ghastly color. However, she still looks beautiful. She is undoubtedly the woman you’ve fought and lost your husband’s affection from, his mistress. 

Charles seems to clock less than a moment after you do, both bodies freezing upon notifying her presence. You seem to have a quicker reaction time, despite being in the presence of a world-class Formula Driver. Immediately, you rip your grasp from Charles’ hand, showing him no emotion as you step away and into the Ferrari Building. You’re fortunate enough to avoid most of your fathers’ colleges, only once having to stop to give a sympathizing message of your mothers’ passing, the words being used are minute compared to the ache in your heart for her presence. 

When you reach the top of the dark stairs, almost certain you can hear Charles’ voice below you. He’s searching for you now, but instead is overwhelmed by the amount of people in his presence. You’re able to sneak through the makeshift corridor, finding a large number ’55,’ pressed onto the door. You don’t even think, opening the door to a very tanned, very shirtless Carlos Sainz.

He's so… toned. The natural light from the window is reflecting beautifully onto his chest, broader than you’d last seen during your adventures at sea. His shorts hang low on his waist, making no attempt to shift his body despite your appearance. Instead, his dressing is overtaken by his concern for your face, immediately dropping the shirt fisted in his right hand, taking your gentle face in between both of his palms. You didn’t even realize the tears resting on your cheeks, the fear glossed over in your eyes that you’d ever trusted Charles.

Carlos doesn’t need to ask; he saw her on his own entry to the Paddock. Admittedly, he had to double-take; surely Charles wouldn’t have the audacity to bring his mistress to the other side of the world. He didn’t bother to glance in her direction too long, instead greeting the Ferrari team, excusing himself to go and get changed for their upcoming press appearances. In this moment, he’s held you against his bare chest, hushing you gently as one hand threads through your hair. Your mind is overwhelmed, from seeing your husband’s mistress, but from being pressed against his oh-so warm chest. 

You don’t even realize, but your palms are resting on his chest, his skin so soft beneath your touch. Carlos gently hushes you, tilting your head up to face him, still cradled in his grasp. He could so easily reach forward, claim you there and then, but he realizes in that moment, under your soft touch and those doe eyes, you are the one who has claimed him. After a moment, he pulls back, motioning for you to follow him towards the couch, littered in Spanish-themed cushions and the enormous chili plushie you had bought him several months ago. 

You can’t help the slight disappointment when Carlos eventually slips on his Ferrari Polo; however, you are interested when he reaches for his small fridge, pulling out a neat lunchbox, motioning for you to grasp it whilst he reaches for another. Curiosity takes the better of you, gently unclasping the lid of the Tupperware box. A beautiful aroma overtakes your senses, a carefully crafted meal nestled into the lunchbox. The Spaniard can’t help but grin at your reaction; sometimes something as simple as a homemade meal could lift your spirits.

And that’s how you spent the next forty-five minutes, sat on the sofa of Carlos Sainz’s driver room, the man sat on the floor as the two of you exchanged bites of food. There’s one particular moment where you offer him a spoonful of your lunchbox, watching as he arches his torso towards you. 

It’s almost…sensual, the way his lips wrap around the top of the spoon, maintaining sole eye contact as he retracts his mouth from the utensil, letting his tongue trace around his lips for a chase of the taste. He knows what he’s doing; in his mind, all he wants is to show how adored you could be, to show he could be everything your husband never was.

It isn’t until Charles is finally free from the bombarding questions of his sponsors that he finally locates you in Carlos’ room. The man isn’t oblivious; he can see that the two of you have grown undeniably close. He can’t bring himself to say anything on the matter. He knows, in his heart of hearts, he has no right to make any assumptions; he was the one who had spent hours with a mistress, after all. Silently, he opens the door to the driver’s room, your figure perched upon the sofa, a grin plastering your soft features. You looked happy.

You looked like the most beautiful girl he had seen in his life. 

You acknowledge his presence after a few moments, standing up from your place on the sofa, insisting the man tries Carlos’ cooking. It takes less than a few blinks of your eyes for him to submit, taking the spoonful off your utensil, making a comment towards his teammate that he would have to give him some lessons at some point. The man says nothing, simply nodding in a passive agreement. 

There’s a sharp call for Charles after he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He shoots both you and his teammate an apologetic look before he makes his way down the corridor, gently closing the door behind him as to give you a sense of privacy; the last thing he wanted was to have you plastered all over social media pages when he knew it would purely be used for publicity purposes. 

You’re still smiling when the door closes, your back to Carlos’ front. “He seems to like you-“ 

You were destined to never finish that sentence. Within a split moment, there are warm hands, rough hands resting on either side of your waist, twisting your body within his grasp. He takes two steps backwards, enough pacing to have your back pressed against the closed door: the coldness of the wood contrasting violently with the heat radiating off your best friend. 

He couldn’t hold any emotion. Carlos Sainz wears his heart on his sleeve. That much is adamant, from the way his text messages were drafted, to the way he tilts his head, meshing his lips to your own. 

They’re surprisingly soft; there’s nothing soft in the way his hands grasp at your waist, the way his body is pressing so deeply into yours. Yet, as his lips continue to entrance yours, they feel like clouds; a gentle stroke of a paintbrush. His artistry continues when his kisses get deeper, one of his hands enclosing yours, bringing it to rest around his shoulders, pushing the two of you closer together. Your other hand is interlocked by his, being stretched above your head, pinned to the door you’re resting upon. 

He's waited so long for this, before lunch, before your moment in the sea. He’s wanted this since the moment you walked into the Ferrari Paddock alongside your father, you must have been etched into his heart. 

Carlos isn’t thinking; his kisses are becoming rougher, one hand blindly reaching for your leg, almost bare from the shorts you had opted from your wardrobe earlier. He guides it to rest upon his hip, grunting when he can feel his hardened crotch press between your legs. His reality comes crashing down when he feels the cool band on your fingers entangling in his hair. Your wedding ring. 

Ragged breaths, panting, he pulls away from your lips, pressing his forehead to your own in a sheer plea of comfort. Both your breaths are synchronized, both grasping for some form of air in the room. 

“You’re everything, Mariposa.” He whispers, closing his dark eyes, enjoying his moment, taking every opportunity to imprint the feeling of your body, of your lips into his mind. He prays this won’t be the last time he holds you this way. 

Carlos Sainz is a fast texter. 

In the moments after you had shared the intimacy, hidden away in his driver’s room, he’s gone into a sheer panic. He’d overstepped, he’d made an advancement on you at your most vulnerable. When he had left for the press alongside your husband, he didn’t have a single chance to pull you aside, not when you had left the moment after the duo had been pulled into their press conferences. Simply, you were not waiting around to catch glimpses of the mistress, still proudly flocking around the Paddock as if it was her home.

It had taken a matter of moments to request a car home, having slipped out of the Ferrari building, talking to one of your father’s colleagues about your departure. Silently, you paced out of the building, a direct beeline towards the car park, head down from the ever-present photographers. 

You hadn’t expected a text from either your husband or his teammate, considering that they were both in press conferences until further notice. However, when you had felt and grasped the device in your shorts, you had immediately noticed the soft vibrations, pulling your device out of your pocket, your eyes being illuminated by the screen of your phone. Two text messages. One from your father, one from Carlos. Your attention is drawn to the latter, curious on what your best friend has to say. 

11:32: Carlos Sainz: 

I’m really, truly sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I haven’t seen Charles yet to let him know you left. You don’t have to see me again if you do not wish. 

11:36: You

It wasn’t you at all, I promise! I was aware that Charles’ mistress was about, I couldn’t stick about for that. 

Carlos messages you back, almost immediately. You’re confused, considering he is due to be in press alongside Charles. He could be having a break; he could have completely skipped out on several media appearances. 

11:38: Carlos Sainz

I wish you could have stayed longer. I meant what I said, every single word. Please let me know if you need anything.

11:41: You

I know, C. I appreciate it, even if I express it terribly. I’ll always be here for you, too. Always. 

You never get to see the next message that Carlos sends to you. Instead, your phone starts ringing, an incoming call from your father. You’re certain that the chauffeur won’t mind you taking the call whatsoever, holding the device to your ear as your father’s tone fills the void, his words becoming numbing as he runs through the details of your mother’s funeral, the tears in his voice beginning to swell heavily. 

Charles had left the Paddock as soon as he got notice of your departure. He hadn’t bothered to message, his sole focus being on returning to the hotel, to find out what on Earth had happened to you. He was fortunate enough to escape the wandering eyes of his ex-mistress, how on Earth she had gotten into the Paddock for that race was beyond him, especially since he had ceased contact from that day. 

The car arrives swiftly outside of the hotel; immediately, Charles is rushing through the back entrance, beelining for the staircase; waiting for an elevator at this moment would be too much. Within moments, he’s fumbling for his key card, pushing the door open, his heart shattering at the vision in front of him. 

You, his wife, sat on the edge of one of the king-size beds; your head is buried into your hands, heavy sobs racking through your body. He can see the goosebumps littering your skin, the solemn shakes running through you, the trauma of losing somebody you cared about so deeply, combined with a cocktail of emotions from your entrance to the Paddock had become too much. 

He doesn’t care about boundaries, not at this point. Immediately, Charles has crouched in front of you, his gentle hands reaching to grasp around your wrists. There’s a flinch at the sudden contact; your skin had overheated from the sheer energy of crying; your husband’s cool touch was a stark contrast which made you shiver. Delicate touches pull your hands away from your eyes. They’re so red, so swollen. Had he ever made you react like that from his own actions. The Monegasque doesn’t want to question that right now, he can’t even bring himself to look into your broken eyes. Instead, he feels as your arms wrap around his neck, hiding your face in his neck, craving for somebody to just…hold you. 

Your husband has no issue in that desire; he lets you remain like that, Charles on his knees whilst you cling to him, the tears dampening through his shirt. One hand slides across your back, kneading gentle circles into your skin. At some point, you move onto the bed, the man lying back on the soft furnishings whilst you rest your head on his chest, arms encircling you as if he could hold you together, until the storm in your mind passes. 

When the tears subside, you finally find the energy to look up to your husband. He hadn’t reached for his phone, tried to find some form of entertainment whilst he held you to his chest for hours. Instead, his gaze had been fixed upon you, brushing a gentle stroke over your cheek, his fingers dancing against your skin, brushing away the tension from heavy lines and sobs. When your eyes do open, you’re greeted with a soft smile, Charles leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Do you need some water?” His concern is to bring you back up to health; now the tears have stopped, he can do this. “I can order some food; would you like that?” His voice is so quiet, as if a simple loud sound could shatter through your veins. You can’t muster up more than a nod, your body becoming colder when Charles’ gently shifts away, sitting up so he can reach for the telephone. His voice is so mesmerizing, speaking down the line as he requests different foods; he doesn’t mind how much he orders, if he can coax you into even eating a little, the man will be satisfied. 

The call finishes, but the man doesn’t sink back down into his previous position. Instead, whilst he remains sat up, Charles guides you to join him, your body still aching from your emotional breakdown. He murmurs under his breath as he pulls you into his lap, your body is tense until his strong arms wrap around your waist, the warmth instantly allowing you to relax, lean back into his firm chest. 

“I’ve wanted to speak to you for a few days.” His voice is soft, but the phrase causes you to feel a sharp panic dance down your chest. Surely, this can’t be good. The relationship had evolved from barely speaking to intimate conversations within a span of two weeks. You try, try so hard to keep a clear mind as your husband continues to address you. 

“How I’ve acted…how I treated you, all that time-“ He must stop himself, trying not to let his own emotion overpower his words. “I’m never going to be able to take it all back, and I will never be able to stop apologizing for it.” His whispers, his eyes growing misty with regret. “I will never forgive myself for how I treated you, nor do I ever expect you to forgive me. But…I want to try. I want to try and spend the rest of my days as you husband. I know…it won’t be overnight, but I’ll do anything, anything for you.”  

The tears are rolling down your own cheeks now; never, in your wildest dreams, did you expect for Charles to speak those words of affirmation to you. His hand moves cautiously, to your face, wiping the tears which were pooling across your features.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, letting one of his hands remain on your cheek. The man leans forward, pressing gentle butterfly kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose…he pauses, mere inches from your lips. He wants to kiss you; he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to push you; his mind and his heart are complete opposites. 

His mind goes into overdrive when you lean forward and press your lips to his own. They’re salty, slightly chapped, but undeniably something he has been craving for oh-so-long. Charles is immediately kissing you back, his grip around you tightening, keeping your body close to his own. Carefully, he shuffles the two of you back into a lying position, never once breaking the kiss, tumbling back onto the mattress.

Of course, you don’t miss his grumble of annoyance when the food eventually arrives.

 Carlos Sainz is a gentle kisser. 

An autumn breeze was strong on the dreaded day; the funeral had rolled around way too soon for your liking. Rows of family connections, close and distant friends lined the outside of the cemetery, eyes all transfixed on the black hearse rolling into view. Murmurs were pressed into silence, a bitter air all-too present as the ivory coffin was removed from the vehicle. Your elder brother and two cousins were to assist in carrying the piece into the church. Plans were soon suspended when the eldest of your siblings collapsed into tears, head in his hands upon the sheer realization that this was it.

Your father is desperately looking around, practically praying outside a place of worship that the eldest could pull himself together; it’s impossible. Whilst one of your arms is occupied, holding the hand of your young sister, the other gently wraps around his torso, comforting him in the ways he had done for you when you were nothing more than a young girl in messy braids and mismatched socks. 

His wife stood on his right-hand side, adamant on consoling the man as you were, a caring hand running across his back. Your husband stood next to your sister, her childish eyes blinking in confusion; just like you, she had never seen her brother this inconsolable. 

Charles feels a pain wash through him, he wants nothing more than to help his dear family through this moment. Maybe the act he was playing for so long was just a way of shielding himself from caring. Now he had bared his soul towards you, pleading for a second chance, the man wanted to be there for you, in every sense of the word. 

He murmurs something incoherently, stepping away from your side, leaning towards your father’s ear. Whatever he mumbles is met with a sharp nod, a firm pat on the shoulder in confirmation. Your husband keeps a firm gaze on the coffin, not catching your own eyes as he walks towards the piece to join your cousins. There’s a quick whisper between the men, before the ivory is shuffled from the car, resting on their suit-clad shoulders. Silence falls over the attendants as your mother is carried into the church, immediate family following closely behind. Hesitantly, your eyes look to the crowding people, and as if by fate, you see his dark eyes, the fluffy curls brushed back to conform. He shouldn’t look that good in a dark suit. 

Most noticeably, his gaze isn’t fixed on the church, on the six men carrying your mother. It’s transfixed on you. 

The service is beautiful, if you can describe it like that. Flowers are placed atop of your mother’s coffin, the service of words correlating to her soul, the hymns sung were always her favorite when you had frequented church as a young girl. However, there’s a turning point. When the priest begins to speak of her dear children, tears pool in your lower lash-line. You want to take the time for yourself, to mourn, but louder sobs are emitting from next to you; the youngest child is beginning to realize her mother is truly gone. 

You’re torn; pulling her towards you would only make you cry harder; you had already seen your father and brother fall apart, silently knowing you would have to be the one to wait by the door, thanking the copious guests for attending. Her tears are suddenly quietened when you see her gently shuffled into Charles’ lap; despite the estranged relationship for the past twelve months, he’d always had a soft spot for your sister, she reminded him of when Arthur was young. Whilst her tears turn softer, he runs a hand over her back, letting the young girl rest her heavy head in his sternum. 

The open gap in the seating allowed for you to shuffle closer towards your husband, his free arm wrapping around your torso. You had to remain sitting up straight; his presence right now would have to be enough for your comfort. To any unassuming eye, you would probably look like a family, the crowds of attendants would have no idea of the true story behind your marriage. Even on the darkest days, the narrative was played well.

When the service draws to a close, final prayers are spoken. The first to rise are your father and brother, both clinging to one-another as they must leave the building. Silently, you pull yourself away from your husband’s grasp, smoothing the skirt of your dress. Charles remains seated, your sister practically passing out atop of him. Today had been a heavy day for a child, after all. 

There are rows of people pausing to console you on your loss whilst you stand at the door of the church; friends you had known for oh-so-long, members of the Scuderia Ferrari team; you had never seen Fred Vasseur cry, but the redness of his eyes told you something completely different as he took one of your hands in his, squeezing it in apology. 

The pews filter out silently, a large group of the guests making their way back to your father’s home, the wake soon to begin, a blessing and want of your late mother. Sharp footsteps are emitted through the church, the penultimate duo being your husband and sister. He was still carrying her, head resting on his shoulder, almost completely asleep. Charles smiles at finally seeing you, using his free hand to run across the back of your head. 

“I’m going to take her back.” Charles explains to you. He understands you don't need the pressure of looking after her atop of everything else bound to come your way. “Let me know when you’re done here, please?” Silently, you nod, no hesitation needed as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, bidding you farewell as he paces out of the church, holding your sister tightly in comfort. 

You believe that’s everybody, ready to collect your belongings and thank the priest for a heart-warming farewell. Before you can even think to turn around, there’s a light cough, emitting you to spin on your heel. 

He’s there. Still clad in his designer suit, hair pushed back behind his ears. Undeniably, Carlos Sainz looks good in any situation. He holds your bag in one hand, the other reaching out to clasp around your wrist. You gasp at the warm skin pressing to your own, heat radiating through your body. The man leans down, letting his lips brush against your own, a sweet feathering brush pressing onto you. Carlos wanted to be there for you, more than ever on what would be the hardest day. 

Seeing Charles take that position had made his blood boil. 

His grip on you remains tight as he leads you out of the church and towards his own car, parked in the most secluded section of the lot. When his grip falters to hold your hand instead, he doesn’t aim to correct it, instead only holding tighter. He only removes his grasp to unlock his car, sliding himself into the driving seat, pushing the recliner back as far as it would go. When the space is present, he guides you to rest atop of his lap, arms tightening around your waist as he lets the door close, bodies pressed together tightly. 

“Is this okay?” He murmurs, keeping your faces so close together. The built-up emotion, the desire since your last kiss had built a fire in your stomach, not so much as speaking before pressing your lips to his own. Whilst your own movements had become desperate, craving for some form of emotional release, his remained feather-light, one hand tangled into your hair, the other resting firmly on your waist. 

His lips are soon ghosting over your cheek, fluttering across your jawline and landing on your neck, small whines emitting from your lips as he seeks to trace his tongue over your sweetest spot. The sensation across your body, the hot touch of his skin and an undeniable bulge now settling between your legs. 

There’s a sudden realization that you needed to go home. Being with Carlos was the affection you desired, your heart knows however that right now, your family needs you. Hesitantly, you pull away from the man’s lips, feeling utterly guilty for the pleading look in his eyes as you rest your forehead against his own. He could never hate you for it, though. In his eyes, you could never draw that feeling from him. You don’t need to say anything, he knows. 

“I’ll drive you back.” He murmurs, pressing one final kiss to your lips before allowing you to slide into the leather passenger seat. 

The drive to your father’s home is almost silent; there’s an occasional rev of the engine, various horns from different cars along the highway. A part of you always prays that each drive with the Spaniard could last forever, you could drive into the distance and live happily ever after. The fairy-tale is soon dissolved when you pull to the driveway, hearing the engine of the car cease. Your eyes find Carlos’ side profile, still transfixed on the road ahead. 

“Are you coming in?” You ask gently. He sighs, the grip on his steering wheel becoming tighter.

“I can’t see you that close to him, Mariposa.” He murmurs, finally finding the courage to look you in the eyes. “Not when I want to be that close to you.” One hand finds its way off the wheel, entwining your fingers together, peppering light kisses against your knuckles. “Please call me when you go back. I’ll miss you.” 

“I’ll miss you too.” You whisper, leaning to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. In that moment, Carlos Sainz is your savior. He’s your truth. 

Carlos Sainz is a liar. 

Your knuckles had turned white from the grasp on your phone, you didn’t want to believe anything you were seeing. What was supposed to be an impromptu browse of Twitter whilst waiting for your husband to finish in the en-suite, had turned into a deep dive through a certain hashtag, having seen information spread on a certain Ferrari driver.

It had started as a simple few tweets, some fans and gossip pages reckoning they had seen the driver in an exclusive club, some random blonde sitting on top of him. The photos came second, though the angle was skewed, the quality too weak to see who was there. The final nail was the video; Carlos’ hand placed on her waist, how he had done to you mere hours ago, his mouth pressing against hers, clearly nothing else on his mind. 

Granted, you knew you had no right to feel the anger you did; after all, you were married, Carlos was a single man, free to do as he desired. Yet, your rage was fuelled by the romantic, now seemingly empty promises he had made you; how you were his everything, how he would treat you better than Charles ever did. He was no different than Charles Leclerc, and as your fumbled fingers reached to his contact, your rage felt inclined to tell him that. 

The phone rings once, twice, three times. You’re set to hang up, leave a particularly nasty text message to the man before the line connects. Immediately, your eardrums are overtaken by the loud pulse of a nightclub, some feminine laughter almost directly on top of him. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. Clearly, he’s now intoxicated, his accent is always thicker when he is. You hear another voice, telling him to hang up the phone and to come and dance with her. “Hey- are you there?”

“I’m here.” You snap; why do you feel this enraged? You must have done so when you first saw Charles with his mistress; that had become such a common occurrence that the fire in your stomach must have eventually drained. “And clearly, you’re busy with the woman climbing all over you.” 

“Fuck- you left me hanging!” He retorts, drunken mind clearly pressing against any form of sober thought. “You went back to your husband. Left me with nothing. Fuck the funeral.” He snaps, clearly now becoming enraged with the entire situation, with the fact he had been caught out. The words pressed through the speaker of your phone and emitted a wave of sobs from your stomach, immediately pressing the red button on your device.

Carlos Sainz wasn’t in love with you. He just liked the distraction. 

Of course, as fate would have it, the moment that your tears began again was the moment Charles had left the bathroom. He’s dressed in just a pair of boxers, chest bare and tone after his warm shower. The sound of the door opening caused you to turn to the source. His eyes widen, scampering towards you, cradling you in his arms, bare chest against your cheek. Silently, you sob into his body for the third time that day, wanting nothing more than for every form of pain to stop.

“Hey, come on.” He whispers, arms circling your body, pulling you tight against him. He thinks that seeing you cry will get easier each time, that the pain in the pit of his stomach won’t continue to eat him away. However, it never gets easier; he hates seeing you cry, every single time. “It’s been a long day, yeah? Let’s get some sleep, baby.”

The nickname sounds foreign on his tongue, though neither of you question it. If anything it causes more emotion to flicker through your body, the fact that your estranged husband was finally beginning to give you. Silently, he guides the two of you into the large bed, cradling you to his chest as he had done whilst in Qatar. Sleep and emotion overtake you, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder as a ‘thank you,’ before drifting into a state of slumber.

The sleep means you miss a vital update from the Twitter threads you had been closely following earlier. 

‘Carlos Sainz leaves exclusive club ALONE, despite dating rumors arising with mystery blonde.’

Carlos Sainz is your best friend.

You returned to the following day; the entire time remaining at your father’s house had consisted of nothing but tears. You had been especially concerned for your sister, watching the way she had clinged to Charles when the duo was saying their fond farewells. After a tight hug from each family member, your husband hand interlinked your fingers together, guiding the two of you to his own car, each free hand carrying along the suitcases. 

The first hour of the drive home had been quiet, the buzzing streets had morphed into greenery, the sun beginning to set across the coast. Your eyelids couldn’t find it to grow heavy, having done nothing but sob and sleep for the past twenty-four hours. Instead, your focus turned to the radio, a familiar song trickling out of the speaker, one you hadn’t heard in almost eighteen months. 

“Is this…” You ask, fingers reaching towards the dial, turning the volume up slightly. Behind his sunglasses, Charles grins. You hadn’t expected him to recognise the song, let alone be aware of where he recognised it from. 

“Our first dance.” Your husband laughs, both nodding your head to the music. One hand on the wheel, he reached out his other hand to grasp yours on his own, a gentle squeeze passing through each hand. “We’ll have to dance to it again, properly next time.” He promises to himself, eyes focused on the road as he continues to drive you both home. 

It’s almost dark by the time you have arrived back at your driveway. The stones are dipped in the darkness, the only illumination being from the headlights of Charles’ iconic vehicle. Your eyes flicker towards the doorstep, convinced the sleep is playing tricks on your mind; why on earth was there a figure standing on the doorstep to your house? They were slim, feminine, holding a cream envelope in one hand, a designer bag resting atop the other. 

The familiar feeling of who she was began to nestle in your stomach. Surely, it couldn’t have been her; even your husband would not have the audacity to invite her to the house, right after you had returned home from what was quite possibly the saddest moment of your life. It couldn’t be her, even if every sign pointed towards the truth, you’d begin to search for the tiniest detail; her hair was too short. Your stomach snaps when you realize it’s the identical haircut from the Paddock mere days ago. 

“What on earth-“ You hear your husband begin to speak, turning off the engine to the car. He looks over to your figure, but you show no emotion, no reaction on the exterior. Immediately, he has stepped out of the car, violently slamming the door behind him, causing you to snap out of the trance the woman had placed you upon. 

Your eyes fixed upon Charles, his mistress trying to reach out into his touch. She’d pressed the envelope into his hand, continuing to speak. The words were clear through the thin glass of the car’s windscreen, divorce, pictures, evidence. 

You couldn’t stick around to watch this activity play out. Immediately, you reach out for your phone, breathing uneven as you scroll through the contact list, searching for his name. Despite the last twenty-four hours, you were not too sure who else to call. It takes less than a moment for him to answer, your words rambling and falling over one another, pleading for him to come and collect you. He speaks firmly, commanding you to stay in the car, he would be there as soon as possible. 

Charles is so deep in conversation, pleading for his mistress to reconsider, that he doesn’t see you slip out of the car, stepping down the driveway into the awaiting car of Carlos Sainz. He makes no intention to show you affection when first stepping into the vehicle, his only intention to get you out of the situation as soon as possible. Whilst silence filled the space between you both, you had sent a text to your husband, confirming your disappearance. 

23:01: You

I’m so sorry, I can’t be there when she is, not anymore. I’ll be back at the house tomorrow. Thank you for everything.  

There’s no response. If you’re completely honest, you were not expecting anything else, not whilst he was engrossed in conversation. The street is quiet as you pull into Carlos’ driveway. Saying nothing, the man simply removes his keys from the ignition, before leaning over your frame to open your door, ever the gentleman. Of course, his eyes catch yours as he leans back, creating a deep gaze for oh-so-long. Carefully slipping out of his gaze, you leave the car, walking up the steps to his apartment, the door opening for your arrival. 

It's homely. Clearly lived in. Shoes are thrown across the entrance mat, coats hanging in the rack. Although it is primarily basic, a little bare, there’s touches around the complex which warm your heart; a photograph of the man with his sisters and father, a helmet you immediately recognise as Lando Norris’ resting atop of a bookshelf. There’s fine wine glasses resting atop of his coffee table; clearly ready for their usage before your untimely call. 

The details become irrelevant the moment you feel his warm arms circle around your middle; the rising of your hoodie lets his body heat radiate onto yours. Carlos doesn’t need to say anything, his face comes towards the joint between your neck and your shoulder, using his nose to brush your hair away, exposing the skin he craves to mark. 

“Mariposa.” He whispers, hiding his expression in your soft skin. “I can explain her, I can explain who she is, I didn’t-“ 

This time, it’s you who rolls around in Carlos’ touch, your arms entwining around his neck, pulling his lips to touch yours. The Spaniard does not need convincing, his grip on your waist immediately tightening, pushing your bodies closer together, if that was even humanly possible. This time, when his lips begin to trail down your neck, there’s no hesitation left in your mind, letting the man dance across your skin, leaving small bites, trails of his tongue against you. 

You realize it’s you, making a small whine as he pulls away from your body, catching his breath whilst his tanned arms reach to the bottom of his shirt, exposing his chest once more. This time, your fingers fumble to find the hem of your hoodie, pulling the clothing atop of your head, exposing the laciest bra Carlos had ever seen. There’s a grunt from the back of his mouth as he darts forward, one rough palm scooping your breast from the lingerie, his mouth immediately finding your nipple, tongue tracing across the sensitive skin whilst his stubble rubs against your exposed flesh. 

He doesn’t let up, not even when your legs go weak. His mouth remains firmly attached, using his arms to instead scoop you into his grasp, your whining sheer pornography to his ears whilst he carries you into his bedroom. 

He will simply ruin you for every other person, and god forbid if he lost you now. 

You realize hours later, somewhere between your post-orgasm haze and the combined warmth of Carlos’ hoodie and his firm arms that best friends did not have intense, body-numbing sex in the middle of the night, specifically when one of them was married, the other one a close friend of her husband. Yet, it somehow feels normal, as if this had been the longest impending explosion. Of course, you had explained to the man the reasoning for calling him out so late, for him to simply hush you, promising you would have never been a burden to him. The further questions of what is to come next are pushed to the back of your mind. 

Your sleeping state misses two key moments. The first? The slight camera shutter from a phone as Carlos places his device back on the nightstand, snuggling down into the blankets, his dream to hold you whilst he slept finally arising.

The second? Your phone finally buzzed with a response from your husband, unable to sleep without knowing you were in the large house alongside him. 

02:51: Charles Leclerc

I’m in love with you.

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