#i missed writing late night reaction fics like this

[nottswitch]

doll.

summary: you had finally convinced Tom to take you to the Restricted Section. however, the outcome might not be something you had originally planned.

pairing: tom riddle x fem!reader

warning: 18+ smut, cockwarming, oral (m receiving), throatfucking, gagging, mentions of nausea (no actual vomiting), slight choking, orgasm denial? ignoring?? I think that’s all, if I missed anything, let me know!

wc: 3.3k

a/n: listen. listen. this man has been in my head for the last month, and recently he decided to come into my dream? that’s just rude, so that’s what you get as revenge. this fic is also a result of my pent up frustration at life rn, so do with that what you will. also, this is my first time ever writing smut and writing for tom, so pls let me know if it’s any good and if I shall continue on the path. enjoy <3

You had finally done it.

You had finally convinced Tom to take you to the Restricted Section with him. After the whole month of begging almost every day, he agreed, albeit awfully begrudgingly, but you were on cloud nine nonetheless. He told you some stuff about his late-night visits to the library from time to time, but you were always burning for more information, considering your own striving for knowledge. He always said the same thing, that he appreciated your effort, but if you could stop trying to make him abuse his Prefect’s power and possibly lose himself the position, it would make both of your lives easier. But you persevered and were finally reaping the rewards, sitting next to him at the table, with a stack of ancient books in front of you, sometime far after midnight.

What you didn’t expect, though, was how absolutely fucking irresistible he would look merely existing. The books were taken out, the first one was flipped through and now they sat on the table, long forgotten, as you just stared at Tom, almost devouring him with your eyes. To be fair, the sight of him was truly divine – his face calm and concentrated, hovering over a particular book he had been studying for the last week, distracted simply to switch to his journal and take another note. His hands resting on the table, holding a quill, scribbling down lines with his exquisite handwriting… They were sinful, those hands. You had to get ahold of at least one. His left hand was in the process of mindlessly caressing the corner of the book with his middle finger when your hand slowly creeped towards it. You lightly brushed your fingertips along the outer part of his hand. No reaction. You started drawing circles along the whole area, skimming along his wrist and thumb. Nothing. You decided to go further and began intertwining your fingers together.

Finally. A sigh.

And he didn’t even look. His hand grabbed yours and put it away, back on the table. And nothing, absolutely nothing changed about the focused expression painted on his face. That was really annoying, but also… hot, in a way? Almost as if he was playing hard to get. You were already aroused just by looking at him, but his silent rejection made you nearly desperate. Your panties were pretty much soaked, and he, quite literally, barely lifted a finger.

Before you could gain control over your hand, it moved dangerously close to his thigh. You put your hand a little above his knee and gradually advanced higher and higher up his leg. Only when you were caressing his inner thigh did you hear another sigh. Tom raised an eyebrow and turned his head a couple centimeters in your direction, his eyes still on the book.

“What?” he asked, the tone of his voice only ever so slightly irritated. His composure remained intact. He wasn’t even fazed by the fact that you were so close to grabbing him through his pants.

“You look so handsome like that, you know?”

You made your best attempt to lace your voice with saccharine seduction. Your hand kept stroking his inner thigh, inching further and further up with each stroke. The only thing he did was thoughtlessly nod, as if he forgot about your existence immediately after asking the question.

You started getting frustrated and even more turned on. You moved your chair closer to his and began caressing his shoulder, brushing your fingers along his neck when they reached it. You slowly moved down to his back and arm, your nails applying some pressure on his body so that he could feel them scratching his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. It had always been one of the rare things to grab his attention, and it worked this time as well. He sighed, closed the book with his finger between the right pages and turned his head to you. His expression was that of mild annoyance, his eyebrow raised again.

“What exactly was the reason you’d been begging me to bring you here? Would you care to remind me?”

You lowered your gaze and your hand on his shoulder stopped, but just for a second. Then you continued, thinking that there was no return at that point and at least you had a chance, now that his attention was on you.

“Knowledge,” you admitted.

“And what kind of knowledge are you trying to soak up right now?”

His eyes flicked towards your hand still massaging his shoulder. You rolled your eyes and shifted in your chair at the mention of the word “soak”. But it was time for drastic measures. You stood up to crouch next to him, so that your mouth was right at the same level as his ear. Your hand moved to his inner thigh again, traveling up to his crotch and back. You felt him harden under your touch and the mere fact brought you immense amounts of satisfaction.

“Come on, Tom, love, we both know what I want right now,” you started whispering, your lips nearly touching his ear. “You. I want you. On the table, on the floor, against the wall, it literally doesn’t matter. If you don’t take me right here, right now, I will die.”

The look on his face didn’t change in the slightest when he grabbed your throat with his right hand and guided you from his left to his front, tightly squeezed between him and the desk. You stayed in your half-crouched position, trying your hardest not to tremble in the knees. The corner of Tom’s mouth lifted ever so slightly while he silently studied your face and body. His grip on your throat tightened when he lifted up his hand, causing you to straighten your half-bent legs. He shot a commanding look at his lap and, guided by his hand, you climbed there, sitting down and sighing as you could finally relax your already aching knees. But your state of relaxation didn’t last, as he abruptly spread his legs, causing yours to shoot open as well and your ass to be left hanging in the air. In order not to fall to the ground, you had to lean back on the desk, propping your front upwards, towards him.

His hand moved from your throat to the hem of your skirt. With quick and methodic movements Tom rolled it up, tucking it behind the top part of the skirt, and spread your thighs even further with a firm press of his thumbs. You felt a heatwave of embarrassment wash over you as he evaluated the state of your panties, an amused smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. A spot of wetness was wonderfully visible and on display. His eyebrow went up and down as he looked up at you, brushing his thumb in a feather-like touch along the still covered surface of your cunt. You threw your head back, partly because you didn’t want to meet his eyes, partly because your own eyes rolled to the point you couldn’t see in front of you and you could barely hold in a moan as myriads of goosebumps spread throughout your body just from this simple touch.

“Look at me.”

Tom clearly didn’t appreciate the lack of eye contact. You clenched your jaw and looked back, met by the sheer intensity of his stare. The stare that had all the power in the world to melt you into a puddle at any given moment. He brushed his other thumb over the same place again, watching your face carefully as you tried to keep your composure. Didn’t help. Your bit your bottom lip, but a sound escaped you nonetheless. Tom’s smirk widened.

“Let’s see,” he quietly muttered, pulling your panties to the side. Your cunt was already slicked and throbbing, which was even more embarrassing, because he looked like he was an inspector evaluating the goods. The smirk faded from his lips as his finger rubbed against your folds, barely spreading them apart and not reaching the clit to provide the much-needed sensation. You couldn’t help throwing your head back again, almost drawing blood from the pressure of your teeth against your bottom lip.

“I said. Look. At. Me.”

Tom uttered every word in a clear, emotionless voice, but it was the very thing that meant trouble. You looked back and the intensity of his stare only grew exponentially. He reached your face with his hand and grabbed your cheeks between his thumb and index finger, squeezing them, so that your lips formed into some sort of a pout.

“Don’t make me repeat myself. Keep looking until I say you can stop.”

You quickly nodded, intimidated by his frigid dominance. His hand went back to your cunt. He slid his fingers deeper between the folds, lightly brushing against the clit. Your hips jerked up as they tried to follow the path of his fingers, but his other hand held you firmly in place, not allowing a single extra bit of pleasure. He slid them back once more and then the middle one slipped inside you, up to the very base. A jolt of pleasure shook your body, as strong as the feeling of disappointment when he quickly removed the digit. You tried to whine but another look from him quickly shut you up. Tom raised his hand, rubbed his index, middle finger and thumb together and then separated; a sticky string of your wetness was a connection between them and a blatant manifestation of your arousal.

“Soaked. Just like I thought.”

The slightest hint of a smirk returned to his lips as his fingers reached your mouth.

“Open.”

Each of his words was stern, not leaving room for any disobedience. You opened your mouth and Tom pushed two fingers inside, pressing at the entrance of your throat and instantly making you gag. He kept his fingers there for a moment while you clutched the desk behind you to stop your body from shaking as you kept gagging, but not daring to push his hand away. A couple seconds later, when he saw you were on the verge of giving up, his fingers slowly traveled back out of your mouth. You tightly wrapped your lips around them and sucked your slick off, knowing that it was exactly what he wanted you to do. After leaving your mouth his fingers cupped your chin, as his thumb glided over your lips, covering them with the rest of your wetness.

“Now,” Tom leaned back on the chair, looking you up and down, his voice suddenly smooth and enticing, but his gaze still intense, “I see you are rather bored here with me, doll.”

When he said the word, you knew that the next part wouldn’t be so much for your pleasure as it would be completely for his. It wasn’t a meaningless pet-name for him, no, it held value. It meant that you would be treated exactly like a doll: mindless and limp. He saw your eyes widen at “doll” and a faint smirk was on his lips again: he was aware of the connotation and so were you.

“And to save you the trouble of a wandering mind, I am pleased to announce that I have a much better use for a doll like you.”

He waited to continue for a minute, letting you absorb the information and your thoughts fill with speculations. His hand brushed a stray hair from your forehead, him seeming just like a caring boyfriend for a moment.

“Kneel.”

You slowly stood up from his lap, feeling your stretched out limbs relax and almost fail to hold you up, and lowered down to your knees in front of him. From this point of view, he was even more attractive, compellingly so; it was worth it standing on your knees on the cold stone floor of the Restricted Section just for this sight alone. He slowly started unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, almost as if he wanted you to enjoy the show. You drank up every single movement of his slender fingers as he pulled down his pants and underwear just enough for his cock to bounce right out, against his lower abdomen.

“You like what you see, doll?”

You fervently nodded, your mouth salivating just at the thought of being able to suck him off right then. He saw the fire in your eyes and scoffed, shaking his head.

“It is no ordinary pleasure that I want from you now, doll.”

He beckoned you to move closer and you eagerly did, your face just mere centimeters away from his length. Your breath quickened as you thought about the implication of “no ordinary pleasure”.

“Now, give me your hands, doll.”

You lifted your hands and he wrapped his belt around them, tightening it to the point when it started to hurt and you knew it would leave deep marks on your wrists. Then, you tried to position yourself in a way that would allow your hands to support you, but you could only reach the floor with your fingertips.

Tom ran his fingers through your hair, in a touch almost gentle and soothing, and then suddenly yanked you up and forward, straight onto his cock, thrusting his whole length into your mouth, the tip reaching the very back of your throat. You lifted on your knees and violently gagged at the feeling, your hands inadvertently flying up, trying to push back, but the belt didn’t let you make any substantial impact. He held you firmly in place while you kept quivering and making gagging sounds, him clearly enjoying seeing you in this state. Slowly, you adjusted to his cock filling your whole mouth and your body went weak as you lowered back down, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. You tried to look up with just your eyes, not being able to move your head; it hurt too much, so you lowered your gaze, the only thing in front of you being his lower abdomen. As you tried to shift in your place, you felt a whiff of the chilly library air against your soaked panties and the sensation drove you nearly through the roof.

“Now, doll, you have to stay like that while I keep going with my work. A fair warning out of the goodness of my heart: it might take a while.”

You blinked, trying to wrap your mind around the fact that this could continue for another hour or two. Your head was held back by the edge of the desk cutting into your nape, so you weren’t able to move at all. You were completely at his mercy, he could do literally whatever he wanted, but he chose not to do anything. As soon as he let go of your hair, he went straight back to his book, taking notes as if nothing had happened.

Time went by painfully slowly. The constant feeling of him in your mouth and throat overwhelmed you to the point when you started to twitch at times, shifting your weight to get any semblance of friction against your aching core. The position you were in didn’t allow that at all, your head being stuck firmly between the desk and his body. The most irritating thing about the whole ordeal was the fact that Tom ignored you completely, fully absorbed in whatever kind of studying he was doing. You tried to get his attention a couple of times by producing incoherent sounds and trying to tighten your lips around him, but you quickly understood that there was no use. You tried counting seconds and minutes, but your mind gave up when you reached fifteen. The only things you could think about were his cock and getting something, any type of pressure on your clit. Your wetness soaked through your panties and, you were pretty sure, was dripping down your thighs, creating a small puddle on the floor underneath you.

You didn’t know how much time had passed before you finally heard the book shut. You almost shuddered at the sound, your pupils dilating and your breath accelerating, probably close to the speed of light. Tom leaned on the back of the chair, looking down at you with one of his smirks of the devil himself. His hand ruffled your hair, pulling at it to slightly lift your head up and shove it back down, as if he was trying to gauge if you were still alive. At the sound of your muffled groan he raised his eyebrows, amused.

“The doll has some life left in her. What a pleasant surprise. You look perfectly splendid like that.”

You groaned again, the sound coming from somewhere inside your chest. You desperately wanted to look up, but your head was still pressed in its place. Tom scoffed, messing with your hair once again.

“The time has come for some more… customary activities of ours, don’t you think?”

As if you could answer. You tried to nod, but the edge of the desk only further cut into your nape, making you wince in pain.

“The doll seems to agree. Pleasure.”

He moved the chair a bit further from the desk. With more space you could finally properly breath, so you shifted in your place, your stiff legs aching as you had to follow the movement of the chair. Tom’s hand gripped your hair and pulled you upwards, releasing almost the entirety of his length from your mouth apart from the tip. The sudden emptiness made your throat clench and you felt nausea building up rapidly, although the feeling had no time to develop as you were quickly shoved down again, your nose nearly crashing against his body. Tears gathered in your eyes sprayed all over, your lips stretched even more than they already were and you prayed the corners of your mouth wouldn’t crack. The tension building up in your core was begging to be released as you were being thrusted up and down again and again, the tip of his cock stroking the back of your throat again and again, causing you to produce the most sinful gagging sounds known to man. You tried to balance on your tied up hands, but your fingertips just barely brushed against the floor as your whole body moved in unison with your head. Tom barely made any sound, a heavy breath occasionally escaping his lips. He threw his head back, his eyes closed, while you took him whole at the mercy of his hand.

At last, you felt his thrusts speeding up, sensing his release. After a couple of especially violent ones he let out a quiet groan, and you felt his hot semen filling you up and spilling down your throat as he pressed you all the way down. Your breaths were heavy but barely audible, his cock still stuffing your mouth to the brim. Tom heaved a deep sigh as you felt his grip on your hair loosening. You didn’t dare to move until he pulled you up, lifting your head with his finger on your chin, looking straight into your eyes. Your vision was blurry from tears, more of them running down your face and dripping down to the floor as they slid off your jawline. Your lips were swollen and you couldn’t properly close your mouth yet, panting in quick and dry breaths. Tom smirked, taking in the sight of your utter destruction.

“A broken doll. Truly a sight to behold.”

He leaned back on the chair again, pulling up his underwear and zipping the pants. Then, he bent down, taking your hands gently in his and undoing the belt. His fingers made their way across the deep red marks on your wrists, caressing them with utmost attention.

“You have been a very good doll for me tonight. Now, what do you say to spending the night in my dorm? The doll has to receive her rightful reward.”

my masterlist

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

��

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[emilys-bangs]

this is me trying | e.p

Tags: established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff at the end, mom!emily, no use of yn, use of petnames

Summary: Emily misses one of Eloise's milestones and tries to deal with it. Requested here.

Word count: 2.7k

A/n: my longest fic is officially a momily fic oops...(gimme more momily thoughts please) also I did the convo with Hotch instead of JJ because he's surprisingly easier to write than her :p

Emily was having an okay day. It was her second night away on a case and it was unraveling quickly, quick enough that she thought she’d be home for dinner.

She wasn’t.

Instead, she gets a call from you around Eloise’s bedtime. With the ring comes a twist of guilt in her stomach; she’d promised herself she’d call this time instead of you, but her reminder to set an alarm slipped from her mind, and soon she got swept up in an endless whirlpool of case files and paper trails. Silencing her phone, she pushes her chair back and stands up, her eyes flitting over Reid and JJ’s forms bent over the conference room table. They can handle a few minutes on their own.

Emily slips into an empty office, shuttering the blinds as she accepts the video call before it rings out. Crackly noise comes through and she smiles at the sight of you and Eloise on the plush carpet of her nursery, the little girl already in her pajamas and sitting in the cradle of your crossed legs. Some of the tightness in her chest loosens.

“Hi there,” Emily smiles softly as you hold the camera away from Eloise’s grabby hands, her eyes tracing your faces through the screen, “how are my favorite people in the world doing?” She asks, perching on the edge of the table.

“Good,” you say, smoothing a hand over Eloise’s damp hair. “Sleepy, but someone won’t—”

“Bye-bye!” Eloise interrupts cheerfully—her favorite word as of late.

Emily chuckles, her shoulders slumping at the bell-like tinkle of her daughter’s voice. “But I just saw you, sweet girl. I don’t wanna say bye so soon, do you?”

“Bye,” she repeats.

“Think I should go,” Emily wrinkles her nose at you, the playful gesture pulling a laugh from your toddler.

“Maybe she’s finally starting to learn it’s bedtime,” you say, kissing the top of her head. “We’re starting to feel sleepy, aren’t we, Eloise?” Your voice softens as you trace your finger down the soft bridge of her nose, a trick you and Emily use to soothe her to sleep.

But Eloise stubbornly shakes her head. “Nnn.” She turns her face away, placing two hands on your knee.

Emily smiles at the domestic image, her heart tugging with a need to be home. To join your daughter in the circle of your legs, feel your arms around her waist as you both worked to lull her to sleep. 

She breathes through the ache, forcing herself to smile. “Well, we both know where that came—”

Her playful jab falls away when she sees Eloise stand, her hands still on your knee to hold herself up. Emily holds her breath, waiting for her to topple, but her daughter steps over your leg and walks to the drawers behind you. Her movements are wobbly but she doesn’t fall, babbling bye, bye, bye under her breath as she fiddles with the handle of the drawer at her level.

You don’t give a reaction apart from a guilty twist of your lips. Still, Emily waits for something; surprise, shock, excited laughter. The only thing that happens is an apologetic shrug of your shoulders, resigned and defeated.

Her heart sinks.

“She—” Emily sucks in a breath, her throat dry. “She started walking? When?” She hates how her voice is croaky, how it breaks as her heart picks up its pace.

You guiltily chew on your lip. “Yesterday morning.”

Yesterday morning. She was on the jet by then. Something bitter coats her tongue, digging into her molars; the inside of her cheeks pucker.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

But it’s obvious why you didn’t.

“Emily…”

“Mmamamama,” Eloise comes over again, her small, onesie-covered feet showing up on the screen. She grabs the phone from your limp fingers, her sweet, clueless face reaching the edges of Emily’s phone. “Ma,” she babbles, and Emily forces a smile.

“Mommy’s here, sweetheart.” She says hoarsely. 

Her voice cracks around the blatant lie.

___

They’re on the jet home less than twenty four hours later. It was as happy an outcome as they can possibly hope for; unsub in cuffs, airtight evidence, families reunited with their loved ones.

And yet everyone notices Emily’s mood. 

They notice it but say nothing about it, letting her churn in silence as she bypasses all the seats in the jet to sit in the back. Her go bag is thrown under her chair, her arms tightly crossed over her chest as she looks out the window and toys with her ring.

Takeoff is a blur. The lights dim and she chances a glance at her watch, hopelessly willing the time to go by faster. As she’s turning her head, she spots movement from the corner of her eye.

Hotch sits down across from her. He’s quiet as he places a mug of tea next to her phone, but when he leans back into his seat, she sees the concern—and the question—in his eyes.

“You’re upset.” He says.

If Emily wasn’t feeling so miserable, she might have scoffed. Maybe she could have deflected, or lashed out and told him to leave her alone and wallow in her self loathing. 

But she’s too tired for that. And Hotch has kind eyes; he understands, what she’s feeling, more than anyone.

So Emily finds herself cracking. 

“Eloise. She, uh…she took her first steps two days ago.” Emily says quietly, staring intensely at the mug he’s placed in front of her. The lump forms yet again, the threatening press of tears just behind her eyes. Her own words only make her gut churn. “...And I wasn’t there.” She adds unnecessarily, her voice lowered to a whisper because any louder and she’s sure it’ll break.

Her daughter crossed off a huge milestone. And instead of cheering her on, taking her into her arms and kissing her little cheeks, Emily was off hundreds of miles away, hunting down a pathetic, homicidal man rather than being there for her own child. Emily had promised herself that she’d always be there—for every dance recital, every parent teacher meeting. But she couldn’t even be there for Eloise’s first steps.

She’s just as bad as her mother, prioritizing a job over her own daughter. The thought makes her bite down on her lip, hard. The metallic taste of blood floods her tongue.

“How do you deal with it?” She asks thickly. Emily doesn’t look up at him as she twists her fingers into her necklace, smoothing her thumb over the engraved E and staring intently at the mug he’s placed on top of a coaster—because of course Hotch got a coaster.

The answer she gets is a low, heavy exhale that she feels in her bones. Emily looks up, chancing a glance at him even though she knows her eyes are probably shining under the low lights of the jet.

Hotch swallows, carefully measuring his words before he speaks. “I try to remind myself that I’m making the world a better place for him. Though most of the time it’s a lousy excuse.” His lips press together in a small, bitter, smile. A hand goes through his hair and a few strands flop back into his face; for the first time, Emily sees a rumpled, exhausted single dad rather than her put together Unit Chief. “I guess I try to deal with it by giving Jack 100% of my attention when I’m home. I shut everything out and focus on him, for however many hours I can get. I’d like to think I’m making a difference, but…” He trails off, shrugs. 

Emily’s stomach sinks then. She presses her lips together, fighting against the shine in her eyes that now reflects in Hotch’s. 

There’s no good answer. No way to make herself feel better about it. She knew that, and yet hearing it from him somehow makes it worse. The chain of her necklace tugs sharply against her throat.

“It helps,” he speaks up again, a tinge of sadness to his voice, “knowing that she’s not alone. She’ll always have someone. And no matter what, she’ll always know you love her.” He says gently. Somewhere in the shadowy corners of her mind, she realizes she’s never heard him talk this softly before, at least not to her.

Emily swallows hard. “What if—” Her voice shakes. She snaps her mouth shut, grabs the mug and takes a scorching sip. The chamomile doesn’t register on her taste buds, neither does the sweetness of two Splenda’s. Emily wraps her cold, trembling hands around the mug, looking into it as she forces herself to say the words. “What if she wants me? And if I’m not there…” Her voice grows hoarse again.

She swallows again. Drinks her tea, again. Closes her eyes against the tears, digs a thumb into her wedding ring. “What does that tell your child about you, Hotch? When you’re not there and they need you to be?”

Emily pretends not to hear the crack in her own voice. Hotch pretends, too, as he leans forward on the table. “You’re not a bad mom,” he says quietly. His tone is firm, unwavering. “You care and you’re trying and they’ll know that.”

They. Their combined children, victims of their job. He says it like he’s begging for it to be enough. For his sake and for hers.

Emily tries to believe it. She really, truly does, but she can’t stop the whispers that say it’s not enough.

___

When she walks into your home, the living room is empty.

Emily follows the sound of your voice and Eloise’s, her breaths coming easier as her feet lead her to the nursery. She inhales the scent of home; baby powder and your perfume and the detergent all of your clothes are washed with.

Finally, she stops at Eloise’s nursery. You’re sitting on the floor just like you were yesterday, Eloise again sitting between your crossed legs. There’s a book in her hands that she furrows her brows at, intently studying the colored pages as if she’ll be quizzed on them. 

The sight makes Emily smile.

“Knock knock,” she says softly, briefly scaring you. The tension in your shoulders melts when you see it’s her, a small smile curling your lips as she toes off her boots and walks into the nursery.

“Hi,” you whisper. Eloise finally looks up from her book just as Emily settles next to you on the floor, where she wished she would be just last night.

“Mama!” Her baby squeals, and Emily’s heart constricts, and her vision blurs as she reaches her hands out to carry her into her arms.

“Hi, Eloise,” she whispers. She feels the scrape of tears in the back of her throat and swallows, pressing her lips to her daughter’s soft cheek to stifle them. “I missed you.” Another kiss goes to her other cheek, then one to her forehead. 

Your hand falls to her knee and squeezes; Emily takes a hand off of Eloise’s back, places it over your knuckles. She skates her thumb over your skin, squeezes her daughter with her other hand. 

“I heard my sweet girl started walking.” Emily murmurs, letting go of your hand to smooth Eloise’s hair behind her ears. It’s an adorable mess, the way it springs right back in her face bringing a smile to Emily’s lips. “Can you show Mommy, honey?”

Her dark eyes stare into Emily’s; twin pairs. “Hi,” Eloise mumbles.

“Hi, my love. I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word. Her daughter doesn’t notice, too busy with reaching out to fiddle with her necklace. Emily runs her palms over the soft cotton of her onesie, hugging her close and trying to remind herself that she’s here now. “I’m so proud of you, Eloise. Mommy’s always proud of you, you know?” Tears balance on her lashes as she turns her head again to kiss a soft cheek. “You’re my girl.”

Emily didn’t used to be an easy crier. 

Having a child changed that; she cried at Eloise’s ultrasound, cried at her birth. She cried when her daughter said Mama and when she was running a mild fever of 99.5. Tears were easy to come, at bumps and bruises, at small snippets of her personality that start to form with time, at a singular candle blown on her birthday. Undeniably, her daughter is her Achilles heel. Emily is still trying to deal with that, trying to adjust to having her heart walk around unprotected on tiny, wobbly legs that still don’t know where to go.

Emily doesn’t realize she’s been rocking her daughter back and forth until your arm wraps around her shoulders. The weight of it forces her to go still; when she leans back, she leans back into you.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles. Eloise wriggles in her arms and she lets her go, only for the little girl to plop between both of you. Her small hands fiddle with the badge on her hip; Emily’s eyes dart down to her, a wobbly smile pulling on her lips.

“Em,” you whisper, cupping her chin in your hand. Her gaze meets yours again. “You have nothing to apologize for.” You say quietly. With more tenderness than she deserves, you wipe the wetness under her eye.

Emily shakes her head. “I wasn’t there.” She says, her lip trembling as more of her tears drip onto your palm.

An adamant frown pulls your brows together. “Look at her.” You murmur, both firm and soft as you catch a tear before it falls onto Eloise’s head. Emily does, her heart clenching when she finds Eloise’s chin already tipped up, their eyes clashing in identical shades of brown. “She’s just happy you’re home, baby. We both are.”

“But—”

“Mama cry?” Eloise’s sweet voice pipes up.

The palpable sadness in it breaks Emily’s heart. Eloise frowns fiercely as she shoves her small palms into Emily’s knee, steadying herself before standing on her own and taking two steps to reach her mother. 

Pride flares in her chest. Eloise stands on her tiptoes, her small hands falling on her mother’s face; Emily’s hands go to her waist, steadying her. “Mama cry?” Her baby asks again, her eyes far too serious for a just turned one-year-old.

Emily smiles and this time it’s more genuine. “I’m okay, sweet girl.” She lifts a small fist off her cheek and brings it to her lips. “I love you.”

“Wuv.”

“You tell her, Ellie.” You lean against Emily’s side, your hand going to her cheek to wipe the remaining tears. Eloise’s hand joins yours and Emily laughs, shaky and wet even though your daughter is being none too careful. “That’s what we like to hear,” you murmur, tucking Emily’s hair behind her ear. Eloise falls into her lap and she instinctively holds her, her hands secure around her body even though she doesn’t break eye contact with you.

“Listen to me. You’re here now. That’s what matters, okay? It could’ve happened at any time—hell, I could’ve been at work when it happened. This is not on you.” You say firmly, your voice almost scolding. But your hands on her face are soft, cradling her cheeks with gentle care; the pad of your thumb skims absently over her jaw.

Emily’s lips twitch. Your words go through one ear and out the other; nothing against you, but she’s never relied on them for comfort. Instead she leans forward and presses her forehead to yours, closing her eyes as your noses bump together. Her shoulders slump, her body relaxing when Eloise presses her cheek to her chest.

“I love you.” She says, soft, pressing the statement into your lips.

“I love you too.”

“Wuv.” Eloise joins in.

You and Emily both laugh as you look down at her, a familiar warmth returning to Emily’s chest at being home, with her family. She lifts her daughter back into her arms and kisses her until she giggles, until the sound of her laughter drowns out Emily’s thoughts. She’s not sure if she trusts your words, trusts that your love and Eloise’s won’t simmer to resentment when this situation is inevitably repeated in an endless cycle.

But for now, she’ll believe them. Believe you.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi

[zo3mess]

Bitter-sweet

Summary: Officers from other towns were reassigned to help the understaffed police force in Evergreen after the butterfly massacre. The good old game of cat and mouse begins with Vigilante continuing his shenanigans and one police officer determined to catch him. Except it is not entirely clear who is chasing whom.

Warnings: 18+, smut, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be stupid and use protection guys), blood play, gun play (but not really) enemies to enemies with benefits type of relationship, violence, dead bodies, alcohol consumption, foul language. Female reader and no use of Y/N.

Word count: 5.4k (my hand slipped, I’m sorry) 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Extra songs for this fic

Masterlist of my works

Note: I realized I missed writing so much since I don’t write essays in school anymore and I got quite a positive reaction on my last work Laundry girl (I love you guys fr). This time I tried something different? I feel like this is messier than the last one, lousy idea, but you know how it is. Also I have never written smut before, so get ready for some weird shit. English is not my first language, I apologize for mistakes, especially with tenses. Criticism is very much welcomed! Thank you for every like, reblog and comment, it makes me all giddy whenever I get a notification <3

The Project Butterfly was a case that shocked everyone. Aliens invading Earth? Shady business with convicts led by Waller? Something that shocked you personally was the sudden disappearance of whole police precinct in Evergreen. Whole town ended up with no cops and needed help. Which was a great opportunity for you to start up.

Your dream? Gotham. City swarmed with villains. You needed to prove you’re tough enough for catching real supervillains. Where better to start than Evergreen? You agreed to relocate there to help, however your real target was Vigilante.

Some people said that what he was doing was good, catching criminals and ending their lives before they could do it again. But no one deserves to be above law and deciding fate of souls that can still reach redemption. Even if he helped saved the world from alien invasion.

So many times you saw him creeping through the streets late at night, but never managing to get close enough. After a few encounters, he realized you were specifically after him. A fan who kept a close eye on his work.

One night when you were stumbling home back from a bar, you heard weird sounds coming from an alleyway next to an abandoned store. Nothing out of the ordinary you would think, but it sounded like someone was in pain. You would be a bad cop to not help someone in need, no matter if it was past your working hours.

And since then, he started taunting you. Leaving a big V with the blood of his victims for you, quite few times even turning the signature letter into a heart.

And they say romance is dead.

With caution you walked over there, lamp lights did a shitty job illuminating the streets, but you were able to recognize a body laying on the ground. Blood was seeping from under the man who was killed by a clear headshot, judging by the injuries you were able to see.

Quiet shuffling and groaning was audible from a distance. The realization that something is very wrong came far too late. Before you could even recognize what was happening a stranger pulled you around the corner and your yelp was muffled by a gloved hand.

“Shhhh shhh. It’s just me.” Vigilante. As if that made it any better. “If I remove my hand, will you scream?”

Decisions, decisions. You were more likely to punch him in the face rather than scream, but if he just killed the guy, it wasn’t smart to start a fight with someone riding on adrenaline and someone who is far more ready to fight. You would not cause much damage in high heels, short dress and still tipsy from the bar.

Eventually you shook your head, and he removed his hand from your face. Uncomfortable silence filled the air. Should you even ask what happened?

You searched for his eyes behind the red visor, until you noticed he was staring down. Was he…

“Are you staring at my tits?’’

A gloved hand made its way to your cleavage, pressing his hand against your skin to feel it rise and fall with every shallow breath you took. Your wide eyes followed his bold move, you felt the warmth of his body and it was making you feel insane.

“Your heart is beating really fast.” A simple observation that mesmerized him. He also wasn’t completely calm, quite the opposite. Since you disrupted his hunt so abruptly.

Before you came he had been planning on drawing a nice big V on the floor for you, a greeting he sent you every time he left a corpse behind him.

All this time in Evergreen you focused on getting near to Vigilante, to catch him and serve some justice for reckless behavior, for playing God. And now he was closer than ever, even daring to touch you without a doubt in his head, it made your brain circuit.

“Not so fast on your feet now, huh?”  You had to mock him for it of course. All this time he was counting on his swiftness, it finally caught up to him.

You noticed he started to breathe faster too, his chest piece was rising with every deep inhale, and even in the low light of the street lamp you saw a dark stain on his mask. It did not take long before he rolled up the bottom half of his mask in exhaustion.

No wonder he had trouble breathing when blood was flowing from his nose onto his lips that did not look exactly intact too.  Must have been a heavy fight.

“Shut up.” Vigilante tried to wipe the blood off his face with his wrist, groaning as he did so. Simultaneously you were taking a mental note that he was in fact comfortable with showing you the bottom half of his face. What was in your head an investigation of a target, he saw as blunt staring.

For a moment you two kept ogling each other. You took interest in the little human part he showed you, bloody puffy lips, clean-shaven jaw and few moles on his cheeks all felt surreal after all this time you saw him as a simple masked head with a red visor.

Vigilante on the other had studied your eyes, how bright they suddenly looked, how they gazed at him with curiosity and most importantly how they kept flicking to his lips. He was no genius but a voice inside his head told him there was a tad more to this.

Something about stopping the alien invasion made him bolder, more confident, most of the time he felt like king of the world. Of course, people that knew him as Adrian Chase, a dorky weirdo, had no idea he basically saved the world.

But you knew and he loved it.

He suddenly pressed his lips against yours, releasing a low painful groan when your noses got smushed. Hands dropped to your waist to pull you closer and yours found their way to his chest. Finally there was an opportunity to touch the expensive suit.

You saw him as a villain, or at least desperately wanted him to be, and Adrian saw himself as hero of Evergreen.

Heroes always get the girl, right? That’s how it should go.

Vigilante pulled away before you could kiss him back. Maybe the alcohol made you much more reckless than you thought.

“You taste bitter.” He commented and licked his lips. Was it that surprising? Considering you rocked a perfect sour face every time anyone even mentioned his name.

His tongue pried its way into your mouth and brought the savory taste of blood with it. Who would have thought this psycho would be a good kisser. Conscience started flipping with guilt when you realized you enjoyed this more than running after him.

“I’ve been drinking gin and tonic at the bar.” Immediately as you explained your bitter lips and his bloody ones got connected once again in a far hungrier kiss.

Regrets of tomorrow will be ringing in your ears for days. Will you be able to work with peace of mind when you’re making out in a dark alleyway with your nemesis?

Your inner voice urged you to bite his lip, to worsen his wound, make it bleed again. You wanted to get back at him for pulling you into this situation and maybe, just maybe, you enjoyed the taste of iron in your mouth.

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards before he quickly latched his mouth just under your jaw. You felt the sticky remains of blood he left with every kiss on your throat. It felt good, too good, but he you couldn’t grant him the satisfaction of you bearing throat to him. He did not deserve to feel like a predator, like he could simply latch his teeth into your weak spot.

Your tongue swiped over his lower lip, searching and then probing into his split lip. The action made him tighten the grip he had on your waist, bunching up your dress. And when you bit harshly on his lip, tugging away and releasing it with a snap, he whimpered out the most sinful noise you have heard. It got stuck in your head, what would you give to hear it one more time.

He pulled away in surprise and you got a chance to see your work, lip swelling and beautiful red appeared once again and his tongue licked the new blood that trickled down.

“You realize that I have to do something about the dead guy, no matter how much you kiss me.” You manage to find the strength to keep your voice steady in between heavy breaths.

“Or you can just leave him here, he got what he deserved,” You immediately missed his warm lips on your neck. “You could get what you deserve too, if only you weren’t so stubborn. I could take good care of you” Vigilante murmured and left his position on your neck. With a little concentration, you were able to recognize two wide eyes staring at you through a red visor, twitching between your lips to your neck, clearly admiring the claim he landed on you. Blood and spit glistening all over your throat, oh could you get any sexier in his eyes?

“I should be putting handcuffs on you and taking you out of here.” You spat back and straightened your back with hopes of appearing taller, confident.

“How do you know about those?” Blood in your veins grew colder in an instant. Then it hit you, this freak does more than laugh in your face every time you arrive at the crime scene too late, taunting you for every criminal he managed to catch before you.

“Only if they are the pink fluffy ones you keep in your top drawer.” Smug smile played on his face as he presented his wrists up to you with a dramatic sigh. Your pink handcuffs? Wouldn't it be too on the nose for a police officer to have kinky handcuffs?

He got it wrong anyway, you do not keep them in your top drawer, they’re in the third one. A stupid birthday gift can always turn out to be useful in the right situation.

“Are you stalking me?” Your voice cracked a little, it had been a long night and this just gave it a crown. Eyes glinting with surprise? Anger? Excitement? This is wrong, right? So why did your heart skip a beat at the thought of Vigilante watching you through your window?

“No?” More of a question rather than an answer. Fucking liar. “I happened to be walking around your house when you had your curtains open.” The way he said it was so slurred, he realized his mistake. Gloved hands were twitching along his sides, biting his lip in frustration of fucking up, wincing once the pain of split lip reminded him of his condition.

“Fucking unbelievable!” You pushed him away and with wobbly legs, you slithered past him. “I’m reporting this dead body to the precinct. Pack your shit and go.” You absentmindedly pointed to the dead guy bleeding on the pavement.

Meanwhile Vigilante was still standing there with eyes following your every movement as you walked over to his victim, listening to clacks of high heels. Part of him could not believe you would let him go just like that, especially after you learned of his occasional late-night visits, the other part wanted to run and save his ass, just to play this game a little bit longer.

Before he decided to listen to your order and leave, he took a last quick look at you as you tried to scrub off the dried blood he left on you while searching for your superior’s number on your phone.

 Oh, the fire you two just started will keep him awake the rest of the night, he was sure of it. Whether it was cursing the world for throwing obstacles in his life with a bottle of whiskey or succumbing to his perverse mind in the shower.

After your strange run-up with Vigilante in the alleyway everything started to tangle up more than it used to. Starting with a patchy explanation of why you suddenly found a dead guy in valley without blowing out the truth that you made out with the killer a few minutes after he shot the poor guy.

Sharp mind turned into a dull organ sitting in your head, thinking about Vigilante in the opposite way you should. If you were still in middle school, you would be probably drawing stick figures of him and you with hearts all around while simultaneously stabbing a pencil through his head. Were you truly so weak to his charm? All you needed was to clear your head, right?

Same thoughts over and over again swarmed your head, even after a long day in work. You barely dragged your feet to your small house in exhaustion. You kicked off your shoes in hallway with a sigh and went straight to the living room. All you wanted was to lay on the couch, watch some stupid chick flick and let sleep take you.

The last thing you expected though, was a large figure lounging on the couch in complete darkness. Once you switched on lights you quickly recognized the one and only Vigilante.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You yelped sternly and swiftly pulled out your gun from a holster, wasting no time to point it at him. You were used to having everything under control, nothing could surprise you, so how did this guy manage to catch you off guard all the time, how did he manage to make your life so messy and most importantly how did he manage to break into your home?

“You’ve been slacking, I wanted to know what’s up.” Vigilante cocked his head up with absolutely no other reaction to being pointed at with a gun. You wanted to shoot him in the face just for this nonchalant gesture.

“You don’t chase after me anymore,” Another bored shrug, this time he sat up on your couch and leaned his head to the side like a confused puppy. “I missed your sour face.” The way his tone changed, from accusing to clear and soft, made you loosen the grip on your gun.

The first time Vigilante got almost caught by you got him addicted even more to the adrenaline. All this time he was getting kick from killing criminals, beating up scums that don’t respect rules. Getting drunk on the feeling of power. But the second he was cutting corners, sprinting through streets with you on his tail, unlocked a whole new world for him.

The intensity of danger, one wrong step and you would catch him, put handcuffs on him and throw him in jail. This little addiction he had was as dangerous as being addicted to any other drug. Doing anything to get another dose, this time it meant sneaking into your house and confronting you from eye to eye.

“How did you get in here?” Overreaction was audible in your question and there was no wonder. Usually secure house was suddenly intruded by the masked menace of Evergreen that basked in running away from you while laughing like a maniac. Now? He came up right to you, giving you opportunity to catch him right in act of breaking and entering.

You just kept standing there watching him walk over to you without fear, without a doubt.

“You forgot to close your bathroom window,” The tip of your gun met his chest piece when he finally stopped right in front of you. Even without the benefit of seeing his face, you knew in your bones he was smirking “It was hard to squeeze through, I’m expecting applause or something.”

A frown was all he got in retaliation, nothing more and nothing else was in place for his stunt. A sensible reaction from someone whose house just got broken into, he knew it damn well, yet it did not please him.

Vigilante freed his hands from gloves and threw them hastily on the floor beside your feet, all while staring down at you. Curiosity got the better of your conscience, finger slowly moving away from the trigger, but the gun kept being pressed against his body.

Big hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs pulling at the corners of your mouth and forcing them into a lousy smile as his reward. If you refuse to give him acknowledgment it will be taken by force. His laugh was being muffled by the fabric of the dark mask, the one that had blood all over a few weeks back.

That time you were the one under the influence of alcohol that bent your consciousness, this time you felt a whiff of alcohol in Vigilante’s breath. The thought of him having to take a shot or two to give him enough courage to actually step into your territory made you all giddy inside. Maybe the all-mighty Vigilante, the menace of Evergreen, is not as indestructible as he claimed to be.

“Just between you and me, I know you don’t want to lock me up for real-“

“But I do.” You quickly interrupted him. Don’t give in.

“No, you don’t. I can see it on your face. You’re enjoying it far too much just like I do.” Debatable. But he had a point. “I mean yeah, you are pointing a gun at me and shit, but you kissed me back that night. That means something!”

He threw his hands in the air and a cheery voice just completed his dramatic bravado. However, as much as you would like to deny it, you did in fact make out with him back in that alleyway instead of doing your job.

“Do you usually make out with police officers to shake them off your track?”

“Just with you.” His hands found their place on your waist and started to play with the belt loops. And you let him continue… What is wrong with you?

“Oh I’m flattered, how is it working out for you?” With a fake smile, you pressed the gun more into his chest.

“You tell me.” Vigilante strikes again with painful truth. Yes, you were pointing your gun at him, but he had you cornered in your living room, hands seductively rubbing your hips and you let him get away with yet another murder. Well done.

His mask got rolled up and you got a chance to admire his lips. Before you could say another snarky remark, Vigilante silenced you with an urgent kiss. It was his time to shine, to bite your lip, to shove his tongue in your mouth and tangle with yours. He gave you no time to think about anything else except him.

“You know how the saying goes: Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.” He hastily unbuttoned your work slacks, pulling the zipper down far too hard you were afraid for a moment he got it stuck. Even though you should have been more worried about the fact you just got your pants shown down your thighs.

“You consider me an enemy?” You sighed out and focused on his warm fingertips playing with the elastic of your underwear. Touches light, like his fingers were asking for permission. The lack of protests signalized a green light he was waiting for.

“Only if you shoot me.” A toothy grin plastered his face when you pressed the barrel of your gun sternly to his chin and tilted his head up. How could you pass on that opportunity to rile him up like this.

“If it means you’ll stay close to me I just might.”  With those words his hand slipped past the hem of your panties, going straight for the kill and giving all the attention to your throbbing clit. He chuckled at your reaction, how you acted all tough and yet your body begged for his touch.

Your eyelids fluttered at the sudden contact, the precision he held in killing criminals clearly dominated other areas as well. Small and stern circles changed to slow and light flicks and back and all of it was accompanied by an intense gaze that searched for any kind of reaction.

You wonder what color his eyes are, that red visor was not flattering them in any way. Would he stare at you so shamelessly even without his mask or did it bring him a fake feeling of anonymity that pushed the boundaries of this escapade.

Vigilante bent down his head to the gun that lingered near his face. You could not believe your eyes for a second when he pressed a kiss to the tip of it before smirking. He’s practically begging for a bullet in his head with bullshit like this. He did not care he was basically being held at gunpoint.  A decision was made to hide your gun back in the holster harness, for the safety of both parties involved.

Your hands sneaked up to his neck that was bared to you, nails lightly scraping along his prominent Adam’s apple. You soon found out it made him wild, because the second you touched his neck, two fingers were recklessly shoved inside you, forcing out a loud moan out of you.

Shameful whimpers started pouring out from your lips, wetness seeping into your completely ruined underwear. You had to ground yourself against the wall since your legs started buckling under you. The feeling of submission poured over weak body, something you weren’t used to. With an abrupt yank you pulled Vigilante’s lips onto yours to give yourself just a second of control. You will allow him to take you apart with his fingers, but you will control when a how much he will kiss you.

Twisted part of your mind craved the taste of his bloody lips on your tongue again. There was no doubt he wouldn’t tolerate you biting his lip again to make him bleed like the last time. Or would he? You did not dare.

A better option was to sneak your hands to the back of his neck. A bit of hair poking out from his bunched-up mask caught your attention. Now you knew he had brown hair. Add it to his dimples, surprisingly sweet laugh, bold demeanor and an idea of a person is born, suddenly so real. Especially when he was jackhammering his thick fingers right to your G spot.

You wanted more. You needed more. Fingers tried to slip under his mask with hopes he would not notice it when you were distracting him with your tongue in his mouth. This wasn’t fair towards him at all, he was making you feel so good and you were trying to pull his mask off.

If you knew how he looked like it would not be any trouble to find him and arrest him. That’s why you came to Evergreen voluntarily after all. If all of this was just a means to an end…

But Vigilante quickly realized what were you trying to do and caught your wrist before you could continue. “Seriously?” Annoyance seeped from his voice, grip on your wrist so tight to the point it almost hurt. But your wide eyes that stared at him like deer caught in headlights made him soften his hold.

“At least buy me a dinner before you try to pull my mask off.” He laughed it off, but pulled his fingers from your pussy and you whined at the loss.

He let go off your hand and let it drop to your body. Instead he pulled his fingers from your panties and inspected the arousal coating them before bringing them to his lips. The sight alone made you sigh.

“You taste so sweet. If only you treated me so sweetly too.” Fingers popped from his mouth, covered in spit instead of your wetness. Oh, you’re fucked.

“Lose these.” You playfully tugged on his tactical belt.

“So demanding. Very sexy of you.”

The suit had quite a complicated mechanism and rather than losing his pants he just popped the button open to free his cock, hard and leaking precum. Hot and ready to go.

His gaze lingered on you as you pulled your pants and underwear down your legs. Breath got caught in his throat at the sight of your skin. A blank canvas for him to paint.

In an instant he lunged back at you, hooking hands under your knees to raise you up and making you hook your legs around his waist. Heat radiating from his body to your core was such a lovely contrast to the cold pieces of his suit that pressed against you throughout the evening.

“Are we really about to do this?” You were breathless, sandwiched between a wall and Vigilante leaning over you.

“Only if you want to.” So genuine. A man with no boundaries asking for consent, it surprised you more than it should have. “I do.”

“Baller”

Head of his cock swiped over your clit roughly. That bastard was teasing you more and more and enjoyed every second of it. His lips parted in awe, eyes were glued down to watch the pretty sight. You became something more than a police officer going after him or prey for him to take, but God forbid if he ever admitted that to you or even himself.

“I hate you.” Voice was shaking with anticipation and so was your body. A quick chaste kiss washed away the hate you felt even if it was just for a second, then he slid into you in one clean glide until your pelvises were flush against each other.

You both moaned out into each other’s open mouths. Someone would say it was just a noise of shameful lust. For you? A nasty symphony that set off something inside, the same type of addiction that controlled the man in front of you.

“If you sound so heavenly when you hate someone I’m really curious how you sound when you love someone.” He licked his lips and bucked his hips up to force another sweet mewl out.

“Go to hell” You knew it did not sound convincing and that fucker saw right through you. Because if you truly hated Vigilante so badly he wouldn’t be balls deep inside you, stretching you out with burning pleasure. With another vain chuckle, he started snapping his hips into you with urgency.

Vigilante filled you in the best and the worst way possible. Relieving the thirst your body was screaming with as well as putting a patch over the deep hole of anger and frustration he had been digging in your heart since you met him for the first time.

There was nothing gentle or graceful about what happened. Messy, desperate, vicious, and addictive is what it was.

You tightly hold onto him with arms around his neck, clinging like a koala.

If only your squad saw you like this. You have been boasting and promising how you’re gonna be the one to catch Vigilante. And here you were, it seemed he caught you more likely. Driving his cock into you in the dimness of your living room like it was his usual nightly activity.

Truth be told, he kept fucking with you all this time to make you mad, but never in a million years you would have guessed he will be fucking with you for real.

The strong grip he had on your thighs loosened with every hard thrust. Legs were slowly but surely slipping from his waist to the floor. All his power was concentrated on snapping hips and harsh kisses until nothing was left for his arms to hold you up, yet he refused to let go of you. Gnarly bruises were forming where his fingertips dug into the soft skin of your thighs, making this meeting even more bitter-sweet.

“You can be so good when you want to be,” You barely whispered it against his lips between your combined moans “You’re so good for me. Such a good boy-“

“Fuck I’m gonna cum! Fuuck!” His whine was long and high-pitched, you wanted to hear more of it, but he muffled his cries with a bite on your neck. Normally you would not allow him to bite you, there could always be an exception, and this was one of them.

Especially when he got into a sprint to the finish line, he found hidden strength to bounce you on his cock as much as this lousy position allowed him.

His pelvis was hitting your pulsating clit so gloriously, wet slaps filling your ears, moans and whimpers digging deep into your memory, there was no way you could hold on.

And you did not. Fireworks exploded behind closed eyelids, tingly heat spread from your core to the very tips of your toes, ecstasy consumed every fiber of your being.

Too busy floating on cloud nine to notice Vigilante clenching his teeth around the skin of your neck, creating another vulgar bruise. Too busy to register a loud groan he let out with one last thrust. Too busy to notice ropes of cum coating your spasming walls, filling you to the brim.

His hold no longer supported you when he leaned all his weight on you, chest rising and falling against yours with every deep breath. Being too sensitive to pull out he nestled inside you, basking in the warmth of your cunt.

“You know… You almost got me that one time. After that burglary in the liquor shop,” He murmured against your neck, pressing apologetic kisses to the spot he had bitten. “And I’ve been thinking about it tonight-”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I’m trying to tell you! Don’t interrupt me, dude.” Did he just call you ‘dude’?

“I wanted to say that I realized if I’ll keep fucking you until you can’t walk, you have no chance of catching me.” He pulled away from the crook of your neck and genuinely smiled at your dazzled face.

“Bold of you to assume I’m letting you inside my house ever again. I will remember to close that window next time.” At this point, you started to struggle to keep your head calm.

“Bold of you to assume I don’t know about the spare key in the flowerpot in front of your house.” That motherfucker. Now you have to relocate the key somewhere else.

“Sounds like a threat.”

“More like a promise.”

He pulled out and tucked himself back into his pants without a second thought. You watched with open mouth as he gathered ruined panties and pants while you leaned against the wall with weak legs. He acted so nicely, it made your heart melt. Just a little.

All of this almost made you feel bad for your intentions. You were there to throw him in front of a court and move on to the big league, but Vigilante just enjoyed your presence, your interest, albeit the wrong kind.

“Don’t pretend you hate me,” He handed you clothes and booped your nose with the tip of his pointer. With one last pretty smile, he pulled the mask over his face and made his way to your front door. “See ya later, loser!”

He just left you standing there with his cum running down your legs like it was nothing. Like he didn't just give you the best orgasm you had in a while. Oh God, What have you gotten yourself into…

[crescenthistory]

welcome to carina's corner

my name is carina | twenty years old | she/they | i study history in london | spiritual | poet

masterlist of my writing can be found below the cut ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ requests are open to these and similar characters<3

.・。.・゜✭・.・ ⤷ request guidelines ⤷ prompt list

NB! i attempt to make all my writing be as accessible for everyone, so at no point will reader's looks (including hair, size, skin colour, etc.) be disclosed. if there are any lapses, please let me know<3 i specify if there is fem!reader or gn!reader

i write for marauders era characters and miscellaneous films

࣪𖤐 regulus black

⤷ Totally Just the Fifth and Sixth Wheel (mutual pining, reg and reader in denial about their feelings are called out by friends)

⤷ Part 2, Still Just Totally the Fifth and Sixth Wheel, You Guys (the eventual triple date to hogsmeade, more pining and denial ensues)

⤷ "I want to see you" (light smut, first time, reg is working on letting go)

⤷ "You occupy my every thought" (sunshine x grumpy dynamic)

⤷ "Are you falling asleep on me?" & "How are you so cute right now" (fluff, late night in the library)

⤷ Professional Meddlers (chaotic fluff/good vibes, the girls play matchmakers with you and regulus)

⤷ "Where is she?" (hurt/comfort, regulus is the last to find out you're injured)

⤷ blurb about rosekiller's reaction

⤷ "I don't know, it just happened" (heavy hurt/comfort, regulus finds reader sobbing over magical ink on her hands)

animagus!reader

⤷ Feline Touches (fluff/crack fic, regulus knows exactly where to find you when you're hiding from the cold, feat. bsf!remus) ⤷ Sweet Like Honey; Karma is a Cat (fluff/crack fic, wolfstar neglect to wake you when you and reg fall asleep in cat form) ⤷ Padfoot vs. Whiskers (fluff/crack fic, platonic!sirius x reader, you and reg get revenge on sirius in cat form) ⤷ Where Padfoot Lays His Head (hurt/comfort, platonic!sirius x reader, whiskers comforts padfoot)

drabbles:

⤷ "Use your words, sweetheart" (implied smut, celebrating qudditch victory)

⤷ "Nothing matters but you" (fluff, cuddling the night before your birthday)

ִ ࣪𖤐 barty crouch jr

⤷ Toe The Line (friends to lovers, confronting barty about his flirting with you)

⤷ Murder’s On the Wishlist (hurt/comfort, you’re forced to go home for christmas)

⤷ steady me, guide me, love me (hurt/comfort, barty gets into another fight and you have a serious talk)

⤷ "You woke me up for this?" (fluff, barty is bored in the middle of the night)

⤷ the blood means i love you (smut/aftercare, reader accidentally makes barty bleed and he loves it)

grumpy!reader / bickering series

⤷ "Aren't you just a sweetheart?" (kinda sunshine/grumpy dynamic, bickering flirting) ⤷ and what about it? (your friends find out you and barty are dating) ⤷ this isn't fun anymore (hurt/comfort, it gets serious and that scares you both) ⤷ an insufferable dance (set before they start dating, dance at hogsmeade) ⤷ sleepy midnight escapades (fluff, anxious remus goes looking for you at night when you miss curfew and finds you with barty)

ִ ࣪𖤐 james fleamont potter

⤷ The Boy with the Glasses is Blind (pining, james mistakenly thinks you're in love with your best friend, barty)

𖤐 marauders

⤷ What You Became (fluff, poly!marauders react when their clumsy girlfriend becomes a swan animagus)

platonic!bestfriend!marauders are heavily featured in animagus!reader x regulus black:

⤷ Feline Touches (fluff/crack fic, regulus knows exactly where to find you when you're hiding from the cold, feat. bsf!remus) ⤷ Sweet Like Honey; Karma is a Cat (fluff/crack fic, wolfstar neglect to wake you when you and reg fall asleep in cat form) ⤷ Padfoot vs. Whiskers (fluff/crack fic, platonic!sirius x reader, you and reg get revenge on sirius in cat form) ⤷ Where Padfoot Lays His Head (hurt/comfort, platonic!sirius x reader, whiskers comforts padfoot)

𖤐 slytherin skittles

includes: barty, evan, regulus, dorcas, pandora

hc: how would the skittles react to you walking into a party looking smashing?

ִ ࣪𖤐 paul atreides

⤷ in the silence, there is an us (childhood best friends to lovers, bedsharing)

⤷ you are my favourite silence (part of paul's pov in 'in the silence, there is an us')

⤷ "Come back to bed" (fluff, paul tries to work, reader drags him back to sleep)

⤷ "There will not be a day where i am not there for you" (hurt/comfort, reader does not want to burden paul with her illness)

drabbles:

⤷ "Loosen up a little" (light smut/suggestive make-out, reader helps paul relax)

⤷ Paul gets a Fremen illness (hurt/comfort)

⤷ "Kiss me again" (fluff, sparring)

ִ ࣪𖤐 lee (bones & all)

⤷ You and I, We've Grown Comfortable Here (slowburn romance, life on the road with lee, discovering you're more alike than you thought)

⤷ i found a home, she's beautiful (being introduced to kayla for the first time)

⤷ "Is this okay?" (light smut, motel room, first time)

⤷ "I require at least a thousand kisses to make up for it" (fluff, slow mornings)

⤷ "How delightful" (fluffy halloween, reader and lee work at a haunted house)

[leejenowrld]

ooohh what kinda videos does jeno send of himself to you? ;)

i know you didn’t specify if you’re talking about any fic jeno or jeno in general but i’m gonna write this as in your eyes jeno, just makes me visualise it better

jeno loves sending you cock videos. like he’s obsessed and so are you.

jeno’s the type to send you those videos at any given moment—completely unapologetic and shameless about it. whether you’re both away from each other and he’s sending nudes to set the mood for some late-night phone sex, or you’re out with friends or family, and he wants you home because he can’t stop thinking about fucking you, he doesn’t care. he’ll send it whenever he feels like it, no matter where you are. sometimes it’s just because he misses you, wanting you to see exactly how much he’s craving you. with jeno, there’s no holding back—if he wants you, you’re going to know about it.

jeno is the type to send videos that are carefully crafted to drive you wild. they’re not rushed or sloppy—he knows exactly how to make it just the right amount of teasing and explicit. the lighting is always just low enough to create shadows, accentuating the lines of his body, but clear enough so you can see everything he’s doing. he’s deliberate, knowing the angles that’ll make you squirm on the other end.

he’ll send you videos of him stroking himself slowly, deliberately, giving you just enough to make you crave more but never too much all at once. sometimes, he’ll focus the camera just on his member, hard and thick in his hand, his grip tight as he strokes up and down. other times, he’ll include his face, locking eyes with the camera, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches your reaction through the screen. he’ll groan quietly, his voice low, letting you hear how much you affect him. and sometimes, he’ll keep it short—just a quick clip of him finishing, the camera focused on the way he pulses in his hand, his breath ragged as he comes, knowing it’ll leave you desperate for more.

as for his member, jeno’s well-endowed. thick, with a good length that’s enough to make you gasp every time. he’s proud of it, and he knows how to use it—confident but never boastful. there’s a slight curve to it, just enough to hit all the right spots when he’s inside you, and it’s always rock hard when he’s thinking about you, veins prominent as he grips himself, the tip flushed and slick with precum in the videos he sends. it’s a visual that you can’t get out of your head—every time you watch him, you’re reminded of just how good he feels inside you, and no matter what toy you use, it’s never enough to compare.

when it comes to his body, he knows what you love and plays into it perfectly. he’ll send you clips of his abs, glistening with sweat, his hand brushing over his skin, the camera catching just enough of his chest to tease you, knowing it drives you crazy. he’ll pull his shirt up slowly, giving you a good view of his defined muscles, flexing a little just because he knows it’ll get you biting your lip, already thinking about what’s underneath. he’s confident and cocky, knowing exactly the reaction he’s getting from you.

but then there are the videos he’s taken of you—those intimate moments where he captured every inch of you for himself. sometimes it’s just clips of you laid out on the bed, looking up at him with that lustful gaze, or short snippets of you touching yourself, your moans filling the room. and then there are the more explicit ones, the ones where he has the perfect view of your body moving for him, like the way your ass bounces as you ride him, his cock buried deep inside you. he loves sending those back to you, especially when he’s missing you, reminding you of just how perfect you are together, of how much he needs you even when he’s not there. seeing those videos of you two together, the sight of your pussy taking him over and over, it’s his way of showing you that he’s not just thinking about you—he’s aching for you.

[darsynia]

New (Nomad Steve/Nurse!Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS MASTERLIST | Ro Roll

Summary: As soon as two weeks ago he’d have said that keeping to himself was the easiest part of his life right now… but that was before he met you.

Word Count/Warnings: 2,400 | None

As 1/7 of my Birthday fics for @ronearoundblindly, NEw is a first kiss hurt/comfort fic about writing your own happy endings. It's a hugely busy week for you and there's no pressure to respond right now, they'll all be here when you have time!

Excerpt:

Lately it feels like exhaustion is your religion. Stay up way too late, stumble home confused and euphoric and try to will yourself to sleep, then wake up and perform miracles to get yourself back to the hospital for your shift. You’ve always been a night owl, but your shift supervisor practically considers you the ward’s brand ambassador, and to keep the peace, you agreed to stay on the day shift. You’d gotten the schedule down to a science, right up until a tall, gorgeous complication started to jog at the track after hours.

The name he’d given feels fake, but nothing else about him does, and you know all about needing to distance yourself from the horrible things you’ve seen at work. You suspect he was a soldier until he got out, and after that probably a firefighter, but you’ve never asked. Mostly, you just try to keep up with him. The sum total of the words you’ve spoken to each other probably wouldn’t make for a single meet-cute in a romance novel, but they feel consequential enough to you.

NEW

It takes Steve a painful amount of time to adjust to hiding.

It isn’t just that he’s recognizable, it’s that he’s always stood out, always. As a small baby he’d been gasped over by strangers, as a sickly child he’d see concern and aversion in their eyes, and once he’d grown into a scrawny adult, those reactions had just intensified. 

Some accused him of making himself sick to avoid the war, as though he could have secretly known it was coming and starved himself into stunted growth just in case. For some, it didn’t matter what he looked like-- any man who wasn’t at war was fair game for ridicule. Even those who didn’t care either way found his presence unnerving simply because men his age were scarce. He reminded them of the people they missed, the people who didn’t have the ‘protection’ of being physically unable to join up. 

If his life was a narrative, he’d be the best protagonist he could be.

Even so, there was a special kind of hell in wanting so desperately to fight for justice and be told how lucky you were to be disallowed. Back then, it had been important to him not to hide. There were certainly others in the same boat as he was, men who needed groceries, to watch the news in the theater, to have a walk in the fresh air. So he went out anyway. He was the example, the target, the archetype.

Once he had the serum, hiding meant all the hard work by Doctor Erskine and Howard Stark would be for nothing, so he didn’t. Even in tights.

The symbolism was even stronger when he came out of the ice. Now, people look to him as a lodestar meant to bring them all back to decency and safety, and he wants to, but with action, not iconography, no matter how potent. 

That hadn’t been enough, and now they’re here.

“You’ve been tying your shoes for five minutes, man. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Sam.” Steve finishes up quickly and straightens. “Daydreaming, I guess.”

Sam leans over and looks out through the thin rectangle of night sky visible through the thick curtains. “At this point I think you can just call it dreaming. Stay safe out there.”

Steve watches Sam head off into the kitchen before he slips out of the apartment door and locks it behind him. He and Sam keep nocturnal schedules, but Natasha’s expert-level camouflage skills have netted her a day job that keeps them all afloat. Their plan of moving from community to community taking seasonal jobs has worked well so far. 

This is the most ‘domestic’ of their locations to date; they’re spending the lead-up to Christmas in a small city in the midwest full of people who know how to keep their heads down and get things done. No one’s expecting a trio of superheroes to settle in a satellite town whose main attraction is a vintage bowling alley, but there are other calculations to consider. People make eye contact here. They bring their real selves to the conversation, and Steve’s been struggling with some real guilt about that. 

As soon as two weeks ago he’d have said that keeping to himself was the easiest part of his life right now… but that was before he’d met you.

Lately it feels like exhaustion is your religion. Stay up way too late, stumble home confused and euphoric and try to will yourself to sleep, then wake up and perform miracles to get yourself back to the hospital for your shift. You’ve always been a night owl, but your shift supervisor practically considers you the ward’s brand ambassador, and to keep the peace, you agreed to stay on the day shift. You’d gotten the schedule down to a science, right up until a tall, gorgeous complication started to jog at the track after hours.

The name he’d given feels fake, but nothing else about him does, and you know all about needing to distance yourself from the horrible things you’ve seen at work. You suspect he was a soldier until he got out, and after that probably a firefighter, but you’ve never asked. Mostly, you just try to keep up with him. The sum total of the words you’ve spoken to each other probably wouldn’t make for a single meet-cute in a romance novel, but they feel consequential enough to you.

As it has for the past week, your heart starts racing when you get close to the track. The problem is, you were run ragged today, and you feel just like the mermaid from the original fairy tale. Every single step is like knives stabbing the balls of your feet, and your arches are singing ‘fuck you’ so loudly you expect Ursula to show up any minute.

You stop on the bench right inside the gate to let the burning pain subside a bit. The last thing you want is for your burly new crush to think you’re a lightweight, not now that the months of forcing yourself to run after work have paid off so nicely with… well, him.  

Besides Frank, the school’s night security officer and all-around nicest tough-guy in town, there isn’t anyone else visible on the brightly-lit track. You take the opportunity to cross your ankle over your knee and reach for your shoe in preparation to swap it with the sneakers in your bag. These are a new pair, and you’d planned on wearing them every few days to break them in. As soon as you get your heel off you understand just how much you screwed up by not bringing  the others in to swap into once you realized how go-go-go your day would be. The swelling is bad, and the beginnings of blisters sting in various places. There’s no way in hell you can jog today, and walking home is going to be excruciating. It’s a god-damned miracle you have the day off tomorrow.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” you mutter under your breath. The John F. Kennedy High School campus is the same distance from the bus stop as your apartment is, but in the opposite direction. Your feet had already been screaming, why hadn’t you gone home instead?”

“Thought you weren’t coming!”

Your crush’s voice cuts through the late November chill, warming your heart. You look up and see him crossing from under the bleachers, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s far enough away that you let yourself sigh, half in addlepated pleasure in seeing him, half in utter frustration at yourself. He’s the reason you came, of course. You’d walk across fire to spend time with this guy, and by the time you head home, that’s definitely what it’ll feel like.

“Sorry, long day,” you tell him once he’s close enough. 

Hurrying, you yank off your second shoe and nearly swallow your tongue from the pain. Tears stand in your eyes, exacerbated by the surprise when you look up and your new friend is right there, almost like he'd teleported over. He’s crouched in front of you, and there’s nowhere to hide from his concerned scrutiny.

He confirms your assessment of ex-military by the professional once-over he’s doing, even more so when he takes your shoe out of your weary hand and tests the bend of its sole with a practiced hand.

“Don’t say it--”

“These are not very good shoes,” he pronounces. With a move as graceful as a ballet dancer, he shifts onto the bench beside you, still examining the shoe. You snag it from his hand and tuck it into your backpack with its mate, pulling out your tennis shoes before zipping back up.

There’s no chance you’ll be able to put them on, but, one thing at a time.

“You’re right. I didn’t expect to be the runner on the ward today, but we were shorthanded.” You wince at your feet, both of which are looking decidedly puffy. Shit, will either pair of shoes fit, at this point? “There’s a ‘best foot forward’ joke I could be making about hoping you’d be here running tonight, but honestly, I’m too wiped out to make it.” You look over as you finish speaking and catch his pleased reaction. It’s understated, but it’s there, enough to make you brave. “I have the day off tomorrow, maybe I can give you a twelve hour rain check? I bet you’re even more handsome in sunlight.”

To your dismay, his face falls and he looks down. You turn your head away, unwilling to see the evidence of just how badly you’d gauged this. He’s very clearly not interested.

“Or not! ‘Not’ is also okay, sorry about that, I--”

The words dissolve on your tongue at the gentle touch of his knuckle on your chin, turning your face back toward his in the time-honored tradition of romantic male leads.

“Please don’t-- Running with you has been-- Believe me, during the day-- I would like to, I just can’t.” Disappointment is etched across his handsome features, but more than that, you can see the way his mind is racing just like yours had just seconds ago. The man looks like he’s desperate to rewind to a moment that doesn’t feel like this.

There’s a remedy to that, and after a day of doing your best to fix everything and everyone around you, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to surge up and touch your lips to his. 

You meant to pull back right away, mirroring that thing where a couple knows each other so well that gentle brush is all that’s needed-- but your midnight warrior is still in the middle of the book. His large hand shifts to cup your cheek, holding you still for his head tip where he deepens the kiss and scrambles your brain. It’s impulsive, desperate, and honest. You grab at his clothing, needing to believe this is real, even as the two of you follow kisses with more kisses like you’re saying goodbye in an airport.

“Doesn’t look much like you’re runnin’!” the security guard calls out, his words so distant they almost don’t register at first.

That ends things abruptly, but the two of you don’t move much farther apart than a few inches, his hand still on your face, yours with a handful of his sweatshirt, right over his heart.

“Textbook,” you whisper, flattening your hand out to smooth over his chest. It’s solid muscle under there.

“Oh?” he asks, pulling his hand away swiftly like he’d forgotten how to be a gentleman in his eagerness to touch you. It’s charming as hell.

“This whole operation, it’s right out of the romance novel guidebook,” you praise. “I ought to look for cameras.” A shadow crosses his face, and you suddenly put the pieces together. “Shit, you’re hiding from something, aren’t you? That’s why you freaked out about coming here in the daytime.”

He’s already standing, but instead of stalking away from you, he’s looking around the track, turning in a circle of deep concentration. He’s looking for cameras, but not in a joking way, not as part of a bit.

“The school district would rather spend the money on Frank than cameras, if that’s what you’re looking for,” you murmur, pushing your voice into steadiness out of sheer determination. “The city contributes. It’s been so much safer when everyone who wants a night walk comes here, but there are fewer of us out in the winter months.” The fall chill is actually helping with the pain in your feet, so that's something.

Your mysterious crush is facing you again, apparently satisfied that the two of you aren't being watched by anything more permanent than good old Frank. “I’m sorry,” he says. The words have a horrid finality to them, but you’re focused on his eyebrows. They’re not on board with the rest of his body language. They’re beseeching, rather than resolute, hopeful rather than harsh.

You have one chance to get this right.

“There are some things I love about my coworkers, and let’s be real, a lot of things I don’t-- but do you want to know the thing I like least about working in a hospital?”

Your whole body is practically vibrating with adrenaline, and you realize this is your opportunity to shove on your shoes. As you do that, you refuse to look up at him. The goal is to bring his critical thinking skills back from ‘fight or flight’ mode. Then maybe you can get the two of you on the same page again.

It takes over a minute, but he lets out a long breath and sits down beside you. “Tell me."

“They’re terrible gossips,” you say, looking right at him. He’s not allowed to make the obvious (ruinous, new-relationship-wrecking) conclusion about what you’re saying, not without having to look you in the eye while he does it. “I can’t stand that shit. That’s why they send me on the errands. I’ve got everyone trained to stop talking when I walk by, at this point.”

His relief is visible. “I can respect that.”

“Good.” You set both feet on the ground and decide to test things out by standing. If you’re wobbly, you feel certain he’ll reach out and catch you. “Tomorrow night?”

“Wait,” he says, the picture of confusion. “You’re not-- You think I’m hiding from something and you’re not going to ask about it?” Even in the dim glow of the nearby track light, you can see the clench and release of his jaw.

“For all I know, you’re hiding from your last girlfriend. I know I’d find it hard to give you up, and I’ve known you for what? Two weeks?” Your feet are screaming at you about as loudly as the critical voice in your head, but happiness has made both just distant enough to achieve your goals. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, which you take to be a good sign. “Would that still be ‘textbook?’ This is all new to me.”

All of the cheeky, sarcastic, and cheesy thoughts that cross your mind would ruin the moment, so you go off script. It’s not the best, but it’s not awful, either.

“New is terrible for work shoes, but it’s lovely when it’s you. See you tomorrow night!”

Stay tuned for more stories in the Ro Roll! Would you like more of these two? Let me know 💚

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Hii you dont have to do this but can i request a part 3 to ethan x camgirl where they start talking and meet up. Thanks🫶

The ending kind of sucks, but it's already 1.8k and I'm tired of writing this fic so I'm posting anyway

Warnings: 18+, smut, p + v, virgin!Ethan

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

What were the odds that you and Ethan both lived in New York? You didn’t attend the same college — he was at Blackmore and you at NYU —, but it was still a damn good coincidence. It was also almost unbelievable that you never bumped into each other when you visited friends at Blackmore.  

After weeks of messaging back and forth — a few late night sexting sessions —, you decided to finally meet in person. It was nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time.  You couldn’t wait to see those sweet dimples and bambi eyes…and kiss the hell out of him. 

When Ethan got to the party, he felt dumb for asking you to meet him there because these frat houses were always jam-packed with people, but you were already on your way. It was too late to change the plans.

He stood in the room, deep brown eyes glancing around at the sea of faces, trying to spot someone who matched the beautiful girl he saw through his screen. What he hadn’t thought of was that looking for someone at a part could be like searching for a needle in a haystack. 

‘’Ethan!’’ Chad called out, walking up to his roommate with a red rub in his left hand. ‘’We’re missing a player for beer-pong, you in?’’ 

Chad must be truly desperate to ask him to be his beer-pong partner because he knew how terrible he was at the game. 

‘’Sorry, but I have to decline,’’ Ethan said. ‘’I’m waiting for someone.’’ 

A teasing smirk curled at Chad’s mouth. ‘’Someone, uh? You mean a girl.’’

Ethan rolled his eyes, fighting the blush on his face. ‘’Shut up.’’ 

The night went on, the frat party roaring with energy, and he finally spotted you in the midst of the crowd. You had on more clothes than he was used to seeing on you, but you still looked gorgeous — you always did. 

He made his way over to you, a shy smile drawing on his face as he got closer. 

You pulled Ethan into a greeting hug, feeling like you were past formal greetings. He saw you stuff your fingers in your cunt as you moaned his name, shaking his hand would feel strange. 

‘’You smell good,’’ Ethan said, your sweet perfume enveloping him, a nice change from the strong weed odor that filled the living area. 

You chuckled. ‘’Thanks.’’ You pulled back and raised your eyes. ‘’I didn’t expect you to be this tall,’’ you remarked in turn, surprised by Ethan’s height. 

Being around you felt surreal to Ethan. He had to pinch himself a few times to make sure he wasn’t in one of his wet dreams. But you were really there, sitting beside him on the couch, your knee brushing his leg every time you laughed. 

‘’You okay?’’ you asked, noticing Ethan shifting in his seat. 

‘’All is good,’’ he lied, his face forcing a smile. 

‘’You sure? We can go and get some air if you want.’’ 

‘’I don’t need air, it’s just— I don’t want you to think I wanted us to meet so I could use you for sex, but my dick has been rock hard since that hug and it’s getting really uncomfortable.’’

You looked down to see the tent in his pants and laughed softly. ‘’Why didn’t you say so?’’

‘’Because it’s embarrassing...’’ he mumbled, wishing the couch would swallow him.

Leaning closer, you said quietly. ‘’Would it be less embarrassing if I said I’ve been dying to leave and have you to myself?’’ 

No other words were spoken. Ethan just stood and you grabbed his arm as he guided you through the bodies of partygoers. He kept his head down and smiled at the ground, the feeling of your hand curling around his bicep sending butterflies in his stomach. If a simple touch ignited this kind of reaction from him, what would happen when your hands will be touching lower on his body?

The walk to Ethan’s dorm felt like a thousand miles away. The chilly night air nipped at your bare legs as you strolled through the dimly lit campus pathways, holding on to his arm the whole way. You couldn't wait to be inside and finally kiss him.

You barely made it inside the building lobby that you had pulled Ethan down by the front of his polo shirt and captured his lips with your own. He gasped against your mouth in surprise, not expecting that kiss, but quickly recovered and kissed back until he was out of breath. 

Grabbing his hand again, you hurriedly took the stairs to the third floor — as instructed —, and watched with amusement Ethan unlocking and shutting the door with a clumsy eagerness. 

‘’Come here, pretty boy,’’ you said, pulling Ethan down and kissing him again, gentle but deep. 

You could kiss him all night and never get tired, but the elephant in the room was nudging at your thigh and you just had to give it some attention. Without disconnecting the kiss, your hand wandered south down Ethan’s body, pausing right over the lump in his jeans. He let out a strangled moan at the contact, and it made you smile into the kiss.

‘’Should we take care of that?’’ you asked, dragging your mouth to his jaw while you rubbed him over his jeans,  touching him where nobody's ever touched him before, where he'd only dreamed of you touching him. 

Ethan’s head tilted back and you only saw it as an opportunity to kiss a line down the side of the neck, adding to the new sensations. You kept on stroking him slow and long until he couldn’t take it anymore, pleading once again. 

He peeled off his jacket, leaving it in a lump on the floor while you did the same with your sweater, leaving you in your lacy bra. You had picked it meticulously, hoping Ethan would be the one to take it off you tonight. 

‘’Fuck, you're gorgeous,’’ he murmured to himself, watching you closely.

You pulled at his polo shirt, and when he raised his arms to discard it, you looked at him appreciatively. He was hiding so many good things underneath those preppy clothes. You ran your hands along his chest, the smooth muscles that spread across his stomach and his chest and his arms. 

‘’You’re not bad either,’’ you replied, triggering a light blush on his cheeks. 

The rest of your clothes came off in a disordered fashion, trying to get naked as fast as possible. Once the goal was reached and everything was on the floor on the chair, you glanced down and smirked, admiring what you had only ever seen through a screen. Big enough to make you feel full, and pink and leaking at the tip.

‘’Looks even better in person than on camera.’’ You wanted to kiss it, but instead wrapped your fist around his cock, slowly going in up and down motions. Moans and pleas fell from his plush lips, causing more pre-cum to leak from the tip. ‘’Please what, baby?’’ you asked, gently caressing the line of his happy trail with your other hand. ‘’Just tell me what you want.’’

‘’I want you.’’

You leaned in to kiss him again, and this time the kiss was hungry as you guided him back to what you assumed was his bed — the letterman jacket on the other bed gave it away. You moved back and brought Ethan down with you as you lied on the typical college boy dark blue sheets. Some curls were falling in his face, reminding you of the shy boy you met months ago during a private session. 

You tucked his hair behind his ear, smiling softly at him. ‘’How do you want me?’’ 

On top. 

Connecting your lips for a quick kiss, you then grabbed a condom — which he had bought for the occasion — and switched positions so you were straddling him. Pushing up on your knees, you gripped the base of his cock and lined him up with your entrance. You could tell that Ethan was nervous, his breathing pattern faster than a few minutes ago. 

‘’It's okay. I got you.’’

You pressed gently, the tip barely sliding in, making Ethan grab the sheets and throw his head back from the overwhelming rush of new sensations. Slowly, you sank down onto him, inch by inch until he was all the way inside of you, and sighed. He felt so much better than you imagined. 

Ethan’s grip on the sheets tightened as a long moan drew from his mouth. ‘’Fuck, that feels good,’’ he whispered, his eyes still shut, scared that if he open them and see you sitting on his cock he’ll burst.

Taking a small pause to adjust, you tilted his face down to yours and leaned down, capturing his lips with your own as your breasts pressed against his chest. His eyes snapped open, only to close again and release the sheets to run his hands everywhere he could reach on your body. 

Once it was comfortable enough, you started moving your hips the same way you often did in your videos. Except this time, it wasn’t a dildo. 

Ethan groaned, squeezing your thigh and moving his other hand to your chest as you moved on top of him. He cupped your breast, and then tentatively squeezed your nipple. It sent a bolt of need through your core, settling right between your legs.

‘’Do that again, baby,’’ you encouraged, and moved your hips again, a long languid movement. ‘’You can be rougher.’’ You gasped, pressing your fingers over his, pinching and twisting your nipple the way you liked. It hurt in the best way. 

You continued moving your hips as Ethan played with your body, his mouth soon replacing his hands on your nipple, causing more mewls to ripple through. 

It wasn't long until Ethan began getting sloppy and whiny, silently letting you know he was close. Virgin men didn't last long — you knew —, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t use your own hand to speed your orgasm instead of making Ethan feel bad for finishing fast. 

You rubbed at your clit until you started to feel that coil tightening in your belly, getting close to the edge and, by some miracle, successfully reached your high closely together, echoes of your pleasure mixing as you clenched around Ethan’s spurting cock and milked him. 

When you were finished, you rolled off him, falling back on the mattress. You should get up and go pee, but Ethan curled up next to you after disposing of the condom, wrapping an arm around your middle and you didn't want to get up yet. He pressed his face against your soft breasts, a beaming smile on his lips as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him close. 

‘’I’m really happy I spent my dad’s money on that private session.’’

—

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[lemoniiiiiii]

when he's home

(evan peters x fem!reader)

inspired by: a fic on ao3 that i cannot find for the LIFE of me, will update if i do find it :'(

- summary: your husband evan comes home in the middle of the night from a long work trip.

- content: good ol' wholesome vanilla smut, p in v, yk the regular (?) stuff (btw i'm not good at writing smut srry), very slight angst, pregnant!reader (early pregnancy, NOT A KINK just a plot point)

a/n: not proofread, this is my first evan fic PLUS my first fic on tumblr so i do apologize for any posting etiquette mistakes and/or just an overall shitty fic!

__

evan dropped his bags by the door, careful to not make much noise as he went straight for the stairs. he was downright exhausted, but excited to hold you in his arms again after a month apart. the european press tour for his latest film just ended and he only had a few days off before having to hop on another plane, so there was no time to waste.

as evan turned the doorknob to your shared bedroom he halfway hoped you'd be awake. he could imagine the sight: you curled up in bed in his t-shirt, still scrolling away on your phone despite how late it was. a light chuckle exited his lips at the thought.

when he entered the bedroom you were in bed, curled up and sporting one of his favorite t-shirts. but you were asleep. evan approached your still body, admiring the soft snores emanating from you.

considering the phone in your hand it was safe to assume you fell asleep using it (which made the "lovrhd yuo missssxcym youuuy" text he had last received from you make much more sense). when he gently took it and plugged it in to charge, you stirred in bed, brows furrowing.

"welcome home" you mumbled, eyes still closed.

"hi baby," he replied in a whisper before kissing your forehead. a smile was evident in his voice which made you smile in return. you opened your eyes to see him leaning over you, a stupidly joyous grin plastered on his face. "and baby..."

you both looked down at your abdomen. a rush of feelings hit you as you were reminded of the reality you were going to be parents.

"how are you.... two?" you both laughed at his clunky delivery. "is it weird to say it like that?-"

you swiftly sat up and sweetly brought your lips to his. evan's stubble tickled your face which made you grin even wider, if that was possible.

"i missed you.." evan breathed between kisses, his voice filled with desire.

"i missed you too- so fucking much..." your hand reached his cheek and he leaned into your touch, putting his large hand over yours. the way he looked at you, completely and utterly in love, made your heart melt.

you hoped he knew you felt the same exact way.

"to answer your question," you began. "we're doing very well. i made an ultrasound appointment for tomorrow morning but look-"

you lifted your shirt to your chest and laid back.

there it was. well, kinda.

your stomach protruded slightly, only a little more than whenever you got bloated, but it was firm.

evan stared.

you chuckled at his reaction. "i told you your pull out game is weak as hell, but you just never listen do you?" you teased.

he laughed in response, shaking his head as he leaned down to give you a long and deep kiss. seeing you like this- with your bump, proof of your child's existence- was overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

"i love you... i love you.." evan whispered again and again while lightly taking your chin in his hand. he moved your head around while placing small pecks all over your face, making you giggle. his kisses were somewhat sloppy and wet, exposing the underlying neediness in his romantic affection.

"i love you too baby..." you pouted.

evan moved to your stomach and gave it a few soft kisses as well. you wouldn't be surprised if this was all he was going to do for the next couple of months. you wouldn't mind either.

he laid beside you, one arm propping up his head, the other reaching over to grip your side, rubbing it with his thumb. there was a pensive look on his face as he returned to staring at your bump. you could tell he was trying to hide it, but it was obvious something was definitely bothering him. normally you would've spoken up about it, but you wanted to give him the space to speak on his own time.

"i can't believe i have to leave you again..." evan muttered.

ah... that's right. in a few days he would be gone again, while you stayed behind to work on your own projects. the timing of everything was frustrating for the both of you.

you ran your fingers through his dark curls as you spoke. his shoulders relaxed a bit at your touch. "it's only for a couple more weeks-"

"i don't wanna miss anything"

"i know but, it's early... not much is going on anyway-"

"still, i wanna be there for you-"

"you already are" you reassured him. he always worried if he was doing enough, if you were happy, even though he always went above and beyond to meet your wants and needs. it pained you that these thoughts plagued him. "evan, it's not forever.. you'll be back before you know it"

your husband looked up at you with an exhale. he knew you were right, and was appreciative of how easily you were able to bring him down to earth. he took your hand off his head to kiss your knuckles individually, his lips lingering longer on your wedding ring. beginning at your hand, he kissed up to your elbow, before bringing his thigh over and straddling you. with his body hovering over you, you couldn't help but turn into a blushing mess. evan took this as the perfect opportunity to tease you.

"mrs. peters..." he said with a sultry and endearing cadence. "what would i do without you?"

addressing you like that always short-circuited your brain despite the fact you had already been married for 4 years. you both knew this very well.

"oh fuck off..." you smiled, looking away from him.

"woah, language... we've gotta get a handle on that mouth of yours. can't be cursing around the babe" he joked and pat your stomach.

you turned back and pulled him towards you desperately, hands roaming his neck and the curls at the back of his head. your tongue dove deep into his mouth, soft moans escaping your lips from time to time. your legs bent and unbent, squirming under your husband's dominant position. you knew what was coming next but you didn't know in what way and your mind was going crazy flashing explicit images in your head of how evan was going to take you. to say you were aroused was an understatement.

one of evan's hands went from caressing your hips to underneath his your shirt, cupping a handful of the soft flesh of your chest. you winced, having forgotten the new sensitivity of your breasts. evan pulled back, looking at you with slight concern.

"i'm okay, i'm okay, just a bit sensitive keep going-"

he hesitated but took your word for it and continued massaging, albeit much more gentle. your underwear's fabric went over his hand as he went to grope your bare ass, revelling in its malleability.

"hey, are you sure it's-" evan said as he hooked his fingers around the waistband of your panties.

"yeah it's fine-" you answered quickly, untying the drawstring of his sweats. "i asked my gyno-"

having your approval, he tapped your sides signaling you to lift your hips, removing your bottoms and placing a pillow beneath you for comfort. you returned the favor, pulling down his sweatpants and briefs in one swift motion. evan took two fingers and slowly slid them repeatedly through your soaked folds, gently squeezing your clit with the two digits rather running over it.

"shit..." he mumbled under his breath. the fact you were already so excited for him contributed greatly to his own arousal.

"who needs to watch their mouth now?" you breathed out with a smirk.

evan's eyes crinkled and he let out a chuckle. "remind me to make a swear jar later" he now stood on his knees in between your legs, pumping his length. he readjusted himself to line up with your center before pausing to look down at you. "let me know if it's uncomfortable or something doesn't feel right and I'll stop-"

it was adorable to you that he still harbored concern for you after you told him it would be okay, but you had an almost feral desire that needed to be satiated.

"baby... i need you to fuck my brains out" you said with desperate laugh. your hormones were haywire and it had been about a month since you last had sex. you needed this.

"okay my bad" evan laughed once again then thrust himself into you.

the sound of both your groans filled the room as he bottomed out and began bucking his hips. wanting to be close to you, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his gasps muffled by your skin. the feeling of him inside you was addicting for sure and your body moved against him naturally, accentuating the pleasure. you could tell he was careful not to put too much of his weight onto your stomach, which was as much endearing as it was attractive.

"i missed you so much...needed you..god.. so good.. i love you..." the string of sweet nothings whispered into your ear between his moans made your body quiver. you wrapped your trembling legs around his waist while your arms tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to take it off. evan helped you, removing it within a second and throwing it god knows where.

you were reminded of his tired state as his thrusts were rough and inconsistent. nevertheless they were filled with love and kind of exactly what you wanted from him. evan being the sweet man he is, was never really rough (at least at his current age, you both were a little crazy when you were younger) unless you really asked (or begged) him to.

your voice became shaky as you quickly began to reach your peak. "fuck- evan!" you cried out in pleasure.

evan's whole body shuddered in response to your whimpers, his need for you only growing. his movements were more intense now and you were sure he was close as well.

you returned to kissing him in a passionate daze, your hands going anywhere on him your body could touch. a few more deep thrusts pushed you over the edge and your entire body shook as your lips gave a shaky wail. not too long after evan spilled into you. he began to lay on top of you in his exhaustion before correcting himself and rolling to your side.

"...you okay?" he asked in a soft tone, as he does every time.

"mmm.. fan-fucking-tastic" you murmured and turned to put your head down on his chest.

evan wrapped his arm around you, bringing you into a gentle embrace, instinctively rubbing your bump. being in his arms was the best feeling in the world. he loved to keep you close and cuddled up against him while he caressed your body. that's when he found you the most beautiful in pure moments like these. he kissed your forehead tenderly, looking down into your lovely eyes as he pulled away. you noticed he was smiling again. then broke into an adorable chuckle.

"what?" you asked, his laughter contagious.

"i'm just so happy baby..."

"me too..."

you cuddled him tighter and you both fell fast asleep, bodies intertwined, a little part of both of you sandwiched inbetween.

__

(this is such a clunky nothing burger of a fic grrr i'm sorry)

[httpsserene]

i've been looking for weeks and months but can't find a single x male reader fic/au/etc... could u spare sum for the boys too😭🤲

ɪ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴡ/ ᴍᴠ33

📖ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: max is over at daniel’s where they're supposed to be doing whatever best buds do. but somehow, the topic of his father comes up, and it brings max to a…realization of sorts. it also causes the two of you to argue, and for several discoveries to be made in the early morning hours; some of the depressing-kind, and some of the heartwarming-and-life-changing-kind. 📖ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:  angst and fluff (hurt/comfort). argument. jos verstappen's a+ parenting. no beta we die like alphatauri's engines. 📖ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4k words 📖ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: max verstappen x male!reader (race not specified) 📖ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: oneshot 📖ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ: ivy • frank ocean

ᴘʀᴇꜰᴀᴄᴇ:  i *usually* don’t write for male readers (as a cis woman idk i think it’s sus? idk, but maybe it’s not since i do support and love mxm ships, so maybe that’s hypocritical?)....but since it is my first request and max’s birthday (when i started writing this) i figured i could spare sum for da boys :)))) i scrolled through the tag and most of it was f1 x platonic!male!reader which is lowkey depressing, the boys deserve to simp wholeheartedly with us girlies ✊🏽  i hope “the boys” enjoy this and it makes the f1 x male!reader life a lil better! (you also didn’t specify who you wanted, so i went with max bc of his birthday) big shout out to the best kitties in the world, jimmy and sassy, for being great sports in this fic ☠️ they were wonderful setting devices!  this is not an accurate description of max’s relationship with his father. we all don’t know what’s going on there, but it did become a wonderful plot point. so, it’ll probably be the only thing jos the boss is good for besides being max’s sperm-donor 🙂.

want to be added to my taglist? or my f1 kinktober taglist? send me a message !

prompts from @forestryprompts and @dumplingsjinson

it’s 3:23 AM, and you’re brutally jarred out of your sleep by your phone ringing. you’re disoriented–still in that sleepy “where the fuck am i” stage–and don’t quite catch the first phone call. a few seconds pass by without another call, and you’re convinced you hallucinated. usually, there’s only two reasons for you to be disturbed in the middle of the night. number one, when sassy “accidentally” presses all ten pounds of her body weight into your spleen with one paw; and number two; when max returns from partying, a late flight, or streaming. glancing around, you guess sassy is the bengal curled up on max’s side of the bed, gravitating to where his scent is the strongest as max is over at daniel’s; missing her favorite parent. and you guess that jimmy’s the heat source curled against your feet under the duvet, as that’s his favorite spot to sleep and his favorite place to prey on your toes. you lay straight back, head resting on your pillow and shrug, dismissing it as a problem for the morning.

then another call starts ringing through. now, you’re awake enough to start processing the important information. you always set your phone on dnd when going to bed, and there’s only a few numbers that are set to bypass it during sleep. this ringtone in particular, identifies the caller as max, which is peculiar. max doesn’t disturb your sleep unless absolutely necessary, he already feels guilty enough for doing so when traveling. with that thought, you reach for the phone with a reaction time you’d only relate to your boyfriend’s occupation. 

you breathe out, “maxy, baby? are you okay? did something happen?”

a panicked and slightly desperate giggle slips out of the receiver, “heyyyy, it’s daniel, actually–”

“daniel?” you softly exclaim, sitting up in bed, worriedly continuing, “where’s max? did something happen? is he okay–”

“well,” daniel starts, “i wouldn’t say he’s ‘okay’, so to speak–” 

“oh my god! what does that mean, daniel? i’m coming over right now give me like, fifteen minutes–” you say rushedly, already leaping out of the bed. jimmy yowls in shock of being disturbed, panically darting out of the duvet, and sassy shoots up–airplane ears activated and all. 

daniel cuts you off, “NO! uh, no! i’m actually already on the way back to yours with him right now! he’s like- kinda drunk- tipsy i guess, one would say uh- but–”

“are you driving, daniel? if-if you’ve drank you should’ve let him sleep over, or called me to come get him if he’s being a menace!”

“no, uh-” daniel starts whispering, “we’re in an uber. ma- i mean- your boyfriend is kind of out of it, and not in a drunk way.”

“what the fuck,” you bite out, switching to hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder, as you pull on a pair of sweatpants (max’s) over your boxers, “does that mean, daniel?!”

“so, like,” daniel whispers even quieter, “hypothetically, we started talking about ma- sorry, his- wonderful childhood, and i guess me saying that seeing his father stabbing a mechanic with a fork isn't a normal thing to experience, kind of sent him into a spiral.”

“oh, fuck” you pause, while pulling one of max’s championship hoodies on. 

“yeah, that’s pretty much what i’d say,” daniel sighs, “but, then um, he tried to like rationalize it to me? like, he’d bring up different crazy memories, and i’d be like ‘no, mate, that’s not normal either,’ and everytime he’d bring up a positive interaction with his dad, he realized it correlated to how well he performed, and he kind of um-shut down.”

“oh. fuck.” you repeat. sassy, in a rare show of solidarity, winds between your legs and mews gently at you as if she’s letting you know that she’s here. “um, well,” you say, running a stressed hand through your hair, “you should be on max’s list to come up to the apartment, but i’ll call down to give them a heads up. text me when you get here, please?”

“will do,” daniel perks up, “i’m sorry by the way. i should’ve left it alone, or distracted him away from the topic. but you know how he gets, probably better than me.” 

now it’s your turn to let a depressing chuckle escape, “probably not, dan. i’ve known him for fourteen years and dated him for five of those, and he hasn’t done more than agree that his dad ‘isn’t perfect’” you wave your hand through the air, brushing the train of thought away, “anyways, i can get the spare room ready for you, so you don’t have to uber back?”

daniel nervously laughs, “forgive me for saying this, but i don’t really want to be present for whatever conversation is going to happen. or have to pretend like i’m unaware of anything. max would do his best to avoid me for as long as he can if he knew i was around, and i don’t want to risk that…after what happened when i left red bull.”

“yeah, you’re right. don’t forget to text me when you get here,” you state.

daniel’s text comes through when you’ve just gathered the ibuprofen and water bottles. you thumbs-up the message, and go to sit in the living room to wait for a knock on the door.  you plop down on the couch and your leg bounces anxiously. jimmy gracefully hops up into your lap, and he must be an emotional support cat because he sits down on that leg, and leans into your torso butting his head into your chest asking for pets. you indulge him, a shaky laugh erupting, “thanks, jimmy,” and you lean down to press a few kisses to his cheeks. silence overcomes the room, and then three knocks break the still air in the apartment, and both you and jimmy jump off the couch and race to the entryway. you push jimmy behind you with a foot as you open the door, knowing damn well he’ll sneak into the hallway if given a chance. 

max stumbles through the doorway first. his eyes are bloodshot with a cold and unseeing look glazed over them, red-rimmed and looking so distraught at tonight’s realization, that your heart aches for him. you wish you could take his pain away, or at least carry some of it for him. his hair is sticking out in different directions like he was anxiously tugging at it, but the most surprising observation is the tear tracks on his cheeks. max doesn’t cry, like at all. 

well, that’s not exactly true. he’s one of the men that says crying is “strong” and not a sign of weakness when you cry and even encourages you to cry it out on his chest. but, when it’s himself, he refuses to cry until everything gets too much. he’ll come up to you and sit or stand pressed right up against you, grabs at and plays with your hand to let you know that he needs comfort, before he looks at you and softly asks with a cracking voice if he can have a hug. you always set aside what you’re doing as quickly as you can, because you’re not going to let an opportunity of caring for max in a rare vulnerable time pass, and pull him into your chest. even though he’s broader than you, he appears to shrink himself within your arms, and presses his face into your shoulder while he cries. his tears are always silent, but his body is loud; he shakes, and his hands grab at whatever you’re wearing in fists like he’s afraid that you’d slip out of his grasp.

anyways, you’ve never known him to really cry with other people. with a soft, “max…” you reach out to him, but he brushes right past your hand and goes straight for the bedroom. jimmy trots after him, and sassy falls into step from whatever pocket she was hiding in. you freeze, shocked at his behavior while also understanding, he’s had a life-changing realization that he’s never allowed himself to address. you feel guilty that you're jealous of the fact that he had it with daniel. 

daniel clears his throat, still standing outside the doorway, “...you know he doesn’t mean to ignore you like that, right?”

you nod, “when did he start crying?”

“he held it together until we got into the uber, i think. he was turned towards the window the whole time and refused to look at me. i didn’t notice he cried until we got out.”

“are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? it’s late, dan. or at least let me get you the uber back” you offer again with a questioning look.

daniel refuses both options, “nah, don’t worry about it. i’ll make max take me to lunch one day to pay me back. i’d say good luck but that seems redundant. be gentle with him, alright?”

you sigh, “i’ll be gentle, dan. can’t say the same for him,” daniel’s face saddens more, “get home safe alright, dan? text me when you get there.”

“of, course,” daniel nods, “goodnight.”

you watch him walk into the elevator before closing the door. you turn the lock, and step forward until you can rest your forehead onto the cool wood. eventually, you push off the door and turn around to grab the water and ibuprofen from the settee and make your way to the bedroom. max is sitting at the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands.

pausing, you place the water and meds on the nightstand first, then you sit next to him and lightly place your hand on his upper back, attempting to rub between his shoulder blades to provide comfort. max shrugs your hand off. you pause, blinking a few times trying to discover the best course of action. you decide to ignore the second blatant dismissal of the night, and pull his hand off his face and push him to sit up straight. you forcefully straddle his lap, ignoring his grumbles, and grab his face, thumbs resting on his cheeks and directing him to look straight at you. 

“max, you’ve got to communicate with me here. i was terrified, when daniel called me! you refuse to talk about your dad with me, which is fine, okay? but you have to talk to somebody. whether it’s me, daniel, a therapist, christian, or even fucking helmut marko—you need to talk to someone. you’ve repressed this shit your whole life, and when whatever film you had over your eyes when looking at your father slipped away, you shut down completely? that can’t happen again! i don’t want it to happen again…daniel sounded completely fucking terrified—like he was afraid he broke you or something. and if you’re scaring me right now with how-h-how out of it you look, i can’t imagine what it was like for him,” you finish, taking a few deep breaths. max doesn’t say anything, just stares at you blankly. 

you make a distressed groan, both hands releasing max’s face to rub at your eyes and drag down your cheeks. doing so, you continue talking, “max. you don’t even have to talk, baby, not to me at least. i don’t care if you journal, if you meditate, if you go goddamn axe throwing; but, you need to see a professional. cause, how your brain is coping, and how you’re rationalizing it isn’t good. you aren’t the problem, nothing you could’ve done differently would have made your dad change; you are not the problem, max, he is. okay? i’ve known you for fourteen years, and not once have i pressured the topic after you said that ‘you’re fine,’ but, you have to at least promise me that you’ll start doing something.”

max parts his lips, thinking about what to say, as you fully sit on his lap. you look at him with wide eyes filled with worry—with care— and you’re anxiously playing with the hairs on the nape of your neck. 

“i don’t want to talk about it.”

“that’s not an option,” you state, with a furrowed brow, “can you at least tell me what caused the breakdown?”

and, that’s what gets get’s max going. his cheeks flush, and his eyes darken, and he starts talking with a firmer voice.

“it wasn’t a breakdown, first of all. i was just overwhelmed and overreacting. it’s nothing serious, like you’re pretending it is. i don’t need this—this false worry, showing up all of sudden when you know how the relationship between my father and i has been for all of the time we’ve known each other.”

you pull away, retreating off his lap and stand in front of him with your arms crossed over your chest. 

“false worry?? that’s what you think this is,” you start with an exasperated tone, “max, ‘for all the time we’ve known each other’ all you’ve done is deflect from my questions about you two, or tell me that everything is fine when it’s clearly not! and i gave you the space you wanted, because i was afraid that you’d stop talking to me, that you’d stop trusting me. but now, as your boyfriend, i can’t let it go unaddressed anymore!”

“you already did for fourteen years! it shouldn’t be that difficult for you to keep ignoring it.”

“because you asked me to, max! you didn’t want to talk about it then, and you need to talk about it now! i don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to share it with me, but it needs to be with somebody!”

“i already told you I didn’t want to talk about it, yet you keep insisting!” 

“that’s because i fucking care about you!” 

“well, did i ask for you to care about me?”

you’re stunned silent. the room is filled with heavy breaths from the two of you. this might be the most serious argument you’ve had, in awhile, or ever. 

it’s the third blatant dismissal of the night, and you’re calling it quits, daniel did tell you to be gentle, and if you keep going like this you’re word choice will become less gentle.

“you’re right,” you exhale, relaxing your clenched jaw, “you didn’t ask for me to care. and you shouldn’t have to ask for anybody to care. and, for some ‘unbelievable’ reason, i do happen to actually care,” you finish, your words dripping with exhaustion and defeat.

you walk around to the side of the bed, grabbing a pillow off the top and point at the nightstand, “the ibuprofen and water are for you. at least, finish one bottle before you go to bed, please.” you start walking towards the closet. 

“wait,” max calls out, finally standing up with a confused look in his eyes, “why’d you grab a pillow?”

you grab a blanket out of the closet, and sigh, “i’m sleeping on the couch.”

“what? no-no you’re not,” max stutters out, disbelieving.

“uh, yes i am.”

“what, no! no, schatje, i’m sorry, please come to bed,” max utters out, looking absolutely heartbroken. 

“i’m going to sleep on the couch, max,” you repeat, “if i go to bed, i won’t be able to not talk about it, and we’re clearly going to talk in circles about it. both of us are tired, frustrated, and mad, and we’re going to end up even angrier, so i’m going to sleep on the couch.”

max, crossing the room quickly, grabs at your waist with his large hands, and pleads, “if you’ve made up your mind about it, you can at least take the bed, i’ll sleep on the couch, schat.”

you, grab his hands off your waist, having to fight him a little bit for it (you may be a man, but your man is a professional athlete, you’ll be outmatched any day) and press them into his chest, “you’re still pretty drunk, max. i’ll let you take the bed so you can be comfortable, you seem like you’re going to have a pretty bad hangover, i can smell the alcohol on you still.”

max looks upset, but eventually concedes. you press your lips to his cheek, “i’ll see you in the morning, babe. then, with clearer minds we can talk, ‘kay?”

sassy baps jimmy on the face before nuzzling in between max’s legs, while jimmy makes to follow you out as you shut the door gently.

situating yourself on the couch, you squeeze your eyes shut. usually you’d be hugging max’s arm to your chest but tonight, jimmy is benevolent enough to leave his usual spot at your feet to fill in for max. even with the comfort the bengal’s purring body provides, you know you’re only in for a fitful night of sleep.

you wake up a few hours later, your body not able to keep you under for long you guess, as the early morning sun has barely started lightening the room. you take a minute to get your bearings, not used to waking up on the couch (in the past when you have accidentally fallen asleep on the couch, you magically wake up in bed laying on top of your boyfriend, how weird), and jimmy is no longer laying with you. he’s with max, who’s sitting on his floor below you, with his back facing you.

you rub at your eyes and whisper, “max?” he startles, and turns around to face you. his eyes have fresh bags underneath, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower, and you can tell he hasn’t gotten any sleep. even though you got a couple hours of shut-eye, the matching bags under your eyes prove that your sleep was restless.

“hey,” he whispers back sheepishly, “i know you told me to go to bed, but i couldn’t fall asleep. i only came out here a few minutes ago though, and i was just going to wait until you woke up in the morning.”

you sit up straight, and pull max onto the couch with you, “max, what? you could’ve at least layed down on the other couch, and not sit on the–”

max cuts you off.

“i just…couldn’t go to bed alone tonight, okay? i still feel raw–i think is the word for it. i’m exhausted and cried out, and the only person who can make me feel better is you right now. so i was just going to sit here, and be next to you, without disturbing you like you wanted, because being in your general vicinity already makes me feel better, even if you're mad at me.”

your mouth is left gaping, and you feel guilty now, your chest aches. leaving max at a time where he was vulnerable, even if you were right down the hallway–

“and, don’t feel bad about your decision to sleep out here. you decided that space was the best course of action for you, and you are probably right, because i was ready to argue with you,” max continues rambling, “honestly, you sleeping out here made me realize that i never want you to be angry with me like that, ever again. at first, i was scared that if i opened up about my relationship with my dad you would think i’m weak, or that you'd judge me for it, or that you’d leave me. but when i was in the shower earlier, i got really…scared.”

he pauses, taking a few deep breaths and you don’t make to interrupt him.

“i got scared because i thought you left me right now. that you lied to me about sleeping on the couch, and you were actually planning to leave. and, obviously you did not, you are still here right now but, it made me realize that i do need to talk to you. and that the reason i thought you were leaving was because of how i thought i scared you away with my issues. but i realize now, that the way i’ll scare you away is by not talking about my issues,” he turns to look at you with an earnest expression.

“so, if you are okay with it, i will talk to you. about everything, even though it may take me some time to work up the courage. i am uncomfortable with talking to a…professional, but i will, if you truly think it will help me. but i do not want to risk the chance that my refusal to communicate costs me a lifetime with you,” he ends.”

you stare at him blankly, and max begins to fidget at your silence. you lean forward and pull him into a hug, tears gathering in your eyes. he nestles his head in the crook of your neck, and presses gentle kisses into your skin. 

“max, all i want is for you to talk to me about it. i want to share the burden you feel, and understand you better than the back of my hand. most of all, i hope having somebody who understands you to that depth makes you feel lighter, and validates your emotions.”

max says something, but it’s muffled by your body.

“what was that, baby?”

max pulls away to look at you with bashful eyes and pinkened cheeks, “you know i can’t imagine my life without you.”

“likewise,” you respond, just as meek.

“no, really. i've fallen in love with you,” he continues.

“max, you told me you loved me years ago,” you say laughingly.

“no, like, i’ve fallen in love with you again. everytime i think i can’t fall any deeper, you manage to prove me wrong,” he says intensely.

you pout at him, hands coming up to feel at your heated cheeks, “oh, max! stop, you’re going to make me cry. that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. i fall in love with you again, everytime you finish a race, and come home to me. that you chose me as the man you want to see after a tiring race weekend, regardless of the outcome. 

max smiles all teeth, “there’s no other person i want to share my highs and lows with. well, hopefully more highs than lows. i have the ring for you already, but i at least need to win eight championships before i retire so you’re able to marry a record-breaking champion. i am proposing to you this year though, i cannot wait any longer.”

you stare at him unseeing for a minute, and he looks awfully confused for a man who just announced his plans to give you his last name. 

“max,” you start shakingly, “what do you mean you already have the ring?”

max’s carefree expression drops, and becomes pale, “what are you talking about? i never said anything about a ring–”

“you literally just did?! the part before you said you were proposing to me this year, and before becoming an eight-time world–”

max claps, cutting you off while standing up. he offers you his hand, “alright! we should go to bed now, right? together, yes that’s a great idea.”

taglist: @saintslewis @cherry2stems

© httpsserene 2023

[slytherinboysappreciation]

Hello! It's me againn and guess what 😈😈 Yes! I got another idea for Tom Riddle and m!reader 😋😋

Ekhem- so basically Tom was assigned to tutor this boy who was known for his lack of effort in class, he would sleep nor just ditched out the classes. So, as a nice Headboy he was, Tom decided to accept the task to tutor the boy and behold! The boy just sleeping the whole time Tom explain smth to him. So yeah Tom's mad n reader was like "Huh why r u mad? I don't even need tutor in the 1st place..." So Tom's gotten more mad 😔 and reader would like 🧍‍♂️

AHAHAHA n then as an apology, reader shows up to Tom after the exam ended n gave him his exam papers and oh boy this mf got O (Outstanding) for all the subjects, turns out the reader is able to do the school works from the beginning but he just won't do it bc he's a lazy ass bitch. Then Tom's reaction would be "🧍‍♂️...Yeah, i need those genes for my kids 😍"

THIS IS SO MESSY LMAO im sorry here's sum oranges for ur wonderful writing 🍊🍊🍊

Tutoring - T. R. x male!Reader

A/N: Thank you so much!! I love seeing you in my ask box! I hope this is what you were wanting 💛 Sorry about the ending lol. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to end it well.

I think I tagged everything, but let me know if I missed something! Fic is unedited with no use of Y/N

Anyway, have some hearts for sending me so many amazing requests! 💛💛💛💛

CW: Tom being fed up; anger; laziness; yelling; Tom gets fairly upset in this; somewhat mean words towards the reader; making up; brief compliment towards Tom; Abraxas and Tom are friends in this; Tom gets a little bit obsessed with reader; Tom’s evil plans

1144 words

It was a little known fact that Tom loved tutoring. For more selfish reasons than he’d care to admit, but he loved it all the same.

It was the rush of power he felt when a teacher came to him on behalf of yet another student. It was the pride when a student finally understood the material.

It was even the knowledge that Tom was smarter than most of the students at Hogwarts.

And yet, for all his love of tutoring, he was seriously debating quitting.

Why?

The answer was simple. You.

Tom had agreed to tutor you as a favor to Professor Slughorn. It wasn’t even for extra credit; a rare occasion of Tom being nice.

The professor was clearly fed up with you, and Tom was more than willing to take on a challenge.

And oh, what a challenge you were.

You were late to your first tutoring session, completely missed the second one, and slept through the third one.

You’d apologized, of course; but by the fourth tutoring session, it was clear you just didn’t have the motivation to study.

And it infuriated Tom.

He’d never failed as a tutor before, and he certainly wasn’t going to fail now.

When your eyes start to droop for the third time in ten minutes during your next study session, Tom’s patience runs out.

“Were you attending a party last night?” he demands, hands clenched. “What in Merlin’s name could have made you so tired?”

You startle, blearily lifting your head and rubbing at your eyes. “You think I’m cool enough to attend a party?”

It sounds like a genuine question, one Tom refuses to answer.

“What. Kept. You. Up?”

“My roommates.” You yawn and settle back into your seat. “They were having fun or something. Bein’ loud. Kept me up most of the night.”

Tom’s fists unclench. He takes a deep breath. “And do they do this every night?”

“Well… sort of…?” You fiddle with your quill. “Not every night, but…”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. “Talk to your Head of House about it. They’ll deal with your noisy roommates.”

“Alright.” You give him a small smile. Tom doesn’t return it.

“Now, for your potions essay…”

You slump in your seat.

But Tom counts it as a win when it takes you a few minutes longer than usual before your head starts drooping again.

You’re falling asleep yet again, and Tom has had it with you.

He slams the potions guide down on the table, startling you awake.

“Merlin, what the—“

“What—“ Tom seethes, “—is wrong with you?”

You blink, clearly taken aback. “Uhhh…”

“I have done my absolute best to ensure you don’t fail your exams next week, and you have done nothing but laze about and sleep!”

“Look, Riddle, just chill out.” You hold up your hands placatingly, giving him a weak smile. “I don’t get why you’re so upset. Professor Slughorn said you wanted to tutor me.”

“Well, not anymore! I am through with you!” Tom stands, fists clenched. “You have driven me to my wit’s end! If you’re not going to bother even trying to focus, I’m not going to bother trying to help you!”

“Hey—“

“I quit!” Tom snaps.

You stare at him, stunned. Then you cross your arms. “Well, fine! Merlin knows I never needed a tutor in the first place!”

Tom glares at you and angrily gathers his things.

It doesn’t feel good to quit. But he’s never felt so helpless before. You just simply seem to refuse to learn.

As he stalks away, though, there’s an odd pull at his heart. Maybe it was something about the unhappiness in your eyes. Or the way your fingers trembled as they gripped your quill.

Whatever it was, Tom squashes the feeling like a bug. He’s done with you. Not even a favor from Slughorn could tempt him to take you on again.

Of that, he is certain.

Tom’s sitting with Abraxas in the main hall, celebrating his exam scores. All Outstandings and Exceeds Expectations, even for Divination and Herbology.

He’s particularly proud of his O in Potions, proof that he knows the material well.

He’s just about to bite into a pumpkin pastry when there’s a soft cough behind him.

He turns, raising an eyebrow. It’s you, looking quite sheepish.

“Hey, Riddle.”

Tom purses his lips together thinly and crosses his arms. “Hello.”

You shuffle your feet and rub the back of your neck. “I know you were really mad at me,” you mumble, “But I wanted to explain myself a bit…”

“Then explain.”

You take a deep breath and pull a piece of paper from your pocket. It’s your report card for the exams.

Tom takes it, expecting to see some sort of dismal grade requiring his assistance.

But instead, what greets him is the best set of scores he’s ever seen. All Outstandings, in every class.

Tom stares at the report card, utterly baffled. “What?”

You rub the back of your neck again, not meeting his gaze. “I told you, I didn’t need a tutor. I can do the work. I just don’t like it.”

Tom slowly looks up from the report card. “You… just don’t like it…?”

You shrug. “Schoolwork’s boring. I’d rather do something else instead.”

Tom’s brain is a whirl. You were capable of doing the coursework already. More so, you knew everything well enough to get Outstandings in every class, something even he failed to do.

Tom hands you back your report card. “I owe you an apology then.”

“Nah,” you laugh softly and shuffle your feet. “Don’t worry about it. ‘Sides, you’re kinda cute all angry ‘n’ stuff.”

Tom blinks. You shrug and give him an awkward smile. “See you around, Riddle.”

“Right…” He watches as you walk away.

Then he turns quickly to Abraxas. “Malfoy, he had all Outstandings.”

Abraxas glances at him once, then does a double take. “Oh, no. I know that look. What are you planning?”

Tom grins. “Surely you see it? A brain that smart, when paired with my cunning? We’d be unstoppable.”

Abraxas glances at where you’d been standing. “Tom, I don’t know about this…”

But Tom’s mind is already at work. You already thought he was cute once… With the right sort of manipulation, perhaps he could get you to think it again.

Perhaps he could get you to fall in love with him.

“Just think about it, Malfoy. Our children would be geniuses!”

Abraxas just sighs. He shakes his head, but Tom ignores him. His plan is forming in his mind; his perfect plan to get you to fall in love with him.

With only a little bit of persuasion, he’ll get you to fall in love with him. And then you’ll be his lover forever. The other half to his genius.

And then all his plans will be perfected.

[becsabillion4]

take it out on me (carmen berzatto x reader)

so this is my first time posting a fic of mine on tumblr since i was 14 and i'm slightly terrified by the formatting but i posted this on ao3 yesterday and someone told me to post here too (<3) so i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoy the thought of getting pounded by carmy in the walk-in

pairing : carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary : Carmy is having a terrible service, and you're sure some time in the walk-in will help him cool off (although it gets hotter in there than you might think).

word count : 4,410

tags: SMUT, rough sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, choking, semi-public sex, ending with soft carmy which makes it all okay, 18+ only

note: this is explicit 18+ only and also this is NOT an advert for safe sex, it is merely a fantasy i have been playing with since my own days as a waitress and carmy has helped me to realise it. also i'm obsessed and i know y'all degenerates won't send help so instead i ask that you send me asks so i can write more about this wonderful man

Disorienting. Overwhelming. Stressful, painful, unrelenting. Burning your hand hard enough for it to stick to the pan, hard enough that you know on the way to the sink it’s too late, that you’ll bear the scar of that mistake for the rest of your life. Knives slicing always so close to your skin, living on the point of pain, focus trained so hard on the blade you can’t even blink. Shouting, screaming, the place could be on fire, and you wouldn’t look up from the art you’re creating. Flames licking at your apron. Beautiful.

Kitchens are the prison and the heart of a chef, and the one at The Bear is currently the pride and the bane of your life. Plating up your one billionth focaccia of the evening as Marcus rushes by holding a tray of cannolis aloft, you try to tune out Sydney shouting instructions to the new servers, trying to drill something, anything, into their panicked, under-developed skulls. 

But none of this worries you. What worries you is the ominous, creeping silence from the station to your right, where you know Carmy is cooking up not only the best food you’ve ever tasted, but an internal storm that is going to be unleashed any, second, now-

“Chefs! Where the fuck is my garnish? Tina, are you dead? ‘Cos you need to wake the fuck back up.”

Tina is already by Carmy’s side with the garnish, but the damage is done. She doesn’t bristle at his words, but shoots you a worried look as she slides by, murmuring, “Sorry, Chefs. Behind.”

Since you started working at The Bear six months back, you’ve witnessed a rare few Carmy outbursts, and you know everyone feels the same way when they happen. It’s like the moment you miss a step on familiar stairs, stomach lurching and fear sweeping through your body. Carmy is this kitchen, and his boiling point is the moment things tend to spin out of control. 

And yet, Tina’s reaction is everyone’s; disappointment in herself, instant forgiveness because she knows Carmy is doing everything he can for this team. Last week, after you and Sydney spent the evening getting wasted on her couch, she’d confessed to you how hard Carmy took his notorious opening night failure, and how he’s been struggling to make up for it since then. And it’s been working; his kindness, patience, and passion for elevating those around him have always outshone the occasional harsh word during service.

But this service is just bad. It’s been bad since 5AM, when you got here to take in the delivery and found out that the grapes needed for the welcome broth had somehow been left off of the order. It’s been bad since Marcus ruined three batches of cannolis in a row, and when Sydney tried to touch his shoulder and ask him what was going on, he stormed out. Since Sydney snapped at Richie for singing Taylor Swift badly during family. The hundred little underlying frissons of tension that normally dissipate as soon as service rolls around have congealed today, like oil in balsamic vinegar, rubbing together but refusing to meld into the team you know everyone can be.

And you know Carmy can feel it. His anger is a physical thing beside you, like standing next to a hot pan with too much oil in it and just waiting for it to start spitting at you. Knowing you have to keep stirring it anyway.

“Four top, two steak, one bucatini, one fish,” Sydney rattles off, and everyone responds “Yes, Chef!” a little too loud.

“Can I get some hands for this focaccia,” you shout through the din, pushing the two boards forward, but nobody responds. “Hands, please, get these off my station before I eat ‘em!” you call, trying to bring some levity to the atmosphere before-

“Hands, fuckin’ hands, Chefs, FUCK!” Carmy explodes, appearing by your side so suddenly you almost jump. His hands hover over the foccacia boards like he wants to adjust something on them, fix something, but you know as well as he does that they’re perfect already.

And of course, this just makes things worse.

Carmy properly looks up for the first time, straightening out of the “chef about to have an aneurysm over plating this fish” posture and into his “everyone here is about to get fucked” pose. “These are good to go, why are we not? Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Go fuck yourselves-” one of the new waitresses approaches with trembling hands and Carmy pushes the boards at her, disgusted, almost taking them over the edge of the pass, “-all of you, what is the point of any of us being here if nothing is leaving the fucking kitchen!”

“Carm, it’s okay, they’re going out,” you can’t help cutting in, but you should know better than to try to soothe a wild animal. Carmy doesn’t say anything, turns back to plating up his fish, but his beautiful artist’s hands, which you often find yourself trying to draw in the margins of inventory checks, are shaking now. You’ve never seen him this bad. The whole kitchen waits on a knife edge. You glance up, watching the waitress leave with your focaccia, and have a brief but fervent desire to be her as the doors swing her out of this hellhole.

The fish is beautiful as Carmy puts the finishing touches to it. A server steps up to take it as other dishes for the same table coalesce at the front of stations, all elegant, all perfect, all more than worthy of the restaurant’s Michelin star.

Carmy is completely still. Staring. And you know it’s too late.

Plunging his fist down, he crushes the fish into sea-scented pulp. The shells of oysters, hand-selected, crack into broken-mirror shards; the sauce is peppered with shoddy scraps of lobster tail.

It’s still not enough for Carmy, as he picks up the plate and sends it spinning into the back wall, narrowly missing Sweeps’ head. “ Shit, ” Carmy mutters, turning back to his station and searching for more things to destroy. You watch him contemplate the knives, and you can’t stay out of it any longer.

“Carmy. Chef. Carmy,” you say as you reach out to grab his muscled arm, pulling him round to face you. You can feel the tension corded deep under his skin, see the sheen of sweat coating his tattoos. Normally, any skin contact with him sends your brain into overdrive, but you can’t afford to be anything but calm right now.

His eyes are wild, but you watch him steadily, and he watches you straight back. You’re not sure why, but the moment reminds you of how you felt on those rare occasions he invited you and Syd over to brainstorm new recipes in his cramped kitchen. Especially that time Sydney couldn’t make it, and you were midway through describing your idea for a yuzu-infused scallops course to him - “with maybe, like, a garnish of broccoli just absolutely smothered in hollandaise” - when he reached forward, tucked a scrap of hair behind your ear, and the very idea of food whisked straight out of your head - but you still felt hungry. And whilst he’d tried out your broccoli idea over and over again that night, you found yourself blushing every time he passed you a spoon to taste it. 

You never could get that dish right. Every time you thought about it, you couldn’t separate the flavours from the curious look in his eyes, the way he drank in your ideas, absorbed them before he responded, how his eyes tracked every thought that crossed your face.

Now here you are again, staring at that measured, thoughtful man turned savage, and you wonder if you have the guts to do what you’ve been thinking about doing for a while.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you murmur beneath the clatter of plates behind you, just for him. You don’t look away even when you hear something shatter. You move your hand from his arm, up over his shoulder, push your palm into the curve of his neck and hold it there. 

Then you wait, feel his shoulders jumping up and down with his rapid breathing. Wait until he leans into it a little, chasing your solidity, and it’s all the response you need.

“Come with me.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Sydney, you got this?” You ask, never taking your eyes from Carmy’s face, worried that if you do, you’ll lose whatever grip you have on him right now.

“Yes, Chef,” she replies, and you feel her edge round the side of Carmy to put another fish on rapid fire. He catches her eye as she passes, and brings his hand up to his chest, rubbing it once in what has become the team’s official way to apologise during service. She responds in kind, and he lets you drag him off the station, past the others shooting him worried looks, straight into the walk-in.

You shut the door carefully, recalling the stories of Carmy’s previous imprisonment. It’s still securely closed, giving you both some calm and privacy to cool off.

Except cooling off is not really what you have in mind.

You turn to see Carmy slumped in the corner, curled in on himself and running his hands through his already-chaotic hair. He stands again suddenly, bracing his hands on the wall behind him as if to remind himself they exist.

“Carmy.”

“Yeah, shit. Sorry, I just need a second. It’s just, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was thinking about doing something with ceviche, but I couldn’t figure out what fish would work best, and then that sorta spiralled into a panic attack which kept me up whisking eggs for something until three, and then-” You watch his eyes darting over the shelves around him as he talks, and you realise he’s taking stock of what’s there. Even during a full-blown meltdown, he cannot stop working, stop thinking. He starts pacing.

“Carmy,” you say again as you try to catch his eye. He’s staring at some spare T-bones like they’ll explain to him whatever dish he was whisking eggs for last night. Fuck it. You grab his chin, tilt it until he has to look at you.

“D’you know the best way to calm down?”

“Lock yourself in the walk-in for three hours?” He’s trying to relieve some tension, but you have other ideas on how to handle that.

“Sex, Carmy.”

There. You’re terrified that you finally acknowledged it, finally confessed to what you’ve been thinking about for months, but thank God it’s out in the open. You’ve been blushing at his compliments on your food for far too long, ignoring how good he looks in a white tee for even longer. And today has been such a shitshow it can’t possibly get any worse by admitting to this too.

You wait for Carmy to shut it down, laugh it off, maybe even fire you, but he just looks shellshocked. Then again, that is his default look.

“I, um…” He rubs a hand over his forehead, glances up at you almost shyly. “I mean, um. What?”

“Listen, you’re fucking up service. You’re distracted, tired, stressed beyond belief. I want to help you, and I won’t pretend it’s just out of the goodness of my own heart. I’ve been interested in you for a while, Carmy. You can take that or leave it or kick me out of this walk-in if you want, but I’m here. I want to help you work through things, through all this anger. And…I want you to know you can take it out on me. And maybe even feel better at the same time.”

Carmy is flushed, and you’re all out of words. You kind of wish he was still looking at the T-bones.

“We, uh, we can’t.” Carmy leans back on a freezer for support, crossing his arms in a pose you normally associate with him working something out in his head, deciding what a dish is missing or what it needs to take it up a notch. “I mean, not now. Not here, at least. And I don’t know, we work together. I’m your boss. It’s not a good idea.” He reaches a hand round to his back, starts massaging the strain away there. It’s an especially effective position as he doesn’t have to look at you as he does it, as he says, “Sorry.”

You shrug a little, smile. Try to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Keep it professional, or as professional as you can get in a kitchen. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Get some sleep, Chef.”

You turn to go, hoping that stirring and slicing and plating up will shake off the embarrassment currently burning through to your bones.

But you don’t live to regret the offer as Carmy grabs your arm, spins you and shoves you hard enough into the walk-in door that it rattles on its hinges.

“Hey, everything okay in there Chefs?” you hear Marcus call, and it’s a reality check you absolutely don’t want right now. Carmy doesn’t even seem to have heard him, trailing kisses down your neck, collarbone, shoulder as your body arches into the feeling. You’ve had one too many fantasies about this walk-in since you started, but the actual feeling doesn’t begin to touch the dream.

“Yeah, all good Chef!” You manage to reply, but you barely get the ‘Chef’ out before Carmy’s lips slide over yours, pushing, demanding entry as his body keeps you pressed up against the door. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, is all you have time to think between kisses.

There is no room or time for playing around. Carmy needs this, and you intend to provide, but you’re damn sure getting everything you can out of it just in case it never happens again. One of your hands curls deep into his hair, pulling his head back as your teeth click together in the ferocity of the kiss. You swear you can taste blood, but neither one of you pulls back, the saltiness only urging you on. Your other hand is busy loosening his belt, and you tug it hard to pull the silver prong free of the leather, hard enough that his hips jerk forward into yours and you moan, long and low.

Gravity suddenly spins on its axis as Carmy lifts you, turns and drops you down onto the freezer Fak installed last week. And for once in your life, thank you, Fak. The movement seems to shake Carmy out of it for a second, and he pulls back, hesitates. A hand curves around your cheek, and you can feel an apology coming, see the reticence forming in his eyes. And honestly, fuck that.

You hook fingers through his belt loops, dragging him closer and then using them to tug his trousers down. You’re not gentle as you reach into his underwear, wrap a hand around his cock, and you can tell that’s what he needs as he hisses, his head drifting back.

Removing his hand from your cheek, you guide it slowly down to your neck. His head snaps up, and there’s a darkness, a need, that wasn’t there before as you move your hand slowly, torturously, down his length.

“Hey,” you whisper, reluctant to interrupt the low grunts spilling from him with each of your movements. “I’m not going to break.”

You squeeze his fingers around your throat a little tighter, and it’s this that has him surging forward, messy mouths pressing together again and everything condensing into a rippling, burning, rightness as the fingers of his other hand shove themselves between your legs.

He lingers there for a moment, breaths short and sharp in your ear as he breaks free from your kiss and whispers, “If we had more time, I would clean up the mess you’re making all over my freezer, Chef.”

“My apologies, Chef,” you pant, the sweetness of the apology marred slightly by your fingers tugging hard through his curls. Then you’re pushing up his white shirt at the back, reveling in the heat of him, the muscles straining under your touch. “What’s my punishment?”

Carmy hesitates, then withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and it feels like the calm before the storm. One hand is still pressed loosely around your neck as he brings the other up to your face, runs the edge of his still-wet fingers over your lips. Asking or demanding, you don’t know, but you’re happy to comply. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue behind them, and when you slide your mouth over his fingers, taste yourself on him, he closes them in momentary bliss. And it’s so beautiful to see that you can’t resist pulling him in to share.

A Michelin-star chef with one of the most sophisticated palates on the planet. A renowned food critic once wrote of him, “In my next life, I’d like to be just one of the taste buds in Carmen Berzatto’s mouth.” And here he is, savouring you, tongue searching out every corner of your mouth as if he wants to figure out each and every component of your taste. Add the recipe of you to his menu, and make it every night.

You’re both done waiting, and the clock is ticking. You can faintly hear Sydney calling orders through the wall, although she sounds steadier now. You don’t know whether anyone out there knows what you’re doing, but a rampaging elephant couldn’t stop Sydney when she’s on a roll.

Carmy pulls you closer to the freezer’s edge, jeans and underwear falling to his ankles and suddenly he is right there, and-

“Oh, fuck,” is all you can say as he pushes forward in one swift, animal movement. And oh, pain flickers down your spine as he slides almost free of you and thrusts back, relentless, and this is exactly what you signed up for.

“ Fuck ,” he echoes, hand sliding down your neck to settle over your racing heart. “Fuck, you…I don’t know how you do this to me,” he pants, and you try to keep your moaning down so you can hear as words spill from him, “When you come in with your hair down before a shift, when you - ah - when you borrow my knife and I see you using it all service, when you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. Shit. You drive me crazy on purpose, and you wanna know what the worst part is?”

You can’t breathe, let alone answer him.

“The worst part is I eat that shit up every time, ” he snarls, punctuating every word with a short, sharp thrust.

This is the animal you saw tonight, spitting curses, destroying his own food, all sharp edges and uncompromising will. Grunting as he bottoms out inside you, fingers clenched around your upper thigh hard enough to bruise, littering bites over your neck as if your colleagues aren’t an unlocked door away.

But the animal isn’t the end of Carmen Berzatto. There is more to him than the bear, and you intend to remind him of that before you’re through.

“Look around you,” you pant as he thrusts again, harder, sweeter, and you have to get this out before you tip over the edge. So you risk bringing the hand you were using to support yourself forward to turn his chin towards the walk-in’s walls, to beyond them, to the restaurant hard at work and the satisfied diners metres away who have no idea what’s going on in here, and fuck if that doesn’t make it all the more delicious. “Look what you made. Look who you are.” You watch his flushed face, hope he understands the praise, but you can’t hold on anymore to see your words land.

“You’re fuckin’ unbelievable, Carmy,” is all you manage to choke out as every muscle in your body lights up, tenses and releases in a flood so strong you wonder if you’ll ever surface, and if you even want to.

Carmy fucks forward into you twice more, and his head drops onto your shoulder as he groans, shudders, relaxes fully for what may be the first time in his life.

You stroke a hand over his head, pull him closer. You’re not quite sure when this stopped being a no-holds-barred quickie and became a quiet, intense embrace, but it feels right. All the desperation, the keyed-up energy, is gone from him. And if he never wants anything more than that, even though the idea is more than a little disappointing, you can take consolation from the fact that you at least managed to stop a raging Carmy in his tracks.

Although it is a little quiet.

“Carmy?” You ask, hesitant to break the silence. Thankfully, it still sounds like it’s all bustle outside. You wonder how long you’ve been in here, and try not to think about how you’re going to emerge with any shred of dignity intact.

Carmy pulls back, and you can’t define the look on his face, but it worries you. His eyes shine slightly, and his gaze skips across your face, down your body, not holding your stare.

“Are you okay?” You ask, praying this isn’t about to get really awkward really quick. The man’s still inside you, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah. I, um, I should be asking you that.” Carmy’s hands skim down your sides, fingers pressing in randomly as if to check for bruises. He tilts his head to look under your chin, as if to check he hasn’t caused any permanent damage to your neck. “Jesus. Are you alright? I’m sorry, that was rough.”

“I’m totally fine.” You don’t know what to do to reassure him, so opt for two big thumbs up. “See? Voice working and everything.”

Carmy chuckles unevenly, takes a careful step back, and you try not to consider how empty you feel and how cold and slippery the freezer now is underneath you. You hop off, catching yourself on the side when you realise just how shaky your legs are. When you glance up at Carmy, he’s just staring at you, which is, frankly, unnerving.

“Do I look that bad?” you ask, pulling your hair out of what’s left of a ponytail to start again.

“No. No, I’m just…I’m just taking you in.” The raw honesty in his eyes pins you in place for a moment. But of course, Richie shouts “ Cousin!” before you can read into it too much.

There is a moment of panicked dressing and clean-up, a nod to each other to confirm you both look relatively sane and not totally fucked (even though you doubt it), and then a collective deep breath as you push open the door of the walk-in.

You don’t catch anyone’s eye for a second as you head to your station, Carmy’s presence like an open flame behind you.

“Corner. Corner. Behind, sorry Chefs,” you call as you slide back into place. Two quick glances calm you; one at the clock - seventeen minutes - and one at Sydney, who doesn’t look like she’s about to throw up and only has three tickets in front of her. You spare a final one for Fak in his position by the door, who you are positive would be grinning gleefully if he, or anyone else in the kitchen, knew what just went down in the walk-in.

“What do you need, Syd?” you ask, picking up the familiar back-and-forth of the kitchen again with some relief.

Carmy is quiet, focused, for the last half hour of service, but you can’t keep your mind clear. As soon as last orders are sent out, you slink to the back for a cigarette, hoping the smoke will at least wipe out your brain fog. It does the exact opposite. When you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. You exhale, waving the smoke away as the words churn through your brain. I eat that shit up every time.

“Hey,” you hear, and you’re almost thankful to speak to the real him just to distract yourself from thinking about earlier.

“Hey.” You offer him a smoke, and he takes it, sinking onto the step next to you. The brush of his leg against yours is a lot more comforting than you expect it to be, relaxing a secretly worried part of you.

He takes a long drag, the kind of drag you only take when it’s been a shitshow of a day. “I just want to say I’m-”

“Sorry? It’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen again,” you finish for him. It hurts less that way.

“What? No.” He looks at you until you reluctantly meet his gaze. “Not for that. I’m not sorry about that.” He lets that hang there for a second, holds your eye. “But I’m sorry for losing my shit earlier. Nobody deserves to be around that, and…I want you to know I’m working on it. I wanna be…I wanna be good at this.” It’s a stilted apology as he thinks through every line, and it feels all the more sincere for it.

“That’s okay. I know. We all know.” You reach a hand out to touch his arm, and after a second, he lowers his head to rest on his knee, although his face is still turned towards you. You see his eyes flicker from your hand on his arm to your face.

“Although that wasn’t exactly how I expected that to go by the way,” he says after a moment.

You don’t try to pretend you don’t know what he’s referring to. “What, in the walk-in?”

“Oh, no, I’ve thought about it in the walk-in.” You ignore a pulse of feeling at his casual confession, at the idea that he’s thought about you. “I just didn’t imagine it so…heated, I guess.” Carmy raises his head again, traces a finger along your hand where it rests on his arm until you shiver. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

You hesitate for a second before replying. Before extending the branch. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be other times, Chef.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s your turn to watch his thoughts flickering there, watch as the fog clears, the idea forms, and he says, “Yeah. Next time.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

wow guys thank you for reading i pray through the act of writing this that my jeremy allen white obsession will calm the fuck down, but i fear i've made it worse

if you'd like to keep up with me on ao3, you can find me here and please do send me any comments or feedback or prompt ideas, i would love to hear them <33 thank you!!

[lvlyghost]

Hi I just read your “The Things I Never Said” oneshot and loved it. Can I get a kind of opposite version where Simon wishes to be a dad but the reader never wants to be a mom so she freaks out and gets an abortion with out Simons knowledge and later he somehow finds out? Maybe angst to fluff? Totally ignore this if you dont want to, have a wonderful day/night.

The Things I Wish I Said

Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Summary: You decide to end things with Simon after what you did.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tw: hurt, comfort, angry simon, angst, implied abortion. Not proofread.Think that's it but lmk if i missed anything!🐸

A/N: here it is! I hope this doesn't disappoint and that it lives up to your expectations 😰🤞🏻 I really enjoyed writing this one and since it's similar to my previous fic decided to name it quite similar. ✨💞

Masterlist✨Masterpost

He doesn't know. You stare at Simon's gargantuan body as he barks orders to the new recruits. Things have been rather... tense lately. And it's all because of you.

Yesterday had taken a toll on you. A big piece of your heart and soul lost forever in that godamn clinic. You can still smell the perfume of the nurse, feel the hands of the doctor as he tried to comfort you. You're deadly pale, tired and numb. That's why you're sitting on the other side of the field, watching the rest of your team training as usual. Nothing changes for them. You on the other hand? Can't even look at Simon in the eyes. Not anymore. The one thing he wanted the most was also the one you were the most reluctant to. It just wasn't you.

You didn't have it in your DNA. To be a mother. To carry a baby in your arms. And not because you're selfish, but you had decided a long time ago that having children was off the table.

Even when everybody would say 'you'll change your mind when you find the one'. Well it was a blatant lie because you found him. You loved Simon. You'd do whatever he asked of you. Just not this. And you hate yourself for it.

You lied to him and didn't mention anything. Didn't tell him you were pregnant with his offspring.

Couldn't even bare to maintain a conversation with him. And he's starting to notice the way your body startles when he reaches out to you. How you avoid his gaze or not kiss him anymore.

"Feeling better?" He questions, strong arms crossed. Simon doesn't fully look down where you sit but side eyes you. He awaits. You're looking out to the field, ignoring his presence as you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Not really, Lieutenant." You simply add, in a hushed tone.

He sighs but doesn't move, starting to lose his patience. He's trying so hard to understand why you're acting like this. He's preoccupied. Anxious. Yet doesn't let it show, remaining stoic as ever.

"Wanna talk about it, Sergeant?" Biting down on your lip and fidgeting with your hands you shake your head. Simon rubs his face, annoyed that whatever the fuck is happening is driving the both of you apart, so he sits down on the bench next to you. "What is it?" He turns his head to you. Arms resting on his knees.

"Simon..." you warn him with a sad tone.

"No. That's an order."

"Sir, we're done here..." One of the recruits shouts from the other side.

"You bloody keep going until I tell you to stop!" He seethes, making you flinch.

Resting your head on your hands, start thinking about the inevitable. About what you're going to do. Your heartbeat racing when you feel his eyes on you again.

"Simon..." you say. "I... I- don't think we should be together right now." It hurts deep inside because all that's left is the rustling of wind and the voices of the soldiers around. You don't turn to see his reaction, probably wouldn't be able to stand it. It's not because you didn't love him. In fact, you loved him more than he could imagine. It's what you did behind his back what's eating you alive. And the best way you can seem to cope with it is to leave him.

Not a sound comes from him for the next few seconds. Until you finally find the courage to look his way. Blue eyes scan your body.

"As you wish, kid." He whispers. You can't see it but he's already spiraling down to a dark place.

The one good thing he had...

-

"I've had enough!" Soap's voice booms in the hallway and then your door bursts open. You shriek, standing up from the bed. "I can't stand it anymore lass. You've gotta talk to him." He says.

"Johnny... we've talked about this." You murmur.

"No. I'm being serious! Ghost is more irritated than usual, he almost punched me for saying he needed to get laid. The bloody hell happened to you both?" His eyebrows furrow. "You need to figure this out, otherwise..."

"It's complicated." You deadpan.

"Well then bloody make it right! Steaming fucking Jesus you two acting like fucking children. Grow the hell up."

You had never seen Johnny this mad.

Of course you were aware of Ghost's attitude since you two broke up. And it's only been three weeks. You've been attending the military counselor since then, it's a sorrowful feeling when you think about Simon, while you talk about him. About what led to the end of your relationship or whatever it was that you two had going on.

"I believe what you went through was hard and painful. But I do think that he deserves an answer." she had insisted. "He needs to know."

It was easier said than done. Every time you thought about going to his room or wherever he'd be you got this uneasy feeling, like he somehow despised you now. That all the soft smiles and gentle caressing that were once just for you had turned into frowns and harsh commands. Dismissing you whenever you showed up to training. Not even making eye contact during debriefs. Walking right past you in the corridor. You can't help but wonder if the baby's eyes would've been more like him or yours.

Stop.

The counselor said it was a type of ptsd and that therapy would help you get through it.

"The first step is to let yourself feel that pain, make amends with it, and then go see him."

"I'll try to talk to him Johnny. I promise." You murmur, jaw clenching.

The mere thought of going to speak to Simon made your hands sweat and your heart beat frantically.

Three days after the conversation with Soap, you stand in front of Simon's bedroom door. Blinking rapidly as your mind races with all the things you ought to say. It's almost one in the morning, unable to sleep you decided the conversation couldn't wait any longer. You couldn't wait anymore. Swallowing down saliva you raise your hand, two soft knocks on the door echoing in the empty hallway and you wait patiently, fumbling with your hands as the anxiety begins to raise.

Simon doesn't open so you knock again two times only to be greeted by more silence and a loud thunder outside in the sky.

A quiet huff leaves your mouth as you turn on your heel and leave. Wandering around the compound with no clear direction. It's dead silent, you're left with your own self destructive thoughts as you walk past the gym. A low thud can be heard from behind the doors so you backtrack and take a glimpse through the window.

Why is he at the gym at this ungodly hour?

Pushing past the door you walk sluggishly, Simon's quick to notice the disturbance, ready to snap at whomever is here to interrupt his midnight routine. It's been like this for weeks now; not being able to sleep. The nightmares that had disappeared for the most part came back with full force.

There's a hollow feeling inside of him ever since you decided to call it quits. He doesn't fucking understand, he's mad. Furious even. Can't help the anger whenever he wakes up and you're not there anymore. Can't bear the sight of you during debriefings and not even looking his way. The way you freeze when he has to order you around.

Had he done anything to make you fearful of him?

He needed to know, he needs answers. He'd ask tomorrow. He swears. Whatever it was. Then he'll walk away.

He stands from where he was about to start the second round of push-ups. Simon's able to recognize your silhouette with the lights off, he just knows you that well. Wherever you were, in a sea full of people he'd know it's you even then.

"Sorry..." you murmur. Simon's looking at you over his left shoulder through the mirror in front of him, you stand a few steps behind him. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

He stays silent. It's now that you come to realize that he isn't wearing the mask, instead lies on the room floor, discarded. "Was looking for you in your room but-"

"Say it." He barks, turning around and stalking towards you. His presence alone making you feel smaller. His brows are knitted, jaw clenched so hard you're sure he'll break his teeth. Simon is massive. Yet, despite all of this you know he'd never lay a finger on you, nor hurt you. "Fucking start talking, kid." The hurt in his voice is palpable. You fumble with your hands, it's getting harder to keep your eyes on his. You do not deserve his love at all. "Because I've been losing my mind ever since you shut me out."

A soft wail escapes your lips, you try to muffle it. Simon hesitates for a second. Wanting nothing more than to hold you in his arms, he awaits.

"I... I- got pregnant." You cried. "And you've always known I never wanted that. I panicked and didn't say a word because it would be more painful or...-" you swallow through incessant tears. "Or so I thought. I decided to get rid of it, Simon. But seeing what's done to us. What I've done... I'm so fucking sorry I don't deserve-"

Suddenly you're engulfed by strong arms and a broad chest as you finally let go and cry rivers of pain and regret. He's murmuring sweet things in your ear that you can't understand die to your deteriorating situation.

"It's okay. It's okay, love. Fucking hell, should've come to me." He growled. "Don't you ever do this to me again, kid. You didn't have to do it alone. Christ."

There's a soft kiss on the top of your head as your cries start to die down and all there's left are soft whimpers.

"I never meant to leave you, but I couldn't be close to you after what I did behind your back." You sniff.

The ever gentle caressing of his thumb on your back never ceases, providing the comfort you so desperately seek.

"S'alright, love. Nothing to be sorry about." He takes a step back keeping you at arms length. "There she is." A little broken but starting to be pieced back together. He gently wipes your cheeks and breathes deep. "I'm here. Always."

[fallinnflower]

01:01

mingyu x reader (fluff, hurt/comfort?, non-idol!au)

wc: 1.3k

a writing exercise i did with a friend using this prompt list and the prompts "when we first fell in love all of those years ago, your father would say i was too sweet for my own good. maybe he was right." and "i'm the one you've been looking for."

a/n: thanks everyone for being patient with me, i'm still working on some big projects (vampire!DPR Ian and also vampire!BamBam [same universe], vampire!Jun, part 2 of river god!Wonpil, a Wonwoo fic based loosely on Kiki's Delivery Service... send help) in the works but wanted to post a little something <3

As soon as you get into your apartment's living room, you flop onto the couch on your stomach, paying no mind to the makeup you're probably smudging onto the throw pillow. Now just isn't the time. Future you can worry about cleaning it. 

Familiar footsteps follow you into the living room and a knee gently nudges the side of your stomach; you roll so your back is pressed against the back of the couch and Mingyu can lie down in the remaining space. He settles on his side, facing you with his hand propping up his head. His eyes glimmer slightly, and he gives you a wry smile,

"Well, happy anniversary," he says. You groan and look away from him, pressing your face into the couch cushions. He chuckles at your exaggerated reaction and gently reaches over to start undoing the elaborate updo you'd pinned your hair into. 

"What a night," he continues, pulling the bobby pins out one by one. You still refuse to look up, embarrassed and frustrated. 

It wasn't like it was anyone's fault, really, that all your evening plans had gone to total shit. First was the unexpected downpour that ruined your plans of a nice walk before dinner forcing you to frantically hail a cab while huddled under his expensive suit jacket. You'd already felt apologetic over that, and then your distracted cab driver missed a turn, which you thought was bad enough because you would be late for the reservation at this rate. 

But then it had to get worse (because of course it had to get worse) when the cabbie rear-ended another car because they were too busy yelling at someone on the phone. The two of you had to spend another two hours huddled under a shop awning, answering questions for the police officers that came to assess the scene. Thankfully, nobody was seriously hurt, but you still cried so much that everyone kept asking if you needed them to call paramedics. 

That was part of why you didn't want to look at Mingyu. No doubt your face was a mess, not to mention your hair, which he was now methodically freeing from the style you had spent so long on. 

You'd just wanted it to be perfect. You only have one first wedding anniversary, after all. To avoid crying more, you keep your face pressed into the cushions, not responding to your husband. More gently, then, he asks,

"Hey, you're sure you're okay, right?" You sniffle. Goddamnit. 

"Yeah," you croak. "I just… feel bad." Mingyu chuckles. 

"I know, but it isn't your fault," he reassures you. It should make you feel better, but it doesn't. You know Mingyu isn't bothered — this sort of thing doesn't faze him quite like it does you — but you still feel anxious and upset. Is this some kind of warning of impending doom in your relationship? Just the thought makes you feel sick to your stomach. 

You finally turn your face again so you can breathe more easily and find Mingyu smiling at you, concern still clear in his eyes. The couch cushion feels rough against your cheek, still a bit sensitive from all the crying and being out in the cold. 

"I think we have ramen," Mingyu says. "Should I make some? Are you hungry?" Your lower lip trembles as tears start welling up again, and this time you press your forehead into Mingyu's shoulder to hide your face. 

"How are you so calm?" you sputter. "How are you not— not upset?" 

"What, upset at you? You didn't do anything. And the driver didn't get away with being reckless, so I don't need to worry about that, either," he says calmly. When you only continue to sniffle pathetically, he changes his approach a bit,

"Or maybe I'm just too nice. I still remember when we first fell in love all of those years ago, your father would say I was too sweet for my own good. Maybe he was right."

You let out an extremely undignified snort and lift your head to look at him. 

"As if. My dad never said anything like that," you tease. "Plus, 'all those years ago?' It's not like we met as kids or something. We met in college." Mingyu pouts at you, but his eyes glimmer playfully. 

"It sounds so much less romantic when you say that," he whines. 

"Well, you've always been the romantic one," you retort, but Mingyu is quick to counter you,

"No, no— I still remember that letter you wrote me when the semester was ending, when you said I was the one you'd been looking for—"

"Shut up!" you cry, placing your hands over his mouth. On top of everything else tonight, you don't want to be reminded of your embarrassing confession via love letter from years ago. You'd been a lovestruck student afraid you would lose your chance forever when you wrote that letter, and certainly hadn't expected that Mingyu had also been harboring a secret crush on you that would lead to marriage. It had been corny and sappy all because you thought you wouldn't see him again! Oh, how your actions had come back to haunt you. 

You can feel Mingyu smiling under your palms, and it only makes your face get hotter. Eventually, you remove your hands from his face and snuggle up closer to his chest, pressing your forehead into his shoulder again. 

"You're so annoying," you murmur, and you can feel the laughter reverberate through Mingyu's chest as he winds an arm around you. 

"But you still married me," he says. You smile. It still gives you butterflies, thinking of Mingyu as your husband, still so fresh a sensation. It's only been a year, after all. 

"Yeah," you reply. "I did."

Mingyu holds you for a few minutes, gently combing his fingers through your hair as you calm down. Eventually, he broaches the subject of dinner again, now that it's been hours since you were supposed to have eaten. 

"Do you want to shower while I make the ramen?" he asks, and you nod. Mingyu gets up off the couch as you sit up and stretch, noticing the lingering dampness in your hair and dress. A shower definitely sounds nice. You start making your way down the hallway, then turn back to face the living room. 

You watch as Mingyu attempts to straighten out his crumpled, damp button-down shirt, and smile to yourself. 

"Actually," you start, causing Mingyu to stop what he was doing and look up at you out of curiosity. "Do you… wanna join me? It's our anniversary, after all." You can feel your face warming up, but it's worth the slight embarrassment just to see the surprise on your husband's face. Sometimes he can seem so innocent. 

It only takes him a moment to snap out of it though, and cross the living room to meet you in the hallway with a broad grin. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you without hesitation.

"That sounds perfect," he says, practically purring, and you let out a surprised yelp when he suddenly scoops you up bridal style. You throw your arms around his neck and lean against him, giggling. As you look up into his face, all your irritation and upset from earlier melts away. Why should it matter if you went to a fancy restaurant or just ate ramen at home? All you want is to be together — that's why you got married. 

As Mingyu sets you down in the bathroom, you keep your arms looped around his neck and give him a kiss of your own. 

"Happy first anniversary, Gyu." He smiles that big, toothy grin you love so much, the one that makes him look like a happy puppy. 

"Happy anniversary, Y/N. The first of many."

It turns out to be a pretty good night, after all.

[totallybakedcake]

Can you write a lovely evening/night with Togame? Like staying up together, cuddling, lots of loving touches, a little teasing banter, late night combini for ramune/snacks?!, star watching (???), feeling safe around each other, deep talk, staying up way too long but not regretting it since it was the best quality time you had. I BEG YOU I LOVE SOFT FLUFF WITH MY BOY TOGAME IM GONNA DEVOUR EVERY LITTLE CRUMB YOU THROW AT ME 😭

-🦎

Love nights

Listen to this while reading?, made me write this fic.

10:30 AM, Togame your boyfriend had still not returned home, and it was starting to make you worried. Yeah, it's the weekend, but it should be you and Togame spending time together, not him and his gang. It sounded possessive and selfish, but can you blame yourself for liking your boyfriend so much?

As you kept fiddling with your fingers, the door finally opened, and Togame said in a cheerful tone, "I am back, babe!" He took off his shoes to see you just sitting on the couch with a worried expression, but that all faded away when you saw him and tackled him in a hug.

"Someone's been missing, right?" He whispered in your eyes in a teasing tone as you hit him and spoke. "Weekend fun?" you eagerly spoke, waiting for his response.

"Well, you're right, babe. How about going to a konbini and eating first? I am starving; Choji was just too much today." He effortlessly picked you up and started carrying you in his arms as you buried your head in his chest, too embarrassed to even imagine the reaction of other people.

It was a chill walk, just talking together with pretty much no one on the streets except old couples laughing at how cute you both looked together.

As you both bought your snacks, you were walking to a garden as Togame laid his head on your lap, eating his snacks as you both enjoyed the breathtaking view of the stars.

"When I was not with you or with Choji and the others, I felt something missing in my life, like that bit of fun and joy or maybe the feeling of being loved and taken care of."

Togame started a conversation, closing his eyes as he spoke, "I just sometimes feel so grateful and overjoyed that I even get to be with someone as great as your name. So, if you feel like no one cares about you or that you are lost, I will always and forever be with you. I'm supporting you no matter what."

Those words were just honey to your ears; it made you feel something like tickles in your heart as you placed a kiss on his forehead, whispering, "Togame, what will I ever do without you?" He grinned at your words, getting up and taking your hands in his. "Well, I will never leave you, so why bother thinking about stupid nonsense?"

As you both looked at the clock, it was 12 a.m.; it was time to go to sleep, but moments like these were something you always cherished and wanted them to last as long as possible.

As you both walked around the empty space, you spoke once more, "Togame, what would you even be without me to support you in life, huh?" You wanted to tease him about the talk you both had earlier.

"Then what would you be if I wasn't in your life?" It was his turn to start poking at you and make you flustered. He wrapped his arms around your frame before placing subtle kisses on your neck and shoulders.

" T-T-Togame! Someone might see us like this. Get off me!" You tried to get out of his grasp, but that made him tighten it a little. "Who would even see us at this hour, and even if they do, I don't care?"

These late-night quality times are your most favorite thing ever.

---------------------------------

OH MY LORD, I have been not writing for your request for so long and I am sorry but writer's block hit me hard and I just wanted to other stuff but I am back for writing for windbreaker. The next fic I will be doing is

A special thanks for following me, liking my posts and reading them! Means so much to me<3

@swivi

@soshirohoshinasimp

@spooky-mochi

@claire-hensley

@korrada17

[xobrattymoonxo]

Kenma, Akaashi, Kuroo and Bokuto x Reader

TW: Non con, fisting, anal, double penetration (Front and back), knife play, blood, carving into skin, If i missed anything please let me know!

AN: Unedited for the most part. Sorry It's been a while guys! I was writing a jjk fic but then I just thought of this and wanted to write it dhbvshdv

Word count: 3.8K

Y/n ran through the house slipping on the rug. She tripped a little but was able to gain her footing again as she ran once more. She saw the door in her vision as she picked up her pace. As she was unlocking all the locks, she was pulled back by her left shoulder. She was slammed into the ground as the man laughed. 

“You can’t outrun me.” He said with a devious smirk. 

Y/n’s first reaction was to start screaming. The man with black and blonde hair covered her mouth. Y/n instantly bit down hard on his hand drawing blood. 

“Ow you bitch!” He yelled.  

“Kenma, are you okay?

“No, that stupid bitch bit me!” He yelled at the black haired man. 

“Fuck.” The black haired man sees Y/n getting up and rushing for the front door. “Y/n, if you know what’s good for you you will stop right now.” He said in a stern voice.  

“It’s too late to give up now, Akaashi!” She yelled as she began to unlock the seven locks on the door. Akaashi rushed to her side as she turned with all her force and punched him in the nose. He fell backwards with a bloody nose/. Kenma rushed up to her other side as she used a swift kick to hit him in the balls.

“Fuck!” He yelled as he fell down holding his crotch. 

Y/n unlocked the last lock as she ripped the door open. She began to run down the long driveway of the private house on the outskirts of Tokyo. Around the house was nothing but trees, but she figured if she ran through the forest she would be safe from Kuroo and Bokuto, who were probably on their way home. 

Y/n started to run through the forest as she heard a car pull in the driveway. She turned back to see Bokuto rush to the front door. Akaashi was standing on the porch holding his nose as he pointed to the forest where Y/n was. 

She turned as fast as she could on her feet and ran for her life. She knew if she went back to the house, she’d be screwed, maybe even dead. 

It wasn’t long after Bokuto had begun his hunt, like she was a deer and he was the hungry mountain lion. He ran at full speed as she kept running. 

It wasn’t always like this, Y/n actually used to work at the 24 hour convenience store. Kenma had come into her store many times to buy energy drinks around 2 or 3 am. It was just Kenma at first, harmless soft Kenma. Until he started to bring in his friend, Kuroo. Kuroo started to stalk Y/n, figuring out she was a university student at Tokyo U. Their friend Akaashi happened to go there as well. He started off casually following her around for Kenma… and then for Kuroo. He then began to take photos, stalking her more intensely. He learned her schedule, he learned everything about her and he claimed it was all for them.

One Friday night, Kenma went into the convenience store with Kuroo. 

“Hey Y/n.” He said monotone as usual. “I am having a party this weekend at my place. Figured I’d invite you since I always see you around.” 

“When is it? I most likely will be working so I probably won’t be abe to make it.” She said upset. 

“Monday.”

“Oh, I have classes on Tuesdays, I shouldn’t.” 

“C’mon Y/n!” Kuroo said, “Have some fun! We always see you here. You must not even sleep at this point.” 

“I sleep a couple hours after I get off at 6.” She laughed. “But maybe.” 

“Say you’ll come, please?” Kenma asked. 

She couldn’t resist Kenma. 

“Okay… What time should I get there?” 

“8pm, Oak Tree Rd, 175. See you next week, beautiful.” Kuroo smiled at her.  

She smiled as the two walked out the front door. 

Timeskip to Monday…. 

Y/n grabbed her bag and checked herself in the mirror again. She smiled as she looked at her black clubbing dress. She never had a chance to wear it as she always worked.  

Y/n began to walk outside to her apartment lobby. She looked at the time and saw it was 7:24pm. She began to walk. The party was only 34 minutes away, ust on the other side of her work. 

Y/n arrived at a house, there was no noise coming from the house. She walked up to the door really slowly. She knocked on the front door.  

“Hey Beautiful! You made it!” Kuroo said as he opened the door.  

“Um… I thought it was a party.” She tried covering up her chest a bit. 

“It actually starts at 9:30pm. We just wanted you to meet our close friends first.” Kuroo said. 

“Oh makes sense I guess.” She murmured.  

“Come in.” Kuroo stepped aside for Y/n to walk inside. She looked around the mansion astonished. “Nice, huh?”

“Hey Y/n.” Kenma said. “Glad you could make it.” 

“Hi Kenma.” She looked around the large room with 3 couches in it. There was a large projector style tv on the wall. 

“Hi I am Bokuto!” A man with silver and black roots said. 

“Hey, I am Akaashi.” The black haired man said from behind Bokuto. 

“These are our best friends.” Kuroo said. 

“It’s nice to meet you guys. I’m Y/n.” She said. 

“Come have a seat.” Bokuto motions her in between him and Akaashi.  

“So tell us about yourself, Y/n.”Akaashi smiled. 

“I go to Tokyo U. I work at a convenience store. I met Kenma and Kuroo from said convenience store. That’s about it.” She said with a nervous laugh. 

“You go to Tokyo U? I do as well.” Akaashi pretended not to know. 

“Oh what do you study?” Y/n asked.

“Editing and creative writing.” Akaashi said. “And you?” 

“I’m in med school. Hoping to be a Neurologist one day.” 

“Wow you must really never sleep then.” Kuroo said. 

“I study and do homework at work.” She laughed.

“Impressive.” Kenma said. 

“How about you three?” Y/n asked the rest of the guys in the room. 

“I’m a professional Volleyball player for MSBY.” Bokuto spoke up. 

“I work for the Japan Volleyball Association in the sports promotion division.” Kuroo added.  

“I’m the CEO of my own company and a streamer.” Kenma said.

 “Oh wow.” Y/n said. 

Just then the doorbell rang.  

“Looks like the party arrived early.” Kuroo said as he walked out of the room. 

Y/n stood up and walked to the kitchen to get a drink.

“Hey sexy, did it hurt?” A man said from behind Y/n. 

“If you ask if it hurt when I fell from Heaven, I’ll scream right now.” She said,  The guy laughed. 

“I’m Atsumu. What’s yer name, Angel?” 

“Please leave our guest alone, Atsumu. She’s not looking for you to dick her down, I promise.” Kuroo said from behind Y/n. 

Y/n sighed in relief as she turned around. Kuroo passed her a red solo cup full of Vodka. She took one sip and made a face at him.  

“What is this? It’s disgusting.” She said as Kuroo laughed as he took it back and chugged down the cup's contents. 

“Let’s make you something mixed then.” Atsumu rolled his eyes as he walked away from the two. Bokuto came into the kitchen and bumped into Y/n making her turn as Kuroo slipped something into her drink. He dumped coke on top of the rum in her cup and passed it back to her. The pill vanished into nothing as she took her first sip. Kuroo looked at Bokuto with a wink as he walked away. In 15 to 20 minutes their plan would take course. 

The two talked as Akaashi came up to them. Some time passed as Kuroo checked his watch. 

“Hey guys, I am not feeling too hot. Do you know what time it is?” Y/n asked, feeling herself fade out of consciousness. 

“It’s 10:30 pm, Y/n.” 

Y/n blinked and suddenly she was on the balcony with Bokuto’s hands on her waist. 

“Wha-what time is it?” She slurred, reaching up to grab her head in hopes to calm her throbbing headache.

“1:45am baby, why?”

“What?” She felt herself grow dizzy as she fell into Bokuto’s chest. 

“Are you okay? I should take you home. Sit for a second let me get some water.” He placed her down on a chair as he walked back into the room. He texted the others “Code red.” 

He slipped two roofies from his pocket and into the bottle of water. He took one sip before doing so so it wouldn’t be suspicious. 

“Here Y/n.” He passed her the water bottle as she began to chug it back. “Let’s just wait here a few minutes so the world stops spinning for you.”

She gave him a thumbs up as she continued to drink. The more she drank the dizzier she felt.  

“Bo….I don’t- I don’t feel good at all.” She tried to stand up as she fell into his chest once again. “Help me.” She whispered as she felt her eyes grow heavy and her body go limp. 

Bokuto smiled at the limp drugged up body in his arms as he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He placed her on the bed carefully. Kuroo busted open the door and looked at the scene before him. 

“Thank god, What was code red about?” He asked Bokuto. 

“She became conscious again. I gave her a couple more roofies and knocked her out.” 

“Well she’s going to feel like shit when she wakes up.” Akkashi said from behind Kuroo. “Kenma is clearing out the party now.” “Good, that means it will be easier for us to get her out.” 

“How are we doing that again?” Bokuto asked. 

“Kenma got me to park in the garage so we could throw her in the trunk.” Kuroo said. 

“Okay. Let me go be our eyes and ears downstairs.” Akaashi said as he left. 

Bokuto looked at the unconscious Y/n on the bed and smiled. 

“She’s almost ours, Kuroo.” Bokuto said with a smile. 

“She is, Bo.” 

A few minutes later Akaashi walked back into the room. 

“All clear.” Akaashi said to the guys. Bokuto lifted her unconscious body off the bed. He began to carry her bridal style down the stairs.  

Bokuto walked into the garage as Kuroo popped open the trunk. He lightly places Y/n’s unconscious body in the trunk. 

“Let’s head out. It’s a long drive to the cabin.” Kenma said from the door behind them.  

Bokuto and Akaashi got into the back seat. The four headed out. 

It wasn’t too long before Bokuto began to get antsy. 

“Are we almost there? I want to be there! How much longer?” Bokuto’s legs started to shake.

“Bokuto-san, we will get there soon, don’t worry.” Akaashi said as he put a hand on his knee.

“I want to hold her though.” Bokuto huffed.  

“How much longer, Kenma?” Akaashi asked.  

“About 20 minutes.” Kenma said. 

“Awww but I want to be there now!” Bokuto whined again. 

"Bo, how are you this excited for someone you haven’t met before tonight?” Kuroo asked with a laugh. 

“Kaashi has told me all about her, he shows me her pictures too. Sometimes he shows me the videos he takes for you guys. She is so pretty and beautiful and she's just so perfect for us!” 

“Seems like someones in love.” Kuroo laughed again. 

The car was full of Bokuto and Kuroo talking about their favorite things about Y/n. 

Kuroo pulled up into the parking lot of a two story house surrounded by trees. Bokuto practically jumped out of the car. He ripped open the trunk to see a still passed out Y/n laying there surrounded by pillows.  

Bokuto lifted up her unconscious body and carried her to the door where Kenma was unlocking it. 

“There's a door to the basement in the pantry.” Kenma said as he motioned for them to go inside…. 

Y/n woke up with a splitting headache. She couldn’t remember much from the party, or how she even got home. She went to move her hands to rub her eyes, but something was restricting her hands. She looked up and saw her hands tied to the above bed post. She began to feel her heart beat increase, she pulled down on her arms and began to panic. 

“She's awake!” A voice yelled from across the room. 

“Perfect.” 

“What’s going on?” Y/n asked, confused. “Where am I? Who are you?” Her voice began to shake. 

“Y/n! It’s just us!” Bokuto exclaimed. “You’re safe here, okay?” Bokuto sat on the side of the bed. He placed his hands on her bare stomach. 

“Where are my clothes?!?” Y/n was freaking out as she noticed she was only in her lingerie. 

“Your dress was so tight, we thought we’d let your body breathe baby.” Kuroo said from behind Bokuto. 

Kenma walked in the room with Akaashi as Y/n tried to pull away from Bokuto’s hands. 

Bokuto’s hands trailed up Y/n’s side. 

“Baby, don’t pull away.” Bokuto said. 

Kuroo reached around Bokuto and started to untie Y/n’s hands. 

Y/n was quick to pull away from Bokuto and pulled her knees into her as she braced herself into the Headboard against the wall. 

“Baby, don’t back away.” Bokuto sighed as his hair deflated. He reached his hand out to touch her again. 

“Don’t touch me!” She screamed. 

Bokuto was taken aback by her shouting. He looked at Akaashi. 

    “Y/n, I know you’re scared, but there's no need to shout at us.” Akaashi said calmly. He moved over to the edge of the bed and reached for her. 

Y/n slapped Akaashi’s hand away. 

“I said don’t touch me!” She screamed again. 

Akaashi looked back at Kuroo and Kenma. Kuroo pushed past the two of them and grabbed Y/n by the ankles. He pulled her down the bed. She began kicking and screaming as Kuroo raised his hand to slap her across the face. She reached up and grabbed her cheek as she cried. 

“You are going to act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one.” Kuroo said. 

He was quick to place his hand on her throat as he began to apply pressure. She reached up and tried to pry Kuroo’s big hands off her throat. 

“Kuroo, careful.” Kenma warned. 

“She’s being an ungrateful bitch.” He spat back. He ripped down her underwear as he shoved two fingers inside of her pussy. 

“Kuroo! I wanted to be the first one to fuck her.” Bokuto whined. 

“Then get over here before I change my mind.” Kuroo said. 

4 ½ months later… 

That's how they got into their current situation, y/n running for her life through the woods in nothing but Bokuto’s shirt and underwear.  

Y/n was giving everything she had into running away. She heard footsteps catching up to her. She tried her best to speed up as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was pulled back and thrown to the ground. 

“Fuck! Let me go!” She screamed.  

“Baby, calm down! You’re just confused.” Bokuto’s voice cooed at her. He picked her up as Kuroo arrived at the scene. 

“Stupid bitch thought she could escape.” Kuroo laughed. “Here.” He passed Bokuto a pair of Handcuffs. 

“No please! No! I just want to go home!” Y/n cried. 

“You were home.” Kuroo snapped. 

Bokuto and Kuroo fought and put the handcuffs on Y/n’s wrists. She was crying and thrashing her wrists as Bokuto carried her back bridal style.  

“Bring her back down stairs. I have a surprise for her.” Kenma said manically. 

“On it.” Kuroo said as he led Bokuto through the house.  

Akaashi went behind them and began to lock up the front door again. Kenma walked past him and into the kitchen and grabbed a large knife. 

“Woah what’s that for Kenma?” Akaashi asked.  

“You’ll see.” He smiled a devilish smile.

The two walked down the stairs where Bokuto and Kuroo had tied Y/n down to the bed.  

“Kuroo.” Kenma spoke. “Do you want to go first?” He asked, holding out the knife. 

“You deserve it. She did bite you after all.” Kuroo said. Bokuto just finished tying a rag in her mouth. 

Kenma grabbed the shirt on her as he sliced it off in one quick motion. He was quick to repeat the process to her underwear too. 

“Woah Kenma, careful you don’t cut her.” Bokuto said. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Kenma smirked once again. 

Kenma pressed the tip of the knife into her soft thigh. He began to apply pressure as Y/n began to cry harder. Kuroo grabbed hold of her ankles as she tried to kick him off. 

Kenma pressed hard into her skin as he carved two letter K’s into her left thigh. He passed the knife over to Akaashi. Akaashi smiled as he pressed the knife down into her right thigh. He carved out AK before passing it to Kuroo. Akaashi and Kenma held down one leg each. Kuroo took his own sweet time to carve on the left side KT. He passed over the knife to Bokuto who looked a little uneasy. 

“Cmon Bo, you can do it.” Kuroo encouraged him. 

“It’s hurting her though.” Bokuto said all sad. 

“She hurt us Bo, she tried to leave us. We gave her everything and she repays us by leaving? This is just a reminder to her she's ours.” Kuroo said. 

Bokuto smiled as he looked down at her right thigh. He carved out a BK as he smiled. The blood was running down her leg.  Bokuto tossed the knife aside as he pulled his shirt off. 

“Seeing her like this…. Is making me feel some way…” He said with a devious smirk.  

Bokuto began to get naked in front of the other guys as Kuroo laughed. 

“Looks like Bo got turned on after all.” Kuroo said. 

Kuroo took his shirt off as Akaashi placed his hand on Kuroo’s shoulder.  

“What are you doing?” He asked him. 

“There’s enough room for all of us after all, remember?” 

Kenma smiled as he began to strip down too. Akaashi didn’t take long to follow through. 

The guys all turned to face Bokuto as they heard a loud muffled groan leave Y/n’s mouth.  Bokuto had shoved himself inside Y/n’s pussy dry. He began to frantically pump inside her. 

“Woah Bokuto, wait for us will you?” Akaashi said with a laugh. “Who’s taking what?” 

“I call dibs on her mouth.” Kenma said as he climbed onto the bed.  

“I’ll take her ass if you are okay to share with Bokuto this time Kasshi?” Kuroo asked. 

Akaashi nodded as he Approached the bed. 

“Bo, can you turn her on her side. I want to make space in her tight little asshole for me.” Kuroo smiled. 

Bokuto smiled back as he moved her on her side. Kuroo grabbed the lube from the bedside table. He opened it up and dropped a few drops on Y/n’s tiny butthole. He began to rub it in slowly as she begged for them to stop. 

“Kenma, shut her up before I do.” Akaashi said. 

Kenma laughed as he climbed to the top of the bed. Bokuto pulled her down a bit as Kenma got above her. 

“You bite me now, I’ll slice you up. Got it?” She shook her head in agreement. Kenma quickly shoved his member down her throat. He grabbed the back of her head and forced her to take all of him. It was Akaashi’s turn to join the fun. He put lube on his member as he lined it up next to Bokuto’s. Y/n was unable to do anything as her hands were still tied up. Kuroo now had 3 fingers shoved up Y/n’s asshole. 

“Bokuto, can you shift a little. I want to join you inside so we can all cum together.” Akaashi said. 

As Akaashi was forcing himself inside as Kuroo pulled his fingers out. Kuroo opened up the bottle of lube again and dumped it all over his hand. Kuroo smiled to himself as he slowly started to work his large fist into Y/n.  She cried out as Kuroo and Akaashi fully pushed in at the same time.  

“Fuck! Do that again.” Kenma moaned as she gasped and moaned out around his cock.  

Kuroo laughed as he pulled his hand almost all the way out, then quickly slammed it in at full speed once again. 

“Yeah fuck just like that.” Kenma moaned. 

“Fuck!” Bokuto and Akaashi yelled in sync. 

“Feels good huh?” He smirked. 

“Keep going,”Bokuto said. “She’s getting tighter with every thrust.”

The two in her pussy picked up the pace as Kuroo remained fisting her ass.  

“I’m close.” Akaashi moaned. 

“Fuck me too.” Kenma said. 

“Just cum inside her. I’ll buy some plan B tomorrow.” Kuroo said. 

Just like that, Akaashi and Bokuto shot hot ropes of cum inside Y/n. Kenma wasn’t too far behind as lets his hot load out down her throat. 

Kuroo pulled his fist out as he replaced it with his cock. 

“Fuck, she’s so stretched out.” He said.  

“I want to try fisting her too!” Bokuto whined. 

“Take her pussy. Her ass is mine.” Kuroo said. 

Bokuto looked down at her cum dripping pussy. He shrugged his shoulders as he began to force his massive fist inside her.  

“Stop! Please! It hurts!” She cried out.  

“You deserve this. This isn’t for your pleasure, it’s for ours.” He said as his fist slowly slipped all the way inside. 

Kuroo groaned out as he felt Bokuto’s fist through the thin wall. 

“Fuck Bo, I can feel you on the otherside.” Kuroo moaned. 

“I can see my fist in her stomach!” Bokuto exclaimed excitedly.  

Kuroo was quick to release hot strings of cum inside her ass.

“Fuck that was to good.” Kuroo breathed out.

Y/n laid there crying silently as she begged for it to be over. 

“Well that’s not fair to Kenma or Akaashi, now is it?” Kuroo smirked.  

“Please- please no.” 

“Cmon, let’s not play favorites, okay?” Bokuto said. 

Akaashi grabbed the lube as he lined up to her front entrance and Kenma at the back entrance. 

Y/n was screaming in pain as the two who had finished sat back and watched. 

It wasn’t until hours later they all stopped. Constantly fucking her between their fists and their cocks. She was laying there, completely fucked out when they finally stopped. She was covered in cum and it was dripping from all three of her holes. There was even some blood in other places then her thighs.  

“Let’s get washed up. Let her rest for a little bit.” Akaashi said. 

“We shouldn’t leave her out. I don’t trust her on her own anymore.” Kenma added. 

“Bring the dog carrier.” Kuroo said.