#i’ll clarify this in the morning or whatever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vroomvro0mferrari · 7 months ago

Text

LN4 | Happy Anniversary!

Summary: When Lando forgets the date of your anniversary, you can get over it. However, the pressure of his job isn’t a good enough reason to excuse all of his forgetful tendencies and lack of attention for you.

Based on this request!

Lando Norris x fem!Reader, established relationship

WC: 4.8K

Warnings: cursing, angsty, sad fic with happy ending

Masterlist

The soft morning sunlight peeks through the curtains of your bedroom, casting a soft rosy glow over the room. You take a deep breath, a gentle smile settling on your face at the realisation that it’s already been a year – a year of being loved, of sharing every thought and story, of new experiences and memories... One year of being married to the love of your life. It’s hard to believe.

You turn on your side to face your husband, propping your head on your palm as you watch him sleep peacefully. Your hand is softly stroking his chest while you smile with adoration. “Good morning, baby,” you say when you notice the change in his breathing.

Lando merely grumbles, not quite awake yet. Nevertheless, he pulls you closer to his side, letting you cuddle up against his warm body. Pressing your face against his chest, you leave a few kisses along the bare skin.

Lando sighs, stretching out his body. “Good morning, darling,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You smile excitedly, sitting up to look at the handsome man you get to call your husband.

“Do you know what day it is?” You whisper.

Lando frowns as he wipes his tired eyes, “What day?”

The confusion is evident in his voice. Regardless, you nod excitedly. Your smile falters as you watch the wheels turning in his head, gathering that he doesn’t remember. You move to the bedside table, rumbling through the drawer until you find what you’re searching for.

The expression on Lando’s face changes from confusion to guilt when you proudly show the present you’ve wrapped up so neatly, the realisation settling in. “Fuck. It’s our anniversary today, isn’t it?”

You nod, “I got you a little something, to celebrate,” you clarify. The smile on your face is gentle, comforting, and it nearly makes Lando believe you don’t care that he forgot.

“Oh, baby, I’m really sorry. I can’t believe I forgot our anniversary. God, that’s bad, isn’t it? The first year, and I’ve already screwed it up. I’m so sorry, love. Fuck.” Lando rubs a hand over his face, his expression pained.

“It’s okay, Lan. I know you’ve been busy,” you reassure him, “besides, it’s only the first year, we’ll have many more anniversaries.” You offer your gift again. “Just open the present, please? I want to know what you think of it!” You say enthusiastically.

Lando’s not fully convinced yet, “But I haven’t got anything for you,” he protests.

“Doesn’t matter, I already got this for you. Open, please!”

Lando sighs, but doesn’t resist further. However, the guilt of his forgetfulness settles deeper when he opens the carefully wrapped gift. You had taken the time and effort to make something, rather than buy a present, and he couldn’t even bother to remember your first wedding anniversary. He felt like an asshole.

At his silence, you felt the need to explain, “It’s a jar of notes,” you take the jar from his hands and open it. “It’s got different things: my favourite memories of us, things I love about you, what reminds me of you, just whatever I could think of. Then, when you’re gone for work, you can pull one out whenever you miss me,” you demonstrate, grabbing a note from the full jar, “or you could just call me, or whatever.” You put the piece of paper back, close the jar, and look up to your husband.

“Do you like it?”

Lando smiles lovingly, “I love it! Thank you, baby. I love you,” he says before kissing you softly.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t get you anything. I swear I’ll make it up to you. In fact, I’ll make a reservation for tonight right now, we can go out to dinner together to celebrate, and if you want we can go shopping today too, I’ll buy you anything you want—”

You cut him off with a laugh. “That’s not necessary, Lan. I know you love me. Besides, I’d much prefer to spend today at home with you, while you’re still here,” you say, stroking his face fondly before you pull him in for a kiss.

Regardless of your objections, Lando still manages to make a reservation for tonight at your favourite restaurant. He doesn’t make a single comment when you order the salmon despite his dislike for fish, and for weeks after he anticipates every single need you might have before you can utter even a syllable. He brings you the snacks he knows you love most on his way home, makes homecooked meals for you (however bad at cooking he is – he switched to take away after the first two times), and watches your favourite shows with you even though he hates them. He does anything and everything he can think of to make you feel loved and appreciated.

Unfortunately, his efforts only lasted a few weeks. Now, you knew what you were getting into when you married Lando last year. You had been in a relationship with him for several years before the wedding, so you are well aware of the time he needs to put into his work, even outside of office hours, not to mention the amount of stress and anxiety that come with racing at such a high level. That’s why it doesn’t bother you that much that your husband forgot about your anniversary; you know the pressure he’s under.

However, lately, his work has become even more time-consuming, more stressful and he’s become less attentive. It’s no surprise with how well the last races have been going – Lando’s finishing on the podium every weekend – that pressures have increased. He’s no longer fighting for only the constructor’s championship, but he has an actual chance at the driver’s championship too. The team is excited, and working hard, and the same is expected of Lando. Additionally, the fans have been putting more pressure. You know how much Lando’s affected by the stress of it all; he doesn’t want to disappoint, and now that the car’s performing, the only factor that could cause a loss, is him. The pressure, stress, and anxiety are taking over his body. He’s becoming more forgetful and instead of spending his free time with you, his wife, he’s thinking about the next race’s strategy, working out to improve his performance, or practising the tracks. Formula 1 had taken over the number one spot in his life.

You get where he’s coming from, you really do, but one of the most important things, if not the most important thing, in a relationship is communication and recently, Lando wasn’t communicating with you. He doesn’t tell you about the pressure or anxiety, all you know is from reading the man. After the number of years you’d spent together, you know him well enough to be aware of his struggles without him having to tell you.

You’d address the issue, ask him to talk to you, but you don’t when. Lando’s gone so much that you barely see him. His early mornings and early nights don’t align with your schedule; Lando’s gone before you’re properly up and has already eaten when you get home from work. The both of you have always been busy before, but at least you’d always eat together, and talk about your day. Now that those moments are missing, you feel lonely.

Lando has no clue of the things running through your mind. After all, you never told him. Even during the summer break, you keep quiet about your feelings, not wanting it to affect Lando’s performance during the races when you know how hard he's working to do well. Besides, it does get better during the break; Lando’s home more often and his mind's not as occupied with thoughts about his work. Nevertheless, he’s gone most of the time. You had expected for Lando to spend his time off with you, but instead, he hangs out with his friends.

Although the break has positively affected his behaviour, Lando's forgetfulness remains the same. You had told him about your friend’s birthday party several times during the past weeks, asking him to come along. When he promised you would, you thought things were finally going back to normal. But now, as you are waiting for your husband to come home so you can leave for the party together, you realise nothing has changed.

It’s already quarter past eight. Fifteen minutes later than you had said you would leave. You are ready to go – makeup glowing, favourite dress on, present wrapped and purse checked – when you decide you won’t wait any longer. You had given Lando plenty of chances to show his care for you and to consider you in his plans. You always visited his friends with him when he wanted you to, and he couldn’t show up for one party you asked him to come to? You leave the house, no messages sent and your phone on do-not-disturb: let him worry.

You plaster a fake smile on your face when you arrive to your friend’s house, pulling her into a hug when she opens the door.

“Hey, girl! Happy birthday!” You say in a high-pitched voice. “I can’t believe you’re finally 25!” You continue, squeezing her tight.

“Thanks, babe,” she responds when you let each other go, looking over your shoulder. “Where’s Lando? Parking the car?”

“Uh, no, actually. He couldn’t come.” The awkward smile on your face says enough, she knows not to ask any further.

“Oh, okay. That’s too bad. I would have loved to see him. You know, congratulate him on his podiums, it’s been going well lately, no?” She walks you into the house as she speaks, turning her head to watch your reaction.

“Yeah, the team’s really improved.” Once again, the tight smile on your face is clear.

A frown forms on her face at your reaction and she’s about to ask further, whether everything is okay, when she’s interrupted.

“Hey, Y/N! I haven’t seen you in a while! How are you? You never come to the races anymore,” Carlos tells you with a fake pout.

You look at him in surprise. You always forget that everyone in Monaco knows each other. Carlos and your friend met at the golf club and had somehow become good friends. Usually, you liked seeing him, but tonight you would’ve preferred not to see him. Not because you don’t enjoy his company, but simply because you’d rather not talk about Lando, whom he’ll undoubtedly ask about.

And so, your mask shoots up when he pulls you into a hug. “Hey, Carlos. I’m good. How’ve you been doing?”

“I’ve been doing well. You heard the news? That I’m going to Williams next year?” You nod, saying a quick “Of course, congrats!” Naturally, you heard the news; everyone had. But this conversation was already heading in the wrong direction. “Yes, glad to have found a place that will appreciate me, even if the team’s not doing the best right now. Talking about the best, Lando’s been doing so well. You must be proud of him, hm?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” you say indifferently.

Carlos frowns at your reaction. “Everything good between you two?”

Your smile drops, apparently, you aren’t as good at hiding your feelings as you thought you were. “Yeah, everything is fine. Why do you ask?”

Carlos shrugs, “Just the way you react, is all. You seem kind of tense…”

You sigh, letting a silence fall for a few seconds. You might as well tell him, he’ll figure it out eventually. “You’re right. Things… haven’t been so great lately.”

Carlos frowns at your comment. “Between you and Lando, you mean? He didn’t say anything was up, he seemed fine the last time I spoke to him,” he says confusedly.

You roll your eyes at the suggestion, “I’m not surprised. He seems to be clueless to what’s been going on.”

Carlos takes a sip of his drink, “Have you talked to him about it?”

“That’s the issue. Lando’s never home, we barely speak anymore. He’s been so stressed with work that nearly all his free time is dedicated to racing. He gets up early and goes to bed before I’ve even had dinner. I’ve had no chance to talk to him.”

The frown deepens, and he breathes out a puff of air. “That’s tough.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting this on you.”

“No, it’s fine don’t worry about it. Sometimes you need to get it off your chest.”

You look up at Carlos, hesitating to continue your story.

“Has the break not changed anything?” He pokes further.

Another sigh. “No, not really. Lando’s using his time off to catch up with his friends. And his forgetfulness has clearly not improved either.”

“His forgetfulness?”

“Yeah, he forgot about the party, clearly.” You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes again.

“What else did he forget about?” Carlos asks with a frown.

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” you hesitate, “but he forgot our anniversary. I told him it’s not a big deal, which it isn’t, but it’s just that everything is adding up. I feel kind of alone in the relationship at the moment, like he doesn’t really care about me anymore. How can I think otherwise, when we barely see each other, let alone speak?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. That really sucks.”

You smile sadly, as if to say ‘it is what it is’.

“It’ll work out in the end,” you tell him. You hope. “Maybe tonight he’ll realise he forgot something important, again. Maybe that’ll make a difference.” You offer an awkward smile.

Carlos breathes in deeply, putting an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get your mind off it, huh?” he says while directing you towards the fridge.

You nod, follow him, and accept the drink he offers you. Tonight is not about Lando, it’s about your best friend and the fact she turned 25. You are not thinking about your husband until you get home.

– – – – –

You slam the front door of your shared apartment louder than necessary when you enter. Nevertheless, there’s no reaction when you enter the dark apartment. You switch the lights on, noticing Lando isn’t in the living room or kitchen. Did he really go to sleep not knowing where you were or who you were with? Whether you were safe or not? Lando obviously didn’t remember the birthday party or he would’ve come, yet he didn’t text you to ask you where you were? Does he truly care so little about you? Does he even love you anymore? It feels like a punch to the gut – like someone had ripped your heart out.

The man had been basically avoiding you for weeks, barely saying a word at the moments you did see him, but at least he was still awake to see if you arrived okay. Now he doesn't even stay up to check if you get home safely anymore? Or text you to ask where you are? To say you are upset is an understatement, you feel angry and neglected at his disregard. You feel lonely instead of beloved. The lump in your throat is a painful reminder of how close you are to crying. But you don’t.

You swallow the lump, blink a few times to get rid of the lingering tears in your eyes and go into the bedroom to take off your makeup. You lean on the counter, sniffling silently, and close your eyes. You breathe in through your nose deeply, before breathing out through your mouth. It’ll be okay. Right?

When you enter the bedroom you stare for a minute at the man sleeping peacefully before you. It feels wrong when you climb into bed next to him, nevertheless, you do it. It’ll probably take you a while to fall asleep tonight.

– – – – –

The situation hasn’t changed a bit when the racing season starts back up again. No matter how strained your relationship has become, you do want to say goodbye to Lando before he leaves for the next race. So, the morning he’s supposed to fly, you make sure to get up extra early. You don’t know how, but he still somehow manages to finish his breakfast before you’re even out of bed, the container already in the trash.

“Good morning,” you mumble, wiping your eyes as they adjust to the bright light in the kitchen.

Lando looks up from his phone in surprise, clearly not expecting to see you awake this early. “Hey, what are you doing up?” He asks in a soft voice.

“Wanted to say goodbye,” you say as you walk closer to the kitchen island at which he’s sitting.

“There’s no need for that, Y/N. I’ll see you again soon enough.” The smile on his face is sickeningly sweet, a clear contrast to the words coming out of his mouth.

You frown, “You’re leaving for a week… What do you mean, there’s no need?”

Lando sighs at your question, “Never mind, it’s kind of you to get up extra early just for me,” he smiles dismissively before getting up from his seat. “It’s time for me to go,” he says looking at his watch before grabbing his backpack and suitcase which are sitting by the door, “I’ll see you in a week.”

You’re left staring in surprise as the door slams closed. He didn’t kiss you goodbye. He always did that, even during the worst of fights. That’s your rule. Formula 1 is a dangerous sport, he could be hurt in a split second, never mind being killed. From the start of your relationship, he always kissed you before he left, just in case. You hated the thought at the start, but learned to think it was sweet; that, in case something happened, at least he kissed his girl goodbye.

You’re watching your marriage crumble before your eyes, and Lando doesn’t seem to have a clue, or pretends not to notice. This is it, you decide. This cannot go any further. As soon as he gets home, you will talk to Lando, no matter how badly it will affect his race. You can’t do this any longer.

However, somebody else is already one step ahead of you. Carlos had noticed the toll your strained marriage with Lando was taking on you, and couldn’t help confronting Lando the first second he saw him. It didn’t help either that Charles was way too curious about the relationship drama. He had been pushing Carlos to find out more to save his gossip-desperate soul after the radio silence during the break.

“Hey, Lando!” Carlos yells, jogging up to Lando and matching his pace.

“Hey, man! How are you doing? Had a nice break?” Lando asks, giving Carlos a quick hug.

“Yeah, yeah, I had fun. What about you?”

“Ah, yes. Of course. It was good to get some time off. I really needed it; finally got to see my friends again,” Lando grins while Carlos raises an eyebrow at the answer.

“What about your wife? Finally got to spend some time with her now that you didn’t have to travel so much?” Carlos asks.

Lando laughs awkwardly at his suggestive question, “You know it!”

Carlos ignores the casual response. “I actually saw Y/N last week, at a friend’s birthday party. Was surprised to see you didn’t come with her…”

A frown etches onto Lando’s face. “What birthday party?”

“I think she’s one of Y/N’s best friends, she turned 25?”

Lando’s eyes widen in realisation. “Fuck, yes, I remember now.”

“She told you about it?” Carlos asks, watching as Lando’s expression shifts from realisation to discomfort.

“Yeah… She mentioned it a couple of times,” he admits. “She didn’t tell me that she went...”

Carlos lets him ponder it for a moment before adding, “Well, she was there. We talked for a bit, actually.”

Lando feels his stomach tighten. He tilts his head slightly. “What did she say?”

Carlos hesitates, glancing around the paddock while he weighs his options. “Uhm, she said you’ve been distant lately. That you haven’t been paying much attention to her, that you missed your anniversary…”

Lando stops walking. “She told you about that?”

“Yeah, man.” Carlos sighs. “Look, she didn’t go into too much detail, but… she sounded upset. Maybe you should make some time for her, take her out on a date or something. It seems like she feels pretty lonely.”

Lando shifts uncomfortably, his heart sinks in his chest. “Lonely?” The word echoes in his mind, unsettling him. He knows the feeling all too well. He’s the reason his wife has been feeling lonely? The guilt settles deep within his soul as he mulls it over. He tries to laugh it off, but it feels hollow. “She knows how demanding the season has been. I’ve been swamped.”

“I’m sure she does, but… it’s more than that. She told me she feels like you don’t really care about her anymore.” The look on his face is serious as he says it.

Lando blinks, the weight of Carlos’ words sinking in. How could he have missed something so crucial? Why hadn’t Y/N said anything? More importantly, why hadn’t he noticed?”

“She thinks I don’t care about her?” He mutters to himself. His gaze is unfocused as he chews his lip, running a hand over his face out of frustration. “Why didn’t she tell me?” He says quietly.

“There was no opportunity to tell you, she said. You're never home.”

Carlos lets out another sigh. “I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t want your marriage to be ruined. I know you love Y/N to pieces. I would be upset with myself if you guys don’t make it out together knowing I could have done something about it. That being said, I think you should talk to her.”

Lando nods absentmindedly. He didn't even consider that they might not make it out okay. “You’re right. Thanks for telling me, man.”

As Carlos walks away, Lando is left standing there, his mind working overtime. He had been busy, yes, but surely you understood that, right? He’d been working so hard for the both of you, to secure a future for you. But… had he been neglecting you without even realising it?

The conversation with Carlos continues to replay in his head throughout the day. Maybe he hadn’t been as attentive as he thought. Maybe all those nights out with friends, all those early mornings spent focused on racing had a bigger effect than he assumed. He tries to push the thoughts away, to justify it with the pressure of the season, but it doesn’t sit right anymore.

The rest of the weekend Carlos’ words echo through his head, ‘She feels like you don’t really care about her anymore.’ Lando can barely concentrate with the guilt that’s gnawing at his conscious.

– – – – –

By the time Lando leaves his hotel, he has formed a plan. He has rehearsed a dozen different apologies in his head. He’ll explain what happened, that he’s been so busy with work that he didn’t notice, and he’ll say sorry and change his behaviour. And after that, all will be well.

His plan is thrown out the window as soon as he gets home and sees his wife sitting on the couch, your face pale and tired as you watch TV. The state of you makes the practised words dry on his tongue. How could he not have noticed what was happening?

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt lonely?”

You look up in surprise at the abrupt question cutting through the silence. No ‘hello’, no ‘how are you’, no ‘I missed you, baby’, just the sharp edge of confrontation.

“What?”

“Carlos told me you’ve been feeling lonely. Why didn’t you tell me?”

You frown at his directness, “When was I supposed to do that, Lando? You’re always gone.”

“That’s not true—” he tries to protest, but you cut him off.

“There was not one moment I could have told you, Lando! You’re always busy with work and when you’re not, your friends take up all your free time! You haven’t made any time for me in weeks, months even!” You yell.

Tears well up in your eyes at the confrontation. You had kept your frustrations to yourself for weeks and now that he finds out about your feelings he decides to yell at you for it. How else are you expected to react?

Your words hit Lando hard, each one landing like a punch. His eyes flicker with guilt. “I’ve been under so much pressure. The team needs me—this season could be my best chance at a championship, and I—”

You cut him off, your voice soft. “I know, Lando. I know how important your career is and that this is your chance, but that doesn’t mean all your time should be spent on racing. You’ve no time left for me anymore; all your energy is drained when I finally see you at the end of the day.”

“I can’t help that my job is demanding! You know that, Y/N. You’ve always known that. It takes a lot of time to improve, and the team is finally performing. It’s my chance at a championship! I can’t pass that up!”

“I get that Lando, I really do. But I’ve felt alone in this relationship for months now. I never see you, we never talk… The night of the party you didn’t even text me to ask where I was, or who I was with. You were already sleeping before I got home! Weren’t you worried at all? Or even curious to know where I was, whether I was safe? Sometimes… Sometimes, I doubt whether you still care about me – whether you still love me, because it feels like you don’t.” The tears slowly fall down your face while you say it.

That’s when it hits him – truly hits him. Lando swears he could hear his heart break. He looks at you in shock, and you can’t deny you feel a little better because of it. Had he really fucked up that bad? Do you really believe he no longer loves you, or cares about you? You are the most important person in his life. How could this have gone so far without him noticing? How could he have made the love of his life feel like she wasn’t loved? He runs a hand through his hair in distress, trying to wrap his head around your admission.

“I’ve been patient, Lando. I’ve been understanding, but you’re just never present. Not just physically, but mentally, too. I miss you.”

Lando looks at you sadly from across the room, disappointed in himself. He quickly closes the distance, reaching for your hand. His voice is soft when he speaks to you. “I do. I do love you, Y/N,” he says, caressing your face softly, pulling your chin up so your eyes meet, his teary eyes staring into your red ones. “You’re the love of my life. I care about you so much. You’re the most important to me, above anything else, and you always will be. Don’t forget that, okay? Promise me you’ll never forget that, baby.”

You sniffle, wiping away the tears that are slowly making their way down to your chin, while you nod. The sound physically pains him, his heart twisting torturously in his chest. He vows to never make you cry again.

“I’m so sorry I let it come this far, darling. I’ve been so wrapped up in everything, trying to win, trying to be perfect for the team that I didn’t see what I was losing in the process.”

You interrupt him, “I don’t need perfect, Lando. I just need you to be here. With me. Because if it keeps going like this… I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

Her words hang between them, and for the first time in weeks, Lando realises the gravity of what he stands to lose if he doesn’t make a change soon. He nods frantically. “Of course, baby. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. You say the word, and I’ll do it. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t love you, because I do. So much. I can’t lose you, I don’t ever want to come this close to losing you ever again.”

He pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to let go; like you’ll walk away from him as soon as he does. You press your face into his chest, missing the feeling of him against you and his comforting scent. The last time he touched you, let alone hugged you feels like ages ago.

“I’ll be better, I’ll make time for you, I promise,” he mumbles, his mouth grazing over your hair, as he tugs you impossibly closer into his tight embrace.

You smile faintly through your tears. “I believe you.”

2K notes · View notes

fluentmoviequoter · 2 months ago

Text

Lock and Key

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!shy!pregnant!CSIphotographer!reader

Summary: When Angela and Nyla need someone to go undercover in a women's prison, you seem like the perfect candidate. Inside with Lucy, Tim, and Angela nearby, you find more than a killer.

Warnings: fluff, brief angst, murder case, very quick allusion to past sexual assualt

Word Count: 1.9k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“Can you do another establishing shot of the bedroom?” your crime scene unit supervisor requests.

You nod, feel your baby kick, and tread carefully through the home-turned-crime scene to take more photographs. It’s no secret that CSIs can never take too many photos, but now that you’re pregnant, you wonder if there’s a way to collect them faster. You love your job; being a police photographer is wholly rewarding and enjoyable for you, but some scenes and some days are more trying than others. Being near Tim Bradford at work similarly has its pros and cons.

“Hey, mama,” Angela greets as she enters the bedroom. “Is this the primary scene?”

“We think so,” you answer softly, removing the sync cord from your camera to photograph the scene without the light.

“How are you feeling?” Angela asks, looking around the room without altering anything before your photos are complete.

“Pretty good,” you reply.

“Tim still… well, Tim?”

You nod as you move toward the corner, focusing the camera on a bloody screwdriver. Whatever happened here wasn’t quick and was undoubtedly painful. Your supervisor walks through the hall and tells you to pack up, and you nod at Angela with a smile. She hugs you before you leave, and you ready your nerves to see Tim when you return to the station.

“Wait, go back,” Lucy requests as you’re shepherded into the roll call room. “Tim, I’m going to say this slowly and I want you to listen very carefully, okay?”

“Chen,” Tim snaps.

She doesn’t heed his warning tone and begins, “You want to send the mother of your child into a prison to get intel on a murder case. Where in that sentence do you hear a good idea?”

“What?” you inquire with your hands clasped tightly beneath your growing bump.

Lucy turns, her expression guilty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here.”

“We were just brainstorming,” Tim explains, walking toward you. “The woman who was murdered this morning was released from CIW last week.”

“CIW, however, is out of our jurisdiction,” Nyla adds. “So, we reached out to San Bernadino PD and they’ve agreed to let us send in a UC.”

“The problem is that the woman we need to talk to is notoriously picky about who she takes up company with,” Tim adds. “Rumor is, she has a thing for strays, she likes being around people she can protect.”

“Which, to me, sounds like she would be ready to turn on them in an instant,” Lucy interjects. “Hence my reluctance.”

“So, because I’m pregnant, you think she’d watch out for me, let me close?” you clarify.

“More or less,” Nyla answers.

Lucy scoffs and shakes her head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Would I be alone?” you whisper, looking at Tim.

“Of course not. We’d send in two officers, acting as doctors, who can pull you out any time.”

“Would it do it if Tim and Angela went in with you?” Nyla asks.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider everything. You’d be putting yourself and your baby in danger. If Tim and Angela were a call away, the risk would decrease dramatically. Before you can decide, Lucy holds your arms and hugs you.

“Don’t do it,” she says. “There’s too much at risk.”

“We can’t just leave a killer on the street,” you whisper against her.

Lucy sighs as she pulls back, and she nods. “Then I’m going in too. Get San Bernadino on the phone; I want to be closer than a doctor.”

Nyla nods, then looks at you.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” you state.

“We’re right beside you,” Tim promises, kissing your hairline.

“Technically, I am right beside her, you’ll be in the infirmary,” Lucy corrects. “I better get to be this baby’s godmother.”

Nyla laughs before she says, “In your dreams, single-income, apartment-sharing option.”

“What, just because you’re married and have a house, you’re a better fit?” Lucy questions. Her smile drops as she murmurs, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Alright,” Tim calls, shaking his head. “Let’s go to Chino and get some answers out of convicts.”

“They call her Pitbull,” Angela had explained before you went in. At your wide-eyed expression, she adds, “She’s essentially a guard dog. She chooses who she’ll protect and sics anyone who comes near. If you can get on the right side of Pitbull, she’ll tell you what she knows about Ringer – our victim.”

You sit on your bunk and look around, wondering if you look like a pumpkin in an oversized orange jumpsuit. When you hear footsteps outside, you drop your head and let your shyness run rampant. If it makes you seem weak, this is a better time than ever to embrace it.

Lucy unlocks the cell door, and Pitbull enters. She looks at you, running her eyes up and down your face before noticing the protruding baby bump beneath your new and temporary outfit.

“What are you in for?” Pitbull asks, her voice raspy and low.

“Stabbed my baby daddy,” you admit, rubbing a hand over your stomach. “He wouldn’t stop,” you add, letting her fill in the blanks.

As you speak, your baby kicks. The farther along you get, the more your voice seems to excite him or her.

“You don’t fit in here, Mommy,” Pitbull sneers.

You nod with your head down, telling the truth when you agree with her.

“People around here don’t like different, don’t like chicas who aren’t the same,” she adds. “What are you going to do about that?”

When you shrug, she surges forward. Her hands land on your shoulders, and you inhale when she pushes you up to make you look at her. She stops, smiles, and brushes her hand against your neck.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “Understand?”

“Why?” you inquire.

“Because…” she drops her hand to your bump before she confesses, “I’ve got reasons you won’t understand, and you’ve got a reason to accept the protection.”

“I can’t- I don’t have anything to give you.”

Pitbull laughs as she returns to her cot. “This isn’t a tv-style arrangement; I’m giving you a gift, and I ask for nada in return. Just focus on yourself, and the baby.”

“Thank you.”

As you lay awake in bed the first night, you hear Pitbull whisper a prayer in Spanish. You wonder what she knows when she asks for the eternal protection of Ringer’s soul.

“Dr. Benson is here,” Lucy says, dressed as a corrections officer. “Let’s go.”

“Whoa, hold up,” Pitbull interrupts, moving to block the cell door. “Dr. Benson male or female?”

“None of your concern.” Lucy barks your fake last name and repeats, “Let’s go.”

“She was traumatized by her ex; she probably doesn’t want a male doctor. Right?”

She turns to face you, and you nod sheepishly.

“So, now it is my concern,” Pitbull continues, cracking her neck to the side. “I go with her, or you get another doctor.”

Lucy sighs as she checks her watch. Pulling a radio from her hip, she asks if you can have another inmate accompany you. You recognize Angela’s voice as she begrudgingly allows it just this one time.

“Boy or girl?” Pitbull asks, glaring at the women in the cells you pass.

“I don’t know yet,” you answer honestly. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

“Still your kid. Last chica I shared a cell with, she had a kid on the inside, reached out when he turned 18, and got cartas desagradables from the parents even though he was old enough.”

“Cruel world,” you murmur.

“Crueler people.”

You glance at Pitbull, wondering what she did to get her locked up for nearly half of her life. She’ll come up for parole in a few years. Part of you wants her to get out, but you know better.

“Ringer – that’s what we called her because she rung a guy’s neck for assaulting her niece…”

You know that’s not true. Ringer's niece was assaulted, but Ringer broke a lot of necks looking for the right guy. She was practically a serial attempted murderer.

“Ringer said she was going to find the kid when she got out, just long enough to apologize and let him know she wouldn’t have given him up if she’d had a chance.”

“Noble,” you muse.

“Crueler people,” she repeats as you near the prison infirmary.

Pitbull stands beside Lucy as you move to the examination table. Tim enters a moment later, looking like an angel in a white lab coat. He’s wearing glasses, and his hair is styled differently. His hands on you feel the same, even if he isn’t smiling and keeps his speaking clipped and serious (though you suppose that part isn’t much different than the version of him you see at work).

“How far along are you?” he asks.

“Four months or so,” you answer.

Tim nods, then lays his hands on either side of your bump.

“Have you had a thorough exam by an OBGYN?” he inquires.

You shake your head, and he slides the rolling chair back as his hands fall away.

“She’ll need one now,” he tells Lucy. “I can call in a female colleague if that would be more comfortable.”

“Do that,” Pitbull demands.

Tim stands, nods at Lucy, and exits the room. He returns to hand Lucy a paper robe, then disappears. Lucy takes Pitbull out of the exam room while you change, and you know she will keep her out for the entire 'examination’ so you can tell Tim and Angela what you found. Angela comes in first, her brows rising at the sight of you in a jumpsuit with tight braids framing your face, courtesy of Pitbull.

“She said Ringer was looking for her son – he turned 18 while she was still incarcerated, and she vowed to find him when she got out,” you explain. “His adoptive parents wanted her far away from him.”

“That’s motive,” Angela says, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I’ll get units to the parents’ house now.”

Tim returns to your side, and you pull his hand against your bump. As you tell him everything Pitbull has shared with you, your baby kicks against his hand. Tim smiles as he bends down to kiss you, and you suddenly want to leave this prison. Pitbull’s parole is no longer a thought in your mind.

“We’ll get you out as soon as we can,” Tim promises.

Less than twelve hours later, you’re removed from your shared cell with Pitbull, taken to solitary, and then you walk out of the prison in your own clothes with your hand held tightly in Tim’s. Ringer’s killer, the adoptive father of her son, is behind bars and awaiting trial, and Angela and Nyla have yet another solved case to add to their repertoires.

“Want to grab some dinner?” Lucy asks in the parking lot. “Or breakfast,” she amends, noting the first streaks of sunlight painting the sky.

“We’re going home,” Tim answers for you.

“Thanks for everything, Lucy,” you tell her as Tim opens his passenger door for you.

“I didn’t do much,” she argues. “But anytime.”

In the comfort and safety of your home, you sit beside Tim, brutally aware of his fingers brushing along your bump where his arm is tucked around your waist.

“You did amazing,” he says.

He kisses your forehead and then your lips, and you sigh against him as your baby kicks again.

“We should find out the baby’s gender,” he says. “I know we said we didn’t want to…”

“I agree,” you reply, laying your head on his shoulder. “I’ll make an appointment.”

“You mean you’ll have me make an appointment.”

You turn your face against his shoulder and huff, your ears warming at his teasing. Tim chuckles, holding you like he never wants to let you go, and you feel exactly the same.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #requests #hanna writes✯

368 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 10 days ago

Text

From Eden | Chapter Three (3/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Mentions of agoraphobia + severe social anxiety, depressive episodes + references to a skin-picking relapse.

Notes — This one gets a little more plot heavy. Oscar is down bad. Also: this is an extra chapter and won’t effect Thursday’s chapter. I just had an extra lunch hour today, so finished writing this one :p ENJOY <3

“Can you be brutally honest with me?” Oscar’s voice was low, thumb skimming the rim of his coffee cup.

Mark looked up from his laptop, one brow raised. “Aren’t I always?”

Oscar exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. They were tucked into the corner of the McLaren motorhome between FP1 and FP2. Early enough that exhaustion still clung to Oscar’s eyes.

“Is it ridiculous to have a crush on someone I’ve barely ever spoken to?”

Mark blinked, taken off guard. “Depends. Are we talking celebrity crush or real-life?”

Oscar gave a small, sheepish smile. “Real-life, I think.”

Mark frowned. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, mate.”

“I’m not. We’ve just messaged a bit.” He paused. God, this was harder to explain than he’d thought it would be. “She’s… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Mark leaned back, studying him. “Different, then?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. She tries to pretend she’s interested in all this,” he gestured vaguely, “but I can tell she isn’t. Not really, you know? She didn’t know what Prema was.”

Mark snorted. “Blasphemy.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “She’s funny. Smart.”

Mark’s gaze narrowed with something like amusement. “Mate.”

“I know,” Oscar muttered. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Mark said, almost gently. “It’s human. Let yourself have a bloody crush. You don’t always have to be so straight-laced.”

Oscar looked down at his hands.

“You think she likes you back?” Mark asked.

A beat. “I think she’s scared of me.” Oscar admitted.

“Scared?” Mark huffed out with amusement. “Of you?”

“Not me,” Oscar clarified. “Everything I come with. All the… noise.”

Mark nodded morosely, and they sat in silence for a moment.

“She’s not a public figure then? Not a model or whatever?” He asked.

Oscar shook his head. “She’s got a bit of a following — YouTube, TikTok. But she keeps her life pretty much private. She’s spoken a bit about having, uh, anxiety in her videos. I don’t think she goes out much.” He swallowed. “It would be selfish to drag her into all this.”

Mark let out a slow breath. “Christ, mate. You really don’t make things easy for yourself.”

Oscar gave a tired smile. “I like her. I barely know her. But I like her.”

Mark nodded, like that made perfect sense. “Cool. Are you willing to adjust your entire life to fit her into it?” It was blunt, but it was important.

Oscar looked out the window. His chest felt too tight.

After hearing her mention the word agoraphobia in one of her videos, he’d gone online that same night, quietly scrolling through lists of the world’s best specialists like it was normal. Like it made sense to do that for someone he’d never even met.

“Yes.” He said.

Mark gave a low whistle. “Right then. Let me know when she’s ready to meet me. I’ll be charming.”

He got up, wandering off toward the espresso machine.

Oscar stayed where he was, staring down at his phone.

Her name was still there, in his Instagram inbox. Pinned to the top.

He’d messaged her, said good morning, hope you have a good day.

No reply yet.

But maybe her silence didn’t mean no.

Maybe she just needed time.

And for her — he could wait.

—

Francesca stared at her phone from where it sat on her nightstand, face down like it had personally offended her.

She wasn’t ignoring his message. Not exactly. She was just… thinking about it. Strategically.

Instagram DM’S — Oscar Piastri > Francesca Gold

Oscar Piastri Good morning, hope you have a good day

Sent over three hours ago.

She’d seen it the second it came through — blurry-eyed and half-asleep, Henry kneading at her stomach — and had immediately freaked out.

They weren’t strangers anymore. They weren’t quite friends either, even though sometimes it felt like they were. Which was confusing. And stressful. And annoying. Because he messaged her almost every day, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Sometimes he sent her pictures. Dumb memes. Videos of him wearing the ugliest shade of orange she’d ever seen. Updates from airports and racetracks and hotel lobbies across the globe. And sometimes — sometimes — she swore he was flirting. But then she’d read it again, a few hours later, and his words would sound completely neutral.

She was probably just imagining it. Her delusional little brain, making connections where there were none, twisting things into something soft and sweet when really, he was just being polite.

He was nice. That was all.

Still, she couldn’t help the ache of hope when his name lit up her screen. Or the way her stomach flipped every time he used her name. Or called her cute, in that maddeningly casual way that made her feel like she’d misread the whole thing.

Her thoughts had been in overdrive for days now — overthinking every message, every pause in conversation, every hour that passed without a reply.

She hadn’t even told Katie how bad it had gotten — this ridiculous crush that she had.

Henry climbed up onto her chest, purred once, and flopped dramatically across her collarbone.

Francesca sighed and picked up her phone.

She typed morning :) good luck today

Paused. Deleted the smiley. Rewrote it.

Deleted the whole thing.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. “I want to kiss his face off and I can’t even send him a good morning text?”

Francesca Gold

good morning :) good luck today.

Oscar Piastri

Are you watching? Sessions abt to start

Francesca Gold

oh okay! i’ll go sit on the sofa and watch :)

Oscar Piastri

You don’t have to. I was just wondering if you were

Francesca Gold

i want to! honest

Oscar Piastri

If I see a Sky camera, I’ll smile at it. Just for you

Francesca stared at her phone, her entire body growing warm.

Then, very quietly, she whispered, “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

It wasn’t even a flirty message, not really — not in a way that could be called out or laughed off. It was just… sweet. Earnest. And it made her stomach twist in that now-familiar, slightly inconvenient way.

She reread it three times.

If I see a Sky camera, I’ll smile at it. Just for you.

Francesca buried her face in the throw pillow, let out a muffled squeal, and then immediately sat up again, anxious that he might see the “typing…” bubble and get scared off.

She got out of bed and moved to the sofa, switched on the TV, and immediately the Sky Sports intro was playing, the theme music already etched into her brain from the past few weeks.

She settled into the sofa like it was a war zone, heart pounding like she’d just run a marathon.

Francesca Gold that’ll make sitting through the noise worth it.

—

She made herself a cup of tea during the commentators’ intro to the session, settling onto the couch with Henry curled beside her. The screen flickered through overhead shots of the track, the pit lane, the garages.

She was watching the timesheets update in real time when Sky briefly cut to Oscar in the McLaren garage.

He glanced at the camera.

His eyes widened.

And then — he smiled.

It was small. Barely there. But she knew. She knew it was for her.

Her stomach flipped so hard she almost dropped her mug.

Trying to act normal — like a person with functioning social skills — she picked up her phone and took a snap of the TV screen, just as the shot panned out across the McLaren garage.

She uploaded it to her Instagram story with the caption: “Get a load of those orange minions 🙄”

He’d probably find it funny.

God, she hoped he’d find it funny.

She just… wanted to see him smile again.

—

She was working on exporting the video she’d just filmed from her memory card to her computer when Oscar’s name popped up on her phone.

A missed Instagram video call.

Francesca stared at the phone like it might combust in her hand. Then a follow-up message came through.

Oscar Piastri Was gonna ask if you wanted to chat but realised that might be a bit scary lol. No pressure x

She hesitated. Tries to not freak out over the ‘x’. And then, almost in spite of herself, she responded.

Francesca Gold: you can try again if you want. i’ll pick up. promise.

Her heart was a full drumbeat by the time his name flashed on the screen.

When she answered, the video was a little shaky at first — Oscar was clearly walking through the paddock, AirPods in, a McLaren cap on, and an amused smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, casual but warm.

Francesca was curled up on her sofa in an oversized hoodie, Henry asleep and purring softly beside her. “Hi,” she whispered.

“You answered,” he teased, dimples flashing. “I thought you might block me instead.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she murmured, hiding her smile behind the collar of her hoodie.

He grinned, front teeth flashing. “So. I saw your story. ‘Orange Minions’? Really?”

Her cheeks flushed. “It’s fitting…”

Oscar laughed, shaking his head. “It’s papaya, by the way. Not orange.”

She narrowed her gaze, deadpan. “It’s orange.”

“Papaya,” he insisted, mock-offended. Then, softer, “But I liked it. I liked knowing you were watching.”

Francesca bit her lip.

There was a pause, and then he added — a little too casually — “I’d love to see you in my colour. And my number.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “I—uh…”

He winced. “Too much?”

She made a small, panicked sound. “Um.”

Henry meowed, stretching across her lap like a fuzzy lifeline.

Oscar grinned, clearly relieved at the distraction. “Is that Henry?”

She turned the camera slightly. Henry blinked at the screen, unimpressed. Oscar cooed anyway.

“Where are you going?” she asked, trying to fill the silence.

He flipped the camera around, giving her a view of the pit lane. Her eyes widened.

“Just stretching my legs before third practice.”

“And you’re in… Belgium?”

“Yeah. Spa.”

He turned the camera back on himself. “Have you, ah, got any plans today?”

She glanced at where her laptop was sat on the coffee table. “Work. Just- editing, I guess. I need to trim Henry’s nails. I might bake.”

God, why was she so bad at this?

He smiled, soft and a little curious. “You can bake?”

She nodded, suddenly wishing her life sounded more exciting.

Oscar opened his mouth to say something else, but a voice called out in the background — Lando. Oscar sighed, looking genuinely reluctant to end the call.

“I gotta go. Sorry this was so short. But—thanks. For answering. I don’t think you realise how much I like talking to you.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Francesca stayed still, phone pressed to her chest, her heart doing somersaults.

She didn’t even try to catch her breath.

—

Francesca balanced her phone against the sugar canister and wiped her flour-dusted hands on a tea towel. “Can you see even me?”

Katie’s face appeared on-screen, squinting. “You’re slightly tilted and there’s a bit of grease on the camera, but sure. Are you… baking?”

Francesca shrugged, going for nonchalance as she went about cracking an egg into the mixing bowl. “Needed a distraction.”

“Distraction from what, I wonder?” Katie sang, all mock innocence.

Francesca shot her a look. “Don’t. Please just… not now.”

Katie leaned in closer to the camera. “What happened? Because I’m just saying. You’re beating that egg like your life depends on it, and you’ve been ignoring my texts all day. So.”

Francesca sighed, easing up on the poor egg. “He video called me earlier.” She mumbled.

Katie’s brows shot up. “I’m sorry. Can you say that again? He what?”

“Video call. Out of the blue. Said he liked my stupid Instagram story I made about his team and—” She cut herself off with a groan, shoving the bowl away and burying her face in her hands. “Katie. I think I’m in trouble.”

Katie blinked. “As in… emotional trouble?”

Francesca nodded slowly.

Katie tilted her head. “That’s my favourite kind.”

“I’m serious,” Francesca said, pulling her hair into a loose bun. “He’s so… nice. And he says things that make me feel like he means them. Like… really means them.”

Katie’s expression softened. “Francesca.”

Francesca sniffled a little, feeling ridiculous for getting emotional over this. “It’s just… What does he want? Like—what is he doing? He’s him. And I’m just… this. Always just this.”

“Firstly,” Katie said, holding up a finger, “Stop trying not to cry. You’re allowed to cry. Secondly, maybe what he wants is you. Pyjamas, cat, homebody and all.”

Francesca gave a tiny smile, even if it felt ridiculous to even consider that being a possibility. “He said he liked talking to me. And he wants to see me wearing his colour. And his number.”

She’d looked it up after ending their call. OP81. His number was eighty-one.

Maybe it was just a coincidence that her flat, her safe haven, was number 81 too.

Katie didn’t speak for a second. Then, gently, “Babe. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s messing around. I looked him up, did some research. His teammate is undoubtedly a playboy, but Oscar seems different.”

“I know,” Francesca whispered. “But it doesn’t feel real.”

Katie leaned back on her sofa, phone wobbling in her hands. “You’re just used to bracing for the worst.”

Francesca looked down at her mixing bowl, voice quiet. “What if I let myself fall a little bit too deep, and it all disappears?”

Katie shrugged. “Then I’ll come over and help you pick up the pieces. I have a question now. What if it ends up being the best thing you’ve ever done, hm? Letting yourself fall?”

Francesca didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned the oven on, carefully spooning batter into the muffin tin.

After a long pause, she said, “Then maybe I’ll make him banana muffins one day.”

Katie snorted. “God, you’re smitten.”

“Yeah.” Francesca stared at the circled of batter before sliding the tray into the oven. “Maybe.”

—

Instagram DM’s — Oscar Piastri > Francesca Gold

Oscar Piastri

Can I have your number? You can say no.

Francesca Gold

Uh. Yes. Sure. Okay.

Oscar Piastri

Are you sure? I don't mind DM'ing you forever if thats what you want.

Francesca Gold

*phone number*

—

He sat on the little couch in his driver’s room, legs stretched out, race suit unzipped to the waist. His head rested against the wall, phone pressed to his ear, helmet sitting on the table beside him.

“Hi, Mum.” He said, when the dial tone stopped.

“Well, hello stranger,” she said warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit nervous,” he admitted. “Spa’s always a bit of a beast.”

“You’ll be fine. Car looks good this weekend.” She said. There was a beat of comfortable silence. Then she asked, gently, “And how’s the girl?”

Oscar smiled before he could stop himself. He’d mentioned Francesca once, a week ago, when he’d last spoken to her. “She’s fine.”

“You’ve still been talking then?” She asked.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his race suit. “More than I expected, honestly.”

His mum hummed. “You like her.”

He didn’t deny it. “Yeah.”

There was a soft chuckle. “And does she know that?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe. I think I might be… too much.” He glanced at his helmet, the noise of the paddock just beyond the walls “The opposite of what she needs, probably.”

“She sounds special, Oscar.” His mum said, and he’d never heard her say his name like that before. Something between fondness and excitement.

“I don’t know how to make this work for her,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t— do you know what agoraphobia is?” He asked.

She was silent for a beat. “Oh, dear.” She said, quietly. “Yes, I do. Poor girl.”

“Yeah.” He said, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“So don’t. You don’t have to rush it. You’ve never been flashy anyway.” His mum said. “I mean, you disappear during off-season, you hardly have a social media presence, and you stay under-the-radar a lot more than your friends do.” She said. “I’m not saying it’s the same thing, but…” She trailed off.

Oscar let out a quiet breath. “Okay. So how do I ask her out without… scaring her off?”

His mum’s voice was kind, but certain. “You ask her like you mean it. You give her a way to say no, and you let her know it wouldn’t change how much you like talking to her. And if she says yes, you make sure that she’d going to be able to feel safe the entire time.”

Oscar closed his eyes. He liked that picture. Him and Francesca, together, close enough for him to reach out and touch. “Yeah.” He breathed out.

“You’ll be alright, love.” She said.

“Thanks, Mum.”

He started to push himself up. He was running out of time before he’d be called to start checking the telemetry.

“And Oscar?” She called out before he could end the call.

“Yeah?” He asked, shrugging his race suit onto his shoulders.

“Maybe don’t lead with ‘do you want to come to a grand prix’.”

He laughed quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Noted.” He said, sarcastically.

There was a knock on the door — his engineer, probably — signalling that his quiet time was up. “Gotta go. I’ll call you after. Love you.”

“I’ll be watching. Love you too.”

He ended the call and looked at his phone screen for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then, impulsively, he opened the new contact he’d added to his phone. Francesca.

iMessage — Oscar > Francesca

Oscar: I want to meet you. Somewhere quiet, just us. I’ll come to you — whatever makes you feel safest. Just… think about it, yeah?

—

Francesca stared at her phone, rereading the message like it might suddenly rearrange itself into something less terrifying.

She could feel her heart pounding in her throat. Henry, ever attuned to her moods, jumped onto the bed and settled beside her, purring like an engine. Ironic.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed out “Okay”, then deleted it. Typed “That’s not a good idea”, deleted that too.

She curled onto her side and let the phone fall against the duvet.

Quiet. Just us.

No pressure.

She stared down at her hands.

The skin around her nails was raw — red and sore in places where she’d picked too much, too hard. A relapse, if she was honest with herself. The kind that crept in quiet, all sharp edges and shame. Her thighs didn’t look much better, marked with pinches and scratches and soft bruises that bloomed like confessions.

If this thing with Oscar ever went anywhere — if they ever saw each other in person, really saw each other — he would know. He’d see all of it. The messy parts. The anxious rituals. The bad days she couldn’t hide behind a screen.

That was the cost of being known.

She didn’t know if she was brave enough.

She glanced at the time.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long she’d left the message sitting there, unanswered. Her phone rested on the arm of the sofa, screen dark, like it was holding its breath for her.

By now, he’d be in his car. Strapped in, suited up. Probably lined up on the grid already, surrounded by chaos and noise and expectation.

She could turn on the TV. She could watch him — this man who’d somehow become a soft ache in her chest. Watch him blur past in papaya-orange and pretend that the message waiting for her answer didn’t matter so much.

But it did. God, it did.

She picked up the remote with trembling fingers and turned on the TV.

The pre-race coverage was in full swing — sweeping camera shots of the grid, engineers moving like clockwork, the roar of the crowd humming beneath the commentators' chatter. Her eyes scanned the screen, searching.

And then — there he was.

Oscar. Stood a few meters from his car, helmet still off but balaclava on, focused but calm. The camera panned over him briefly, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped rhythmically on the phone in his hand.

Her heart squeezed.

He had no idea if she was watching. No guarantee she'd seen the message at all. But he’d sent it anyway.

She picked up her phone.

Francesca: okay. yes. i’d really like that. but you have to pretend not to notice if i get really awkward and say something dumb.

She didn’t expect to catch it.

Just a second, maybe less — the camera drifted back to him on the grid. He had his head bent, the phone still in his hand. The, he paused and moved it closer to his face.

He was reading her message.

Francesca watched, frozen on her sofa, breath caught in her throat.

Oscar’s mouth curved. Just a little. Just enough.

The smile wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t the grin he gave reporters or fans. It was soft. Barely there. But she saw it — and somehow, it made her feel like her ribs were too small for her chest.

He handed his phone to one of his engineers. Straightened his shoulders. Slipped on his helmet.

And then he was gone. The drivers were all in their cars. The formation lap started.

And she sat in her quiet living room, a fat, ginger cat curled up in her lap, feeling like her whole world had tilted just a little.

—

The race began with a roar.

Francesca stayed curled on the sofa, hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold.

She wasn’t really sure when it happened — when the noise and the chaos and the flashing graphics on-screen faded into the background and she started watching only him.

Oscar. Calm and sharp and focused, even when the car danced on the edge of control. Even when the commentators gasped. Even when the margins were paper-thin.

She watched the way he drove. The way he navigated past the other like it was second nature.

And then, somewhere between lap twenty and thirty, it hit her.

Not all at once, but slowly — like light creeping under a door.

She wanted to be there.

Not in the stands, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Not surrounded by cameras. But somewhere quiet. Somewhere just far enough out of sight. In the shadows. Hidden, maybe, but still there.

To see his face when he stepped out of the car. To hug him, if he wanted that. To say well done, Osc into his shoulder while everyone else was still trying to get his attention. To be close enough to experience the tiny motions that no one else saw — the ones he didn’t perform for the cameras.

To be the first face he found if something went wrong. If he crashed. If he was hurt.

The thought made her stomach twist and her hands shake, but she didn’t look away.

She sat through every lap. Every pit stop. Every replay. And when he crossed the line, she found herself whispering a breathless, “Well done,” to no one at all.

She rubbed the back of her hand beneath her eye.

Fuck.

—

Katie burst through the front door without knocking, a bundle of coat, scarf, and wild energy. "Okay, okay, sit down, sit down—wait, you're already sitting, perfect."

Francesca blinked at her from the sofa, a spoon halfway to her mouth. It was incredibly rare that Katie ever showed up without warning, but today was a good day, so it didn’t matter. “Hi?” She greeted, confusion lacing her tone.

Katie didn’t bother with pleasantries. She tossed her capaciously filled bag onto the armchair and pointed dramatically. “You’re about to owe me your firstborn.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow. “You’re not having Henry.”

Katie waved her off. “Shut up. This is huge, Fran. Harper Collins reached out to us. They want it. A novel. Written by you.”

Francesca froze.

This had to be some kind of joke.

Was it April?

She shook her head in denial. “No way. You’re lying. I— Wait—what?”

“I’m not lying,” Katie said, pulling out her phone, scrolling furiously. “They’ve seen the shorts you post. They know about your following. They think you have the voice and the audience. And they’re offering a good number, Fran. Like… actual money. Actual advance. No nonsense.”

Francesca’s mouth had gone dry. “I don’t— I mean, I’ve not written a full book before.”

“They don’t care. They want you. Your tone, your voice, your take on love.” Katie’s face softened, seeing the look on hers. “Francesca. My god. This is insane."

Francesca stared down at her lap. Her heart was thumping in her chest. “Oh my god. And I already said yes to something else today.” She laughed, slightly hysterically.

Katie frowned. “What do you mean?”

She took a breath. “Oscar. He asked to meet. In person. I said yes.”

Katie didn’t respond immediately. She blinked once. Then slowly lowered herself into the armchair like she was afraid sudden movement would spook her.

“You said yes?” she asked, carefully.

Francesca nodded.

Katie broke into a grin. “Okay. Wow. Wow. Big day for Francesca Gold.”

“I might throw up,” Francesca muttered, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

She was so overwhelmed.

“That’s fair. But also—this is huge. The universe is literally clapping for you right now.”

Francesca huffed a laugh, still half-stunned. “I feel like I’m living in a fever dream right now.”

“Francesca?” Katie leaned forward, her eyes a little wet. “I’m… really proud of you. For the book deal, obviously, but also… Oscar would be stupid not to fall in love with you.”

Francesca sniffled.

“And,” Katie added, with a sly smile that was only softened by the fact that her eyes were still damp, “this romance novel is going to hit different if you’re literally falling in love with somebody whilst you write it. Oh my god! Make it motorsport themed. You have to.”

Francesca groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.

CHAPTER FOUR

280 notes · View notes

db0xtae · 3 months ago

Text

Winning the Breakup | Chapter 2

- Minho (Xo Kitty) X Reader

𝜗𝜚⋆ Summary : Y/N, a talented and athletic after an intense breakup, Y/N reluctantly agrees to fake date Minho, to make their exes jealous. What begins as a mutual arrangement soon turns complicated when their fake relationship starts to feel all too real. With humor, bickering, and tender moments, Minho and Y/N's journey proves that sometimes the best way to heal from heartbreak is to allow yourself to fall in love.

𝜗𝜚⋆ Warnings : None

𝜗𝜚⋆ Word Count : 858

𝜗𝜚⋆ Chapters : 1

𝜗𝜚⋆ A/N : Hope you guys enjoy!!!

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Chapter 2: The Rules of Engagement

The next morning, Y/N regretted nothing—well, almost nothing. She wasn’t entirely sure agreeing to Minho’s plan was the best decision, but the image of Alex’s dumbfounded face as she and Minho danced at the social was enough to keep her second thoughts at bay.

It was Saturday morning, and the KISS campus was quiet. Most students were either still asleep or lounging in their dorms, but Y/N was already up and dressed, sitting at a small café table in the library courtyard. She was sipping on a latte and going over her notes for an upcoming quiz when a familiar, annoyingly confident voice interrupted her focus.

“Morning, darling,” Minho said, sliding into the chair across from her.

Y/N didn’t even look up. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? We’re dating now,” he said, leaning back in his chair with that smug grin she was already tired of seeing.

“Fake dating,” she corrected, finally meeting his eyes. “Let’s not forget the fake part.”

“Details,” Minho said, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, we need to set some ground rules.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Rules?”

“Obviously,” Minho replied, pulling out his phone. “If we’re going to pull this off, we need to be on the same page. Can’t have you ruining my image.”

She snorted. “Your image? Please, enlighten me.”

Minho ignored the jab, opening a notes app on his phone. “Rule one: public displays of affection. We’ll need to sell the relationship, so a little hand-holding, hugging, maybe the occasional kiss—”

“No,” Y/N cut him off, her tone firm. “We’re not kissing.”

He looked up, feigning disappointment. “You wound me. What, you think I’m a bad kisser?”

“I think I don’t want to catch whatever inflated ego disease you’re carrying,” she shot back, smirking when Minho gave an exaggerated gasp.

“Fine,” he relented, typing something into his phone. “No kissing…unless absolutely necessary.”

“There will be no ‘necessary,’” Y/N clarified.

Minho shrugged. “We’ll see. Rule two: we text daily. It doesn’t have to be anything deep, but it’ll look weird if we’re not in constant communication. People will notice.”

“Fine,” she agreed. “But no texting me at 2 a.m. with some nonsense about how amazing you are.”

“I would never,” Minho said, looking offended.

Y/N gave him a flat look.

“Okay, I would,” he admitted with a grin. “But I’ll restrain myself.”

“Good. Next?”

“Rule three: we go on at least one ‘date’ per week. People need to see us together outside of school events. And no ditching me halfway through because you get bored,” he added, pointing at her.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Like I’d be the one ditching.”

“Trust me, darling, I’m a delight,” Minho said, flashing his most charming smile.

“Stop calling me that,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Rule four,” Minho continued, ignoring her complaint. “We don’t tell anyone it’s fake. Not even our friends.”

Y/N hesitated. “Not even Kitty?”

“Especially not Kitty,” Minho said firmly. “She has the biggest mouth at KISS. She’d blow our cover in two seconds.”

“She’d probably make a PowerPoint about it,” Y/N murmured, earning a chuckle from Minho.

“Exactly. So, we keep it between us. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said reluctantly.

“Great,” Minho said, setting his phone down. “This is going to be fun.”

“Fun isn’t the word I’d use,” Y/N muttered, taking a sip of her latte.

By lunchtime, news of Y/N and Minho’s “relationship” had spread like wildfire. As they walked into the cafeteria together, side by side, the stares and whispers were impossible to ignore.

“You’d think people have never seen two attractive people together before,” Minho said, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear.

“Subtle,” Y/N muttered under her breath, elbowing him in the side.

“What? I’m just stating facts,” he said with a grin, guiding her to their usual table.

Kitty was already there, along with Dae, Yuri, and Q. The moment they sat down, Kitty leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Okay, spill,” she said. “How did this happen?”

Y/N opened her mouth, but Minho beat her to it.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She couldn’t resist my charm.”

Y/N shoved his arm off. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“What’s there to regret, darling?” he teased, winking at her.

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “You two are…dating?”

“Yep,” Minho said confidently.

“Since when?” Dae asked, looking genuinely confused.

“A few days ago,” Y/N lied smoothly. “It just…happened.”

Kitty frowned, clearly trying to piece things together. “But you’ve always been at each other’s throats. What changed?”

Minho leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “She finally realized how amazing I am.”

“I realized you’d never shut up about it if I didn’t give you a chance,” Y/N shot back, earning a laugh from Q.

“This is going to be interesting,” Yuri said, smirking as she sipped her drink.

That evening, Minho texted her.

Minho: “Tomorrow. 2 p.m. Meet me at the park.”

Y/N: “Why?”

Minho: “Date #1, duh. Don’t bail on me.”

Y/N sighed, tossing her phone onto her bed. She had a feeling this was going to be a long few weeks.

#minho #minho xo kitty x reader #minho xo kitty #minho moon #xo kitty imagine #xo kitty fanfic #xo kitty s1 #xo kitty minho #xo kitty s2 #xo kitty #xo kitty season 2 #sang heon lee #sang heon lee x reader #xo kitty x reader #jenny han #to all the boys: always and forever #to all the boys: p.s. i still love you #to all the boys i've loved before

203 notes · View notes

utopiastri · 2 months ago

Note

Hi, hello!!!

May i request sleep deprivation for the fic prompt, pretty please???? To be honest I'd be so happy with any ship (bc im obsessed with ur writing), but mayhaps landoscar or maxcar???🥺🥺🥺

Hope you are having a wonderful day!<3

-💫

💫 anon!!! hi lovely! thank you for the prompt! i hope you're having a lovely day too and i hope you enjoy some maxcar!!!

Of all the people that Oscar expected to bump into whilst walking around Monaco at 5am, he wouldn’t have bet on Max Verstappen.

Or, well, he wouldn’t have bet a lot on Max Verstappen – Monaco’s tiny and Max does live here, so it’s not entirely unreasonable to run into him. But still.

5am.

“Oscar! Mate, hi!”

Oscar does his best not to wince at how cheery Max is. From the way Max’s face falls slightly, he’s guessing he doesn’t do a particularly good job of it.

“Hey, Max,” he says quietly, giving him a tired smile.

“What are you doing up so early? I wouldn't have guessed you were a morning person.”

“Just, um, going for a walk, I guess.”

Max frowns. “Hm.”

He doesn’t elaborate any further. Oscar prays that the street lighting is dim enough for the dark circles under his eyes to stay hidden.

Eventually, when it becomes clear that Max isn’t going to say anything else, Oscar says, “Right, uh, I’ll see you.”

Oscar’s barely even turned around to start walking in the opposite direction when Max calls out, “Wait! What are you doing after your walk?”

Living the Monaco high life, Oscar thinks to himself, going back to bed and tossing and turning for another six fruitless hours.

“Nothing much,” is what Oscar actually says. In fairness, it isn’t exactly a lie.

“I was just finishing up my run. You should come back to mine for some breakfast,” Max suggests.

Oscar gives Max an assessing look and notes that he looks more like a person about to go for a run than one just finishing one up. Max folds his arms and raises an eyebrow, as if daring Oscar to call his bluff.

On another day, maybe Oscar would. But he feels so tired his bones are heavy with it and giving in is the much easier thing to do.

“Yeah, ok.”

Oscar doesn’t realise that the breakfast invite is a trap until he’s blearily blinking his eyes open a few hours later. Or, maybe ‘trap’ is the wrong word. ‘Trap’ implies that there was some trickery or persuasion involved. Max didn’t exactly have to do much convincing to get Oscar to take a seat on his sofa. And Max certainly didn’t have to do much convincing to get Oscar to let his eyes flutter shut, since they were very much doing that of their own accord.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Max calls from the kitchen. Oscar slowly begins to register where is. He bolts upright when he realises that he managed to fall asleep on Max’s sofa when the poor man had only invited him in for a pastry and some coffee.

“Shit, Max, I’m so sorry,” he says, trying to stand up from the sofa and only managing to almost fall flat on his face, his legs getting twisted in a knitted blanket Max must’ve thrown over him. His face flares bright red and he refuses to look in Max’s direction.

Unfortunately, Max has other plans. He feels Max’s gaze burn into the side of his face until finally Oscar looks up and meets Max’s eyes. He’s smirking ever so slightly.

“No apologising. You needed sleep and, for whatever reason, you cannot get it at home. So you slept on my sofa.” Max says it so matter-of-factly that Oscar almost finds himself nodding along.

“No, wait,” Oscar shakes himself and reminds himself that this is ridiculous, “Max, it wasn’t fair, or, I mean, it was rude of me to fall asleep on your sofa.”

“No, it wasn’t, I didn’t mind.”

Oscar groans slightly. “Well, maybe, you should mind.”

A calculating look appears on Max's face. “To clarify," he says, "You object to the part where you fell asleep on my sofa?”

“Yes,” Oscar says firmly.

“Fine. I agree you should not fall asleep on my sofa.”

“Good.”

“You should fall asleep on my bed.”

“What?” Oscar splutters staring at Max, “Hang on.”

However, Max is too busy grabbing Oscar by the arm and frogmarching him through his flat to take heed of Oscar's request for him to hang on. Oscar’s so bewildered by this turn of events he doesn’t even fight the manhandling that much. Before he knows it, he finds himself sat down on Max’s giant bed, staring up at him.

Max is smirking again.

“There, problem solved. You can’t fall asleep on the sofa if you’re asleep in my bed.”

“Max,” Oscar starts.

Max raises an eyebrow ready to counter whatever Oscar’s next argument will be. Oscar sighs.

He knows when he’s beaten. Max smile grows even wider.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me." He turns to leave but Oscar, almost without thinking, grabs his hand before he can.

His skin starts tingling where it's touching Max's and he does his best to ignore it. Oscar swallows. “Stay?” he asks, voice nothing more than a whisper.

Oscar thinks he might have found the one thing to say that would catch Max off-guard, even if that wasn’t his intention. His expression doesn’t shift, but Oscar can just about make out two dots of pink high in Max’s cheeks.

“Are you sure?”

“Stay,” Oscar repeats, less of a request and more of a command.

Max takes a second but eventually nods and crawls into the other side of the bed. Oscar carefully arranges his body so it's not touching Max's at all and then has to do his best not to react when he feels Max reach out and gently interlock their fingers. “Sleep,” he whispers.

Oscar convinces himself the kiss he feels pressed to his forehead is purely induced by sleep deprivation.

#baby's first maxscar!!!#at one point i accidentally changed vibes halfway through and these two accidentally talked themselves into a game of gay chicken #i'll save that for a different maxcar fic perhaps #maxcar #maxoscar #💫 anon i love youuuuuuuu #you're so wonderful #💫 anon #drabbles #asks

197 notes · View notes

blackenedsnow · 5 months ago

Note

Hi I'm back with another Movie!juice request! This time it kinda ties back to the friends with benefits one; this time with an alternate way of Beetlejuice confessing!

So one day Beetlejuice gets drunk and the reader stays sober to watch over him so he doesn't cause too much chaos. He gets touchy, no surprise there, but then...his touches get more tender and he starts absentmindedly rambling on about how much he loves the reader and how he wants to marry them someday, not because of the freedom it'll give him but just being their husband in general...

Then he passes out

The next morning he doesn't remember what he confessed and the reader, hiding how giddy they are, is like "so, BJ, got something you wanna tell me~?" And he ends up confessing to them that everything he said last night was true :3

drunken truths

WARNING: Alcohol use

PAIRING: Beetlejuice x Reader

NOTE: Hihi! Please keep sending your creative energy my way; it always brightens my day. Sending you lots of love and ghostly vibes! <3

SUMMARY: A drunken Beetlejuice lets slip just how deeply he cares about you, leaving you giddy and mischievous the next morning as you nudge him toward confessing his feelings for real.

It started with a bad idea, like most things involving Beetlejuice. He’d stumbled into your space that night with a bottle of some spectral concoction, claiming he was “celebrating.” What? He never clarified. Maybe it was the moon being full, maybe it was a successful day. Who knew? Either way, by the second drink, his tongue was already looser than usual.

And because you knew him—and liked him, despite yourself—you stayed sober. Someone had to keep him from blowing up the furniture or trying to serenade the neighborhood cats again.

“Y’know somethin’?” Beetlejuice slurred, draping himself over your shoulder with the subtlety of a hurricane. His usual grabby hands were there, but the way his fingers grazed your arm felt…different. Gentle, almost reverent.

“What’s that, Beej?” you asked, half-amused, half-bracing for whatever nonsense was about to come out of his mouth.

“You’re perfect. Like—chef’s kiss—perfect.” He made the gesture, loudly smacking his lips. “Don’t know why you hang out with a guy like me, though.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. This wasn’t the usual Beetlejuice bravado. He sounded…earnest.

“Maybe I just like you,” you teased, testing the waters.

His laugh was low and warm, and it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Yeah, well, you’re too good for me. But that don’t matter, ’cause one day, I’m gonna make you mine. Like, for real. Not ’cause of the whole marriage loophole thing—though that’s a helluva bonus, heh—but ’cause you’re…I dunno…you’re it for me.”

You froze. Beetlejuice, the king of chaos and crude jokes, just…said that?

“And, oh!” He sat up abruptly, gesturing wildly. “We’ll have one of those nice-ass weddings, right? With the cake, and the dancing, and…yeah, I’ll be the best damn husband ever. Better’n any of those losers out there. You’ll see.”

Before you could even process what was happening, Beetlejuice flopped over, snoring loudly against your shoulder.

“BJ?” you whispered, but he was out cold.

The next morning, he was surprisingly subdued—hungover but still Beetlejuice. He shuffled into the kitchen, scratching his messy hair and grumbling about how “some jerk left the lights on too bright.”

You smirked over your coffee, barely able to contain your excitement. “Morning, BJ. Sleep well?”

He squinted at you suspiciously. “Why’re you so chipper? You’re usually grumpy in the morning.”

“Oh, no reason.” You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand. “So…got something you wanna tell me?”

Beetlejuice froze, his greenish skin turning an even paler shade. “Uh…like what?”

“Like, I dunno…what you were rambling about last night? Something about marriage?”

His eyes went wide, then narrowed as he tried to piece things together. Finally, he groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. “Oh, great. I blew it, didn’t I?”

You tilted your head innocently. “Blew what?”

He slumped into the chair across from you, looking more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. “The whole…thing. You know. The you thing. Dammit, I didn’t wanna say it like that. But, yeah. Whatever I said last night? It’s true. All of it. And I get it if you think I’m nuts or if you don’t—”

You reached across the table, grabbing his hand before he could spiral. “Beetlejuice.”

“What?”

“I think you’re nuts. But I also think you’re kind of sweet. And maybe, just maybe, I like the idea of you being my husband someday.”

For once in his afterlife, Beetlejuice was speechless.

#beetlejuice #keatlejuice #beetlejuice movie #beetlejuice x reader #keatlejuice x reader #tim burton #tim burton x reader #x reader #ask #fanfic #request #oneshot

124 notes · View notes

bubblergoespop · 7 months ago

Text

My Top Blake Quotes

BLAKEY POOOOO ♡ sassy man

“You’re the brightest spot in my life. You always have been, even when you’re so far away I can barely see the glow.”

“Charming friend you got there. [he’s shaking in his boots]”

“That’s a one-way ticket to ending up in a spiral!”

“Whatever you need of me. I’ll give it, provided you save my love.”

“Questions aren’t really necessary right now, so how about you just sit there and look pretty, hmm?”

“Do you want me to show you exactly what magic can do when it’s not on your side?”

“If that’s what you want, then that’s what I want too. [goofy goofy chuckle]”

“You make me smile, you make me happy. I like being with you. That’s enough.”

“I can’t always keep my head above the water, but being with you is like… having an air tank. I might be below the surface, but I’m still getting oxygen. You’re that oxygen that keeps me going when I’m under."

“I told you, it was nothing... All right, let me clarify, it’s not “nothing”, it’s none of your fucking business.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Your little fuckbuddy-"

“It didn’t feel like a mistake to me. It felt like… someone switching on the lights, and suddenly realizing that I’d been standing in the dark all that time before. It felt like life was suddenly in colour.”

“it felt like I got a taste of everything I’d ever wanted, the most amazing feeling I’d ever experienced and then the next morning, I didn’t just lose the chance at that, I lost my best friend.”

“I’m tired of the dance. I just miss my friend.”

“I can’t be another mistake. Because it’ll break me.”

“You know me, you know how I am.”

“If we’re together, I’ll do everything for you, and I’ll give you everything I can, I’ll give you time and patience, if you need to be with your own thoughts, I’ll give you quiet, but I won’t be able to give you space.”

“The things I think about you, how much I want you… it’s the stuff you’re not supposed to say out loud. The stuff you’re never supposed to admit to feeling.”

“Just sitting at the table one morning, having breakfast when you realized, Oh wait, who's that voice in my head? Must be an ancient, unknowable force in Death. Guess I'll go back to my oatmeal.”

“What are you doing?”

“You would dirty their fucking name by speaking it.”

“if you pick this, it’ll be all of me. All of it. And we both know a lot of that’s not pretty.”

“I’ll get that smile on those pretty lips in the morning, just you wait.”

“I’m not worried you’ll try something. You don’t constitute a meaningful threat in my book. Sorry to bruise your ego.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“I’m not that fucking stupid. [He is]”

“Congratulations, someone please get the gentleman a door prize.”

“You can’t matter.”

“You're going to learn when to shut the fuck up. And spoiler alert, tied up, on the ground, with your powers inhibited? That's one of those times.”

“Wouldn’t that be cute?”

“I sleep easy in the arms of the person I love. Knowing that everything I’ve done, everything I do, I do for them.”

“I never stopped loving you, I’m still back there, I’m still just this scared kid telling you he fucking loves you.”

“Cute. Are you going to keep wasting time with passive aggression or do you actually have something to tell me?”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Yeah, all for you. All of it. [ft D’Deridahn calling him horny in the background]”

#blakey poo #bubbler’s top quotes #redacted blake #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse

108 notes · View notes

rosemaze-reveries · 5 months ago

Text

alice deross x you on an espionage mission, you and alice share a rare moment of quiet

You’ve been finding Alice lost in thought more and more lately.

She sits at the kitchen’s windowside table, lips pressed firmly to the rim of her china teacup. It’s not unusual for her to spend her rare moments of leisure nursing on a drink, but her eyes are lost somewhere else, and she’s rigid as a stone. Maybe she’s just that content letting the hot steam caress her lip. You watch her for a few seconds, waiting for the sip you’re sure must come eventually. She doesn’t move.

Sweet white coffee with one lump for good measure. It’s her favorite, but she’s not very fastidious about the brew as long as it’s sweet enough—Alice drinks more sugar than she’d ever care to admit. After months spent working with her, it’s become second nature to prepare it for her every morning. Or every night, like tonight, when you both were to stay up late and keep watch on the townscape below. Another recon mission, as it always goes.

“Too hot?” you ask, taking the seat across from her. She glances up at you to flash a reassuring smile. Her lips are pulled together sweetly, practised, desperate. It’s the smile she uses to push back whatever wretched thoughts are weighing down on her, one you’ve only been able to parse in recent weeks. You pray she doesn’t realize you’ve noticed—she’s much quicker at picking up on the subtle things than you are.

“Just thinking,” she corrects, then finally takes a sip to indulge you. Her smile fades as she turns to the window. “I didn’t expect to grow so fond of this place.”

You follow her line of sight. In the distance, you watch the orange sun sink behind the city’s rooftops as pinks and violets spear through the clouds. Nights here have always felt so tender. They never carry more than a gentle breeze with them, bringing out the songs of the crickets and junebugs that live in the brush outside. It’s so, so quiet. Sometimes you feel like it’s just you and Alice in the world, like you’ve left your pasts behind.

But you know better than that.

“We shouldn’t get too attached, Eury,” you tell her. Her brows crinkle at the name. A flicker of guilt takes hold of your heart. That was cruel of you, and you know it. But that peaceful lifestyle you’re both dreaming of doesn’t exist in either of your futures, at least as you are now. It’d be crueler to pretend like it does. Alice turns back to the window.

“I know.”

The room falls into silence after that. At one point you steal another glance at her. When she catches you, she lapses into that smile again, the one that’s so devastatingly beautiful and guts your heart all the same. Your gaze quickly drops to your lap, where you pinch the hem of the lace tablecloth. That smile will unravel you if you stare at her a minute longer.

With a musing hum, Alice sets down her teacup. “You’ll miss these nights just as much as I will,” she remarks, and you can’t argue. “You don’t have to play tough in front of me. We can enjoy it, just for a little while.”

That’s all the permission you need before you crumble.

“‘A little while’ won’t be enough,” you say, slumping back in your seat. The legs of your chair scrape back against the hardwood. And before you can stop yourself, “I’ll miss you.”

“Me?”

“Living together,” you clarify, or try to, at least. That still doesn’t do much to explain. You and Alice have been partners for just under a year now, jumping from station to station, wherever the Madame positions you. This mission is just one of many. Eventually, you’ll both re-live this day again, in a new city staying at a new base. But there is something special about the few days you’ve spent in this town, how intimate it’s felt, and you’re afraid to lose it.

Thinking about that, all the rationality you tried to cling to a second ago splinters off. “We should run away.”

Alice is quick to stop you. “Oh, now you’re dreaming.”

“I mean it. I’m tired of running around.”

“I think the late hour is getting to your head.” She rises and rounds the table to stand in front of you, one reckless threat away from subduing you there. “Don’t be rash. You won’t get far before they drag you back.”

“I know,” you sigh, reaching for her hand. “I wouldn’t leave you anyway.”

“Promise me,” she insists. She laces her fingers with yours, squeezing you tight. The prospect of you running off and getting caught might’ve frightened her much more than you intended. Her eyes are boring into you with a conviction you rarely see from her. A bit startled, you bring an apologetic kiss to her knuckle.

“Yes, I promise,” you say, and the words barely leave your lips before Alice tugs you forward.

#alice deross x reader #idv x reader #identity v #identity v x reader #idv journalist #alice deross

44 notes · View notes

bluhourz · 2 months ago

Text

when he chooses a pet name

It started as a perfectly ordinary evening. You were sprawled on the couch, your laptop balanced precariously on your lap as you half-heartedly scrolled through an online store. A sitcom played in the background, the laughter track filling the room. Hueningkai was sitting at the dining table nearby, fiddling with something you couldn’t see—most likely one of his new hobbies, knowing him.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice lilting with mischief. “What’s your opinion on… ‘snuggle muffin’?”

You blinked, confused, and turned your head toward him. “What?”

“‘Snuggle muffin.’ As a pet name,” he clarified, looking at you with his trademark cheeky grin. His eyes sparkled with amusement, and you could tell he was up to something.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “It’s terrible. Who even says that?”

“Okay, but hear me out,” he said, abandoning whatever he’d been working on and coming to sit next to you. “It’s so over-the-top and gushy that it’s perfect.”

“For what? Annoying me?”

“No,” he said, leaning in closer, his grin widening. “For you.”

Your jaw dropped, and you smacked his arm playfully. “Absolutely not. You are not calling me ‘snuggle muffin.’”

“Why not?” he asked, feigning innocence. “It’s cute.”

“It’s so cringey!”

He laughed, his head tilting back, and the sound was so contagious that you couldn’t help but laugh too. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll think of something else.”

The next few days, Hueningkai seemed to be on a mission. Every time you saw him, he had a new pet name to try out, each one more ridiculous than the last.

“Hey, my little sugar plum,” he greeted you one morning, his voice overly sweet.

“Good morning, my angel-faced cupcake,” he said another day, dropping the line with a straight face before bursting into laughter when you glared at him.

By the third day, you were starting to think he might never stop. “Kai,” you groaned as he called you “honey bunny” in front of the barista at your favorite coffee shop.

“What?” he said, looking genuinely confused. “It’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes but secretly loved the way he was grinning at you, like teasing you was his favorite pastime.

One evening, you were lying on the couch together, his head resting on your lap while you absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair. The TV was playing some show you weren’t paying attention to, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights.

Out of nowhere, he looked up at you with a soft, sleepy smile. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “you’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

Your heart melted at the sincerity in his tone. “You’re my favorite too,” you replied, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead.

He reached up to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “How about ‘lovebug’? That one’s not too bad, right?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

“Never,” he said, grinning. “But only because I love seeing you get all flustered.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in his gaze made your cheeks heat up anyway. “Fine,” you said, giving in. “Lovebug isn’t the worst.”

“Really?” he asked, his grin widening. “Then it’s official. You’re my lovebug.”

“Don’t push your luck,” you warned, but your smile betrayed you.

He laughed, his joy filling the room, and you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

A few days later, you found yourself absentmindedly calling out, “Hey, Kai? Can you pass me that, please?”

“What’s the magic word?” he teased, holding the remote just out of your reach.

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “Please, lovebug?”

His eyes widened in surprise, and then a goofy smile spread across his face. “That was so gushy,” he said, clearly delighted. “But it was also so cute.”

You groaned, grabbing a pillow and lightly hitting him with it. “Don’t make me regret it!”

He laughed, catching the pillow mid-swing and pulling you into his arms. “You could never regret it,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because I’ll keep calling you lovebug forever now.”

And as you melted into his embrace, you realized you didn’t mind one bit.

34 notes · View notes

hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 1 month ago

Text

For Rome - Chapter 4

Summary: Your last day on land. You meet with the General to discuss the important things one more time.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: Marcus being a little shit and (maybe?) out of character...

Words: 3 800-ish

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

Nervous was too small a word for what you felt.

This was not just a journey.

You were leaving behind everything you had ever known.

Rome. The people you had spent years caring for. The streets and voices that had become a part of you. And in their place—uncertainty. A vast, endless sea and a war you had never imagined yourself stepping into.

The weight of it sat in your chest like a stone, pressing against your ribs with each breath. You had spent the last week ensuring that everything you built would not crumble in your absence, placing it in the capable hands of Lucillia. You trusted her. You had to. But even as you assured yourself that things would continue without you, a quiet voice whispered in the back of your mind—

You don’t know when you’ll return.

If you’ll return.

And now, standing at the docks where Marcus had told you to be, the full weight of your choice settled over you.

The fleet stretched out before you in near-perfect formation, ships lined like great beasts waiting to be unleashed. Soldiers moved between them with precision, their armor catching the morning sun, a river of steel and bronze. Voices blended in a steady hum—orders called over the creak of wooden planks, the low murmur of men, the steady thud of supplies being loaded.

And for the first time since you had agreed to this madness, doubt clawed its way into your chest.

The size of it all. The reality of what you were stepping into.

Your breath came quicker.

What if this was beyond you?

What if you failed?

What if Marcus regretted bringing you?

The thought made your stomach twist painfully.

You barely heard the voice calling to you.

“Angel?”

You turned sharply, blinking as your gaze landed on a soldier you did not recognize. He stood with ease, his posture carrying the discipline of years in the ranks. His armor, though standard, bore scratches of past battles, but his expression was far from hardened. There was something warm in it, something curious, and for a brief moment, it steadied you.

“The General asked me to bring you to him,” he said, nodding toward the ships.

You hesitated. “Did the General tell you my name is Angel?”

The soldier chuckled, adjusting his grip on your bag, which he had taken before you could protest. “He told me to call you that just to see your reaction.”

Your eyes widened slightly before you let out an exasperated breath.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head.

The soldier laughed, clearly enjoying the moment.

“I have to say,” he continued, leading you forward, “some of the men are very curious about you. Excited, even.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why?”

He gave you a sideways glance, as if confirming a thought already forming in his mind. “Because you’re her.”

You stilled for half a second.

“The healer,” he clarified. “The one the men talk about after every campaign.”

A strange tightness settled in your throat.

Your steps faltered slightly.

“No one special,” you murmured, the heat of embarrassment creeping into your cheeks. “I only patch up some of you when the campaigns end badly.”

The soldier’s expression didn’t change, but something in the way he regarded you shifted—like he had just realized something you hadn’t.

“I’ve heard of you,” the soldier admitted, though there was no jest in his voice, no idle flattery—only quiet recognition.

Something in the way he said it, the weight behind those few simple words, made your breath catch.

They had spoken of you.

Remembered you.

Not just as a nameless healer tending to wounds in the shadows of war.

But you.

A sudden nervousness settled over you, creeping up your spine like a whisper of doubt.

“I worry that the more time I spend among you, the more I’ll disappoint whatever grand image you all seem to have of me,” you admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The confession felt small, but the weight of it pressed against your ribs nonetheless.

The soldier beside you smiled—soft, knowing.

“Hearing all those stories?” He shook his head. “I doubt that.”

You sighed, shaking your head, but said nothing more as you followed him.

Your footsteps slowed as you neared a large tent, far grander than the others you had passed. The sheer size of it made your stomach twist, the full weight of where you were—what you were stepping into—pressing down on you.

Then, just ahead, a familiar figure caught your eye.

Claudius.

Your heart leapt at the sight of him.

His sharp, weathered features remained as formidable as ever, his presence unwavering. But at the sound of your voice, his expression softened, though surprise flickered there for a brief moment.

For a heartbeat, he merely looked at you, as if unsure whether you were truly standing before him.

Then, his face broke into a wide smile, and before you could so much as take a step forward, he had you in his arms.

“My sweet girl,” he greeted, his voice thick with warmth as he lifted you effortlessly off the ground.

A startled laugh left your lips as your feet left the dirt, and when he finally set you back down, you rolled your eyes at the familiar concern etched into his face.

“You’ve lost weight again,” he scolded, his gaze sweeping over you like a father taking stock of a wayward child.

You huffed. “Oh, not you too.”

Claudius chuckled, the sound rich and full of fondness, before turning to the soldier beside you.

“Thank you, Teabius. I’ll take it from here.”

Teabius nodded, handing your bag over before offering you a final, kind smile.

You mouthed a quiet thank you, and he dipped his head slightly before turning away, disappearing into the sea of soldiers beyond.

The moment he was gone, Claudius turned back to you, his eyes searching, his grip firm on your shoulders.

And for the first time since you set foot on this battlefield, you felt it.

Safe.

“So the rumors were true,” Claudius mused, shaking his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. “Never thought I’d see the day my General personally went to meet you.”

You groaned, already feeling heat rise to your face. “I’m flustered enough just knowing there are rumors.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Claudius gave you a knowing look, his smirk widening. “You’ve earned every single one.”

Your stomach twisted at the unexpected praise. Compliments always unsettled you, left you fumbling for words, and Claudius, damn him, knew it.

He chuckled at your silence before motioning toward the tent. “Come. I imagine our dear General is eager to see you.”

At that, your blush deepened.

Claudius laughed softly at your hesitation but didn’t press further.

Taking a steady breath, you followed him inside.

The moment you stepped through the tent’s entrance, the atmosphere shifted.

The low murmur of voices—six men gathered around a wide table, speaking in hushed, measured tones—fell to silence.

All eyes turned toward you.

You froze, the sudden weight of their gazes pressing against your skin.

Your fingers instinctively gripped the folds of your dress as their scrutiny flickered between you and Claudius, silent questions in their expressions.

But your attention had already found him.

Marcus Acasius.

He sat at the head of the table, his hands resting over a worn map, his posture relaxed yet commanding. But the moment his gaze locked onto yours, he straightened, shoulders squaring, his dark eyes burning with something unreadable.

His expression remained unreadable—stern, composed, as if your presence was expected.

And yet—

"Finally."

Your name left his lips like a verdict, smooth yet weighted, sending an unfamiliar warmth curling low in your stomach.

The attention of the room had already been suffocating, but his gaze—his voice—made your breath catch.

You swallowed hard, lowering your gaze. “Forgive me if I kept you waiting.”

The words left you quieter than intended, but you couldn’t bring yourself to lift your head. Not with them watching.

You could feel their eyes still lingering, assessing.

Who is she?

Why is she here?

Marcus exhaled sharply, shifting his focus back to the table. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth but firm, final, “I believe we have everything settled?”

A beat of silence.

Then, one by one, the men nodded, though their curiosity did not wane.

Without another word, they began gathering their materials, rolling up maps, stacking documents, preparing to leave.

Yet, as they moved past you, not a single one of them stopped looking.

Some were subtle, others less so—eyes trailing over you, weighing, questioning.

You had seen that look before.

The gaze of men who had spent their lives surrounded by war, now faced with something that did not belong in their world.

Something foreign.

Something unexpected.

You had just interrupted a meeting between some of the most disciplined men in Rome, and they were silently determining why.

And as the last of them filed out, the air in the tent shifted.

Tension uncoiled, yet something else—something unspoken—remained between you and Marcus.

With only you, Marcus, and Claudius remaining, the air inside the tent shifted.

The tension of command—the quiet weight that always settled over a room when Marcus Acasius was present—eased just slightly. His shoulders lowered, the rigid lines of his posture unwinding. It was subtle, but it was there.

“Claudius, may I introduce—”

“You may,” the older man interrupted, amusement already tugging at the corners of his lips, “but it would be unnecessary.”

Marcus frowned slightly, turning toward him with curiosity.

“I have known this one for… what is it now, sweet girl? Six years?”

The warmth in Claudius’s voice made something settle in your chest.

You nodded, a small smile forming before you could help it.

At your confirmation, Marcus’s brows lifted in surprise.

Claudius chuckled, the sound rich with memory. “Remember when my son fell ill?”

Marcus’s expression darkened slightly, his mind clearly pulling back to that time. He did remember. Claudius had been restless, his usual unwavering composure shaken. It had been one of the rare times he had seen the seasoned soldier unsteady.

“And do you remember the little healer I told you about?” Claudius asked, tilting his head toward you.

Slowly, Marcus turned to you, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes.

Then, his lips curled, his gaze shifting—knowing, amused.

“So you were saving lives long before my soldiers decided to name you an Angel?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as both men chuckled.

“I had seen two healers before I found her,” Claudius continued, his voice steady with the weight of memory. “Neither could help. Neither wanted to help. And then, I came to you.”

He turned to you fully then, smiling—not just in fondness, but in something deeper. Something like pride.

“I had only heard whispers—a young girl tending to those no one else would.” He glanced at Marcus, his expression serious now. “She was incredible, Marcus.”

You shifted slightly, suddenly feeling exposed under their shared attention.

“She stayed with him all night,” Claudius went on, his voice thick with something you recognized as gratitude. “Never left his side. And then, for the next week, she returned every day. Checked on him. Tended to him.”

Marcus’s gaze flickered to you, unreadable, assessing.

You braced yourself.

“And,” Claudius added, smirking now, “she never took a single coin from me or my wife.”

At that, Marcus’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, and you felt his amusement before he even spoke.

You groaned softly, casting him a half-hearted glare. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he mused, though the look on his face said otherwise.

Claudius laughed, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure who you were speaking of, Marcus, when you mentioned this mysterious healer.” He turned back to you, eyes warm, unwavering. “But seeing my sweet girl here…” He exhaled, nodding slightly as if reassured. “I believe we’re going to be just fine.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, grounding yourself against the sudden pressure in your chest.

“I think you’re all expecting too much from me,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You and your soldiers.”

The words tasted raw, stripped of pretense. A confession pulled from the deepest part of you.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of the fear you had kept buried since the moment you agreed to leave Rome.

“I’m not some miracle healer. I only do what I can… and this?”

You gestured vaguely around you—the tent, the fleet, the sheer magnitude of what you were stepping into.

“This is… huge. It might be too big for me.”

A stillness settled over the room.

Claudius was the first to move.

His large, battle-worn hand reached for yours, engulfing it in a familiar, steadying warmth.

“You are exactly what we need,” he said simply, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that left no room for argument.

Your throat tightened at the conviction in his words.

Before you could speak, he leaned down, pressing a fatherly kiss to your forehead. You closed your eyes briefly, absorbing the quiet comfort of the gesture, the unspoken reassurance woven into it.

And then, with a final squeeze of your hand, he let go.

“I have errands to run, sweet girl,” he said, straightening. His lips twitched as he glanced toward Marcus. “Try not to let this one intimidate you too much.”

Marcus huffed in amusement, shaking his head.

And then Claudius was gone, leaving behind only the flickering lamplight…

And the steady presence of him.

“With each and every meeting, you manage to surprise me,” Marcus mused, his voice smooth as he leaned back slightly, gesturing for you to step closer to his desk.

You hesitated only a moment before obeying.

He poured himself a cup of wine, the deep red liquid swirling in the dim candlelight before he lifted it slightly in your direction.

“No, thank you, General,” you murmured, clasping your hands together to steady yourself.

A glint of amusement flickered in his gaze as he took a slow sip. Then, he arched a brow.

“I believe you’re already breaking rule number one.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“I—what?”

Marcus smirked. “I see no soldiers around.”

Realization struck.

Your stomach dropped slightly, heat creeping up your neck.

“I… how…?” You stuttered, flustered, your words tangling over themselves. “What—what do you expect me to call you, my lo— I mean, General—”

His smirk widened at your struggle.

“I believe I already introduced myself to you properly.” He took another sip of wine before adding, smoothly, “My name is Marcus, my dear.”

Your breath hitched slightly.

It was such a simple statement, so easy for him to say—so casual. But for you, it was anything but.

Your eyes widened, and you instinctively shook your head. “I… I can’t just call you by your name, my lord!”

The moment the title slipped past your lips, you froze, horrified.

Marcus exhaled a long-suffering sigh, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“And why not?” he pressed, taking a slow step toward you.

The space between you shrank, and the air grew heavier.

“You are Rome’s most respected General,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Calling you by your name would be… disrespectful.”

His smirk deepened. “And yet, going against my direct wish isn’t disrespectful?”

Your mouth opened—then closed again.

Damn him.

He was too close now—his presence looming, commanding, unwavering.

Your body instinctively took a step back, a futile attempt to create some distance, but the retreat only made his smirk widen.

“Do I intimidate you?”

The question was quiet, smooth. Yet there was something undeniable woven into it.

Your heart pounded.

“You… you have a very large presence, my lo—” You groaned, pressing your lips together in frustration. “I mean, General. I mean—”

Marcus laughed.

An actual laugh—rich, warm, unguarded.

The sound startled you.

You had only ever seen him with a sharp smirk, a carefully measured look of control. But this?

This was different.

His laugh softened the sharpness of his features, lighting something deep in his dark eyes. He looked—

Younger.

Freer.

And for a fleeting moment, you wondered—how long had it been since he had laughed like this?

When he finally composed himself, he tilted his head, still grinning.

“Say my name, dear girl.”

Your breath caught at the pet name.

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress, before taking a slow, steady breath.

“…Marcus.”

The moment the name left your lips, something shifted.

It was subtle, but you saw it—the faint softening of his gaze, the way his smirk faded into something gentler, something warmer.

And for some inexplicable reason, that warmth settled low in your stomach, like a flickering ember you weren’t sure what to do with.

“You’re enjoying this more than you should,” you muttered, shifting uncomfortably under his knowing stare.

His smirk returned, but there was something different about it now. “You will find that a soldier doesn’t have many things he can enjoy.”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“And teasing me is one of them?”

Marcus chuckled, finally stepping back, breaking the tension that had settled between you. He lowered himself into his chair, resting his forearms on the desk before gesturing for you to take the seat across from him.

You hesitated for only a moment before complying, still feeling the lingering effects of the exchange. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, though the slight pout on your lips didn’t go unnoticed.

Marcus leaned forward slightly, all traces of teasing disappearing as his expression turned serious.

“I assume you have questions,” he said, his tone slipping back into something firm.

Something commanding.

Your stomach twisted slightly.

Here it was.

The real reason you were here.

Marcus Acasius, Rome’s greatest General, was about to discuss plans.

---

“What is it you truly expect of me?”

Your voice broke the silence that had settled thickly between you, a weight neither of you had been willing to disturb until now. You had asked this before, yet doubt still clung to your bones, whispering that all of this—this tent, this army, this man—was nothing more than a fragile dream.

Marcus studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, he exhaled, voice steady, unwavering.

“Nothing more, nothing less than what you are willing to give me and my soldiers.”

The gentleness in his tone caught you off guard.

You expected orders, demands—something befitting the General Rome revered. Instead, his words carried something softer, something rare.

“I told you this before,” he murmured, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the heavy wooden table between you. His face was serious, yet his eyes… his eyes were not. “My men’s morale is low. They are weary, burdened. I need them to remember that they are more than just pawns in a ruler’s game. More than meat for the slaughter.”

His voice was sharp now, edged with something bitter, something close to fury.

Your breath caught at the way he spat the words out, his restraint barely holding. Instinctively, your gaze flickered to the tent’s entrance, half-expecting someone to have overheard such treasonous talk.

Marcus let out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he said, almost amused by your reaction. “I trust my men. If I didn’t, they wouldn’t be my men.”

You glanced away, suddenly ashamed of your doubt.

He smirked at that, watching the way your fingers twitched slightly in your lap.

“So,” you ventured, forcing your voice to remain light, “I’m your trap card, then?”

Marcus huffed a laugh, leaning back in his chair with the kind of ease that told you he had already made peace with his own boldness. He swirled his wine absently before taking a slow sip, nodding.

“Something like that.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, unimpressed.

“Are you okay with that?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You hesitated. “Isn’t it too late to ask now?”

Your tone was playful, but the question was not.

You both knew that, regardless of his answer, you would go. You had made your choice long before this conversation, long before he had even asked. Because how could you not?

You wanted to help.

To change something—even if it was just one man’s fate.

“I want you to understand something.”

His voice softened.

Not the voice of a soldier. Not the voice of a general.

But the voice of a man.

And when you met his gaze again, you felt it—the sincerity behind it, the quiet, unyielding truth.

“I will not force you into anything,” he said. “If you wish to leave, you can.”

A pause.

“But it has to be now.”

His meaning was clear.

Once the ship left Rome, there would be no turning back.

There was no place for uncertainty in war.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could help yourself, a quiet snort escaped at his grave delivery of ‘it has to be now.’

Marcus raised a brow, lips twitching. “Something amusing?”

You stifled a laugh, shaking your head. “I suppose I just never imagined you as a man of theatrics.”

His smirk deepened, but he said nothing. Just watched.

Like a hawk waiting for a confession.

You exhaled, glancing down at your hands, twisting your fingers together before finally speaking.

“I…”

The words felt heavy, like they carried more weight than they should.

But you spoke them anyway.

“I don’t know how much help I will be.”

Honest. Unfiltered. Small.

Marcus said nothing, waiting.

“But I want to help.” Your voice strengthened now, quiet yet certain. “I want to make sure your men do not go to war without a chance to return home. I want to try—to build the Rome we spoke of.”

The admission came easier than you expected.

Then, a beat of hesitation.

You swallowed.

“And I want to… stand beside you while you change it.”

The words barely left your lips before warmth flooded your face, a blush creeping in before you could stop it.

You dared to glance up at him, half-expecting mockery, a smirk—anything to make light of your foolishness.

But there was none of that.

Marcus Acasius, Rome’s greatest General, did not laugh.

He simply watched you.

Silent. Still.

And somehow, that made your heart pound even harder.

Because the truth was, from the moment you met him, you knew.

If there was anyone who could change Rome—truly change it—it was him.

Not Marcus Acasius, the General. Not the soldier or the battle-hardened warrior.

But Marcus, the man who sat before you now.

The man with a gentle heart and the weight of an empire on his shoulders.

27 notes · View notes

2000sangel · 1 year ago

Text

Hi again, saw your requests are open again, so can I request Vox x female reader? As for the plot: The Reader and Vox got together during the 7 years that Alastor was absent, so reader never encountered the more manic and obsessed side of her boyfriend when it comes to his enemy. And so, now that Alastor is back Vox started acting a bit differently and reader is worried about him and his mental health. So she confronts him about it. (Just to clarify, I want this to be fluff or sort of hurt-comfort and you can either do one-shots or ficlet, I'm up for whatever) ~Ghost/👻 (you're never getting rid of me now >:3)

First of all, hi Ghost! My PC won't let me visualize your rq so I had to do this...anyways, this I admit was hard to write which is a shame because I loved this idea? So much? I feel like Vox isn't Voxing and the hurt-comfort is there only if you squint...I'll do better next time ;'3

Vox x Fem! Reader

Warning for : mentions of stalking

The digital clock indicated that it was already late at night, three in the morning precisely.

You hadn’t been awakened by something, no, in fact you had never fallen asleep in the first place. Troubled by thoughts of your own boyfriend, you laid in the king size bed of your shared bedroom, anxiously scrolling on your phone in desperate search of yet another distraction from the fact that this had been yet another day consisting of getting ignored by him.

And yet there you were, waiting for him to join you in bed, worried because he had always been a near perfect example of a partner, at least in your viewpoint, but now all he was able to concentrate on was that... Alastor, the Radio Demon.

Just thinking about that name brought back anxiety into your chest.

Knowing very well that the feeling of tightness and shortness of breath wouldn’t have subsided anytime soon if you decided to stay in bed for who knows how many more hours, you stood up, the sudden change in temperature making you wrap your arms around your own figure.

The red moon shone a path to the elevator with its light, almost as if it was telling you to go for it and confront him.

And so you did; taking the elevator to the room you had guessed he was in, you impatiently waited for the doors to open in front of you.

When they did, you were almost blinded by the light emitting from the disproportionate number of screens present in Vox’s office.

He was sitting there, mumbling to himself, checking cameras placed on the various streets leading to the Hazbin Hotel. You shuddered; he was most likely too caught up in what could’ve been considered the stalking of his enemy that he didn’t hear you enter the room.

“Vox...”

You called his name, but he didn’t respond.

“Vox.”

You tried again, this time more resolute, and he turned around, startled; all the screens turned off in unison except for the one that served as his head, which became the only source of light in the entire office.

Vox hadn’t even bothered to change into his nightwear, you noticed; he was still wearing his suit, he had just removed the blazer and placed it on the backrest of his office chair.

“Ah, darling. Whatever are you doing up this late...?” he asked, recomposing himself.

You simply stared at him with concern written all over your face, an expression of pure worry. Careful not to trip on anything, you slowly made your way towards him, your arms still crossed as if to comfort yourself.

“I should be the one asking that question, it’s three and you’re still here checking for traces of Alastor on every camera of the city. Come to bed.” You ranted quietly, seeing what time it was, even though you were almost sure the other Vee’s couldn’t here you from where you were.

Vox sighed, placing a hand on his forehead. Being reminded of the time and of what he was doing most likely made him realize how exhausted he was.

“Yes, yes...I’ll come to bed, just...” he trailed off, not sure what to say himself.

You caught the opportunity to continue your rant, but not before grabbing his blazer and carefully folding it to then place it on his desk. His eyes followed your figure the entire time.

“I’m worried about you, you do nothing but obsess over him these days, and you end up not taking care of yourself and others around you enough, you know?” you said, obviously referring to yourself in your last statement.

You hadn’t gone on a date with Vox in a while, hadn’t taken the time to relish in each other’s presence in what felt like months – and it had probably been that long.

“If only you could understand.” he whispered, visibly irritated by your words, which was something you had barely witnessed during these years of relationship.

“I’ll let you explain, so I’ll be able to. Just, for now, let’s go to bed? I’m worried about your health.”

Another sigh from Vox; you extended your hand, which he grabbed. The closer he got to you the brighter his screen seemed; you couldn’t wait for it to be turned off, you could feel a headache coming on.

The only thing you knew about Vox and Alastor’s history was that they never agreed on matters concerning technology, and that Alastor had disappeared for seven years. This didn’t really explain why your boyfriend was so obsessed with the Radio Demon though, it made no sense to you; there had to be another reason why he was so consumed by their rivalry.

A reason he clearly wasn’t going to share in that moment, as once you arrived in your bedroom he practically threw himself on the bed. You followed suit, covering both your figures with the blanket you had discarded previously.

“Promise you’ll explain soon.” You said, staring up at him.

Vox didn’t want to lose you at all, he realized when he looked into your eyes right then and there. You were putting up with the ugliest side of his personality, for which he had to feel honoured. He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch.

“I’ll do my best. For you.”

His hand moved from your cheek to your waist, pulling you closer. This was more like the Vox that you knew. With a promise that you’d get an explanation the following day, you finally let yourself fall asleep against his chest.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin x reader #x reader #vox x reader #vox x you #vox x fem reader #fem reader #vox hazbin hotel #vox hazbin #hazbin hotel #hazbin

114 notes · View notes

fluentmoviequoter · 10 months ago

Text

Us and The Helpers

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!nanny!reader (implied to be plus-size, not explicitly stated)

Summary: You and the girls you nanny drop by SWAT HQ to visit your boyfriend, Jim Street.

Warnings: fluff!

Word Count: 1.2k+ words

“You’re staring again,” Street says without looking away from the paper before him.

“Sorry,” you reply.

“Yet you’re not stopping.”

“You asked to be my boyfriend, you made it my duty to admire you.”

Street’s eyes finally meet yours as he asks, “Just to admire? Because we could also, like, have a conversation, kiss, whatever you want to do.”

“If I stop staring you might disappear.”

“I know I’m the best boyfriend ever, but I won’t disappear. I love you.”

You and Street both know that on paper, to outsiders, you’re not the most obvious couple ever. And, on occasion, you find yourself in a continued state of shock that he wants anything to do with you. Street takes these moments in stride and uses them to remind you that he loves you and wants to be around you as much as possible.

“I love you too,” you respond. “But I have to be to work early in the morning. The girls and I have an exciting week of learning about different animal habitats planned while their parents are out of town for work.”

Street pouts at the mention of your girls, the three-year-old and one-year-old sisters you nanny. They cling to you, cuddle with you, and love you unconditionally, and Street has made it very clear that he is jealous of all the time and attention they get from you.

“You’ll be gone all week?” Street asks.

“You won’t even notice,” you argue.

“When I die from a lack of attention, my team will blame you.”

“Calm down,” you request with a chuckle.

“I can already feel myself forgetting what you feel like.”

Street falls toward you as he laments, and as you lie side-by-side, you see a glimpse of a life where you take your own children to the zoo and the aquarium. What surprises you is the mental image of Street there with you. You trust that he does love you, and you love him, but this daydream of an entire life with him awakens something in you.

“I love you,” you repeat.

“I love you too,” Street promises. He mumbles, “Traitor,” against your arm, and you don’t correct him.

When you leave the wildlife show, the girls at your sides cling to you. As you carry them both to the car rather than risk losing them in the crowd, you see that you have time left before lunch but no more animal habitats you could show them… except for maybe one. After the girls are secure in their car seats, you sit in the driver’s seat, lock the door, and text Street. He calls a moment later and immediately begins speaking.

“If you don’t come to see me, I will be so angry that I’ll withhold cuddles,” he says in place of a greeting. “Or I’ll try to.”

“So, we can stop by?” you clarify.

“No, you have to.”

“Yes, sir. Let me ask these lovely ladies behind me if they want to visit the police station.”

Loud squeals answer your proposal, and Street chuckles on the other end of the lines.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” you say.

“See you then.”

As promised, you arrive at the station a few minutes later and lead the girls inside. Once you have visitor passes, you walk through the hallways to reach SWAT HQ. Inside the correct area, you stop and feel two sets of arms wrap around you. You’re used to them clinging to you, and you place a hand on each of their backs. The younger sister raises her arms, and you pull her up onto your hip.

“There she is!” Street yells as he approaches.

He runs toward you and holds his arms at odd angles to wrap you and the girls beside you in a hug. They laugh at his attention and excitement, and you smile as well.

“My favorite helpers!” Luca calls when he sees Street’s special visitors.

Every time you walk into HQ, they stop being your girls and become 20 Squad’s helpers, special guests, and any other nickname that makes them feel older and important.

“Does that include me?” you tease as Luca hugs you.

“You know it does. But I think we need to different helpers. One to watch Street-“

“Hey!” Street interjects.

Luca ignores him to finish, “And two to help me color a picture of what our new SWAT uniforms should look like.”

“We can help! We can help!” the three-year-old standing beside you cheers.

“Fantastic!” Luca exclaims. “Let’s go, then!”

Street wraps his arms over your shoulders as Luca leads his favorite helpers to find crayons.

“How are you?” Street asks.

“I’m great. They learned a lot at the wildlife show. How are you? Busy day?”

“Not too busy, so I can’t complain.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Deacon jokes as he passes. He taps your arm kindly and invites you to bring the girls over to see Lila before he rushes away.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, and you know it’s time to get the girls home and make them lunch. You apologize to Street as you tell him you have to go, and he groans dramatically.

After several minutes, you locate the children in your care and get them back into the car with half-finished coloring sheets and happy smiles.

“Officer Street is nice,” the younger girl says.

“He smiles when he sees you like when Dad sees Mom,” her sister adds.

“That’s right,” you agree. “Because, like your mom and dad, we care about each other.”

“Do you love him?”

You smile in the rearview mirror as you answer, “I do.”

On Friday night, you let yourself into Street’s place after work. You’re tired from an exhausting yet rewarding week but want to see Street again. When he arrives and enters the living room, he drops his bag and runs to hug you against the couch.

“Thank you,” he breathes out.

“For?”

“You were supposed to be at work still. Would you believe me if I said this moment made my entire day?”

You smile up at him as he stands over you to answer, “I would, because you make mine all the time.”

“I need to kiss you now,” Street declares. “Are you ready?”

“No, wait.” You shift into a more comfortable position and answer, “Now I am.”

Street grabs your waist, and all you can think of and feel is him and the love between you. The image from earlier returns with Street’s affection, and you hope it’s something in your future, and not a simple, futile daydream.

“Seeing you with the kids today, and them hanging all over you and cuddling you, made me realize something,” Street says in the quiet space between you.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmhmm. I want this, all of it. But I don’t know if I can do that yet.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone. It’s you and me, right?”

“And the best helpers in the world. I mean, we’re getting octopus uniforms because of them.”

“Street,” you request quietly. “I want it too, all of it. For now, though, do you think you could keep kissing me?”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

#jim street x fem!reader #jim street x reader #jim street fluff #jim street fic #jim street imagine #jim street #swat cbs #swat x reader #fem!reader #requests #hanna writes✯

107 notes · View notes

prettyyoungandbored · 11 months ago

Text

In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning - Charlie Dalton

Pairing: Charlie Dalton x Fem!Reader

Sequel to The Night Before

WARNINGS: Very brief nudity. Read at your own risk.

Author’s Note: I probably should have clarified this in the story before but Charlie and the reader are in their 20s.

NOT MY GIF

There was something peaceful about the early morning hours. There was a blue haze in the sky. Night was leaving, and the sun was beginning to brace for its shift in the sky.

While New York was the city that never slept, Y/N and Charlie’s brownstone was in a fairly quiet neighborhood, fairly being the key word. But for this particular morning, everything felt still.

Y/N couldn’t believe it. She wondered if she woke up from her dream and into another one. Maybe the city knew she needed some quiet before the craziness that came before a wedding.

Either way, she was grateful.

She lay in the bed, her naked body tangled in the thin, white sheets. She turned over to see Charlie lay beside her, deep in sleep.

Her hand carded through his hair as she smiled. She wasn’t sure what she had done in a past life that allowed her be loved by him. There was never a dull moment that passed when she was with him.

Sure, Charlie could be a little shit, but it never crossed the line. He made her laugh until her stomach hurt and made her feel loved and supported.

Charlie’s face scrunched as he stirred awake.

“What’re you doing up?” he yawned.

“I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep,” she whispered.

He hummed and fell onto his back. His fingers motioned her to him.

She scoot her body toward him until he wrapped an arm around her as her head nestled in between his chest and shoulder.

His finger drew lazy circles on her forearm. “Can’t have my bride yawning at the alter. What would everyone think?”

She chuckled. “Gotta have some drama at the wedding. Keep everyone on their toes.”

“I like the way you think.” He kissed the top of her head. “And here I thought I was going to have to bribe one of the boys to speak up during the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ bit.”

“And which boy were you thinking of?”

“Not Knox because Izzie would kill me. Maybe Meeks.”

She giggled. “That would’ve been hysterical.”

“But alas,” he sighed, “looks like we’ll have to go through a boring ceremony.”

“Poor us.”

“A tragedy.”

He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his other arm around her. “But I’d go through worse if it meant I’d get to be with you forever.”

She pouted, her heart exploding. “Oh Charlie, you already did. You had to ask my dad for my hand in marriage.”

He snickered at the memory. “That took a week of planning and practicing.”

“Knox told me you even practiced on him.”

He grimaced. Knox had it easy because he knew how to charm parents. “Don’t remind me.”

She looked up at him. “It was worth it though.”

He smiled adoringly. “Without question.”

Just as their lips went to meet, the phone rang in the kitchen. Charlie let go of Y/N and padded toward the kitchen.

“Hello….Knox, what’re you…ok…ok…ok, I’ll let her know.”

Y/N sat up in bed, pulling the sheets close to her chest. Charlie returned and crawled back under the covers.

“So apparently your mother was about to come over and get you but Izzie and Knox heard her and Izzie offered to come get you. She’s on her way now.”

Y/N laid back, groaning. Charlie smiled, rubbing her bare leg with his hand.

“I’m not ready to leave,” she sighed. “Can’t I stay here with you a little longer?”

“As much as I would love that, unfortunately we have to keep up appearances one last time. After that, we can do whatever we like.”

The thought of having more mornings like this completely uninterrupted would make it worth it.

“Did you tell Izzie you were coming here last night?” he asked.

She nodded. “She was gonna tell my mom I was sick.”

Charlie hummed. “And what illness were we going to go with?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I figured you could come up with something for me. You must’ve had experience.”

“Loads. C’mon, we’ll figure it out while we get you dressed.”

====================================

A half an hour later…

“Thanks for covering for me,” Y/N said, turning her head to Izzie as the two women sat in the back of the cab.

“You got it. Your mother was on a war path so I figured it was best to stop her before she walked in on you and Charlie.” Izzie turned her head to Y/N. “Also what illness are we going with?”

“Period.”

“That works. That should keep her quiet for awhile.”

Silence fell between the two women. Then Izzie spoke up.

“You won’t hear the end of it.”

“Not at all.”

#charlie dalton x reader #charlie dalton imagine #dead poets society #dead poets society fanfic #charlie dalton

69 notes · View notes

merrybloomwrites · 1 year ago

Text

You Can Start a Family (Extra: Getting High)

Summary: Y/N's never tried weed before, and has an interesting night trying it for the first time with the three people she loves and trusts the most.

AN: This is a story about people getting high, written by someone who's never been high. I did a fair amount of research, so I hope it's accurate enough to what people experience lol

Previous Chapters:

Main Story: One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six ; Seven ; Eight ; Nine ; Ten

Sickfic Part 1 ; Part 2

Mitchrry Prequel

Fan Reactions

Holiday Blues

Mitchryy Reunion

Word Count: 2.8K

CW: Mentions of smut & daddy kink; drug use

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a perfect Friday morning. You’re sitting at the kitchen table of your LA home with Sarah, Mitch, and Harry. Sarah had surprised you all with a full English breakfast “just because” and you’re enjoying every delicious bite.

It’s so good that everyone is practically silent, no one wants to take a break from eating to say anything. You’re the first to get full so you decide to start up some conversation. There’s something you’ve been wanting to ask them but have been too shy to actually voice your question.

Deciding to finally go for it, you break the silence saying, “What’s it like to get high?”

Simultaneously, all three of them stop mid chew to stare at you, completely caught off guard by your question.

Harry composes himself first and after finishing his bite of food he says, “Well it depends on what drug you’ve taken.” You’re grateful for the way he responded, showing that they’ll take the conversation seriously and not as a joke.

It’s no secret that he and Mitch have done a couple different drugs in the past. It’s common knowledge that “She” was written by Mitch while he was under the influence of psychedelic drugs. And everyone’s heard the story of Harry biting off part of his tongue while high on mushrooms.

Harry has also mentioned having done coke once or twice, and that admittedly makes you a little nervous. You went through the DARE program growing up where you’d been taught that all drugs will ruin your life and kill you. So while you never judge others for occasionally getting a little high, it does make you somewhat nervous that something bad could happen when they do.

You voice your concerns to them, and they talk you through what drugs they’ve tried, what it was like, and how they ensure their safety while under the influence. By the end you’re feeling better about everything.

But you notice one thing they left out.

“And what about weed?” You ask.

“What about it?” Mitch asks.

“What are you guys like when you smoke it? Eat it? Whatever you all do with pot,” you clarify.

“The boys prefer to smoke,” Sarah answers, “And I don’t like smoking, so I’ll have some edibles if I want to participate.”

“We all get pretty mellow,” Mitch says to answer your question.

“You can be more mellow?” You inquire jokingly, referring to his generally calm demeanor.

“He just sits there all smiley,” Harry says.

Sarah laughs and adds, “Yea, until he starts getting extra horny.”

You blush thinking about what that must be like and then ask, “What about you two? What are you guys like?”

“Sarah gets very giggly. And chatty,” Mitch answers. “And Harry gets the munchies.”

“Seriously?” You ask. Harry, the person in this relationship who is most regimented about what he eats and rarely ever snacks, gets the munchies?

“Oh, for sure,” Harry answers. “All bets are off when I’m high. Calories don’t count,” he finishes with a shrug.

“I wonder what I’d be like,” you say quietly.

“Y/N, do you want to try it? We’d all be with you, make sure nothing happens,” Sarah says.

You sit silently for a moment, debating what to say. This was another goal of yours for this conversation. You want to try getting high, especially with the three of them, who you trust more than anyone. You had been offered weed at a couple parties before, and always turned it down, nervous that something could go wrong. But here? With Sarah, and Mitch, and Harry? Well, that sounds like it could actually be fun.

You nod and say, “Yea, I kind of do want to try.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “We can make that happen.”

After that, the conversation turns to other topics as you finish eating and cleaning up breakfast. Harry spends a good chunk of the day writing. Mitch helps him but heads to the grocery store in the afternoon. Meanwhile, you and Sarah work in the garden, getting it ready to put in some new plants.

Happy with your progress for the day, you head inside to take a shower. When you’re done and dressed you walk down to the living room where Sarah, also freshly showered, and Harry and sitting together on the couch. You join them, sitting beside Harry. He talks a bit about what he worked on so far and then you finally hear the door opening, alerting you all that Mitch has returned from the store.

All three of you join him in the kitchen, helping to put the groceries away. You get to one bag that looks different from the others, like it came from a different store, but it still just seems to contain some different snacks, namely chocolates and some gummy candies. You get a closer look and notice the little leaf symbol on all of the packages.

“Uhm, Mitch? What is this?” You know what it is, or at least, you’re mostly sure, but it feels like a good idea to actually confirm.

He looks over to see what you’re holding and smirks before saying, “Well that would be weed. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to grab some after our talk this morning.”

“Can we try it?”

“Sure,” he replies.

“Tonight?” You ask.

“Are you sure?” Sarah confirms.

“I mean, it seems like a good time. We have a free weekend, which never happens. And I don’t want to overthink it more than I already have.”

“Ok,” Harry responds. “After dinner if you still want to then these will be our dessert,” he says, taking the bag of goodies from you and putting it in a cabinet, far away from the rest of the snacks.

“Sorry it’s only edibles,” Mitch says to Harry. “Sarah doesn’t smoke, and I didn’t think Y/N would either. And you don’t like smoking alone so, yea.”

“Are you not joining us?” Sarah asks.

“Not this time, I want to stay sober just in case.”

“Look at you, going into daddy mode,” Harry jokes.

There’s a flicker in Mitch’s eyes at that, something you’ve never seen before. “Haven’t heard that nickname in a long time,” Mitch says.

“You haven’t earned it,” Harry replies, tone definitely cheeky, and a little suggestive. You tuck the encounter away in your mind, making a note to ask them about whatever that just was at another time.

Now that everything seems to be decided, you turn to start making dinner. With the prospect of a new experience on the horizon you need to do something that’s familiar to you. Sarah helps you cook, and the boys clean up after.

Once everyone is in comfy clothes you meet up back in the living room. Mitch is holding the chocolate bar and gives you a look before asking, “Still want to try this?”

“I do,” you reply. You’re excited, even if you’re slightly nervous about how you might act or if you might say something stupid while under the influence.

“Alright,” he replies.

Mitch opens the package, breaking off three pieces and handing one to each of you. He then passes the rest to Harry, saying, “You might want one more in a bit. It’s a pretty low dose.”

You pop the chocolate in your mouth, a thrill going through you at doing something you’ve always been told was dangerous. It’s silly to feel this way, knowing now that the likelihood of this having any type of negative outcome is extremely slim, but it still feels almost reckless in an exciting way.

Nothing happens for a bit, but you expected that. Harry ends up taking one more piece, and you wonder if you should as well. Before you can even ask, Mitch says, “No more for you, give it time.”

Sarah adds, “It’ll kick in soon, trust me.”

And she isn’t wrong. You don’t notice it happening, but eventually you feel different. Your body feels kind of tingly, and you’re smiling but you don’t really know why.

The next thing you know, you and Sarah are discussing the garden at length. The area you have set aside is totally not big enough. You need way more space so you can grow veggies and berries and like, three orange trees so you can make your own orange juice every morning. Harry gets up no less than five times to retrieve snacks from the kitchen and you discover you’re actually starving, which is weird because wasn’t dinner an hour ago? You’re never hungry so soon after a meal.

Some more time apparently passes, and you and Sarah are now laughing at a story Harry’s telling about his craziest fan encounter.

Suddenly you remember a comment from earlier and turn to Mitch. He’s sitting next to you on the couch, completely entertained by the antics of the three of you and doesn’t miss when your attention focuses on him.

When you don’t say anything for over a minute he gives you a confused look and says, “Can I help you?”

“Why did Harry call you daddy earlier?” You ask.

At this question both Mitch and Harry blush. BLUSH. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that before.

Mitch looks at your doe eyed, innocent expression and thinks for a minute how he’s going to explain this to you. He sometimes forgets that all your sexual experience has been with him, and there’s a lot you’re unfamiliar with. Sure, the fact that you have sex with three people at once might seem adventurous, but the sex you all have tends to be mostly very vanilla. Mitch watches your inquisitive expression as he figures out the best way to explain daddy kinks and dom/sub dynamics to you.

He decides to start by asking you, “Have you heard of daddy kinks before?”

Your eyes go wide as you realize that this is going down a sexual route. Sarah starts giggling next to you at your reaction and you pout before saying, “Don’t laugh at me, you know I was sheltered!”

“I don’t mean to, you’re just so adorable when you're all shocked and naive,” she replies.

Sarah then shifts on the couch so she’s laying sideways, her back against the armrest. She pulls you to her, so your back is against her chest. Mitch slides closer and Harry takes the seat next to him. You and Sarah both stretch out your legs over Mitch’s lap until your feet rest on Harry. You feel all warm inside, getting to be in contact with all three of them.

“Sorry for laughing,” Sarah says quietly in your ear. “You know how much we love teaching you new things.” You shutter involuntarily at her suggestive tone. She wraps her arms around your middle as Mitch says, “You never answered my question.”

“There was a question?” You say and start giggling. You search your fuzzy brain, trying to remember what he asked you, then trying to remember what you guys were even talking about.

“I asked you if you knew what a Daddy kink is,” he says, watching you closely in case you had another entertaining reaction.

This time your face goes serious, and Mitch can literally see the wheels turning in your mind as you come up with an answer.

After a literal minute of thinking you reply with a decisive, “No.”

“Okay. So, a common misconception is that someone with a daddy kink has daddy issues. And that could be the case for some people but that’s not really what it is. It’s about power dynamics. Like one person gives over control to the other person. And the one with control would be considered daddy.”

“Mitch, that was a fucking terrible explanation,” Harry says. “Y/N, did that make sense to you?”

“Not really, no.”

Sarah decides to take over and says, “Do you remember the night after one of the Wembley shows when we teased you on the ride home?” You immediately remember what she’s talking about and a shutter of pleasure runs through your body at the memory. “And when we got back to the room we edged you even more and wouldn’t let you come? And then made you come multiple times until you passed out?”

“Holy shit,” Harry says. “Why have I never asked about things you did before I joined? Fuck, that sounds hot.”

You blush at the memory and Sarah continues, saying, “That night, Mitch and I had the power. We were in control of your pleasure. You trusted us to take care of you. That’s what a dom/sub dynamic is about. And there’s different titles that doms go by, like sir and ma’am or daddy and mommy. Depends on personal preference.”

“And Mitch prefers daddy?” You ask. He huffs out a laugh and looks visibly flustered at this question, so you say, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Oh, he for sure prefers daddy,” Harry adds. “The first time I let it slip out, he came instantaneously.” Your body starts to heat up and you squirm in Sarah’s lap as Harry continues, “I’d asked him to restrain me and just take what he wanted. He went full daddy mode and didn’t even realize. One of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.”

You can’t sit still any longer, so you move, your limbs uncoordinated due to the drugs and lust clouding your mind, but you finally succeed in straddling Mitch’s lap.

“I wanna do that,” you say.

“Do what exactly?” Mitch presses.

“I dunno. Everything. Anything you guys want to do. I want to give up control,” you answer.

“Darling, I don’t think you’ve ever been in control in bed,” Sarah says with another giggle.

“Okay but like, I wanna do it legit. Please, daddy?” You say with puppy dog eyes looking right at Mitch.

He groans, and you think you’re getting your way, so you move to kiss him and grind down in his lap. His hands grip your waist and frustratingly, they stop your movements.

“Look at me, baby,” he says, and your eyes dart back to meet his. “We can try it, but not now.”

“Why not?” You whine.

“Because you’re high and can’t fully consent. We all have to be sober to do this the right way. And there’s a lot we need to talk about first. We need to discuss limits, safe words, things like that. Okay?”

“Fine. But I won’t forget this.”

“Trust me babe, neither will I,” he replies, nipping at your ear and you give him a dirty look for teasing you.

“Now, why don’t we watch a movie?” Mitch suggests.

“Emperor's New Groove!” You immediately shout.

“What’s that one about?” Harry asks.

“Seriously? You’ve never seen it?” He shakes his head no and you look at the other two who confirm they’d never watched it either.

“NONE of you have seen Emperor's New Groove? That’s a fucking travesty.” They all burst into laughter since you never curse but this seems to be high enough stakes to earn the explicit word.

“We are watching it. Right now.” You jump off the couch, stumbling across the room to grab the remote. You plop back into Sarah’s lap, legs outstretched over the boys, and concentrate on putting the movie on.

Before you press play you say, “I have one very important question.”

“And what would that be, love?” Harry asks.

“Are there more snacks?”

Without a word he gets up and makes a trip to the kitchen, bringing back an assortment of treats.

You grab some of the chocolates and start the movie.

You’re all a giggling mess watching the movie, and you’re starting to get very sleepy by the time it’s over. Mitch has his work cut out for him, rounding the three of you up and helping you all get ready for bed. You cooperate with brushing your teeth and washing your face, but refuse to put pants on, arguing that it’s too warm and all you want is one of Harry’s t-shirts. You also refuse to walk from the bathroom to the bedroom, and Mitch steps in before Sarah can try picking you up while she’s still unsteady herself.

You’re basically dead weight in Mitch’s arms, and you laugh uncontrollably when he gently throws you onto the mattress. The night ends with all four of you together in bed, exchanging “I love you” back and forth repeatedly.

You fall asleep on top of Mitch, and he thinks back to how the evening went. He can’t help but smile at the fact that high Y/N is basically a combination of the other three when high. You laugh and talk uncontrollably like Sarah, snack like Harry, and get a bit more horny than usual like Mitch.

And he certainly won’t forget the conversation you’d had any time soon. He hopes the rest of you won’t either. As he strokes your hair and looks fondly at Sarah and Harry sleeping at his sides, he feels like today was a perfect day. And he can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Thank you so much for reading! Requests are open so if you want to see anything specific, let me know!

Taglist: @akkatz @pandeebearstyles @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite@theekyliepage@numafarawayglxy @booberry019-blog @hillzrry@ssareidbby @gem1712 @acesofspadess@houseofdilfs@shaquille-0atmeal-1@kissitnhekitchen @amateurduck @poguestyleskye@n0vaj3an@snwells@drunk-teens-doing-drugs ; @fdl305@creativelyeva@daphnesutton@selluequestrian@lovingfurypanda @stardream14 @tbsloneely@eversincehs1@boomitsallie1@rose-garden-dreamz @fictionalmensblog @buckybarnessimpp

#harry styles x reader #mitch rowland x harry styles #mitch rowland x reader #mitch rowland x sarah jones x reader #sarah jones x reader #sarah jones x mitch rowland x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you

88 notes · View notes