#still not knowing a lot about the sport is fucking ignorant
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thisisyourdriverspeaking · 2 years ago
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The Pitstop boys choosing to say 'as a fan no one really gives a fuck about the racing' in front of three racing drivers - one of which was involved in a serious crash and has had multiple surgeries and therapy to get back into racing - is a fucking choice
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celeryb1tch · 1 year ago
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innocent!reader x experienced!pervert!abby is rotting my brain tonight!!!
18+!! this is lesbian smut!
you sit at a table in the mess hall, abby’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and her friends all enjoying their dinner. casual conversation is thrown around the table, until manny’s new fling is brought up.
“-and i mean, SOAKED the sheets. i couldn’t believe my eyes,” he recounts proudly.
everyone is laughing along or rolling their eyes, but abby notices your hesitance. she leans down toward you with a concerned look. “something wrong?”
you shake your head lightly, looking up at her. “jus’ don’t get it,” you reply.
abby feels her stomach twist. she had known there wasn’t great sex ed on the WLF base, but she and her friends had grown up around doctors like her dad and she realizes she hadn’t know the full extent of just how ignorant you were. and admittedly, it made her excited.
“she squirted when she came,” she tries to explain gently. but you still look utterly confused, even as she goes on.
“…come? and she didn’t pee?” you seem so utterly lost. abby wonders if it makes her a bad person to expose you to these ideas, but you’re both already adults. still, that knot is twisting inside her deriving a sick pleasure from all of this. you had always looked up to abby, and she wondered how wrong it would be to corrupt that relationship with talk of sex- or even a demonstration?
that night, you’re laying in bed thinking about what abby said earlier. with all the training and violence you’d grown up around, you hardly had time to pay attention to the ache between your legs, or how it would usually occur when abby was around. but as you recount that conversation in your mind, it appears once more. you think of her arm wrapping around you, pressing you into her hard front. how she was still warm and sweaty from the gym, and how her flyaways stuck to the sides of her forehead because of that. something inside of you is saying you should be embarrassed, and you don’t know exactly why- but a louder, much louder, part is telling you to confide in your best friend. she would never judge you, right?
you shuffle down a few hallways in your fluffy socks until you reach one of the bigger accommodations: abby’s room. and with a bit of hesitance in your knock, you step back as the door opens immediately.
abby is clearly groggy, and must have also been getting ready for bed. she’s wearing nothing but boxer shorts and the usual black sports bra she has on during patrols and workouts. her hair is tied in her signature braid, with more wispy pieces that have come out throughout the day. “hey, you. everything okay?”
you nod and push past abby inside as was usual. she joins you on her bed, your bare thighs touching as you both sit. her eyes are on you and you can feel it again- that heat. you pull away slightly, squeezing your legs together as it’s the only thing you know eases the feeling.
abby pretends not to notice, just like she does any other time you blatantly stare at her muscles or blush when she touches your waist. she doesn’t want to scare you off, especially when she thinks she can tell what you’re going to ask about.
“you remember earlier at dinner?” you say, biting your lip slightly as unease turns in your tummy. and abby just nods, still looking right at you. “how manny said he made a girl, uh…”
“squirt?” abby offers. she says it so nonchalantly, like it’s nothing. like she’s never in a million years thought about fucking you until you do. like she wasn’t hoping this would happen every second after dinner.
“yeah, well, i realized there’s probably a lot of sex stuff i don’t know, and since you… y’know…”
poor baby, she thinks. how will she ever work up the courage. and abby thinks of all the times she’s teased you about all the women she’s fucked. called you jealous that you had to split quality time with her one night stands. seen you pout about her missing games night because someone asked her on a date in front of you. surely you were going to ask for her expertise- for her to help you out, to show you?
“since your dad was a doctor.”
oh. that was it? you wanted a little anatomy lesson. then what was all the embarrassment for? were you that ashamed of asking for a little bit of guidance?
abby gives you a soft smile and an assurance that she can help. and your body floods with relief. this is normal. you can tell her what you’re feeling and she won’t act weird. she can help you.
you stand up and strip off your pyjama bottoms and big shirt you had likely stolen from abby so long ago you don’t remember whose it was in the first place. and she just watches, small smile still on her face as she looks you over.
“okay, so right here? boobs, obviously.” she points to your chest, and you roll your eyes.
“i know that, stupid. show me the more advanced stuff.”
“you’ll have to take your underwear off then.” so you do.
abby instinctively reaches for it, stroking her fingers between your puffy, wet lips. her eyes are shining with admiration and her cheeks are hot.
you pull away slightly at the bolt of pleasure that spikes through you at her touch. “is it… supposed to look like this? i think there’s something wrong.”
she shakes her head fervently, eyes never leaving your pussy. “you’re just wet, that’s all. did something turn you on?” and at your confusion at the term- “get you excited? when girls see something attractive, they get wet.”
oh no. you can feel dread flooding your senses as you try to scramble for an explanation. that it just happens sometimes. that’s normal, right?
after a pause, and a look at your face, abby knows exactly what happened. “oh. you got wet from me, huh?”
you want to run away and disappear. you swallow a sob, but strangely, you feel that pulsing sensation again. all of this attention from abby isn’t working in your favour.
but she isn’t grimacing in disgust, or even asking you to leave. in fact, abby has a shit-eating grin on her face as she watches you cower in front of her.
“you’re not… mad?” you ask sheepishly.
abby reaches out to you, pulling you onto her lap. “no, baby, of course not. it’s cute.”
relief washes over you, but before you can really relax you feel abby’s hand once again on your folds.
“so wet for me, baby. how long has this been happening?”
a finger skims against a particularly sensitive spot, and you choke on your words, succumbing to the blissful feeling. “s-so long, abs. like forever.”
“poor girl. so pent up, so needy. and too embarrassed to tell me.”
“yeah…” you whine. you’re clinging to abby like a lifeline, overwhelmed by the building tension. it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced before. so intense, so all-consuming.
abby’s fingers are expertly caressing your pussy, steadily adding more pressure so as not to overstimulate you. “this is the clit,” she murmurs, and you feel that electric spark again as she glides over one specific spot at the top.
“it’s too much,” you cry out, wriggling under her grasp.
“that means you’re cumming soon,” she explains with a chuckle. “feels so good, trust me. just ride it out.”
and you trust abby with every ounce of your being, so you try to relax your muscles as much as possible while you feel that climbing feeling come to a boil. and she was so right. you’re huffing tiny sobs into her chest as you come down, her strokes easing as you’re finally able to catch your breath again.
abby cradles you into her, clean hand running through your hair. you can feel the puddle between your thighs dripping down her own and onto the sheets, and you’re so exhausted.
“that was so hot, baby. did such a good job for me.”
“abs, that was… wow.”
she’s smiling down at you, admiring your sweat- wicked face. “bet you wish you’d asked me sooner, huh?”
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zepskies · 3 months ago
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Maybe More Than Enough
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Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader
Summary: You’ve been a friend and ally to the Winchester brothers for years, but you and Dean break new ground while on a stakeout to catch a witch.
AN: Here’s another entry for @jacklesversebingo! It’s also based on a request from one of my lovely Patreon members: @lacilou. 💜
Prompt: Window—Letter Opener—Binoculars
Request: I'd love to read about Dean and the reader who's his age or even a little older.
Song Inspo: “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin
Word Count: 2.9K
Tags/Warnings: A bit of angst, bit of hurt/comfort, bit of spice.~
�� Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
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Discreetly from the passenger side of the car, you peered through the binoculars again. Your target was in view through the unusual circular window: an average looking white man in his fifties, peeling a tangerine from the comfort of his kitchen.
According to his driver’s license, his name was Martin Reynolds. Sam was investigating the sudden death of his wife, Laura, and the wives of two other men in the small town of Whitebury, Mississippi. Laura was the first victim, so you and Dean were watching Martin for any suspicious activity.
Your companion shifted in his seat. You could hear the give of the well-worn leather against denim. The Impala wasn’t exactly inconspicuous for a stakeout, but he refused to be trapped in your “tiny-ass” Toyota Camry all afternoon. You preferred the term compact.
“What’s our he-witch up to?” Dean asked.
Your lips twitched at a smile.
“We don’t know if he’s a witch,” you said, but you passed him the binoculars.
Dean’s mouth quirked to one side before he took a look. “Well, he probably isn’t a shifter.”
“What makes you say that?”
He gestured back at the window and gave you back the binoculars. You peered over and saw that Martin had half the tangerine in his mouth while he opened his mail with a letter opener. It flashed like silver in the afternoon light.
“If that is silver, it would rule out a lot of things,” you agreed, “but it still wouldn’t tell us why he killed his wife.”
Dean looked over as a white Porsche pulled into Martin’s driveway.
“Hmm, well, I’d say motive is comin’ in hot. Literally,” he said, watching intently when a young woman stepped out of the car. Her dress was as tight as the ponytail tied high on her head, a coil of blonde bouncing down her back.
You sighed, with a roll of your eyes. “Typical.”
You noticed the way Dean’s smirk wiped the boredom away from his eyes. It was annoyingly handsome, along with the neatly trimmed stubble across his cheeks, framing a strong jaw and the enticing bow of his lips. You had to resolve to ignore all of it, heaving a small sigh.
You wedged the binoculars between you both and toyed with the silver rings on your fingers—both a fashion statement and a safety precaution.
“Could be a demon deal,” you said. “Three men sporting Touch of Gray, three wives over 40.”
“Damn. That’s cold,” Dean shook his head, crossing his arms from the driver’s seat. Always from the driver’s seat. “That’d be pretty cut and dry though. Downright stereotypical.”
You gave him a smile. “Since when do you like it complicated?”
“Like it?” he scoffed. “What I like and what I get are on two different fucking hemispheres.”
You sensed bitterness there, underneath the dry remark. You looked away from the scene in the kitchen where Martin was pouring Barbie, his presumed girlfriend, a glass of white wine. Just like you thought, Dean’s brief good humor faded, falling into his resting state. It was a harder look than you were used to seeing on him over the years. His lighter, devil-may-care attitude in his younger days seemed to gain a little bit of edge every time you saw him next.
A few decades of bullshit, blood, and loss will do that to you.
But every time he called, you answered.
“You okay?” you asked. You tried to hide the depths of your concern, but maybe you just weren’t good enough. Dean glanced at you and forced his crunched brows to relax, as if he’d caught himself opening the hatch a little too much. Letting his true depths come to light a little too long.   
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he replied.
Sure. Always good.
You met him with a long look, your head rolling onto your shoulder.
“Hey. You can be honest with me, you know,” you reminded him. “What, you think I’m gonna tell Sam all your secrets?”
Dean smiled a little, but he shook his head, remaining stubborn.
“Look, I’m fine. Just the usual bullshit,” he said. “Nothing you gotta be dragged into.”
You frowned. “What, aside from this hunt? Aside from the last ten years of bailing your ass out?”
That last part was more joking. The truth was, Sam and Dean had helped you just as often as you’d tried to help them.
Now, Dean just shook his head. The fact that he didn’t levy back a smartass response further let you know that something was off with him. 
You bumped his arm lightly over his jacket.
“Come on, tell me all about your man feelings,” you teased. It had its intended effect, bringing a reluctant smile to Dean’s lips. He shot you a look, and you couldn’t help but admire how the dimming sun caught in his eyes, that pale green.
“Whatever. Like I said, I’m good,” he said, deflecting further by turning up his music. Yet another Led Zeppelin song was playing, but at least this one was more mellow. The guitar riff filled the car at a moderate volume. You guys were still on a stakeout, after all.
You shook your head, despite your smile. “You sound like a grumpy old man.”
His brows popped up. “Old?”
You shrugged impishly.
“‘Cause if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a bit more mileage than I do,” he retorted.
You laughed, shoving his shoulder.   
“Well, that’s just rude,” you said. “You’re not even a year behind me. Matter of fact, you’re just a few steps shy of Touch of Gray in there. I can even help you find your shade. I’m thinking, what, medium brown with a hint of silver fox? Could be very George Clooney.”     
The disgruntled look on Dean’s face had you dying.
“Now that’s just uncalled for,” he said, even though his lips were curving upward at the sound of your laughter. Without you knowing, he took in the infectious sound, and the way you pressed the back of your hand against his arm while you tried to get ahold of yourself. It was everything he’d ever liked about you.
Easy. That was what it was, being with you.
The hard part always came afterward, watching you leave.
Letting you leave.
“It’s just…I don’t know,” you said, biting into your lower lip. You smudged your lipstick there, a dark, juicy red. It was distracting enough that Dean almost missed what you said next.
“You seem weighed down.” Your eyes were more serious then, beautiful and warm in their honesty. “Every time I see you, it’s like you’ve got fifty more pounds on your shoulders.”
Dean didn’t have an answer for you, even as he held your gaze.
His cell phone ringing cut through the guitar melody slowly fading into the next song. Dean fished it out of his pocket and answered Sam’s call.
“Hey, what’cha got?”
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Your hunch proved correct. Sam tracked down the demon that made soul-claiming deals with a handful of men from the same golf club. All of them bored of their wives, and all of them with too much money on their hands—enough that they refused to lose any of it in a messy divorce.
It was like the opposite of the First Wives Club, and you were sickened.
When you and Dean questioned Martin, he felt just guilty enough to spill his guts.
Sam managed to gank the demon on his own, which left you and Dean with a conundrum: what to do with the marked men who sold their souls. No matter how much justice you thought they deserved, their souls were still damned to Hell either way. As Dean pointed out, that would be price enough to pay.
You were sour about it, but you let Martin and the rest of his scheming bastard friends go…after leaving him with a well-placed knee to the nads. At the very least, he wouldn’t be making any more scheming bastards anytime soon.
Dean was still smirking when you two piled into the Impala. Sam was waiting to be picked up at the bar across town, where he’d found the demon.
“Shut up already,” you laughed.
Dean shook his head, still grinning as he put the car in Drive.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your smile remained, but not for long as you stared out the window. You liked the evening time, where there was still light enough to see, but the world was winding down in shades of orange-gold and violet. The streetlamps were slowly coming on, lighting the way along the road.
The car pulled to a stop at the red light, there at a busy intersection.
“Hey.”
Dean’s voice, deep and a little tired, caught your attention.
“You okay over there?” he asked. He was side-eying you again, this time in concern. You could see it behind the usual gruffness.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you said. “Just makes me glad I never got married. Else I might’ve gotten shivved just so he could get out of paying alimony.”
Dean sucked his teeth. “Apparently it’s a bitch.”
You gave him a dry, withering look. He chuckled and briefly reached over to squeeze your arm.
“Hey, come on. That shit’s not happening to you,” he said. “He’d have to be dumb, deaf, and blind.”
You tilted your head at him, a small smile lighting up your face again. You couldn’t help the way your face warmed in a blush, especially with the way he was looking at you, all smirky and charming and unequivocally Dean.  
“Green light,” you reminded him.
He returned his attention to the road. His right hand was molded onto the steering wheel casually. His left rested on his thigh, while his fingers bounced to the beat of a song off his second favorite Zeppelin album. And you knew that, because he’d been playing it on repeat all day.
Many have I loved, and many times been bitten. Many times I've gazed along the open road…
You watched his profile, for a moment spellbound. The sky dimmed over his shoulder, casting him in both light and shadow, gold and dark.
“Have you ever…” You didn’t even know where you were going with this, but you’d already opened your mouth, and Dean was already glancing your way, with half his gaze on the road ahead.
“You ever gotten close to having something real? Someone who's not gonna shiv you when you’re fifty,” you said.
A laugh caught in his throat. “Hell, I never thought I’d see my forties, but here we are. Apparently I’m old.”
He shot you a wry look. You smiled.
“That’s one hell of a way to avoid the question,” you said.
Dean shook his head, this time with a sigh under his breath. For a second, you didn’t think he would answer you. You almost didn’t blame him.
The music filled the silence in between.
Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing. Many, many men can't see the open road…
“Once,” Dean admitted. “I thought I had it, but uh…didn’t take.”
“Was she a hunter?” you asked.
Dean shook his head, his eyes staying on what lied ahead.
“Just wasn’t my life,” he said. “Couldn’t keep dragging her into mine.”
There was a lot there, buried deep. You couldn’t even begin to find a shovel, so you let it be. Though you should’ve predicted the way he turned it back on you.
“And you?” he said, brows raised. “Never had a douchebag in a sport coat, playing Caddyshack at the club every weekend?” 
You shook your head as you laughed. If nothing else, Dean could paint a picture.
“Definitely fucking not.” You rested your chin in your palm, your elbow finding purchase above the door handle. “You know me. I’m either too much or not enough.”
You didn’t notice it then, but Dean looked over at you with a frown tugging at his lips. He didn’t like the melancholy in your voice, or the way you turned to look out the window, like you were trying to hide from him.
Instead of putting voice to any of the thoughts rolling through his head, he kept driving.
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The Impala rumbled to a stop in the parking lot in front of the bar. You were ready to meet Sam for a couple of beers inside. You grabbed your bag resting on the floor between your feet, but Dean’s stayed your hand, his own wrapping warmly around your arm.
You looked over at him with blinking, expectant eyes. He met you with sincerity.
“Anybody who says you ain’t enough, doesn’t know you,” he said. And then, his smile was back, quirking up at the corner. “At least, not like I do.”
Slowly, you smiled back. Your blush fairly radiated down your neck as well as your face, but you crossed your arms.
“So I’m too much. Is that what you’re saying?” you said.
He chuckled. “I plead the Fifth on that one.”
You fell into a fit of laughter along with him, and you both climbed out of the car feeling a little bit lighter. The blaring red neon sign above the bar blinded you for a moment. You turned to see Dean fiddling with his keys, trying to pick out the right one to lock up the car.
Some deep-seated feeling compelled you to go to him. You made your way around the hood and stopped just behind him. You called his name softly.
Dean turned to look at you over his shoulder. He was surprised to find you there so close. It led him to turn around all the way.
You didn’t give him, or even yourself time to think.
You grabbed the edges of his jacket and pulled yourself up to press your lips to his. It was more or less a gentle kiss. Just a sweet, slow meeting of lips. You pulled away just as slowly, the heels of your boots lowering back down to the ground.
Dean blinked his eyes open. When he came back to himself, he looked down at you in surprise and with a hint of a smile. He had the imprint of your lipstick smudged across his plush mouth.
“What was that for?” he asked.
You smoothed your hands over his jacket. It was a bit too hard to meet his eyes, so yours landed somewhere around his chest. It was also too hard to say what you really wanted to say, so you settled on half of the truth.
“A thank you, I guess,” you said. “And maybe the next time I see you, you’ll have a little less weight on your shoulders.”
His calloused hand cupped your cheek, and he earned your gaze, blinking up at him through your lashes. You couldn’t name everything you saw in his eyes, but it was more than just surprise or lust. In fact, he seemed to be debating with himself, fighting something deep inside.
You saw the exact moment he made his decision.
“Maybe we should make it count then,” he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.
You didn’t even trust your voice, but your gaze drifted down from his eyes, to his mouth. Your shallow nod in agreement was like releasing him from his chains.
Dean framed your face with both hands and drew you into his kiss, like he was breathing life into you. You certainly felt alive.
You clung to the back of his shirt, to his arms, while he gathered you flush against his chest. His strong hands glided their way down the small of your back, eliciting tingles down your spine. All the while, he drew you in deeper and deeper with each new sensuous glide of his lips against yours.
You yelped in surprise when he turned with you in his arms, just to press you into the side of his car. Dean pulled open the door to the backseat, and you climbed in willingly. He followed after you, at the same time you dragged him over by the front of his shirt. Soon his jacket was wrenched off his shoulders along with yours, both tossed somewhere in the front seats along with his shirt.
While you explored the new expanse of tanned skin, roaming your hands over his strong, broad shoulders and dipping down his back, his lips had fastened to your neck, teasing and grazing with his teeth along your pulse point.
You were already moaning and panting in his ear, your body arching to meet his as you slung a leg across his lap. He grabbed onto your thigh and squeezed, pulling you even tighter against him.
Still, you couldn’t help but smile in amusement.
“Aren’t we a little old to be making out in the backseat?” you said.
“You can be a little old for a lotta things, sweetheart,” said Dean, his voice gravel and deep as sin. “But this ain’t one of ‘em.” 
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AN: Some spicy flangst there for ya! It was honestly refreshing to write some Dean after working on so much Soldier Boy. I love that guy, but he gives me stress sometimes. 😂 Trying to cure Dean's angst is a fun break! 💜
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Read the Sequel:
Bonus shot! Resless Nights:
Summary: After a tryst you instigated in the backseat of his Baby, you and Dean have started something new. He’s just not sure that you’re as “all in” as you claimed to be.
▶️ Keep Reading: Restless Nights
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779 notes · View notes
tinytennisskirt · 4 months ago
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Sweetheart
girl dad!patrick x babysitter!reader
summary: the growth of a mutual ‘crush’ between babysitter!reaser and the father of the little girl she babysits. problem is, he’s about fifteen years older than her and they get along a little too well. he has to remember fucking a twenty-year-old is wrong, no matter how much he might want to. no matter what other feelings might be involved… he just knows what he wants and it’s hard to ignore it when she feels the same way.
warnings: unedited from the notes app and i accidentally switched tenses so ignore that!!! and SMUT. tension. flirting. age gap, obvi! sex. sex. sex. rough.
babysitting for DILF! Patrick, his house is a little cluttered and messy but it’s his. He’s fixing his screen door when you come by, he’s got a nail clenched between his teeth, he’s not worried.
he thought you’d be younger, sixteen, maybe, but you’re twenty and a half, he deducts from asking about your birthday. he still thinks you’re gorgeous before he does the math, he’s a bit of a dirtbag that way…
tells you all about his daughter and what she likes to watch, what she likes to eat, says you can order pizza if you want and as long as she’s asleep by midnight, he’s happy. he’s more carefree than other parents you babysit for. you find your eyes resting on the muscle of his upper arm as he shows you around the house just so you can find your way. part of his introduction is just flirting, his face getting a little close to yours with that smirk of his.
you’re standing your ground and he likes that. he’s only half-aware of his intentions. asks again what your hourly rate is and when you tell him, he tacks four dollars onto it. you’re saying thank you, but he says he’ll be back by 1:30 and he’s out the door.
his daughter, dark curls and freckles is standing on the steps. she’s a happy girl, she’s polite and she’s smart, like- gifted smart. she’s silly and has hobbies of building cubes out of paper. she teaches you how and soon you’re in a pile of paper cubes.
she’s in bed by ten just because you asked her to be and she’s not fussy at all, just silly when she brushes her teeth. she has a good sense of humour and makes good references. as you tuck her into her pretty pink room with lots of books, she tells you she has ice cream in the freezer and that you’re welcome to it because she only pretends to like the flavour her dad buys her- eating it would help her out. she’s only six but her brain is amazing. you hope you see her again.
she goes to sleep and you turn off her lamp and slip out of her room. the hallway is dimly lit and you find yourself looking at the pictures on the wall. patrick was or is a tennis player, there are trophies on top of cabinets and old player photos. old player IDs and he was… hot. not that he wasn’t now, he was, but he was your age in these photos no doubt… came naturally to find him attractive. you continue down the hall and his daughter starts appearing in photos and he looks a little older but you’re noticing that there’s not a single photo of her mother.
it’s just them, you deduct. she’s not in any picture so she must not be in the
picture. you get the small tub of ice cream from the freezer and eat it on the couch, finding a show you’re fond of and watching it, finishing the small bit left, twirling the spoon around in your mouth.
you get up and look around the house a bit more. observing the clutter of books where his daughter sits on the couch, walking to where there’s a bit of sports equipment, tennis rackets, a few looking a bit… broken. smashed. you wondered if he broke them himself. your fingers traced over the pictures on the kitchen wall. he looks good without facial hair, you note, but you prefer him with. he looks like a great dad, the various photos of him and his daughter in various places, the beach, outside of a restaurant, pictures of her holding up his trophy while sitting on his shoulders. a duo for sure.
you wash your dishes in the sink and decide to maybe tidy up a bit, cleaning a few other things. you wipe down the counters and make the clutter into piles. you busy yourself until you hear the key in the lock. you’ve made the living room neat and tidy and you don’t know what to do when he comes in and he looks over everything. you just stand in the centre of the living room.
“she was really good,” you say, hand on your stomach. “she really likes broccoli, which i didn’t expect, but she showed me how to make paper cubes and she was in bed around ten, so i cleaned a little bit.”
he looked a little rustled, his shirt a little more wrinkled and his curls a little more all over. you assumed he’d had a good night out. he looked good, though. lucky woman, you were thinking. “yeah, i see.” he chuckled, setting his jacket down on the back of the couch.
you’re young and you’re shy and he can tell you’re nervous, “it’s okay? you don’t mind, i hope you don’t mind.”
“i don’t mind,” he grinned, pulling out his wallet, “it looks good, i never would have done it.” he steps closer, close to you, just in front of you, looking down at you. you’re under his gaze and he keeps eye contact with you as he pulls out his wallet and you’re a little taken aback by how intense it is. “i owe you how much?”
you state your old rate and he just grins, dimples on his face. the ones you only saw in his photos with his daughter. he smells like cigarettes and cologne. something about the way he looks at you makes you feel a little weak. your eyes fall on his hand as he flicks through bills, handing you about $60 more than you were owed. his bonus and a second bonus for the cleaning. “you don’t have to… i usually tidy up where i babysit.”
“well, i didn’t ask you to, nor did i expect it.” he says, grinning down at you. it’s smug and he smells good and he’s looking at you like you’re a meal and you kind of like it but he’s… an older guy. he has a daughter and she’s asleep and he’s tall and you are staring. he’s hot. he’s really hot and he’s looking back at you, “thank you. i’ll probably need you again in a week, are you free?”
you blink, “i’m free.” you tell him. “thank you… again. i really should be going.”
“do you need a ride home? she’s okay to be alone for a few minutes.” he’s still close, he’s still standing over you.
“thank you, but i’m okay. i just walked over, i listen to music there and back.”
“you’re sure? it’s late.” his grin is all consuming. you’re sure it’s stealing your thoughts as you continue to blank.
“i’m sure. thank you again. for everything.” you step past him and he turns with you as you go and slip on your shoes.
“thank you,” he says, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. “have a good night, alright?”
“i’ll try. goodnight mr. zweig,” you smile as you pull open the front door.
“patrick.”
“hm?”
“call me patrick.” he repeats, nodding.
“goodnight, patrick.” your smile grows into a grin and you slip out the door. he hates how he feels about you. you’re cute, he notes, but you had something about you. something he observed when he was handing you your pay that told you there was something more to you. more than nervousness and doe eyes and mid-length skirts. maybe not. but you’d be back here next week.
he heard how much his daughter liked you the next day. she rambled on and on about how pretty you were and how sweet and nice you were, how good your food was. patrick found it good to hear, the other babysitters often couldn’t handle her, but you seemed to with ease.
the next babysitting gig you were wearing a baby tee. a short sleeved, almost cropped t-shirt and jeans and you greeted him as mr.zweig again and this time he didn’t correct you. he told you to help yourself to anything in the fridge and that he’d be back around 1:00 this time. your bright eyes lingered on his hands, his forearms as he spoke, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. you couldn’t help it, he was gorgeous. and tall. he was very tall and very strong looking and maybe, just maybe it couldn’t hurt to have a small crush on him. only natural right?
he wasn’t oblivious. he saw the way you nodded when he was speaking. the way you fidgeted with the ring around your pinkie finger. you were gorgeous and you were sweet but you were young. too young. and he was going out on a date with a woman who was in fact, age appropriate. he wasn’t opposed to watching the way your hips moved or the way your ass looked when you went upstairs to find his daughter, but he was opposed to doing anything about it. you were a good treat. that was about all he could let himself think.
you had a good time with his daughter and once again put her to bed just a little earlier. 9:30. she didn’t mind, you did so much with her that she was right out. you swept, did some dishes, nothing too noticeable. you’re sprawled out on his couch when he gets back, you don’t even hear him come in. he nods, watching you watch tv for a minute before he makes himself known. he doesn’t want to startle you, so he jiggles the doorknob and pretends to shut the door so you wouldn’t know he’d been watching for a moment. you turn your head and sit up. “no rush,” patrick says with a smile. “how was she?”
“excellent.” you reply, sliding your hands down your thighs and onto your knees. “she’s amazing, i’ve never met any little girl so well-behaved and so smart. she’s very well-rounded. you did a great job.”
you almost made a grown man bashful. he smiled, looked at the wall, “she doesn’t get any of it from me. it’s all her mom.”
“oh… how long has it just been the two of you? i assumed… from the pictures.”
“her mom left a year in,” patrick replied.
“so it is from you.” you answered. “must be, who else?”
“must be.” he said, a bigger smile creeping up his face. “so you come over, watch a kid and flatter the parents, hm?”
“yes but only when i feel like it.”
“does it work?”
“with you, yes.” you were more bold, he noted. last time he’d made you nervous but he was standing just far enough away where you could hold your own. he wondered, stepping closer, if he could change that. he did the same thing as last time and stood over you while he went though his wallet for his money.
he hands the money to you, “that’s enough?”
you look at him with those wide eyes again, “mhm. yes. more than. thank you.” he was right, all it took was the close proximity to make you nervous. “you know i wasn’t trying to flatter you?”
“i’d prefer you pretend you were so i can pretend to hate it.” he chuckled, “thank you.”
“for?”
“she really likes you. you’re good with her. i’ll need you again in two days, are you free?” he smiles down at you. his eyes linger on your lips, slightly open. he found himself thinking impure things as he stared. he wouldn’t stop himself. there was no reason to stop himself. what a treat you were to have around, he reminds himself. such a pretty thing.
you smile at his ask, “i can be. i’ll text?”
“sounds good.” he nods. “need a ride home?”
“i’ll be okay.” you nodback. “thank you though.” you pick up your sweater and get your shoes on. you’re sweet, patrick wonders why you’re so okay with walking. it would cut the time to get home in more than half. aside from time alone with you, he does have a daughter and he would like it if you got home safe. “goodnight, mr. zweig.”
“patrick,” he corrects you again with that gorgeous, sly grin of his “please.”
“patrick.” you say, locking it in. but it feels wrong. too personal. “goodnight.”
“goodnight, Y/N.” he answers. your name on his tongue feels so strange to hear. you’re pressing your back to the door. god, he’s fucking hot. the other parents you’ve babysat for are very much so married and both balding, the boys your age weren’t so charming. this might be a problem, you developing a small crush… earlier it seemed fine, but faced with him. dear god.
you were back there a few days later and was patrick mistaken or was your short a little shorter? a tank top, completely reasonable for the heat, but it hit just above your belly button, just under if you weren’t moving. it’s not like it was inappropriate, if anything what was a babysitter if not hot? patrick remembered his babysitters from back when he was a kid and yeah, they were always hot and older and just out of reach. you fit the genre today expect not the older part. you were younger- much younger. at least your skirt was mid-length.
he looked at you, “you know my rules. that i really don’t have any and i’ll be back at 1:00, 1:30 latest.”
“leaving some room for a kiss goodbye,” you said under your breath. he caught that.
“something like that,” he smiled. if he didn’t know better, it was a pass at him for going out with women. it made him grin, in fact. it had some affect on you and you’d only seen him how many times?
you wouldn’t do anything, you knew that, but he seemed to look better and better every time you saw him. at first it was black polo t-shirts and jeans and he’d moved to long sleeved shirts with the sleeves rolled up and he smelled so fucking good, it was hard to ignore. you looked another way at his response, knowing he’d heard you, but what did it matter. could have meant anything… he could fire you if he thought you were bitter or judgemental.
his daughter was so excited to see you, she practically leapt into your arms. she was a thin girl, short in stature, it was no big deal. the perfect saved by the bell moment. “y/n!” she exlaimed. she was so happy to see you, it made patrick chuckle a little. you held her to your hip and something in him shifted just a little, seeing her resting in the crook of your hip like that. it flashed through him like a blast of heat and then it was gone. “you have to come see what i made today. a big cube!” she was so excited.
patrick shook off whatever the hell he just felt, snapping back to reality. “alright, honey, i’m heading out.” he told his daughter. he advanced a step to ruffle her braided hair. you wondered if he braided it himself… the thought was interrupted by his hand sliding over your waist just for a split second, enough for the leverage to kiss his daughter on the forehead. before you could think, his hand was gone and he stepped toward the door, grin on his face. “have fun. if you end up eating the ice cream, save me the last few bites.”
“okay!” she called to her father as he opened both doors, waving enthusiastically at her as he shut them behind himself. the second he was gone, she turned to you, “you’re eating it, not me.”
“deal,” you nodded at her. and you went upstairs to go see her big paper cube. You had her in bed at 9:30 again. you went to lay on the couch, kicking your feet up, your eyes settling on the picture of patrick on the wall. he was a good looking guy at your age. freshly shaved, not exactly baby-faced but compared to now, entirely baby-faced. you wondered what his type was, his daughter was such a little copy of him. she was a pretty little girl, long eyelashes and pigmented lips. her nose wasn’t exactly a button nose, but it was only a little bigger and it was perfectly proportionate.
you got up, looking at the pictures on the walls again. him, clean shaven, holding his daughter as a baby, big smile on his face. you smiled just a little at it. and the one of him holding her up in the air like she was simba from the lion king. she said her father helped her with the big cube… he was a good father. and she was lucky to have him.
you went and you got the tiny ice cream tub from the kitchen along with a spoon and you followed the pictures down the hall again. the pictures turned more to tennis memorabilia as you got closer to the end of the hall, where his room was. you found it really admirable that he never brought a woman back to the house. you stared at the door, just a little curious, but you weren’t that kind of person, so you continued to eat the ice cream and sat down on the couch again, snooping through his DVDs instead.
you left him about a cup and a half serving in the tub and watched pineapple express and thirty minutes or less and he came home at 1:05am. you turned, eyes meeting his before any words were spoken. he smiled just a little, “how was she?”
“perfect. you’re raising an angel, did you know that?”
“news to me,” he said, dropping his wallet and keys on the table by the door, adjusting his belt just a little. your eyes lingered on his hands. “here i thought i just had a daughter.”
“well, your daughter is an angel. she showed me her big paper cube, she’s very proud but she made sure you got your credit.” you said, moving your feet to the floor.
“i just held it together while she taped, she’s very authoritative when she needs to be.” he headed more into the house and you rose to your feet. “but she’s good with you. she likes you a lot, she doesn’t let me go a day without hearing about something you said or something you like.“
“ooh, and what do i like?” you said, moving around the couch to meet him on the other side. his hand was in his pocket, he grinned a little, that dimple on his face on full display.
“she says iced tea and chinchillas.”
“ooh, i do like those things.” you smiled a little. “she knows me.”
you were so peppy, he wasn’t one to want to get rid of that, but he was looking forward to his favourite part of the nights with you. he stepped forward, the same fashion as always, close to you. grabbed his wallet again, went through his bills. pretended not to notice the way you instinctively pushed your hair behind your ears. you were met with the scent of his cologne again. “she really does like you, you know. do you watch kids during the day? i have something to attend to on wednesday and i need you friday night. you’re free then?”
“i think so.” you nodded. “and i do watch kids during the day, i would love to come by and watch her, how long were you thinking?” your sentences lost their pep and spice at his closeness.
“i’ll let you know,” he nodded, handing you the money and meeting your eyes, sly grin on his face still. you were so pretty, all doe-eyed. “i paid you until 1:30, by the way,” he said, watching you eye the money in your hands. “to spare the thirty minutes kissing goodbye before i came home.”
you pressed your hand to your head, “i am sorry i said that, it’s not my place.” you were more apologetic than you’d been when he was several feet away the first time you thought it him.
he just grinned, knowing he made you feel bad for something he didn’t take to heart. “you were right. no shame in it.” he said. “how are you getting home?”
you uncovered your face, “bus today.”
“you know who rides the bus at 1 am?”
“me?”
“not tonight.” he said. “i’ll drive you.” he didn’t even ask this time. “c’mon.” he tossed his keys up and snatched them out of the air and it was hot. he was too hot. too hot to be in a car with for the ten minute drive.
you swallowed hard, grabbing your jacket and slipping out the front door, patrick locking it behind him. he had a camera outside his door, she’d only be alone asleep a little while. “you don’t have to drive me home, mr. zweig,” you spoke up once you were more than a few feet away. “i usually make it just fine on my own.”
“i’d feel better seeing you get home safely.” he said, opening the passenger door for you. you hadn’t thought him the type to. “you live with your parents?”
“no,” you said, getting in. his car was a little messy but it was mostly papers and an empty cigarette carton or two. you moved them to the back seat. “i have an apartment off aberdeen street.”
“mmm, yeah i know where that is.” he nodded, starting the car. “just want to see to it you get home alright. i haven’t been the best with it, but you’re the best babysitter we’ve met and i can’t have you going missing or see you in the obits.”
“morbid,” you noted, smiling. “i’m that good? is that your thing, babysitter comes over, watches your kid, and then you flatter the baby sitter?”
patrick grinned wide as he reversed, which was hot, his arm on the back of his seat as he did. “yeah, but only when i feel like it.” he rebutted. you smiled.
“and does it work?”
“you tell me,” he answered, your heart skipped a beat. he was probably the hottest man you’d ever seen in your life and you had to come to terms with that. you swallowed hard. he was good with callbacks.
you couldn’t even answer his question. you had to straighten out, recalibrate. he understood your silence. maybe he’d overstepped with that last one. “does she like tennis?” you asked him.
his smile got humble, “i tried. she’s not a sports girl.”
“that’s fair. neither am i.” you nodded. “tried, couldn’t.”
“also fair.” he chuckled. “so what kind of girl were you?”
“were or am?” you asked. he hated that he wanted to know so badly… he hated wanting to know anything about you, but he wanted everything. the image of his daughter resting on your hip flashed in his mind again. “i think more… writing. reading”
“anything good?”
the conversation continued, going over books and ones he skipped reading in highschool. that and tennis, his career. you were impressed. and he pulled into the lot of your building, putting the car in park.
“thank you for the ride,” you said, just a little desperate to get away from him. all the closeness and the conversation god he was so fucking hot. the car smelled like him and the cigarettes and you were just a little bit dazed.
he chuckled, watching you undo your seatbelt, his eyes on the exposed skin of your waist. “i’ll see you wednesday?”
“i still need a time,” you nodded, “but i’ll stay flexible.” you said, opening the car door. you could smirk when he wasn’t so close to you. he smiled back. “see you then. thank you again for the ride home.”
“you’re welcome, sweetheart,” he grinned. and he was evil. he knew it. he watched your expression struggle to stay the same, those pretty eyes wide. you smiled a little nervously, shutting the door and fully reacting once he couldn’t see you. you tried to compose yourself, but your body felt like it had burst into flames. you waved, going into your building as fast as you could. the entire ride up the elevator, you were thinking about it. replaying it, repeating his sentence in your own voice just completely thrown. it was a lot. sweetheart.
fuck. you took a cold shower but it wasn’t enough to keep your hand from diving between your legs. back arched, sweetheart echoing around your head. imagining those hands of his on your throat, wide, strong. he probably tasted like cigarettes and god, the thought of it was more than enough. it was only the first time of a few that night that you did the same thing.
the next morning you woke up feeling just a little confused, but he was the first thought in your head. and what was two more times before breakfast?
you got up eventually, grabbing your phone off the counter where you’d left in such a haste last night. you looked over the new messages in your phone,
was thinking 3-7, that work for you?
with freshly washed hands, you typed back
sounds good.
so casual. and you got there at 2:55pm on wednesday. patrick was dressed for tennis, leaving with his rackets. “you still play.” you said, looking at his things. “game day?”
he let you in, smiling, “practice. hi.” he noted your skort and tank top. more skin. “have you had lunch?”
“no, actually, i was just going to wait until dinner-“
“there’s hot dogs on the stove,” he said. “help yourself.” he seemed like he was in a rush, grabbing his water bottle. “and iced tea in the fridge. yours.” he said, grabbing his keys. he stopped in front of you, close to you, smile on his face. it clouded your thoughts a moment. “see you at seven.”
“see you,” you replied warily, blinking hard. he looked you up and down before leaving. you slowly made your way up the steps. it was a good thing his daughter was so happy to see you, you would have read into that.
she talked to you all about her drawings, showing you one of yourself. she was so sweet. she talked to you all about her drawing of her dad, her tennis rackets oddly detailed in crayon. you spent the afternoon together, you helped yourself to one of the cans of iced tea in the fridge.
patrick was back by four, just a little sweaty. you hated that. after last night’s sex imagery, seeing him all sweaty was a horny girl’s nightmare.
“dad!” his daughter greeted him by jumping up on him. he dropped his bag to pick her up. “me and y/n made hot dog people. come eat, come eat.” she said. you pressed your lips together to stop from smiling when patrick shot you a semi-confused look. he carried her into the kitchen, you grabbing your purse, getting ready to go. you had just finished making dinner, which you didn’t have to do, turning the hot dogs from lunch into a topping for the macaroni and cheese you’d made. that and broccoli. simple, something little miss picky eater would have.
“wow,” patrick nodded, looking at the hot dogs that had been cut strategically in person. he looked at you, sitting in the chair at the table with her on his knee. “you did all this?”
“all this?” you chuckled, “of course not, i had help.”
“i stirred,” his daughter nodded.
“very good.” patrick nodded. “think you’re going to be a chef?”
“maybe,” she said, a little sing-songy. “i’m
good at stirring.”
“she’s so good at stirring,” you nodded. patrick chuckled, eyes set on you. “i’ll get going.” you said, checking your purse for your phone. “you guys enjoy. i’ll be back tomorrow, so no need to pay me.”
“n- why don’t you stay for dinner? i didn’t hire you to make us food and run.”
“please!” his daughter leapt off his lap and pulled you to the chair. “eat!”
you smiled, “thank you. i really can’t though, i have to run! i’m so sorry, baby.” you crouched down to her height. she pouted. “if i didn’t have to go meet my mom, i’d be here eating our food, i promise.”
“your mom?”
“my mom came to visit me today, she’s at my apartment waiting. i’m so sorry, baby.” you said, wrapping your arms around her. patrick watched the way her arms wrapped around you too. she really, really liked you. “i’ll see you tomorrow night though. i’ll be here early, we can make dinner again and everything. whatever you want.”
“can we make pizza?”
“it’s a friday night, why not?” you smiled. it was cute. “i’ll bring the ingredients tomorrow.”
“yay!”
“yay is right.” you kissed her cheek and cupped her face just a little before standing up again. “you enjoy your hot dog people.” you said. you looked at patrick, who hadn’t seen you in action with his daughter yet. he was a little bit in awe. she loved you. it was more than a like. the other babysitters were tantrum material but you were an angel just the same as his daughter. he hated how he was thinking about you after something so pure, thinking about you. eyes lingering on your thighs, your waist. thinking about you, something so fucking paternal in him wanting you. it was dark. “i’ll see you both tomorrow.” you said, giving him a little look. it was cheeky. like you knew something.
“thank you,” patrick nodded.
you nodded back, waving bye to his daughter before slipping out the door. patrick would be lying if he didn’t give into himself that night. his hand pressed to the shower wall, hand pumping as the water poured over his body. he hated himself for it, but it was your image that pushed him over the edge. his daughter fast asleep, his thoughts were disgusting. he felt disgusting, it’s why he chose the shower. you were too young. and well he was a bit of a dirtbag, the age gap was enough to even throw himself off.
you, your little shirts and little skirts, the way you looked in jeans, the pout to your lips, your eyelashes, your eyes that screamed innocence when he got too close. fuck, it was dirty the way he thought about you. he thought about fucking you on that couch you were always on. the extent to which his mind went was so fucking wrong, so wrong, he reminded himself. he went to bed guilty. a grown man turned guilty.
patrick was glad he had a date the next night. someone to fuck his age to get you out of his head. he was never more glad for a sad date. his eyes fixated on you. “gonna let me in?” you smiled. he realized he was just standing in the doorway after you knocked. a near-bashful grin spread up his face, turning sly. “you know, you’re paying me by the hour and it’s 5 right now. you’re paying me to stand outside your door.”
he smirked, moving out of the way to let you in. he smelled good, date night cologne. you almost rolled your eyes. “i pay you enough for it, don’t i?”
you giggled a little, “true! i’ll go back out there if you want.”
he chuckled, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves. “i wouldn’t hate to see it. if you didn’t make a promise for pizza to little miss upstairs. all she’s talked about.”
“oh i love that, i’m so excited,” you said, putting the bag of ingredients on the table. “i was thinking of making you one too, are you a fan of pepperoni?”
“big fan,” he nodded. “olives too.” he looked into the bag of ingredients, pulling them out.
“you don’t have somewhere to be?” you asked, coming to help pull things out of the bag with him. “hot date?”
“something like that,” he answered a little monotone. “i’ll be back at one.” he nodded, backing away. you nodded back, following him to the door. god, he needed to leave for his date before your eyes got to him. your hand trailed the back of the couch, walking with him. “that’s okay?”
“you’re asking me?”
“you look like you’re about to tell me my curfew,” he replied, grabbing his wallet and keys.
you smirked just a little. your mind wandered down to his hands, the hand that had your waist just days before. your eyes met his, “oh yeah. come home when the streetlights come on?” you joked, that gorgeous smile his main focus.
he grinned, “i’ll try,” you were so cheeky, god he wanted to fuck that grin off your face, he had better be gone before he did. “have fun with the pizza, help yourself to the drinks in the fridge. she’s in the backyard.” he held his keys a little too tight in his hand.
your smirk stayed. he’d never been more glad to be going out as he drove over with your voice in his head. he ordered a drink as soon as he could.
your pizza night went well. it was good, delicious, even. she was a good little helper, obsessed with getting everything perfect on her dad’s pizza. you smiled. she slept early again, tired from all the pizza and karaoke and dancing. you were a little bit tired too. you hopped on that couch and you were out like a light.
you woke to patrick’s hand gently on your shoulder. you blinked a few times, rubbing your eyes. “oh my god, i fell asleep.”
“you’re okay,” he chuckled. “it’s a good couch for it.”
“great for it, apparently.” you nodded, sitting up. “i’m so sorry, that’s so irresponsible of me.”
“it’s late, it’s understandable.” he replied. “i’ll drive you home.”
you tilted your head, with a smile, “kicked out so fast. i’m so sorry for falling asleep on your couch, if i’d known it would ruin the way you see me, i would have never even sat on it.”
he chuckled, “okay, c’mon. i’m not kicking you out, i’m getting you home in one piece.”
“i appreciate it,” you smiled genuinely. “but i’ll be okay.”
“you were asleep about two minutes ago,” he said. “you’re not going home alone.”
you really couldn’t handle another ten minutes alone with him in his car. your hand was still cramping from the other day. he gestured the way of his car. “you had fun?”
“so much,” you told him. “she insisted on making your pizza ‘happy’ which took her about thirty minutes because the smile didn’t look right. your pizza is resting on the stove. she devoured hers and probably half a bag of mozzarella cheese.”
“she loves cheese,” he chuckled. “i’ll need you again tomorrow, is that okay?”
“tomorrow night?” you asked. you stepped closer to him, a twist of fate he didn’t expect as he grabbed his wallet. it was that time of night, but it was you who moved forward on him.
“tomorrow night,” he said. you fought the urge to ask if it was the same woman. it wasn’t your place to ask. he looked at you, the way you were looking up at him, so fucking perfect and so fucking… he felt his pants tighten at his growing erection. fuck. he hated that you had him like this. such a fucking grip on his mind, his emotions. it was so frustrating, beyond frustrating. “that’s okay with you? short notice.”
“i wasn’t busy.”
“you’re never busy.” he smiled a little. “you know most girls your age go to the bar. flirt. drink.”
“i’m not legal drinking age,” you reminded him. fuck, that was too true. couldn’t be more fucking true. you were only twenty. “i’m well aware of what girls my age do. i find the time between, believe me.”
he chuckled, “yeah?”
“yes. i do all of those things you mentioned and more. i’m a riot. a party girl. you know this money pays for my coke addiction.”
he held the door for you, grinning, “glad to be of service. you know how obsessed little miss upstairs is with the snow queen from narnia.”
you laughed, hand on your stomach. he kept his smile smug. “that’s good!” you laughed, leaning against his car. he locked the door and walked down the few steps. he stepped close, your laugh faded away as he reached around you to open the door for you. you were trapped between him and his arm and the car. you blinked a few times and he smirked as he walked to his side of the car and got in.
you got in with him, buckling up. fuck. he was good. you almost recovered from the close contact, he put a cigarette between his teeth as he backed out of the driveway. you thought that was hot. “you smoke?” he asked, pulling onto the road, lighting his cigarette.
“no.”
“mmm, good girl.” he said, blowing smoke out the window. he grinned to himself. if you weren’t wet before, you were now. your breath caught in your throat and you felt your cheeks and ears burn. fuck. fuck. fuck. it was all you could think about. good girl, he knew exactly what you wanted to hear and it was a good thing it was exactly his vocabulary. if he gave in right now he’d pull over and fuck you to pieces and you know what, you’d take it. you almost veered the car off the road yourself.
your throat was dry. your brain was screaming to kiss him at every red light. fuck him here in his car in the middle of the road and get dragged away only by cops with tasers and guns and batons. your whole body was hot, white hot, burning.
he just smiled to himself as he drove. he didn’t mind the silence, it had a good reason. it had flustered you so badly, you couldn’t crack any witty little cheeky jokes. he said goodnight and watched your ass as you walked inside.
the desperate need to get off was so wild you almost called an ex. like you were drunk on some strong alcohol his words reverberated around your brain it called for bad decisions and a need to fuck SOMETHING. like you were a creature, you needed something, someone inside of you now. it couldn’t be him, he was gone.
no, he was too old, it wasn’t because he’d gone home to his perfect, lovely daughter because he was a grown man with a six year old daughter and he was technically your employer and fucking him would be wrong. but it would feel so good. you had to resort to your own hands, sliding down into your underwear on your couch in your apartment. fingers rubbing your clit vigorously. you breathed hard, thinking about him fucking you in his shitty car on top of all the papers and cigarette cartons. fucking you so hard your head hit the car door repeatedly. he could have. if he had done anything to you after saying those two words, you would have let him do anything he fucking wanted to you.
you slept like a baby, knocked out after several rounds, enough to dull the need to be fucked to a low hum. he messaged you. before you went, though.
3-8?
perfect.
you replied short and sweet before passing out.
the next day you were back at his. he was in the driveway, you were just a little late. it wasn’t a big deal. he said goodbye, very friendly, very normal. you went inside and did various crafts and activities with his daughter, letting the good girl thing slip your mind.
he was back by eight. eight on the dot. talking about his mom being in town. you didn’t inquire. you had to meet some friends for ‘drinks’ at her place. you said goodbye to his daughter, smiling and telling her you’d see her soon. patrick thanked you for making chicken, paid you extra plus bonus for the pizza ingredients the other day. he didn’t seem like he really had this kind of money to be giving you, but you took it.
in taking everything else, you said goodnight and headed over to your friends house. had a can or two of a pre-mixed margarita, talked about things with your friends. it wasn’t until the conversation turned to something you needed to show them a picture of when you realized you didn’t have your phone. you looked around everywhere- your phone was expensive, you didn’t have the money for a new one. you got up and looked around and then it hit you. your phone was probably at patrick’s.
you didn’t have his number memorized. “do you need it?” your friend asked. “can you get it tomorrow?”
“i guess i could, but that’s my uber home and all of my cards are in the back, i wouldn’t have bus fare, i wouldn’t have- fuck.”
“just go honey, we’re not going anywhere!” your other friend chimed in. “i literally only have enough for you to get one bus, but get a transfer to come back?” none of them could drive impaired. or would. you shut your eyes. you hated the idea of showing up unannounced. but you took that bus fare. and you got on a bus over to patrick’s. you walked down his street trying to rehearse what stupid thing you’d say about this. forgetting your phone- like an absolute idiot. you had no idea where it even was but you came straight from there to your friends so it could be three places and the bus was not an option you could seek out.
you walked up the front steps and quietly knocked. you tucked your hair behind your ears and folded your arms over your chest. the evening air was chilly for a tank top and a skirt. it was a moment before he answered the door, it was around midnight so you knew he’d be up. or you hoped. it was stupid to even have come, but the margs were hitting just enough to screw up your decision making.
he was surprised to see you at the door. opened the screen door. “hey,” you said. “i’m so sorry about this, i’m so sorry- i know it’s late-“
“yeah- are you okay?” he asked, looking to see how you got there.
“i’m fine, i just… i think i forgot my phone here.” you said. it wasn’t the smoothest delivery. your eyes wandered down his body, eyeing his true build, hidden underneath those other shirts. the one he was currently in was tight, a black t-shirt. and sweatpants. he was muscular but it was all soft, soft features. one of those dad bods that bad definition not to pass as a true dad bod, but one still. holy fuck, this was a terrible idea. he grinned, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the doorframe. “it’s so stupid, i know.”
“happens,” he chuckled. “you want to come in and look for it?”
“could i? i would be so quick,”
“i’m not in any rush,” he replied. “c’mon.” he stepped out of your way, holding the door as you came into the house. most of the lights were off aside from the adjustable dim ones in the kitchen. he turned on the lamp in the corner. “she’s with her grandma at the hotel tonight.” patrick said, starting to look around. you looked over at him. “is your ringer on?”
“i have it off when i’m with her,” you replied. patrick smiled. it was sweet. “fuck, i really am so sorry about this mr. zweig, i-“
“how many times before you call me patrick?”
“hm?”
“patrick.” he restated. “i’m not calling you ‘miss y/l/n’.”
“very true, i’m sorry sir,” you said, leaning in a little as you passed him, looking up on the mantle of the fireplace.
“that’s worse,” he chuckled.
“i think you like it.”
oh, it kicked into existence. hard. that fire you’d felt before lit up in his body. you were so smug when you thought you could be. it was all witty and teasing and the need to fuck that teasing smile off your face was back. you were too young, he reminded himself, watching you bend to look under the couch cushions. fuck, why did you have to be so…
the margaritas maybe made you a little bold. not too much, you were still you. he checked the table, looking around more for your phone. “what does it look like?”
your laugh from the other room was so pretty. “red!” you called back. red phone… red phone… patrick was so glad to be separated from you by a wall. he was hard just thinking about you. having you here was dangerous, his daughter away, nobody could stop him from doing what he wanted but himself. his morals. you were twenty years old. barely fucking legal. he was almost 20 years older than you. but you followed him into the kitchen, pretty doe eyes and pouty lips and worried eyebrows and he could have fucked you on the table when you looked at him. “nothing? again, i’m so sorry for coming in like this.”
“it’s fine,” his words were a little more forced than natural. “bright red?”
“dark red,” you replied.
“flashy?” he meant if it had anything to make it stand out.
“no sir.” you put your hands on your hips and turned around, looking on top of the microwave, behind the stove. anything. you and that tiny skirt, what the fuck was he supposed to do with himself? twenty, in a little skirt on the tips of your toes looking in high up places. the skin of your waist showing as you stretched, finding nothing. “fuck, it’s really nowhere.” you turned to patrick again, pressing a hand to the side of your face. “tell me you hid it and this is funny and that i didn’t drop my phone with all my cards on the bus on the way to my friend’s. i’m begging you.”
he shook his head, grimacing a little. but you were standing just below him, close to him. you looked up at him, observing his expressions while thinking this all over. you’d been so stressed you forgot patrick was hot as fuck. and it almost took you by surprise to snap back to reality here, where he was looking at you like there was something he wanted from you. it was extremely flustering, you blinked it off and went back to the living room to check again. patrick went down the hall and checked the bathroom.
“found it,” he called from the bathroom. you were glad this was over, you needed to get out of this house before the idea of being home alone with him sunk in. him in his tight black undershirt… him in his sweatpants, you tried and tried to ignore the print. he handed you your phone and you slid it into your purse.
“thank you so much,” you nodded, eyes meeting his. his eyes were dark. “again, i’m so sorry to disturb you this late and without warning.”
“anytime,” he was so excited to have you get the fuck out of his house. he watched your hips move as you walked out of the bathroom and down the hall. “where are you off to now?”
“i’ve got to go meet my friends again. i’m probably going to get the bus back, i have a transfer.” you showed him the little white slip of paper, your back pressed to his wall by the door. you looked him over, trying not to think about his ‘sweetheart’ and the way his ‘good girl’ lingered in your brain. you felt that fire ignite in your lower stomach. you had to say goodbye. and fast.
“let me drive you?” he offered. he didn’t know why. he’d probably crash the car. something about the night, something about the way you looked in this lamp light, the idea of being alone.
“i’ll be okay,” you said, stepping just a little closer and it wasn’t even voluntary. “it’s a short trip. a few stops.”
“remember what i said about the obits?” he tsked. “i’d rather see you here at my house than in that section of the newspaper, thanks.”
“here at your house?” you smiled. “it’s either die or be here at your house, i love that.”
“what can i say? i like you here.” he shrugged. you tilted your head. he cleared his throat, “you’re good with her.”
“so you’ve said.” you nodded. “thank you.”
“no problem, sweetheart. and i’m driving you.”
“you’re not driving me,” you replied.
“but i am. c’mon.” he picked up his keys.
“mr zweig,” you reasoned, pressing your hand to his chest. your heart beat hard in your chest as his choice of words. “i’m fine.”
it was getting harder and harder to remember why fucking a twenty year old felt so wrong. he looked down at you, your hand on his chest. mr. zweig, like it was the worst thing on earth but the hottest fucking thing to come out of anyone’s mouth. he looked at you, his chest rising and falling like his restraint was an exercise, like it was a fight. it might have been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. your magnetic force was pulling him in and soon he’d have to chain himself to something so he didn’t do anything that’d get him in trouble. you were too fucking young. too young. too young.
you stared back. and the moment felt like forever. you could make it back alone but you weren’t sure if you candle heading back to your friends when you felt like this. that ache was back, the one that felt like drugs, like alcohol, like gambling, like the edge of an addiction, knowing the hook, the high is right there. your restraint was prettier, just a reminder that he wouldn’t. you’d let him, but he wouldn’t. it was more cut and dry to believe it was a crush and as much as you wanted him, he wouldn’t. for his daughter, for the sake of the springs on his bed, you hoped. you let out a breath between perfectly parted lips, shrinking into it.
he couldn’t. he wouldn’t. the problem was that he would. he would. he wanted to. he needed to. the second you were gone he’d go feel disgusting about it as he fucked violently into his hand, crude imagery plastered on the inside of his eyelids and he’d go to bed guilty and vile and disturbed. but you were right here and you weren’t gone yet. it was the same feeling, knowing you’d probably take the bus home just to find peace with a showerhead or even the fucking doorman of your building. you’d take anything at this very moment. what patrick wouldn’t give to have some trashy woman in his bed right now. he could call one of his dates up to fuck- he would have given so much to have been with one of them right now. because looking at you, he couldn’t… you were too pretty to be fucked by him, he’d ruin you. you were too young for him. too young and too pretty and too perfect.
he wouldn’t. you were fantasizing just looking at him. your body in flames, burning in a pit of lava, absolutely rolling in hot coals. you needed to stop. you needed cold water. ice water. liquid nitrogen. cryogenic freezing.
“i think you should go,” patrick managed. his voice was cold but not cold enough to cool you down. but he was right. you should go. the idea you’d leave was the same as believing it was all over and a guard was let down. you had the same feeling, moving just slightly to put your shoes back on, but only getting so far as an inch.
it was spontaneous and it was harsh, but it was insanely mutual, the way you kissed. you’d believed you’d get peace and that you could leave, no, wrong move. very wrong move. he kissed you with a force that pinned you to the wall, lust masking the impact of your head against the wall. hungry, starved, violent, he kissed you, hands on your waist, gripping hard as they moved down to your ass, squeezing, grabbing. fast, messy, sinful, his hands under your ass, he lifted you up against the wall.
it would have taken more than the jaws of life to pull the two of you apart. it was fast paced, like the both of you were in some sort of vicious caged battle, your arms around his neck, fingers curled right into his hair. you’d never been kissed or touched like this before. you were moaning from just the kiss and he swore the god he’d never been harder in his life. neither of you could wait, there was no time to just kiss, you weren’t teenagers, you weren’t patient or naive or curious, you were demanding, grabbing at each other like a lifeline.
he stepped off the wall, carrying you the best he could, too distracted to actually know which way his room was. he could have you on the couch, he was impatient, so were you. he let your feet down, your hands desperately clutching his shirt, pulling him down the hall as you kissed nonstop, breaking only for small breaths and for your shirts being stripped as you walked backward. his big hands cupped your face, pressing you against both sides of the hallway while your hands fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats. there was no time for any of this.
it was animalistic. it was the basic need, it was desperate. you crashed into his closed door and patrick swore to god he’d destroy anything in the way of him fucking you right now. he would have either kicked his door in or fucked you against it, no problem, but you reached behind you and opened his door so he didn’t have to do either of those things. he was blinded by lust, your hand down the front of his boxers within seconds of being in his room. you crashed backward onto his bed, crawling over him in your skirt, your hand stroking him up and down, but he had no need for it.
in seconds you were flipped onto your back and you were working together to kick your skirt and underwear off, gone to the same abyss his pants and boxers went. you were too young, patrick reminded himself as your bra came off. too young for him, too young, to pretty, too perfect to be fucked so hard by him. but he had you and there was no stopping him. it was a mistake, it was wrong, but there was nothing in his way as your hand slid down over his chest, following the trail of hair. he kissed your neck enough to make you cry out as his teeth followed his lips, leaving what would be nasty marks by morning.
your legs open, ready for him, he didn’t waste a single fucking second more, grabbing your hips and fucking into you. you swore to god you felt stars with how hard his first thrust was. he filled you to the brim, you weren’t sure you had any more space of all of him inside of you. you felt him stretch you out from the inside and you had no time to adjust to just how huge he was as he was instantly pounding into you. “good girl, taking all of it so perfectly,” he groaned. your nails were already in his back, desperately grabbing for something. your moans were loud and fucking pornographic. he wouldn’t have thought something like that could come from your pretty mouth. he wasn’t very considerate for your young, tight pussy as he thrusted into it with a violence only seen in the most gruesome of acts. he’d wanted to fuck women before, but he’d never needed to fuck someone so badly in his entire life. and it showed with the sheer force of which he fucked you. “you feel so fucking good.” he assured you with a decency that was not genuine whatsoever. it came from a place that disgusted even himself. you were only twenty…
“oh my god!” you exclaimed. you were sure he was actively bruising your cervix. it hurt so fucking badly but it felt too good for you to care. you saw stars, they spun and danced as your pleasure took over your entire body, legs wrapped around him, shaking already from the impact. skin on skin, loud as you both were, groaning, moaning, dirty little strings of words slipping from his mouth as he fucked you. “fuck me, fuck me- fuck!” you couldn’t help the noises you made, pathetic, reduced to just a moaning mess and a puddle of a girl who had only thought this was a violent crush.
“so wet for me, you wanted this so fucking bad, hm?” he taunted, evil grin on his face.
“uh-huh,” you sighed, hardly able to say the words. “s-so-“ you knew you had something to say but it was gone, erased repeatedly with every thrust into you. you’d have a witty response if it wasn’t for how good and all-consuming this was. “god-“
he fucked you with all of his pent up frustration, his hand sliding up the soft skin of your neck, pressing just gently, but enough. you were moaning loudly, the headboard hit the wall hard, and that hand on your neck moved to shove his fingers in your mouth. it was enough to make you into something even less, taking them in your mouth like you should. “so good for me, so pretty- fuck-“ he groaned, strong thrusts not faltering for a second. “this what you wanted?”
“m-mhm,” you said, pretty lips closed around his fingers, struggling to feel so much at once.
“so fucking perfect, guys your age fuck you this good?”
“god- fuck- no,” you moaned. he took his fingers away. he lifted your leg up, fucking into you with a new angle that spread goosebumps all down your skin. you were being fucked dumb- you were sure that you were forgetting your own name actively. losing yourself in this. patrick had never fucked anyone so hard in his life, feeling himself reach the furthest point inside of you over and over and over. “patrick-“
his name moaned from you gave him new momentum and you couldn’t help the constant warm rushes that ran over your body like pulses, like waves on a shore. your body was a solar system of exploding stars. the hands that travelled your body were sure to leave bruises on you by later… harsh and strong and not letting go, fingers in your flesh. it was only fair, your nails dug into his back, he was probably bleeding. “gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he said, grinning over his own groans. if he’d been anyone else the question would have been stupid, sex is never that good, but this was. no clitoral stimulation needed he was hitting every right spot in the right way. you felt it like a knot coming undone, like all the stars that were exploding were both imploding and exploding rapidly, like a blinking threat for the collapse of a universe. dramatic, an imperfect display and an unfair comparison but so fucking needed. you nodded hard, mouth open, breathing hard, kissing him when you could. it was messy, uncalculated, but so fucking perfect.
out of desperation, you lifted your hips the best you could to meet his harsh thrusts. needing to finish, needing this more than you’ve ever needed anything. you couldn’t help the grin that spread up your face, even in the heat of things. you won. he caved, you won. and he couldn’t fuck this smile off your face. you only held it as long as you cut put off finishing, the friction, the feeling building up to crash around you. it was full-body, felt entirely. your nails dug into him harder and he waited just another moment to spill into you. you felt it hot between your legs as he continued to pump in and out of you, so much cum that it seeped out before he could pull out. he didn’t think about anything but you, how wrapped up he was in this, how fucked he was. he’d lost to a pretty twenty year old. as if this was some sick game. you’d both gotten what you wanted, but the cost was greater.
it was the hardest orgasm you both had ever felt, both of your ears ringing, breathing heavily, feeling all of it. to the greatest extent possible. he pulled out and collapsed beside you, his back stinging as it hit the bed. your smile returned as you tried to catch your breath, the stars dancing out of sight slowly. “oh, i’m fucked,” patrick breathed, hand falling onto his chest.
you laughed breathily, “other way around.”
he chuckled over his harsh breathing, chest rising and falling deeply. he rubbed his face, but it couldn’t erase the fact he had sex with a controversially young woman. what was worse? the fact he had needed to fuck her so badly or the fact he didn’t feel any better about it afterward? or the surprise third thing that was the urge to keep you close?
“okay, listen-“ he said, propping himself up on his elbow turning your way, but you grabbed him by the jaw and pulled him into another kiss. a second kiss, with a different meaning than the first one. it was still hard to breathe but he didn’t mind, grin spreading up his face, a little sly, dimple showing. he felt a little less ashamed with this kiss in the way. it was different. oh he was soooo much more than fucked now.
taglist: @kaaaiiaaa @swetearss @xoxog0ssipg1rl @lalalandofive
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captainreecejames · 6 months ago
Text
Just Friends || MV1 Oneshot
part of the my ex is a footballer series [masterlist] [my ex series masterlist] [max smau]
pairings max verstappen x reader with some ex!ben chilwell x reader in the smau part, danielle campbell is the faceclaim but reader is not described in this part so imagine however
word count 5.2k
warnings talks about depression, injuries and blood dealing with hands, hospitals and medical stuff, mentions of jos verstappen, cursing, angst and fluff, not proofread so probably shitty writing and mistakes
notes this took longer than I initially imagined because i was stuck on how to get it started, but after a good nights sleep and words of encouragement from @coff33andb00ks I got this puppy started. This fic includes Adrian Newey as the point red bull person so I could avoid horner and max as an almost dog dad because I'm a dog person. It starts in the middle of the 2022 season and goes through the 2023 season. If there is enough interest, I might continue to write these two together because I really enjoyed it and there is more to explore.
songs to listen to while reading you're losing me-taylor swift / so long, london-taylor swift / same mistakes-one direction / lose you to love me-selena gomez
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You met Max on accident, according to you. When you talked to your father about it years later, you would learn it was no accident. 
><
He was golfing with Adrian Newey and more coworkers but had forgotten his wallet, so he asked you to drop it off.
Now you knew he worked at Red Bull, so really it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you would eventually meet Max Verstappen, but you walked into the country club expecting to meet some older man, not the reigning Formula 1 world champion. 
How'd Max know who to approach? Your father had shown him a picture of you so he would know who to look for. While you were searching the lobby, Max had come up to you, saying your name.
You had plenty of experience meeting famous people, even one’s who knew your name before meeting (perks of dating a football star) but it was still a shock. 
The meeting consisted of shy words and you fumbling around your bag for your father’s wallet and that’s it. No matter how much experience you had with famous athletes, it would still be weird meeting them. You wouldn’t see Max again for a few weeks, he was busy with races and staying in Monaco.
The next time would be at the base, once again you were dropping something off for your dad. This time it was lunch that he just insisted he needed, not whatever was being served in the cafe that day. 
You stood in the lobby, waiting for your father to get out of a meeting, admiring the trophies on display when Max came up to you. 
He will argue in the future that you admiring his trophies made him interested, and that he wasn’t over a little bragging if it got the attention of a pretty girl. That argument ignores the scheming that your father and Adrian had done, from complaining about your lack of interest in the sport to complaining about you needing to get out more. (Your lack of interest in the sport wasn’t true, just that you preferred Ferrari over the local team.)
So with the subliminal messaging from your father, Max was interested in you.
“I thought you didn’t really like the sport,” he said coming to stand at your side. 
You jumped slightly, not expecting anyone to approach you. “Why would you think that?”
“Your father.” You turn to him with a confused face and Max decided to clarify. “He talks about you a lot.”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t listen to half of what he says.”
“Really? Even when he talks about the chassis?” His words are teasing and you think he’s flirting with you.
“Maybe that you can listen to.” You shrug, turning back to the cabinet. “He’s really just jealous that I prefer Ferrari.” 
Of fucking course, the Italian team. “A fan of Leclerc?” You can hear the bitterness in his voice and it shocks you a little how quickly he changes his mood.
“He’s okay,” you shrug again. Max thinks that your nonchalantness is annoying, why can’t you just admit you find Charles hot and move on.
(Hidden in the stairwell, Adrian and your father are a little nervous. They can tell that this isn’t going as well as hoped.)
“Schumacher has been my favorite, but I think of the current drivers its Vettel.” Now Max realizes that the two of you are standing in front of Sebastian’s 2010 championship trophy, and he feels a little embarrassed he didn’t realize sooner. “I’m a little bitter he didn’t win the championship with Ferrari.”
There are more “chance” meetings, but the conversation flows much easier now. Like the dinner at Adrian Newey’s house and after, when he has to give you a ride back to your new place because your parents don’t want to leave yet. Or the time when it’s suggested that you give him a ride to Luton airport because it’s on your way to London. Or even the holiday party at the end of the year where he has to give you a ride again because you’re tipsy and shouldn’t drive. 
It’s the airport drive when you both realize that you’re being set up by Adrian and your father, which causes a lot of awkwardness between the both of you during your goodbyes.
You go back home a few days later and scold your father for the set up. You don’t need another relationship right now, you tell him. He says he knows, but Max makes you happy in a way he hasn’t seen in years and that makes him happy. Your mother reminds him that you need to be happy without a man first and he says he’ll give up the endeavors to push you on to Max. If Adrian happens to come up with any more ideas that's not his fault, the man is a genius afterall.
The holiday party is more of an accident than anything, your father and mother leave much earlier than you, and so you are stuck with Max to drive you home.
He complained about the hotel he was staying at, so you offer him some time in your apartment to get away from fancy places and he takes you up on it. And now that you're home, it does’t seem like a bad idea to have another drink, just to take the edge off of having Max in your place. 
“Would you like another drink?” you offer while making your own gin and tonic. He stares around at the quiet kitchen, taking in the place that feels very you. “Or perhaps some tea?” He shakes his head no, eyes catching a picture of you hugging Ben. It’s an old picture, from when Leicester City won the league and you’ve only recently dug it out of the box it was sitting in. 
“I thought you were single,” he says, picking up the picture to examine it closer.
“I am,” you answer, turning around from the counter to look at him. You’re about to ask him where the question came from when you see what’s in his hands. “That’s from 2016, when Leicester City won the league.” Max nods like he understands, but he doesn’t.
“Who’s this?” he points to Ben.
“Ben Chilwell.” Maybe if you’re just vague enough, he’ll drop it. He doesn’t.
“Okay,” he draws it out. “Who is he to you?”
Not much of anything anymore, is what you want to say. You settle for something vague again. “A friend.”
“Looks like more than a friend.” Is Max trying to provoke you or something? He can tell you’re growing frustrated with him and it makes him feel guilty. “Sorry, I just, don’t know much about your life before here.”
You sigh, deciding that alcohol probably isn’t the best drink for now. You move to the kettle next to the stove, opting for tea to help calm you down. 
“Ben and I dated until a couple months ago, I moved back home right after we broke up.” He nods along with your story and you continue the tea making process. “Ben and I were childhood sweethearts, together since we were like 14 years old. So that makes,” it takes you a minute to do the math in your head, “12 years together.” You don’t turn to see what Max’s face looks like. A lot of people during your relationship with Ben were in awe of how long you were together, but there were some who thought it was silly and childish. Who stayed with someone they were dating since 14? (Apparently not you.)
You thought it was romantic up until a few months before the break up. Childhood sweethearts, best friends to lovers, boy next door, all tropes you loved in books and you were living it in real life! Until it wasn’t. Until you moved in the middle of a pandemic to a new city with no support system and became depressed. Until Ben needed support you and you couldn’t make yourself see that giving him everything was leaving you with nothing. 
It took an intervention from your parents to see that you were depressed, and an offhand comment about marriage from Ben to see that the relationship wouldn’t go anywhere new.
“What happened?”
“He didn’t want to marry me.”
><
“I’m just not sure I’m want to marry her, yet,” Ben says to the group. There’s a pause before he says yet, like someone made a face and he’s trying to placate them.
What the fuck? you want to ask. You want to scream it, really, because what the fuck does he mean by that? You’ve been together for over ten years, he’s said since Leicester that he only wants you, for the rest of his life. And now... now he doesn’t know? How the fuck do you not know? How can he not know? It makes you angry, the most emotion you’ve felt in probably months and it’s anger at your boyfriend.
Your grip on your glass is tightening, turning your knuckles white with the force and you worry the glass will shatter in your hand.
It does, but you don’t feel it. You don’t hear the glass shattering in your hand or on the floor, don't feel the splash of ice, gin, and tonic on your legs.
What you feel is something akin to clarity, because you’ve been living in a fog for months, probably the two years you’ve been in London and now you know how Ben feels. If he doesn’t want to marry you now, he probably won’t ever want it.
It takes your friend coming over and putting a hand on your shoulder for you to realize that something is physically wrong. That your hand is bleeding from glass cuts and you’re standing in a puddle of water and alcohol and some blood.
Emma says your name a little louder to grab your attention and now people are staring at you, wondering what’s caused the glass to shatter in your hand. She ignores them, pulling you across the room so she can take care of you.
Unfortunately, the glass is too deep and you have to be taken to an emergency room, where the nurses and doctors fuss over your hand. They ask you questions about how it happened, you explain that a glass shattered in your hands. They're suspicion is eased when Emma corroborates your story. It's soon after that you're allowed to go home.
All this time, Ben hasn’t come running into the room desperate to find you, and that reminds you why you’re here in the first place. Because Ben isn’t sure he wants to marry you.
><
“That’s how you got the scars on your hand?” Max is gentle when he takes your hand in his, holding it so delicately like you might break. You nod, but don’t pull away from him. His touch is soft and it makes you feel something you haven’t felt in a while. His hand turns so you can see the own scar on his hand. “I got this one from Jimmy, my cat.” He lets you run a finger over the scratch on the back of his hand. You run your hand over it one more time and Max get’s goosebumps from your touch.
You look up at him from your hands, your eyes roaming his face and seeing how sincere he is. It makes you nervous. 
You pull your hands back, stepping away to grab a mug for your tea and busy your hands with something besides his own.
Max can see you close off on him, but the story isn’t over yet. “What happened after the hospital?”
><
“Are you going to tell me why this happened?” Emma asks finally, walking with you out of the ED. She’s stayed the whole time, occasionally popping out to call your other friends and update them on the situation. 
It’s on the tip of your tongue to tell her, but you know what she’ll say: 'break up with him already, it’s not going anywhere and you’re obviously hurting over this. '
It’s not what you want to hear, you love Ben so much because you’ve always loved him, he’s all you’ve ever known and it used to be so good, so you know it can go back to being good.
It has to. You need it to. 
So you try to laugh it off, say that your grip is much stronger than you thought and that there must have been a hairline fracture in the glass.
But Emma doesn’t buy it. She lets you try to joke your way out of this, lets you laugh uncomfortably as she stares at you, and then pulls you to a halt at the corner. Your uneasy smile falls and you sigh. You know better than to try and hide this from her. 
“Ben said something,” it’s a whisper, like the quieter you say it makes it hurt less. She waits for you to continue, knowing that you’ll explain if she doesn’t push too hard. You take a deep breath, hoping that the air will do something, anything to make it easier to say out loud. “He’s not sure if he wants to marry me.” You hold the pause like he did, adding the yet in a pointed tone. With how much Ben has hurt you, you still want to spare him the criticism. You love him.
Emma immediately goes off, like you know she would, so you tune it out. It’s nothing you haven’t heard in the last year. 
The traffic light turns green, and you begin your walk back to the carpark, looking around the spaces to find your friend's car.
“YN!” another voice shouts. It’s Ben. 
He’s jogging to you across the lot, eyes a little wide like he’s been panicking for a while. “Why didn’t you grab me before leaving?” He means to direct the question to Emma, but he’s looking at you and you feel like he’s blaming you. “I was looking for you across the house until someone finally told me that you left for the emergency department. I was worried sick.” He looks it, you think. He does care. He wouldn’t look like that if he didn’t care. “You weren’t answering your phone, and-“ he cuts himself off as he stares at your hand. “What the hell happened?”
Oh- he doesn’t know. 
“She heard you,” Emma answers. You want to stop her, explain for yourself so you can just go home and sleep.
“What?” Ben asks, confusion across his face for a second before he realizes. You heard him. You heard him. “You weren’t meant to hear that.”
That’s his excuse?
“That’s your excuse?” Emma takes the words from of your mouth, but not the anger from your body, you clench your bandaged hand, wincing when it pulls at the stitches. Ben is still looking at you, but you’re unable to read him. “She wasn’t meant to fucking hear that?” Her voice is shrill and it grates on you because of a headache, but you know she means well. “You know what, fuck you Ben Chilwell! Go fucking rot in ditch!” With that she pulls you away from him, rushing the two of you towards her car so she can drive you to her home.
><
“That’s his excuse?” Max’s tone is just like Emma’s on that night and still you want to defend Ben. Your relationship is long over with the footballer, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love him. 
“I was a mess then,” you tell him, pouring your water into the cup, “I wouldn’t want to marry me either.”
“But he loved you, and you don’t say something like that about someone you love.” Max looks angry next to you, and that scares you even more. Not because of his anger, but because he clearly cares so much and you’re not sure if you deserve it. 
“Listen to me,” Max grabs your arms, pulling you to face him in your small kitchen. “Friends, boyfriends, people who love you-“ (Do his hands squeeze you harder on friends or boyfriends?) “They don’t talk about you like that behind your back. And also they notice when you’re gone, when you’re hurt, when you aren’t’ yourself.”
“But he was also hurting,” there are tears in your eyes from his words because you believe them, but also you still love Ben.
“And so were you, clearly. Yet you could tell something was wrong with him and he couldn’t see it in you?” Max has known you for only a few months, and has spent even less time physically with you, but he sees you and the way your brain works so clearly and that’s really scary. He must see something in your eyes because then he backs off, taking a step away to put distance between your bodies and space to breathe.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to get so intense.” You shake your head, trying to put away the thoughts of his beautiful blue eyes staring into your own. “Just sometimes, I really want people to know that they deserve better.”
“No, it’s okay.” You pull the tea bag out of the water, looking down for the tiny plate to leave it on. “You’re not the first person to say that to me and you probably won’t be the last.” He nods, watching you spoon sugar into the tea. “But thank you for saying that, sometimes," you pause, "sometimes, it’s good to be reminded.”
><
Your friendship grows from there, but it doesn’t evolve into anything romantic. You’re clearly still healing from Ben and no matter how much he thinks about you while he’s in Monaco or off at a race, you need time.
So instead your flat becomes his base when he’s needed at the factory. He can leave clothes and toiletries at your place without worry, he can sneak a nice home cooked meal from you or your parents when he’s there, and he doesn’t have to deal with shitty hotel mattresses. (Even though it’s a Five Star hotel.)
He meets your friends when a girls night overlaps with some sim testing. They really like him and can see that his awkward charm has pulled you in.
You meet Danny Ric at the beginning of the 2023 season, when Red Bull decides to make him their reserve driver, and the two of you are like two peas in a pod. (On the plane back to Monaco Danny asks him when he’s finally going to ask you out.)
(Max shakes his head and tells him that you two are just friends, because that’s what you need. Just friends.)
Max invites you to the Monaco Grand Prix, but you decline, not interested in the media scrutiny that comes with that particular race. You say yes to the Spanish Grand Prix in Barcelona, but after he peaks at the invite list he tells you it’s probably not the best idea. You agree with him when you finally get him to tell you why you're uninvited. The Silverstone Grand Prix is during a girls trip, and with how busy it gets, you both drop the subject for a while. 
When Max clinches his third championship in Qatar you finally decide that you need to go to a race. The next one is in Texas, but it doesn’t work with your schedule so you get the passes for Mexico.
><
The Mexican Grand Prix is the perfect race to join. It’s Checo’s home race, so the focus is on him instead of Max. You stand to the back of the garage, hiding from view on Friday and Saturday. Occasionally you’ll talk with some engineers you’ve met before or share a few minutes with Adrian, but most of the time is in hiding Max’s drivers room with him. 
Most of Sunday is spent talking with the stars in the garage, explaining why you’re here and how you know people. You avoid any interviews with Sky Sports, knowing that somehow they’ll bring up Ben and Chelsea’s current run of form, something that you just can’t deal with. 
So you stay in the back of the garage, celebrate the podium in the back of the crowd and don’t wait up for Max to finish media duties, instead heading back to the hotel. It hurts to hide yourself away, you want to be the first to congratulate him on a win, or comfort him after a loss. But it’s for the best, you try convince yourself. You're just friends.
Max isn’t bitter about the decision at all. Being noticed at this race is a beacon to all fans that you are something to someone, and no matter how much he maybe wants that to be true, you’re just friends. Besides you have dinner with him and a few of the drivers and their own significant others, so really what more could he ask for?
After the season is over he’s back in Milton Keynes to finish up some things before heading out to start his holidays. Most of them will be spent with his family in Belgium or in Monaco, so he is determined to at least spend a day with you before leaving. He wasn’t planning on it being at a dog shelter.
><
“I think I want a dog,” you had told him while in Mexico. You’d spent a year alone in the flat (not counting Max practically moving in when he was needed at HQ) and things were too quiet for you. 
“Okay.” You were relaxing in his driver’s room before Free Practice 2. You’re both on the couch, him with an iPad going over some data and you with your feet up on his lap researching shelters on your phone. The domesticity of it all was frustrating.
“Are you allergic to dogs?” you ask. You know about Jimmy and Sassy back in Monaco, and he really doesn’t seem like dog person at all, but his opinion on this matters to you. His opinion on the most mundane and trivial things now matter to you. He doesn’t pay rent and so he doesn’t get the final say on anything, but if it makes life easier in Milton Keynes, you want to know what he thinks.
“No, I just prefer cats.” You nod, scrolling through the shelter’s website, looking at dogs and trying to decide which one looks like it needs love the most. “Lewis knows a lot about dogs, you can ask him about it.” It’s hard to get the sentence out, because Lewis having a say in something about your life just isn’t right. 
You shake your head no. “Lewis Hamilton doesn’t sleep in my spare bedroom.” It’s the same argument you make every time you suggest changing something in flat, and while it annoys him that you won’t take any money to pay for small stuff, it still makes him smile. 
“What do you think about this one?” you show him a picture of a Jack Russell Terrier, coincidentally named George. 
“If you get him you need to change his name.”
“Why?” You ask in fake offense. “I think he looks very much like a George.” But you move on anyway, terriers are too active for your lifestyle, you wouldn’t be able to give him the love he deserves. 
You keep on scrolling, feet still in his lap, him still looking through his iPad. You gasp suddenly, pushing yourself up and moving your legs so you can sit on them, much closer to Max. “Look!” you shove your screen in his face. “They just rescued a corgi with puppies! I love corgis!” He can see the excitement in your face and knows that he won’t ever say no to you if you look like that again. 
You pull your phone back, reading through the description quickly. “We are keeping Mama and puppies together for a few weeks to ensure health, puppies will be available for adoption in December. Please register interest.” You're pulling out your laptop to send an email when you're done.
Later that night, when you’re trying to sleep you admire how he let you rant about this dog that you’re getting. You love how he always indulges you on topics about your flat; you love that he’ll watch a shitty tv show with you and listen to you rant about the characters. You love that when you ask him questions about racing he answers with so much sincerity and interest that you can’t help but want to know more. You love so much about him that you think you might love him. 
No, you know you love him.
><
That’s how you got here, with Max at a shelter picking up a tiny corgi. Max has been carrying the collar and leash and necessary paperwork as you play with the small dog, contagious laughter falling from your lips.
“Think I should name him Charles, what do you think?” You look up from the ground, eyes so bright and happy. The smile on your face is teasing, but he misses the name because it hits him.
He’s in love with you.
He’s unable to answer you with his sudden realization, because the only words he can think of are “I love you” or long strings of curse words. 
You think he doesn’t like your joke and try to back track right away. “I’m kidding, obviously. I’m not gonna name him Charles.” Still Max only stares. “Is everything okay?” You stand up, still holding the puppy in your hands. “I promise I’m not going to name him Charles, but I’m sorry for the joke.” The puppy barks in your arms, snapping Max out of his trance. “What do you need, little one?” You ask the dog, momentarily forgetting Max’s presence. That’s what he needs, just a few seconds of you not looking at him to get his thoughts in line. He can’t be in love with you, because you don’t need a boyfriend. Just friends. 
Except he can be in love with you. Because you make him smile all the time, because you offered your spare bedroom to him so he didn’t have to deal with a shitty hotel mattress, because you send him pictures of cats you meet on the street, and let him over explain when you have questions about races. You deal with his mood swings when Jos contacts him. (It’s more than just dealing. You comfort and distract and do anything he needs.)
And maybe you do need just a friend still, but he can still love you.
It takes 20 minutes for you to finish up the paperwork for the shelter, which Max spends playing with the dog and he decides maybe he could be a your dog person. 
The ride back to your place is short, your minds replaying the same moment when you asked him what you should name the little puppy sleeping in the back. You feel bad, like you've insulted him; he’s trying to come up with a way to tell you what he’s realized.
Nothing happens that night, and nothing happens when he leaves for Monaco the next morning. 
Texts between the two of you comprise of pictures of Denny the corgi, Jimmy and Sassy the cats, and updates on how people liked their presents. It feels off, but you have no idea how to make it feel right.
On December 30th, you plan to catch your flight to Nice, but your father gets into an accident and you can’t leave your mom to deal with everything on your own. You say sorry to Max repeatedly, tell him to wish everyone there a Happy New Year and focus back on the quiet life with Denny. 
On December 31st, you wake up to the smell of coffee and toast. It’s alarming because no one else is here, so why does it smell like breakfast?
You push open the door cautiously, forgetting for a moment that Denny is there, so he sneaks out the tiny crack. “Denny! No!” you whisper-shout, hurrying after the little guy, all regard for your own safety lost. You find him in the arms of Max, licking his face and wiggling his butt with untamed excitement. “Max?”
“Hi, schatje.” His smile is almost enough to distract you from the fact that he is here. You approach the two slowly, grabbing Denny from his arms to put him down. 
“What are you doing here?” Denny paws at you, reminding you that he needs to go out and do his business. 
Max ignores your question, instead pushing a mug of coffee into your hands. “Take this, I’ll take Denny outside.” He grabs Denny from the floor again, making his way to the front where you have his leash hanging up. “Be right back, schatje.” You can only nod at him, watching the two walk out of the front door.
They’re back in two minutes, enough time for you to put out Denny’s breakfast and drink some of your coffee in peace, trying to wrap your mind around the fact that Max is here. The door opens and Denny comes rushing in, Max close behind. He hangs up the leash with his keys, then turns back to you with a smile.
Max takes his own mug, leaning his back against the counter to watch you. “Why are you here?” you ask again. 
“You said you couldn’t come to Monaco for New Year’s, so I thought I’d come here.” He says it so casually it irritates you. “Plus, I can take some work off of you or your mom when dealing with your Dad.”
Oh, he’s being sweet. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, but I want to help someone I love.” He says that so casually it catches you off guard. Thank god you didn’t have anything in your mouth or you would have definitely spit it out.
He smirks over his cup, watching you splutter for an answer to his simple confession. “You… you love me?” He nods then puts his mug down. A few steps over to you and he grabs the one in your hands, putting that down next to his own. With his other hand he moves to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. You want to ask what he’s doing, try to stop this before it can even start, but Max is determined. (You’re grateful for that.)
There’s almost no space left between the two of you, just enough really for him to be able to look at your face while he asks if this is okay. A gulp, a breath, and a nod later he’s dipping his head down to yours, closing the distance, and kissing you. 
Your eyes close instantly. Your hands travel to their own accord, reaching up to lock around his neck and keep him close. Your ears ring for some odd reason and your nose can only smell coffee. You can taste red bull on his lips and you wonder how long he's been up.
The kiss is soft and slow and over before you really have a chance to appreciate it.
You open your eyes to see him, his lips spread in a wide smile that has you blushing. “Been waiting to do that for a while.” That has you blush even deeper, but he doesn’t let you dip your head to hide it. “Seriously, schatje. I love you.”
“I love you too.” It’s a whisper, but he doesn’t miss it with how close you are. But even if he had missed it, you’ll say it so many more times in the future that people get sick of it.
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iamred-iamyellow · 6 months ago
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⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚ Encontrar tu media naranja
♥ pairing: lando norris x latina!fem!singer!reader
♥ synopsis: during one of your concerts a fan threw their phone up on stage. after you finished recording a video, you tried tossing it back to them and ended up accidentally hitting a world famous f1 driver in the face
♥ smau - none of the pictures are mine - face claim: alexa demie
♥ warnings: swearing, blood, accidental violence lol !!!
♥ a/n: if I had a nickel for every time I wrote a fanfic about finding love by getting hit in the face with object I'd have two nickels. which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice. + ignore spelling errors in my Spanish please some of it autocorrected lol
♥ masterlist
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You turned your back towards the crowd as people cheered. You raised the phone in your hand up high to get as many people in the video as possible. After you ended the recording, you clicked the phone off and tried tossing it back to the original fan that threw it on stage.
There was an audible gasp from the crowd around the barricades as the phone hit a man's face. You covered your gaping mouth with your hand as you realized what you'd just done.
Your jaw was still dropped as you tried to speak.
"¿Estás bien?" you questioned.
(are you okay?)
You panicked internally as you tried to think of what to do.
"Can we get him some help?" you said, turning your gaze towards a few security guards.
"Todo el mundo por favor retroceda."
(everyone please stand back)
Security walked the man and his party out of the stadium rendering you absolutely speechless.
"Uhm," you said into the mic. "Did you get your phone back?" you asked the initial fan with an embarrassed expression.
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landonorris aftermath
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yourusername IM SO SORRY I HOPE YOU'RE DOING OK
user6 HOW HARD DID SHE THROW THAT PHONE 😭😭😭
user9 miss girl can THROWWW
user1 y/n l/n baseball career when?
user7 girl needs to be pitching for the red sox, fuck 😭
user5 I feel so bad for laughing so hard
user10 the piss poor bandages on his nose-
user4 why is there so much blood holy shit
user12 didn't know Lando was a fan of her
user14 pretty sure Carlos dragged him to her concert lol
user2 not his friends laughing at him 💀
user18 someone drop the video
user16 is he okay?!?!
user17 meet cute 😍
user1 WHY IS THIS IS SO FUNNY
˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖
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˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖
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˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖
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˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖
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yourusername safe to say he forgave me
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user7 STUNNER
user1 you can throw a phone at my face any time 🤷‍♀️
user6 LANDO NOWINS NO MORE
user9 I will never get over this 😭
user18 it was just an inchident
user16 wait she wasn't wearing that while she was there??
user19 pretty sure that was a pic of her at whatever after parties they went to lol
user14 Florida nights are cold as fuck
user4 do you think Carlos is jealous of all the attention Lando is getting from her
user2 the poly fics write themselves
user10 oh my god YESSS!!!
user50 why does f1 invite celebrities that know nothing about the sport???
user12 not her wearing landos merch
user3 im sure he made her wear it lmaoo
user5 LANDO'S FIRST WIN
user17 P1 LETS FUCKING GO
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-A Few Months Later-
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yourusername @ landonorris
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carlossainz55 and this was the same guy who was complaining about going to her concert a few months ago
landonorris if I remember correctly that concert ended pretty badly for me
user12 you got a girlfriend out of it I’d call that a win
user40 @/user12 they're not dating ???
user10 find someone who smiles at you the way they smile at each other
user9 they’re so cute
user3 don’t be shy drop the picture(s) he took of her
user7 I need him I fear
user8 📱👃
user1 hes so cute
user13 just date already
user15 you're so pretty
user17 I will literally never forget her breaking his nose lmaooo
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yourusername my new single "encontrar tu media naranja" is out now 🧡
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user8 ok but why does the guy in the music video look like lando...
user7 oh my god
user13 I see the vision
user9 YOURE ONTO SOMETHING
user1 Kali Uchis collab when?
user12 literally begging for a song with her, kali, and peso pluma
user3 orange sodas >>>
user24 📱👃
user11 this song is so good 🧡
user18 who's the guy in the mv???
user19 shes gorgeous
user17 I love her
user25 wait this is the singer that broke lando's nose
user5 🧡🧡🧡
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yourusername encontré a mi otra mitad
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landonorris te amo querida 🧡
yourusername 🧡
user5 bro's adorable
user2 encontrar tu media naranja? more like econtrar tu media papaya
user1 that's an interesting angle
user9 Lando still doesn't know how to make a heart with his hands lmao 😭
user7 I FUCKING KNEW IT !!!
user11 YESSS
user14 and now they're married with five kids
user18 mom and dad
carlossainz55 formally known as lando "who's y/n?"Norris
landonorris ive grown since then
user12 fuck Romeo and Juliet I want what they have
user6 so the song WAS about lando
user8 and it all started with a phone 📱
user10 I'm tearing up
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venusbby · 2 years ago
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characters/pairings: itoshi sae x reader
warnings: fluff. the reader is an avid reader lmao so funny. sort of clingy sae? annoyed sae? just sae. maybe ooc too but idrc.
note: self indulgent because i've been reading this one book nonstop for the past week and can't think of anything else. wondered how sae would act with a reader who likes to read a lot like me lol this is lowkey bad forgive me sorry for typos
🌊 summary: sae starts to get annoyed because you won't stop reading your book. (and also because you won't give him your attention, but that's a secret— that isn't as well kept as he thinks it is.)
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"y/n," sae muttered. he watched you with a glare, noticing how you had heard him clearly yet still ignored him, continuing to smile to yourself with your bottom lip between your teeth. he rolled his eyes, trying again, this time resting his hand on your thigh. his fingers impatiently tapping against the soft skin.
"y/n."
no response. you even giggled as you read the lines in that book you had been attached to all day long. that little 600 page romance book that entertained you so much more than he could— what the hell was it even about?
sae knew you loved books. you visited the library nearby almost every week, and he couldn't even decide if it was because the lady there was so nice to you or because you wanted to get away from him. there was no way he was that boring, right?
it was always sae who accepted all your amazon packages for the books that hadn't yet arrived in the library— and although the sight of your excited smile when he told you it was finally here was something, he never understood the hype at all.
why would he, when his sport was his all-time focus? books weren't ever as exciting to him as they were to you. so as long as you got any and every book you wanted (he made sure of that) he was alright.
but right now, sae had this urge to hide all your books from you.
especially this one.
because it stole you from him.
sae was annoyed. and he was even more annoyed that he started to think about hiding your books away from you like a madman, because it's fucking embarrassing that he's going borderline insane just because you haven't talked or even looked at him for the past two hours. and he's been in bed next to you this whole time.
he cursed under his breath and subtly thrashed around under the covers like a child who didn't get the toy he wanted. he shifted closer to you in the midst of his little quiet tantrum. "y/n. look at me."
"yeah?"
when you finally looked at him, it was as if he'd found oxygen.
and he hated it even more. why was he like this for you?
but then you went back to that book.
that stupid fucking book. again.
sae was going to cry.
fuck no, he wasn't. he won't. not ever. that's lame. so lame.
whatever. if you liked your book that much, maybe he should find something else to do too, he decided.
he turned around with his back to you and shut his eyes.
and then he heard another sigh. a dreamy one, at that.
"alright, enough. give me that." he jumped up from his sleeping position, grabbing the book from your hands. he didn't even know how to properly hold a book, but he didn't find it in himself to care as he shut it close, a breath of relief escaping from his mouth just as you started to whine.
"sae, no," you struggled, trying to get the book back, but you knew better than to fight against your boyfriend who was glaring at you like that with his lips pressed in a sad, thin line. his hair was still a little damp from the shower he took while you were just into the first 60 pages of the book. he swept his hair back, setting the book beside him, where you couldn't reach— atleast not without getting through him.
"i was almost done," you said slowly, trying your best to explain now that you were out of that world. "i promise, just gimme it now 'n i'll finish the first part in just 20 minutes."
sae scoffed. "fucking no."
he stared at the book placed near his side, literally judging it by its cover. "what's in this that has you giggling so much? some dude?"
you gasped, dramatically. "okay, he is not some dude. he is my husband."
"oi," sae groaned, things still not getting better for him even after that book had been closed and put away from you. "i'm sleeping next to you shirtless, and you've been giggling with your book husband?"
"you're always shirtless, though."
"that doesn't fucking matter." he retorted, huffing and looking to the side, chin up. you pursed your lips, placing a soft hand on his back, and leaning closer to leave a kiss on his shoulder. he always smelled so nice. he shook you off.
"baby, my sweet sae, if you wanted me to stop reading, you could have just said so." you smiled, watching him run another hand through his hair, his fingers pulling on his roots this time.
"first of all, i don't want your attention." he said blankly, finally looking at you. "and second, you ignored me when i said your name. guess you were too busy with your husband."
you laughed quietly, incredibly amused. about an hour ago, you were actually expecting sae to go back to sleep after showering— but for some reason, you were glad he didn't. this new side of him was so adorable that you never wanted it to end.
you sighed, lying back down, urging him to do the same. he listened as you explained, with you on your side facing him. "you know, i love this book a lot."
"i can see that."
so snarky. you resisted the urge to kiss his slightly puffed out cheek.
"it's really romantic. it's about the relationship of this newly married couple, how it develops day by day, and it's so cute. the main guy— my 'husband', is so good to the main character."
sae raised an eyebrow lazily, still opting to look at the ceiling and didn't respond. you weren't going to gain his attention this easily after that.
you went on. "and this guy reminds me of you. like, you guys are similar to an unhealthy extent. and the reason i was so invested in it was because there was a particular scene where things got a little hot."
"so?" he asked, still not convinced.
your cheeks were reddened from embarrassment. "so, whenever he said or did something, i thought of you. and that is why i was giggling."
sae turned to look at you. his eyes looked much more focused on your lips. he had forgotten how much he missed the feeling of kissing you. again, feeling another annoying pang in his heart because seriously, it had just been two hours. he had to stop acting like you'd been away for days.
"so basically you were having sex with 'book me' in your mind."
"oh god, no!"
"that's exactly it."
"you're so wrong."
"shut up, i'm right."
you groaned, covering your face with your palms and closing your eyes. you felt sae's arm slowly trailing around your stomach, him shifting closer until you could feel his breath fanning against your neck. you giggled out of nervousness and embarrassment, both. "that was not what was happening, okay?"
his lips twitched slightly at your state. "you know i'm way better than him."
"...are you, though?" you peeked one eye open, dragging out your words, guilty. fictional men were just different—
"ah, do you need proof?" he said, a smug look on his face as he began hovering over you. your laugh echoed through the room as you smacked his chest playfully, your arms going around his neck to pull him down on top of you.
"i don't need proof, thank you very much." you said softly with another laugh, letting sae rest his head on your chest. "but i wanna make it up to you for ignoring you. im sorry, my sae. i'll be better. you were just really cute."
"don't do it again," he said, staring up at you from his comfortable position. "or else you might have to go back to your 'husband'."
"i won't really mind— wait, baby, don't go! i was joking!"
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taglist: @hyomagiri @yoimyas @beanxiv @hqfeatbetty @shuvvloverrr 🤞🤪
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leclucklerc · 1 year ago
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Hard Carry CL16 - 02. Down Under
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Pairings: Charles Leclerc x driver!reader
Summary: Conflict arises as a hotshot rookie decided that the current world champion is the next opponent to beat.
Word Count: 5.3k
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Y/n l/n is a superstar inside and outside of Formula One.
It's the way she smiles and crinkled eyes. It's the way she handle interviews with pr trained answers and cheeky quips here and there. It's the way that she always dress to impress, catching everyone attention, be it on the grid or even in fashion week.
It's the way she made winning looks so easy. How she made making into the podium is just a regular Sunday for her. How she would gave the spectators a race that can be remembered by them for the rest of their life.
By the time she finished up her first season, people had called her a superstar in the making. Awed by the sheer talent and grit that she seemed to have for the sport. Finishing third in the standings of 2012 Formula One season, people have to admit that they’re entering a new era in Formula One.
When she finished her second season in Formula One, she’s a certified superstar, evident from the driver championship that she had won that year. When she finished her third season in 2014, she became a legend as she won the driver championship for two straight times. 
It’s almost as if everyone forgets all the slurs and bad things that they had called the female just a few years prior. As if, all of the negative press and criticism being directed towards her are nothing but an old news.
Maybe it’s because she finally proven herself that she can conquer the world of motorsport with her talent. Or maybe it’s just because people found more exciting things to talked and shit about. Who knows? Y/n certainly don’t.
Though, that doesn’t mean that the female forgets all the shitty things that happened to her when she first entered Formula One.
“She’s going to fuck half the grid,” said one commentator, ignoring the fact that the female is seventeen years old, and most drivers are in their mid to late twenties. “She’s going to ruin the sport.”
“A fucking barbie,” said another one. “That’s what she is.”
There are more. More things being said that’s downright horrifying and disgusting. She knows that no one cares about her age, that one of the ugly consequences of her entering a male dominated sport as a girl is the sexualization that she will eventually receive. But still, hearing all these things is gross beyond words.
Her sex life seems to be a favorite topic of them. Talks about she’s dating or fucking who, how she is seen talking with one driver and the next day a news station will say that she’s fucking him and ruining his family. Talks about her being a slut who parties too hard and a raging alcoholic for drinking alcohols during her downtime.
As if, her life is nothing, but a trainwreck of a circus show for them to watch and laughed upon.
It was during that horrible first season when y/n realized, that to be a champion you need to be an overall asshole.
A sick and twisted personality of hers that she always kept under her bright smiles and friendly front. It’s more to always have that competitiveness – on the track or off the track. To always have that fire and determination to always be the best. To actually believe and have the confidence to say that yes, I am the best driver in the grid. Yes, I make no mistake.
Be the best or be nothing. Show the world your worth or you will be worthless. The black and white view that you have to be so fucking successful or be nothing at all.
(It took y/n awhile to recognize that.)
The first time she realized it was when she won her first race in China. It was a close race, with her almost hitting a Mercedes and her own teammate. Back then – way too drowned in the euphoria of winning her first race – she doesn’t realize what that means to the people around her. Mainly, to other drivers on the grid.
There are a lot of drivers that came from a different time period. A period where Formula One has a rigid structure and strict unseen rules. For them, who had lives in that time period, y/n arrival and all the changes that she had brought, looks like a threat for them. A challenger who appeared to challenge their authority.
“If you drive that Porsche, anyone can win.”
“I don’t get it, she drives dangerously. She should’ve received a penalty for that.”
“I just don’t understand what the hell FIA is thinking! I know they’re all about diversity and inclusivity lately but-“
Y/n turned off the tv in front of her, face blank.
The phrase ‘never meet your heroes’ rang true inside of her head. Because hearing all of those things from her own childhood heroes is a bit tragic beyond doubt.
After all, these men are the people she had looked up to. They’re the reason why she wants to race in Formula One. They’re the reason why she have such a deep love for motorsport and why she’s trying her hardest to show all of them her capabilities.
Knowing the horrible and degrading things they called her should saddened her.
Though, instead, she doesn’t feel anything.
For a moment, she felt empty, as she sat there inside of her empty hotel room. She could hear chatters from the hallway outside, no doubt from the Porsche team who’s staying in the same floor as her. Besides that, everything felt a bit empty. And silent.
She just sat there, staring at the dark screen of the television in front of her. The euphoria of her earlier win had left without any trace.
Maybe it's because that she had gotten used to it. That these kind of talks is nothing new for her and slowly - but surely - had become a part of their daily life.
But no one deserves to live like this. No one deserves to be judged just because of their gender. No one deserves to have their skills and talent to be dismissed just because they don't have an extra weight between their legs.
Y/n, doesn't deserve this.
And in one second, that empty feeling was replaced by anger.
What right do they have to say things like that?
What right do they have to judge her life and talent like that?
Some never even won a race in their life! Or even get into the podium! Some even drive for shitty teams that have a brick of a car. A mid-tier driver that doesn’t have enough talent for the bigger teams. Now, just because they lost to a girl almost half their age, they think they have the right to talk shit to her?
So fucking funny. It almost made her laugh.
Barbie, slut, whore, the downfall for Formula One.
Barbie, slut, whore, the downfall for Formula One.
Honestly, it was frustrating that there are some older drivers that won’t accept their loss. It was more frustrating to hear all of their declarations that if they were also put inside y/n’s Porsche, they can drive better than her.
All that talks that questioned her ability just because of her age and gender. All of the talks that keep underestimating her over and over again.
Maybe that’s why she turned up like this, to have this kind of twisted and sick personality.
“Y/n,” started Herman as he introduced the young man besides him. She almost get a sense of déjà vu at the image. After all, this happened almost every year. Herman calling her to a meeting room just before the pre-season testing. Herman, introducing her to her newest teammate of the year.
Tall, blond, blue eyes. Probably some kid they picked off of F2 or other racing category randomly. She wonder how long this kid will last. How long, will it take for him to blow his gasket off.
“This is Henry Santos, your newest teammate,” said the older man as he gestured towards the male. He looked around y/n age and got starry eyed as he stared at y/n.
Typical, y/n almost scoffed out. It’s the same routine every year.
Almost immediately, she plastered a smile. It was so wide and so immediate. To the point it’s almost fake. “Hi,” she grinned. “Nice to meet you, I’m y/n l/n.”
Henry also nodded, excitement radiating off of him. “I know,” he said. “I’m a big fan.”
“That’s sweet,” she answered before turning her head towards Herman. “So, team briefing?”
Herman as well as other employee for Porsche immediately ushered them inside one of their meeting room in their motorhome. Talks about plans, the cars, and the upcoming season began as y/n listened to it attentively.
The same thing could be said to Henry as the kid could be seen writing a lot of things on his notebook, from his gaze, she could see how serious he is.
It’s the same look that she sees every year.
Kids being picked by Porsche for the position of their second seat. Kids, who was hoping to be able to stay in Porsche – one of Formula One top team, contenders for the championship – for more than one year.
Kids, who salivated at the thought of taking y/n’s seat.
She always blame her horrible experiences in the grid for this twisted personality of her. This kind of competitiveness, the urgency to always see as if they’re her rivals. The ability to unable see anyone as anything but competitors for her seat as uncertainty eats up her heart and whispered words that made her doubt everyone.
Sometimes, she felt a bit guilty, considering a lot of these kids, when they first entered Porsche, are good kids. Someone that just want to left their marks in Formula One.
But everyone wants to leave their marks in Formula One.
Everyone, wants to be the world champion.
Y/n included.
With three world titles under her name, it only made her hungrier for the title of the world champion. Some called her greedy, some called her over ambitious, but y/n thinks that’s just normal. When you taste the taste of winning once, there’s no going back. She's sure that Lewis and Sebastian shared the same feeling.
After that high of being the world champion, there is no way they want to lose it. The taste of winning is addicting after all. It's a dangerous drug to every driver. Once you taste it, you will always want more.
The same thing could be said for her teammates for the past few years.
If you’re in a Porsche, you will be part of the top team. You will fight for wins and podiums. It’s hard, to let it go, for your teammate. No matter how amazing they are.
She guess she has to be grateful that she’s the number one driver in the team.
The Formula One season started soon after that, kicking it off in Australia. Just like every year, Herman will force her to get along with her teammate, shoving them inside of the same private plane and made them do various media activities together.
Contrary to popular belief, she really doesn’t mind. Henry seems like a good kid. A bit nervous, a bit starry eyed. Nothing that she can’t handle. All of their media responsibilities ended for the day before it was time for them to do their driver briefing.
“You seem to get along with your new teammate,” called out a new voice, effectively catching her attention during her journey towards the briefing room. Henry had said that he needs to take some things back in their motorhome first, making y/n doing the journey alone.
“Maxie,” greeted y/n with a grin.
The so called ‘Maxie’ frowned.  “Don’t call me that,” he said. She could see an entourage of Red Bull employees all around him, no doubt protecting Christian’s very own prodigy from whatever danger he could have inside a guarded area.
Daniel couldn't be seen near him. It made her remember all the hushed talks about the Aussie contract renewal with Red Bull.
The woman laughed. “Aw, is little Maxie mad?” she said as she slung an arm around his shoulder – which is a feat itself considering he’s taller than her. “Don’t be that way to your best friend.”
“You’re not my best friend.”
“We so are!”
Years ago, back in 2015, when a kid called Max Verstappen joined Formula One, y/n felt that it was her duty to guide the lost little lamb. Or maybe it’s just her excuse to bully the new rookie.
You really can’t blame her for that. After all, she had been the youngest kid on the grid for years. She debuted when she was barely 17, she doesn’t even have a normal driving license. So that’s why when she first saw Helmut Marko newest golden boy, she thought that it was her time to be the reliable guy on the grid and helped Max to adjust to the Formula One lifestyle.
Which had not been going pretty well, considering Max is not the cutest kid on the planet – he broods, like a lot. Also Christian is basically in love with the kid. He’ll probably sell his own family for Max. 
She was not even surprised the slightest when it was announced that he and Kyvat will do a driver swap back in 2016. Controversial but interesting. She likes it.
“Ah, is that the Netflix crew?” said y/n as she waved towards the camera near them as they walked towards the briefing room. “Sorry babes, no camera during the briefings.”
“They know that,” muttered Max. “They just like following us around.”
“Ooo, spicy, stalker much, eh?”
A Red Bull employee actually chocked out a laugh at that and y/n count that as a win. The walk towards the briefing room is uneventful and was filled with small talks between her and Max. Some of the employees would chimed in, giving their own opinion or remarks but it’s pretty boring mostly.
It didn’t take long for them to arrive at the room.
Surprisingly, the first thing that she saw is a familiar pair of green eyes.
“Ah,” she said, stopping a bit in order to not bump into the male in front of her. “Charles,” greeted the woman good-naturedly. “You’re pretty early.”
Charles who came from the opposite direction, flushed a bit at that. He still got his pretty face which is nice. “I- uh, I don’t want to be late,” he replied. 
“A good mindset,” she said, giving him a thumbs up. “Anyway, have you met-“
“Charles,” greeted Max, with a nod of his head.
Charles too, gave him a nod. “Max.”
Both of them stared at each other silently at that, as if they're in the middle of sizing up each other before a battle. And maybe they are.
Y/n blinked. There seems an odd tension between the pair. “You guys know each other?” she asked, as the three of them enter the room. The female immediately sat at front.
Max, who decided to sit next to her, shrugged. “We met a lot during karting,” he answered, as if that explained the thick tension between the two of them.
“Yes,” replied Charles as he sat at her other side. “We often race against each other.”
“Ah,” she said. “Rivals huh? Neat.”
The door opened again at that, signalling the arrival of another set of drivers.
“Playing nice with the babies, y/n?” laughed Sebastian Vettel, clad in the familiar but still obnoxious red of Ferrari. She could see Kimi walking in alongside him, though just as usual, the man merely greeted her with a nod of his head before he take a seat behind them.
“For real,” she answered. “Gotta protect these kids hopes and dreams.”
“This is my fourth season,” argued Max back.
“Babies,” said y/n again.
Sebastian answered that with a laugh before he greeted Charles with small greeting and a pat on his back. It’s obvious that they had met beforehand. 
Slowly after that, more and more drivers appeared as low chatters began amongst themselves. Y/n was mainly occupied with both Charles and Max, though sometimes other drivers would greet her or chimed their opinion or two.
“Okay ladies and gentlemen,” started the man from FIA as he stood at the front of the room. “Let’s start the briefing. Is there any concern?”
And that officially starts the 2018 Formula One season.
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The first time Charles ever saw y/n, was back in 2012.
It was the year where many things happened. He was entering almost the end of his karting days, looking for sponsors and teams who would want to support him for the higher categories. It was the year where he almost questioned his decision to be a racing driver. 
It was the year, where he realized that a future in Formula One is something that not everyone can reach.
To Charles back then, 2012 was one of the hardest year for his racing career. At the end of 2011, his father had confide to him that they’re running low on funds. That supporting his very expensive hobby will be harder and harder to do. It had stumped him, a realization about the harsh reality of the world.
Charles will be always grateful for Jules and all of his help after that. After all, without the man, he’s not sure if he will able to continue racing.
It was also the year where he found himself idolizing a new driver in Formula One. 
He first noticed her in a magazine. Charles doesn’t even know why did he picked that magazine all those years back. Maybe it was because she’s the only female in the stack of motorsport magazines. Maybe it was because she’s standing in front of a Formula One car, her face plastered on the cover with a headline that he will never forget.
"Youngest Race Winner in Formula One, y/n l/n," could be seen staring back at him. Behind that, in a font that is a bit smaller, the magazine too had added, 'The First Female Driver to ever won a Formula One Race.'
There’s something fierce and intimidating on her face as she stared back at her. It was as if she’s telling the world that she’s a winner. That she had arrived in the Formula One scene with one goal in mind.
To win.
Charles flipped open the magazine and began reading the article being dedicated to the female. About her passion, about her journey so far, and about her team. It is safe to say, that he was hooked ever since then.
As someone that wants to become a Formula One driver, it's only normal to follow the latest news regarding the sport. About the teams, or maybe the junior programs and opportunities that they had that can help his karting career. The arrival of Porsche back in 2012 was a really big moment for any fans of motorsport, so is y/n's arrival at the paddock.
For months, or even for the whole season, what people could talked about in the karting track is about the female. Oftentimes, she's an object of awe and reverent. As someone that started to break many boundaries that's being placed on the sport. Other times, she's an object of mockery and disapproval. Mostly due to her unconventional way to get her seat.
Honestly, back then, he also felt a bit apprehensive at that. After all, wouldn’t it be nice if he also came from a wealthy family that can just buy a whole Formula One team to support his dream? He wouldn’t have to work as hard as he is now, he wouldn’t have to desperately try to find sponsors or teams who would give him a bit of their time.
Maybe, if he came from a wealthy family, Arthur won’t have to give up karting.
That subject is still a sore spot for him. He knows that karting is an expensive sport, he knows that there is no way that his family can support two people karting at the same time. He knows, that he should be grateful that he’s the one being chosen for the investment.
But still, even after years, the guilt just won’t left him.
It’s the way he could see Arthur’s eyes dimmed a bit when he came for his races. It’s the way he would sometimes brought Charles’s old kart and use it in a track late at nights – thinking that no one will notice. His little brother is still as supportive as ever, cheering for him and wholly opened for discussions about his races, but Charles is not stupid. He can see how hurt Arthur was. 
And well, that served as more than enough motivation for him to race as hard as he can.
That reservation that he has for y/n l/n instantly disappeared as he watch the course of Formula One 2012 season. To him back then, it was really amazing for someone so young – only two years older than him – to be able to enter the pinnacle of racing and absolutely dominates the scene.
He watched the videos of her maiden win at the Chinese Grand Prix. He had obsessed over the overtakes that she did in Bahrain Grand Prix. That’s why, when the Monaco Grand Prix came around, he found himself watching it from the balcony of his friend apartment. 
The Grand Prix weekend had always brought a lot of fanfare. From the literal reconstruction of roads to the festive mood that people in Monaco seems to have, the Grand Prix weekend is something that Charles had always looked forward to.
“You seems more excited than usual,” said his friend, leaning forwards to his balcony railings. From their position here, he can almost heard the loud cheering from the grandstand or even the hustle and bustle that the Grand Prix seems to always brought to Monaco.
I’m going to race there one day, he thought, just like the years before. I’m going to be a Ferrari driver and I’m going to win the Monaco Grand Prix.
“Well,” started the Monegasque. “I have a new favourite driver.”
His friend raised his eyebrow. “Alonso?” he asked. “No, is it Felipe Massa?”
Charles shook his head. “Nah,” he denied. “L/n.”
At that, his friend stared at him. “Huh,” he finally let out. “It’s kind of weird not seeing you cheer for Ferrari.”
“I always cheer for Ferrari,” corrected Charles. “It’s just that I have another favourite driver on the grid.” 
“Mhm,” hummed his friend. “Not surprised though.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Cause you’re active in karting and all,” said the male. 
Charles blinked. “What do you even mean by that?”
“Like she’s a female and she’s one of the top driver,” explained his friend. “I just think that it would be obvious for guys like you – those who actively pursue racing as their career – to have some kind of crush to her.”
Crush?
And- and that stumped him.
It almost made him remember all of the things being said towards y/n. All the weird comments about her being a female or her attractive appearance. How she is more marketable and can play with the male fantasy and that it gave her an advantage compared to her other male counterparts.
How sexualized she is by everyone in the media.
He doesn’t like that.
Why is people talking about her gender when she made that insane overtake last race? Why is people talking about her in such a sexualized way when she’s literally the youngest race winner that Formula One had ever had?
All of them saw her as if she’s an object. As if, she’s in Formula One just to fuck around the grid and leave. They didn’t see her as the driver who won the China Grand Prix. They didn’t see her as the driver who got P2 in her debut race. They didn’t see her as a driver that has any worth for their attention and respect.
It was a bit of a horrifying realization. 
He knows that the world of motorsport has its own values and ideals. How people think that it’s a sport only for men and a job as a racing driver is something exclusive to someone who has balls between their legs. 
“No,” he replied, hand tightening around the railing. “I don’t like her just because of that.”
Because the woman is more amazing than that. He knows that she’s attractive. Anyone who has a pair of working eyes can see that. But that’s not the only reason why he put her in a pedestal so high. 
He likes her because she’s only two years older than him and she’s already a race winner. He likes her because she won’t back down from all the shitty things that the media had said about her ever since her debut. He likes her because she fights for the championship against drivers with an infinite experience and skills. Charles likes her because she’s an amazing driver. Charles likes her, because she has the skills to back up her seat in Formula One.
Not because-
A black Porsche car zoomed past him.
Not because-
He watched her finishing the race at fourth in Monaco.
Charles likes her, because she’s someone that is changing the sport.
She’s someone more amazing than how the media is portraying her. A fighter, someone that’s fighting for her voice to be heard. 
His idol.
From that on, he followed her career attentively. His family called it obsession but he likes to call it admiration. From her maiden driver championship in 2013, to her third one in 2017, he had followed it all.
He watched her win three championships. He watched her break countless records. He watched her turned all of those criticisms into words of adorations and worships.
A legend. A superstar. The best driver on the grid.
It had served as an amazing motivation for him to pursue his career in Formula One. Especially during darker times in life where he had questioned his place in the sport so many times. After loss and loss, the female had always became some sort of motivation for him to continue his racing career.
So after winning F2 and being offered a seat in Sauber, he was excited.
That offer had been a testament of his skill, that someone finally acknowledge him. That offer had made the lie that he had told his dad before his passing a truth, that the guilt won’t eat him up once more. That offer had made the dream that he had held for so long a reality.
That offer had made him even closer to y/n.
When Fred had offered him to meet the female during the pre-season testing he had took up the offer in an instant.
The phrase ‘never meet your heroes’ is something that he would like to disagree because meeting y/n is like a dream come true. She’s Charming and witty. A hard worker and attentive to whatever nonsense he said during their meeting. Y/n is just so nice, just like how he imagine her to be.
Charles almost tripped himself when she asked for his number after that because holy shit- 
Somehow, after that meeting, he convinced himself that they stood at an equal ground. That after years and years of blood, sweat, and tears, Charles finally found himself on an equal ground with his idol.
He had never been so wrong.
He looked up, and he could see the female stood in front of the podium in front of him. Her smile bright, as she sprayed champagne towards Sebastian and Lewis who respectively stood at the second and third place.
It’s 2018 and it’s the Australian Grand Prix.
It’s 2018, and Charles saw the person that he had idolized for a long time won a race that Charles also participates in.
It was almost surreal to see her like this. To see the woman he had chatted with at the Porsche hospitality a few weeks ago to the woman who just won the first race of the season. The three of them – y/n, Sebastian, and Lewis – looks almost unreal to him.
The top drivers in the grid. The three world champions.
The best of the best.
His own 15th position on the grid stings a bit. Which is a bit unreasonable because he drives a Sauber. There is no way a Sauber could defeat cars from the top teams. Him, being a 15th position in a Sauber should be a pretty good achievement already.
But alas, it just doesn’t feel enough.
When they had chatted during the pre-session testing, it had gave him a fake illusion about them being an equal. After all, Charles is a Formula One driver now. He drives in the pinnacle of motorsport. He had shown the world that he’s capable to be a Formula One driver. Just like what he had dreamt of for years.
Today, is a harsh wake up call.
Y/n had looked so friendly and attainable that it gave him a false sense of hope that they stood on the same ground. Maybe it’s the euphoria of being promoted to F1 or maybe it’s the euphoria of managing to meet the woman that he had idolized for so many years.
Seeing this, her being at the top of the rankings while him, at the bottom, is a harsh reality check for him.
Because they’re not equal.
She’s still the faraway star that he can’t reach and he’s still the silent admirer that doesn’t have the courage to reach for her.
He’s still Charles Leclerc and she’s y/n l/n. Formula One superstar and legend. 
If he want her to look at him, to make sure that she remember his name, then he has to be better. He has to prove that he will worth her time.
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Drive to Survive Season 1 Episode 3
It’s all about Porsche.
“It seems like a curse,” laughed Christian. “No one can hold off the second seat of Porsche for more than two years.”
A montage of past drivers could be seen. In some clips, a younger y/n could be seen standing or talking with the past drivers. It’s clear that these people are the previous holder of Porsche’s second seat.
“I think that it’s a known secret,” started Will as he stared at the camera. “While y/n portrays herself as a fun loving and charming woman, it’s clear that she is really strict and competitive towards her teammate.”
Y/n and Henry could be seen at that, the both of them entering a Porsche car. From how it looks, it seems that the both of them are going to the track together from their hotel. Henry could be seen wearing the standard Porsche polo shirt while y/n in wearing an oversized Porsche racing jacket and a sports bra underneath it.
“Are you driving?” asked the female, raising her eyebrows from behind her sunglasses.
“Sure,” said the male as they both entered the car, “I can drive.”
“Well if you can’t drive all of us are fucked,” answered the female as she sat on her seat. Y/n sitting at the front while two of their staff sat the back.
“Are you excited?” asked the staff as they made their way. “It’s your debut race.”
“I am,” laughed Henry. “There’s a lot of expectations that came with being a Porsche driver.”
During this conversation, y/n doesn’t seems interested in the conversation as she scrolled on her phone silently. The show made it more dramatic as they show a scene where there’s some kind of awkward silence inside the car.
After that, both y/n and Henry could be seen entering the grid. The female are laughing and taking pictures as well as giving autographs to her fans. From this image, we could see how much of a superstar the female is. Though, as they continue their way, the female could be seen greeting other employees and other drivers in a friendly way while Henry could be seen looking confused at the back.
A rookie and a superstar. A very different image.
“It’s not a bad trait to have,” clarified Will. “Because in order to be a world champion, you have to be competitive. In this sport, your first rival should always be your teammate. After all-“
Two Porsche could be seen racing against each other.
“-You have the exact same car-“
A team radio could be heard between Henry and the race engineer who’s ordering for the male to do a pitstop.
“-the same team strategy-“
A scene of two Porsche crashed into each other could be seen.
“And the same competitiveness to show that you’re the best driver on the team.”
The scene changed back into the interview room as Henry Santos appeared. His name could be seen besides him and his position as Porsche driver are written underneath it.
“My name is Henry Santos and I race for Porsche Royale Formula One team,” answered the male smoothly. A question was being asked offscreen as Henry could be seen listening and blinking before he let out a laugh. “Yes, there are a lot of pressure, considering this is my rookie year.”
On the screen, the standings from 2017 could be seen where Porsche won the constructor championship and y/n winning the driver championship. Henry voice too, could be seen as a voiceover, “Porsche is a winning team,” he said. “I want to be someone that can honour that ambition.”
“Do you think you can become the number one driver in Porsche?” asked the producer.
Henry’s smile froze as there’s a stretch of silence after that question.
It’s clear that Netflix wants some kind of drama from that question. The fight of Porsche’s number one driver position. A rookie versus the world champion.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “Yes I believe I can.”
It was almost like a declaration of war. After all, y/n is the reigning world champion. She’s the one that’s using the number one on her car this year. A consistent driver that always shows a remarkable performance each year.
For a rookie like Henry to say that, it’s a bold claim to have.
“A conflict,” said Christian as he appeared once again. “Will bound to happen in a team like that.”
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Taglist!
@mellowarcadefun @glai1023-blog @jjkclub @newlifeforus @jpg3 @sp1cycurry @eternalharry @be-your-coffee-pot @itsjustkhaos @chanshintien @fairiesdowntheroad @not-laracroft @ilovegreengrapes @nzygftoji @reblog-princess @aaaooz @chasing-liberosis @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @reneny @hiraethrhapsody @stevesworld9 @miniboast @notleclerc @willowpains @lndonrris @laura-naruto-fan1998 @yaren23 @gills-lounge @asfaraslifegets @dl-yum @dessxoxsworld @goldenchemistry @vellicora @neoteez7 @lana-d3l-rey @mynameisangeloflife @fennecspage @yuriankasavchuk @hascrt-ay @kihc-zya @leilanixx @cha-hot @mafiulaputaama @hockeyboysarehot @stopeatread @lovewithmary @inloveallthetime
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elllisaaa · 3 months ago
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EYES ON ME - H. KAI
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KINKTOBER DAY 3 - VOYEURISM
SUMMARY : yeonjun had always made it clear to you that his friends were off limits for you, it was his only rule. and it never bothered you until kai started to come over. he was exactaly your type, but you didn't want to break the promise you made to your brother. however, is it really your fault if your door is left ajar as you're touching yourself at night ? and is it really your fault if kai walks by your room at the same time ?
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-> pairing : best friend's brother!kai x fem!reader
-> words count : 2k
-> genre : smut
-> warnings : voyeurism (obviously), masturbation (m. & f.), fingering, dirty talk, mention of unprotected sex, kai is a little perverted but it's okay because yn is too.
+ the way i'm depicting kai does not represent him, it's only a work of fiction
-> 18+ content bellow, minors DNI
-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated ! sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.
-> masterlist | txt masterlist | kinktober 2024
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You and your brother had always been pretty close to each other. You heard all your friends complain about their older brothers being insufferable, but you never really related to them as your relationship with Yeonjun was very good. Maybe it was due to the fact that your parents were often absent when you were kids and that you grew more together than with them, but either way, it led to the both of you sharing some friends and sometimes going to the same parties. The only rule you had for each other was to not fuck with either of your friends. 
You knew that Yeonjun was the type to fuck around, and you couldn’t care less, but you didn’t want him and his womanizer behaviour to ruin your relationship with your girls, and Yeonjun couldn’t bear the idea of any of his friends laying their eyes on his little sister. And honestly, you were fine with that. You liked your brother’s friends, but they weren’t your type at all. That was until Huening Kai entered the equation. 
The first time you ran into him, you were coming back from a night out and you crossed path with him in the kitchen as you rummaged through the cupboards to find some kind of chips to munch on before crashing on your bed and sleeping until the afternoon, your head still dizzy from the last drink you had before leaving the bar. And Kai was right there, wearing an oversized shirt and some sport shorts, his pretty black hair falling over his eyes and down on his neck, his tall frame and broad as fuck shoulder hovering over you as he helped you reach for your snack. 
“- Ah ! Thank you so much, you’re sweet !”
You weren’t in your right state of mind, standing on your tippy toes to kiss the corner of his lips before grabbing your chips and stumbling to your bedroom. Meanwhile, Kai stood in the kitchen, dumbfounded. Yeonjun had warned him that you might come home late and make a lot of noise, but he didn’t expect that from you. And he felt guilty about having checked you out - the way your little dress was riding up your thighs and almost showing off your ass as you tried to reach for something too high for you. But at the same time, he couldn’t stop his mind from going back to your soft lips against his skin. 
That was how it all started, and from then on, Kai felt himself be drawn to you every time he saw you when he was over at your house to spend time with Yeonjun. He loved it when you would come out of your room to plop down on the couch between him and his friend and play some Mario Kart races along with them. Sometimes, he thought that he felt your eyes lingering on him too, but that was surely his mind tricking him into believing that his attraction was mutual. 
Little did he know you were feeling the exact same. You were aware that Kai was technically off limits because he was Yeonjun’s friend. But when you had the opportunity to talk with him one on one at some of the parties your brother dragged him to, you couldn’t ignore anymore how you developed some kind of crush on him. So yes, you put on the shortest shorts you owned anytime you knew Kai would come over. And when Yeonjun told you that Kai would come with the both of you for a night out, you were always wearing your skimpiest dresses, shortest skirts, deepest cleavage top’s you owned only for the pleasure of seeing him gulp down everytime he tried to be subtle about the way his eyes were staring at your breasts or ass for a little too long. 
It wasn’t rare for Kai to wake up in the middle of the night to either go to the bathroom or take a glass of water when he stayed at your house. Sometimes, you were still awake too and it led to the both of you talking for hours together. However, tonight was different. Kai didn’t think anything of the fact that your door wasn’t closed all the way when he passed by your bedroom on his way to the kitchen. But when he walked down the hallway to Yeonjun’s room again, he heard a faint sound, as if someone was whining. He stopped in his tracks, suddenly way more aware of every noise around the house. And when another moan echoed from your room, Kai was certain that he didn’t hallucinate.
He was frozen in place, not knowing what to do. Surely, he should’ve just went back to his friend’s room and let you do your thing. But your moans sounded so pretty, and he could already feel his cock hardening in his shorts. Kai glanced at your door, and it was still slightly open. A thought crossed his mind, and he tried to push it away because it was dirty and perverted. But soon enough, he was carefully stepping closer to your room, his mind going blank when he took a look inside and that he got a glimpse of your body squirming under the covers from the pleasure you were giving to yourself. 
Kai’s breath hitched in his throat as his eyes drifted from your contorted face to your hips bucking up under the covers. He couldn’t see much, but his brain had thought about you enough to fill in the blanks with some of his fantasies. And he knew it was wrong to watch you when you were unaware of his presence, but Kai still let his hand come down to palm his cock through his clothes anyway, biting his lips to hold in the low groan that threatened to escape him. 
He felt guilty, and disgusting for watching his sister’s best friend touch herself, but he couldn’t help it. You looked so pretty with your mouth slightly open, eyes closed and sensual noises falling from your lips. Kai watched intently as you kicked off your blanket, allowing him to take in your whole body - the oversized shirt you were wearing to sleep has been pulled up under your breasts, the material of your panties moving along with the way you were thrusting your fingers and rubbing your clit. 
And Kai only noticed how fast he was shifting his hand against his already rock hard cock when he whined quietly, unable to stop himself from moaning when you literally were touching yourself and he was able to see it all happening - something he thought only occurred in romance books and never with guys like him. You were so close to cumming that you didn’t even hear Kai whining louder and louder each time you whimpered, everytime he got a glimpse of the lewd sounds from how wet you were. 
It was only when he moved closer and pushed your door open a little more by accident that you finally noticed that someone was there. You stilled your fingers inside of you, turning your head to the side and meeting Kai’s gaze, already staring at you. The moment he realized that you had seen him, nervousness and shame took over him. His cheeks were burning up because what he was doing was obviously disgusting and you were probably going to scream at him any second, but he couldn’t help his cock from throbbing in his underwear from the way you were looking at him with your eyes still glazed by lust. 
Kai was convinced that it was the last time he could ever see you, that you would tell him that he was a pervert and go wake up your brother soon, that Yeonjun was going to kick him out and never talk to him again. He was honestly mentally preparing himself to the worse. But the second you started to move your fingers again, airy moans escaping you and eyes still locked with him, Kai wasn’t sure anymore of what he was supposed to do - though he clearly saw the way you stole a glance or two at the tent deforming his shorts. 
“- Kai…”
Hearing you whine his name definitely wasn’t on his bingo card of the night, but was he going to complain ? Fuck, no. And when he pressed his palm against his hard on this time, he wasn’t ashamed anymore, he wasn’t thinking about anything else other than you. He wanted to keep the eye contact going for as long as possible but he was simply unable to stop his gaze from wandering lower, groaning at the way you were now squeezing your boobs over your shirt, putting on a show just for him. 
“- You’re so hot, Y/N…
- Kai, please…”
The way you begged him with one hand reaching for him convinced him to finally push your door open all the way and step into your room. He was still sensible enough to lock the door behind before he made a beeline to your bed, immediately getting on top of you and crashing his lips into yours. Both of you moaned into the kiss, having waited far too long to feel each other. As Kai slipped his tongue into your mouth, he let one of his hands wander down to your panties, pushing your hand away and replacing your fingers with his. 
You instantly moaned at the feeling, his fingers way longer and thicker than yours hitting all the right spots without even trying. You knew you had to be quiet because Yeonjun was sleeping in the room right next to yours but finally having Kai’s hands on you after having craved him for so long made it hard to contain your sounds of pleasure. 
“- I’ve wanted to do that for so long, wanted to have you all to myself since the first day. 
- A-Ah ! Me too Kai, wanted you so bad… Your fingers feel so good, I love it.”
The words were whispered against each other’s mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders for support as he thrust his fingers into you expertly, as if he already knew your body like the back of his hand. A grin took over his features as Kai curled his fingers at the perfect angle to press on your sweet spot, a quiet moan tumbling from your lips. 
“- Were you thinking about me when you were touching yourself ? Did you wish it were my hands instead of yours ? 
-  Yes, I thought about it so much.”
It drove Kai mad to think that while he was feeling like a creep for jerking off to the thought of you in your little bikini around the people during summer, you were doing the exact same thing while thinking about him. He now had two fingers inside of your cunt, his thumb rubbing your clit just right, just how you liked it. You were already close to cumming, the whole situation having turned you so much, your walls clenching down around his fingers.
“- Kai, I'm close…
- I can feel it, you're so tight… You're gonna cum around my fingers and then around my cock right ?”
You squirmed as he curled his fingers perfectly once again, biting down on your lips to avoid crying out his name too loudly. But you still nodded at his words, not trusting yourself to open your mouth without letting out a lewd noise. It only took one more drag of his long fingers against your walls to bring you to your orgasm, Kai kissing you again to drown out your moans as he continued to circle your clit to prolong your high as much as possible. And he would have probably gone on if you hadn’t stopped him, eyes diving into his.
“- I need you inside of me or else I’ll go crazy.”
Kai swore under his breath as he quickly pulled out his fingers, helping you get out of your ruined panties while you were pushing down his shorts and underwear. You were both too hungry for each other to really take your time - you just needed to feel each other for now.  And the moment Kai finally pushed his cock all the way into your tight heat, he couldn’t bring himself to fell guilty about the fact that he was fucking his sister’s best friend anymore.
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-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.
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txt masterlist (fill in this to be added) :
@bbgnyx @hann1bee @heevllog @lichyuu @foxinnie8 @lala-----------lala
kinktober masterlist (comment or dm to be added)
@d-dilemma @bath1lda @anxiousskylar
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shapeshifterlore · 3 months ago
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picturing a scenario where Evan meets Sam's footballer boyfriend and is unintentionally (?) intimidating.
evan came by to visit (check on her, make sure there's no threats in her immediate vicinity) and he's in the green room and she just got done with an episode (Rachael Ray and Victoria Beckham played scrabble for 40 minutes) and it's just so nice. Sam's still riding that post-show high so he gets to listen to her talk uninterrupted about her new friends, T2's latest achievements, who she's dating.
Speaking of. The boyfriend walks in. He makes a point of seeing Sam once a week after her show, doesn't want her to forget about him. He gives Sam a peck and she introduces him to the guy on the couch. One of the people from secondary school she's always talking about. He's all smiles when he gets up and they shake hands, very polite. The boyfriend is polite too, in that uniquely dismissive way only the English can be. It's not like he wants to encourage these chats between Sam and her old hangers-on.
He turns to his girlfriend and ignores Evan. Or tries to. Something's off. When he glances over, the man is staring at him unblinkingly, face a neutral mask. Has he blinked at all since this interaction started? He's still standing, and the three of them are in an awkward triangle.
Sam doesn't notice her old friend being territorial, no surprises there. She's asking him about soccer practice and he's annoyed. He's corrected her a hundred times, but she's the most American person he's ever met. So yeah, he gets a bit short with her. She laughs it off but then gets called away by her incredibly frazzled producer, and he's left standing there with the bastard, who he's just realized is taller than him.
"so you're with brentford." Flat, grating accent. Did he look him up?
"yeah, mate. You a supporter?" Something moves out of the corner of his eye. The shadow of a table distorts for a fraction of a second. Is something wrong with the lamps in here?
"No, sorry. I don't watch a lot of sports aside from basketball. But I like the logo. The bee, right?"
He doesn't answer. He's watching the table shadow mutely. It's moving towards him. How is it moving towards him.
"did you know there are a lot of bee species that are kleptoparasitic? They're called cuckoo bees. Like the bird. They find pre built hives, eat the host bees' larva and lay their own eggs in the cells."
The hair on his arms is standing on end. He's sweating. It's not his imagination - the shadow is warping, sending out tendrils that are inching closer and closer to his shoes. With the primal awareness of an early human staring into the darkness searching for predators, he understands suddenly that he is in real, immediate danger. And he's paying attention to the wrong thing.
He turns his head slowly to look at Evan. The man Sam always described as "a real sweetheart." His face is gaunt, eyes sunken and blacked out. The realization that he doesn't have a shadow hits like a freight train.
Y̵͍͛͝o̵̬̾̚ú̵̥͇̉ ̵̛̙̱̄ŏ̶͙̒͜k̴̙͉̉a̴̳͒̇y̴̜͝ ̸̧̀̈́m̷̙̗͌a̸͔͙̾ň̷̫̍?̴̦̆ ̸̻̅S̶̪̈ͅo̵̥̓̋m̶̼̔è̵̳̌t̶̘͐h̶̿͜͜i̸̝̙͑n̵̬̻̕g̷̻͇̋́ ̷̝̭͘ẃ̸̥͍r̵̟̓̕o̵͇̭͆n̶̩͖̾g̸̮̽?̸̥̙̃̚ ̵̪͚̌̈́
No idea what he said. His voice is layered and gravelly, and it seems to register in the brain via the nervous system rather than the ears. The edges of the room are going black, the darkness is closing in. Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
"sorry about that guys! Vikki and Rach wanted to say bye! Honestly, they are both just so nice!"
Sam breezes back in and the second she enters the room everything goes back to normal. There's some more small talk that he stammers his way through, gets out of there as fast as he can without being rude.
Later, when they break up, he tells himself it's because she was too busy for him, too american.
It's quite some time before he sleeps with the lights off.
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tsxkkis · 6 months ago
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omg omg can i request? pls ignore if you dont!
s3 of haikyuu will always be my favourite season, maybe due to the fact that tsukishima realizes his potential in playing volleyball? (him having his MOMENT is my favouriteee scene)
so could you write gf manager reader x tsukki, where reader witnesses him having his first moment (blocking ushijima's spike), injuring his hand etc etc up until they receive their throphy and medals in the end ?🥹🥹💕 shes a proudddd reader and literally just smooch smooch hug hug tsukki because hes the mvp of karasuno x shiratorizawa 🥰😤
i realized that theres nobody includes this scene in their fics and i wonder why? 🤔🧐
# tsukishima kei - mvp
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a/n: i am terribly sorry anon bcs this took so long T-T i'm not quite sure about some parts of this fic but overall i really enjoyed writing this request!! tsukishima is my fav for many reasons, one of which being the fact that i see myself in him a lot, and the particular moment during the shiratorizawa vs karasuno match is also my fav from the entire series!! i hope u enjoy reading this fic^^ i feel like it's not exactly what you asked for, so i'm sorry if i went too far away from your idea....
summary: tsukishima finally regains his love for volleyball.
warnings: a few swear words here and there, the fic doesn't exactly portray what happened in the series (i switched it up a bit)
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'are you stressed?'
'not even a bit.'
'you're lying. i can read you like a book.'
tsukishima kei let out a deep breath, rolling his eyes as he looked away from your face. you were obviously right; there was no way he wouldn't be stressed before the game that determined whether or not karasuno would go to nationals. as much as he hated to admit it, he was almost as stressed as others. he was just better at controlling which of his emotions are shown.
you squeezed his hand, his fingers instinctively intertwining with yours. all it took was a reassuring smile from you to help with his nerves, his muscles finally relaxing after being tensed up for the last twenty minutes or so. he still tried to get used to you being more than a friend. your relationship was quite awkward and fresh, so much so in fact that you never even had your first kiss yet.
'i'm sure you'll do great.' you stated calmly, trying to hide the fact that you were even more stressed about the match than him. 'in fact, i'm positive that you'll win.'
'even if we do, it won't be because of me.' he mumbled, letting out a silent laugh when he saw the angry look on your face. 'oh, come on. it's not like i'm the greatest player this team has.'
'you know i hate it when you talk down on yourself.' you said, the tone serious and sharp, rather unusual for you. it stayed like that for only a short while, taken over by a softer, understanding one. 'you're a vital part of this team, tsukishima. winning this match is not up to a single person. it's a team effort. your input is as important as that of kageyama or hinata.'
he opened his mouth to say something but was instantly stopped by the voice of his captain, daichi, calling the team up to quickly warm up as the match was about to start.
you smiled at the boy, letting go of his hand before lightly patting him on the back.
'do your best for me, alright?'
'i will.' a barely noticeable smile appeared on his face, his hand affectionately ruffling your hair. 'don't worry too much about it.'
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you finally realized why tsukishima kei never tried more. why he would never stay longer like other karasuno players to polish his skills, why he didn't truly seem to love the sport he chose to play in high school.
'you're insufferable, you know?' his words sent shivers down your spine. 'why don't you leave it the fuck alone?'
opposite forces, some might say. no one really knew what drew you and tsukishima to eachother - both of you completely different from one another, and yet oh so similar at the same time. frustration took over you every time you looked at him, and now you knew why.
he was like a mirror in which you could see all your flaws, and it irritated you a great deal.
his outlook on life and the way he viewed himself made you furious. how can someone be so full of contradictions? so cocky and confident, and yet so vulnerable and self depreciating at the same time. so full of himself and yet so hateful towards the person he saw in the reflection of every window, every mirror.
how can someone so great at what they do, so intelligent and talented, be so critical?
'because i can't! i can't leave it alone, you absolute moron.' the thought of how loud you were didn't stop you from continuing to shout, a mixed look on your face that tsukishima couldn't quite decipher. were you angry or sad? and why the hell would it bug you so much to evoke such strong emotions within you?
'you're saying i'm insufferable? from the moment i laid my eyes on you, you've been nothing but insufferable. so much so, that i want to gouge them out every time they spot you.' you ignored your watery eyes and tsukishima's surprised face, almost as if he didn't expect you to blow up like this. 'it pains me to see you be so full of doubt and hatred and i- i can't understand why you would think so lowly of yourself, why you feel inferior to the other guys in every way possible, when you could be so much more than them. do you even realize your potential, tsukishima?'
he stayed silent. for the first time since knowing you, tsukishima kei did not have an answer to your words.
'your doubts are so irrational i don't know if it makes me angry or sad. you're truly incredible on the court. you're intelligent, you can read the opponents well, you have the physical predispositions for volleyball and a natural talent that you choose to ignore because-'
'but what is talent without passion?'
that singular sentence managed to catch you off guard so much you had no idea how to answer him. such a simple question, and yet such a philosophical, confusing one.
'why should i put my all into something i'm not even passionate about, huh?' tsukishima tried to keep his composed nature, but it was hard to stay intact after what you've said. as much as he did not want to admit it, your words hit him deeply. 'why waste my time and energy for something that does not give me any satisfaction at all? tell me that, because i have no fucking idea.'
'passion is not something that dissapears once and never shows up again, you idiot.' you took a step closer, as if that was going to help you get your point across. 'if your passion is genuine, it will always be there. whether small or big, it will always crawl around in the back of your mind. if you ever truly loved volleyball, the moment where you fall in love with it again will come sooner or later.'
your words were met with complete silence, but you didn't mind. tsukishima slowly processed your words, a focused look gracing his face, lips in a tight line. even though it was only a couple of minutes, for you it felt like hours - awaiting an answer, any answer at all.
tsukishima moved closer, his tall frame hovering over you as he wrapped his arms around you, catching you in a tight hug, much to your surprise.
'thank you.' he mumbled quietly, glad that in this very moment you couldn't see his face, and the stupid smile plastered to it.
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the moment where you fall in love with it again will come sooner or later.
tsukishima's mind lingered over these words whenever he played, awaiting this moment to come almost eagerly. the match was particularly hard - with ushijima wakatoshi as their opponent, the chances of winning were incredibly slim. every spike of his went through the block, his serves were absolutely killer, and his teammates did everything to deliver the ball to him at all costs.
what a hassle.
you noticed that his demeanor on the court changed from what it used to be. tsukishima seemed more invested now - almost as if he was trying to impress you, to keep his word. as happy as it made you, you were still anxious about the match and it's final score, hand shaky and a bit sweaty as your eyes followed the ball flying around from one side of the net to another.
another spike from ushijima, it'll probably be another point for shiratoriza-
and that's when you realized.
you saw the ball hit the ground on shiratorizawa's side of the net surprised gasps from everyone watching the match. you saw the shocked look on ushijima's face, the horror in the eyes of his teammates as the ball bounced off of the floor for the second, third, fourth time.
silence took over the court for just a mere second, quickly interrupted by tsukishima's triumphant scream.
he looked more than content with his performance. he looked... happy.
the rest of the boys joined him, screaming in unison. it was just one point, right? but for some reason, for both you and tsukishima, this one was worth a thousand.
for the first time in years, tsukishima kei felt that his spark for volleyball came back.
you noticed that his eyes were now focused on you, a full, cheeky smile gracing his face, and it only made you tear up. a short moment, probably insignificant for people around, but for the two of you it was like a breath of fresh air, like getting rid of the shackles that once held you in place, enabling you from moving forward.
'y/n, are you... alright?' coach ukai looked with his brows slightly furrowed, confused by your teary eyes and big grin plastered to your face.
'yeah, yeah, i'm fine. sorry, coach.' you mumbled, bowing a little as your eyes focused on the court. 'actually, could kiyoko replace me here for the rest of the match? i'm not quite feeling well.'
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'tsukishima is injured.'
'what?' akiteru spoke in unison with you, terrified voices mixing together as you looked down from the stands to see the boy walking off of the court and rushing to the medical office along with kiyoko. your instincts took over you - feet moving on their own as you quickly ran towards the same place.
the two blondes followed right behind you, stopping only when in front of the door to the medical office, gasping for air after such a short run. as athletic as your boyfriend was, you were quite the opposite; getting tired after a little to no physical activity at times.
tsukishima saw your head peeking through the doorframe, a small smile on his face the moment he laid eyes on you.before you opened your mouth to say something, he already gave you an answer.
'yes, i feel fine.' he stated quietly, sitting down on the edge of a chair. 'you don't need to worry.'
'are you going back on court?' he only gave you a small nod in response, seemingly feeling better already as he stood up, his hand taped up.
you looked up at him, taking in the expression on his face, just how focused he already was. he looked almost as if he already had a plan to defeat shiratorizawa in this match. seeing him so eager to go back and play almost made you laugh a little - you swore you never saw him get this invested into something ever.
'go and win then.' you mumbled, patting him on the shoulder as he headed towards the gym hall.
'oh don't worry. we will.'
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you couldn't stop the tears rolling down your cheeks as you saw karasuno emerge victorious from the hardest volleyball match they had to play this year, hugging yachi tightly as both of you celebrated the win of your team.
the triumphant screams filled the gym hall, the team emotional after doing what many deemed impossible. as most of them enjoyed themselves, not planning on leaving the euphoric state for a long while, tsukishima could only think of doing one thing - going to you.
you were the only person he truly wanted to celebrate with.
after the ceremony of getting the medals, to everyone's utmost shock, considering your relationship wasn't exactly public, tsukishima went up to you almost immediately, a cocky smile on his face as he ruffled your hair, looking down at you from behind his glasses.
'you didn't exactly look quite as content with your performance before getting the prize.' you mumbled, looking at the blonde haired boy with your head tilted to the side.
'well, i could've blocked more of ushijima's spikes.' he started, rolling his eyes at the sole idea of not being able to do that during today's match. 'i only managed to block one and-'
you decided to use the only method that was for sure going to shut him up in that moment, lightly grabbing him by the tshirt and pulling him closer, lips clashing for a split second in a short, sweet kiss.
'no talking down on yourself today, kei.' you said, unconsciously smiling as you saw his face getting red at what you just did, cheeks covered by a tomato-like red colour. 'i'm proud of you no matter what you think about today's match.'
he stood still for a few seconds, as if processing what had just happened seconds ago, the redness on his face deepening with each passing moment. his hand was quick to grab yours, almost dragging you away from the team and to a more private, less occupied area of the building.
'do that again.' he mumbled, after he finally led you to a quiet hallway.
'huh?'
'it was... nice.'
your eyes lit up, a cheeky smile gracing your face as you finally realized what he was on about.
'ohh, you want another kiss?' you said teasingly, eyes quickly glancing from his face down to his lips. he rolled his eyes, unamused by your act of playing dumb.
'come on, don't make me repeat myself.' still somewhat embarrassed of what he was asking for, tsukishima stood in one place, awaiting your next action.
a sigh left your lips as you took a step towards your boyfriend, standing on your tippy toes to be able to reach his face.
'alright. i guess you deserve it, match mvp.'
your arms were wrapped around his neck in no time as your lips gently touched his, tsukishima immediately kissing you back, hands positioned on your waist as you felt a smile creeping up on his face. he let out a short laugh, seeing your face being just as red as his was moments ago, hand reaching to squeeze yours.
'what?' you mumbled, as he hasn't spoken a word since breaking the kiss.
'that's surely the best prize i got today.'
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taglist: @moonswolfie @wyrcan @kitsune-kita
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metalandmagi · 5 months ago
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Underrated Sports Anime Recommendations!
In honor of the summer Olympics, I wanted to make a rec list for some underappreciated sports anime. Obviously we all know the popular stuff: Blue Lock, Kuroko, Hajime no Ippo, Ace of Diamond, Slam Dunk, Haikyuu, Free, Yuri On Ice, Yowamushi Pedal, Skate the Infinity etc. But there are lots of great sports anime out there that go completely unnoticed. And who knows, you might find a new sport to get into. Just FYI, these are all on the newer side, since most of the older sports anime I’ve seen are the popular ones.
I think a big reason that a lot of these have largely gone ignored is because they focus more on interpersonal drama between characters and what is going on in their home lives, as opposed to a bigger focus on the technicalities of the sport itself. Food for thought. Anyway, let's get started:
Stars Align (Hoshiai no Sora): Stars Align is about a boys high school soft tennis team (not to be confused with regular tennis) who are constantly getting out performed by their girls team. Desperate to get people to take the boys team seriously and get results, team captain Touma tries to get a new transfer student Maki Katsuragi to join. Maki eventually agrees ... .on the condition that Touma pays him and covers any club expenses. From there we discover the messy family drama going on in each boy’s life, and I just love all of them okay? They’re my precious angel babies, and sure I had some problems with the show’s pacing at the end, but I still love them and I want another season!!!! 😭
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Oblivion Battery (Boukyaku Battery): There are a myriad of baseball animes out there, but this one made an impression on me. Catcher Kaname Kei and pitcher Kiyomine Haruka are a badass, ace duo who dominated the field and made a fearsome reputation for themselves all throughout middle school. They seemed to be completely unstoppable…until Kaname (the brains behind the operation) lost his memory, became a total goofball, and the two ended up going to a no name high school with no real baseball team. So of course, we end up getting a rag-tag team together full of ex-baseball players with dramatic backstories who all help train Kaname up again. I love Kaname and Haru’s friendship, and the cast was very well rounded, each with their own interesting attributes to add to the team.
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Re: Main: If I had a nickel for every sports anime where the main character used to be an unstoppable badass until he lost his memory, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice. Yeah, it’s exactly the same as Oblivion Battery, but with water polo and the main character isn’t as much of a goofball. I liked the characters, but I wished we focused a little more on the water polo side of things, since it’s not exactly a dime a dozen sport for an anime.
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Mou Ippon: A girls high school judo anime from 2023 that nobody fucking watched! When former judo enthusiast Michi Sonoda enters high school, she wants to put judo behind her so she can focus on finding a boyfriend and enjoying her school life. However, after Michi suffers a particularly humiliating defeat in a match against the prodigy Towa Hiura, the two end up going to the same high school together. Naturally, Michi can’t just quit now that her rival is going to the same school! Cue the judo team shenanigans. This show is so down to earth and realistic. It’s 100% not a “cute girls doing cute things” anime where the girls are all blobs of moe that talk in annoying voices. They have different body types, different motivations, and different styles of combat. It didn’t blow me out of the water, but I liked it way more than I thought I would.
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And speaking of different body types…
Hinomaru Sumo: That’s right, it’s a high school sumo wrestling anime. AND IT’S HYPE AS FUCK! You know how in Haikyuu, Hinata is short, and it’s a big deal because middle blockers are always tall? Well this is that multiplied by a thousand, because there’s a minimum weight to sumo wrestling, and our main character Hinomaru Ushio is definitely below it. But he’s not going to let that stop him from spreading his passion for sumo and becoming the High School Yokozuna, the strongest wrestler in high school tournaments…because becoming the Yokozuna is his only chance at going pro with his small stature. It’s impossible to watch this anime without feeling fired up!
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Run With The Wind (Kaze ga Tsuyoku Fuiteiru): Kakeru Kurahara, a former track star, is looking for a place to live after losing his apartment deposit at a mahjong parlor. Luckily, he runs into Haiji Kiyose, a boy who goes to his university, who offers him a spot at his apartment. Little does Kakeru know, Haiji’s apartment is full of other university students who are all members of the Kansei University track team! The story follows the quietly devious Haiji as he tries to get the boys to become a nationally recognized team by running the Hakone Ekiden, an extremely long and grueling relay that none of the boys have ever trained for. This is one of my favorite sports anime ever. Don’t get it twisted, I hate running. I don’t like doing it, and I don’t like watching it in real life, but this anime had me in a chokehold. Animation? Amazing. Characters? A+. Music? Perfect. It’s hilarious. It’s relatable. It’s heartwarming. One of the absolute best sports anime out there.
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Welcome To The Ballroom: It’s a motherfucking ballroom dancing anime, and if you didn’t think ballroom dancing could be hype as shit, THINK AGAIN! The animation is great, and I never realized how much actually goes into the world of ballroom dancing. There’s not really much more I can say. High school boy discovers the cutthroat world of competitive ballroom dance. Drama ensues. Just ignore everyone’s oddly long necks.
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And speaking of dancing…
Dance Dance Danseur: Okay, this one isn’t quite in a sports competition setting, but I still consider it a sports anime. All his life, Junpei Murao has suppressed his interest in ballet, choosing to follow his father’s path for him in the more “manly” martial art of Jeet Kune Do instead. But when he realizes the girl he likes is a highly skilled ballerina, he hardly says no when she recruits him to train at her mom’s ballet studio. The show follows Junpei as he must balance these two worlds and become a ballet master while dealing with the divisive image of “masculinity.” My only real critique is that Junpei is kind of annoying, and I was actually much more invested in the other characters. There is a big message about the horrors of the competitive ballet world that I didn't think it would dive into.
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Overtake: Another show from 2023 that was terribly overlooked. In this anime, we follow disgraced photographer Kouya Madoka, who falls in love with the fast paced world of Formula 4 racing after watching high schooler Asahina Haruka. However, Madoka failed to realize that Haruka’s racing crew, Komaki Motors, is drowning in bills and underfunded as hell. So of course when he finds out, Madoka takes it upon himself to support Komaki Motors himself and get Haruka a place on the podium. This was such a great drama! Each character is so fleshed out and completely relatable. Even the antagonists! Hell, especially the antagonists. There is a great balance of drama and humor that make this feel like it could easily be a Hollywood movie. The longer you watch, the more you root for Komaki Motors and want to see everyone succeed. Madoka is best boy!
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And last but certainly not least…
Tsurune: In this anime, we follow Minato Narumiya, a former kyudo (Japanese martial art that involves archery) prodigy who wanted to quit the sport after an incident in a middle school tournament. However, after encountering a mysterious archer one day, Minato ends up joining his high school Kyudo team, despite his fear of failing at the sport again. It’s Free with archery, except there are also girls on the team! It has so many good themes about perseverance and found family and getting in your own head. And there is a massive amount of homosexual undertones. Not to mention it’s made by Kyoto Animation, so you know it’s one of the most beautifully animated shows I’ve ever seen.
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I just wanted to add a few honorable mentions too…
Cheer Danshi: A university boys cheerleading anime. I had problems with the pacing, but I still had fun with it.
Ryman’s Club: An odd blend of office anime with a badminton anime. I really liked this, but it’s sort of half sports anime, half The Office. But it’s the only thing on this list that features actual working adults and not students.
Megalo Box: I don’t know if it counts as “underappreciated” but this was a fantastic show all around. It’s a gritty, down to earth, sort of sci-fi take on the fictional sport of Megalo Boxing (boxing with enhanced mechanical arms). 
Ping Pong the Animation: Look, I’m going to be honest. I didn’t really like this show very much, but apparently I’m the odd one out because this is an underground favorite of the sports anime community, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t include it. It’s one part ping pong, two parts character drama.
Birdie Wing: Golf Girls’ Story: I couldn’t leave this out of the list. It’s the wildest golf anime you could ever imagine. There are lesbians. There are snake ladies. There are underground golfing yakuza. No amount of explanation can do it justice. Grab an age appropriate beverage and watch it.
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matchpointfaist · 6 months ago
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twilight - art donaldson
;; tashi always had everything, including art. 
cw; infidelity, emotional abuse, sexual content, lots of angst, mentions of suicide, injury, tashi is evil hehe
word count; 9.1k
stanford, 2007    -
“did patrick tell you he’s coming to my match next week?” 
your voice pulled art out of his thoughts, bringing him back to your lunch together. 
it had been this way for weeks now. same exact spot, same conversation, but nothing ever changes. art still found himself waiting, searching desperately for a change, just a slight break in the usual conversation, the usual emotions. the same jealousy rose within him at your every mention of patrick zweig. the two of them had been inseparable since childhood, though an invisible string of competition had always run through their friendship. competition over girls, over tennis, over grades. 
girls had always favored patrick, with his cocky grins and unpredictable attitude. art wondered, bitterly, if he’d ever manage to make it out of patrick’s shadow. when they met you, six months prior, the shadow swallowed art whole, all your light shining on patrick. a bitter reminder of all the pent up resentment art had formed over the decade.
art brings himself back to the present, sighing at your question. he feels the pathetic, yearning look in his eyes as he focuses on you once again, feels how sad he must look. if the sports commentators could see him now; art donaldson, stanford star, crying over his best friend’s girlfriend. “no, he didn’t, but that’s great,” he says unenthusiastically, “i’m kinda surprised you two are still seeing each other,” he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, biting his lip forcefully. guilt bubbles in his stomach, but he forces it down, as always. relationships are like tennis, at times, he reminds himself. and art always plays to win. 
your brows furrow, your posture straightening defensively, “why are you surprised? i thought you’d be happy for us, art,” he almost laughs, but stops himself, picturing the hurt on your face if he did. he pauses, feeling like he’s backed himself into a corner, and finally says, “you know i want you to be happy,” “and what about patrick?” you ask, surprised at his hesitation to include his best friend. 
“patrick’s happy, i guess,” art says spitefully, hoping you can’t detect it in his voice, “he’s on tour, traveling the world, playing tennis, all things he loves. what more could he want?” “and he has me,” you say, hurt lacing your words at his lack of acknowledgement. the words strike him as if you had reached across the table and slapped him. 
“yeah, he has you,” he says, the bitterness impossible to ignore now, “i couldn’t forget that,” “art, what is going on with you?” you ask, leaning further towards him. he just stares blankly at you, unsure of how to even start. he flinches as you place your hand on his across the table, his heart rate increasing pathetically. your gentle, heartfelt touch snaps something inside of him. 
“you really want to know what’s wrong?” he asks, and you flinch in return at the harshness of his tone. “please,” “i’m jealous of patrick, okay? you got me, found out my big secret,” he snaps, taking an unsteady breath. his eye twitches as he looks at your hand laying over his, resentment like acid on his tongue. “jealous?” you ask, confusion lacing your voice, “of his touring? i thought you didn’t want to go pro until after school,” art scoffs, shaking his head, “i’m not jealous of the touring and you know that, come on,""of what then? i don’t get it,” you tell him, desperate to understand what’s bothering him.
“he has something i want, it’s nothing new,” he says, fighting to keep his voice calm, “i’ll grow up and get over it, you don’t have to worry about it,” “something you want?” you’re even more confused now, “what, art? you play, too, arguably better than he does. you have money, you have excellent grades, your girlfriend is fucking tashi duncan,” he can’t tell if he imagines the poision in your tone as you spit out her name. “yeah, i have all of that, so i’ll be fine,” he says, his breathing growing more erratic. “what is it, then? really, i just want to understand. i promise you i won’t tell patrick,” you assure him, your tone low. he studies your face, accepting this could be the last time he has you like this, all to himself. 
“it’s you, okay? it’s you, it’s been you,” he pushes up from the table, not sure if he’ll be able to control himself when he sees your reaction, whatever it may be, “and i’m so, so deeply sorry to tell you that. you have no idea how sorry i am,” your eyebrows pull together, your head clouded, “art, wait, sit down. you cannot be serious,” “i can’t sit here and listen to you tell me it’s a horrible thing to do, or i’m a horrible friend, or you don’t feel the same. i won’t subject myself to it. please, please don’t tell patrick,” he says, his jaw set, “he’d never look at me the same, and i can’t lose you both,” 
he stalks out of the dining hall, and you follow him like a lost puppy, trying your very best to hold in tears. “art, stop,” you plead, catching up to him just outside, “does tashi know this?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re completely insane, “absolutely not. tashi would ruin my fucking career,” he laughs sadly, “there’s nothing to come of it, so i’m keeping my mouth shut,” “how long has it been?” you ask softly. “jesus, now you want details,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “it’s been six months,” he says, cringing at how pathetic he knows he sounds. “art, it’s been six months since we met,” “yeah, i know, alright? i might as well get it all out now. i knew when i saw you, i just could tell, you’re so,” he makes a sound like he’s being strangled quietly, “patrick wanted you, alright? he’s my best friend,” your chest tightens as his voice breaks, guilt and regret welling up into tears in your eyes. 
“i wish you’d told me,” you said softly, “i really, really wish i’d known,” “it wouldn’t have changed anything. you’re with patrick, i’m with tashi, i’ll grow out of it,” he insists, disregarding the pain obvious in his voice. “i won’t,” you all but whisper. “won’t what?” he asks, eyes finally meeting yours. “i won’t grow out of it, art,” you tell him, heart breaking all over again as his eyes open wider. “what are you saying?” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, “please, i can’t do this if you’re not serious,” “if you’d told me, i would have turned him down,” you admit, shame burning in your stomach, “you were always so set on tashi, i thought,” “i only asked tashi out because i couldn’t handle seeing patrick parading you around anymore,” he sighs, “i don’t love her, i respect her so much as a tennis player, as a friend, but i have never been in love with tashi,” 
“we can’t talk about this here,” you say, only now taking the time to notice the hoard of fellow students walking past you, “come to my room?” he glances at his watch, running his hands through his hair roughly when he sees the time, “i have training in fifteen minutes. tonight?” you nod, hope filling your thoughts, “tonight.” he hugs you tightly, hoping it appears as a friendly gesture to anyone around you, and you nearly sob as you feel his tears in your hair. “we’ll sort it all out tonight,” 
you waited for hours for art to show up, to make it all alright. by midnight, you’d given up, a hollow sort of pain forming in your chest at the realization that he probably regretted his admission. patrick would be arriving for your match in eight hours, and all you could do was cry over his best friend. you thought about texting him, asking if he just got caught up at practice, asking why he didn’t come to you. the fear of tashi seeing the message, of thinking you’d arranged something to hurt her, of her telling patrick and ruining their friendship, stopped you in your tracks. you were asleep by two am, and art’s knock on your door never came. 
the next day, you woke up to patrick’s rough knock on your door, disturbing you from your restless sleep. “coming,” you called, willing yourself not to cry at the sight of him, and opened the door slowly. he stood there, goofy grin on his face, duffel bag in his hand. “good morning, sleepyhead,” he said teasingly, entering your dorm, “guess who i saw this morning,” you rubbed your eyes, caught off guard by his sudden energy, “who?” “art! it was so funny, i pulled into the visitors lot and he was there, running laps,” your heart contracted, and you forced a casual smile onto your face, laughing halfheartedly, “you know how art likes to condition,” you just prayed it sounded natural. 
you prepared for your match, averting your eyes when you passed tashi on her walk to the men's locker room, undoubtedly to coach art on his game. ever since her injury, she was intensive in her treatment of him. she spent thirty minutes before the match hyping him up, reviewing strategy, scolding him. if he lost the match, he was met with hours of cold shoulders, berating, and complete neglect of his exhaustion. if he won, he was allowed a short reprieve, only to be met with reviewing what he could have hypothetically done better. you pitied him endlessly. 
you sat in the locker room for the entirety of the men’s matches, desperately trying to avoid art. when your set started, you stupidly looked into the crowd, hoping for your normal routine of waving to art, tashi, and patrick. you were met with an intense, judgemental stare from tashi, a brief thumbs up from patrick, and an earth shattering, pitiful gaze from art. you lost your first match of the season. 
after your match, you avoided them at all costs. you headed straight to the locker room, taking your time showering off and redressing, gathering all your things. after half an hour, tashi enters the room, stopping your breath instantly. “patrick sent me to see what was taking so long,” she says, and you’re taken back, like always, at the smooth confidence of her voice. “just taking my time getting everything together since i don’t have anymore matches this week,” you lie easily, swinging your bag over your shoulder, “i’ll be out in five,” she nods, starting out of the room, before turning back to eye you. “not everything is a game,” she says, her voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “i’m sorry?” you say, face flushed completely. she just shakes her head and leaves you alone with your thoughts.
you silently pray art and tashi have left, that you’ll only find patrick left in the stands when you exit the locker room, nearly sighing in relief when your prayers are answered. patrick sits alone, observing the next match that’s gone on, smiling as he sees you. “good match,” he praises, but you know it’s a total lie. “yeah, not good enough to win it,” you say bitterly, avoiding his hands when he reaches for you. “still, you played well. first lose of the season, i’ll take it,” he smiles, and your heart aches at his support, knowing you were confessing your love for art only one day prior. 
“art and tash are meeting us off campus for dinner,” he tells you. you stop in your tracks, turning to look at him with wide eyes, “patrick, i really don’t feel up to it,” he rolls his eyes, throwing his arm over your shoulder, “you’ll be fine, you’re just feeling bad because you lost. i’m only in town tonight, i’d like to see my friends and my girlfriend,” his use of the term makes you cringe, but you just nod, accepting it. 
your entire afternoon leading up to the dinner is spent filled with anxiety, trying to dodge patrick’s attempts at affection, and desperately trying to figure out what you’ll even say to art. at six pm, patrick tells you to hurry and get ready, irritating you even further. you put on a simple black dress, more concerned for your facial expressions than your outfit, and agree to meet the other couple at art’s car. 
patrick, almost immediately upon getting into the car, enters an irritatingly fast paced conversation with tashi about strategy, leaving you to sit awkwardly listening to their debate. it was like this, most times, when they really got going about tennis. it wasn’t that patrick was particularly passionate about strategy or rules, you swore he just enjoyed riling her up, and she enjoyed yelling at him without fear of having to deal with his emotions. it worked out perfectly, almost like they were the ones made for each other. 
at dinner, you try not to snap as art pulls out tashi’s chair, the perfect, sweet boyfriend. he sits across from you, avoiding your eyes, and tashi casts sideways glances at you, confusing you further. had you imagined it all? had art never announced his love for you, never promised to come to your room, to fix it all? you tell yourself you must have, the blatant lie easier to admit than the glaring truth. “baby, i was telling tash that i’m gonna be touring again next year,” patrick’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “and i was wondering if she’d coach me. that’s what this dinner was for, honestly,” you pause, turning towards him, “tashi coach you on tour? where did that come from?” you were genuinely shocked, neither of them had ever mentioned anything about this. 
“we’ve been texting about it,” she replied for him, fixing her cool eyes on you, “it would be a good move for patrick’s career. i’ll be taking over as his travel coach, effective in two months,” you subconsciously look at art, wondering how he’s taking this, only to find his gaze fixed on patrick, betrayal evident in his eyes. “pat, you said you were taking a break from touring,” you said, turning back to your boyfriend, “what happened to that?” “tash thinks it’s best for my career if i keep the momentum up, people lose interest if you take a year off,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “well art, are you excited to tour?” you ask, braving the dreaded moment of speaking to him directly. he looks up, startled, “i’m not touring, what do you mean?” “i figured since your girlfriend was going with patrick, you’d just leave school. wasn’t the plan always to go pro after college, anyway?” 
for the second time that night, tashi answered for the boys, almost challenging you with her glare, “art’s not ready to go pro. his footing needs work, as well as his serve. he’s winning against college kids, but that doesn’t mean anything in the real world,” “the real world? i’m sorry, tashi, did art not win the junior US open, same as patrick?”  you snap, feeling your face get hot. “patrick is showing more promise than art at this time,” she said, her calm, condescending tone furthering your anger. “last i checked, art’s stats are more consistent than patrick’s. you push art to his limits, and then punish him when he doesn’t perform,” “i don’t want to hear this shit from someone losing matches to a fucking freshman,” she seethes. “oh, whatever, tashi. i lost one fucking match. sorry we can’t all be the duncinator,” you scoff, standing from your chair with shaky legs, “fuck this, i’m calling a cab back to campus. patrick, i’ll put your bag in the hall,”
not one of them tries to stop you from leaving, no one chases you from the restaurant, no one even calls your name. your hands shake with anger as you dial a taxi, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk as you wait. your phone screen lights up, and your pulse rises even higher as art’s contact photo is displayed on the screen. “hello?” you answer, confused by his phone call. “i couldn’t come after you, i’m in the bathroom, i left them at the table,” he says quietly, his voice thin, “i didn’t know about the tour. i promise i would’ve told you,” “i waited for you all night,” you tell him weakly, trying to hold it together, “i don’t give a fuck about the tour, i don’t care what either of them do. i care about you, art, she’s so fucking mean to you,” “i’m so sorry i didn’t come. i can’t explain now, but i will, i promise. i have to go, please be safe,” and he hangs up before you could even say goodnight.
you’re restless when you get back to your dorm, too busy rolling over your brief phone call to sleep. 
it crossed your mind on the short taxi ride home that maybe there was something more going on with patrick and tashi, besides coaching. you wished, bitterly, that they’d fall in love on the tour, leave you and art alone, right all the wrongs made by the four of you. that was never tashi’s style, though, to fall in love with anything but tennis. least of all a man she couldn’t control. 
in the back of your mind, you thought of the pain on art’s face when he heard the news, and your anger only burned hotter. ten years of friendship, and patrick still didn’t have the consideration to tell art anything. your ever present resentment for tashi only grew. the things you would do for art, the way you’d be so good to him, completely wasted on her. eventually, you slept, another restless night taking you. 
you woke to three texts from patrick, ‘i thought you were kidding about putting my bag in the hall. what the fuck, babe?’ then, ‘you didn’t have to freak out about the tour, honestly. tash knows what she’s doing, and it’s being wasted on art, you know that.’, and finally, ‘we should talk in the morning. tash thinks you’re a distraction, with you acting like this about my career and all. just call me’. 
you seethe, almost laughing at the irony of the situation. surely she sees how ridiculous it is, to need to have this hold on both of them. ‘nothing to talk about, then. if your “coach” thinks i’m a distraction, you should probably get rid of me, yeah? she’ll make you do it eventually, anyway, when she gets bored of art completely. have fun on tour, zweig.’ you hit send before you can talk yourself out of it, before you find out that he extended his trip, that he’s downstairs in the dining hall reading your texts to art. 
you went downstairs, skipping breakfast and going straight for the court, your appetite diminished by your anger. it was seven am, and thankfully you had the court to yourself, serving practice shots into the fence in an attempt to channel your still climbing emotions. you thought again of art’s face, his stricken expression, of tashi’s calm, methodological expression. the taut wire in your mind snapped, and you threw your racket down roughly, nearly screaming with frustration. you sat there, sunk to your knees, your thought too loud to hear footsteps approaching on the pavement. 
“if you’d channel that into your game, you wouldn’t lose again,” tashi’s voice cut through the breeze, and you snapped your eyes up to meet hers. “what the fuck are you doing here, tashi? last night wasn’t enough?” “jesus, you’re dramatic. i saw you hitting to the fence, i brought my racket so i could get in some practice since you’re already down here. hate me too much to serve to me?” a terrible thought crossed your mind, the secret joy you’d get from serving to her when last you checked, she couldn’t even go after the ball, “sure, i’ll serve,” 
as it turns out, tashi had healed up much better than she was letting on. she was able to keep up with most of your swings, grunting quietly when she put too much weight on her leg, but keeping up nonetheless. it only fueled your anger, seeing her persevere like this, just to prove a point. you let your anger get the best of you, swinging particularly hard, subconsciously aiming for her knee, but she somehow managed to deflect it, hurling the ball back to you. you jumped for it, desperate to win now, so caught up in your intensity that your footing faltered. for the first time in your tennis career, you tripped over your own feet, falling from your jump directly onto your right wrist. 
you hit the ground with a startling snap, immediately screaming, feeling the delicate bones give way to the weight of your fall. you hear yourself screaming like it’s through someone else’s ears, not recognizing the carnal agony coming from your chest. “tashi,” you gasp, “please call someone, it’s broken,” you force your eyes open from their squeezed shut position, your vision spotty from pain, just to see her smug face, standing right over you. she smirks, even as she calls for the campus medic, even as you sob. 
she squats down, kneeling by your head, stroking your hair soothingly. her tone is cloyingly sweet, and she leans ever closer, “i saw you aim for my fucking leg. i told you, not everything’s a game,” she strokes your arm, her smirk widening slightly, “you can have art. i’ll be nice, since your career’s over,” in one quick, fluid motion, she presses all of her weight onto your broken wrist, pushing herself into a standing position. a guttural scream tears its way from your throat and your vision gets almost entirely white, “tashi, please,” you sob. she cuts you off, “the medics will be here in just a minute. get yourself together, you know how spectators like to flock when they see commotion,” 
you lay on the cold court, sobs racking your body as the emt asks you what happened, as they help you stand, as they slide you into a wheelchair, pushing you to the medical building. you think of the look in tashi’s eyes, in the pure hatred on her face. you cry for what she must have felt like when she suffered her own injury, for the loss of her career, her passion. you nearly scream for the loss of your own, your life’s work, over in one stumble. you’d never be able to play with your left hand, far too late in your life to teach yourself to be ambidextrous. you can do nothing but brace yourself for the x-rays, for the final say on your recovery time. 
the doctor on staff gives you a mild sedative to keep you calm, and soon you find yourself dozing off on the table as you wait for them to return with your imaging. a doctor comes in after a long, dragging hour, smiling softly at you. 
you stare at the manila folder he holds, almost laughing at this stranger holding your fate in his hands. “are you gonna tell me there’s good news and bad news?” you joke dryly, your throat raw from your prior screams. “i’m afraid there’s not much good news here,” he tells you, his tone gentle, “you shattered your radius, ulna, and completely tore your dorsal ligaments. we’re sending you out for surgery within the hour, at palo alto regional medicine. they’ll place two rods for your radius and ulna, you’ll get stitched up, and you’ll have a stint and brace for, ideally, six months,” your face falls at his words, “then what?” “well, i can’t say for sure. after six months, you should be able to return to low motion, gentle activities, like writing and brushing your hair. after a year, most patients see roughly half of their previous dexterity,” “and my tennis?” he looks at you, his eyes full of pity, “the full recovery rate for an injury this severe is less than twenty percent. with the intense, repeated motion of your sport, i don’t see you being able to make a full return. it’s just a question of your range of motion at the time of your recovery, and how well the rods and pins set in your wrist. if you exacerbate it, you run a high risk of doing much more damage in the  long run,” 
you lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. you think of the feeling when you won your first game, a juniors match when you were only six. you think of your first tennis coach, of your first trophy, of your first loss. you think of tashi’s screams when she broke her leg, of your own when she further broke your wrist. you think of the first time you saw art and patrick, fire and ice, of the way they played, the way art came alive on the court. you think, finally, of the way you’ll never feel alive, in that way, again. 
the doctor’s voice pulls you from your reverie, “there’s people here to see you, just outside. would you like me to invite them in?” “who?” you ask, voice weak. “art donaldson and a patrick zweig,” you just nod in response, figuring now is as good a time as any. “you’ll make a great recovery,” the doctor tells you, heading for the door, “i’ll be back within the hour to help move you to the ambulance. it’s outpatient, so be sure to have someone ready to drive you home,” 
he opens the door, and you suck in a breath as you hear both the boys’ voices. you close your eyes once again, unable to look at them, to see the inevitable pity they must have all over their faces. art is the first to your side, and you flinch as he places his hand on your leg gently, “are you okay? tashi told patrick what happened, got here as soon as i heard but they wouldn’t let us in,” he rushes out, your heart clenching with every crack in his voice. “dude, obviously she’s not okay, she broke her fucking wrist,” patrick’s voice startles you, your eyes snapping open, all the anger from the previous night rushing back. “get out,” you bite, glaring at him. his eyes haze over with confusion, “me?” “yes, patrick, get out,” you repeat, your teeth gritting subconsciously, “i thought you were already gone.” 
“i stayed to say bye to art, and to go over some things with tashi,” your breath falters at her name, “patrick, get the fuck out,” “i just wanted to check on you-” “patrick, she said get the fuck out!” art yells, his face red, surprising the both of you. patrick throws his hands up defensively, shaking his head, “whatever, i don’t need this,” 
you sigh with relief when he walks out the door, your body relaxing as much as you can manage. “what did the doctor say?” art asked timidly, eyes focused sharply on your contorted wrist. you haven’t been able to look at it, to survey the damage for yourself, this entire time. “i won’t play again,” you tell him, eyes straight ahead, “they’ll take me in for outpatient surgery, i’ll have a stint and brace for six months. there’s less than a twenty percent chance of full recovery,” “i’m so sorry,” he whispers, his tone so soft it hurts, “what happened? i’ve never seen you fall,” 
your mind raced, the events replaying rapidly, “i lost my footing on a lunge, it was my fault. me and tashi were just hitting casually, and i just missed it somehow,” “you and tashi? she told me she was just walking by and saw you,” your eyes snap to him, eyebrows raised, “she said that?” “yeah, said she went for a walk this morning and heard you scream and saw you. she said you were in the court alone?” “huh. well, okay,” you laugh bitterly, “whatever she says, then,” “did she do this?” “no, she didn’t fucking do this,” you snap, guilt immediately burning in your chest, “i did it to myself, she just happened to be there.” he nods, flinching only slightly at your tone, and trains his gaze on your wrist once again. “did you look?” he asks quietly. 
your face burns, eyes welling with tears, “no, can’t make myself,” “you’re gonna have to look eventually,” he said,  the hand he’d placed on your leg rubbing small circular motions now, as if to soothe you. you nod, knowing realistically he’s right. “can you go over there? i can’t look in front of you,” you admit, humiliation burning in your stomach. “yeah, of course,” he nods, crossing the room quickly. 
you hold your breath as you force your eyes down to your wrist, gasping as you take in just how mangled it is. your bones are visible, jutting out under your thin skin, and the inside of your palm is completely raw and skinned from the impact of your fall. “oh my god,” you sob, your chest heaving. art rushes back to your side, concern ever present in his face, “what? is the medication wearing off? what is it?” “it’s so ugly,” you sob, your uninjured hand clinging to his shirt, “it’s over, art, i’m never gonna play again,” his hands come down to your hair, running his hands through it soothingly, “it’s gonna be okay, i promise, even if you don’t play again, you’ll be alright,” 
the weight of the last three days collapses onto you, art’s confession, patrick’s betrayal, tashi’s smirk. the sound of your wrist snapping replays in your ears, and you bury your head into art’s shirt, desperately searching for an escape. your entire body shakes with the forcefulness of your cries, and you will it to stop, feeling pathetic enough as it is. you remember the shame you felt when art didn’t show up, the feeling of waiting for him, and almost laugh at how much worse this is. 
you pull away from his chest, looking up at him and wiping your tears roughly, “you never came,” you manage to choke out. he cringes at the memory, his eyes going to the floor instead of resting on your own. “i couldn’t,” he said quietly, “tashi found out, one of her friends overheard us arguing, she said if i left her, embarrassed her, she’d ruin both of our careers. i feel like such an idiot now, my career doesn’t fucking matter, i should’ve let her. she says i won’t make it without her as my coach, anyway, so her stunt with patrick was her way of getting back at me regardless. i thought i could buy us more time, make her see that i wasn’t happy, that this was the right thing. she just had me so convinced, she said she’d coach someone to compete against you,” you laugh angrily, your breath heaving, “even if she did, it wouldn’t have ruined my career. she forgets i beat her when she was still competing. art, you should’ve told me, i don’t care about that shit. she was going to leave with patrick anyway,” “i didn’t know that,” he said desperately, “i didn’t know until that dinner, i had no idea or i would’ve-” you cut him off, pressing your lips to his in a moment of frenzied weakness. 
you can taste your own tears on his lips, salt and heat and his mint gum, and a choked sob leaves you even as you kiss him. the realization that you’ve wasted six months, spent six months in love with him, six months settling, six months afraid of tashi. he pulls away from you, eyebrows knit, cheeks red, “please don’t kiss me to get over him,” you flinch, rejection slapping you in the face, confusion following, “get over him? art, i’m not, there’s nothing to get over,” “you broke up with him, he told me,” he said, his eyes welling up with tears now. “i broke up with him because i’m fucking in love with you, art,” you sob, “please don’t do this, don’t turn me away,” his hands come to the side of your face, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb as they fall, “i’m not turning you away, please don’t take it that way, i just need to be sure,” you press your lips to his again, rougher this time, trying desperately to make him understand. 
before he has the chance to pull away, the doctor re-enters the room, startling the two of you apart. “i’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, laughing briefly, “i’m just here to take you out to the ambulance, they’ll take you to the surgery center,” you nod, mentally preparing yourself as best you could. he looks to art, whose face is blushed fully, “you wanna ride with her? they’ll let one person in the back,” art looks at you, eyebrows raised. “i need someone to drive me home from the procedure,” you recall, “you might have to meet us there?” “i’ll call a taxi,” he said, shaking his head, “i’m not leaving you,” 
the doctor rolls you out to the ambulance, and you nearly cry again at the sight of it, at the hopelessness you feel. you sit in the back, art holding your good hand soothingly, the entire way to the surgical center. neither of you speak, except for art’s constant check ins, but you feel so much more soothed knowing he’s right here, that he didn’t leave. 
the surgery is fairly quick, the doctors expertly working to insert the rods and tightening the pins. you keep your eyes focused on a stain on the wall the entire time, trying your best to escape inside your mind, to anywhere but here. you think of how different everything would be now if you’d just told art how you felt, about your blossoming, childlike crush you’d developed, if you’d rejected patrick. you think again of tashi’s pain, of her devastating injury, of the parallels of your lives now. her words echo in your head, ‘not everything is a game.’ you wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s hearing her sobs echo through her head, too. you wonder, most of all, if she really believes you would’ve stolen art from her, if she really ever thought he was hers. 
when they finish the surgery, setting your brace and writing your pain prescription, they tell you to come back in six weeks for an exam. you agree warily, exhaustion overtaking you. art keeps his word, having a taxi ready when you’re discharged, and holds your good hand the entire way back to your dorm. he helps you get settled in bed, your eyes half lidded already, and his eyes linger on your lips. “the doctor said someone should stay with you tonight, make sure the medication doesn’t put you asleep too deeply or something like that,” he said, sitting at the edge of your bed, “do you want me to ask one of the girls on your hall or something?” you shake your head quickly, “can you stay?” his eyes soften, and he nods, “i’ll sleep on the floor. just wake me up if you need me, i’ll check on you every little while,” you agree meekly, too exhausted to argue that he could just sleep in your bed with you, and let yourself fall into sleep. 
you wake up with a gasp, your room pitch black, panic gripping you, heart pounding. art’s at your side within seconds, concern in his eyes, “are you hurt? what happened?” he whispers. “just a bad dream, i’m okay,” you tell him, calming down slowly, “can you maybe stay here? in my bed?”  his eyes soften and he nods, “i’ll be right here,” you fell back asleep to the sound of his breathing. 
you woke up several hours later, your heart dropping when you find art gone from your bed. you get up shakily, wrist aching, and search for your phone. you found it on your nightstand, with a text from art saying he went to get you breakfast and he’d be back as soon as he could. to pass time, you open your laptop, going to the stanford news page from habit. the first article is about your fall, and your heart dropped. ‘record breaking sophomore out indefinitely following major wrist injury’. tears pricked your eyes, and you scrolled on, your cheeks heating when you see an article about tashi. ‘stanford’s own, tashi duncan, announces plan to drop out and pursue coaching full time.’ you click read more, anger already simmering, and continue reading. ‘duncan was set to leave in november, but has announced she will now be joining up and coming pro player, patrick zweig of fire and ice, effective immediately. duncan previously coached stanford’s art donaldson, the other half of the aforementioned duo, but they have officially gone their separate ways.’
you slammed your laptop closed, going to take a shower, wash off the stress and the pain and the tension. you waterproofed your brace, allowing a few tears before forcing them down, stepping into the hot water. you scrubbed your skin, frustration building at the limited use of your left hand, and washed your hair, nearly moaning at the feeling of the water on your scalp. as you closed your eyes, rinsing out your shampoo, your bathroom door opened and you gasped, anxiety spiked.
“fuck, i’m so sorry,” art said, closing the door quickly, “i didn’t hear the shower and i couldn’t find you,” your face heated, but your heart rate slowed with relief of it just being art. “it’s okay,” you told him, “could you actually maybe help me? i’ll cover up, i’m just having a really hard time washing my hair,” “yeah, just tell me when to come in,” art replied, his voice muffled through the door. you sat down in the bathtub, pulling your knees up to your chest, “you can come in,” he entered slowly, and you heard his breath hitch when he saw you, his pupils dilated. “what do you need me to do?” he asked softly. “just need you to grab the showerhead and rinse my hair, and put in my conditioner and rinse that. i’m sorry, i was just having a hard time,” he kneeled down beside the tub, his sudden proximity making you suck in a breath, and grabbed the still running showerhead, letting the water fall over your hair. 
“please don’t apologize,” he choked out, “i’d help you with anything,” your face flushed, “i don’t want to have to depend on someone to wash my hair,” you told him, “not you or anyone. though i’m glad it’s you,” “i know it’s hard, but it’s not forever, i promise. i’ll be here to help as long as you need me,” he ran your conditioner through the ends of your hair gently, and you shivered at the feeling of his hands ghosting over your back. 
“tashi’s gone,” he said quietly, still combing his fingers through your hair, “she left this morning with patrick,” “i saw, i’m so sorry, art,” “it’s alright. she wasn't that great of a coach, she was a bad friend, and barely my girlfriend at all. and me and zweig are done. well, i guess all of us are done,” he laughed bitterly, his breath tickling your neck as he did. “it’s for the best, i’m sure,” you reassured, “you and patrick will make up eventually. he loves her, yknow? he’d do anything for her, i’m sure it was her idea. he settled for me because she was out of his league, and i can’t even be mad because i did the same thing,” his hands stilled in your hair, his breath hitching, “i should go,” you turned your neck to look at him, rejecting once again stinging you, “why?” “it’s too much, being in here like this, i can’t do it,” he said, averting his eyes from your gaze, “i’ll help you rinse, i just need to breathe for a second,” he turned to leave but stopped in his tracks when he heard you sniff, fresh tears falling to your cheeks. “please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. 
“we’ll never get it right, will we? is there too much history, too much damage?” you asked him, turning back to face the shower wall. he sunk back to his knees beside the tub, his hand coming to your shoulder, “i can’t stay in here because the sight of you, and the smell of your shampoo in this room and being so close to you, i can’t-” he made a sort of strangled noise, reminding you of the day he confessed his feelings, “you’re hurting and i have to pull myself together and i’m trying so hard but i just have all this need for you and it’s choking me,” 
you blushed, turning back to face him, “i’m not going to break, art. you don’t have to keep it all to yourself,” “this isn’t the time for me to be having thoughts like this,” he said, still not looking directly at you, “i’m being so selfish and i’m so sorry,” “art,” you reached your uninjured hand out to touch his face gently, “i’ve wanted this for so long, for you to have any kind of thoughts about me at all, and now you’re here in my bathroom and you have me, and you could take me if you wanted,”  he hissed out a breath, “please, please don’t say that. i’m barely holding myself together, this isn’t the right time,” “i’m the one who’s injured and i’m telling you it’s the right time, there’s never been a time, i’m here and i’m willing and i’m hopeful and i’ve been in love with you for six months and they finally left, art, it’s just us here alone and i’m telling you, please, just be with me,” 
something seemed to snap in him, his eyes darkening and his breath getting slightly rougher, “let me help you up,” he said, his tone gentle despite the obvious need all over his expression. you nodded, turning off the water and relaxing into him as he pulled you up by your arm, careful not to let you slip. you blushed at the stark difference between the two of you, your still naked body compared to him fully clothed. he looked away, still ever the gentlemen, and wrapped you in a towel, walking you back to your bedroom. 
you laid down slowly, careful to avoid your wrist, your towel draped over your torso. “you look like a painting,” art said quietly, eyeing you from three feet away. you laugh softly, rolling your eyes, “you don’t have to lay it on extra thick because i’m injured,” he crossed the room to join you on the bed, resting a hand on your calf, “i’m not laying it on. you’re so beautiful,”  “art,” you say, attempting to capture a million emotions in one word. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he trailed his finger along your calf muscle, edging closer to your thigh, “you’re so strong, so inspired,” you nearly moan at his feather light touch, combined with the soft intensity of his words, “come here,” 
“i’m taking my time,” he said, massaging your thigh gently, “i want to take all the time in the world with you, make up for all we lost,” you let out a shaky breath, watching his hand work the tension from your muscles, “all we have is time now,” “doesn’t stop me from wanting to savor this. do you know how long i’ve thought of this? how many nights i spent tossing and turning in bed, your voice clouding my thoughts,  picturing touching you, making you understand just how much i care for you,” his breath shutters, “how much i think of you, how much i love you. i could spend the rest of my life telling you, showing you, how i’ve felt. you don’t understand, but you will,” 
you watched him through heavy eyes, biting your lip as he slowly parted your thighs, leaning closer to you. your towel was pushed in the floor by art’s roaming hands, which made a temporary home on your hips, pulling you down the bed, even closer to him. his breath fanned against you, your thighs parting farther, opening up for him. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned quietly, and you gasped as he leaned in, licking a stripe up your clit. “art, oh my god,” you sighed, your hands desperately searching for hold of his hair. he held onto your hips, holding you still as his tongue dove into you, lapping at you frenziedly. 
your back arched into his touch, loud pants leaving your mouth. “you taste so fucking good,” he moaned into your skin, his nails digging softly into your thighs. “art, please come kiss me,” you begged, dizzy from the pleasure and needy for his lips on your own. he complied hesitantly, pulling himself away from you and pressing wet kisses up your stomach until he found his lips on yours. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, moaning into the kiss at the taste of your own cunt on his lips. 
he ran his hands up and down your sides, desperate, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped touching you for even a second. he slowly pulled away from your kiss, placing small, gentle bites down the side of your neck. “can feel your heartbeat,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, “do i make you that excited?” he didn’t sound cocky, more genuinely curious, flattered even. “yes,” you whimper, “want you so badly, art. want you to be a part of me,” 
he groaned, from deep in his chest, pausing his kisses only to pull off his own shorts. “are you sure this is what you want, right now?” he asked, looking into your eyes with a slightly concerned expression. “yes, i promise i’m sure,” you nodded without hesitation, reaching for him again. he leaned into your touch, kissing you roughly, passionately, like he was starving for it. 
without breaking away from you, he lined himself up between your thighs with shaky hands, hesitating before he made any movements. “gonna go slow,” he said softly, kissing your jawline and running his free hand through your hair, “can’t, don’t know how long i’ll last,” you titled your head back to look at him, taking in his disheveled state. he looked like he was barely holding himself together, pushing at the edge of his restraint. “i’m not gonna break, art,” you reassured him, your left hand sliding between the two of you, positioning his leaking tip just on the edge of your cunt, “give it to me,” he moaned at the slight touch of your hand, obeying and sliding into you in one fluid motion. 
you nearly screamed, kissing him to shut yourself up, to occupy your mouth that so desperately wanted to let go and scream his name. his pace was erratic, six months of longing, of fantasizing about this. he leaned back, his forehead against yours as he thrust into you, “tell me it wasn’t like this with patrick,” he choked out, “please, need to hear you say it,” “it wasn’t like this with him, art, only you,” you moaned, his possessiveness adding to your pleasure, basking in how fraught he was at the thought of you with patrick. “never fucked tashi like this,” he groaned, pounding into you, “never felt this good, always pictured your face,” you buried your face in his shoulder, biting down gently, muffling your moans. 
“not gonna last,” he breathed, leaning down to wrap his lips around one of your nipples, sucking needily. “want you to cum for me, wanna keep you inside,” you told him, even closer at the thought of him spilling out of you. he grabbed your hips, positioning himself even deeper. his thrusts grew sloppier, more desperate, his moans turning into whines of your name as he twitched inside you, spilling into you. 
“fuck, fuck it’s so good,” he mewled, slowing down as he rode out his orgasm, his eyes on the two of you joined together, “so good, oh my god,” he panted against you, your chests heaving, and pulled out slowly, leaving you gasping at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “did you cum?” he asked, his fingers tracing your clit. “no, almost did, but it’s okay, just lay-” 
before you could finish, tell him you didn’t even need to, his mouth was on your cunt again. you could feel his cum seeping out of you, into his open, wanting mouth, and you came almost immediately just from the feeling of it paired with his slow laps against your clit. “oh my god,” you breathed, pulling him back up to you hastily, pulling him down into a kiss. 
you could taste the both of you on his mouth, growing dizzy at the taste, at the thought of what he’d done for you, at his devotion to your pleasure. he rolled onto his side, his arm slung over your hips, catching his breath. “was that everything you dreamed of?” you asked, half teasingly, half curious. “i could’ve never dreamed of just how good it would feel,” he sighed, kissing your shoulder, “i don’t have words. like you were made for me,” 
“maybe i was,” you smiled, kissing his cheek, “we just got a little lost on the way,��� he smiled sleepily, nodding and pulling you up onto his lap. you laid your head on his chest, just above his heart, closing your eyes blissfully at the feeling of his warm skin against your cheek. “not gonna know what to do now, having you all to myself like this,” he told you. “mm, i think we should just enjoy it, god knows we earned it,” you laughed sadly, “i wanted to talk to you, not now, but sometime, just go over everything that’s happened, i guess,” 
“we can talk now, might as well get it all out in the open. what’d you want to know?” “what was going on with you and tashi? and you and patrick, even. i don’t understand the dynamics,” his breath hitched, but he kept his hand on your back reassuringly as he answered you, “me and tashi were just, i don’t even know what to call it. we weren’t in love, weren’t even really friends, i guess. it started out just casual, but then her injury, and she wanted to coach me. she ran me ragged pretty quickly, just constant practicing and conditioning, and there were times when i was so tired, i just wanted to end it,” your eyes welled up at his words, “i don’t want to blame it all on her, but it was hell. it was just constant, and if i needed a break she’d just tell me what a fucking loser i was. i guess in a way, that was the only thing i loved about her. she told me what i already knew,” 
you sat up, staring down at him, confused, “what you already knew? art, you’re fucking incredible at tennis, come on now. you know you are,” “i’m not as good as patrick, never have been. i don’t mind it as much now, now that he’s pro and i’m here in my own bubble, but i know it in the back of my mind. why do you think i came to stanford? college was the one place i could escape competing against him,” “oh, art,” you said sadly, “you’re so talented, everyone can see it but you,” 
“patrick and i, i don’t know, he was my best friend, and then something changed, the competition got to be too much. he’d hold these over me, you, my emotions, my losses, whatever. he kissed me once, and when i kissed him back, he told me i was pathetic,” he laughed bitterly, “i didn’t even want to kiss him, i just didn’t want to disappoint him,” he stopped, the cracks in his voice becoming more frequent. 
“i’m so sorry,” you said, your chest aching at the sight of this beautiful boy, so eager to please, so misused, “they never should have put you through that, neither of them. they’re not real people, they’re just tennis players, just mean and spiteful and they’ll use people up, art. it’s not your fault,” “i know it’s not my fault they did it, but i let it happen, i guess. i’ll be fine, i’ll get past it, i promise. that’s it, though, all the complicated bits at least. i don’t want to think about that shit anymore,” 
“we don’t have to,” you promised him, cupping your face in your hands, “we’re past it, we’ll be alright, okay?” he nodded, pulling you down to him and kissing you softly. you stayed like that for a few minutes, slow, gentle kisses between the two of you, your hands still resting on his cheeks. 
he pulled himself away hesitantly, eyes going to your wrist, the bulky brace around it. “you’re gonna heal up, and i’m gonna spend all my free time helping you get your motion back, alright? if you want to play, i’ll help you play. if you don’t, i’ll support you, but i’m not giving up on you, injury or not. you’re the most passionate player i’ve ever seen, and this won’t put an end to it, i won’t sit by and let it, alright?”
you teared up, nodding and trying your best to hold your sob in. “thank you,” you whispered, overwhelmed with the gratitude and love you felt for him in this moment. “i’d do anything for you,” he promised, pulling you to his chest, stroking your hair until you fell into a restful sleep for the first time in days. 
205 notes · View notes
daphwritesworld · 2 months ago
Note
Don't know if you write for her but if you do could you write some bottom ella toone smut please?
Ella Toone x Teammate!Reader
content: pussy eating (R receiving), fingering (E receiving), dom/sub relationship, Top!Reader, Bottom!Ella
warnings: locker room sex, Ella being a tease, Ella pushing your buttons, grumpy morning reader, mirror kink?
synopsis: Ella ignores you during practice so you show her how you feel about it in the locker room.
word count: 2.0k
!! 18+ MINORS DNI !!
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From the second you two woke up this morning, you swear Ella’s had it out for you. She must’ve made it her singular mission today to push all your buttons. It started out with her not waking you up on time. She’d swore she’d wake you up early enough to get your run in if you stayed over last night…now 15 minutes late as you're throwing your bag into the trunk of her car and steal the keys from her hand.
“Hey! What do you think you're doing, big man?” She makes a face as she says it, titling her head to the side as her eyes squint.
“Baby, we don't have time for this. Get in the car, I’m driving today,” you say it as a sigh. Sleep still present in your face and voice as the grumpiness still hasn’t worn off…especiellay because you didn’t have time for your daily jog!
“No! It's my new car, and you’ve driven it more than me!” She’s starting to whine at you now, the pitch and attitude of her words changing at the drop of a hat.
“Ella, please just get in the car. I want to at least be able to stop and get some coffee before practice,” you close your eyes as you pinch the bridge of your nose. You’re really trying to stay calm, the morning monster inside of you burying itself as you hear her open the passenger door. A dramatic sigh of “Fiiiiiinnneee!” leaving her lips before she shuts it and waits on you inside.
And everything was okay after that, until you pulled into the parking lot of the training facility. She immediately hops out, running off with her friends as she leaves you to get both of your bags. And of course you'll do it without complaint, but she'd usually at least walk with you as you did. Always complimenting your muscles as she makes the same Popeye joke she does every time— and you still laugh at it every time, too. You catch up and set her bag strap on her shoulder, not even getting to see her face as she just grabs it and keeps walking ahead of you. She then decides today's a good day to team up Alessia, running off calling to her as she leaves you to find another partner for drills.
You team up with Lucy and things seem to be going pretty good for a while…until Ella decides to take her shirt off halfway through. The sweat glistening off her body catches the reflection of the sun like she's a made of fucking diamonds. You lick your lips, being met with a salty sheen covering your own face. And just for a second you imagine it's from running your tongue up her abs, tasting her skin as you peel her bottoms off. You'd fuck her right here in front of everybody if you could..suck on her her nipples through her sports bra as she grinds her pussy down onto your thigh, and mark her as yours for everyone to see. Make them watch as you break her apart and put her back together, like a puzzle you know by heart. But alas that's illegal— so you won't…but you sure as hell fixate on it for the rest of practice. Like fuel to a fire, pushing you to be better as you try and burn the image out of your head for the moment. You can never have a moment of peace with Ella around.
Then when you guys are in the locker room? You swear she's giving you those fuck me eyes under her eyelashes, but that could also be the ragging desire for her that's brewing inside of you fueling some delusion. You've spent hours now trying to ignore the absolute mess between your thighs, and you think it's finally starting to drive you crazy. So when you hear the last of the girls telling you guys goodnight, your heart starts to speed up. You know as soon as the door closes— you're pouncing. And pounce you do.
Within seconds after the last girl leaves the room, your hands are all over Ella's body. Pulling, groping, caressing…you name it and you're doing it. She's letting out little moans as you explore her body, arching herself into your touch as she reaches to pull the sports bra off her head. "Go ahead, baby, Lemme see you," you say as you start kissing down her neck.
She pulls the undergarment off and flings it across the room. Her hands come to gather in your hair as she tries to guide your head towards her nipples. You chuckle at that, leaning up to stare down at her with that smirk on your face. "You really think I'm gonna give it to you that easy? Oh no, baby. You've got to earn it this time," you say it between kisses on her chest. Then you pulling away as you start stripping yourself, folding your clothes and sitting them down on the bench. A stark contrast to Ella's messily thrown around the room. "On your knees, love."
So she slides down onto her knees, head shooting up as you walk in front of her. Your naked body standing above hers as you step a leg being her, your dripping wet pussy only inches away from her face now. "Be a good girl and clean me up, then maybe I'll think about letting you cum. Understand?"
She lets out a whine at that, biting her lip as she gets lost in a trance as your pussy twitches right in front of her. "Y-yeah. I understand!"
"Good. Now stick your tongue out and don't fucking move," you yank her head back into position by her ponytail. A loud cry falling from her lips as her tongue sticks up to lay flat against your pussy. It's immediate the way you start grinding against it, chasing the euphoric feeling you know her mouth can give you. She starts moaning into your cunt as she watches you, eyes boring into the way your abs flex from the roll of your hips. You're using her body— her mouth for your own pleasure. And she fucking loves it. She loves the way she can feel when your are legs flex, knowing that you're close just from how hard the muscles beside her head are tensing up. She loves knowing all she has to do is ignore you at practice to get you this worked up.
Your own hands find your nipples— pinching and pulling as your hips start getting erratic. You both know you're close, but you bring a hand down to keep her head in place just to make sure. No letting anything take away this orgasm you've been needing since this morning. Your hips start jerking messily on her face, your cum running down her cheeks as she runs her tongue up through your folds. Cleaning up the mess she was the cause of. You groan out as a smile takes over your face, looking down as you watch her lap up everything you're giving her.
"Good fucking girl," you let it between pants as you start pulling away from her mouth. Hands going to pull her up and sit you both on the bench beside you. You throw one of your legs over the bench as you make her mirror you, pulling her back to your front as you're met with your reflections on the wall mirror in front of you. You run your hands over her body, taking in the way she shivers and wiggles around from the light touches. She's biting her lip— trying to keep all her whines and complaints in as she lets you have your way with her. "Look at yourself, baby. I won't touch you how you want until you do," It's said with a kiss to the back of her neck.
So without hesitation she meets her eyes in the slightly dirty mirror. It's a sight to behold for sure— she's flushed completely. A pretty light blush spread across her body as she heaves a little, breath speeding up the longer it takes for you to touch her properly. She's scanning over every inch of herself, watching as your hands start sliding their way towards her pussy with a relieved sigh. You start out with running your nails against her inner thighs, wanting to see them shake before you even touch her clit. You love her responsive she always is, so sensitive whenever you're touching her. It's like a bolt of lightening every time your fingertips touch her skin, and it ignites an explosion under her skin as she craves you even more.
You kiss her neck as you see her listening to you, your fingers from one hand sliding down to prod at her entrance. Ella's so wet at this point you can see it dripping down onto the bench below you, and when her fingers start sliding in? Well it doesn't take long for a little puddle to form underneath her ass. Eyes glued to the way your three fingers are bullying their way through her cunt, her eyes rolling back as her moans bounce off walls echoing in the room. Anyone in the hallway could definitely hear here clear as day, but you just simply didn't give a fuck. She'd been playing with fire today and she knew it— so now she's happily getting burned. You know it's happily from the way loud words of pleasure are falling from her lips as she's getting finger fucked… Exactly where she saw her captain tying her shoes this morning might I add. It's all too much for her, too dizzying, too taboo. She's letting you fuck her out the open— okay not really but anyone could walk in at any moment. And Ella isn't sure if this is exactly what she had planned when she decided to push your buttons today….but she isn't complaining right now. Right now she's screaming out your name, pussy gushing over your thick fingers shoved inside her tight cunt on display— for your eyes only.
She's reaching a hand down to your wrist, back arching off your chest as she announces she's on the edge. You weight your options real quick, you could deny her. Make her cry and sulk all the way home where you might let her cum….or you could give in. Let her scream out profanities in the one place you know she shouldn't be.
Yeah you totally fold…so with a sigh of you wrap a hand around Ella's throat— pulling her back for a kiss on the lips. Fingers still buried inside of her as your palm grinds into her puffy clit. Tears gathering in her eyes as she's pushed over the edge. "F-Fuck! I-I'm cummin, baby! I'm c-cummin!"
You can't help but whimper from the way her pussy clenches down so hard, squeezing your fingers out of her as she winces at the feeling of being emptied. Your fingers are pruny from being buried in her pussy for so long, not noticing how much time has passed since you both started.
"Oh dammit! We totally missed happy hour for those mini cheesecakes I see the ad for!"
You can't help the absolute chuckle that bubbles out of your chest, throwing your head back as tears gather in your eyes. "Please tell me you aren't seriously thinking about cheesecake after what we've just done?!"
"What? You know how to work a girls appetite up, that's all I'm saying!" and just like that you're doubling over as you push at her shoulder. Giving her a kiss on the forehead as you start to dress you both back up. It only takes about 10 minutes until you're both bundled up, ready to face the cold night air…but those plans are soon foiled. Every time you press on the door— it doesn't budge.
"I think we're locked in, Ells..."
"Of course we are…So do we risk social suicide and call the girls or you just wanna have a sleep over in here? It can't be THAT bad, right?"
"ELLA! Don't be fucking ridiculous!….I have a blanket in my locker. Of course we aren't calling anyone on the team."
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sflow-er · 4 days ago
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Henry and Simon’s dynamic over the three seasons
For YR Faves Fest 2024 organised by @youngroyals-events Prompts: 2. Favourite teen side character (+ 7. Favourite not-quite friendship)
In one of my replies to the recent side character ask game, I briefly mentioned being partial to the dynamic between these two. So for this Faves Fest, I decided to elaborate with an analysis post (featuring screenshots of variable quality)!
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I want to preface this with a brief acknowledgment of Henry’s privilege and classism. It is not my intention to diminish them. I do, however, feel that it’s a bit apples-to-oranges to compare them to Simon’s views (citrus pun intended). 🍊 is politically active and has put in the effort to form his own beliefs, while 🍏 shows us time and again that he is ignorant of the world outside the elite bubble and not inclined towards deep reflection. He is largely a product of his upbringing and the (liberal conservative) values imparted by his parents.
While Henry doesn’t grow enough to change his core views and values in the canon timeline, he does change his views on Simon. This isn’t enough progress for them to become actual friends before we leave off (I doubt Simon could be friends with someone who only exempts him), but I would still argue that they end the show on amicable terms.
And yes, I mean that in a mutual sense, even if Simon doesn’t soften towards Henry quite as much as Henry softens towards him!
So, let’s dive in!
Dialogue taken from the English CC and [abbreviated or corrected].
1.01: the tax debate
Henry: “Take my dad’s estate, for example. They’re struggling to make ends meet because of the high taxes.” [Simon chuckles and explains his views] Simon: “Like your dad. [Do you know how much he gets in EU subsidies every year]”? Henry: “And what the fuck does your dad do?”
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Like most viewers, I find it a lot easier to relate to Simon’s views than Henry’s here – but I do think Henry often gets judged quite harshly for insulting Simon at the end. His comment does not come out of nowhere (cf. Stella’s unprompted dirty look at Simon and Sara when she talks about welfare scamming).
Henry only knows that his father has said their estate is struggling, so of course he won’t take kindly to Simon suggesting that they are actually getting undeserved subsidies instead. It’s also important to note that this estate isn’t just any old farm. It was granted to one of his ancestors as a reward for their services to the Crown, which makes it a core part of his family history. As we learn in 1.04, Henry is a Society boy and very proud of his noble ancestry, and Simon’s comment likely feels like an insult to his entire family. So although his retort is unquestionably rude, it is understandable that he lashes out.
Also, Henry has no way of knowing that Micke is a deadbeat. He is just applying a common stereotype (and potentially making assumptions based on the views Simon just expressed on welfare).
1.02: parallel but separate experiences
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Early in this episode, we see Simon side-eye Henry and Walter for the paid tutoring. He decides to follow their example, but as we know he can’t actually afford it, we can already guess it won’t go as well for him as it did for them.
Next, we see Henry in the group as the rowing team ignores Simon at morning training. The camera also pans to him and Walter when August gives that bizarre speech about Simon’s class journey.
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These moments highlight how different life at Hillerska (and beyond) looks for Henry and Simon. They are technically coexisting and even doing the same things, but their experiences are nothing alike.
However, there is also some potential for development here. August’s words about rowing bringing people together (and also about the class journey) should absolutely be taken with a heap of salt, but as we no longer see any open animosity between Henry and Simon, we can still wonder if rowing played a part.
Being on the same sports team is an entirely new frame of reference for these guys. They are no longer just the sosse and aristocrat who have been going to school together since pre-canon and clashing over their views; they are crewmates. They may be able to ignore each other for most of the time, but they may also have to do some team activities or even cooperate on occasion. At the very least, they will be around each other several extra times a week from late September/early October to Christmas break. This could definitely help to put them on more neutral ground.
1.05: Henry pays attention to Wilmon
In this episode, Henry learns more about Wilmon than the average Hillerska student knows. He is present when August tells the Society that Wille and Simon “hang out”, and also when Wille changes the plan from Simon to Alexander.
What’s more, he actually looks fairly thoughtful leaving that last meeting. We don’t know if it’s just shock over Wille’s ruthlessness, if he’s thinking about the plan to set up Alexander, or if there’s something else on his mind.
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Now, this may veer into overinterpretation, but for the sake of thoroughness, let’s also include the blink and you’ll miss it moment before the Lucia procession where Henry notices Wilmon texting each other. In this cropped screenshot, you can see him looking at Simon, who has just put his phone down and is looking over at Wille.
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1.06: Henry shows restraint
As we know, Henry is the only classmate who tries to treat Wille normally after the video, asking if he “saw the match yesterday” (he absolutely knows Wille didn’t). What is perhaps less noticeable is that he also shows more restraint than most of his schoolmates when the rumour mill gets going.
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In this scene, Henry is pretty dispassionate reminding Walter that Wilmon sat next to each other at movie night and the two of them talked about it. There is a stark contrast to Walter, who absolutely pounces on that bit of gossip.
This one quick scene could just be a coincidence, but the same thing happens again when Wilmon return to school. Instead of engaging with the others who are all eagerly talking and whispering, Henry is already sitting at his desk minding his own business when Wille arrives. His only reaction to Simon showing up is this quick look, which is immediately followed by his show of kindness to Wille:
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So the restraint does look very intentional.
As an aristocrat, monarchist and Society boy, Henry is loyal to Wille, who he now knows has been carrying on with Simon for a while already. He also knows how far Wille went to protect Simon, despite the fact that Simon had actually supplied the drugs, so he is going to side with Wille.
What’s more, Henry’s behaviour in these scenes also confirms that he isn’t hostile to Simon. We can surmise he probably doesn’t think Simon is the most appropriate choice of partner for the crown prince, but he is willing to take his cues from Wille. We never see him sneer, joke, or say anything nasty about Wilmon as a couple (cf. Stella and Fredrika joking about surrogacy).
We are also shown his reaction to Wille hugging Simon before we move on to season two.
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2.02: the floorball hug and walk-by
The first interaction between Henry and Simon in S2 is them celebrating a floorball goal with a spontaneous hug, as seen at the top of this post. What a difference a term makes!
Now, I don’t think this moment is meant to signify that they are friends all of a sudden, and I do feel it comes slightly out of the blue. I suspect it was included as a nod to those who already liked Henry after S1, but I for one would’ve preferred to actually see their reconciliation.
But then again, if their initial antagonism was always class conflict rather than personal beef, maybe there was no need for apologies…? Maybe each of them just accepted that the other was going to be around and decided to try and get along (potentially aided by their shared rowing team history)? Henry is following Wille’s lead as we already saw – and as for Simon, I doubt he would be hugging Henry even in the heat of a game if he held a grudge. Whether we saw it or not, they have moved on.
In the same episode, we also have the locker room scene.
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Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t believe Henry actually overhears the entire conversation, but he may have still heard something about them having to wait two years (as Simon did raise his voice for that). It’s also possible he comes out of this scene assuming that Wilmon still “hang out” in secret. In any case, he probably assumes that Wille wants to keep the whole thing quiet, as per the usual “policy” on queer relationships among the upper classes. In addition to his monarchist ways, he also seems to be casually friendly with Wille in S2 (keeps inviting him to do stuff, from coffee to pranking Sprucewood). So it makes a lot of sense for him to keep whatever he overhears or suspects to himself.
2.03, 2.05 and 2.06: book report scenes
While Henry must be a nightmare to have in the group, he and Simon are nice to each other in all the book report scenes. This is further proof that they are in a place where they can talk civilly and even work together.
They start the project before the rowing race and only present it the day before the gun range scene, which means they had these group sessions for at least a few weeks (the timeline is a bit wonky here).
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2.04: Henry snitches on Wille and Felice
The lunch scene at the start of the episode starts with this bit of vicarious interaction, as Henry and Simon (and Wille too) are amused by the nonsense Walter is spouting about girls:
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Also, Walter's monologue feels more comphet every time rewatch it, but I digress.
As this post is focused on Henry and Simon, I’m not going to dig too deep into Henry’s role in spreading the story about Wille and Felice. Suffice it to say that he did tell his canonically gossipy bestie Walter, and it was recently pointed out to me that he seems to have let something slip to someone else as well. In the common room, Walter goes “det var du som sa till…” [you were the one who said to…] just as the focus shifts to Wille and Nils, which suggests that Henry either purposely told someone or misspoke without realising it. The latter would explain why he seems genuinely appalled when Wille confronts him, but it’s not a hill I’d be willing to die on!
If Henry did spread the story on purpose, I assume it was because getting with Felice was considered a credit to Wille and also “fair game” to tell, unlike the relationship with Simon that Wille wanted to keep hidden.
Still, Henry and Simon are definitely on better terms in S2. Even though Henry inadvertently causes pain to Simon with his part in the Wille and Felice thing, they still keep working together on the book report without any animosity.
Insofar as Henry’s lacklustre effort can be called working. Simon is a bigger person than I am for not blowing up at him when he announces minutes before the presentation that he won’t be taking any questions.
3.01: background Henry
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We start S3 off with this one-sided interaction where Henry reacts to Wilmon kissing with a mild smirk. No more waiting or secrets to keep.
3.02: double standards on the camping trip
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It’s not entirely clear what Henry is thinking when he says the infamous line about gay couples being allowed to share but not straight ones. I think some people read it as him deliberately putting Wilmon on the spot, but personally, I doubt he even realises it’s going to make them uncomfortable. He’s just noticing the double standard and pointing it out to mess with the teacher.
While Simon is very clearly not pleased with Henry for the comment (glares at him while saying to Wille that people are going to think they plan to have sex), he does not seem to hold that against him. Because what we do see them doing soon?
Sitting next to each other by the fire, even though Henry could’ve easily sat with Walter and Simon with Wille:
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Also, it seems Henry isn't new to camping, as he tells Wille that part of the fire is too hot to grill a sausage in.
The part where things get interesting is when Henry acts classist towards the Marieberg students.
Henry seems to be down with meeting Rosh and Ayub, who are there as Wille and Simon’s friends. But after Fredrika brings up New York, he agrees that the situation turned “stiff as fuck.” That stiffness was entirely Fredrika’s fault (I think she is at least semi-consciously trying to mark herself as the most compatible partner for Stella there), but Henry seems to feel it was more about Rosh and Ayub not fitting in.
He also sneers and makes nasty comments when the other Marieberg students get into an altercation with Malin, which elicits a frown from Simon.
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And yet, Simon does not condemn Henry as strongly as he might have done in the past.
Importantly, Simon tells Wille “it wasn’t the right time for everyone to meet.” This indicates that he could’ve imagined them all getting along at a better time, and it’s pretty clear that also includes Henry. Furthermore, “you [meaning Wille and the others] don’t realise how privileged you are sometimes” is actually a pretty neutral way of putting it. Simon would have been entirely justified if he had said the others were classist pricks, but he blames their privilege and lack of understanding instead of their character.
All of this forms a backdrop for my interpretation of the scenes in the next episodes.
3.03: First of May
Simon: “You do know that you’re not off so you can party the day before, right?” Henry: “Uhh…what?” Simon: “It’s the First of May.” […] “The day of the labour movement?” Henry: “Okay, so what’s their style? How do they celebrate?” Simon, scoffing: “You don’t celebrate. You demonstrate.” [Henry and Walter share a chuckle]
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This may be a controversial take, but I don’t think Henry is being particularly nasty to Simon here.
He actually looks and sounds quite sincere asking how the labour movement celebrates. When he and Walter laugh, it reads more as “there he goes again, our very own sosse, saying wacky things!” than the kind of disdain he expressed towards the Marieberg students in the last episode.
Simon also doesn’t take the laughter as an insult; he’s just stupefied by their ignorance. Also, note that he already scoffed at Henry’s question, marking the question as silly.
This exchange is immediately followed by Vincent attacking Simon for his beliefs, which feels like an intentional trick to create contrast between his and Walty’s treatment of Simon.
3.04: the lollipop
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In this scene, Henry starts out asking quite nicely and seriously if Simon has another lollipop, as if they had that kind of rapport. Simon makes a face, but then he just shakes his head and nicely says no. It’s only then that Henry switches to offering money for the already half-eaten lollipop, to which Simon reacts with disbelief.
He does not, however, get snarky with Henry. He settles for exchanging a look with Wille as Walty go on to complain about the hunger strike. Only when Henry isn’t present anymore does he point out to Wille how ridiculous Henry was being.
In a sort of parallel to the lunch scene, Simon and Wille now share a chuckle at the wacky thing Henry said:
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Feel free to disagree, but I actually wonder if this could be a common pattern between Simon and Henry. They have accepted that they aren’t going to see eye to eye on many things, but instead of getting into conflict, they just roll their eyes/laugh at how the other can seriously believe/say such things. Then they let the conversation move on to something else.
Which is a perfectly valid dynamic. They can acknowledge that their outlooks on life are wildly different without hating each other for it.
3:06: Henry includes Simon
Look, I dislike the library scene as much as the next person. The talk that Henry interrupts between Wilmon was so much more important than anything he could possibly say. It was just a moment of comic relief that didn’t add anything to the story.
Except… Now that we are tracing Henry and Simon’s “not-quite friendship” arc, this scene does give us a conclusion.
Henry: “Hi! Uh, what are you wearing tonight?” [He rambles on about clothes] Wille: “I don’t know if… If I’m coming.” Henry: “Okay…?” Simon: “I don’t know if I can come either.” Henry: “Oh come on, you two have to come!” [He rambles on about how much fun it will be] Simon: “Yeah, we’ll see. I have to go now.” Henry: “The point is that we have to be together! This is the only night we have together, maybe ever. [I mean, we are brothers!]”
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In Swedish, Henry goes “vi är ju bröder” just as the music starts. This has been translated to “we are like brothers” in the English CC, which is already quite something, but the little word ju makes the original even stronger. It means that something is true, so instead of just saying they are like brothers, Henry is saying that is what they are.
(In the dub, there is an audible pause after like, so Henry is actually using it as a filler word. They should have put a comma in the CC to denote that.)
Given that Henry prefaces this ramble with “you two have to come” and barely stops to acknowledge Simon’s exit, there’s every reason to assume he is still talking about all of them. He is saying he considers himself, Wille, and also Simon part of the brotherhood that will be disbanded indefinitely come morning and wants them all to have one last night of fun together.
Simon never hears the brothers part and is of course frustrated with Henry for interrupting, but he still takes his leave on a casually friendly note. He gets that Henry wants him to come and have fun (Henry is unaware that Simon doesn’t drink when he tries to persuade them both by talking about the alcohol). Thus, Simon politely says “we will see” even though he has zero intention of going.
We do not see them interact at the party when Simon goes after all, but we do hear Henry being ushered away when Simon comes to talk to Wille. We don’t see it’s Henry, but someone insists that he wants to stay just as we see Walter and Alexander leave, and all three of them were there moments before:
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I’m tempted to end this with a parallel to Wille’s initiation party.
Way back in 1.01, Henry and Simon were explicitly shown discussing the first party with their friends. They never talked about it with each other or interacted there – Henry attended as part of the in-crowd, and Simon only got to go because he supplied the alcohol. But for this last party, Henry was the one to get the alcohol, and he specifically invites Simon to come. They still don’t hang out as they are both there with their respective friends, i.e. in their own bubbles, but those bubbles do bump into/brush past one another without clashing.
Kind of like Henry and Simon’s lives.
Thank you for reading this marathon post! I hope my take on these two brings something to your next rewatch, whether you agree with me or not!
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sophiethewitch1 · 1 year ago
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In Death's Embrace Pt. 2
Jason Todd x Death!Reader
Part one!
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Jason shoots up in bed, his hand stretched out. He’s sweating, drenched in his own panic in fear. His hand falls into his lap, still twitching. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, doesn’t remember what he was trying to grasp.
He knows he failed. He knows it slipped through his fingers like sand. He doesn’t think there’s anything more tragic in the world. He doesn't know why.
“Once again, you amaze me. Breaking the rules of the universe, not once, but twice.”
His hand is wrapped around his gun before you even finish the sentence. It’s pointed between your eyes once you do. To your credit, whoever just broke into his apartment without triggering any of his alarms, you don’t even flinch. No, you just fold your hands behind your back and give him an odd look.
You tilt your head, eyes moving over the scars on his face and catching on the lock of white hair he sports. Then, your face breaks into a smile, and something in Jason’s heart jumps. There’s a knowing in your eyes that he doesn’t like. An understanding.
You see through him, somehow. He doesn’t like it. He’ll shoot you for the offence.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Jason demands, assessing you like you assess him. You don’t look like a combatant, in long dark flowing fabrics. Still, he knows not to underestimate someone based on their appearance.
That damned clown never looked like a threat. And now he was standing here, with someone who seemed just as crazy in his bedroom. Only someone that crazy would break into his home.
“Are you going to shoot me?” your words are teasing, eyes fond. Maybe you’re crazier, then. You don’t believe he’ll do it. He will.
He should have already. It’s base curiosity that holds his trigger finger. That’s what he thinks it is, at least.
“I might,” he finally says, “Again, who the fuck are you?”
“It’s interesting talking to you like this. You knew who I was straight away last time, but this time you turn your weapon to me,” you continue, ignoring his threat. A muscle jumps in his cheek, annoyed at your presence, at your blatant disregard for him.
“Last time?”
Your smile turns into a bright grin. He’s momentarily stunned by it.
“So, you really haven’t won just yet. That gives me a small measure of pride,” you say, walking over to the window with your hands still behind your back, “Maybe enough to spare you from my anger.”
You look over at him again. Purse your lips.
“Maybe not.”
“I think you forget who is holding the gun,” Jason reminds you, clicking his teeth at the way you just shrug.
You go quiet. No more teasing words or ominous warnings. Jason should shoot, shoot now. He’d hate the cleanup, hate the mess, hate all the effort, but it was necessary. You were dangerous. That much was obvious.
Instead, he opens his big dumb mouth and asks, “What do you want?”
You sigh, shaking your head. “Is it terrible I don’t know? Rules are rules after all, but this situation is… complicated. You’re not another Sisyphus, you don’t even want to be here.”
“You broke into my home and started threatening me. That doesn’t sound complicated,” Jason insists. This is such a fucking weird conversation. And Sisyphus? Jason had done his homework, he knew about the mythical man who cheated death. He thinks he’s actually quite a lot like Sisyphus.
He still doesn’t appreciate the comparison.
“Yes well, I don’t want to be here either, de-” your voice cuts off, eyes widen in surprise, and then narrow on him like he caused some great offence. Inside him, he feels his dead little heart wither even further at the sight. Like you being upset with him was one of the worst mistakes of his life.
Once again, you broke into his house. All he’d done was tell you to get lost. Oh, and maybe threaten to shoot you, but who cares about that. He soothes the momentary panic, insisting you obviously hadn’t.
Which is dumb. He’s being an idiot. Jason Todd is being an absolute moron right now, and he just needs to shoot you.
Instead of paying attention to the gun trained on you, you stare out his window, at the streets of Gotham’s Hill district below. The sun is rising, rays bursting through the fog. The people are just getting up with it. It’s one of the few times the city is anything close to quiet. Most are still sleeping, and so is crime.
Warm sunlight catches on your cheek, and again, something inside Jason cries out at the sight. It’s worrying.
“I think I want you dead, again,” you confess.
Jason’s breath whooshes out of his lips, and his gun arm twitches for a second. Well, fuck him, that’s certainly a statement. And again, why hadn’t he shot you?
He still doesn’t do it. He must be crazy, too.
“I’m being greedy. I always have been, of course. It’s what I am… But especially this time, I think I’m being too greedy,” you sound sad, your fingers trailing across the wooden window frame, “I think I shouldn’t be here, but it’s the ones like you who make it hard.”
You rub dust against your fingers, and Jason feels embarrassed for the state of his home. He realises a second later what a stupid thought that is, you broke in. He wonders how many times he’ll have to repeat it to remember it. He feels uncomfortable and off-kilter, and he knows it’s because of you.
He needs to get you out.
“I’ve always hated the special ones, you know. The smart ones. You’re too good at pulling me, manipulating me, tugging on my strings like a puppet. You make me human,” you turn back to him, crossing your arms and resting against the sill. You’re comfortable in his home, more so than he usually is. Calm, relaxed, like the world is at peace, and worries are something of the past.
He wonders what that must be like. Fucking delightful, he bets.
“Are you not human?”
You raise an eyebrow in response.
Shit. Ah, fuck it. His finger tightens, and the recoil jerks his arm. The silencer keeps the early apartment quiet. Quiet, if not for the sound of the bullet clattering to the ground.
You both glance down at the crumpled piece of metal sitting pathetically on the floor. You lean over, pick the piece up, and then lift it to your eye, watching that same sunlight reflecting the early morning in the steel. A small rainbow flitters across your skin. You close your fist, and you stroll over to Jason.
It takes him a moment to remember to be wary of you, and by that time, you already have his hand cradled between yours.
You place the remnants of the bullet in his scarred palm.
“I expect an apology for that later,” your voice is soft, sweet. Loving, even after he shot you in the chest. Not like it did anything. Your fingers curl around his, tracing every crack and crevice. You do it with concentration, with precision, like you were made just to touch him, to comfort him.
A memory, gone in a flash. He feels it’s loss like a toothache.
He swallows, “I’m sorry.”
You laugh, and the sun’s not outside, it’s in his bedroom and it’s smiling and it’s everything and it’s here in his grasp and he knows it’ll be okay again. It has to be okay again. You said it’d be okay, didn’t you? He can’t remember. His head’s swirling, spinning, falling right into you. Right back into you.
“Or now, that’s fine too,” you sound delighted. He’s glad.
You let go of him, and move back to the window, drawn by the view outside. Jason's hand clasp and unclasp. The street obviously fascinates you, your eyes flicking back and forth and tracking the movement of every soul outside. He wants your gaze back on him.
Jason clears his throat. You glance back at him, then pointedly, his right hand.
He can feel his face flush, embarrassingly. He’s still holding the gun. He turns the safety off and tucks it back under his pillow.
He clears his throat again. He wants something from you, expects it, really. But he can’t tell what it is. He thinks you know, though. That you’re withholding it, for some reason. He’s irrationally irritated at that. You said you were greedy, but nothing could compare to his greed.
Even if you wanted him dead. He was starting to put together the pieces, but he couldn’t seem to feel alarmed. No, it simply wasn’t necessary, with you here.
Still, it’s not quite enough. He wants more. He wants to know more. So he waits for you to speak again.
“I’ve thought about doing this so many times over the years. It would’ve been selfish, and more than that, outside of my duty. You’re not one of mine anymore. For a little while, at least.”
He wants to be. He wants to be yours. He wants it more than he can breathe. If he’s yours, maybe you can be his.
You glance to the side, thinking out loud, “But then you went and started remembering. I’ve worked very hard to make sure that’s impossible, you know. That the memories from my realm stay there.”
You turn a disapproving glance his way.
“Of course, far be it for me to get in the way of a Wayne and his decision to break the world. You lot do that far too much, give me too much work,” you mutter that last part, hand moving to your brow. Like you’re massaging away a headache. He should be doing that for you.
“But you did it. And you’re here. And now I am, too. And I have to go soon.”
You drift closer to him, and Jason’s breath catches. He’s still. He doesn’t make a single movement, scared he’ll scare you away. He realises that’s stupid. That you caught a bullet to the chest. That you’re stronger than anything he could imagine.
He still thinks he could startle you if he’s not careful. That you’re like the mist outside, incorporeal. But Jason can do anything if he puts his mind to it. He knows how to catch the wind, how to gather steam on the underside of glass, how to cup sand and water and feathers and everything that would ever want to be outside of his reach.
You’re out of his reach. He has to let you step into it.
You stop a foot away from him. He grinds his teeth, and again, you raise a brow at him. He doesn’t move, despite his muscles screaming at him too. You give him a nod and take another step closer. He still doesn’t move, and you give him a satisfied look.
“So, what should we do, Jason?”
“How do you know my name?”
“What? Did dying strip you of any brains?”
The banter is familiar. He doesn’t mean to ruin it.
“Do you have to leave?” again, a voice in his mind whispers. You look sad, again. Again, again, again. All of this is an again.
“Eventually. Sooner rather than later,” you sigh, “You can keep a secret, can’t you, Jason?”
“Not if you leave.”
It’s a bold move. You take a step back, and he winces. Back and forth, back and forth… Still, he doesn’t take the words back. He can’t, because it’s the truth, and now that you’re here, there’s no going back. He’ll do anything to keep you with him, and if you go too far for him to reach, he’ll follow you.
“I think that’s an unfair request,” you say, and he shakes his head.
“It’s fair. You don’t have to stay forever, just a while.” Now that, that is a lie. You seem to know it, too.
You look out the window again. Jason, after a moment's hesitation, moves over beside you. You don’t flee, your attention is on the people below. He opens the window for you, and you give him another smile. He collects them like the rare treasures they are. You lean out into the air, and he freaks, then realises you’d shrugged off a bullet. He stays close, vigilant, anyway.
“I’m curious, I have to admit. What’s this place like?” you ask, resting elbows on the wood. The streets are foggy, as they usually are in the morning. The Hill isn’t the nicest place, not the cleanest either, but you look at it like it’s heaven incarnate. He can see his neighbour down at the local grocer, the old woman who hoards cats seeing her grandson off to school, and one of his guys hanging out on the street, keeping the space safe.
Under his orders. The Hill wasn’t the nicest place, but he liked to keep it as nice as possible.
...Peaceful, he wanted the people here to have their peace. He was obsessed with it, really.
“It sucks.”
You laugh again, music to his ears, “Not the best advertising.”
“I take it back, it’s the best place on earth,” he replies, barely paying attention to his words. He’s seeing how close he can get to you. How many inches he can claim. His face is almost in your neck by the time you lean back, and he curses under his breath.
“It doesn’t need to be,” you say, pushing away from the sill and turning to wander around his room. You take in everything about the space. From the general mess, to the Jane Austen books crammed into his bookshelf, to the mask he’s left half-hazard on his bedstand.
You watch it all, just as fascinated with the world outside as the one inside. He wants to believe that means he’s special to you. And if it doesn’t, that just means he needs to work a little harder.
Finally, you turn to him. You take in every facet of him, once again. Your all-knowing gaze finds his hair again. You seem especially fascinated by that. You lift your hands, and he’s in them before he realises he’s moved.
You map his features with your hands, and he makes a little sound in the back of his throat. Ignoring that, you wipe the bags under his eyes. He feels his sanity slip away under your touch. You trace the scar on his chin, the one above his left brow. The stubble along his jaw. The bump in his nose. The edge of his lips. He wonders at the smirk you give when he groans. And finally, you come to that strand of hair.
You tug on it. A memory fizzles again, and to his frustration, he can’t quite grab it. Can’t quite take it, claim it. It’s not his, not yet.
You haven’t given him permission to remember. He wants it, he wants it, he needs it.
“I think I can stay, maybe. Just for a little, just a little. You want that, right?” your hands cup his face, and he knows, somehow, that you’ve done this a thousand times. And if this is the thousand-and-first time you’ve held him like this, he’s glad. To be back in your embrace is the sweetest pleasure. The greatest relief.
“Yes. Yes, yes… yes, I do,” he’s nodding, he’s begging, he’s pleading with you. Just for a moment more, just a second more. Just a little bit more, before you let him go again. He leans down and presses his forehead to you, sighing in your scent, the wheat reeds in the wind, the warm sun on skin.
He wonders what he has to do to make sure you never let go again. He wonders if you’ll let him do it.
You shake your head, giving him a rueful smile, “You really are too cute, darling.”
That nickname. The key to his heart, his mind. Every single barrier keeping him from you is gone, crumbled by your will. He is thankful you’ve given them back. He is thankful for every moment you ever had with him. And he’ll make a thousand more.
He presses his lips to yours, arms holding you close. When you melt into him, sigh into the kiss, he feels a euphoria he didn’t know could be true. He feels a relief he didn’t know even in his days under, even when you only held him.
He feels alive with it.
“Thank you for coming back,” he whispers against you, and he can feel that familiar, that damning smile spread.
“You left me. I had to hunt you down myself, Jason dear.”
Maybe he couldn’t have his peaceful death. But he had a loving one, and that was all he needed.
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