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mxstellatayte · 5 months ago

Text

fuck me up, florida.

warnings: angst for the majority of it, sex at the end though, legal use of alcohol (reader and logan are both 23,) mentions of gunshot wounds, minor character death, based on a taylor swift song, childhood (middle/high school) friends to lovers, idiots in love, "you came" "you called," reader is half mexican (mom's side), slightly inaccurate bc i know carola wasn't at the miami gp but just go with it for the plot, reader's last name is rodriguez,

author's note: y'all i apologize if any of the spanish grammar is a little weird. my spanish is rusty, pls don't hate me for it

logan sargeant x female reader

i need to forget so

tuesday, april 30th.

you scan your ticket, the screen displaying your name and seat number. 12A. at least it'll be easy to sleep, you think.

after shoving your suitcase above your seat, you shuffle your way to the window and buckle yourself in.

are you really doing this? flying a couple thousand miles to visit your childhood best friend who, up until recently, had you convinced that his newfound fame that he'd gathered by announcing his enrollment in the williams driver's academy made him too good for you.

the only thing that made you think otherwise was the instagram dm he'd sent you five weeks prior, asking if you'd be able to make it to the miami grand prix. instead of a simple yes or no, you responded with the heaviest three words you've ever seen in order.

can we call?

logan picked up on the second ring.

"hey."

"how's texas?"

you smile. "hot. sunny. flat. beachless."

"so... it's good?" you hate that you can still picture his facial expressions even after not seeing him for years except for on tv.

"'s okay, but it's not home, y'know?"

"definitely. it doesn't matter how much i decorate my place in england, it's never florida."

"nothing besides florida is ever florida," you sigh, looking out the window of your apartment. "how's the season been?" you don't exactly know why you're asking. you know exactly how his season's gone. you keep every single detail of every single race weekend meticulously catalogued in a journal that you take everywhere with you. no matter what, you've stayed up late or woken up early to watch every race, as if your hopeful energy would make its way across the world to him in time.

"honestly? it's been pretty shit. the car handles really badly and wasn't really even ready for the first few hours of testing in bahrain. i can't get it to perform and maybe that's just because i haven't linked with the car yet, but it still really sucks."

you sigh, hoping logan can't tell how disappointed you are with his team and engineers. "you need a better team, lo."

"i know." there's silence between you for a few moments, and every second that passes makes it grow heavier on your chest. "will you come to miami?"

there it is. the reason you called him.

"i don't know, lo. don't get me wrong, i'd love to, but it's really short notice and i don't know if i could afford the trip. i might be able to make it to austin, but i'll need the time to save the money for the trip."

"i'll fly you out," logan immediately says, his tone almost desperate. longing. "i'll pay for your flight, your hotel, everything. please?"

that last word hit you like a punch in the gut. you only had one more reason to not go and you weren't about to tell him that reason. it was a shitty excuse anyways.

you're not about to tell him that the reason you moved to texas was to give him the space he needed to be able to succeed in his career and for you to succeed in yours.

take me to florida

you're jolted awake by the force of the plane landing, if you can call the awkward limbo you were stuck in sleep. immediately, your stomach twists with anxiety. logan had offered to pick you up from the airport, but you refused.

"i'll just take an uber," you'd said. "i'm gonna want to relax a bit after the flight, y'know?"

his only trade-off? you met him for dinner. simple enough, right?

in theory.

now, standing in front of the full-length mirror in your hotel room, you debate between a floral sundress and a pair of denim shorts, a tank top, and a white button-up t-shirt with a colorful inkblot pattern.

you decide on the sundress.

fifteen minutes later, you're pushing earrings through your piercings, silver abstract shapes you'd bought on a trip to europe with your mother. you have to leave, but the situation you're in sucks. your hair won't sit right on your head, either being too frizzy from the humidity or losing any and all volume, and your makeup just doesn't seem like it'll last in the miami heat.

fuck it.

who are you dressing for, anyways?

logan's seen you at your absolute worst. he was the only one you let yourself cry in front of after your father died. he was the one that held you for what seemed like hours while you sobbed into his chest and he told you that none of it was your fault- that you never could have known that, when you hugged him before he left for the police station, told him you loved him, and slipped a note into his lunch box, the next time you would see him, he would be laying in a casket. he was the only one that could make you smile in the weeks following his funeral, dropping his entire schedule if you simply sent him a text that said "can you come over?"

the restaurant logan found isn't too far from your hotel, so you ultimately decide to walk. your walk is over before you're able to process that it even started and you're taking out your earbuds and putting them in your bag, taking out your phone instead to text logan.

i'm here.

i've got some regrets

were you always this breathtakingly beautiful?

logan's phone buzzes in his front pocket, but he knows it's you texting him. he doesn't even bother taking it out of his pocket before standing up from his seat at the bar and walking over to you, and when you see him, your smile almost makes his heart melt.

"hey," he says, and he hopes his voice doesn't waver from how nervous he is.

"hey. i missed you," you respond, dodging the hand he holds out and going in for a hug. "i've known you since middle school, logan, i'm not shaking your hand."

your arms around him and your body pressed against his almost makes logan short circuit. thankfully, he's able to regain control of his brain and hug you back, hopefully before you realize he isn't hugging you back.

when you pull back, the hug seeming way too brief for logan's preference, you're looking up and smiling with a sparkle in your eyes that makes him regret not making enough time for you. "thanks for bringing me out here."

"thanks for coming. do you want a drink?"

"sure. do you have a table yet?"

"i was waiting for you."

"in that case, lead the way." you gesture towards the restaurant, and logan shows you to a booth in the corner. soon enough, a waiter comes over to you and sets down two glasses of water and two menus.

"welcome in, y'all. do we need a bit of time to look at the menu or do we know what we want to get started?" his southern drawl is thick, and it reminds you of texas. but you're in florida now.

"i think we'll look at the menu for a minute, thanks," logan says, and the waiter nods and walks away. as you open the menu and begin looking, logan points out something you might like and you do the same for him. conversation begins to flow freely between you, and it reminds you of the times in high school when you would go out with friends.

eventually, you decide on a plate of nachos and logan gets a plate of wings. as you wait for your food, you catch up on everything: your move to texas, logan's racing career, your work volunteering with the austin philharmonic, his homesickness from living in england, and everything in between. you crack stupid jokes, share bites of food, and steal sips of each other's drinks.

it's like old times.

i'll bury them in florida

on wednesday, you and logan drive up to visit your father's headstone. it's difficult. it's only the third time you've visited him since he was buried three years ago. the first time you visited him was a year after he died. even a year later, you still carried so much anger and hatred towards the doctors and nurses that were operating on him, trying desperately to save his life after two bullets hit him- one in his leg, one in his torso.

he died on the table.

the second time was just a few months after, and you were still wearing your cap, gown, and stole from your graduation ceremony. by then, you had been able to forgive the doctors and had graduated in the top 10% of your class. four years of hell had finally rewarded you with a degree in instrumental performance and an internship at the south florida symphony orchestra.

now, the third time, you have a picnic blanket and lunch packed into the backseat of logan's car, the windows are rolled down, and your favorite playlist is shuffled on the aux. it's a beautiful day, too; it isn't too hot (even with the humidity,) there's a gentle breeze in the air, and clouds occasionally cover the sun. when logan pulls into the parking lot of the cemetery and you sling your tote bag full of food over your shoulder, your hands start shaking.

of course, logan notices.

his hand slides into your own, and you look up at him. his eyes meet yours and you smile. "thank you for coming with me," you say.

"of course. i didn't want you to have to do this alone."

you look back at the gate into the cemetery, the black bars menacingly sleek and very, very terrifying. you chew your lower lip in anxiety. "i don't know if i can do it, logan."

"i'm here with you. i know you. you're strong. you aren't the kind of person to let a gate scare you." you laugh lightly, looking down at the ground. the gravel of the parking lot, your scuffed, beat-up high top purple converse, and logan's nike dunks make up what you have to describe as a perfect picture. your phone is in your free hand before you know it, and you're lining up the shot. "still into photography, huh?"

"yep. i have some cameras in my suitcase at the hotel." when you pocket your phone and look back up at him, logan's heart melts. the shine in your eyes and the passion in your smile is enough to soften anyone's heart, but for him, as someone who's known you for years and has been there for you through thick and thin, it touches him in such a special way. "i'm hoping to get some good photos of the races. but enough delaying. let's go visit my dad."

the creak of the gates opening makes your ears bleed, and you laugh at how logan is making the exact same face as you in reaction to such a shrill sound. despite only having visited his headstone twice before, you remember exactly where in the cemetery it is and are able to find it within five minutes.

"hi, dad," you begin, your voice already wavering just the slightest and tears beginning to well in your eyes. logan's hand squeezes yours, though, and you're reminded that he's right there. he always will be. you take a deep breath and continue. "i miss you. we all do. i know i haven't visited you in a while, and i'm sorry about that. i really do have to come stop by every now and then. i moved to austin and have a volunteering gig with the austin philharmonic at almost every show and i have a job at a company that helps students with learning disabilities learn instruments. it's really fun." you pause to wipe the tears off of your cheeks, your nose beginning to drip. "sam is in his junior year of college, and he's majoring in engineering. he flew the coop, but he still comes home for the summers. he, uh, he actually got in to c.u. boulder, like he always talked about. that kid was always thinking about college, even in middle school.

"i'm actually here with logan, too, if you hadn't noticed. do you, uh, do you want to fill him in on what's going on with you, or should i keep going?"

"whatever you prefer."

"okay, i'm going to keep talking, because i think if i don't, i'm going to completely break down. logan finally signed with williams to drive on their formula 1 team last year, like i always said he would. i'm really proud of him and really regret not telling him that more, and now that i'm saying it out loud i'm promising both you and him that i'll tell him that more often. the race this weekend is actually here, in florida. miami, specifically. it's always a celebrity shit show that no one really wants to see, but it's the main opportunity for the celebrity sponsors to actually go to a race.

"what else has been going on? oh, mom is still a therapist. i can't tell you much about that because of hipaa, but she always comes home saying that she's glad that she could help someone. i'm gonna have dinner with her tomorrow night, and then i'm going back into miami to watch logan's practice sessions."

you pause your rambling, thinking about what there is to say next, but your thought is interrupted by your stomach grumbling. loud. you and logan laugh just as loudly, the sound echoing through the grass field and stone gravesites. "oh, yeah, that's another thing. we brought lunch. i also got you pink tulips, because i know they're your favorite." you delicately rest the bouquet on your father's headstone as you sit down, then pull out the different plastic containers filled with food you'd stolen from the williams hospitality. "you'd be proud of me, dad. i smuggled this entire picnic out of the wiliams motorhome without a hiccup. robin hood style."

logan laughs, and you turn to him. he's mirrored your position, sitting cross-legged on the grass. "apple?"

"nah, i'm gonna start with my sandwich. i did grab you some of the salt and vinegar chips i know you like."

the look logan gives you can only be described as pure adoration. "you," he says, pointing a finger at you in an incredibly sassy manner, "are an absolute goddess."

"i know," you respond cheekily, tossing some hair over your shoulder.

the banter between the two of you continues through your picnic, laughter and smiles erasing the dried tracks of tears on your cheeks and on logan's. you're almost able to forget where you are.

tell me i'm despicable

almost two hours later, the two of you are laying in a nearby park underneath a tree, peacefully observing the clouds that pass overhead and talking even more about any topic that comes to your mind. the question that's been gnawing at you since your plane landed in miami eventually bubbles to the surface, and it tumbles past your lips before you can stop it.

"did you ever wonder why i moved to texas?" you look to your left where logan rests, but he keeps looking up at the sky. you mirror him.

"i always assumed it was just because you needed a change of scenery. after everything that happened and your music career taking off, it would make sense that you would relocate to somewhere better suited for you."

"that's the thing, though. if i'm being entirely honest with you, lo, i hate texas. i hate the whole state. i hate how hot it is all the time without even being humid, i hate not being able to go to the beach. i hate how dry it is. i hate how flat it is. i hate the monotony of it. i hate not being here."

logan hesitates for a moment before speaking, and it's the longest moment you've ever experienced. "why did you move to austin, then?"

when he looks over at you, you're chewing your lower lip. it's a nervous tic, logan's noticed. he's not even sure if you know you do it. "honestly? i thought you moved on from our friendship. i thought everything with f1 suddenly got so big and important and famous that maybe i wasn't... enough? i thought that being a police officer's daughter from the same town as you that was studying to teach people how to understand and play music maybe just wasn't cool enough to be friends with a world-renowned formula 1 driver."

logan's heart almost shatters when he hears the weakness in your voice. you sound so broken and so alone. he knew that, when you lost your father, you isolated yourself from a lot of people, even your best friend from high school and through your first year of college. he was the only person outside of your immediate family that you spent a decent amount of time with, but when he was admitted to the driver's academy he had to move to england. he abandoned you.

"i didn't. i never forgot about you. sometimes i still look through the photos we have together because i miss you that much."

you sit up, tears pricking your eyes for the second time that day. "really?"

"yeah. maybe once a week?"

when you look down at logan, you're suddenly starstruck. you can't help but notice all of his little features that you wouldn't see if you didn't know to look for them. his freckles that are so light you'd have to squint to see them if you didn't know them like the back of your hand. the mole on his chin that he'd always been self-conscious about but you've always seen it as beautiful. the lines from where his eyes crinkle when he smiles. the annoyingly perfect flop of his hair that he's styled almost the exact same way since you started high school together. an urge you haven't felt in years suddenly bubbles, white-hot in the pit of your stomach, and it's boiling over before you can stop it. your eyes are closed and your lips are on his. finally. after years of wanting, of stares that lasted just a bit too long to be just friendly, of flushed faces and nervous excuses, you're finally kissing him.

but he's not kissing you back.

you pull back immediately, panicked that you read something wrong. you turn away, hiding your face in your hands out of shame. "shit, logan, i'm so sorry. i thought-"

"kiss me again." logan sits up, and when you turn around, the look he's giving you can only be described as completely and entirely fucked. you don't question his statement, just lean forward, placing your lips on his, and letting yourself melt. he moans softly into the kiss, his right arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you impossibly closer. when you pull away and open your eyes, your breath catches in your throat. he looks beautiful. his eyes remain closed, but when they flutter open, you see colors in them that you've never seen before. sure, you've always seen the darker rim of blue that outlines his irises, but now that you're so close to him, you can see the flecks of green and grey in them. it's the most stunning thing you've ever seen.

eventually, you break the silence between the two of you. "i've wanted to kiss you for so long," you whisper, so quiet you're not sure logan heard it.

but he did.

"me, too," he says, and after a beat of silence between you two, you both burst out laughing. the laugh he hears from you is the pure, bright laugh that logan's missed so dearly, the laugh that you only really let him hear. the laugh that has tears in your eyes and makes you snort because you're laughing so hard you can't even breathe properly.

eventually, when you're able to calm down, your head resting on logan's shoulder, your hand holding his, you're able to process what just happened. you just hope logan is processing it, too.

"we just kissed."

"yes. we did."

"how long have you held out on me?"

"since christmas of sophomore year. when you made me the chevron bracelet with my favorite colors."

you laugh, then lift your head to look at him. "i fell for you in october of that year. when you convinced your mom to drive two and a half hours for the marching band state finals. just so you could be there with me."

"god, we're idiots," logan laughs. you can't help but lean forward and press another kiss to his lips, lingering there and just breathing him in.

existing.

say it's unforgivable

the next two days fly by. thursday, you spend the day with your mother. she asks all sorts of questions as if she doesn't know the answers, and you answer each one with a smile on your face. when she asks about logan, you smile sheepishly. she figures out what the smile means.

"took you two long enough."

normally you'd still be in bed at 9:30 am on a friday, but today, you walk into the miami paddock clutching logan's hand for dear life. your neon green pass hangs from your neck, a white williams cap atop your head. you can't help but feel out of place, but someone calls logan's name and you both turn. your stomach drops when you see who's called his name. his hair is styled similarly to logan's, and he sports a papaya polo.

you'd know him anywhere. it's oscar piastri.

you're standing there a bit awkwardly as logan greets his friend, but your heart stops when oscar turns to you. "oscar, this is my girlfriend." he introduces you by your name to the mclaren driver and you wipe your hands on your denim shorts before shaking his hand firmly, exchanging "nice to meet you"s. the three of you chat for a few minutes before oscar is summoned by his pr manager.

"girlfriend, huh?" you look up at logan with a smile on your face, lacing his fingers with yours.

"i didn't mean to overstep, but i kind of assumed that's what this is now. is it?" he looks a bit nervous asking that, and if you thought your love for him couldn't grow any more, you thought wrong.

"that's absolutely what we are, lo. you're my boyfriend. i'm your girlfriend." you can tell just how hard logan's trying to not let the smile on his face show just how happy he is to hear you say that, and you stand on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips briefly. "you have a prep meeting to get to, don't you?"

"i do. come with me, though. i need to introduce you to alex and lily. she can show you around."

"sounds like a plan. i need to learn how to do all of..." you gesture around you, the white tents and media carts all seeming suddenly too intimidating. "...this."

logan laughs, placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the williams hospitality. when you're next to him, though, despite the cameras around you and your proximity to some of the world's biggest stars, you feel safe and protected.

after meeting logan's teammate and the thai driver's girlfriend, who you quickly realize is one of the sweetest people you've ever had the pleasure of meeting, you're shown around the williams hospitality and, eventually, the paddock. lily introduces you to the other drivers' wives and girlfriends that have made it to the weekend, and when you hear a certain last name, your ears perk up.

"martinez? is she latina?"

"yeah," kika, pierre's girlfriend, says. "she's checo's wife. i'm pretty sure she's in the red bull hospitality right now, though."

"ah, speak of the devil," lily says. you see carola walking up to the five of you, alexandra ("please, honey, call me alex," she'd said, bringing you in for a kiss on your cheek,) having walked away to get a drink and escape into the sweet air conditioning. "carola, there's a new couple on the paddock."

"you're kidding," the latina answers, her accent apparent. "who?"

"logan found himself a girlfriend. allow me to introduce her." lily turns to you and introduces you by your full name, last name and all. it seems that carola has a similar reaction to your last name as you did to hers, and her head tilts to the side.

"ya no eres la única mexicana aquí," you say, and her eyebrows raise. (you aren't the only mexican here anymore.)

"hablas español, también?" (you speak spanish, too?) when you nod, her smile brightens. "hay, chica, creo que nosotras dos nos vamos a llevar muy bien." (oh, girl, i think we're going to get along very well.)

on saturday, you find yourself back in the williams motorhome, except this time, you wear a second badge, the neon green lanyard reading grid access in bold black lettering. like the day before, you clutch logan's hand for your own comfort until, much to your dismay, he's summoned for driver duties. you place a quick kiss on his cheek, and when you pull back, you aren't sure if the flush on his cheeks is from the affection or the miami heat. probably both.

"in case i don't see you before sprint. for luck."

"oh, you'll be in the garage. that's what this pass is for," logan says, holding your second badge in front of your face. "lily will show you where to go. i'll take a kiss anyways, though." you smile, stand on your toes, and kiss him, pulling back before he can wrap an arm around your waist. (that was a trick he very much enjoyed, as you'd learned the night before. there was something in him that needed you as close to him as possible, and it covered every nerve ending in your body in liquid fire.)

"off you go. you need to get race ready. i'll see you before you go out on the grid. don't worry." you gently shove him away with a smile, and you'd stare at him longer if your ankles weren't suddenly being attacked. you look down and squeal. "hi, leo! did your dad let you run free?" you squat down and scratch the mini daschund behind his disproportionally large ears, and he barks excitedly.

someone curses in french to your right, and you look up from the little golden ball of energy to see none other than charles leclerc frantically searching around. leo barks again, and the monégasque whips around, then locks eyes on you first, then his dog.

"merde, leo. you have too much energy for it being this early in the morning," he laughs as he walks over to you.

"i apologize, it appears i've unintentionally kidnapped your dog." you stand, and leo jumps at your calves again.

"ah, no harm, no foul," charles replies, picking up his dog and holding him close to his chest. "i will say, though, you look strangely familiar. have we met? my name is charles."

"we have not." you extend your hand and offer your name, and, when charles' eyebrows furrow and his head tilts in confusion, you realize that means nothing to him. "i'm logan's girlfriend."

"ah! yes, of course! he has a photo of the two of you at your high school graduation in his wallet. that's where i knew you from. well, it's nice to meet you!" that was news to you. logan has a picture of you in his wallet? either way, you just casually met one of the most famous people in the world like it was a standard tuesday.

if this is what i signed up for by being logan's girlfriend, then it is absolutely wild.

you're able to catch another good luck kiss with logan as he's almost fully suited up, and fuck, does he look good. his fireproof suit hangs low on his hips, the arms tied together in front of him. dark blue is a good color on him, and his facial hair is grown out in just the slightest. you can't lie, he looks hot as hell.

you cross your legs in an attempt to curb the heat that creeps down your tummy and between them. it doesn't work.

you amend it that night in logan's hotel room following his p10 in the sprint.

on sunday, you try to avoid thinking about the night before as you follow the same routine as the two days before- arriving early in the day, checking in at the williams motorhome, and then killing time until the driver's parade at 2:00 PM. you spend time with your new group of friends, spending the three remaining hours before the parade in the paddock club. rebecca, carlos' girlfriend, snickers at your shocked face when you see some of your idols and favorite celebrities casually walking around, gladly taking some photos for you as you're practically buzzing with excitement.

after the driver's parade, it's a whirlwind. you're swept back into the williams garage and find logan's driver's room relatively easily thanks to the help of some of the engineers and mechanics, but one of them stops you before you can venture too far into the depths of the hallways.

"could you tell him we have the pre-race strategy meeting in twenty minutes?"

"yeah, for sure." as you approach logan's door, you have to bite down on your lower lip to stifle the grin that wants to split your face. you knock on his door, and when he opens it, you know something's wrong. "lo, are you okay?" his eyes are red and his hand shakes on the doorknob. instead of a verbal response, he just opens the door a bit further to let you in, and, as soon as it shuts behind you, he sobs, and your heart shatters.

"i'm so scared. i'm so scared that something's going to happen and i'm going to let all of these people down and-" you gather him into your arms and he cries into the crook of your neck, your williams crewneck shirt now damp with his tears. you couldn't care less.

"you're going to do amazing, logie. i know you will." with your arms wrapped around him, it's almost like a weighted blanket of safety has encompassed him, and his sobs slow, his breaths growing deeper and more even. you continue murmuring words of confidence into his shoulder, and not a single word you say is empty.

"hey. look at me." you lean back and gently cup his cheek with your right palm, and when his eyes meet yours, you know that he needed to cry that one out. "do you feel a little bit better?" logan nods, tilting his head ever so slightly to kiss your palm, his own hand coming up to rest over yours. it's a cute, sappy, stupidly romantic moment that you from three weeks ago would've probably thought was the grossest thing known to mankind, but you can't help but bask in the moment. "is there anything i can do to help you feel better right now?" your voice is a soothing balm over logan's agitated nerves, and he slowly untangles himself from you and guides you over to the couch that's against the back wall, where he sits down and you curl up to his left side.

"can you just... talk? about anything?"

"are you seriously asking if me, the person with the most rampant adhd you've ever met, can talk about something? yes, logan, i absolutely can. what to talk about, though?"

as you talk, deciding to info dump about your favorite classical music piece, logan can't help but watch it unfold. he doesn't know jack shit about music theory, but listening to you ramble about something you're passionate about brings him so much peace. you're disturbed about fifteen minutes later by a knock at the door, promptly followed by a disembodied voice telling logan that it was time for the strategy meeting.

"aw, shit," he says, leaning his head back and rubbing at his eyes. "i have that to go to now."

"yeah, sorry. i was supposed to tell you about that but we had a bigger problem on our hands." your voice is sheepish now that your info dump has been cut short, but logan leans over to you and kisses you, soft and slow, just like the first time he kissed you properly in the park. when he pulls away, he looks so much calmer than he was twenty minutes before. "is there anything else i can do?"

"go have some fun in the paddock. and please drink some water." you roll your eyes and stand, bringing him in for another hug before you slip out of the door.

almost two hours later, you're back in the williams garage with a guest headset over your ears. your stomach twists with nerves as the national anthem concludes. lily's hand is clasped with yours.

"the first lap is the worst. after that, you lose a lot of the anxiety," she assures you, noticing how you chew your lower lip.

"thanks." you pause for a moment, contemplating another question. "does it ever get easier? seeing how they go out there and drive like absolute maniacs for fun?"

"it does. it took me a couple of months, but after alex showed me all of the safety features in the car and in his fireproofs, it definitely helped."

it's the moment you've been dreading.

one red light.

two.

three.

four.

five.

and then none.

the engines roar and the race has begun. lily didn't lie to you- the first lap is excruciatingly long, but when everyone's completed their first loop around the circuit, you let yourself breathe. your eyes are trained on the screen above you, and the laps are flying by so quickly that you barely process that the race is nearly halfway over.

but then logan's car is in the wall. fuck.

as you watch the replay of his crash, you can feel white-hot rage burning in your body. after the race stewards only declare a ten-second penalty and two super license points, though, you're fuming. "two penalty points and a ten-second penalty? magnussen caused logan's race to end, and they just let him go? they just forgive him and move on? how can he get away with that? this is bullshit!"

what a crash, what a rush

the first person logan looks for when he walks back into the williams garage, his visor still low over his eyes in shame, is you. when you see him walking towards the room where you and lily watch the race, you tear the headset off of your ears and run to him. the feeling of his arms wrapping around your shoulders and hearing his heartbeat even through your musician's earplugs soothes your agitated nerves. he's okay. he's alive. he isn't hurt. "thank fuck you're okay," you say, even though he definitely can't hear you through his helmet and over the roar of passing engines. when you pull away, you press a kiss to his knuckles and hope he understands how much love you're trying to convey through such a small gesture.

fuck me up, florida!

one of logan's best friends on the grid is oscar. oscar's teammate got his maiden win after almost five years of waiting in miami.

like any sensible person, you celebrate with him.

you have no idea what the name of the club is, much less how many drinks you've had so far, but what you do know is that lando has commandeered the dj station and logan is pressed against your back, his hands resting on your hips. the air is hot and thick, your heartbeat pounds in your head. the opening notes of bad bunny's tití me preguntó begin playing through the massive speakers, and you shoot a glare up to lando that he doesn't see, his focus instead on the equipment in front of him. when the bass hits, though, you let all apprehensiveness go and your genetics take the reins. your hips sway and swing to the beat, your hands wander up and down your torso, and logan simply follows your lead. it takes you a moment to realize that, if you want to get a rise out of him, you're going to have to spin around and face him.

with your hips swaying against his and how unbearably beautiful you look in the dim light, your skin glowing with sweat and your hair up in a high ponytail, logan can't help but lean down and kiss you when you finally turn around. you reciprocate gladly, your right leg slotting between both of his, and...

oh.

he's hard.

you pull away slightly, barely an inch between your lips. "slow your roll there, tiger."

"i don't want to." fire zips down your spine at the sound of his voice, low and breathy and so, so desperate. "need to fuck you."

"should we get outta here, then?"

"i thought you'd never ask." you smile and kiss him quickly, then take his hand and weave your way through the crowded dance floor. as the miami night air hits your face, you immediately feel cooler. you sigh, taking a moment to breathe and regulate your heart rate and body temperature, but you can't breathe for that long before logan wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back against him and kissing your neck. you laugh, running your hands along his forearms.

"logan, not here. the hotel is two blocks away."

"i can't help it, baby, you just look so pretty," he hums, kissing the back of your neck once more before pulling away and stepping around to face you. "you look so pretty, and you're mine."

his possessiveness of you makes more heat zip down your spine, and you almost drool at how he's looking at you. his eyes, normally a beautiful mix between the blues of the sky and sea, ar"e almost completely dark, only a small sliver of his irises remaining, and the muscles in his jaw tick. "hotel. now."

by the time you reach the door to logan's hotel room, you're both out of breath from how hard he kissed you in the elevator and the arousal and need between your legs won't be stopped unless he replaces it. you stumble through the door and try to kiss logan again, matching the vigor he showed you in the elevator, but he stops you. "wanna take my time with you tonight."

"yeah?" you raise an eyebrow and inspect his face. the blinds are open but no lights are on, so all you can see is the side of his face that's illuminated by the lights from the streets of miami. it's an unusually beautiful sight.

"yeah. nothing about what i'm about to do to you is going to be fast. i'm gonna make you feel good tonight. how's that sound?"

"that sounds amazing, logan." you lean forward and kiss him gently, your lips slotting together as if you were made for each other. who knows, maybe you were. the next five minutes are a blur, but before you know it, you're laying back against the pillows on logan's bed and his face is buried between your thighs, his tongue working magic on your clit. the air in the hotel room is filled with your moans and the sounds of logan devouring you like a man starved, and it's the most beautiful mix of sounds you've ever heard. when he flicks his tongue oh-so-perfectly against your entrance, his nose brushing over your clit, you moan and pull his hair hard, which, in turn, makes him moan against you.

you aren't sure how much time passes or how many orgasms logan pulls from you with just his tongue and his fingers, but when you feel completely and entirely spent, your chest heaving and your hairline sparkling with tiny beads of sweat, you pull logan up to you by his shoulders, and he looks completely and entirely fucked. "need you inside of me," you mumble, wiping at the mix of spit and cum that coats the entire bottom half of his face with your thumbs. as if on instinct, you bring your hands to your mouth and lick them clean, and logan groans at the sight. "inside. now."

"as you wish, baby." logan's hands fumble at his boxers, the only item of clothing he was left wearing, and when he finally, finally pushes himself into you, you both moan. your hands scrabble at his shoulders and back, most definitely leaving red marks that will raise later, and his mouth latches onto your neck, biting down and then gently kissing over the red spot.

"nngh, lo-" your brain is short circuiting, logan's cock filling you up so perfectly and absolutely ruining you for any other man ever.

"yeah? you okay, baby?" he pulls back from your neck and scans your face for any sign of discomfort of pain, his sky blue eyes searching your own. the feeling of safety you get from just that one action is almost enough to make you sob from how good you feel because of him, both physically and emotionally.

"feels so good, lo. j'st... move, please."

"you sure? i don't wanna hurt you."

"positive. now please." you reach a hand up and pull him down towards you by the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling hard. "fuck me properly." without wasting a second, logan reaches a hand down and hooks it under your left thigh, bringing your leg up to rest around his waist, then pulling back and thrusting back in fast. the moan that rips itself from your throat is sinful, and your breath is being punched from your lungs at the downright brutal pace logan's setting. your right leg finds itself locking around his waist, only bringing him infinitely closer, and now, each time he thrusts back into you, your clit bumps against his pelvis. within minutes, you're embarrassingly close to cumming again, and through your garbled mumbling and clawing at his shoulders, he understands, reaching his right hand down to gently press against your clit.

"cum for me, baby, please, need to feel you cum for me just one more time, just let go, i've got you." it's logan's voice that ultimately sends you pummelling over the edge into an orgasm that makes your back arch and your vision fuzz at the edges, and you cum with a cry of his name. his hips slow and his fingers maintain a steady rhythm on your clit, but you can tell it's taking its toll on him. "where- where do you want me to cum?"

"i'm on the pill, lo. inside, baby, please," you whine, and it takes two more thrusts before logan groans, his hips coming to a shuddering halt as he cums inside of you. it's a beautiful sight, too- his eyes scrunched closed and his eyebrows drawn together, his hair a complete mess from where your hands had pulled at it. your hands run through his hair and along his back, and you patiently wait as he comes back to earth.

"hi," he murmurs, opening his eyes and smiling down at you.

"hi," you respond.

no other words need to be said. you know you love him, and he knows he loves you.

and you're both okay with that.

this took me way longer to write than i thought it would, but i absolutely love it! reminder that my asks and requests are open, and i always get excited when i get feedback! take care of urselves lovies <3

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extra-stout-stories · 1 month ago

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First Date / Creepy Cookies

When a BHM in Florida decides to take the plunge on a long-distance relationship with a witchy SSBBW FFA in New England, their first IRL encounter goes even better than he expected. (BHM to USSBHM, magical rapid weight gain, SSBBW feeder. Romantic, but spicy and mildly explicit. Lots of sexy descriptions of food. CW: Immobility, mobility aids.)

My first contribution to Feedist Kinktober '24! Reblog if you like it, and thanks as always to the mighty @fatguarddog for blessing us with an inspirational list of prompts. Last year I bit off more than I could chew and ended up with a folder of half-finished story ideas, so this year I'm only writing the ones where I feel inspired enough to knock a full story out in one go. Here's a sexy supernatural mutual gaining tale.

His belly hang bounced against the steering wheel as he stepped with a grunt out of the rental car. A compact car wasn't exactly comfortable for a guy his size, but it was a chance to save a little bit of money on the trip. If this works out it's going to be expensive, he thought to himself. Long distance sucks.

He adjusted his jacket against the October breeze. New England was a lot different from Florida. He wasn't sure how he felt about the possibility of moving to somewhere he'd have to shovel snow in the winters, but he had to admit that at this time of year, the yellows and crimsons of the autumn foliage were beautiful like nothing he had ever seen.

And his date was like nobody he had ever met. It would be their first time meeting in person.

Dating as a 320 pound man was difficult enough, dating as a 320 pound man with a feeding fetish was more difficult still, and dating as a mutual gainer felt like the hardest thing of all. He was grateful that his last serious relationship had ended amicably; she was a Miami Beach gym bunny who loved the way her toned, tan body contrasted with his, and she had helped him break through a plateau at 300, but she grew increasingly frustrated that he couldn't reciprocate her attraction to him. Fortunately, they had managed to part without drama and stay friends, and he was happy to watch her pair off with a guy close to his size who was a much better fit for her. There was a text from her waiting when his plane touched down in Boston: "Good luck on your New England date! If she turns out to be a serial killer, text me and I'll come rescue you, k?"

But he wasn't too worried about that. Mostly he was worried that he wouldn't be as fat in person as his date expected. He was fat, of course, but he was also good at using camera angles to highlight his big belly and doughy double chin, making him look like a bigger SSBHM than he really was. And a part of him worried that the date would go too well. Plane tickets and a rental car weren't cheap, flying at his size was cramped and uncomfortable, and the drive north from Boston added another two and a half hours onto the trip. If things worked out, it wasn't going to be much fun trying to make a long-distance relationship work.

Still, it's worth a try. Nothing worth having in life comes easily. That's what he told himself as he took one last look at the scenery, the golden autumn colors mingling with evergreens this far north, the peak of Mount Washington in the distance already dusted with a layer of snow.

The Waterwheel Brewery was an old brick building at the edge of a ravine where a cold, clear waterfall splashed and foamed down a crack in the mountain granite. The rusty iron wheel that gave the brewpub its name was still there at the side of the ravine, a nineteenth century relic from a time when the building had been some kind of textile mill during the early years of America's industrial revolution. But that was a long time ago, and now the small factory town in the mountains was a self-consciously quaint destination catering to hikers, skiiers and leaf-peepers from Boston and New York City. The buildings on its main street had been transformed into upscale shops and farm-to-table restaurants, and the nineteenth century mill owner's stately Victorian mansion had been renovated as an expensive bed and breakfast. He had suggested to her that he book a room there for the night of their first date, but she had vetoed the idea. The Wilkes House is a tourist trap, she had messaged back. If dinner goes well, you'll stay at my place. She was nothing if not forward. He liked that about her.

Nervously, he entered the brewpub.

It was a busy Friday night. Middle-aged yuppies in fleece vests and college-aged hippies in hiking gear were clinking glasses. People really are skinnier up North, he thought to himself. It must be lonely being her size in a town like this. The Florida coast was full of tanned and toned beach bodies, of course, so he understood the struggle. Still, even in Florida, the South had its share of fat folks.

And he wasn't nearly as fat as she was.

Then a little voice in his mind seemed to whisper: Yet.

He shivered, his nervousness suddenly replaced by excitement. Don't get too far ahead of yourself, he thought. This is just a first date. She's cool online but you need to know if you vibe in person before you let her feed you for real. He glanced around the brewpub. When his eyes landed on her, there was no mistaking the woman he had come all this way to meet.

She was seated at the corner of the brewpub, on banquette seating behind a movable table. She seemed as wide as the table, fat shoulders in a loose white cardigan seeming to flow like lava into her breasts and belly rolls in a snug red cotton dress. An elegant antique necklace, a chunky Victorian brooch on a thick silver chain, drew his attention irresistably to her cleavage, then to the triple chins that seemed to rest directly on her chest and shoulders, her neck gone entirely, the chain disappearing beneath soft, pale folds. His attention wandered up her face just as she registered his presence and their eyes met. Her eyes seemed to flash with anticipation behind a pair of vintage eyeglass frames whose red matched the dress. Her fat cheeks dimpled as she smiled. Her chins quivered.

She was fatter in person.

Dinner went as well as he could have imagined. She was as clever as she was fat, a quick-witted conversationalist with a bright laugh and a keen sense of humor. They had spent so much time messaging back and forth that he already felt like he knew her, but she was even more charming in person. She had an endless supply of funny anecdotes from her job as an instructional librarian at the liberal arts college outside of town, the kind of school where rich kids spent four years as ski bums cultivating their weed habits. It wasn't where she had planned to end up, but her Ph.D. in anthropology from Miskatonic hadn't led to a tenure-track job, and she had grown to love the quiet beauty of the little mountain town.

The brewpub owners were graduates of the college, and the waitstaff all seemed to know her. They weren't fazed when she asked to see the menu for a second round of entrees, and while neither of them wanted to drink too much -- it would be another twenty minutes' drive up windy roads to her mountainside cottage, and besides, it was a first date -- the waitstaff were more than happy to pour small samples of the microbrews that the pub brewed on site. He told a few tall tales about life in Florida, exaggerating for dramatic effect. She knew he didn't really have to fend off wild alligator attacks on his way to work, of course, and she gave him a little coquettish smirk when he admitted: "…and besides, I'm too fat to outrun an alligator anyway."

It was all he could have asked for on a first date.

Still, it was hard to keep his mind from wandering to more primal urges, especially when she shrugged off the cardigan and he got a glimpse of her pillowy upper arms, as wide around as some people's waists, spilling like rolls of dough over her elbows, swaying irresistably every time she raised a fork or a glass to her mouth. Cool it, he told himself, biting his lower lip. This is a date, not a hookup. We're here to get to know each other, not just fuck. But the more he watched her stuff herself with gusto, polishing off a steak followed by a lobster roll and a series of appetizers that just seemed to keep coming, the more he found himself imagining what the mountainous rolls of her naked belly might look like beneath that red dress, how wide and soft her naked hips and ass would be when he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her fat body against his.

"Distracted? They asked what you wanted for dessert." He blushed, suddenly realizing how far he had lost himself in the reverie. She gave him a wry smirk. "The bread pudding's good here. Get it with caramel."

The waitress looked at her, then at him, and didn't bother to ask him for confirmation. Soon he was tucking into the bread pudding. But by now, he thought to himself, the bill couldn't come soon enough.

He felt suddenly protective of her as she stood up from the table, reaching to steady herself on a stainless steel bariatric cane, face slightly flushed and breath slightly ragged from the effort of lifting her enormous body. He helped her slip the cardigan back on, and as he helped her navigate around the tables to the entrance of the brewpub, he found himself putting a hand on the small of her back to guide her, feeling her back rolls ripple with each step. She's really big, he thought to himself. But it wasn't his first time with an SSBBW, and he knew how to pace himself and help her feel comfortable, glancing and gesturing to signal to the other diners that they should pull their chairs in for a moment to clear a path. He caught one or two hostile stares from skinny couples eating salads, but when he glared back -- it helped that he was tall and stocky, muscular underneath his fat -- they looked away in embarrassment.

She smiled up at him as they reached the rental car. She was a few inches shorter than him, and the difference in height put just how fat she was into even sharper relief. "Think you can make it up the mountain?"

He laughed. "As long as you don't ask me to hike. That's what the car is for." He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close for a kiss, the fabric of his shirt whispering against the fabric of her dress as their bellies touched, a peck on the lips leading to a momentary touching of tongues before she withdrew.

"Good. Make sure you turn right at the covered bridge. Otherwise you'll end up in moose territory. They're even faster than alligators."

"Got it. I'll see you in a little bit." He smiled and lowered himself with a grunt into the rental car. Damn, he thought, exhaling suddenly as his belly hit the steering wheel and he reached down to scoot the seat back a little further. I'm really full.

Only the knowledge of how easy it would be to get lost in these woods on a wrong turn, and the thought that a tourist town like this would be full of speed traps, kept him from rushing even faster than he did up the road to her secluded cottage.

She had just gotten out of her own car when he pulled up, steadying herself on the cane as she reached into her purse for her keys. The cottage was picture-postcard cute, wood and stone, built (she had told him at dinner) by some now-forgotten artist who had moved up from Manhattan in the Fifties to get closer to nature. As the door swung open she saw that she'd had it fitted out with energy-efficient modern luxuries and rearranged to make space for her ample body, the open floor plan giving it a feeling that was simultaneously spacious and cozy. Through a wide picture window he could see the lights of the town and the college flickering down in the valley; he thought he could just barely make out the silhouette of the brewpub.

But what really enticed him was the smell of fresh cooking. She must have spent all day baking, he thought to himself. There were savory breads and sugary sweets, pies, cakes and turnovers, all mingling with the aroma of beef stew bubbling in a slow cooker and the scent of cinnamon from an enormous apple crumble.

He watched her enormous ass and thighs quiver as she slowly walked to the kitchen. All of a sudden all he could think about was sex.

She turned back to look at him, the folds of her chins quivering, her cheeks dimpling in that irresistable smile as she winked at him through her vintage glasses. "Hungry?"

He exhaled and patted his belly. It had been a lot of food at dinner.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

He smiled back.

"I could use a little something. That was a long trip up the mountain."

"Good boy." She ladled some beef stew into a dish, then reached to slip on an oven mitt and open the oven. He couldn't keep his eyes off of how her ass and back rolls jiggled as she bent slightly to reach past her belly, her breath quickening with the effort. She drew out a thick loaf of bread and cracked it open. Inside, it was still steaming.

Turning to face him, she locked eyes with him and smiled, setting half the loaf down and reaching for a knife and butter. Slowly, sensually, she buttered the bread. He watched the glistening fresh butter seep into the thick, soft dough. He watched her arms jiggle, her chins quiver, her belly ripple.

She dipped the bread in the beef stew and took a small nibble. "Try dipping it." She grinned and handed him the dish. "Go sit on the couch. I'll bring some desserts, too."

She rolled her own dish of beef stew in on a cart, accompanied by pumpkin pie, apple crumble, and a large tub of ice cream. She sat down next to him and began to eat. By the time they finished, he felt so full he could barely breathe.

Her belly seemed to engulf him as she rolled over to straddle him on the couch, slipping her arms around his shoulders and pinning him down with her bulk. He pulled her closer and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Soon she was unbuttoning his shirt.

They were naked by the time they headed to the bedroom. She had been teasing him underneath his belly, giving quick, eager strokes, first with the tips of her fat fingers and then with the tip of her tongue. But he gave as good as he got, his own fingers deftly exploring the sensitive undersides of her rolls, sinking in a fraction of an inch further every time he plunged them into the warmth where her thighs and belly met.

By now he was so motivated by desire that he barely bothered to glance around the living room as she led him to bed. If he noticed the shelves of books, the replica statues of paleolithic goddess figures acquired during her anthropology research, it was only as background decoration.

His eyes passed over it, but he didn't really see the altar. A circle of red candles, designs painted in luminous white on dark black velvet, a small stone figurine, this one not a replica. Fresh fruit and grain placed as an offering. Slices of each of the baked desserts she had made, another offering.

And by now he was so full of dessert that he really couldn't take any more. If his eyes glanced briefly over the plate of cookies at the center of the circle of candles, he would have registered them only as one more item in the blur of sweet tastes and textures, of a piece with the pies and the brownies and the turnover soaked in ice cream. He was so full.

He certainly wouldn't have thought to ask her why the cookies were still steaming as if freshly baked, even though they had been making out for over an hour and he hadn't seen her take them from the oven.

She guided him to her bedroom tenderly, but when she shoved him the last step into bed she was almost rough, her own lust evident now, her face flushed as she took off her glasses and unpinned her hair, long locks falling down past her breasts and the enormous rolls of her belly, moving slowly but deliberately, fat flesh pressing against fat flesh as she curled up next to him in bed and pulled him in for another kiss.

The sex was even better than he had fantasized. Both of them were crackling with lust, burning with desire, as if lightning was passing back forth through their skin everywhere their bodies touched.

There's nothing like the sensation of fat on fat.

He was dozing off to sleep, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, when he felt her stand up from the bed. He heard the clunk of her bariatric cane as she left the bedroom. After all the excitement, he was too sleepy to do much more than grunt.

"Still hungry, babe?"

He groaned. At any other time, those words from her lips would have been the most enticing come-on he had ever heard. But the plane flight and the drive had taken a lot out of him, the sex had drained the last of his energy, and he was still full.

"C'mon. Just a few bites." She was back at the bedside, lifting a cookie to his lips.

"Mmmph." The warm, fresh dough. The gooey chocolate. He let her feed him the entire cookie, then another, then another. Barely awake, his eyes closed, his inner eye was already seeing half-formed dream shapes.

"Good boy." She traced her hand across his belly. So full, so achingly full. This was the best night of his life.

"Just one more bite. You have to eat the whole plate." She watched him swallow the last of the cookie, reached across his chest to pinch a few stray crumbs between her fat fingers, stuck her fingers between his lips so he could lick them off.

He leaned his head back onto the pillow and was immediately asleep.

His dreams were as much sensations as visions. Sensations of warmth, softness. Heaviness. Candles and torchlight illuminating his body. Eating, eating, always eating. Heavy, so heavy. His belly swelling.

She was there, or was it one of the goddess figurines? Looming over him, lustful and loving. Hungry for him, hungry to feed him. The goddess was vastly bigger than him, impossibly bigger, filling the bedroom, filling a torchlit cave, filling the night sky until her rolls of fat obscured the stars.

But he was big too, so big. And getting bigger.

Gradually the sensations ended. The visions ended. He sunk into a deep, deep sleep with no more dreams.

It was a bright New England autumn morning. He could see clear blue sky and a riot of fall colors, the town in the valley below framed perfectly in the picture window of the bedroom.

He was hungry. He didn't want to get up. Surely she had left some food in the bedroom.

Yes. A blueberry pie. Fresh. He was suddenly aware that he was alone in bed. From the kitchen, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the thud of her cane.

He was suddenly seized by the urge to devour the pie with his bare hands. He was hungrier than he ever thought possible. He reached for it, and --

His arm was heavy. So heavy. Just lifting it was an effort. Rolls of fat cascading, heavy as gym weights, his arms never reaching quite so far that the spilling softness of his upper arms didn't still touch the equally soft and heavy rolls of his naked chest and belly.

My belly. He looked down. He could barely see past his moobs, and he couldn't see past his belly at all. He felt it against his --

Against his calves. His belly had become enormous.

He looked down. He reached, or tried to. He was as wide as the bed, his fat arms splayed wide against side rolls that were just an inch or two short of spilling over the sides.

He wriggled his hips, or tried to. He felt hundreds of pounds of fat -- how many pounds? -- quiver in soft ripples.

He didn't even bother trying to stand up.

He felt the rolls of his chins against his chest, the rolls of his chest against his belly, the rolls of his belly against his thighs. He felt his thighs meet to well past his knees.

He even felt his overstuffed fat toes.

And suddenly there was a hardness under all that softness. He gasped sharply, drawing in a deep breath, feeling himself quake with excitement. Feebly, he tried to buck his hips against his belly, full of desire now.

She was standing in the bedroom door, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of pastries in the other.

"Hungry?"

She grinned at him.

He could barely speak. "W-what happ…"

She wore nothing but a silk robe, open at the waist. Slowly, sashaying her enormous hips to make her massive belly sway from side to side, she waddled towards him and seated herself as best she could at the edge of the bed. She traced her fingertips down his belly.

"Magic. Don't ask too many questions. Do you want the croissants first, or the pie?"

"The pie." At least he had a ready answer to that one.

"Good boy." She began lifting forkfuls of the warm, fresh blueberry pie to his greedy lips. She stroked his hair and gave a mock pout. "I'm not sure you're going to fit on the plane back to Florida."

"Not unless it's a cargo plane." He smiled. "You didn't have to do this, you know. I would have stayed anyway."

Her mock pout deepened. "But it's so fun this way! You should have seen the look on your face when you woke up." She gave his belly a playful shove. "And I had to know you weren't one of those feedee fuckboys. Lots of guys online talk a big game but won't commit."

He lifted an arm as best he could to squeeze her thigh. "Come on. You knew I was serious."

"Mmmhmm." She leaned across him, her belly spreading over his. She was the skinny one now. "But I'm even more serious."

"Is that so?" He polished off the last bite of the pie, then let his voice get a little fierce. "More food. Now."

She blushed and giggled. "Okay, you're serious. That's what I like to see."

"I know it is." He sighed with contentment, wriggled his hips to get a little bit more comfortable, and let her lift the first of many chocolate-stuffed croissants to his lips. "Am I going to stay like this?"

She smiled. "Only if you want to. The spell is reversible." She paused, a smirk on her face. "But I think you want to."

"You're right. How do you know me so well?"

He smiled. Then he pulled her in for a kiss, grunting with the effort, the softness of his upper arm sliding against her naked back rolls.

An afternoon of eating. An evening of sex. A day passed. Maybe two or three.

He heard his phone vibrate, somewhere in the pile of clothes that were now much, much too small for him. "Could you pass me that?"

She stood up off the bed and reached down to pick up the phone, moving slowly. Slowly due to her bulk, slowly because she knew his mouth was watering at the sight of her enormous body in motion. She placed the vibrating phone on his belly, then left for the kitchen.

It was a text from his friend in Miami Beach. "You doing okay up there? Should I call the cops?"

He smiled. His fingers were so fat that it took him a minute to correct all the typos, but he texted back. "Even better than I hoped."

A moment later, the reply arrived. "That's great. Anything you need?"

He glanced over his gigantic belly at the stupendously fat woman who stood in the bedroom door, carrying a tray of fresh blueberry pancakes glistening with maple syrup. Through the door he could see into the living room, where an empty plate sat on an altar surrounded by the stubs of red candles. "Yeah. If I Venmo you the money, could you hire some movers to box my stuff up and send it here? I'm planning on staying in New England for a while."

He put the phone down and opened his mouth to take his first bite of the pancakes.

#feedist kinktober #mutual gaining #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #feedist fiction #mutual feeding #mutual gain #mutual gain fiction #mutual gainer #fat ffa #fat feeder #gaining weight on purpose #getting fat on purpose #spot the shout-outs to some classic New England horror writers

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formulaforza · 1 year ago

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—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. autumn seemed to arrive suddenly this year. minors dni. nsfw warnings below the cut. 6k. part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: cross continent booty call, shared shower, oral (fem receiving) overstimulation, biting, begging, teasing/dirty talk and lots of emotionally immature angst

It became normal after that, routine, almost. Like clockwork, the two of you finding each other. In your apartment, sometimes, but mostly at his. His apartment, his yacht, his gym, his car. There were days where it felt like it was all you did, Fridays where you would think that you’d spent five whole days underneath him.

Race weekends felt impossibly long, impossibly far away. You think that his apartment doesn’t feel like him because he’s never there, because he spends all his time on a track or a yacht or the streets of Maranello.

And you’re soft. You pretend not to be, because you wish you weren’t, but you are. You are, because you know that there is a spring in a national park in the States that looks just like his eyes, all blues and greens and browns that are so saturated they look fake. Because when you were at the club last week with your sister, someone had walked by and you knew they wore the same cologne as him. Because you see the color red and wonder what he’s doing, every single time.

He’s in Vegas this week, a big fucking party, Miami on the hard stuff. You’re home, going through life’s motions and waiting–though you’d never admit it– for him to come home.

You wake up in an empty bed, sprawled out in the middle of it, stretching against the white sheets with a groaned yawn. You can taste the cottonmouth on your tongue, smack your lips a couple times before giving up and climbing out from the cozy comforter and trudging into the bathroom, feet creaking over the hardwoods as you move through the apartment.

You phone chimes from your nightstand and you move back into the bedroom, leave the water running and the toothbrush in your mouth for your retrieval mission. Sitting at the top of a night’s worth of notifications is a text from him. Check your email. You roll your eyes, half-type out a witty response before an email notification flashes across the top of your screen. [email protected] No Subject.

You tap it, and inside the subjectless email you find two things. One, an attachment to a plane ticket to Vegas that leaves in… five hours. And two, a single Please?

You roll your eyes, toss your phone down onto the bed and return to the bathroom sink to spit out your toothpaste. He’s fucking lost it. He’s really done it this time, like, Jesus, he’s done it.

There is nothing you want to do less than pack a bag, find a ride to Nice, and hop on a plane all the way to Vegas just to see him in some messy ass hotel room.

(Sixteen hours later)

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed when he gets back from media day, Ferrari polo and light wash jeans and a dumb smile greets you, grumpy with arms crossed over your chest. “Did you have to send me a fucking plane ticket?” You snapped.

He shrugs, kicks off his shoes and pulls his phone and wallet and pass from his pockets, sets them down on a coffee table. “You’re here, aren’t you?” There’s something masked with the smug tone in his voice, some kind of genuine relief that you’re here. It makes your stomach queasy.

You roll your eyes. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t deny the truth in his words, or the relief you felt at seeing him walk through the heavy door. As sick as it makes you, you miss him when he’s gone in a way you aren’t supposed to; all soft and innocent and young.

“You’re infuriating,�� you say, but you’re smiling.

He nods, closes the distance between you, sinks down onto the edge of the bed beside you. “You know you love it,” he says, the corners of his lips upturned when he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Until you’re turning purple in search of oxygen and mourning the fact that you need it, you’re kissing him.

“Why am I here?” you ask, half breathless.

“Are you asking me?” He replies, dodging your line of questioning with one of his own.

You smile, laugh a little under your breath. “Who else am I asking?”

“Yourself,” he shrugs, kisses you softly. His fingers dance along your jaw, move to brush a part of your hair to the side. You let him. Because he’s kind of cute when he does it.

“No, no,” you sigh, pull your leg up under you. “I’m asking you; Are you okay? Why am I here?” You ask, because, even for the two of you and your decades of knowing the other and the last… almost year of this muddled mess, this is weird. A first class ticket in your email is weird. You getting on the plane is weirder.

“I can’t miss you?”

Your lips purse. Somewhere in another world, they smile. “Not supposed to,” you kiss him again, hand on shoulders, because you want to smile.

“There’s a lot we’re not supposed to do.”

“Yeah,” you nod, fall back onto the bed with a huff. He chuckles. The white ceiling paint stares back at you. Fresh. Crisp. Clean. “No meetings today?”

“They’re done.”

“Ah,” you say. He stands up and the entire bed shifts with the loss of him. His heavy feet move across the echoey room. It’s silent but for the hum of the air conditioner, the tap of the pads of his fingertips against his phone screen on the other side of the room. “Charles?” You ask, prop yourself up onto your elbows.

“Hmm?” He hums, his eyes focused on his screen. “Sorry, um. Work… email.” You don’t envy his multitasking skills, but they do put a smile on your face.

“Did you fly me out here to fuck me?”

He scoffs, looks up for just a moment to meet your eyes. “No,” and then he’s back to typing away.

You sigh, make sure he hears it. You don’t handle not having his attention well, not when it’s just the two of you. “But you’re going to, right?”

You wonder if you can get him flustered enough that he starts to type what he says. He’s been good at wrangling you recently, at reeling you in. But, if you can get under his skin you’ll surely be in trouble with him. Surely. He smiles at the screen. “If you think you can take it.”

When you scoff, his smile grows. You’re playing right into his game. “I’ve taken it every other fucking time, haven’t I?”

“So well.”

You roll your eyes, drop back onto your back. “Why do you say shit like that?”

“I like riling you up,” he quips, and you can hear the smile on his face, the dimples digging into his cheek. God, those dimples, they might just fucking kill you.

“No!” You say, voice drenched in sarcastic awe.

“Yes!” He matches your tone, his phone clattering down against the table. You sit up again, pull your leg to your chest and rest your chin on it. His eyes are on you now, the email answered, his attention undivided. You love his attention.

“Alright… can we, like,” you gesture into the vast space between the two of you, “get on with it?”

“Can you, like,” he mocks you, “let me fucking shower?”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, bite the inside of your cheek, “Can I come?”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Really?” You hate your tone, how childishly innocent it sounds, like your mother just said you could buy whatever toy you wanted at the store. You’d expected a hard shutdown.

“Yeah,” he moves past you, casual smile and strong hand pushing your shoulder, knocking you over like a glass of water onto the bed. “But, I mean it,” he warns, threatens to wag a finger at you. You’d bite it off if he did.

“Okay,” you say, rolling yourself off the bed and onto your feet, trailing behind him a few steps. He’s already tugging his shirt over his head and you watch his shoulder blades flex with the movement. You never remember just how broad he is. It’s always a lovely reminder.

“I’m serious,” he shakes his head. “No sex.”

You hurry forward to catch up to him, pat him solidly on the back as you squeeze between him and the door frame. “Whatever you say,” you hum. His hands make a move for your sides, to pinch the skin there and curl you over, but you dodge him with a loud giggle.

He says your name and his tone is flat. It’s almost romantic, you think, the plainness of it, the lack of urgency. Rather than face that, you dip your hand past the glass door of the shower, turn the water on and listen to him close the bathroom door somewhere behind you. It’s just the two of you, but he clicks the lock anyways.

You glance over your shoulder at him, hand held out into the stream of water to test the temperature. He comes up behind you, bare chest against your back, arms snaking around your waist, thumbs toying with the waistband of your pants. He works over the buttons with ease, says something about making things even against the skin just above your collarbone.

With a laugh, you push your ass back against him, bend at the waist and slowly pull off your pants and underwear. A fucking tease, he says, clears his throat and moves around you to lose his own jeans.

The shower is big, but the shower head is small in size, mediocre in water pressure. You know before your leg is all the way in that one of you will be fighting to stay warm. You also know you’ll stoop incredibly low to avoid having to stand shivering in the corner while watching him shower. Biting is not off the table. Neither is a right hook.

It goes on like that for some time, the haphazard cohabitation of the hotel shower.

“Would you–” you elbow your between him and the glass door, into the line of hot water. He reaches over your head, switches the flow of water to the wand, picks it up and brings it to his shoulders, the water flowing over the body, over his chest and through the muscles of his core. If you weren’t so fucking cold you’d jump him. “Charles,” you pout.

He laughs, the kind that requires a step back to stabilize him, and then he’s holding the shower wand inches above the crown of your head, hot water streaming down your face so quick that you have to plug your nose to relish in the heat of it.

“Thank you,” you say all nasally, voice muffled by the water that falls over your lips. He slots it back into the showerhead and adjusts the water again so you’re not being waterboarded any longer. You wipe your face with both hands, smooth your soaked hair back over your head and look up at him. He kisses you again, promptly, quickly, with childlike haste, just because he can—you suppose. “What was that for?”

He shrugs. You supposed right.

In your haste, both of you had forgotten to grab the tiny shampoo and conditioner bottles from the vanity counter, and after winning rock, paper, scissors—and Charles demanding best of three like a first-grader—you’d made the treacherous journey back across the ice cold tile to grab the toiletries. You’d used them first as compensation for your hard work, and rather than hand them to him when you’re finished, you reach around to set them on the corner shelf.

He rolls his eyes and you smile, lathering the shampoo into your hair.

Your head falls back under the water, eyes closed, fingers rinsing the shampoo from your hair. You hear him moving, fighting with the travel-sized shampoo bottle you’d more than almost used up. You wait for the smart comment that never comes. When you squeeze past him, switch so that he can stand under the water, your ass brushes over his leg, over him, hard and erect in a way it wasn’t five minutes earlier. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and you laugh. “What happened to ‘no sex!’” you tease, do your best impression of his voice.

“This isn’t sex,” he replies all matter-of-factly. It makes your smile grow. “This is showering.”

You shake your head, roll your eyes and reach for the conditioner. “You always shower like this?”

He laughs under the water, shoulders shaking and flexing and making your life so much harder than it needs to be. You could draw maps on his back, trace from freckle to freckle until you run out. “Only when you’re not around.”

You reach out to touch him. If he can kiss you just because, you can draw pictures on his skin just because, especially after he finds the space to say something like that to you, to make you blush from the inside out. He reacts to your touch, to your fingers cutting through the smooth sheen of water that runs over him. It puts a coy smile on your face. “I’m around now, aren’t I?” You leave a kiss on his shoulder blade.

“You are,” he says, turns to face you, slinks his arms lazily around your waist and pulls you flush against him. “I’m not worried though. You’ll take care of me.”

You bite against your bottom lip, try to contain your smile. He’s right. You know he’s right and he knows it too. “Will I?” you hum.

He smiles so you don’t have to, moves his lips painfully close to yours, hovering so close you can almost feel the ghost of them. “You will,” he breathes.

You can’t bite your grin any longer. “I will,” you reply, and because distance has never done you two well, you kiss him, pull off his lips with an innocent smile. “As soon as you condition your hair.”

“Fuck conditioner.”

You laugh. “Fuck conditioner?”

“Mmhm,” he hums against your lips. “Fuck it.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I still have to rinse my conditioner, though.”

He groans like he’s just noticed your slicked back hair coated in the smooth conditioner, pushes you under the shower head, gives the top of your head a scrunch before letting you finish ringing it out.

You stumble out ahead of him soon after, feet wet on the cold tile floor of the hotel bathroom. The mirrors are fogged and the air is thick with steam, slowly being sucked away into the ceiling vent fan. You pull a fluffy white towel down from the bar, hastily wrap it around your body, tuck it shut with a knot at your chest. He tells you that you don’t need it while drying his hair with a hand towel and you laugh–tell him there’s not a chance in hell you’re spending the night sleeping in soaked, chilly sheets.

“You’re not going to do much sleeping,” he remarks, pats your ass over the cotton fabric. You squeal, practically skip forward at the contact of his hand and leave him behind in the bathroom.

“You tell that to all your girls?” You ask, fingers trailing over the edge of the bed as you move past. “Or just the ones who know you’re a liar?”

He reappears with a towel tied around his waist, the smaller one he’d used for his hair draped around his neck, damp hair stuck to his forehead and shooting out in every which direction. There’s something horribly beautiful about it. “Mm-mhm,” he clicks, “just you.”

“Oh,” you hum, turning to face him with a quirked brow and quizzical smile.”Well now I feel special.”

He opens his mouth to speak, parting his lips just so slightly before pursing them shut again. “Yeah,” he breathes out, and you barely hear it over the turnover of the air conditioner.

“Yeah,” you repeat, and somehow it’s quieter.

You sit down in the armchair perched in the corner and the silence lingers, heavier than the steam and louder than the air conditioner. He stares at you for a beat too long and you feel your heartbeat in your temples, stare right back at his stupid green eyes. He scoffs and walks back into the bathroom. “I’m tired of this,” he says into the mirror, wiping away the fog with a flat palm.

“Tired of what?” You ask, fear the threat of his answer more than the actual answer itself. You know what he’s tired of; you. This. All of it, he’s tired of it all, and you don’t blame him. It’s become exhausting.

You know what he’s going to say, and still. His words hit you like a sucker punch. “This fucking hotel room shit.”

Your jaw flexes and you nervously chew on the tip of your tongue. “You’re the one who called me.”

He doesn’t leave space for the words to linger. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, turning to lean against the vanity counter, can barely glance at you. Your stare holds strong. “You know that’s not what I meant.” The thing is—you don’t know. You haven’t a clue what he means if it’s not the obvious elephant sitting between you.

“Say it, then,” you tell him and your voice oozes a confidence you didn’t know you could possess. It’s a facade. A good one, and he still sees right through it.

“Oh allez, tu es trop intelligent pour être aussi stupide,” Oh, come on, you’re too smart to be this dumb, he says, crosses his arms over his chest like you’ve done something he needs to defend against.

“Say it, Charles.”

He finds the nerve to smile. You wish a ghost would pull the towel hung over his shoulders tight around his neck. Maybe then he would feel more like you do. Instead, he uses it to dry off the back of his neck and tosses it somewhere out of sight. “You say it.”

“No,” you mutter, and then louder, you repeat, “No, I’m not going to.”

“You won’t?” He asks, pushes himself off the counter and stops in the doorway, leans against the frame and if he wasn’t so insistent on starting something right now, you’d take a picture before kissing every muscle on his body.

“Mm-mm.”

“Fine,” he replies all bluntly, but there’s nothing short about his tone. No, no, you know there’s no chance he’s dropping this.

“Fine.”

He sighs, eyes closed and heavy breath and head dropping to the sky like he’s begging—or praying— for some sanity or patience or whatever virtue he so badly needs when it comes to dealing with you. Eventually, he speaks to the ceiling, and the dramatic cringe and nose-bridge pinch that precedes his words makes him look more than pained. “I want more than this. I want—” he cuts himself off like he hasn’t already let it all boil over, like there’s any chance he’d keep it unsaid, that he’d be capable of stopping himself. “I want us.”

Your heart dives into your stomach, sends them both sinking through the floor. “You don’t.”

“I do,” he speaks, still to the white ceiling. You follow his sightline. The ceiling is textured.

“No, you don’t,” you think there’s a chance that your desperation to convince him this isn’t what he wants is really nothing more than a half-hearted attempt to convince yourself of the same thing. “You don’t, because then it’s all going to be fucked.”

Finally, he looks at you, or through you, or near you. Finally, he stops looking at the stupid textured white paint on the ceiling. “But what if it works? If we work?”

We.

“What if it doesn’t? If we try and then everyone gets invested and then it’s all ruined? Our parents and our siblings? We can’t ruin that.” You can’t. You won’t. You refuse to be the one responsible for any tension between your families, between your mothers. They’re the kind of friends that you don’t find more than once, and you wouldn’t dare to mess it all up after all this time, certainly not for a boy—for the boy.

“So, what?” He asks. There’s a terrible ribbon of torment laced through his voice. “We just ruin each other?”

You sink in your seat, reply to him meekly. He doesn’t usually make you shy. “Maybe.”

He says your name, that same ill-inducing tone to his voice. “If it was just us. Just me and you and nobody in our families had ever met,” he gestures between the two of you, always talking with his hands even when they’re half-limp and dejected. “Then what would your answer be?”

“I wouldn’t have to answer,” you dodge. Dodge, dodge, dodge. It feels like all you can do. “You wouldn’t want me.” Your words reek of haunting vulnerability, and you hope you’re the only one who picks up on it because it’s game over if he hears it. He’ll know it all; the lie and the truth and the debilitating fear of them both.

“You know that isn’t true,” he scowls, but his voice is soft. You hate it. You do, you hate it so much. You hate it. You’re tired of this conversation. You didn’t spend all those hours three seats over from a colicky baby and its miserable mother to argue with him about what you were. You just were, can’t that be enough?

You snap like a crunchy autumn leaf under a steel-toed boot. “Fine! Fine. Yes,” you concede to the fictional world, the alternate timeline with death and taxes etc, etc. To the universe where everything is different. To the world where everything is different, but everything is really just as it is; where the more things change, the more they stay the same. “My answer would be yes, let’s just say ‘fuck it’ and try because why the hell not? It’s not like we got along before all this.”

“Exactly. If we crash and burn, so what? We just go back to hating each other.”

“I can’t. I can’t, Charles. I care about my family too much.”

“You’re just scared. God, you’re like a child,” he speaks without thought, letting the words fly with reckless abandon. If you wanted to argue with him you’d latch onto that line. You don’t, though. You don’t want to argue, you never did.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” your voice cracks. It goes unaddressed by anything more than a shrug. “I don’t.”

“I want you to stop being a fucking coward and go on a date with me!”

“Charles,” you frown. Your nose burns. The gap, the gap, the gap. The impossible to bridge gap that you and he stand on either side of, waving aimlessly, begging the other with a silent plea—please. Please see what I see. I promise it’s better my way.

“One date,” he says, barely above a whisper, holding up a single finger. It’s his plea. “Nobody has to know we’re doing it.”

“I…” your breath catches in your throat, mind racing through potential responses. You lean forward in your seat, put your elbows on your knees and bury your face in your hands before you start crying. You won’t cry, you can’t. He can’t make you cry.

You sniffle, even though you aren’t crying—an audible reminder to yourself that you won’t be crying. That you’re eliminating the effects before they can even start. He must think you are crying, though, because the tension in the room deflates with every step he takes across the room. He lowers himself to your level, and you can feel the ghost of his hands lingering in a space just beyond your skin, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, fuck. I’m sorry,” his voice is so guilty, his hands finally touching your knees, thumbs moving in smooth, calming circles over your skin. You don’t have an opinion on the way you melt into putty under his touch.

When you pull your hands away from your face, they fall into your lap, find his and mold into some tangled mess of fingers. You take a deep breath—an attempt to steady yourself before finally speaking again, and with a subtle shake of your head, you’re able to silently explain to him that you’re okay, that his words are not the reason you’re so upset.

It’s so much more than that, than being a child or a coward of anything else he could possibly throw your way. With just as many words, he searches your eyes for answers, for a why that you couldn’t give him if you tried.

Everything with him is so unsaid.

“Okay,” you whisper echoes around the room. “Okay, a date,” you nod.

His furrow softens, the lines in his face smoothing over and the corners of his lips fighting a smile. “No,” he says softly, as if trying to give you an out, to free you from any perceived obligation. “You don’t have to do that.”

Your hand finds its way to his cheek, a gentle gesture of reassurance, and you lean in, pressing a soft kiss on those lips that want to smile so bad. It’s not about making him happy, though. It’s about letting yourself entertain the idea of satisfaction, of individual happiness.

He’s so. There’s no getting sick of kissing him, there just isn't. You sigh into his mouth and stand up, and you still want more. You still want more, towels dropping to the cold floor. Your knees bump against the back of the bed and it’s all giggly, and you still haven’t had enough. You maneuver onto the bed without separating, like the world might end if you’re not kissing him, and you’re convinced it might never be enough. That you’ll always crave more.

It’s all so comfortable, the way you two move around each other. It’s fluid. It’s calm. It’s soft, the look on his face when he’s slotted comfortably between your knees, His fingers trace your skin softly, almost ghostly in the way they graze through the valley of your breasts. You shiver. The goosebumps make you laugh against his lips.

He takes care of you, kissing you, trailing his lips down to your boobs, taking your nipple in his mouth, moving his tongue in sharp circles. Anything to elicit a reaction—get you all perky and poised for him. He palms your other tit with his big, strong hand, and your hands find a home in his hair, running through the curls, dragging your nails through the short locks at the nape of his neck.

You pull him up to kiss you and his hand slots comfortably on your jaw, sliding down slowly over your throat, applying a phantom pressure. It’s all bumping noses and sharing breath, him biting his bottom lip before swallowing yours again. He’s afraid to hurt you. It’s so fucking hot.

He moves you around so easily, hands on the back of your knees, pushing your legs against your chest before licking a long stipe through your cunt. You moan louder than intended, because it’s him doing it. Because it’s him doing it. He spreads them next, big strong hands inside your thighs, leaves a soft kiss on your clit. Out of necessity, your hands find something to grab in his own, spread flat over your stomach now, his tongue moving in quick, hard flicks over your clit. It makes you pant–writhe and pant and whine.

You search for grounding everywhere when his tongue sinks inside you, nose brushing against your clit—your palm your own breasts, white-knuckle the sheets and his shoulders and the sheets again.

His hands move up your sides and he curls his tongue around your cunt, pulls a pornographic moan from your lips. You write, moving up onto your elbows and he spreads your legs wider, wider, wider. Fuck. Fuck, he’s so good to you. An arm loops under your leg, around your thigh and over your cunt, sliding through your lips and opening you up for him all pretty. His eyes meet yours and he’s so pleased with himself, a genuine smile at the state he’s got you in and then he’s sucking down hard on your clip, pulling off with an audible pop. Your head falls back, your hole body tensing with pleasure when he doesn’t fucking stop sucking and licking and fucking. Your hands are on his again, gripping onto him for dear life, moving wherever he moves.

Your legs shake, fight against the hand on the inside of your thigh to close around his head, but he’s stronger than you. Fuck, he is. “So pretty,” he tells you, and you shudder, smile hard against the sheets and bury your hands in his hair.

“Right there,” you say through short, heavy pants, and then it’s all out the window. Game over, and you’re coming in his mouth and he still isn’t stopping so you just keep coming—so fucking hard, grinding against his mouth without any sense of rhythm. You think you could live in this high forever.

He kisses you, moves you—god, you’d be a ragdoll if he wanted, you think you really would. He moves you under him, up on your side and kisses down your shoulder, down your arm. He’s so kissy, can’t stay off you. It’s soft and romantic and it doesn’t make you ill at all, honest.

His words, though, they still want to keep up your little act. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” He asks, moving his dick through your slick, lining himself up to fuck you.

“Yes, yes,” you mewl, nodding hurriedly. He kisses you, sinks into you somewhere in the middle of it and you gasp into his mouth.

“Fff…” he trails off, bottoming out into you. “You okay?” he asked. You nod. You nod because you’re so full of him you can’t speak. The gesture is more than enough for him, provides him with the permission he needs to start fucking into you, to brace himself with a hand on either of your hips and thrust deep inside of you, bottoming out each and every time. “Fuck. Fuck, c’mere,” he groans, and then pulls you back against him, your back flush against his chest.

You crane your neck to kiss him, moan into his mouth when he’s cupping your ass and fucking you. You moan—gasp—and he fucking laughs. “Oh my god,” you whimper. “So good.”

He breathes sharp through his teeth, the bottom of his jaw rutting out with every thrust and then he’s biting your shoulder. He bruises the skin and kisses it better.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he says, and you want, so badly, to make him feel as good as he makes you.

“Wanna fuck you,” you say. “Let me fuck you.”

He doesn’t need convincing. “Okay,” he nods. “Okay, please.”

You’re half-hearted in your push back against his arm. He’s the reason he pulls out of you and falls back onto his back, makes space for you to straddle him and grind against him and kiss him and kiss him and let him kiss you.

With a cocky grin and dark green eyes he moves his cock through your slick, lets a smug laugh slip through his lips as he lines up with your hole so you can sink down on him, slow. Slow. Slow because the stretch burns every fucking time.

“Fuck,” you stumble, “s’big.”

He meets you halfway, lifts his hips up off the bed to minimize the time he spends not buried inside of you. He smiles all stupid and your stuttered whine. “Fucking took it all the other times,” he breathes out, fingers digging deep into the skin over your hips.

“Fuck you,” you laugh. He winces, and it only makes you laugh harder, lean down to kiss him so your chests are pressed against each other and grind your hips. His arms wrap around your middle, big and strong and pulling you impossibly close to him and the pace that he sets underneath you. They roam your body, his hands dancing over your sides and your back and knot into your hair, keep roaming until he’s grabbing at your ass.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says. You don’t need his words to know that, the sounds of your cunt clenching around him audibly demonstrating just how wet you are with every single thrust. “Always so good for me.”

It doesn’t take long for you to come again, with the new angle and the new vulnerability. It never takes long with him, like he knows every inch of your body and just how to use it. “Mhm, fuck. Jesus,” you shudder, breath choppy and desperate. He’s relentless through your orgasm, like always, and it just extends it, draws it out painfully long. “I fucking l—ah—” you clench around him, legs shaking on either side of his abs. Your spasms aren’t calmed by even his strong hands, but he keeps them there anyway.

“I love fucking you, baby,” he says, nibbles on your ear, kisses nowhere in particular and everywhere at once. You’re filled with butterflied by his crude words.

“Do it, then,” you beg. “Please, fuck, please, Charles.”

In a single, swift movement, he pulls you off him and flips you onto your back. Immediately, without any semblance of hesitation, you’re reaching for his cock, to guide him back to where you want him, to where he belongs. You ache when you’re this close to him, when you’re this close and don’t have him, aren’t full of him.

His hands find both of yours, interlock your fingers and move them somewhere above your head, pinned against the sheets. “Don’t say my name like that,” he whispers.

You play dumb, but your cheeks are flushed. “Why not?”

“You drive me crazy,” he says, kisses you before you can even attempt to rebuke his claims.

“Me?” you laugh, fingers dancing over his abs. If his eyes weren’t so fucking green , you’re sure you’d find the reaction to your touch, the flexing of his muscles under the pads of your fingers, to be quite the show.

He smiles all soft. “You.”

Your hand pulls him to you by the back of his neck, something about you can’t say something like that and not kiss me after, and then you’re licking against his teeth and it’s all so hazy—the way he slides back inside you between gasped breaths, the way you bite down on his bottom lip when he fucks you so well, and the way your legs wrap around his waist when you come, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to feel him with every nerve ending.

“That’s right,” he says, a rare calming presence through your orgasms. He doesn’t do this often, not with you, at least. “Atta girl,” he laughs. “Make a mess.”

He fucks you through it, he does, but it’s slow and steady until you’re finished, back in reality, and then he’s the messy one—fast, hard, fucking into you with reckless abandon. Fast, fast, faster. It’s fucking blinding. Fuck, it’s good. It’s so good.

He groans against your shoulders, hips snapping against yours. “Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, because you’re so fucked at this point that English attempts to escape you. “You’re so fucking close, yes,” you moan, “please, give it to me, baby,” and then he’s coming, head buried in your neck. His body weight is heavy on you, every muscle tensing as you’re fucked full of his cum.

The two of you are so close, have never been fucking closer, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. “Fuck,” you giggle, and his whole body shakes with his own laughter, moving up to kiss you. You smile through the whole thing, through the hard kiss and the soft pecks that follow, through his fingers brushing the hairs from your forehead and the feeling of him dripping down your leg. Through all of it, you’re both smiling.

It’s giddy, almost, and God. God, you’re so fucking happy.

#charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc angst #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #ferrari #cl16

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wardenparker · 1 year ago

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If You Were Mine, pt 1

Javier Peña x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: Mature. But this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 15.8k Warnings: Mentions of sex work, smoking, food/alcohol, mentions of past Steve x reader, angst, yearning, the love in requited but they’re both idiots, there’s only one bed, Chucho is the best, this fic has a cockblocking dog and I’m ecstatic about it. Summary: When you and Javi are both suspended and deported from Colombia pending investigation, the truth about what got you into trouble and the onus of trying to decide what comes next hangs over you like a black cloud. Out of guilt - and maybe something else - Javi invites you to stay at the ranch with him while you wait for your hearings. And that’s when things start to get more complicated. Notes: Part one of two! I told Keri that I wanted to write a little wedding date one shot and it got wildly out of hand. And I’m so glad it did, because I love these two idiots.

“So, uh, call me when you land.” Steve Murphy looks decided unhappy, maybe a little nervous as he looks between you and Javi. It’s all out in the open now, the secret spilled, but he’s still not sure how his other partner feels about the revelation that had been the nail in the coffin for sending you back to the States. “Gonna miss you both.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” What had passed between you and Steve didn’t damage your friendship with him or change your working relationship in any way, although it had threatened to. Now, though? Now that everyone knows? You had no work at all. “I’ll let you know where I end up. Don’t know how long it will take me to get back on my feet.”

Guilt is a heavy thing, weighing around Javi’s neck as he shuffles and shifts his bag on his shoulder. You’ve been suspended indefinitely and he doesn’t know what that means for you. Although there’s a long flight back to Miami to talk about it.

The time is ticking by interminably slowly, but you swallow and give Steve a tight, brief hug. “We should go.” You’re on the same flight, so there’s no escaping having to talk to Javier, but you’re not looking forward to it. The whole thing has been a whirlwind.

Javi watches you hug Steve, wondering if there was anything there beyond what had been said. A drunken, sad night where partners decided to fall into bed together. The pang of jealousy is surprising and unwanted.

"Call me when you get back to Texas?" Steve claps Javi on the back and clears his throat, holding back the fact that he's actually pretty fucking emotional about the whole thing. Both of his partners being ejected from the country in one fell swoop isn't a good situation to be in.

“Get the bastard.” Regret laces his words, hating that he had worked so fucking hard and done so much only to be kicked off the team here at the end. He can feel that it’s close, Escobar is backed into a corner.

"Promise." One more pat to his shoulder and Steve is stepping back to shove his hands in his pockets. Colombia is going to be a hell of a lot more lonely without you and Javi here to keep him sane. Or, at least, mutually insane.

The call to board the plane comes over the airport speakers and Javi looks at you. “Looks like that’s us.” He murmurs, hating how defeated you look.

One more round of goodbyes and you’re picking up your purse to hand your ticket to the gate agent. You and Javi have seats right next to each other because the secretary who booked them had thought she was being nice, but the fact that you’ll have hours to talk might not be the best thing in the world. You don’t know yet. There’s a lot Javi doesn’t know about you still – after all, you’d only been in Colombia for a year. Less time even than Steve.

There’s a certain familiarity with storing the bags, getting settled into a seat. You are on the inside seat with Javier sitting on the aisle; but he wonders if you are comfortable with that. “Do you want to swap seats? Or are you good being by the window?”

"I like the window." It's a kind of meditation, but you don't know if he would understand that or not. "Unless..." You glance up at him from your place a few feet away. "Did you want it? I can deal with the aisle."

“No.” He shakes his head and steps back to allow you to move into the seat. “I’ll put your bag up.”

"Thanks." Your oversized tote bag goes to him and you keep only a book for yourself, knowing you won't be able to concentrate on much. The two of you settle into your seats as the other passengers file in and settle down around you. "So you're going back to Texas?" It's what Steve had said, so you figure it must be the case.

“Yeah.” Javi taps his fingers, wishing he could smoke but they had stopped that years ago. “Where are you headed?”

"I'll find a hotel when we get to Miami." There's nothing for you to go home to even if you did go back to your hometown, so you'll have to figure out how to start fresh. Your job experience is intensely specialized, but you'll figure something out.

“You—I’m sure they will call you back to D.C.” he offers quietly. “You’re too good of an agent to let you go. It’ll probably be some bullshit slap on the wrist.”

"Then I guess I'll find a place in DC if they decide not to kick me out on my ass." You shake your head and sit back, shrugging a little when you look over at him. "There's no guarantees in life, Jav. You know that."

“Give it a month.” He predicts with a very guilty conscience. Barely able to look at you. “You don’t want to go home?” He asks. “Visit with your folks?”

"Can't." The fact that he can't even meet your eyes stings more than it should, and you look out the window at the runway instead. "Sister says I'm ungrateful for not dropping everything and coming home when our Mom died, and Dad left when I was a kid. So a heartwarming family reunion isn't exactly in the cards."

“I’m sorry.” He winces slightly and swallows. “That’s– that's shitty. Not the welcome home I guess you imagined.”

"I kinda didn't think I'd be going back at all," you admit with another half-hearted shrug. "At least...if I did it would either be with a job or in a bag, ya know?"

A real possibility in the line of work that you’ve chosen. He musters the courage to finally meet your eyes. “Why did you do it?”

"Which?" The hammer had come down on you for two reasons, but he hadn't known about either of them. "Why did I get drunk and sloppy, or why did I get sentimental?"

“Whatever it was that made them send you home.” He doesn’t believe it’s all because of fucking Steve. There’s something else that he hasn’t been told.

"I'm surprised we got separate meetings, honestly." Sitting back, you tilt your head at him and wish like hell that you could still have a cigarette on an airplane. Or that they would hurry up and start serving alcohol already. "I went to Judy and Don Berna and tried to bargain for your safety," you tell him quietly. "After you told me...about everything. When it was getting bad. And Judy threw me under the bus right along with you." It had been an impulsive move, trying desperately to get Javi a grasp of freedom after getting in bed with Los Pepes, but it had ended up just backfiring spectacularly and getting both of you kicked out of the country instead. Suspended pending investigation, and then they had tacked on the charge of interdepartmental fraternization to boot. Steve got a slap on the wrist. You got a plane ticket.

“Fuck.” Javi squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. Regret souring in his stomach and he desperately wishes he had a whiskey, or something to drink. “You shouldn’t have risked your career for me.” He responds, voice raspy with unspoken emotions. “I’m not worth that.”

"Too late now." He doesn't need to know why you did it. That you had developed feelings for him slowly but surely over the course of the year you had worked together and had been trying to talk yourself out of it unsuccessfully since you know he has no interest in you. "I did what I thought was right. It's not your fault that it bit me in the ass."

The doors to the plane close and Javi leans back in his seat. “Shit.” He hisses, shaking his head. “I'm sorry.”

"It's not your fault, Jav." It isn't. Not really. He didn't ask you to try to help him or involve you in any of the dealings with Los Pepes. In fact, he had actively warned you against it. "I made my decision and now I'm living with the consequences."

“I’m sorry I dragged you into my shit.” He slides his hand over his face and sighs, closing his eyes as the weight of the fallout from his mistakes bleakly shoves themselves into his face again.

"We're both adults, you didn't drag me into anything." Your own stupid sentimentality did that, but he doesn't need to know it. He doesn't need to know the details. "I'll find something new. Get back on my feet. The DEA isn't the end of the line for me."

“Come to Texas with me.” The offer pops out of his mouth, but in reality, it’s a good idea. It's not like there isn’t room at his Pop’s and that way you aren’t spending money you don’t need to until the DEA is done punishing you.

"You don't have to do that." When you look back up at him he looks surprised to even have said it and the small spark of hope that he might have meant it fizzles immediately. "Pity is worse than hatred, ya know."

“It’s not pity.” He immediately argues. “I just hadn’t – it’s a good idea.” He shifts slightly and turns in his seat to face you. “The ranch isn’t luxurious, but it’s comfortable.” For him, it’s home. “Pop has a spare bedroom that is never used. He’d probably be grateful to have more than my sullen ass to talk to.”

It's not that you don't want to say yes. To spend time with him or at least around him. To get to know his family and see where he's from. The problem is that you want to do those things for all the wrong reasons. "I don't know what help I'll be," you warn him, like reminding him that you grew up in a very different way than he did might somehow deter him. "But..." But you could have just a little more time with him before never seeing him again. You deflate a little, knowing that your only other option is throwing money at a hotel for a while. It's not like you can just knock on Connie Murphy's door when you get to Miami – she certainly won't want to see you. "If you don't think your father would mind too much? I'll stay out of both your hair."

“Nah, he won’t mind at all.” Javi promises. He had too many cousins or friends stay over when he was younger for the elder Peña to care about his house being used as a way station. “I’ll give him a ring when we land in Miami.” He promises. “Just so you know it’s okay.”

"Okay." Suddenly you wish you had a drink even more. More time spent with your partner – former partner? – before you let go of him altogether might be more than you bargained for. But still, you don't think you could pass up the chance. Even just a few more days. "As long as it's okay with your dad."

He relaxes slightly, shooting you a small, rare grin. “Okay.” He nods, feeling better about the entire situation. He wouldn’t want to leave you in Miami by yourself even if he knows you are more than capable. Hell, you’re a better agent than him and Steve, but he would still feel uneasy about it.

******

The flights are long, and you end up buying a new book in Miami just to have something to read on the way to Texas. Being back stateside isn't the triumphant return that Javier wanted it to be and his father didn't seem fazed at all by the idea of him bringing someone back to the ranch so you had nodded gratefully. By the time you land at Laredo International Airport you feel about ready to drop but Javi seems as near to relieved as you've seen him in months.

“I need a fucking cigarette.” The non-smoking rule in the airport had killed him, the idea that you couldn’t light up at the restaurants in the States had been irritating and he anxiously waits for his checked bag so he can hopefully get one before his dad shows up.

"You and me both." At least you'd been able to drink on the flights. A steady stream of scotch had kept both of you from getting too irritable.

He spots your bag first, a hideous maroon color that he had teased you about, but it’s handy for spotting it as the conveyor belt rolls around. Stepping forward, he grabs it and turns back to you. “That all you checked?”

"Yeah." You shoulder the bag before he can tease you about the color again and shrug. "Murphy said he'd ship me the rest of my shit if they decide to fire me." Technically you're just under investigation, but anything could happen. "It's boxed up at his place for now."

Javi nods, frowning slightly as he waits for his own bag. Wondering what prompted you to sleep with Steve. Not that it was his business, but you never seemed like you were interested.

"Here." His nondescript black bag swings around the carousel and you nab it for him, not mentioning that the reason you have such an awful colored bag is so you can actually recognize it. His stupid black bag had probably passed by you four times before you had even recognized it. "We, uh...we're waiting for your father to pick us up?" Surely that's enough time for a cigarette, isn't it?

“Yeah.” Javi guides you towards the revolving door and sighs as soon as the warm night air hits him. The airport was artificially freezing. “He should be here soon.”

"Is it bad that the heat is actually comforting?" Colombia might have varying climates, but you had gotten used to the damp heat of the jungles and busy sunshine of the city. "The office is always way too fucking cold."

“Why do you think I kept a jacket around?” He huffs with a grin, fishing in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. When he finds it, he pulls out the lighter and offers you the pack to take one if you want it.

Humming in thanks, you take a cigarette from the pack and easily lean forward so he can light it after he does his own. It's a practiced ritual, something the two of you have done a hundred or a thousand times before, and a calming one. The air is warm here but it's dry, and seeing that it's the end of the day you can tell it's going to start cooling off quickly. "So this is where you grew up, huh? The original hunting grounds, so to speak?"

He blows out the first, satisfying puff of tobacco and nicotine and chuckles. “You could say that.” He hums, looking out to watch as the last plane of the night takes off. Watching the blinking lights lift into the sky. “Got into a lot of shit around here.”

"I bet." It isn't hard to imagine him as a charming trouble-maker of a teen, talking circles around the adults in his life and pitching that signature Peña smile at anyone with a grudge. "A whole line of swooning country girls left behind you when you took off for bigger things." It wouldn't be that different from all the swooning women he had left behind in Colombia. After all, he has no idea that he brought one of them with him.

“One very bitter, jilted fiancée.” Javi confesses. He had told Steve about Lorraine but he hadn’t said anything to you about her. It had seemed wrong for some reason.

"No." You practically choke on an inhale of smoke and whirl around to look at him instead of watching the parking lot. "You were engaged?"

“Yeah.” Javi admits it wasn’t his finest moment, leaving her at the altar but it was better than the alternative. “I was.”

It casts things in a different light, to think of him that way, but you nod and pretend that you don't have a single care about it in the world. When you had thought of him as having no interest in marriage before, that had been a presumption based on what you had seen. Now, it seemed to have slightly more concrete evidence to support it. "She doesn't still live around here, does she?"

“Think so.” He rolls his eyes slightly. “Her husband Randy is some kind of investment banker.” He scoffs, never having much use for them. They are right up there with used car salesmen and pimps.

"Randy?" You snort at the name, letting it conjure images of either an idiot in a garish suit or else that actor whose last name you always forget from National Lampoon. "Sounds like she traded pretty far down. Might be glad to see you in spite of the break up." Imagining him with just about anyone hurts at this point, why not add insult to your own injury by picturing him getting back together with his ex?

“Doubt it.” He eyes you, waiting to see your reaction. “Left her at the altar with about a hundred of our friends and family.”

"Madre de Dios, Javi!" The Spanish curses are far more fun to use and roll off the tongue more often after having spent so much time in Colombia, and when you swerve to look at him with your cigarette hanging out of your mouth you nearly punch him instead of just shoving him in the arm. Your usual playfulness comes out when you're surprised, apparently. Even if that surprise is tempered with a bad situation. "That woman is gonna murder you if she ever sees you again!"

He shrugs, having accepted that as his fate a long time ago. “She’s moved on, got two kids with her husband. Better with him than me.”

"God forbid the great Casanova himself, Javier Peña, should ever settle down." You nearly huff when you roll your eyes, but a truck in the distance saves you the trouble. "Looks like your dad is here."

He doesn’t know why that comment makes him frown, but he tosses down his cigarette and grinds it under his heel. Annoyed that your off hand teasing has him defensive. “Can't wait to take a shower.”

"Can't wait to sleep without worrying about getting shot or kidnapped," you gripe before painting a smile onto your face. Is your work important? Of course it is. But they took it away from you and branded you the office slut when that title clearly already belonged to someone else, so you'll take whatever comforts you can get at the moment.

He can agree with that, although he never slept well anyway. There was too much on his mind in a constant stream of worry and regret. The pick up truck rolls to a stop and Javi steps forward to open the door. “Pop.” He greets his dad and then turns towards you for a proper introduction. Telling his father your name and that you are his partner, he looks back at you. “Chucho Peña.” He flashes a small grin. “Just call him Pop.”

“It’s really nice to meet you.” Chucho is jovial and friendly, offering you a hug immediately and getting borderline emotional to see his son after you-can-only-guess how long. He hushes you when you try to thank him, ushering you into the truck instead and promising you that he’s glad to have the company.

It doesn’t take long for bags to be thrown into the bed and for the three of you to be loaded up in the truck. “Thanks for picking us up, pop.” Javi knows he could have rented a car, but he doubts the counter is even open at this time of night and the one taxi service that Laredo has is notorious for not answering the phone after 10pm.

“Mijito, I’m not going to leave a beautiful woman stranded.” The elder Peña aims a wink at you and chuckles as he turns over the truck’s engine. “It’s been far too long since we had a face this lovely at home.”

His brows arch up at the flirtatiousness of his father. For a moment, it’s the perfect example of where Javi learned his smooth moves.

“Don’t look so shocked.” Chucho laughs when his son tilts his head and laughs straight from his belly to see your amusement when you snicker on the bench seat next to him. “Your mamá was much too good for me. I had to get her to stick around somehow.”

“Don’t believe a single second of that surprise on his face,” you tell the older man, still laughing. “The flirting is genetic in Peñas, apparently.” Not that he ever aimed it at you. As his partner you might as well have been completely sexless to Javi - a fact which bothered you far more than you would like to admit.

Chucho chuckles again and looks over at you and his son. He’s surprised that Javi had finally brought someone home. “Then I taught him well.” He teases.

The bench seat of Chucho’s truck keeps you tucked neatly in between the Peña boys for the drive home, and the warm air from outside the truck swirls around each of you while the radio plays ranchera and Javier’s father gives you both a rundown of how things are running on the ranch these days. The ride isn’t long, but it’s enough for Javi to get updates on some family members and such, and to find out that his dad’s got a new pair of dogs that he’s doting on.

“That sounds good.” Javi’s never been opposed to dogs and he knows that Chucho has been lonely the last few years. He hadn’t been able to come home often.

"They tend to get up early," he warns his son, laughing at the idea of his puppies waking Javier up when he knows his only boy is not a morning person at all. "Just so you know."

“Great.” Javi rolls his eyes and sighs. Not even one day to sleep in. “Don’t shoot the dogs when they wake me up, got it.”

“We’ll train them to make your coffee,” you tease, knowing that Javi before caffeine and nicotine is barely Javi at all.

“You’re worse than I am.” Javi reminds you with a grunt. He always treads warily before 9am around you.

“I am not!” The tease does make you laugh, though, and you end up shrugging in between the Peña men. “Maybe a little.”

Chucho grins, admiring that you have no issue with Javi’s sarcastic sense of humor. You’re good for his boy, he can tell.

When you pull up to the house it’s smaller than you expected at first but it’s obvious that the ranch house rambles on. Rather than being tall it is long, a sprawling thing that seems to carry on to room after room instead of room on top of room. It’s welcoming and homey, and the two dogs out front are most definitely the puppies that Chucho had talked about on the way here.

“Home sweet home.” Javi is conflicted, opening the door to the truck and stepping out. He turns towards you and reaches for your handbag so you can climb out.

“And with playmates!” The dogs perk up immediately upon seeing two new people, and rush over to you with tails wagging and tongues lolling from happy mouths. “Hi boys!” Without hesitation you’re on your knees in the dirt giving them all the pets and cuddles they could possibly want.

Raising his brow, Javi’s surprised at your enthusiasm for the dogs. Not like there was much time for animals in Colombia. “She’s going to fit right in.” Chucho hums in approval, getting the bags out of the bed of the truck.

“Shit, let me get those, Pop.” Javi hurries around the truck to take them from his father.

“Leave mine, Jav.” Scattering the dogs’ fur with kisses, you flash both men a smile before reaching to take your suitcase from Javi. “Sorry, I just…I grew up around dogs and I miss them like hell.”

“I’ve got it.” He insists, “The bedroom is going to be the first door on the left.” He tells you, imagining that you would be in the ‘guest bedroom’ rather than the old room Javi had grown up in.

“Second.” Chucho turns halfway to the horse with confusion on his face. “Have you forgotten where your room is?”

“No,” Javi shakes his head, now confused himself. “I thought you would put her in the spare bedroom.”

“Mijo…” The elder Peña furrows his brow in confusion. “Why would I put your girlfriend in a different room? You’re not sixteen anymore.”

Javi’s eyes widen, realizing the mistake his father had made. He thinks you are with Javi. That he’s brought you home to meet. “Pop—”

“Danny is getting married in a couple of weeks.” Chucho remembers suddenly. “I told him that you will be bringing your girl.”

“I don’t think that’s—” Standing up fully, you look between both men and clear your throat awkwardly. Javier’s father has made the jump - the assumption - that partner meant in business and in pleasure, and you’re the only woman in the world he hasn’t tried to fuck. “It’s not…” You should never have come here…

“Don’t worry.” Chucho doesn’t want to embarrass you; but he wants you to know it’s okay. “The boy has been charming girls into his bed since he was sixteen, I know what he gets up to. But he’s never really been one to bring someone home, so you’re special.”

“Less special than you think I am.” You mutter under your breath, looking to Javier for help in clarifying the situation without being rude.

“Pop…” Javi frowns slightly. “I think she’d be more comfortable with her own space. She didn’t, we didn’t live together.”

“The second bedroom is basically a junk closet,” Chucho admits, looking a little sheepish. “I didn’t think you would be needing it.”

Shit. Javi knows you aren’t happy but he can talk about the sleeping arrangements when his father isn’t listening. “Okay.” He agrees, pointing you down the hall. “Last door on the left.”

Standing in that room with him ten minutes later is more awkward than the first time you had to go to a brothel with him in Medellín, finding that he knew the name of every girl there and discovering exactly how jealous that made you. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” you tell him without hesitation.

“Don’t be stupid.” Javi shakes his head. “We can share. Or I’ll sleep on the couch if that makes you uncomfortable.” There is no way he would let you sleep on the floor when you are a guest in his house. Or, technically, his Pop’s house.

“I’m not stupid.” Even if he doesn’t mean it, the offensive comment does make you bristle and you frown. “And I’m not uncomfortable.” Daydreaming is what you’ll be, but you’ll be damned if he finds that out. “Fine. We’ll just let your Pops think we’re sleeping together, if that’s what you would prefer.”

“He already thinks we are sleeping together, muñeca.” He reminds you, tossing his bag down on the bed and rubbing his neck. It’s awkward and he doesn’t want to think about why his father would think he was sleeping with you. “We are adults. It’s a big enough bed to share.” It’s not a king like his bed in Colombia, but he had shared a queen-sized bed with plenty of women before.

“Just tell me you don’t kick or talk in your sleep or anything.” You’ll just stay on one far edge of the mattress and find someplace else to stay ASAP. That’s all there is to it, you tell yourself firmly.

“Not that I know of.” No one has told him about shit like that, but it’s been awhile since he’s slept beside a woman. “I’ll even wear underwear to bed.”

“How noble of you.” You huff and roll your eyes.

“If you don’t care…” he chuckles quietly, wondering if you're annoyed or embarrassed.

“Poke me with that thing in the middle of the night and you’re gonna wake up without it.” Better that he should never know what your real reaction to his cock would be. Let him think you don’t want him like he doesn’t want you.

Javi frowns and looks away. “Don’t worry about that.” He grumbles, never happy with the idea of losing his manhood.

“Fine then.” Even with knowing that he isn’t interested in you, it still stings when he assures you that you are safe from his attention. Why are you the one woman Javier Peña won’t put his dick near and why do you still want him to so badly? It’s like a sick joke from the universe.

He can tell you aren’t happy with the current arrangement and he knows that he will be busting his ass to make sure the spare bedroom gets cleaned out. “It’s late.” He bites his lip. “I’ll shower and you can…settle in.”

“I shower in the morning.” He knows that. You’ve had plenty of long stake outs and hikes through the jungle and fuck only knows what else — shared hotel rooms where Steve always took the pull out couch and gave you the second bed. He knows you shower in the morning. But still, when you open your bag to pull out clean pajamas and your toothbrush, you pause. “Unless that would weird you out? Some people think it’s gross to sleep on clean sheets without showering. And it’s…it’s your bed.”

“Whatever you want to do, muñeca.” Javi murmurs quietly. He tries not to think about you in a shower, focusing on unzipping his own bag to pull out clothes. It’s late, so any unpacking would need to wait until tomorrow.

“Tomorrow, then.” You have a feeling you’re going to need a cold shower after sleeping next to him anyway. “And I’ll write your dad a check for having to call long distance. But I promised Steve I’d check in.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He shakes his head and turns to look at you with clean boxers and his toiletry bag in his hand. “I’ll pay the long distance bill. Phone is in the kitchen.”

“We’ll figure it out later.” You tell him with a shrug, not wanting to think about Javi naked or Javi wet. Or Javi all clean and shiny crawling into bed with you. You’re never going to get any sleep tonight. “Now go so I can put my pajamas on. I’m still exhausted from that kid screaming all the way from Miami to here.”

“Yeah,” Javi winces. “The kid had a set of lungs on them.” He motions towards the bed. “Take whatever side you want.” He offers. “Not picky.”

The awkwardness of changing your clothes in Javier Peña's childhood bedroom is very real, but you stack your things up neatly in one corner and slip under the crisp, clean covers and put your head on one of his pillows without letting yourself wonder too often how many girls were in this bed before you. And for very different reasons.

He doesn't take too long in the shower, even though he's tempted to jerk off. Knowing that it will be awkward if he wakes up with his cock pressed against your ass. It's not like you would want that. You wanted Steve. Once clean, he steps out of the shower and towels off, swiping the deodorant under his arms and slipping on a pair of rarely used boxers to sleep in. It was better than sleeping naked, like he normally does.

Javi returns to you leaning half out of the bed petting one of his father's dogs that had nudged its way into the room while he was showering, and you're giggling like an idiot with all awkwardness forgotten at the way the sweet cattle dog is giddy to be getting so much attention.

Javi shakes his head, tossing his dirty clothes into the basket that is near the closet door and he does double back to open the door to the hallway so the pup can leave again. "Why do I feel like the dog's gonna end up in the bed?" He asks.

"He's a good boy," you insist with the most dedicated talking to a puppy voice you can possibly manage.

He rolls his eyes, but it's not in annoyance. Even offering to pet the pup when he comes over to curiously sniff Javi before rejecting his affections to return to the woman who is just basking in his presence. "I'm sure he is."

"You gonna come snuggle up with us, MacGyver?" Javi's father has a habit of naming his dogs after television characters, and these two are no exceptions. MacGyver the cattle dog jumps excitedly before bounding up onto the bed and wiggling right up next to you. "See, Jav? He's a sweet baby."

He sighs, but doesn't protest as the dog wiggles happily and licks you repeatedly as you giggle. You laughing and enjoying doggy kisses is much preferred over the depressed moping that had come with your suspension. He doesn't blame you, his moping just isn't as obvious. "The 'sweet baby' better not hog the bed." He grunts, lifting the covers to get in beside you. Maybe having the dog between the two of you would be a good thing.

"He won't," you promise, even though you have no idea what this dog's sleeping habits are like. You do know that getting cuddles from a dog is the best and happiest you've felt in months, so you're just going to accept it and let the good boy snuggle up to you. "See? He's my snuggle buddy."

“I see that.” It’s impossible to be jealous of a dog and Javi isn’t that ridiculous. His watch and wallet set down on the nightstand, he sits up in the bed and reaches down to pat him a few times and scratch behind his ears.

MacGyver might be the happiest dog in the world right now, and you laugh again before settling down. Tucked down under the blanket with a sweet dog between you and some distance from everything that has happened today, things don't seem quite as helpless as they did this morning. "Thanks for this." As ridiculous as everything is, it's thanks to Javi that you have a place to sleep tonight and a soft place to land. It's not his fault that sleeping in the same bed as him is your own personal hell.

“No problem.” Javi nods and then thinks about something. Hopping out of the bed. “I’m going to get some water.” He tells you. “Want some? So you aren’t searching in the middle of the night?”

"Sure. Thanks." As long as he's offering, you're not going to turn it down. Especially since a tour of the house was waiting for the morning.

“Be right back.” Javi disappears down the dark hallway, sure of his footing and the layout of the house he had been born and raised in.

The light in the kitchen at the end of the hallway is still on, illuminating the large room where Javier's father is babysitting a pot of milk on the stove with Matlock halfway through destroying a chew toy at his feet. "Javi?" He barely turns around. "Need something, mijo?"

“Getting some water.” He knows his Pop has a problem sleeping most nights. It’s gotten worse since his mamá passed, the warm milk helping the older man settle down. “Don’t want her trying to find the kitchen in the dark and tripping.”

"Probably for the best," Chucho chuckles. "Can't find where MacGyver went, she might trip over him in the night."

“Dog’s curled up to her like they are best friends.” He snorts, walking over to the cabinet next to the sink where the chipped glasses from his childhood still sit on the shelves.

"Well, damn." That makes him laugh a little harder, and he ends up leaning back on the counter a little with a contented sigh. "Might be for the best." He can't resist needling his son a little. "Keeps the moaning to a minimum if there's a dog in the way."

“Pop.” Javi groans, feeling like he’s fucking fifteen again, being teased about Mary Louise from his class. Of course his dad had known about the groping and experimenting in his barns after school, but there’s no chance of moaning with you.

"I'm not wagging a finger at you, mijo, I just don't want to be woken up in the middle of the night." He laughs, taking his pan off the stove to pour its contents into a mug. Normally he carries it back to his room to sip while he reads, but it's so nice to have his son in the house again. "She seems nice," Chucho commends. "And she's a knockout, to boot."

Javi grunts, aware of how attractive you are. He moves over to the sink and fills the glasses halfway with cool well water. “She’s a good woman.”

"Hell of a lot sweeter than that Lorraine." Chucho remarks sharply, but he shrugs immediately after. "But that's just a first impression. I'll get to know her well enough soon. Y'all stay as long as you want or need to. It's nice to have life in the house again."

“Thanks Pop.” He means that. Both of you need a place to lay low and rest. Once he gets you into your own bedroom, the uneasiness will pass. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

"Night, son." The nod Chucho gives Javier as he ambles from the room comes with a pat on the younger man's shoulder, and soon enough Javi's father has disappeared out of sight with Matlock right at his heels.

Javi sighs, carrying the two glasses of water to the bedroom and contemplates going outside for one last smoke. Pop doesn’t condone smoking in the house, a rule set by his late wife and Javi respects it. In the end, it’s the hassle of brushing his teeth again so he doesn’t accidentally breathe cigarette breath into your face if he rolls over during the night, that convinces him not to. “You two look comfortable.” The dog is halfway sprawled over you, greedy for your pets and praise like he was a lap dog.

“I miss having a dog,” you admit with a sheepish, sleepy grin.

He hands you the water for your side and nods. “Grew up with dogs out here.” He knows that it’s common, but there hasn’t been time for a pet with the work in Colombia.

Even a single sip of the cold water is refreshing, and you put the glass down on the nightstand beside you with a hum. “There were always a lot of animals around when I was growing up. Dogs, cats, the horses, a goat for a while, a bunch of chickens…” You shrug a little and settle down under the covers with the dog still sprawled out over you. “Guess I missed it more than I thought.”

“Goats are funny things.” Javi chuckles as he gets back into the bed. The door is still open to let the dog out when he wants but he’s not worried about it. “We used to have some that would fall out, stiff as a corpse.”

“We had one that did that whenever my sister got near it. Funniest fucking thing in the world, it made her so mad.” The memory makes you giggle a little, but you’re also pretty punchy from being tired and upset all day, so you scratch lazily behind MacGyver’s ear and blow out a breath. “We should get some sleep.”

“We should.” Javi pushes down and twists his body so he can turn off the bedside lamp and plunge the room into darkness. “I know you are tired, muñeca.” He murmurs as he wonders how long it will take him to fall asleep beside you.

“Mmm.” You are, but you doubt you’ll do anything tonight but pet the dog and stare at the wall. His age-old habit of calling you ‘doll’ seems so much more intimate when it’s said in a shared bed and you can’t do anything about it. Masturbating four inches away from him on the same mattress is out of the question. “Night, Jav.”

“Night.” Javi shifts, settling into the bed and sighing softly, tucking his arm behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. The next few days until that room can be cleaned out will be interesting.

******

The most interesting part, unfortunately, was finding out that the old guest room bed hidden underneath ten years of clutter was broken in two places, making it completely unusable. After more than a week of pulling things out of that room, you and Javier had stood in dusty clothes and looked down at the frame in defeat, deciding to deal with it when you got back from your hearings in Washington, which would begin after the next weekend. A few more days in that bed together with the dog between you wouldn’t kill you — although you were increasingly frustrated at this point — and you would be in DC for however long they saw necessary. After that? After that you would know if you were headed back to Colombia or another field office. Or if you still had a job at all.

“At least we have Danny’s wedding this weekend.” It will be an opportunity to see a lot of family, although there has been a steady stream of visitors to the ranch after word got out that Javi was home.

“Right.” Wincing slightly, you nod and sit back in the chair you parked yourself in when MacGyver came bounding into the house to demand attention. “I should probably make sure I have something other than jeans to wear to that.” The idea of shopping for Javi’s cousin’s wedding is vaguely outlandish, but you’re not sure you have much of anything in your bag from Colombia that would be appropriate.

Javi chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m wearing jeans, I don’t think you’d be out of place.” He honestly doesn’t know if he’s ever seen you in a dress outside of work.

“I think the ghost of my granny would rise up and smack me upside the head if I wore jeans to a wedding.” You laugh at the image and sigh, pushing up from your seat. “C’mon, sweet boy,” you coax the dog. “Let’s go see what’s left in that suitcase that I haven’t unpacked.” Over your shoulder, you throw Javier a familiar smile. “Maybe I have something from that undercover stint I did a couple of months ago.”

His brows rise and he stares after you for a moment. That undercover stint had not been family friendly and he had tried so hard to ignore how good you looked.

“What?” When Javi’s reaction is the opposite of what you were expecting, you stop halfway down the hallway and turn. “Too inappropriate? I might not even have anything with me, anyway.”

“It was…a nice dress.” He comments, shaking his head. “It will look good.” You would be the sexiest woman there, though that wouldn’t be hard when everyone else is either family or lifelong friends. His problem is that every person there believes that you are his and he will be fielding ribald jokes all day.

“Wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed to be seen with me.” It picks at you in a way you haven't expected, that he has just let everyone believe you’re together. Even Chucho is still convinced of it and at this point there is probably no telling him otherwise. Every subsequent night you spend in his son’s bed is proof to him, even if you sleep with the door cracked open and the dog between you, and have never shared physical affection in any way.

“Never be embarrassed about being seen with you.” He frowns, wondering where that comment came from. You’re a good looking woman and know that. You got hit on all the time, the men around the embassy and the members of the Bloc. You are probably the one embarrassed to be seen with him. “You call Steve?”

“Yeah.” It’s awful when he bristles at you like a cat with its fur standing on end, but since you have no clue what you did to deserve it this time, you just turn into his room to look at what’s left in your suitcase. “He’s gonna hang on to my stuff until I know if they’re transferring me or outright firing me.”

“I’m sure he misses you.” The close proximity to you is starting to gnaw at him. The ache in his cock matches the hollowness in his heart. Reminding himself that this isn’t what you want, he sighs at the broken bed, putting on his gloves again to toss the ruined item into the large pile of junk that’s been amassed to take to the dump.

“Sure. I mean…that’s what you do with friends, right?” Rummaging in the bottom of his closet, you come out of your suitcase with a little black dress and a pair of stylish high heels that you’d bought for the op, using it as an excuse to get something nicer than what you wore for work everyday. Telling yourself that you’d kept them on the off chance that you ever got asked out on a date. “Are these okay?” You ask, appearing in the guest room doorway a second later. “I have some colorful jewelry so I won’t look like I got lost on my way to a funeral.”

“Whatever you want to wear.” Javi doesn’t know much about women’s fashion besides how to peel a woman out of her dress, but it seems fine to him. “You will look good.”

"Okay." It was an attempt to engage with him, to maybe hear an anecdote or get encouragement, but he's closed himself off again. It just makes you want to shrug it off and walk away so you go back to his room to put the clothes away and grab your book off the nightstand. You'll go read and get out of his hair for a while. Clearly spending so much time around you is grating on him.

Javi sighs again when you walk away, watching you and he can’t help the way his eyes tip down to your ass. It’s a nice ass. Making him frown when he remembers Steve saw it. He’s never been a jealous man, but fuck if he’s not jealous of that fucking hillbilly right now.

Finding Chucho out in the garden shouldn't have been a surprise, but when you flop down on the porch swing in back of the house with your book and look up to see him smiling and waving from the herb pots, you still startle a little. "H-hey Pops." You wave back awkwardly and silently congratulate yourself on being dumb enough to accidentally trade one Peña for the other. There's no escape though, because if you flee Chucho's presence you'll just have to explain yourself later.

“Mija.” Chucho notices the unhappy look on your face that you quickly decide to suppress. “My son giving you heartburn?” He asks, swiping his hat off his head to wipe the sweat. “I keep telling him that he does not have to be so glum all the time.”

"It's nothing, Pops, I promise." The last thing you want is for him to be thinking that you and Javi are having relationship problems when you have no relationship to begin with. "I'm just a little anxious." Good. You'll go with that. He knows the hearings are coming up anyway.

“They would be fools not to take you back.” Chucho grunts, although he keeps his opinion on whether you should go back to himself. “If they don’t, you can stay here as long as you want. Javier likes you here.”

"The standards are different for me." It's bullshit, but it's true. Being a woman, you have to out perform every single one of your male coworkers in order to just keep your head above water. And you had let yourself get sentimental over Javier - the one man in your universe who never seemed to care what you thought of him in the first place.

“They know that one day you will be telling them that you are carrying Javier’s baby.” Chucho huffs, shaking his head. “Stupid men believe women cannot carry a child and do a job. Even though women are stronger than men.”

"That—um—" To hear that from his father flusters you beyond imagination, and you nearly vibrate in a very uncomfortable way. "That isn't...Chucho that's not...Javi and I don't have that kind of relationship." You hate feeling like you're lying to the man when he's been so incredibly kind to you. Maybe it's better that he knows the truth. If you're not Javi's girlfriend he might not want you here — and that's something you need to know.

“Not now.” Chucho huffs. “When the boy gets his head out of his ass and decides to make an honest woman out of you, he will want babies.” He leans against the railing and smirks. “He’s actually good with the bebitos.”

"No, that's not what I—" You stop though, tilting your head slightly in confusion. "I've never seen him look anything but terrified in the presence of babies or small children."

“Really?” Shock turns to amusement and Chucho nearly doubled over laughing. “He said he was going to pretend he knew nothing.” He gasps as he chuckles after a long minute. “Mija, Javier is the oldest of all the cousins. He was changing diapers before he was eight. His tía swears he was the only one who could get Danny to stop crying.”

"Really?" The idea of Javi taking care of any kid is unexpected to you, and you hate the way it warms through you. The way it makes you yearn.

“He is a good boy, a bit stubborn.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “But throw a baby in his arms and the boy would light up.”

"Not in Colombia." You shake your head a little. "Our other partner...he and his wife had adopted a baby while she was in country with us. I don't think I ever saw Javi go near her."

“Olivia.” Chucho nods. “Javier blames himself for what happened to her mother.”

"Sometimes the best thing we can do is work toward the best solution for a bad situation." Sweet little Olivia is with Connie now, and although you don't know what will happen between Connie and Steve, you know that baby will be loved and looked after. That's all you can really hope for sometimes. Love and care.

“That is a good way to look at it mija.” He nods, looking back out at the garden. “You will be good for him.” He promises you. “Everything he’s ever told me about you is true.” He reaches over and pats your hand before he turns back to go down the porch steps and back into the garden.

He's talked about you? Maybe Chucho just means the things that Javi has told him since you've been in the house, you really can't be sure. The best you can do is try to push it out of your mind and open your book.

******

Once the bed frame and mattress are tossed, Javi strips down and climbs into a cold shower. Groaning at the refreshing feeling of the water as it calms his overheated skin, he leans against the wall. You are upset at him, and he wonders if he can take you into town for a meal or something to get you to forgive him.

It's been almost an hour before Javi emerges again, looking very much like himself in that blue shirt with the pinstripes that makes him look taller and crisp, clean jeans. The dogs are the first to notice him, woofing excitedly and jumping up onto the porch to get dusty pawprints on his thighs before you can even turn around.

Javi snorts and shakes his head as he scratches the dog's ears. “Do you want to go into town?” He asks casually. “Get a drink and a meal no one in this house cooked?”

Though the voice in the back of your head wonders if he's asking out of guilt, it does sound nice to get out of the house and you had started feeling hungry about a half hour ago. Cleaning the guest room had been a bigger task than either of you expected and you're pretty sure you skipped lunch most days by accident. "Sure," you nod, plucking your bookmark out of the back cover of your book and saving your page for later. "Sure, that sounds nice."

“Okay.” Javi nods and shoves his hands in his jeans. “I’ll — you go get ready and I’ll get the truck keys from Pop.”

"Okay." You nod in return and disappear back into the house to wash up and change into clean clothes. That black dress is the only nice piece of clothing you managed to pack, but the jeans you routinely wore to the office were decent looking and several of the blouses that you had brought back to the States were nice, soft, floral things that you had bought in Colombia. So when you reappear a little while later in clean clothes with your face washed and hair tamed, it almost feels like the date you know you're never going to get with him.

“Ready?” Javi pops up from the rocker and he swallows harshly at the sight of you all cleaned up. He’s going to need a double in order to not say something stupid. “Got the keys.”

"Okay." Yeah, this feels exactly like getting ready for a date, and you seriously hope that wherever he's taking you has a liquor license because otherwise you're gonna make an idiot of yourself. "Where are we going?"

“There’s this bar in town.” Javi saunters down the porch steps and out to the truck. “Looks like shit but they serve the best damn food.”

"That's usually how it goes." You follow him out to the truck and hide your surprise when he opens the door for you. The dogs are pouting from the front door to see you go but you settle back in your seat when he climbs behind the wheel. Town isn't too far of a drive and it isn't like you've never been alone with Javi. You've just been alone with him a hell of a lot more since getting suspended from the DEA than you ever were when you were active agents.

“Wings are good, but the chili rellenos are probably the best in town.” Javi throws his arm on the bench as he backs the truck up to turn it around. “And add it to a burger? I used to live off of them when I was a sheriff’s deputy.”

"A chili relleno burger?" The idea has you nearly drooling, but you tilt your head at Javi as he starts to drive. "You were a deputy? Seriously?" As much as you know him as a law enforcement officer, he's so prone to break the rules that imagining him as a small town cop just seems so unlikely.

“Yep.” He shrugs and continues to guide the truck down the long drive from the house to the road. “A million years ago when I got out of college.”

"I wanted to be Secret Service." There's no reason to tell him this, but you find it rolling off your tongue anyway as the truck rumbles down the dirt road. "I started the process and ended up with the US Marshals instead. The DEA is where I went afterward. We worked a big joint operation with the DEA in LA and they offered me a transfer for my good work." Sometimes you wonder what would have happened if you had never taken that transfer at all, if you had stayed with the Marshals, but it's too late to do anything about it now.

“No shit?” Javi is impressed, looking over at you with a grin before he hums. “No damn wonder you run laps around us.” He had always admired your work ethic. It was one of the reasons he had kept clear of you, wanting to make sure you weren’t smeared by his reputation, although the joke was on him since you were fucking Steve.

"Yeah." You nod your head and shrug like it doesn't matter, because to some degree it doesn't. After all, Javi had been DEA for far longer than you. "Doubt they'd take me back, though."

“They’d been fools not to.” Javi sighs. “I think they will. Maybe some shit hole assignment for a few years. But you’ll overcome that.”

"You'll get to go back to Colombia. I know you will." For some reason you're certain of it. Not only because Javi tends to overcome his own shitty hardships pretty well through charm and perseverance, but because he's a damn good agent. He worked that case against Escobar longer and harder than anybody and he damn well deserves to get to go back.

“Doubt it.” He frowns and shakes his head. “It hurts not being there. Knowing that they are close to getting the bastard.”

"You will." Your hand rests on his arm on the back of the seat and you give it a supportive squeeze. After all, regardless of what else you feel for him, he's your partner. Your friend. "I can feel it."

“Thanks.” Javi sighs again and tries to shake off the glumness. “Maybe after Escobar is caught…you can figure out what you are doing with…Steve.”

"I really wish you would stop bringing that up," you tell him, letting your own sigh loose. "It was one time, we were drinking, and it was a mistake. That's all. He missed Connie and I—" He doesn't need to know, you remind yourself sternly. "I let it go too far."

He didn’t know that. He had assumed that it was something more. At least more than once. “I’m sorry.”

"We were never going to tell anyone." It feels like an explanation is warranted, since you snapped a little, and you sit back in your seat. "I don't know what happened. Somebody found out and it got back to the higher ups." Stupidly, you shrug. "Sometimes you do shit you shouldn't have for dumb reasons. That's all. He's my best friend, and it shouldn't have happened."

“I thought you two were having— that it was something more.” He admits, shrugging slightly. He doesn’t want to admit that he was jealous. He’s not your best friend.

"You thought we were having an affair." You swallow a sigh and wish you had brought your cigarettes. "It wasn't that. We just...neither of us could have what we wanted, so sometimes when that happens you make the dumb decision to cling to whatever is closest."

“Why couldn’t you have what you wanted?” He catches that and frowns slightly. Wondering what you couldn’t possibly get.

"Doesn't matter now." He's perceptive as hell as an agent, but shit sometimes Javi is oblivious. And the last thing you want is to make shit awkward between you by admitting that you want him and pretty much always have. Since you met, at least.

He frowns and wonders why you are being cagey. Unless it was someone in Colombia that you had left behind. “Well, I’m sorry.”

"You didn't do anything to be sorry for." It's not his fault that he doesn't want you. It's not like he sat back and consciously decided not to be attracted to you. That would be kind of insane, to be honest.

“No, I did.” Javi snorts. “Spent so much time making sure no one thought you would sleep with me, I didn’t notice you and Steve.”

"You made it very clear that you didn't want to sleep with me." And it fucking stings that he would be so casual about bringing it up. Maybe dinner was a mistake. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

“Oh I wanted to sleep with you.” Javi snorts. “That’s why I made sure everyone knew I wasn’t.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “There was a betting pool on how long before I fucked you when you showed up.”

"You–I–there was a what??" There is no way to disguise the shock in your voice, and you probably should have taken a breath before you opened your mouth, but you're too dumbstruck for logic at the moment.

“Yeah.” Javi shakes his head in disgust. “Bastards, every one of them. Acting like it was just some kind of game. That you weren’t an agent and just another worker at the brothel.”

"Okay, but–" Your mind is spinning a little and you reach to shut off the truck's radio, hoping that it will help you think a little more clearly. "But you–you said that–Jesus fucking Christ this can't be happening..."

“You didn’t know?” Javi looks over at you and wonders why this seems to be rocking you so harshly. “Even the damn ambassador had a stake in the pool.”

"No I didn't fucking know!" And right now it feels like it's going to drown you, the disbelief and the frustration crashing over you in equal measure. "And Steve sure as fuck didn't know. Otherwise he should have fucking said something instead of sleeping with me."

What the fuck does Steve have to do with it? Javi frowns and shakes his head. “They all talked about it in Spanish. You know he can’t fucking understand half of a conversation on a good day.”

"He can't even order in a restaurant." Which was a source of endless amusement, but it doesn't answer your biggest question. The one that has you turning to watch him while he drives with exhausted curiosity. "So...you were protecting my reputation? Is that it?"

“You’re a good agent.” Javi insists. “If they thought you were fucking me, they wouldn’t give you any of the respect you are due.” It’s bullshit and completely wrong, but it’s what would have happened. “So I just….acted like you were a man.”

That makes you groan, and you cover your face with both hands as he drives. “Fucking, of course you did.” That certainly explained a hell of a lot, even if you’re not thrilled about the answer. He had done it out of respect, knowing that you couldn’t get both. Meanwhile, you would have gladly taken the option to be banged like a screen door in July.

You don’t sound happy about his decision as you groan and he is utterly confused. “Sorry?” He practically asks it, unsure why you are annoyed. You know how men act.

"You didn't do anything wrong." In fact, he did less wrong than you had originally thought, which makes it so much more difficult to be mad about.

“You sound pissed.”

"I'm surprised." Pissed is the wrong word, although you're not exactly excited to find out after the fact that you didn't have a chance for entirely different reasons than you thought.

Silence falls in the cab of the truck and Javi feels you shifting beside him as he drives. It’s probably that it was kept from you, he decides. You never like being kept in the dark, but he had never shared anyone’s proclivity for locker room bragging. The awkwardness and discomfort of the whole situation makes you feel like you’re walking on eggshells, until eventually you shift one too many times and can’t stand it anymore. “I thought you didn’t like me,” you murmur, staring out the window.

“Oh.” Javi is shocked you would feel that way, but he guesses it’s not too much of a stretch. “I thought you didn’t care. You never seemed to think I was anything but a manwhore.”

The times you had teased him about it or made side comments were very definitely not your finest moments, and if you could fold up into a pretzel in this truck as he pulls into town, you would. “Of course I care.” This is barreling dangerously close to a confession, but you don’t know what else to say. The idea that you don’t care about him is absolutely the furthest from the truth.

He had thought that you were judging him for how he spent his time and who he slept with. There had seemed to be an edge of disdain to your barbed comments, so he had assumed that you hadn’t approved. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” Javi huffs. “I’m not sleeping with anyone.”

“That’s…technically not true.” And the realization makes you huff at your own ridiculousness and even roll your eyes. “You’re just actually sleeping with me, not the euphemism.”

He chuckles and shrugs. “And the dog.” He reminds you, MacGuyver deciding that his favorite sleeping spot is between the two of you. Javi slept on the edge of the mattress most nights.

“I love that dog but he is a bed hog.” It’s sweet, though, and has kept you from doing anything stupid, which you have to stay grateful for.

“So it’s not just me?” Javi grunts. “I’m almost falling off the damn bed by morning.”

“We’re both sleeping on the edge and MacGyver’s got the whole bed to himself.” A half-laugh makes it out of you as he pulls up in front of a nondescript building and you shake your head. “This it?”

“This is it.” Javi puts the truck into park and shoots you a grin. “Just say no to the Hellspawn Boilermaker.” He advises you before he climbs out of the truck.

“Why would you tell me that?” You’re out of the truck and onto the sidewalk in an instant and throwing him a pout. “Now I have to know!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He cautions, striding up to the door and holding it open for you.

Inside is dimly lit and a little on the loud side, with plenty of people drinking and just as many eating while the jukebox plays and the pool tables in the corner stay active. It’s a hole in the wall for damn sure, but an inviting one. “Do you want to sit at the bar?” Javi asks, spying a small table in the corner of you don’t.

“Wherever.” This is his town - his place - and you are flexible as long as he feels comfortable. You’re going to be in your head the whole dinner now that you know he used to want you anyway, so you truly couldn’t care less.

“Let’s sit at that table.” He would rather not answer a dozen questions on being home. So he guides you over to the small table.

A waitress notices you quickly enough, bringing over two thin menus and taking your drink orders while simultaneously making it obvious that she finds Javi extremely attractive. Not that you can blame her, but she is awfully blatant about it. What if you were on a date or something?

Javi studies the menu quickly before setting it aside and leaning back, reaching for the ashtray. He has been dying for a cigarette and needs one now.

"So this is an old haunt?" The menu is nothing surprising - basically barbecue and some house specialties, but it all sounds damn good.

"Pretty much." Javi smirks slightly. "We all used to drink underage here, back when that wasn't horrible." He explains. "Then most of us became solid citizens. Half the police force in Laredo used to come here."

"Boilermakers for all?" You guess, shooting him a grin.

Javi chuckles and shrugs slightly. "I'm surprised that it wasn't offered when we ordered our drinks. Wonder if they still do it. It was a tradition."

"When I was in the Marshals, we used to do these awful tequila bombs after missions." For better or for worse, you haven't had one in years. Although it almost feels like a sentimental memory now, it was more like hazing back then. "Thank god we could get good tequila in LA. If I had tried that where I grew up, it would have been cheap shit and bad beer and tasted even worse."

He chuckles again and nods. "This is a habanero infused whiskey with a shot of pickled jalapeño juice dropped in it, all dropped into a glass of Budweiser. Have to drink it all in one shot."

"Ugh." The grimace on your face is immediate, but still you're laughing. "So the kind of thing Milgroup would make their boys drink and tell them it's a Colombian specialty?"

"Yep." The waitress swings back by, dropping off drinks and lingering for just a moment, so Javi picks up his whiskey and looks up at her. "You still offer the Hellspawn?" He asks curiously before he downs the shot in one toss of his head.

"Only to people brave enough to try it," she simpers, clearly meaning dumb instead of brave, but not wanting to put him off.

Javi smirks and looks over at you. "Give us two and a basket of cheese fries to cool down with." He orders.

"We're both going to do the barbecue burger." There isn't even a debate on that – the burger boasted cheddar cheese, thick cut bacon, house barbecue sauce, and onion straws with house-made pickles on the side and that has both your name and Javi's written all over it like a neon sign. When the waitress nods and walks away with your menus, you sit back and laugh at his expression. "You didn't think we'd both gravitate toward the same thing? That's the quintessential burger for us."

"I expected you to go for the chili relleno burger." He admits with a small grin.

"I thought about it." You really did, especially since he had mentioned it on the way here. "But...onion straws. You know I'd probably climb through the jungle in high heels for anything having to do with fried onions."

"That is true." He frowns. "Haven't you already run through the jungle in high heels though?"

Only once, but it had been early on and Javi had made you out to be something of a legend for managing it. "Yeah, so I know what a pain in the ass it is."

"I wouldn't want to find out for myself." He picks up the glass of water that had been delivered with the other drinks and takes a sip. "Word of advice, don't try to drink water after the Hellspawn. Makes it worse."

“Noted.” Although that has you morbidly curious, you don’t ask questions. He ordered the cheese fries, that’s what is going to happen after the drink of doom.

The jukebox starts to play and Javi looks around the bar again. Noting that not a lot has changed over the years. "So we just need to get through Danny's wedding." He broaches the subject. "I'm sorry, but I think pop has told the entire family that we are together. So expect questions and tales about the wedding that wasn't."

“Why didn’t you ever tell them that we aren’t?” It is such a point of curiosity and frustration that you need to ask. As much as you don’t want to upset him, you need to know why he never just told his family that you aren’t his girlfriend.

He sighs and shakes his head. "It's–" He doesn't want to admit that he had talked a lot about you with his Pop, giving the man the impression you were very important to him. Because you were. "I don't know." He admits with a shrug, figuring that it was easier to say that than to admit that he wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship with you.

“Bullshit.” It is, and you’ll call him out on it any day of the week. There’s apparently shit he’s been hiding from you, but this isn’t going to be on that list anymore.

He frowns, lips curled unhappily and he reaches for his cigarettes again after crushing out the one he just finished. "What the fuck do you want me to say?" He demands, shoving the cigarette between his lips and flicking the zippo open.

“The truth.” Your beer is going to be empty pretty quickly at the rate you’re drinking it, but fuck it. You’re annoyed after everything that got said in the truck. “I’m not gonna get mad, Jav, whatever it is. But I just found out you’ve been keeping shit from me and you’re lying about this and I hate being lied to.”

"I haven't lied." Javi shakes his head, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag off of it before blowing the smoke up into the air. "Not to you. And I've kept plenty of shit from you." It's not the best argument but you don't let it go, just staring at him and waiting for your answer. He sighs and catches the waitress's eye, lifting his glass to indicate he wants another drink and sighs again. "Because I didn't want to tell them you weren't my girlfriend."

“But I’m not.” The lackluster explanation has only made you more confused, and you drain the end of your beer with your eyes pinched closed. “You just don’t want them to know you’re single? Jav, I would have given you shit about it but I would have played along. You could’ve just asked. I get having an invasive family.”

"I don't give a shit about that." Javi scoffs and shakes his head. Looking away from you in embarrassment. "You– you're the closest I've been to a relationship since Lorraine." He admits quietly, shrugging one shoulder. "It's kind of nice."

“Lorraine is…the fiancée you left at the altar?” If you’re the closest he’s been to a relationship since that, he’s even worse at them than you thought.

"Yep." Javi huffs and leans back when the woman brings over his next drink.

"Those Hellspawns are almost ready." She tells him with a wink.

He nods but he doesn't watch her walk away, finding your eyes again. "Talked about you enough that Pop thought...well, he thought I was hesitant to admit we were dating."

“You talked about me?” All of this is news to you, but at least you can keep your voice down with that no one is looking your way. “Like…before you told him I was coming here?”

Javi frowns again, picking up the new glass of whiskey. "Of course I did." He tells you. "You didn't ever talk about me?"

“I don’t talk to my family.” They don’t want to hear from you and you don’t want to fight with them, so it was just easier to avoid by not calling. “The people I talked to most were you and Steve.”

He rolls his eyes, aware that any conversation with Steve about him wouldn't be a good one. "I–" He tosses back the drink and shakes his head. "It's nice, okay?" He hisses. "Fucking normal. I feel normal. Imagining that we– that you–" He breaks off and slumps back. "I'll tell them."

“He wanted me to tell you.” The words come blurring out of your mouth like you had tried to swallow lava, and it’s immediately too late to take it back.

"Tell me what?" Javi barely pays attention to you, clenching his jaw as he thinks of how to break it to his Pop that the woman who is 'perfect for him', isn't even someone he's ever kissed.

The waitress comes back, this time with a tray with six items on it. Two shot glasses, two whiskey glasses and two beer glasses. The makings of the Hellspawn. "Here we go."

With the moment broken, your sudden burst of bravery deflates and you sit back, very nearly pouting sullenly. “Right. Let’s just drink.”

"Okay." Tessa sets the tray down and smiles at Javi. "You know how this works right?" She asks, sure that he might be the most handsome man she's ever seen. "Drop the jalapeño juice into the whiskey and then drop both glasses into the beer." The glasses of beer were only half full, making sure that it's not too messy. "And those cheese fries are coming right up."

“Can’t take the barely legal waitress home if you’re still fake-dating me,” you mutter after she walks off, feeling bitter at your own stupidity at this point.

"What?" Javi frowns, confused at what you are talking about. "I– her?" He shakes his head. "I haven't even looked at her."

“Until twenty minutes ago in the truck I was under the impression that your rule was anybody but me, so I’m still adjusting,” you tell him curtly before dropping your drink together with determination and putting the concoction to your lips so you can’t say anything else stupid.

"Fuck you." Javi drops the juice into the whiskey and glares at you before he picks up that glass to drop into the beer. "I always wanted you. Still do." He picks up his own drink and starts to down it.

It isn’t until your glass is down – the foul drink being oddly tasty at first but soured by the mood that you find his eyes again. “I slept with Steve because I was depressed that you never looked at me twice.”

Javi grimaces and coughs slightly at the burn of the capsaicin in the drink before staring at you. "Probably because when I looked at you, you were walking away from me."

“He told me to tell you.” You repeat, wishing you had another drink to down, like maybe you could drown yourself in them. “Said you deserved to know. So there. I’m telling you.”

"So there?" Javi reaches for the water out of reflex. "Like I was expected to know you wanted me to look at you when you scoffed every time I left the office." You knew where he was going, what he was doing. He hadn't hidden it. You had made your feelings about his affairs very clear.

“Shockingly,” this time your sarcasm is aimed at yourself. “I didn’t handle being in love with you very well. Being jealous of every other woman in Colombia grated on me just a little.”

The water is halfway gone when Javi realizes his mistake. The burn of the peppers in the whiskey immediately increases and he feels his tongue start to burn. "Shit."

“Shit?” Not having registered the drink or the water or any of it, you sigh only so you don’t scream and squeeze one hand into fist as hard as you can. “Forget it. Never mind. I’ll get my shit out of your Dad’s house and find a hotel tonight. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Eyes watering, Javi squeezes them shut and prays that the fries come quickly. "H-hot." He wheezes after a moment of trying to speak but being unable because of how bad his mouth is watering.

“Wha—oh!” When you finally realize what happened – remembering what he said about water making the drink hotter and realizing that he had half of his glass – you are up and out of your seat in a heartbeat to go straight to the bar for a glass of lemonade or juice or even tomato juice. Anything with acid. The confused bartender gives you a glass of tomato juice with lemon and says he’ll put it in your tab in the same breath that you’re thanking him and bringing it back to the table.

Breathing hurts and Javi's trying not to inhale too much as you rush back over with the glass of juice. Shoving it into his hand as he greedily starts to gulp it down in an effort to quell the burning of his mouth and esophagus.

Acid helps heat. Carrillo told you that once when you had dinner with him and his wife and got in over your head with his wife's fantastic and incredibly spicy salsa. It won't cure him instantly but it will help, and now you're sitting at the table feeling like an idiot for getting mad about his reaction when he was in pain.

Once every drop of the juice is gone, Javi sighs, setting it down and cursing himself for being so unnerved by you and this entire situation and he had fucked up and done exactly what he had warned you again. "Thanks." He grunts, reaching for a napkin to wipe his mouth and wishes he had another beer to wash down the taste of the tomato juice.

"Sure." The awkward shuffle of two people who can barely look at each other is mercifully interrupted by the waitress arriving with the plate of fries and two more beers, and she takes your glasses away silently after reading the tension between you.

"So." Javi takes a large swallow of his beer. "Let me lay this out. I made sure not to hit on you so it wouldn't ruin your reputation. And you were mad at me for not hitting on you?" He asks, finally glancing back over at you.

"Not...technically?" Thank god there's food to concentrate on right now and you can be justified in not looking at him. "I was jealous and frustrated. Not quite mad."

"And I'm jealous that you fucked Steve." He confesses. "When I found out, I figured that was why you never seemed to like me."

"He was upset about Connie and I was upset about you." You poke at a few cheese fries with your fork and try not to curl in on yourself. "I said your fucking name in bed with him Jav, it's not like I'm not fully aware that I fucked up."

"Oh don't tell me that." Javi winces, his own fries halfway to his mouth. "I– that's– ouch."

"I just said I fucked up." You point out. "I did. And we both knew it. That's why he told me I should tell you."

"You have told me." He murmurs, shoving the fries in his still overheated mouth. "And look like you want to be anywhere else but here."

"I'm not chomping at the bit to be rejected, that's all." There is a difference between wanting someone and you just admitting to being in love with him, and you are absolutely as fully prepared to be told that he doesn't feel the same way about you that you have been the whole time. It's just that now he actually knows the extent of how you feel.

He never thought you were dim witted. Out of the three of you, Javi had personally felt you were the smartest agent there. Yet you still have not made the connection despite all the pieces being in front of you. "And you are here because I could not admit that you and I aren't together."

A long moment of silence passes between you before you close your eyes and sigh, feeling even stupider than you had a minute ago. "...fuck."

Javi doesn't say anything. Letting the moment hang between you. If you want to clarify, to ask something, you can.

"I honestly can't decide which one of us is more of a dumbass," you mutter, wiping one hand over your face. "Probably me, honestly. But fuck..."

"Did you work with Los Pepes?" Javi snorts, shaking his head. "I think that honor would go to me."

"No." The shift at the table is only your awkwardness, and you gulp another breath. "But I did go to them to beg them to let you out of your agreement, so I guess I'm specifically a sentimental dumbass."

"You shouldn't have." Javi insists. "They would have just slapped you on the wrist for fucking Steve if that hadn't come out. You would still be there. In the hunt for that bastard."

"Well, I did." The things you do for love apparently include tanking your career. "You had been there a hell of a lot longer than any of us. You deserved to see it through."

"Apparently not." Javi grumbles, shaking off the sense of disappointment. "That's life though."

"I'm sorry." It's not as though you made it worse, but you certainly didn't make it any better.

"It's not your fault." Javi knows he has no one to blame but himself. "I'm sorry." He is the one who is ultimately responsible for you being sent back to the States. He is the one who needs to apologize.

"You didn't make me go to them. For that matter, you didn't make me get drunk and stupid with Steve, either." You sigh, shaking your head. "I did what I did for my own dumb reasons and you have nothing to apologize for."

"You felt like you had to protect me." Javi hums quietly. "You put your career on the line for me."

Picking up your beer, you stare into the golden bubbles for a second before nodding. “The shit we do for love, right?”

"You don't love me, muñeca." Javi shakes his head. "You don't know all the things that I've done. You think you love me.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” You tell him flatly. “You don’t have to feel the same way, and you don’t have to be my friend, or even my partner. But you definitely don’t get to decide how I feel about you.”

That shuts him up. Staring at you for a moment before he frowns, nodding at the truth in your comment. "I am– I am not a good man."

“Does that immediately disqualify you from deserving every morsel of happiness?” Some people might say that it does, but you’ve never believed that.

"I will let you down." He sighs softly, revealing his worst fear.

"How do you know that?" Considering you haven't actually asked him for anything, the possibility is extremely miniscule. The worst he can do at this moment is tell you no, and that's what you're fully expecting. So it can't be a let down at all.

"It's what I do, muñeca." Javi snorts. "My mother, Lorraine, Helena, Oliva, Horatio, Steve, you, I let everyone down."

"And you don't deserve a chance to redeem yourself ever?" That makes you put your drink down again, and actually hold his gaze across the table. "I can't decide for you, Javi. I never thought in all the time I've known you that I actually had a chance at all, so you telling me 'no' is exactly what I expect. But if you want to give whatever this could be a chance, you very literally know where to find me."

“Don’t turn this into me rejecting you.” Javi shakes his head and leans back, folding his arms over his chest. “This is me protecting you.” He insists. “Don’t you see that?”

"I'm not trying to pick another fight." There has already been plenty of that for today. "If forgetting we ever had this conversation is what you want, that's fine. I'll smile pretty and play your fake girlfriend at your cousin's wedding, and I'll get myself out of your hair just as soon as Washington decides what to do with me. Seriously, Javi. It's fine." You've dealt with plenty of heartbreak in your life. Javier Peña won't be the first or the last person to break your heart, but you're a big girl. You'll carry on.

Javi frowns, unhappy with your answer but he can’t blame you. He’s pushing you away. “It’s not smart.” Javi shakes his head. “We’ve been drinking.”

"Fine." Despite the fact that you can feel your heart breaking in your chest, you just shrug and fold your hands in your lap under the table. "The dog takes up the whole bed anyway."

“Muñeca.” Javi murmurs quietly, his dark eyes fixed on you. Sighing softly when you won’t look at him. Hating how much you look like he’s crushing your heart.

****** To say the meal is tense is a bit of an understatement, but you pick up your book for a few hours when you get back to the house and mercifully find that Chucho has had some friends over to play poker tonight so no one is paying much attention to you or to Javi. It's just you and the dogs for a while before you figure it's safe to go to bed, seeing as you haven't seen hide nor hair of Javi since you got home.

The barn has always been a place where Javi has been able to think. The monotony of manual labor helps clear his mind and just work. Even after years away, he knows how to clean out a stall and lay fresh bedding. So the animals are getting it tonight instead of tomorrow morning? What’s a few hours when he can exhaust himself instead of going inside and begging you to let him touch you. To burn off this need that is clawing under the surface and threatening to overwhelm him.

"Looks like it's you and me, bud," you tell MacGyver, placing a kiss between his ears and shutting the bedroom door temporarily so you can put on your pajamas. It takes just a couple of minutes before you pop the door open again and crawl under the covers to give him your undivided attention. Five or ten minutes of devoted petting before shutting your eyes is good for the soul, and maybe tonight you won't end up crying yourself to sleep.

By the time that Javi closes the barn door, it’s late and every muscle in his body aches. Sweaty and needing another shower, he quietly makes his way into the house and into the bathroom. He can’t climb in the bed filthy, that wouldn’t be fair to you. Quickly showering, he wraps a towel around his waist and makes his way to the bedroom.

The dog is snoring soundly but you barely managed to stop the tears when you heard him start up the shower across the hall. With your eyes closed and the blanket pulled up to your chest you hope you look convincingly asleep, just trying not to get into another argument before sleeping.

Pushing the door open, Javi stops, listening to hear if you are still awake. “Muñeca?” He whispers softly. “Are you awake?”

It's better not to answer, you decide quickly. Better to let him think you've already drifted off so he can just settle in and fall asleep. For that matter, maybe pretending will actually help you fall asleep.

He sighs softly, unsure of why he even bothered. You hate him now. Moving over to the dresser, he pulls out a pair of boxers and slides them on. Easing his way into the bed so he doesn’t wake you, he fights for the tiniest piece that he can squeeze onto, pushing the dog over. “I wish you knew how much I love you.” He murmurs after a long moment of staring into the darkness. “How much I want to be with you.”

It's too late to say anything now, but at least you're facing away from him so he can't see that you're tearing up all over again. Of all the men in the world, you had to go and fall in love with an emotionally closed off idiot who talks to you when he thinks you're asleep. And you know for damn sure it's love because you catch yourself thinking it's cute.

“You’re going to be reassigned somewhere else.” Javi whispers. “You’re too good of an agent not to be. And if I’m– if we are together, you won’t take it. You’d give up your career for me. Again. And you’d hate me for it.”

Barely suppressing a sniffle, you squeeze your eyes shut facing the windows and say nothing. You don't move and don't make a sound, listening to him pour his heart out when he thinks you can't hear him.

“Every damn day I want you. Crave you like you’re the purest fucking cocaine that has ever come out of Colombia.” He sighs. “I’m fucking tired of jerking off in the shower, imagining how you would feel, how you would sound. But I can’t touch you and lose you. I can’t, muñeca.”

A tear actually escapes this time, damn him and his sentimentality, but you don't move to wipe it away or even flinch. His confessional is his alone. You're not supposed to be hearing a word of this.

“If it takes you hating me to keep you safe, to keep from hurting you, I’ll do it. I’ll sacrifice my own happiness for you. Anything for you.”

A sob nearly shakes you, and it takes biting your lip to keep still and silent. Thank god for MacGyver, that dog could drown out anyone with the sounds of his sleeping. He's trying to protect you. And as noble as that is, you'd rather have him than safety any day of the week.

He had imagined it would be cathartic to confess this to you. That it would be a weight off his chest, but it’s not. He doesn’t know why, but the hollow ache is still there, the weight pressing down on him. “You asked me why I didn’t tell my family that we were together.” Javi has to add one last thing and then he will bury these feelings. “I wanted to imagine what it was like for a while. Pretend that you are mine. So I could go on without you when you leave.”

Biting your lip, squeezing the pillow, muffling your mouth with your hand, none of it could possibly be enough this time. With those words out of his mouth and the raw sob that wracks through you, the best you can do is hope that he doesn't feel the bed shake - or maybe that he isn't looking at you while he's talking. Otherwise the ruse of being asleep is completely useless at this point.

“Goodnight, muñeca.” Javi whispers again, feeling the dog shake the bed. “I always called you ‘doll’ because you are precious to me.” He closes his eyes and sighs, turning towards the door so he can try to sleep even though he knows he won’t.

______

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unemployedhockeyfan · 4 months ago

Text

Not All Breakups Are Equal Pt. 2

Summary: Lando and Eloise deal with the fallout of their friendship after Eloise left Lando standing in his Monaco apartment.

Warnings: angst I guess and I'm pretty sure just one swear word

Notes: Hi! Thanks for the support on part one!! Sorry it took a few days for this part. I write for my adult job, too, so sometimes I'm just a little too worn out to write after work.

[2.33k]

Part 1

The days in New York are easy. Daily life is just fast enough that I don’t even have the opportunity to think of the friendship breakup that’s constantly trying to pull at my heart.

Days are nothing compared to nights.

New York has seemingly earned its title of “The City That Never Sleeps.” I wish I could say it’s because I make my nights as fast paced as my days, but that would be one of the biggest lies I’ve ever told — second only to all the years I told myself I didn’t love Lando… At least not that way.

My nights are filled with little to no sleep as I toss and turn in the bed squished into the tiny hotel room. All that fills my brain is his smile, his laugh and the look on his face as I walked out the door of his apartment.

I never want to forget the smile or the laugh, but that last look is one I wish wasn’t burned into my brain.

It’s been three weeks since I last saw or talked to Lando. He’s since won his first race in Formula 1.

A race I wasn’t there for.

I was supposed to be. I had a pass and in all honesty, I could’ve still shown up. If I did, though, I would’ve fallen back into the same pattern as before. The people-pleasing nature of my personality would’ve come out and I would’ve continued to let Lando’s new girlfriend talk ill about me.

My mind was overflowing with the memories I had of watching Lando celebrate in Miami while I sat 1,200 miles north. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep tonight. At least not anymore than the three hours I had already barely managed.

As I rolled over to grab my phone off the nightstand, the cheap digital clock was shining 3:30 a.m.

“Hm, Max is probably up by now. I can call him,” was the initial thought that crossed my mind.

Max wasn’t necessarily thrilled when he found out that my plane ticket landed me across the Atlantic Ocean, but he got over it relatively quickly when he found out I had friends from university in the area.

It took a while, but the line finally connected, welcoming me to one of the most comforting voices in my life.

“Eloise, long time no hear.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I’ve been busy.”

“Really? Or are you just lying to me?” Max always seemed to be able to read my mind, no matter how much I wished he couldn’t.

“It’s a half lie. The days have been busy, the nights are just restless.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

The silence lasted for a few moments too long. It allowed Max just enough time to steer the conversation in a direction I was trying to avoid.

“He misses you, Elle.”

“I saw his win in Miami. He looked happy. I couldn’t help but watch.”

“He wanted you there.”

I know Max is telling the truth. He has no reason to lie, and I know that truthfully Lando didn’t want me to leave his apartment just over a month ago, but I did.

“You should call him, not me.”

“It depends, Max”

“On what? Whether or not he’s broken up with his girlfriend?”

“Actually, exactly that.”

“I thought you told him you were OK if they were dating as long as she was nicer to you,” Max pushed back.

“I am, I just don’t think she’s capable of changing in just a few weeks.”

My voice was getting louder and I didn’t really want to take my anger out on Max. He hadn’t done anything wrong — maybe just pushed the wrong button or two.

We sat in silence, the only noise being our breathing on either end of the line. It lasted well over a minute before I let out an exaggerated sigh. I was not only going to come clean to Max, but to myself as well.

“Max, it's just… It’s hard and it hurts,” I said as my eyes slowly started to leak fresh tears.

“I know, Eloise, I know. I don’t think anyone is expecting it to be easy for you or for him.”

“No, Max, I don’t just mean distancing myself from him. It’s hard to even be around him nowadays when I see how he treats other girls when all I want is for him to treat me that way.”

The pause in the conversation was deafening. With the phone pressed to my ear, I waited for Max to say something, to say anything.

“Max?”

“Well, it’s about time you admitted it to yourself,” he said with a rather large chuckle.

“Stop, this isn’t funny.”

I was laughing too, though. I couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the fact that for the first time in a month I felt comfortable in my surroundings, but I laughed for a good three minutes before Max’s voice finally came through again.

“You sure do laugh a lot for someone who thinks this isn’t funny!”

“Can’t help it right now.”

“I mean, I am pretty funny,” Max said with an audible smug look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, well, looks aren’t everything.”

“Good one, Elle. I’m going to hang up on you so you have to call him.”

“I’m not going to, I need more time. Plus, he’s in Montreal right now, it’s 3:30 for him, too, and I’d imagine he’s asleep.”

“You’re stubborn, you know that, right?”

“Hm, I learned it from you.”

“Get some sleep, Eloise. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Maxy. And, I promise, I’ll call him eventually.”

It was nearly two months later before I decided it was finally time to talk to Lando again. Of course, by that point, I was well past sleep deprived between restless nights in New York and changing time zones as I returned home to the United Kingdom.

With my brain barely functioning, I decided the best bet would be to not call Lando, but show up in Austria at his next race. I had all the passes I needed to show up thanks to both myself and Lando thinking this falling out was never going to happen.

I managed to avoid all the areas I knew Lando would be during the days leading up to Sunday. I saw and anxiously watched as Lando raced Max for the lead. I sat and nearly cried as I watched Lando’s race come to an end just laps shy of yet another podium.

Lando is hard on himself. He holds himself to a level that’s nearly impossible to reach, and I know his mood after this race will be anything but stellar. He’s bound to be angry, and I start to fear what his reaction will be if he sees me.

As I stand lost and confused in the paddock, I hear my name being called by maybe one of the few people who could make me smile at this moment.

“Eloise! Elle, is that you?”

I whip my head around to see a smiling Daniel Ricciardo jogging my way. Before I could even respond, I’m wrapped in the embrace of one of my favorite members of the F1 world.

“What are you doing here? Does Lando know?”

“I’m assuming he’s clued you in on what’s happened?”

“Just a little, don’t know all the details.”

“Um, yeah, well he doesn’t know I’m here. Really, I don’t even know why I’m here. I should probably leave. There was part of me that wanted to talk to him, but after everything that’s gone on just today, it’s probably best I make myself just disappear. I don’t want to make this any worse than it probably already is for him.”

“Eloise, you’re rambling.”

I couldn’t help it, I was nervous. I was standing in front of one of Lando’s former teammates and just steps away from the McLaren garage.

“Do you want me to call him and get him down here? I really don’t think you off all people could make this moment worse for him”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Call him.”

Lando must’ve answered quickly, but it seemed to take some convincing from the Aussie to lure Lando out of his driver’s room. Eventually the word was that he was on his way down.

I wouldn’t let Daniel leave. I couldn’t let Daniel leave. Just over a minute after Daniel had hung up the phone, I heard a voice that I’d been missing for months.

The voice was so calming on the ears that I had a physical reaction to it. Everything seemed to calm down around me the second the first word came stumbling from Lando’s mouth.

“What’s up, Daniel? Really just not in the mood right now.”

He didn’t respond. Daniel just stepped out of the way, revealing me to the man who still held so much of my soul.

“Hey, Lan.”

The tension was palpable. Lando and I stood there staring at one another as Daniel slowly disappeared to likely return to his own driver’s room. I didn’t want to say anything until he responded, but I was scared that if I waited for him, it would be silent for hours.

“Sorry for just showing up and not calling. For some reason it seemed easier to jump on a plane than it did to pick up the phone.”

“You’re here? In Austria? You’re here, really here? I went back home, I called and nothing. Now, you’re just here?”

“Lan, I’m sorry. I needed space. I just didn’t know the best way to come back.”

I could tell Lando was trying to not get angry. His body language becomes so easy to read after knowing him for years.

His hand ran through the curls on his head after rubbing his face almost too hard.

“Um, let’s just go to my driver’s room. We probably shouldn’t have this conversation in public.”

The walk to his room was awkward. There were eyes glancing at us and some whispers, too. I knew it had been awhile since I had been at one of these, but this surely wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

“Listen, Eloise, I’m not mad. I’m just confused. You left me in my apartment and then disappeared for months with nothing from you. I had to rely on Max to at least know you were alive.”

Lando took a seat on his makeshift bed after making room next to him for me to sit.

“I know, Lando. I can only imagine how much it hurt you for me to leave, but I had to protect myself. I was hurting so much.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

Lando was crying. With the events that had already unfolded today, this really wasn’t the best time for this conversation, but it didn’t look like I could avoid it any longer.

“Lan, I know you didn’t want to hurt me.”

Before I could stop myself, I was wiping the tears that were starting to spill from his eyes. He looked so vulnerable at this moment.

“And, really, Lando, I don’t think I ever really felt hurt by you. I just wanted you to hear me and it felt like you were blinded by some love.”

“It wasn’t love. It was lust or some shit like that. It just definitely wasn’t love.”

I’m not sure how I was really supposed to take that revelation. Was he still seeing her? Was it still too new that he was just describing it as lust?

My confusion must’ve been evident on my face because before I could utter a response, Lando was talking again. He was talking to me as he slowly grabbed both of my hands in his, running his thumbs over the back of them.

“She’s gone. She’s not in the picture anymore. The day after you left, Max and I had a heart-to-heart. Really, he kind of laid into me and wouldn’t stop. He kept saying that some fling was never going to be worth what you meant to me — what you mean to me.”

It was my turn to start crying. The tears didn’t flow as fast as they did the night I walked out of his apartment, but they were there. Lando quickly pulled me into his chest, placing a needed kiss on my temple.

“Eloise, I will spend every day for the rest of my life apologizing for allowing her to say those things about you.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” my voice slightly muffled but my head in his chest.

As I leaned back, I grabbed his hands once again and looked him in the eyes — those eyes that have held me captive since I was 13.

“Why didn’t you come find me after you broke it off with her? Max isn’t that strong, he would’ve told you where I was in a heartbeat if he knew it was over.”

“I knew where you were. I knew you were tucked away in a crummy New York hotel room. I just wanted to give you space. Telling you she was gone would’ve just rushed you, and I didn’t want to do that.”

“You really do surprise me sometimes, Lando Norris. Can we go back to being friends again? I can’t do life without you in it.”

“About that…”

About what? What could Lando possibly want to say to me? I thought this conversation was going well, I thought it was oddly healing in a way. Was he about to push me out the door this time?

“I don’t know if we can be friends again, Eloise.”

Oh my god this really is it. Our friendship is ending. After months of me not letting it die in my brain as I took my own space, Lando Norris was about to shatter my heart into a million unrecoverable pieces.

“We can’t be friends because it’s not OK for friends to love one another the way I love you.”

“Wait, what?”

#ln4 #lando #lando norris #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #lando norris imagine #lando norrs x reader #lando norris x oc #lando norris one shot

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octuscle · 11 months ago

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Fiesta de fin de año en Miami

Henry was actually just annoyed. He had been looking forward to a few quiet days in South Beach. To escape the damp cold of Chicago. Walks on the beach, excellent dinners under the stars, plenty of time to read the books he'd received for Christmas. But even checking in for the flight to Miami was hell. Everything was full of loud and undisciplined Latinos. Not just the have-nots in the queue for economy class. Also at check-in for Business Class. And he was envious to see that even in First Class, people who looked like members of a Latino boy band were checking in. This is going to be fun, Herny thought agonizedly. Especially when he was greeted in Spanish when he handed over his suitcase in his own country. Damn Latinos!

In the lounge, Henry grumbles loudly to himself while waiting for boarding. That all the tanned, half-naked guys here probably earned the money for the plane tickets as drug mules or gigolos. One of the few respectable-looking passengers sits down next to him, puts a Cuba Libre on his cocktail table. And says to him "¡Disfrute de la bebida y relájese! ¿Cuánta experiencia tienes como mula de la droga y gigoló?" Henry looks at him questioningly, the gentleman smiles and toasts Henry.

When the flight is called, Henry is a little drunk. Hehehe, these lounges are really cool. He wonders how he actually got in there. And he is envious of the passengers who fly business class and regularly enjoy this luxury. The queue for Economy Class feels like it's dos kilómetros long. Thank goodness Enry only has his small rucksack with him as hand luggage. He'll manage to squeeze it into the overhead compartment somehow. The ground crew guy is muy caliente. Enry smiles at him. He smiles back. Too bad, he would have been grateful if the cutie had done the in-flight service right away. But Enri is lucky: in his middle seat, he is squeezed between two hermanos with whom he can certainly have fun. The man in the window seat has smuggled a bottle of rum on board. His neighbor in the aisle seat can't fit anything into his compression pants except for his huge-looking boner. The three of them start talking about soccer. The guy in the window is visiting his family for New Year's Eve. The guy in the aisle seat, like Enriq, is simply on his way to Miami to celebrate. Damn, he can hardly concentrate, his bump looks so painful. Enriq climbs over him, rubbing his boner noticeably against his neighbor's and says that he urgently needs to go to the bathroom.

Enrique just manages to post a photo on Instagram. The caption is ¿Has follado alguna vez en el baño de un avión? Estoy listo". Then the door opens. ¡Divertíos, chicos!

Inspiración a través de @curioustoseewhatsup, foto encontrada @marechais

#male tf #muscle tf #inked man #race change #age reduction

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willowsnook · 19 days ago

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Whisky sprite in a wine glass please!! 💖💖

josh allen x riccardo!sister

you're mine, end of discussion

-----------------------------------------------------

Accepting your dream job was one of the best days of your life, but it came with one catch: you had to relocate to Buffalo, NY. Having lived in Australia your entire life, the move was daunting. Luckily, your brother Daniel had a good friend in Buffalo who offered to help you move in.

Daniel didn’t say much about his friend—just that his name was Josh and they’d met through work. So, you were taken by surprise when a truck full of three giant men pulled up outside your building, ready to help. “Josh” turned out to be Josh Allen, quarterback for the Buffalo Bills.

He and his teammates were a huge help moving your things, and before leaving, Josh insisted on giving you his number "just in case" you needed anything.

It turned out you did need him—quite a lot. From restaurant recommendations to navigating the healthcare system and learning the ins and outs of American football, Josh had been your go-to guy. He even invited you to a Bills game, where you spent most of the time confused about the rules. That led to a weekly ritual of Josh coming over to watch old football games or movies to educate you.

After five months, the two of you had grown close, and you'd developed feelings for him. Too scared to risk your friendship, you kept your crush to yourself. Josh was in his offseason now, meaning he had more free time to hang out, which only made your feelings harder to ignore.

"By the way," you said casually one evening as you lounged together on your couch watching a movie, "I booked our plane tickets for the Miami Grand Prix next weekend."

Josh looked over at you, confused. "You got me a ticket?"

"Well, yeah," you replied, unsure why he was surprised. "I thought you’d want to see Daniel."

A grin spread across his face. "Just figured you’d ask first."

"You spend every weekend with me, dummy, so I knew you were free."

"Are you saying I don’t have a life?" he teased.

"If the shoe fits," you shot back with a smirk, and before you knew it, Josh had launched himself over the couch to tickle you. You squealed, trying to push him off, both of you laughing until he paused, realizing the compromising position you were in. He quickly moved away, his cheeks slightly red.

"Well, I am excited to see your brother race," he finally said, and you smiled.

----------------------------------------------

Race day at the Miami Grand Prix was electric, and you were thrilled to be back in the paddock. Josh’s eyes lit up as he took in the sights, clearly fascinated by the behind-the-scenes of Formula 1.

"Y/N!" someone called out, and you were soon enveloped in a big hug from Lando Norris.

"Hi Lando," you said into his chest. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he said grinning before looking to Josh who was just happy to be there. "Going to introduce me to your boyfriend?"

"This is my non-boyfriend Josh, Josh this is Lando," you introduced and Josh shook his hand.

"Non-boyfriend?" Lando teased in a whisper. "That’s not what the press thinks."

You rolled your eyes, well aware of the photos circulating online that speculated about you and Josh. Being Daniel Ricciardo’s sister meant you were used to media attention, but this was new territory.

Shoving Lando playfully, you glanced over to see Josh chatting with your brother, who was pulling you into a hug as soon as he noticed.

"My beautiful sister has returned!" Daniel announced loudly, causing you to bury your head in his chest in embarrassment. He didn’t stop talking, though, dragging Josh along to the RB garage while catching up with him.

Later, as you walked through the paddock, more drivers greeted you, some eyeing Josh with curiosity.

"I feel like Daniel’s not the only older brother I should be worried about," Josh muttered as you two found a quiet moment.

You laughed. "Please, you’re twice the size of all of them."

After the race, Josh wandered off to talk to another NFL player while you waited for Daniel. When he emerged from the garage, you hugged him tightly.

"Are we going to talk about how I sent him to be your friend, and now he looks at you like you’re the center of the universe?" Daniel teased, making you blush. "You know how many drivers asked if I was okay with your ‘boyfriend’?"

"I don’t even know if he likes me like that," you admitted, voice small. "He’s so nice to everyone, it’s hard to tell."

"Trust me, he does," Daniel said sighing.

"It's your fault buddy, you basically asked him to fall in love with me," you teased and Daniel groaned. Josh was waiting up ahead and you returned his big smile, thinking about what Daniel had said.

"I have to go do interviews, but I'll see you guys later tonight," Daniel said and you waved goodbye as he left.

"Hungry?" you asked Josh as you walked toward the exit.

"Starving," he replied.

Ten minutes later, you were seated across from each other at a casual burger place. As you scrolled through your phone, you asked, "Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah, it was awesome. Really cool to see how everything works behind the scenes. Do you miss going to races?"

"Sometimes," you said thoughtfully. "I’ve known a lot of the drivers for years, so I miss seeing them."

Josh nodded. "I could tell how much they care about you—especially by the way they treated me."

You giggled, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, we’re definitely not beating those ‘more than friends’ allegations."

"I don’t think I want to," he said casually, and your jaw dropped.

"What?"

His eyes twinkled with amusement. "I like you a lot, Y/N. After getting your darling brother’s blessing, I feel pretty confident saying that you’re mine. End of discussion."

"And you didn’t think to ask what I thought?" you teased, feigning outrage.

"Well, you’re with me all the time, dummy," he said, throwing your words back at you with a playful grin. "I figured you’d be okay with it."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Touché."

#josh allen imagine #josh allen #nfl imagines

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enriquemzn262 · 9 months ago

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I haven’t mentioned this publicly, but I honestly think it’s about time I do so:

Back in 2021, a whole bunch of family, myself included, got together and decided to apply for the American tourism visa, where we hoped to take advantage of the disruption in travel that the pandemic still posed just to see if it would be easier to get it.

And while it was relatively cheaper, the set date for the interview was August 2023, almost two years from the time we started, so that process was basically left in the back of our minds.

Well, come August, and we all travelled as a group to Bogota, got ready, and hoped for the best.

30 minutes of security screenings at the US embassy, 1 hour of waiting in line, and a 10 minute interview later

I got my visa! I can travel up to three months a year to the US now!

And as celebration, one of my family members, who recently had an insurance payout after an incident 4 years ago, gifted all of us plane tickets to Miami, taking advantage of how dirt cheap those are from here (barely a 4-hour flight), so this Tuesday I’ll be going to the United States of America for the first time in my life, a dream come true!

Its going to be a 9-day trip, we will be renting a car together as a group, and staying at both Miami and Orlando, hoping to visit as much as we can as cheaply as humanly possible, where we will also take advantage of the recent fall of the US dollar compared to the Colombian peso.

So yeah, I’ll finally get to visit the country that has given me so much over the years, not to mention, I’ll actually get to use my spoken English! Hopefully everything goes smoothly.

I wanted to go shooting, but looking at online prices those are criminally expensive, so maybe for another time, hopefully with my (future) wife on my side (since she’s Venezuelan and we’re still not legally married we couldn’t make her part of our group)

If any old mutual lives in the Miami or Orlando area, be sure to let me know, one of the items of my bucket list is finally meeting irl someone from Tumblr, and I’m hoping to cross that on this trip!

#text

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 6 months ago

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I often wonder what was that one particular thing, ingredient X, if you may, that made Harry succumb to Meghan in June 2016?

I understand that he had psychological trauma from his mums death, from his dad's bourgeois parenting style, from the very fact that he was Windsor male for that matter. I also agree that he is quite simple minded, so now in hind sight we can say he is increasingly motivated by resentment towards his perfect brother, his own greed and need for adulation etc. But back in 2016, he was on a good path. Settling into his job. Enjoying the perks of his popularity. And it's safe to assume that both William and Harry, were used to the fact that women threw themselves at them both. So they also had some sense to know that not everyone had good intentions.

It's also been speculated that Harry did meet Meghan a year before in 2015, at Soho Istanbul (according to many bloggers). And may even have met her in 2014 at Miami (according to Shauna, Vintage Reads). So he had enjoyed her company and still evaded her clothes then.

And not just her, he probably had come into contact with many wannabes who he hooked up with and managed to shake off.

So why 2016? When everything seemed to be going so well for him? His family circle was fairly well grounded. He had an independent profile of his own royal work. He had a good team and loyal, competent staff. He had a great, extensive friend circle. He could have anything and anyone he wanted. He seemed nice, engaged with people, showed empathy and some commonsense when out and about. So I am so perplexed as to how and why, that "blind date" at Soho in May/June/July/whenever led to his spectacular downfall.

I know this isn't really the blog or the platform where we can psychoanalyse Harry correctly and succinctly. But it's just a question that I'm fascinated by. In 3 years, he lost every single thing he had - his family, his relationships, his work, his friends, his honour, his glory, his legacy, his prospects at any royal relevance. How were mental defences so down, so ineffective, how was he so walled-in into his trauma that he had no chance at being saved? It sure couldn't be as simple as greed for more money or a Hollywood lifestyle?

And let's be honest, Meghan isn't that great a catch where someone like him would just lay down everything at her feet and be like "here queen, feed on my guts, eat my flesh raw". Urghhh

I'm so confused and so perplexed.

All of Harry's friends and cousins were getting married and settling down in 2015/2016. That's a lot of peer pressure and expectations on him, even if it wasn't overt and directly applied.

And when everyone around you is coupling up, settling down, getting married, and having babies, that can give you beer goggles because now you're rushing through relationships to catch up with them. We've all seen it happen in our own friend groups, I'm sure. I've got a few friends who were so bothered by being in their 30s without partners and families while the rest of their friends are planning weddings and having babies that they marry the first guy who shows interest. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't.

That seems to be what happened to Harry. Everyone was settling down. He was feeling left out. So he met someone that suited his needs, said "to hell with the rest" and married her ASAP.

And also this: "He could have anything and anyone he wanted." isn't true. He wasn't getting the girls he wanted. He wanted someone like Kate - pretty, British, media-trained, from a good family, and well-off - and all those girls were staying far, far away from him. They knew what he was really like behind closed doors; needy, paranoid, cheap (he once made Cressida buy her own plane ticket for a trip he had invited her on), and heavily partying. The 'anyone he wanted' that Harry was going after wasn't into that.

Also, anon - if you haven't already, you might want to give Tom Bower's Revenge a read. Specifically Chapter 13, "A Troubled Prince," has a little bit of psychoanlysis of Harry that you might enjoy.

#sussexes #theories

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fireessie · 3 months ago

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Okay I've had the idea of Logan and Oscar reconnecting stuck in my head so badly that I just had to write something for it!

In case you missed the asks - this is a mini au of my Loscar abo series in which Logan was pulled from racing way back in 2017 and he and Oscar lost touch and now, at the 2023 Miami GP they meet again 🩷

“Your server is going to be Logan, he’ll be over in a second to get some drinks started for you.”

Oscar tensed up at the name, an unconscious response at this point but he forced himself to not get his hopes up. Just because they were in Miami and their server was someone called Logan didn’t mean it was his Logan.

His Logan who he hadn’t seen in over seven years and who had dropped off the face of the earth.

His Logan.

At one point his best friend.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a half-hearted plan to try and track him down while they were in Miami but he truly had no idea where to start. Logan might not even be in Miami, he could be anywhere. The last thing he knew was that his parents had pulled him from racing when he presented, which was such a narrow minded, medieval thing that Oscar had almost begged his parents to buy him a plane ticket to go and rescue Logan because he knew that Logan was the same as him, they needed racing to breath. But he hadn’t. He wished he had but he hadn’t.

“Evening guys,” Oscar looked up at the soft accented twang and froze. “My name’s Logan and I’ll be your server – ompf.”

Being restrained hadn’t even crossed Oscar’s mind. Because it was Logan. He launched himself out of his chair, crossing the distance between himself and Logan in milliseconds and wrapped his arms tight around his friend. He heard murmurs of surprise behind him but he paid no attention to his mechanics. They’d give him so much stick for this but he didn’t care.

“Logan,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with the omega who looked shocked at the turn of events.

“Oscar?”

“Yeah mate, oh my god,” Oscar pulled Logan close again, trying to clam himself down. Logan was tense in his arms and…. Skinny. Oscar loosened his grip slightly because it felt like Logan would snap in two if he kept holding on. Logan shuffled back and Oscar let him go with a pang in his heart but he used the distance to take in Logan’s face. Like his body it looked skinny, pale and drawn with exhaustion, his eyes lined by thick dark bags and he held himself carefully, like he was afraid to really relax. Clearly the years had been tough on Logan but at the very least Oscar hoped that Logan was happy.

His eyes darted over Oscar’s shoulders and Oscar looked round to see the host walking over to them.

“Everything alright over here Logan?”

“Yes I-“

“Because I don’t see you at the bar getting drinks for your table. I’m not paying you to be sociable.”

Logan’s face somehow went a shade lighter and his body tensed even further.

“It was my fault,” Oscar jumped in, “I wasn’t expecting to see him and I’ve missed him. Totally my bad though, we’ll catch up later? When you’re off?” He prayed Logan accepted because otherwise Oscar may have to become a stalker.

A faint blush appeared on Logan’s cheeks and he nodded, “I’d like that.”

A wolf whistle sounded from the table and Tom called out, “Oscar’s got a date!”

Logan’s blush increased and he ducked his head, his hair falling to hide his face.

The whistles and claps continued as Oscar returned to his seat, brushing off the good-natured jeering as Logan started taking their orders but he didn't take his dyes off of Logan, almost afraid that if he did, Logan would vanish and it would be another seven years before he saw him again.

#my fics #my writing #loscar abo series

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backstabbingfarter · 9 months ago

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uhhhh…. guys don’t panic… but THE john Flansburgh is 6 feet in front of me trying to get enough quarters to buy a sugar free pink lemonade 😱‼️‼️

if only i could buy it for him. unfortunately all of my quarters are seconds away from being used to finalize plane tickets for 1-2 orphans so that they can witness the beautiful white sand beaches of Miami and dance in the water for the first time, with no parents because they are orphans.

If you would like to buy Mr. Flans his sugarless confectionery, do not hesitate. send me the front and back of your debit/credit card (visa, master card or discover) and i will tell flans that you have PERSONALLY opted to buy him a delicious treat so he does not have to continue fumbling with his pockets like a complete oaf. i am uncertain the amount of gratitude he would feel at this gesture, only that it is likely more than i have ever witnessed before.

save flans!!!! SAVE FLANS!!!

#john flansburgh #save flans #my baby boy flans you have to help him #oh god he’s tipping the vending machine #quick quick!!!#tmbg #they might be giants

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klaudia2646 · 4 months ago

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Work has been a bit slow today. I’ve had some of the people who park and talk to me for an hour about random things that have nothing to do with me.

We’re leaving next to go to Arkansas again. We’ll leave Thursday, drive half way, spend the night in a hotel and arrive early on Friday. Saturday we have a wedding at noon. It will go all the way until midnight but we’ll get out of there early since we’ll be leaving to go to the Dominican Republic on Sunday. Plane supposedly takes off at 6 am so we have to be in the airport super early. We’re trying to find a hotel with a shuttle that can drop us off that early at the hotel. I’ve already setup all the other reservations.

My problem is, after flying in March and having such a bad experience in Miami, I really do not want to fly internationally so soon. However, we will be going through Atlanta and we’re flying Delta instead of American. It gives me anxiety nevertheless. Poor David will have to drive from Memphis which is a little bit longer but if we get a shuttle he doesn’t have to get up quite so early.

We still have to fill out the immigration E-ticket to enter and leave the Dominican Republic but I have to waist for the rest of them since Andrew bought the tickets and we’re all flying together.

It’ll be very hot, that I know, especially in July. I’m just hoping we don’t have a hurricane nearby.

Once I’m done with this trip and an evening receptionist is hired, life may go back to normal, hopefully.

#7/1/24 #10:02 am #66 f and overcast #American Airlines employees suck #I will not travel American Airlines if I can help it #I will not travel through Miami if I can help it

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caffeineforbucky · 2 years ago

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No Me Queda Más

Pairing: Javier Peña x Latina!Reader

WC: 3,346

Warnings: angst, substance abuse: nicotine and alcohol, profanity, mentions of canon violence, blood, guns, and maybe some fluff...? Idk

text dividers by @firefly-graphics

A/N: Querida= dearest or beloved, usually as a form of affection for a romantic partner. Hermosa= beautiful

P.S.; Had this one in the drafts for months, and I was getting tired of looking at it. Please enjoy it and lemme know if I should write a second part. Thank you, XX- Angela!

The air was sticky; humid.

Rays of sun beaming down your exposed arms—face burning with a dull heat that made you want to drench yourself in an ice bath. You were starting to miss the three hours on the plane. At least it was air-conditioned.

You tighten your jacket around your waist, wiping the sheen of perspiration from your forehead with the back of your hand. It was hot, god, it was hot—maybe you should've gone with shorts instead of slacks.

Your eyes flicker ahead, zeroing in on the cardboard sign with your name on it. You find yourself frowning, lifting your palm to keep the sun from your sight. You approach the blond leaning against the driver's side of an SUV, suitcase rolling beside you.

"You must be our newest addition," The blond acknowledges you, pushing off the car before tossing the sign in the back seat through the open window. "I'm Steve Murphy," He offers his hand, looking at you through a pair of aviators, and clouds of smoke—a cigarette hanging loosely on his bottom lips.

You eyed the burning embers, an itch crawling up your neck from your withdrawal of nicotine, twitching just to have a drag. "Nice to meet you, Steve." You take his hand for a shake, swallowing thickly—eyes locked on the need to ask him for one. No. No. You quit almost a year ago, and you were doing so well. You weren't gonna break the streak now.

"Shit, sorry," Steve curses, dropping the stick to the ground—putting it out quickly. "Not a fan of smoking, huh?"

"Oh, no, it's not that." You reassure him, dismissing the fact that he put out a perfectly good stogie. "I quit ten months ago. I just..."

"You miss it?" He quirks a brow, smirking lightly—your lips pressed tightly together, and you nod, earning a soft chuckle from the blond. "I get it," Steve reaches over for your suitcase, pushing the handle down to grip the top. "Come on," He beckons with a jerk of his head. "I hope you read up on the plane cause we're gonna need all hands on deck."

You nod softly, following behind Steve, and he opens the passenger door, holding it open for you to slide in. "Thanks," You mumble, reaching for the seatbelt while he tucked your suitcase into the back seat.

Steve opens the door, getting into the SUV—settling himself in front of the steering wheel, hands already working his seatbelt just as he slams the door shut.

"Listen," You start as the engine roars to life, the car rolling onto the busy streets of Bogotá. "I know my coming here was sudden, and I doubt you wanted me here either. Believe me, If it were up to me, I'd..."

"Woah there," Steve defers, glancing over at you and your fiddling thumbs. "Since when did I say you were unwelcomed?"

Your mouth snaps shut, meeting his quick gaze before he resettles on the road ahead. The trip was unexpected—your boss practically pushing you out the door of his office with a plane ticket and the case file of the notorious narcotraficante. Miami was your home, Little Havana becoming a part of you, and as soon as you stepped foot into Colombia—you almost felt serenity.

"While it's true that my partner and I are pretty damn solid," Steve says as a matter-of-factly, tongue darting between his lips. "A fresh pair of eyes never hurts. And I'm sure Carrillo will be damn excited to meet another DEA agent who'll be on his ass."

You crack a smile, humming in response at the man beside you. "Thank you, Agent Murphy. I appreciate the consideration on your behalf. What about your partner?"

"I'm sure Peña will get over it."

You swore you stopped breathing, the lone surname bringing you back to the first night you met him.

You were just twenty-three years old. A rookie, a fresh recruit buried deep within the round-ups of Quantico. Being a DEA agent had always been a dream of yours. You wanted to be in the action, drug busts, and gunning your ass out of a bad situation when you needed to.

Though, the way you met him was a bit...unconventional.

"Oh, yes, Javi! Right there, right there!"

You froze, the bell above the bar's door ringing as it shuts behind you. You turn your head towards the sound, faint grunts, and moans emanating from the alley where the dumpsters reside. Seriously? You thought. The only reason you stepped a foot out of the bar was to have a smoke, not that you were particularly proud of the habit but, it did relieve a copious amount of stress on your behalf.

You'd only heard about the famous Javier through your roommates, how stellar his skills were back in his days. He was older than you by a few years, and you'd seen him in passing while aiding the director of your class but, you've never actually spoken to him. You certainly couldn't fathom his figure stepping out of the shadows, hands readjusting his belt buckle as one of your teammates steps out as well, hiking down her skirt. You grimaced, reaching into your pocket for your Marlboros and a lighter. You pull out a cigarette with your teeth, clasping the filter between your lips as you go to spark the butane.

His eyes meet yours in a lazy sweep, your back rested against a brick pillar—cheeks hollowing with a drag. He goes to whisper something in your roommate's ear, making her giggle and peck his cheek before waltzing back into the bar. He looks at you again, shifting his attention to the stogie gently wedged between your lips. "Think I could steal one of those from you?"

His voice was smooth, a slight thickness that was easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. Nothing like a cigarette after a fuck, right? You blow out the clouds of carbon monoxide, tipping the opened box towards him—offering him a response of sorts. Javier takes a few strides before you and plucks a fresh cigarette from the box, placing it between his full lips. "You wouldn't happen to have a-"

You beat him to the punch, sparking your lighter once again. He sends you a smile, leaning close to the flame to ignite his addiction. "Thanks," He huffs, gesturing to the smoke. You regard him with a nod, shifting your attention to the bustling noises of other trainees huddling out of the bar.

"You're one of the recruits, right?" The suddenness of his tone captures your attention once again. The left side of his face was illuminated by the warm glow of the bar, making his eyes seem golden brown—as if the afternoon sun were shining through a glass of whiskey. You nod again, unaware of just how dry your mouth had become, and the tobacco was not to blame.

"FBI or DEA?" He asks, crossing a leg over the other to transfer his weight on one leg. "Wait, don't tell me," He rushes, seeing your lips part to answer him. "Puedo adivinar?"

That makes you crack a smile, pushing off the pillar to realign your posture. "Go on, then."

Javier's vision narrowed to a pinprick, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to tap the cherry against his thumb—the ashes descending to the concrete below you. His gaze burned holes through you, the silence holding you in a grip while he distinguished his inference, making notes of the way you carried yourself—the way your eyes sparkled in curiosity and how you smiled suspiciously.

"I got it," He pipes, taking a long drag, and he shuffles closer. "It's almost too easy."

"Well?" You press, tucking your free hand underneath your arm—the night's chill biting your skin. "Which is it?"

"FBI...?"

You tilt your head, scrunching your nose, your eyes telling him that he wasn't quite there. "It's lucky that you aren't FBI, huh?" You quip, lifting your brow in question.

He hums in response, almost amused at your subtle way of calling out his lack of observance. "Damn, I thought I had you figured out, and DEA was my first choice."

"I'm sure it was." You murmur, blowing out the warm smoke from your lungs.

"Peña," He responds, a pulled smile on his lips as he outstretches his hand for you to shake. "Javier."

You untuck your hand, placing it in his frigid palm that almost swallowed yours wholly. You shivered, wrapping your fingers around his hand in a firm grip. "I know who you are," You remind him, dropping his hand to re-warm yours inside your jacket. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh?"

You take in the inquisitive expression, eyes flickering all over to admire the prominent features of his face. He was gorgeous, obviously, and had a mustache that could kill. His lips were pulled into a condescending smirk, cheeks flushed with a mixture of smoke and cold weather. Javier was a babe, and you'd have to be blind not to think so. Especially with those damn polos and tight jeans—it's no wonder that every woman in class fawned over him. You were so entranced that you barely missed his question. "What?"

Javier's smile widens, clearly finding your distraction humorous. It's almost as if he knew you were checking him out. "I asked if it was good or bad."

"A bit of both," You grumble, cheeks burning with discomfiture. "It's a mixture of your reputation as a trainee and a...lover." You squeezed out, almost cringing at your choice of word. It wasn't a lie, though. It seemed as if Peña had made a name for himself at Quantico, and you knew you'd never hear the end of it tonight.

"Huh," You swore he was almost proud. Peña was a ladies' man, there was no doubt about that, and he didn't mind helping out the single women when they asked for his services. But, there was something about the way you looked at him—disappointed, almost. "What can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Is that what the alley was for?"

Javier glances over his shoulder, his encounter with the young blonde resurfacing. "Oh, that?" He shifts his focus back to you, watching as you drop the end of the cigarette to the ground, distinguishing the embers with your sneaker. "Katie's just a friend."

You nod softly, scoffing at his regard to your roommate. "Right, well..." You trail, stealing a glance at your watch. "I should get back to the academy."

"I'll walk you." Javier drops the end of the butt, dousing it out with his shoe.

"Oh, no," You quickly disagree, eyes flickering over to Katie sitting across the bar. "I don't want to trouble you and-"

"It's a twenty-minute walk, and it's dark outside." He deadpans, reaching for the zipper on his jacket to pull it up. "There's no way in hell I'm letting you walk by yourself, Hermosa. Come on," He beckons, starting down the sidewalk. "I was heading back there anyway."

Your stomach fluttered, the endearing name causing your thoughts to go fuzzy. It was just as sweet as it sounds.

"You know," He chimes, glancing over at your profile as you begin to follow him side-by-side. "You never actually told me your name..."

From then on, Javier never left your side. Within those 19 weeks at Quantico, Peña had become your mentor—advising you on every little thing you did wrong, throwing in tips when he could, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't appreciate it.

You didn't want to admit it but, you'd fallen for the Mexicano during your training even if you knew you shouldn't have. It was onerous; you couldn't help yourself, despite the many women he'd aim to please at midnight. It'd become a game of cat and mouse between the two of you, except; the mouse didn't know the cat was after him, and the cat was too shy to admit it. Sometimes, Peña was too oblivious for his own good.

"Peña?" You mumble, your stomach almost swallowing your heart whole. It couldn't be him, right? He wasn't talking about your Peña, right? What were you saying? Javier was his own person, and he wasn't yours to lose. You'd come to terms with that after he left the day of your graduation. No warning, no call—he was gone. "As in Javier?"

"Yeah..." Steve frowns, looking over at your figure in his passenger seat. Your head lowered, gaze cast down at your fiddling fingers in your lap. "You know him?" He asks, eyeing you suspiciously.

You swallow thickly, tongue darting between your lips, and you nod, meeting Murphy's curious glance. "Something like that."

"Thank you, mijita," Javier uttered gratefully, regarding the intern with a curt nod as she hands him a fresh cup of coffee—his focus divided between the evidence board and the entrance of the office.

There was a prompt start to his morning—waiting for the inevitable outcome of the war on drugs. His routine was familiar; deliberate. Peña knew what to expect from his day. He knew what Murphy would pick up for breakfast and what songs would play in the bar on Friday nights. Even the damn diversions the narcos would invoke—he had it down to the T.

What he didn't expect was the news from Carillo. Running his mouth about a new agent joining them in Bogotá. Though Horacio didn't mention who the hell it was, Javier couldn't shake the trepidation. It wasn't that he hated the idea but, it took him a while to get used to Murphy. Peña had a slight trust issue problem—so Steve had mentioned it a couple of times.

"Hey!"

Javier turns on his heel, the amicable tone of his partner's voice drawing his attention—coffee mug still in his grasp. He stares in wonder as Murphy plops down at his chair, leaning back to prop his feet on the desk—taking another cigarette between his lips.

"Well?!" Peña exasperates, arms splayed out—careful not to spill the coffee.

Steve's eyes meet his partner mid-light, half chuckling from obvious need at Javi's curiosity. "Well, what?"

"Don't be an asshole, Murphy," He deadpans, earning another snicker from the blond. "Where's the agent? Carillo sent you to go pick 'em up an hour ago."

"Yeah," The blonde concurs, puffing out a breath of smoke. "I dropped her off at the hotel. She wanted to freshen up before getting here."

"Her?" Javier inquires, stepping close to his partner's desk—gently placing the mug down. "The new agent is a woman?"

Steve nods in response, letting his legs sink back below his desk—cheeks hollowing with a trawl of the filter. "It's kind of funny," He starts as Peña crosses his arms. "It seemed as if she knew you."

"What do you me-" Javier almost chokes on his words, eyes rounding; astounded. The sight of you is like a rainbow after a storm. There you were, standing ten feet away—just as beautiful as he remembered. As if he ever forgot. Your name fell from his lips as a whisper—sunken into the ridges of the tumescent skin, the familiarity of each syllable grazing his tongue. "Hermosa...?" He calls out softly, taking his time to register how much you'd changed since he saw you last. You weren't some 23-year-old inexperienced trainee anymore. You were grown, skilled...an unscathed dream he wasn't worthy to taint.

You were in just as much shock as he was—reminders of him flooding in as if a reservoir had broken down once your eyes met. How was it possible for a person to get even more handsome? You had somehow managed to tune out the noise in the bullpen—focusing solely on the man in front of you as he steps a couple of feet closer. Time seemed to stop—your souls becoming the only proof of life around you. You swallow hard, shoving the unrequited feelings down into the pit of your stomach—never giving it the light of day. You let yourself smile, eyes brightening at your old friend. "Peña," You breathe out, his whiskey eyes dragging over your being.

"Well, I'll be damned," Javier's mouth pulls into a felicitous grin—his mustache curling along. It was unexpected; the hug. His arms gently came around your back—locking you in an embrace that strangely felt like home. It took only a second before you reach for him, wrapping desperate arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Just as I remembered. "It's been too long, querida."

Javier wasn't one for hugs. Maybe an awkward side squeeze but, that was about it. So, it definitely surprised Murphy when his partner had his arms wrapped around the new agent.

"Well, that's not something you see every day," Steve whispered under his breath, clouds of smoke intertwining with his confusion.

"How've you been?" Javier beams, pulling away suddenly to look at your face—his eyes retracing the steps of your features. "Qué haces aquí? I mean, I know why you're here, but why here in Bogotá?"

He was nervous, and there wasn't a doubt about that. Even Murphy could see it—watching his partner fumble to reconnect with the new recruit. The subtle tick Peña had of rubbing the back of his neck when a pretty girl had caught his attention. It was all there, and it didn't take a genius to see that.

Javi could recall the moment he'd taken a liking to you.

He was only there to observe, giving out a few compliments to the students that deserved them, helping to readjust their alignment and tips as such. You assumed he was there to talk to Katie but, to your surprise, he waltzed right past her—settling his broad, tall figure beside you.

"You're too tense," Peña notes, leaning closer to penetrate the soundproof Headwear. "-And your stance is off—the only thing that's gonna do is cause recoil, and you'll be shooting anything other than your target."

You huff, ignoring his notes, yet, still taking them into consideration. You loosened your shoulders, shuffling your shoes closer together to stand taller. You take a breath, squinting lightly above the muzzle before you take a shot, missing the target once again.

"Like this, Hermosa," Javier gently takes the grip from your soft hands, and you step aside. "You make sure it's loaded, obviamente." He moves closer to the counter, pushing back on the front slide, forefinger barely touching the trigger. "Don't push down either, and manage your trigger control."

You hardly noticed the lack of guns firing around you, the range quieting down as the other trainees slowly gather around to watch. If you weren't paying attention to the man in tight pants, you would've noticed the death glare your roommate was giving you.

"Aim, steady, y luego…" Before he finished his sentence, Peña took three shots—piercing the bullseye each time. "Plomo." His eyes glide over to your own, smirking cockily from the applauding crowd he gathered. "Simple."

"You either forgot that this is a learning class," You start, taking the grip back from his hands. "Or you're just that narcissistic."

"Or maybe I'm just trying to help you."

"Help me?" You rebuke, glancing down at the pistol, removing the mag to make sure it's still loaded. "We met four days ago. What's the sudden interest in me, huh? Shouldn't you be entertaining a hook-up right now?" You mumble, jerking your chin towards the angry blonde with a gun.

He frowns, straightening his posture before following your line of vision. "Katie doesn't smoke," He answers truthfully, shifting back to you. "Pero tú?"

"So, what?" You cock one of your brows, somewhat offended that he blatantly admitted he was just using you. "Am I your tobacco supplier now?"

"And," Javier adds, noticing the disappointment wash over your features. "You're the only woman who hasn't fallen for my…charming personality. And yes, the Marlboros are a bonus."

You hum in response, turning back to the target in front of you. "Class ends in fifteen minutes. Thanks for the tips, Peña."

"I was in Miami for a while," You answer, pulling Javier out of his memories. "I wasn't really doing anything, and my boss didn't like that I was having fun, so here I am."

He let himself smile, only dropping it when he realized his hands were still on you—his thumbs grazing your biceps. Javier clears his throat, awkwardly retracting his palms.

"Well, I'm glad your here."

The two of you could hear Murphy's snort from across the room, your eyes flickering to the blond's shaking head.

"Where was that attitude when I joined, huh, Peña?"

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