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pucksandpower · 11 months ago

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Disturbing the Peace

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Max Verstappen x Vettel!Reader

Summary: an environmental activist disturbs the carefully constructed peace of Max’s life and turns his whole world on its head (or in which environmentalism and being a menace both run in the Vettel family)

Max strides across the tarmac towards his sleek private jet, ready to head up to the Red Bull Racing factory in Milton Keynes after a weekend of relaxation back home in Monaco. But he stops short as his eyes land on a cluster of protesters glued to the ground around his jet’s landing gear.

A gruff security guard approaches Max. “Sorry sir, we’ve got a bit of a situation here with these Greenpeace loons. They snuck past the perimeter and glued themselves down before we could stop them.”

Max scowls as he reads the words Fossil Fuels = Destruction scrawled across one of the protester’s shirts. He storms over, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” he fumes, glaring at the seated activists. “You realize you’re costing me tens of thousands just by delaying my flight?”

“That’s kind of the point, bro,” one long-haired guy shoots back with a snide grin. “You’re one of the worst celebrity polluters on the planet.”

But Max’s gaze is drawn irresistibly to you — a beautiful young woman with fierce eyes and hair whipping around your face in the coastal wind. There’s an intensity and passion burning behind your stare that Max finds himself unexpectedly captivated by.

You rise gracefully to your feet, the only one not glued down, and take a step towards the fuming Formula 1 star. “Max Verstappen. Out of all celebrities last year, you were the 20th highest personal polluter. Even higher than Taylor Swift.”

There’s an unmistakable blend of reproach and attraction in your tone that throws Max off balance. He scoffs, trying to regain his bravado.

“What, are you stalking me or something? And I’m supposed to care what some random activist chick thinks?”

You level him with a pointed look. “Not some random chick. Y/N Vettel. Sebastian’s sister. And yes, you should care, because this is your planet too.”

Max blinks in surprise at the familiar surname, now recognizing the resemblance to his former competitor.

Oh fuck, not this girl.

He can’t resist giving you another once-over, taking in your lithe frame, the jut of your chin as you stare him down defiantly.

An amused smirk tugs at his lips despite himself. “Vettel, huh? I should’ve known. You two do have a thing for causing drama wherever you go.”

The dig lands but you don’t rise to the bait, shaking your head minutely. “This has nothing to do with drama, Max. It’s about doing what’s right for the environment before it’s too late to save it.”

“Oh, spare me the self-righteous preaching,” Max scoffs, reflexively going on the defensive even as a small part of him admires the conviction in your voice. “Like your jet-setting around to protest events is really doing the planet any favors.”

You raise an incredulous eyebrow. “Jet-setting? I take public transit everywhere. Planes are the exception for international events, and I always buy carbon offsets.”

Max feels a flicker of grudging respect at that before quickly stamping it down. He folds his arms across his chest, fixing you with a challenging stare. “Yeah? Well what about your clothes? I’m guessing that shirt was made from petroleum-based synthetic fabrics.”

A look of surprise crosses your face before you recover with a small shake of your head. “It’s actually bamboo. Petroleum-free and sustainably sourced.”

“Your shoes then,” Max presses, gaze dropping to the canvas flats on your feet.

You lift one demonstratively. “Recycled rubber.”

His eyes narrow as he struggles to find another example to poke holes in your lifestyle. You watch him search with ill-disguised amusement, finally taking pity.

“Listen Max, I’m not saying I’m perfect. Nobody is. The point is to keep trying to do better where we can.” Your eyes hold sincerity and — though Max is loath to admit it — wisdom beyond your years. “But you’re in a position of power. With all your money and influence, just think what you could do for sustainability initiatives. How many trees you could plant or clean energy projects you could fund with just a fraction of what you spend on private flights and gas-guzzling supercars every year.”

Max shifts, discomfited by the practicality of your words. It’s harder to be glib and dismissive when you’re not ranting incoherently about the planet dying, but making reasoned arguments. Especially with that intense, scrutinizing gaze fixed so squarely on him.

He clears his throat, resorting to sarcasm as a defense mechanism. “Yeah, that’s cute and all. But then who would keep all those gas station attendants employed? I’m doing them a public service, really.”

The ghost of a smirk curves your lips in a way that makes Max’s chest tighten unexpectedly. “How very philanthropic of you.”

He has to look away from the spark of challenge and — yes, flirtation — in your expression. Max isn’t sure when this stopped being a confrontation and turned into some sort of tense back-and-forth bristling with inexplicable chemistry, but it’s rapidly becoming unnerving.

Seeming to sense you’ve flustered him, you lean in conspiratorially. “You know Max, for someone who acts like such an edgy bad boy, you’re not so tough. I think deep down you know I’m right.”

Max’s jaw ticks stubbornly even as his cheeks burn at your proximity, at the sweet floral scent of your shampoo drifting across the scant distance between you. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

In a daring move, you reach out and lay a hand on his arm. His breath hitches just slightly at the contact as you hold his gaze intently. “Then help me understand. Join me for dinner sometime and we can talk more about this over something other than just shouting at each other.”

The gentle touch, combined with the sincerity shining warmly through those big widened eyes, takes Max completely off guard. He opens his mouth, then closes it, abruptly unsure how to respond to such an olive branch extended from his vehement critic just moments ago.

Before he can formulate a reply, the wail of sirens pierces the air. A police cruiser pulls up as four officers jump out, advancing menacingly towards your compatriots still glued to the pavement.

“Alright, that’s enough here,” the barrel-chested sergeant barks gruffly. “You’re all under arrest for criminal trespassing and failure to obey airport security.”

You hurriedly step between the officers and your fellow protesters, palms raised placatingly. “Please officers, don’t arrest them! I was the one who orchestrated this, I’ll go quietly. Just let them go.”

Max’s heart does a strange little flutter at the selfless gesture, at the protective way you shield your group from the aggression of the snarling police officers.

Before he can think better of it, he’s striding forward and planting himself at your side, a steadying hand on your arm. “Actually officers, I’m afraid I can’t let you detain this woman.”

You blink up at him in surprise. The lead sergeant looks far from impressed, folding his beefy arms across his chest.

“And just who the hell are you to make that call?”

Max lifts his chin defiantly. “Max Verstappen. I’m sure your supervisors would love to hear how the biggest name in racing got falsely arrested on the tarmac because one of their officers couldn’t exercise some restraint.”

The sergeant’s eyes widen almost comically and he takes an unconscious step back, disarmed by Max’s threat to leverage his fame and money. “Oh. Er … Mr. Verstappen, sir. I’m sure, um, we can sort this out ...”

Max cuts him off with an imperious wave, turning his attention fully to you. Your expression is a mixture of shock, curiosity, and — though Max certainly doesn’t dare name it — just maybe a tiny flicker of attraction in return.

“You asked me to try and understand your perspective. Fine, I’ll take you up on that dinner.” He looks you squarely in the eye, expression unreadable. “But you have to promise to hear me out too. No judgements, no protests. Just two people trying to figure out how to make the world better in their own ways.”

You stare searchingly at him for a prolonged moment. Then a slow, wondering smile spreads across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes in the most disarmingly beautiful way. You give a small nod.

“Deal. I’ll keep an open mind if you do.”

Max finds himself returning the smile before he can stop himself. “Deal.”

He doesn’t know why this odd, passionate woman has gotten under his skin so quickly. Or why he suddenly cares what some environmental activist thinks of his choices. But as you take his proffered hand and he helps you step carefully away from the cluster of protestors, Max feels an unfamiliar stirring of hope. Maybe there’s more to this situation — and to you — than meets the eye.

The sergeant looks between you two skeptically, but seems to think better of pressing the issue further with Max’s steely gaze trained on him. With a resigned sigh, he waves his officers back.

“Alright, we’re going to let this one go. But I better not catch you trespassing and causing problems again, you hear?” He jabs a meaty finger at you in warning.

You just smile serenely, still not releasing Max’s hand. “No worries, officer. I have a dinner to get ready for.”

As the police pull away, you turn that brilliant grin on Max again. He finds himself returning it almost against his will, captivated by the fire that dances behind your eyes. For the first time, he wonders if going toe-to-toe with an idealistic environmental warrior might actually be worth momentarily putting his own deeply-held beliefs aside.

Stepping in close, you surprise him by leaning up on your tiptoes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “Thanks for playing along back there. I owe you one, Max Verstappen.”

The warm breath tickling his neck sends an unexpected shiver down his spine. You pull back with a mischievous wink before turning and rejoining your fellow activists, hips swaying in a tantalizing way that has Max’s gaze lingering perhaps a moment too long.

As he watches you go, Max can’t shake the strangest sense that he’s suddenly entered uncharted territory. And that this is only the beginning of you continually barging into his life and turning everything deliciously upside down.

***

Max lets out a grunt as he heaves the heavy barbell up over his head, sweat beading on his brow from the intense weight training session. After securing the bar back on its rack, he straightens and grabs a towel to wipe his face.

His phone starts ringing from across the room, an unknown number flashing on the screen. Max debates letting it go to voicemail but finally relents with a resigned sigh, scooping up the device.

“Yeah, hello?”

There’s a brief silence before an automated voice responds. “This is a call from a corrections facility. To accept charges and connect this call, press 1.”

Max frowns, caught off guard. He presses 1 warily, curiosity getting the better of him. The line clicks and then a new, very familiar voice comes through.

“Max! Oh thank god you picked up.” It’s you, sounding mildly frazzled but still unmistakably your unique blend of passion and composure.

A surprised laugh escapes Max’s lips before he can stop it. “You? Calling me from jail? This I’ve got to hear.”

“Don’t sound so delighted,” you chide, though he can hear the smile in your voice. “Yes, I’m in a bit of a situation here. You remember the big event we had been planning to protest that oil baron’s ridiculous superyacht docking in Monaco?”

Max raises an eyebrow even though you can’t see it. “The one where you said, and I quote, ‘No Max, you can’t come. Your pouty little rich boy face is just going to distract everyone from the real injustice we’re protesting here.’“

“... Yes, that one.” You don’t miss a beat. “Well, we may have taken things a step too far. The police showed up and arrested all of us for trespassing and disturbing the peace.”

“You don’t say?” Max leans back against the weight bench, a teasing lilt to his voice. “So let me get this straight — you got yourself chucked in the slammer for causing your signature environmentalist dramatics, and now you’re calling me to help get you out?”

There’s a slight pause before you respond, tone turning softer. “I didn’t want to call Seb. You know how he gets — he’ll just give me that disappointed head shake and lecture about being more responsible. Acting like I’m still a reckless teenager instead of a grown woman fighting for a noble cause.”

Max feels a small pang at the uncharacteristic wistfulness in your voice. For all your sparring back and forth, he knows how much your activist work means to you. And how tirelessly you dedicate yourself to it, often at the expense of other aspects of life.

Chewing his lip, he considers his next words carefully. “I may give you endless shit about being a tree-hugging rebel without a cause, but you know I actually respect what you’re doing, right? Even if your methods are … shall we say, dramatic.”

You let out a small surprised huff of laughter at that. “Did Max Verstappen just pay me something resembling a genuine compliment? Aww, you really do care.”

Max rolls his eyes at the teasing, though his lips quirk in a reluctant smile. Something about your back-and-forth banter has a way of putting him at ease in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m still holding out hope this is just a pesky phase before you eventually come to your senses and realize the error of your ways.”

“Fat chance, hot shot.” The warm amusement in your tone is impossible to miss. “But anyway, since you’re in such a generous mood — think you can do me a favor and come bail me out?”

Max hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, bringing you home with me seems like a surefire way to get your activist cooties all over my ridiculously expensive non-vegan furniture.”

“Max ...” You let out an exaggerated whine that has him fighting back another grin. “Come on, I’m begging you here! I’ll be a model prisoner, I swear.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Max pushes off from the bench and starts grabbing his shoes and keys. “Fine, fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you? I’ll be there in twenty minutes to ply your jailers with my generous pile of my money and spring you from the clink.”

You let out a squeal of delight that has his heart doing an odd little flip despite himself. “You’re the best, Max! Seriously, I owe you huge after this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to make a habit of it. This is a one-time kind of deal.”

The two of you say your brief goodbyes and Max hangs up, head shaking in bemusement. He’s not sure when his friendship with the passionate eco-warrior became so effortlessly comfortable, bantering back and forth like a long-married couple.

But he also can’t deny the way his pulse kicks up just slightly at the thought of seeing you again — windswept hair, fiery eyes, and that bright smile that still catches him off guard every time it’s directed his way.

As Max jogs out to the garage to grab his Ferrari for the short drive to the station, he vehemently tells himself it’s merely because he’s intrigued by the novelty of your clashing personalities. That your relentless conviction is a fascinating change of pace from the empty glamor that usually surrounds him.

But a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispers that he’s lying to himself. That there’s something magnetically addictive about you and your tireless ability to see the world through a different lens than his own. Something that challenges him, stimulates him, reels him in over and over again no matter how much he pretends to resist.

He quickly banishes the thought, jaw setting in stubborn determination. Max Verstappen isn’t the type to get pulled into a girl’s orbit, no matter how intriguing she might seem on the surface. He’ll bail your reckless ass out of jail, have another enjoyable round of opposition-attracts banter, and then carry on with his usual life of racing and living by his own well-established rules.

Right?

The sleek crimson SF90 Stradale tears through the winding Monaco streets, wind whipping through Max’s hair as he pushes the pedal towards the floor. The adrenaline pumping through his veins feels vaguely familiar to the thrill of a heated race — though he refuses to dwell too deeply on why bailing out an eco-terrorist gives him that same edge-of-the-seat excitement.

He pulls up to the modest local jail in record time, the guard at the entrance giving him a skeptical once-over before waving him through. No doubt recognizing the signature Ferrari and flashy persona of the championship-winning driver.

Max swaggers up to the front desk where a bored-looking officer sits shuffling through paperwork. The young man startles at his approach, shooting to attention with widened eyes.

“Oh! Mr. Verstappen, sir! How can I help you today?”

Puffing out his chest just slightly, Max gives the officer his most imposing stare. “Yeah, I’m here to post bail for one of your … residents. Y/N Vettel.”

The cop’s brow furrows as he scans the intake files. “Ah yes, here she is. Environmental activist, part of that big protest at the marina. Disturbing the peace, trespassing, and a few of them even got hit with property damage charges from graffiti.”

Max scowls, that damned protective streak rearing its ugly head again before he can stop it. “I’m only posting bail for Y/N Vettel. The hell did she get charged with?”

“Just peaceful trespassing and disturbing the peace.” The cop frowns contemplatively. “Well, and resisting arrest when she tried to stop us cuffing one of her friends. But that’s about it.”

Rubbing his temples with a pained sigh, Max can’t resist a rueful grin. “Yeah, that tracks. Listen, what’s it gonna cost me to grab her so I can get out of here?”

“For those charges? €1500 bond should cover it.”

Max scoffs at the paltry sum, already pulling out his monogrammed money clip and peeling off a stack of euros. “Whatever, here’s double. Keep the change for your trouble.”

The cop’s eyes widen almost comically, but he knows better than to question Max freaking Verstappen. Hurriedly taking the bills, he produces some paperwork for Max to sign and process the transaction.

“Alright Mr. Verstappen, just need your signature here and here. And if you’ll allow me to get your fingerprints as well for the release forms ...”

Max begrudgingly complies, wanting to get this circus over with as quickly as possible. He taps his foot impatiently as the officer takes his prints and finalizes everything in the computer system.

“Okay, all set. I’ll have one of the guards bring Miss Vettel around to the release lobby. Might be a few minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah, just hurry it up,” Max mutters distractedly.

He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall, letting his eyes drift shut for a brief moment as he tries to compose himself. Your voice rings in his ears, that unmistakable mixture of sheepishness and determination that seems to sum up your entire persona.

Goddamn it, why did you have to call him? Why couldn’t you have just phoned up your doting big brother like a normal person instead of dragging Max into this? Part of him wants to be annoyed at how easily you’re able to play him, batting those big eyes and pleading for his help like you knew he would give in.

But the thought of leaving you to stew in a dingy jail cell somehow makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. Almost like he’d be letting you down in some weird, convoluted way. Ridiculous as the notion is, Max can’t deny this increasing pull you seem to have over him.

His eyes fly open as the door to the cellblocks finally opens, heavy footsteps approaching. Max takes an automatic step forward, pulse kicking up in anticipation despite himself.

And then you’re there. Hair tousled, t-shirt and jeans covered in smears of dirt and grass stains from the protest scuffle. But those defiant eyes are still ablaze, jaw set stubbornly as the guard leads you out in handcuffs.

“Max! You’re actually here!” Your face splits into a bright, surprised grin at the sight of him.

He tries and fails to suppress his own answering smile, raking an admittedly appreciative gaze over you from head to toe. “What, you didn’t think I’d show up for my favorite little jailbird?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, you flash him a sly look from under your lashes. “I don’t know, I had my doubts Mr. Bigshot Racer would sully his palms rescuing little old me.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Max steps in close, dropping his voice to a faux-seductive murmur as he leans towards you. Your eyes widen infinitesimally but you hold his gaze, seemingly transfixed. “I just can’t seem to quit you.”

You bite your lip in a badly suppressed grin at his corny line. “Did you seriously just incorrectly quote Brokeback Mountain at me right now?”

“Maybe.” He rocks back on his heels with a shameless wink. “Doesn’t make it any less true, does it?”

A delicate blush blooms across your cheeks in a way that has Max’s heart stuttering unexpectedly. The guard clears his throat loudly, shattering the moment between you.

“Erm, right. If you’ll just sign here for Miss Vettel’s release ...” He offers a clipboard to Max.

Tearing his eyes away from you with concentrated effort, Max scrawls his signature across the form. You watch him intently, an unreadable look flickering across your features for just a moment before the guard undoes your cuffs with a loud click.

You immediately bring your newly freed hands together, rubbing at the chafed skin of your wrists gingerly. Max’s jaw tightens at the sight.

“You good?” His tone is gruff with concern despite himself.

Glancing up, you give him a reassuring smile and nod. “All good, just a little tender. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Something about your easy dismissal of the discomfort rankles Max in a way he can’t fully explain. Like he wants to grab your hands, bring them to his lips to inspect the damage more closely. The sudden urge catches him off guard and he quickly tamps it down, fists clenching at his sides.

The guard seems oblivious to the undercurrent between you, simply giving a curt nod and motioning towards the exit. “Right then, off you go. And try to stay out of trouble from now on, Miss Vettel.”

You shoot the cop your signature wry grin. “No promises, officer.”

Rolling his eyes skyward, Max grabs your elbow lightly and ushers you towards the doors before you can cause any more scenes. You fall into step beside him easily, shoulders brushing in a way that has his skin tingling with awareness.

As the two of you step out into the late afternoon sunlight, you turn to him with those warm eyes that never fail to set his heart racing just a little faster.

“I really do owe you one, Max. Thank you for coming to my rescue, even after everything“

He gives an exaggerated huff, fighting a smile. “Well, it’s a tough job but someone’s gotta bail out all the reckless idiots who can’t stay out of handcuffs for five minutes.”

You laugh brightly, punching his arm in playful admonishment. A spark of electricity seems to jolt between you at the contact and Max freezes almost imperceptibly, mesmerized by the radiant smile you’re beaming up at him.

In that moment, with the sunlight catching in your hair and reflecting those fierce, captivating eyes, Max is struck by how breathtakingly beautiful you are. Not just physically, though that’s certainly undeniable. But the whole intoxicating aura of your idealism, your passion, your relentless fighting spirit that leaves him in a constant state of incredulous attraction no matter how much he rails against it.

You cock your head slightly, drawing him out of his reverie. “Max? You still in there?”

“Huh?” He blinks dazedly before recovering with a shake of his head, shoving his hands into his pockets in what he desperately hopes is a casual gesture. “Yeah, no, I’m good. Just thinking.”

Your brow furrows in concern as you study his face intently. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Max clears his throat, avoiding your piercing gaze. He nods jerkily towards the car glinting fetchingly in the sun. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they decide to re-arrest your ass for loitering.”

As the two of you make your way across the parking lot, Max resolutely ignores the persistent voice whispering that he’s in deeper than he’s willing to admit this time. That you might just be addictive enough to become something he can’t simply shake off when he’s had his fill.

But rather than finding the notion disconcerting like it should be, he finds himself fighting the strangest flicker of excitement at the prospect instead.

***

The Monaco paddock is a dizzying whirlwind of activity as teams and personnel rush about in their usual pre-race frenzy. Max weaves through the chaos towards his driver room, helmet tucked under his arm.

He pauses as a familiar voice reaches his ears — that unmistakable passionate cadence that always has a way of stopping him in his tracks these days. Max turns to see you holding court in the middle of a cluster of wide-eyed engineers and PR reps, gesticulating emphatically.

“... and that’s just the start! We also need to look into renewable energy sources to power the entire paddock operations. Sustainable cooking practices in the hospitality suites. Comprehensive recycling and composting initiatives. Not to mention overhauling the travel logistics for a lower carbon footprint when we’re shipping this whole circus around the globe every other week.”

One of the hapless reps looks shellshocked, struggling to keep up as he scribbles notes furiously. “I … yes, of course, Miss Vettel. We’ll look into all of that right away. Anything else?”

You fix the poor man with one of your signature intense stares, full lower lip catching between your teeth as you consider. Max feels his heart skip at the seemingly insignificant gesture, cursing under his breath.

“Well, we haven’t even touched on sustainable sourcing for uniforms and merchandising yet. Or the complete overhaul needed for fuel compositions and racing technology to align with a realistic net-zero roadmap.” Your eyes spark with renewed fervor. “But we can circle back on those aspects later. For now I want you to-”

Sensing an opening, the bewildered rep seizes his chance to politely extricate himself. “You know what, Miss Vettel? Why don’t I go gather all my notes on your suggestions so far and we can regroup for a more structured meeting on next steps? I’ll, uh, be in touch!”

He scampers off before you can protest, leaving the rest of the staffers gaping at you with a combination of terror and admiration. You just shake your head bemusedly, rolling your eyes skyward as you catch sight of Max watching from across the way.

“What?” You shrug innocently at his raised eyebrow, the very picture of angelic nonchalance. “Someone’s got to light a fire under these people if we want to actually get some sustainability practices in place.”

Max bites back a grin, sauntering over with exaggerated slowness. “Is that what you call demolishing that poor rep’s entire understanding of the world? Just lighting a fire?”

“Hey, we’re not being paid to settle for complacency and half-measures,” you shoot back without a shred of remorse. “I got hired to shake this whole damn organization to its core until it goes fully carbon neutral. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Your unapologetic defiance never fails to send a peculiar thrill zinging through Max’s veins. He rakes an admittedly assessing gaze over your crisp pantsuit and loosely swept updo — quite a change from the scruffy activist’s getup he’s so used to seeing you in.

“You clean up nice, I’ll give you that,” he muses teasingly. “Who knew you could look so respectable in professional garb?”

Rather than rise to the bait, you simply flash him a wink and smoothing your hands over the fitted blazer, drawing his gaze helplessly to the enticing curves beneath the tailored lines. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”

Heat prickles at the base of Max’s neck at the unexpected flirtiness, his tongue suddenly thick and useless in his mouth. He quickly masks the moment of flustered silence with a dismissive scoff.

“Great, so in addition to harassing race staff you’re assaulting my senses too? Good to know where your priorities lie, Vettel.”

You laugh easily, canting a hip as you fix him with those dancing eyes that never fail to set his heart racing. “If you can’t handle a little playful banter, Verstappen, you’d better get used to keeping your distance now that we’re colleagues for the foreseeable future.”

The words slam into Max with surprising force, hitting a little too close to the bone. Unconsciously, his gaze darts over you in a way that feels far too intimate for mere colleagues. Lingering on the delicate curve of your neck as you tip your head back, the lush pout of your lips, the swaying tendrils of hair escaping your updo which he inexplicably longs to brush back into place.

All at once the reality of your new role truly sinks in — that he’ll be seeing you at every single race from now until god knows when. The thought fills Max with a dizzying blend of elation and trepidation.

On one hand, the prospect of having you perpetually woven through his life in this shiny new professional capacity is enough to make his pulse kick up in giddy anticipation.

But on the other, it terrifies him to his core. You have an uncanny ability to constantly keep him off-balance, as endlessly fascinating as you are maddening. This casual flirtation between you has taken on undercurrents he’s no longer certain he wants to shy away from acknowledging. At least, not when the thought of shutting it down fills Max with a hollow ache he can’t put words to.

He’s pulled from his spiraling reflections as an impeccably dressed older man in a crisp suit materializes at your side, placing a wizened hand on your shoulder.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Vettel! I was just coming to fetch you for our preliminary sustainability council meeting with the rest of the advisory board.” The man’s eyes twinkle with unmistakable approval as he regards you. “Although from the looks of it you’ve already started getting the lay of the land around here and, ah, asserting your new directives shall we say?”

You shoot him a conspiratorial grin, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Let’s just say I’ve had a productive first day on the job so far, Mr. Haywood. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Max recognizes the man as Stephen Haywood, one of the senior F1 board members and the person primarily responsible for bringing you on in this ground-breaking new eco initiative. He chuckles indulgently at your quip.

“That’s exactly what we’re counting on from you, my dear. Ruffling some feathers and dragging this whole operation into the future, come hell or high water. I have the utmost confidence you’re going to revolutionize Formula 1 in ways we can’t even conceive yet.”

You beam at the praise, visibly swelling with determination. Haywood gives your shoulder another squeeze before gesturing down the paddock. “Shall we? We’ve got a long agenda ahead to tackle your big plans.”

“Absolutely,” you say eagerly, turning to follow him. But not before pausing to shoot Max one last heated look from over your shoulder, dropping your voice to a sultry murmur. “Don’t go too far, Verstappen. I’ve still got plenty more to say to you later.”

And with a tantalizing wink, you sashay away after Haywood in that maddeningly hypnotic way that you know reduces Max to an incoherent mess every time. All he can do is gape after your retreating figure, the sway of those hips in that perfectly tailored skirt rendering him utterly useless.

As you disappear around the corner, Max feels the dam inside him finally burst in a torrential flood of overwhelming emotion. Everything suddenly clicks into startling clarity in one shuddering epiphany that leaves him unmoored:

He’s in love with you.

Desperately, all-consumingly, recklessly in love in a way he never saw coming and is wholly unprepared to process. All those months pretending you were just an amusing diversion, a source of intrigue and refreshing friction in his otherwise orderly life. All the times he battled against the obvious chemistry simmering between you, tried to downplay it as mere physical attraction between opposing forces.

But now it washes over Max in one shattering wave of truth — the way his world tilts off-axis whenever you’re around, the gravity of your presence drawing him in against his will. How thoroughly and irrevocably you’ve embedded yourself under his skin without him ever truly realizing it was happening until now.

He grips the wall for support, legs feeling abruptly unsteady as his head spins. How is he supposed to reconcile this revelation? That his heart now lies so completely in the hands of this fierce, untamable woman utterly hellbent on dismantling and revolutionizing his entire life’s work in the name of environmentalism.

The delicious contradictions of having fallen for someone whose core values and purpose seem to exist in such direct opposition to his own are enough to make Max’s head throb dizzily. You are his antithesis in so many ways — that headstrong passion a perpetual thorn in his side, continually pushing and prodding him out of his self-imposed boundaries.

And yet … he couldn’t be more completely enthralled.

It’s that relentless challenging of his beliefs, that refusal to settle for complacency, that has drawn Max in and held him captivated against his will from the very beginning. In you he’s found a riveting counterpoint to the blinkered single-mindedness of his existence, a refreshing perspective that somehow makes him want to be a bigger, better version of himself.

Even now, just the phantom echo of your parting words has him straightening unconsciously, feeling almost chastened and bereft in the wake of your absence. Max has never been one to dwell on his emotions, preferring to analyze and compartmentalize until they’re boxed away into neat, manageable parcels.

But this all-encompassing feeling storming through him in your wake is anything but neat or manageable. It’s wild and catastrophic, crackling with the dangerous intensity of a lightning strike clawing its way across the horizon in slow motion.

Just the thought of looking into those blazing eyes and owning the truth of his feelings for you sends Max into a panic, chest squeezing with anxious breath. You have always seen through his feigned nonchalance, cut straight through to the bone with that penetrating stare. He has no idea how to even begin existing openly in the same space as you without his heart shining through brazenly for the entire world to witness.

His fist clenches against the cold metal of the garage wall as an irrational surge of bitterness lances through him. How dare you just sweep into his rigidly controlled life with all that blistering confidence and conviction, making him feel things he never wanted to feel? Upending his carefully maintained reality without a second thought, all in the name of your damned causes?

You weren’t supposed to get this far under his skin. He was just supposed to have a bit of fun, indulge in your company as a momentary diversion at most. And now Max is in so disastrously deep that he has no idea how to drag himself back out.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there warring with himself, torn between exhilarated possibility and vehement denial. What he does know is that his entire world has been turned upside down. And despite the terror rattling his bones, despite the desperate urge to somehow ignore the sheer enormity of this jolt to his system … he can’t muster the will to try and wrestle back control.

Not when the thrill of finally surrendering to you sends such intoxicating electricity crackling through every fiber of his being.

Max peels himself from the wall with renewed resolve, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He needs to steel himself, because avoiding you is clearly no longer an option. Not when your irresistible pull is only amplified now that you’ll be a near-permanent fixture in his life.

He has to face this head-on, confront the exhilarating chaos you’ve wrought in his carefully cultivated existence. Which means pushing down the churning jumble of emotions rattling around in his ribcage before they become too overwhelming.

“Get a grip, man,” Max mutters sternly to himself, knocking the heel of his palm against his temple as if to physically dislodge his internal storm. “It’s just Vettel. You’ve dealt with her shit-stirring antics a million times before. You can handle this new ... development.”

His words carry neither confidence nor conviction, but Max forges on anyway, straightening his shoulders as he plunges back into the fray of the paddock. If he can just maintain some semblance of outward equilibrium, he can get through this.

One foot in front of the other, he winds past the crowd towards his driver’s room as if in a trance. Any minute now, you’ll saunter back through in that mouthwateringly crisp ensemble, eyes bright with hard-won strategy and single minded intent.

And Max will just … what? Calmly confront you as if his entire understanding of your dynamic hasn’t undergone a seismic fucking shift in the last five minutes?

He barks out a mirthless laugh at the impossibility of such a scenario. Any pretense of indifference has surely been shattered between you now. All his meager attempts at deflecting through banter and heated bickering ring hollow to his own ears after this shattering realization.

No, for better or worse, Max has finally tumbled over that precipice he’d been teetering on for so long when it comes to you. Now more than ever before, he dreads and craves the prospect of your next meeting in equal, searing measure.

Because whether he’s ready or not … whether he thinks he can handle the fallout or not … you’ll be able to read every devastating truth written across his face this time.

When your paths inevitably cross again, Max knows there will be no more hiding from you the shift of feelings you’ve unleashed within him.

This time, he’ll be entirely and terrifyingly laid bare.

***

Three Years Later

The crisp mountain air fills Max’s lungs as he straightens up, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow with a satisfied smile. The freshly tilled soil stretches before him in neat rows, ready and waiting to nurture the seeds you meticulously selected.

“Nice work, Mein Löwe,” you call approvingly from across the yard, one hand resting on the swell of your pregnant belly. “That plot is going to be perfect for all our veggies.”

Max’s chest warms at the undisguised pride in your voice as you survey his handiwork. Just a few years ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of voluntarily getting his hands dirty like this. But ever since that fateful day at the airport … everything has changed.

“Yeah, well, be sure to put me to work weeding and watering too,” he shoots back with an easy grin. “Gotta earn my keep as the cabana boy around here.”

You roll your eyes in playful exasperation even as an affectionate smile tugs at your lips. “I’ll be sure to get you a tiny little outfit.”

The teasing remark might have once pricked Max’s fragile ego. But now he simply shakes his head with a low chuckle, marveling at how natural, how right it feels to be the subject of your gentle ribbing. In the years since that first charged encounter, your barbs have sanded down his prickly edges until only his core of wry tenderness remains.

You cross the yard toward him, sunlight glinting off the tousled tendrils of hair that frame your face. Up close, Max can make out the dark crescent smudges under your eyes from many sleepless nights spent mapping out plans for this property — from the aerogel insulation in the walls to the extensive geothermal heating system to the solar panels spanning the roof.

Most people would have long ago surrendered in exhaustion when presented with building the world’s most environmentally sustainable home from the ground up. But not you. You had steadfastly urged him onward, determined to make this place a paragon of renewable living for your growing family.

His growing family, Max mentally corrects himself with a jolt of surprise that still hasn’t faded, even after all this time.

As if reading his mind, you pause before him, gently taking his calloused hands in yours. “Think you can handle planting all those seedlings tomorrow without me? The back pains are really kicking my ass lately.”

Max’s lips quirk upwards at the feisty lilt to your voice. “Getting a little too old to be bending over in the dirt for hours, liefje?”

“Hey, watch it!” You protest with a laugh, playfully batting at his chest. “I’m literally growing an entire human here. Maybe have some sympathy for your poor wife?”

“Alright, alright,” Max chuckles, sliding his hands reverently over the swollen curve of your belly. A sense of awe washes over him, just as it does each time he’s reminded of the incredible miracle blooming inside you — a tiny life that is half him, half this fierce, passionate woman he once couldn’t stand.

He leans in to press his forehead tenderly to yours. “I’ve got it all covered tomorrow. Why don’t you take it easy for once?”

You let out a derisive snort at the suggestion. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. Maybe if you massage my back tonight, though ...”

“Deal,” Max murmurs without hesitation, tilting his head to steal a lingering kiss.

Your lips are soft and pliant against his, still electrifying even after all this time. Max marvels yet again at this strange, thrilling new world you’ve ushered him into — one of quiet moments and domesticity and fulfillment. A world that his former self, obsessed with roaring engines and adrenaline, could have never envisioned.

But even as your mouths move in that timeless, familiar dance, Max’s mind drifts back to that fateful first encounter outside his jet all those years ago. The sheer force of your convictions had rocked him to his core then, cracking open the crusty shell around his heart. And before he could blink, you had blossomed into so much more than an impassioned activist — a friend, a confidante, a lover … and now the mother of his unborn child.

At last, you pull away with a contented sigh, cradling Max’s face in your tender palms. “Have I told you lately how grateful I am for you?”

“Once or twice,” he teases gruffly, though his chest clenches with an all too familiar ardor. “But you know I never get tired of hearing it, schatje.”

You beam up at him with utter adoration shining in your eyes. A look that never fails to disarm Max straight to his core. How had it taken so many years of chasing empty accolades for him to finally find this all-encompassing serenity?

“I just ...” You pause, worrying your full lower lip between your teeth. A sure sign you’re struggling to untangle an emotion webbed with complexity. “I never imagined I could be this … content.”

Your gaze drifts wistfully across the sweeping valley before your mountainside property, the majestic peaks dusted with snow on the horizon. For a beat, Max envisions it all through your eyes — the staggering beauty of this utopia you’ve carved out for your budding family, its self-sustaining existence treading as lightly on the earth as possible.

“After so many years fighting and railing against the system, to find this pocket of peace ...” You shake your head slowly, almost deliriously. “It’s more than I could have dreamed.”

Inexplicably, Max feels his eyes prickling with a sudden thickness at your reverent murmur. A lump forms in his throat, welling with all the indescribable gratitude and tenderness that still threatens to overwhelm him at times like this.

“You know,” he rasps out at last, tracing his thumb reverently over the sharp line of your jaw. “After that day at the airport in Nice … I tried so hard to shake the way you made me feel.”

A wistful smile plays across your lips at the memory as your eyes meet his in silent invitation. You’re hanging on his every word now — a state Max still struggles to wrap his mind around at times.

“No matter what I did, or where I traveled, part of me couldn’t escape your voice in my head,” Max continues, pushing through the lump in his throat. “Demanding that I question my way of life, open my eyes to how careless I had been.”

You nod slowly in recognition, lacing your fingers through his. The remembered combativeness from that long ago confrontation has faded now, giving way only to understanding between the two people who recognize each other most profoundly.

“At first, I just tried blocking you out,” Max admits with a rueful chuckle. He dips his head until your foreheads are brushing again as his voice lowers to an intimate rasp. “But the more I pushed you away, the deeper you burrowed inside me. Until I finally stopped fighting it and just … listened.”

He feels your sharp inhale as his words skate warmth down your skin. Slowly, almost unconsciously, your fingers tighten around his in solidarity.

“And look at us now,” you murmur at last, awestruck and achingly tender all at once.

In your eyes, Max glimpses the past, present and future stretching out in dizzying symmetry — those first fierce sparks of passion blossoming into the steadfast love that shelters your growing family. He sees the painstaking nurturing required to transform a confrontation into a partnership over years of effort and understanding.

Most of all, he sees the promise of new dawns yet to come, with each one awakening to your cherished, reverent teachings about the earth’s splendor and fragility.

His heart clenches fit to burst as Max drinks in your beauty — flushed and glowing with new life, still beaming with that incandescent fire that had first seared into his soul. Only now, it burns only for him, a flame stoking devotion and passion and sanctuary.

Just as Max leans in to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, the shrill chime of the doorbell shatters the moment. You spring apart with a breathless laugh.

“Fuck, I forgot Seb was supposed to be coming over today!” You give Max’s chest one last pat before turning toward the house, waddling slightly with the added weight of your pregnant belly.

Max grins fondly, trailing after you at a more leisurely pace. He can’t resist one last admiring glance over his shoulder at the pristine vegetable garden stretching behind the cottage — an oasis of sustainable beauty, just like the life you’ve created here.

As you reach the front door, pulling it open eagerly, Sebastian’s familiar lopsided grin greets you both from the other side. Your brother’s eyes immediately zero in on your rounded midsection, his expression melting into one of pure adoration.

“Oh, Bärchen, you’re positively glowing!” He exclaims, sweeping you into a gentle hug. “How’s my little niece or nephew treating their mom?”

You let out a dramatic groan, leaning back to shoot Max an exaggerated look of suffering. “This kid’s already high maintenance, just like their father. I’ve got swollen ankles, back pains, you name it.”

“Hey now,” Max interjects with a chuckle, sidling up to join the familiar banter. He claps Sebastian’s shoulder affectionately. “If they end up being anything like you in the baby stage, we’re in for a whole new world of sleep deprivation.”

Sebastian returns the grin, unfazed. “Like you aren’t an even bigger handful than me.”

You snort indelicately, looping your arm through Max’s as you shuffle back to allow Sebastian inside. “Are you kidding? With my influence, this baby will be an expert environmentalist before they’re out of diapers.”

“You wish,” Max shoots back with a smirk, his eyes twinkling. He knows better than anyone the depth of your convictions — and appreciates them more than he can put words to.

As the three of you bicker playfully, Max’s chest fills with an overwhelming sense of contentment. Just a few years ago, he could have scarcely imagined this scenario — the love of his life heavy with his child, her doting brother at their side, their sprawling eco-paradise as the idyllic backdrop.

But now, as he guides you both into the spacious, sunlit living room, Max knows without a doubt that this is exactly where he belongs.

Here, sheltered in the passionate wake of your ceaseless quest to better the world. Here, in the eye of the storm you had first raged into his life, upending everything until his soul had no choice but to still and listen.

You shoot him a private smile, reading his thoughts as easily as breathing. In your bright eyes, Max sees the future stretching out blissfully — a path paved by your determined heart that he will gladly tread in partnership forever.

All because on one fateful day, you had dared to make him question everything. And in doing so, unveiled the peace and purpose he never knew he craved.

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messrsrarchives · 3 months ago

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tiktok has been having a censorship debate for like two weeks now and i need people to understand that "as long as it's not illegal" is not what we mean by fandom etiquette.

there is no ethical level of censorship because when these spaces get taken down for the "immoral subjects"? you will come down with those. when ff.net got scrubbed clean it wasn't just cest fics and proship content etc etc, it was unrelated works because there is no standard of immorality. not here. we lost tens of thousands of works because of puritanical arguments and discussions about morality, and it wasn't just the ones you're debating about.

there is no ethical level of censorship and as long as these works are tagged correctly? you cannot get mad about their existence. you can disagree! you can say you personally do not engage with them, but you Cannot say "ship and let ship until it's -" because that is not how it works.

and i'm not perfect! when i first joined online fandom spaces i was very much like "if you have to change the ages then it's disgusting" "they're related" etc etc and whilst i still don't tend to engage with those themes? we cannot be censoring them either. not without losing these spaces.

it starts with you disagreeing with these things, and it ends with queer media as a whole because there is No Ethical Censorship.

this is less a discussion about fandom etiquette, and more a discussion of Having Fandom Spaces. i beggeth you, don't be part of helping what happened to ff.net happen again 😖

don't like, don't read - including "illegal" and "immoral" things. if they're tagged correctly, you can avoid them.

we also, less of a fandom note and more just a general media note, need to explore these things. yes, there are 100% times where these things get glorified. but on a general basis? we need to explore immoral things in media. we need to explore things to understand them - i'm thinking here about well-known books like the handmaid's tale getting banned because it's Important and it Explains what's going on right now. i'm thinking about morally grey characters/historical figures and how we need to be able to look at their motivations/backstory/etc not necessarily for justification, but for understanding and prevention. even in real life cases, they look at the backstory of the individual because that is how we form and improve preventative techniques and resources.

there is no ethical level of censorship and i've been there, i know it feels good to be like "this is illegal this is bad", you feel like you're doing some good in the world but you're actually causing harm unknowingly to These Spaces.

it is 2025, we do Not need proshipper discourse right now. arguably the worst time for people to be debating what's immoral to read/write about. all censorship ends up as mass censorship, and i really need yall to understand that

block the tags, exclude them from your searches, block the people posting them. do whateverrrr you have to do to curate your own fandom space but for the love of everythingggg, don't be part of the reason we lose these spaces as a whole.

#i always fear i come off aggressive when i rant #i hope this doesnt !!!#tiktok has been so big on anti proship recently and i'm going a wee bit insane like #guys plsplspls #we need these spaces rn #we neeed these spaces this isnt even just an etiquette thing #this is a protection thing #ahem anyway #proship #robrauders yap #marauders

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clarkeybabey · 4 months ago

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❝ i'll do it better than he can ❞

# summary; your boyfriend kind of sucks

# playlist; your guilty pleasure - henry verus, knuckles - moose blood

# word count; 1k

# note; the casual x chrismd fic is actually in the works btw

Arthur feels his eyes roll into the back of his head as Jack, the insufferable man you've begun going out with, drones on about how his tiktok supposedly blew up, "It's got almost five thousand likes, mate, 's mental."

Isaac nods, Liv and Becky stand next to you, tapping through your phone at the photos you'd taken just earlier. You stifle a giggle at how as he continues to speak, more of your friends have slipped away to the toilet, called it a night, or simply tuned him out.

He was biting his tongue because he knows what you'd say if he were to so much as murmur what he really thought about this guy, or if he were to arrogantly laugh in his face saying how he got that in ten minutes of posting something.

To prevent allowing his internal, jealous rage to peak through his usual demeanor, he gets up off his seat heading for the bar, "Uh.. shot of southern comfort, please." Harder liquor should help him get through the night.

He lets out an exasperated breath he hadn't realized was crowding his lungs following it with several deeper ones, his skin feels prickly, and he wants more than anything to go home.

Thinking of how close you once were, about the few nights you spent in his bed, the only sounds being moans and heavy breathing. How you used to come get him after pub crawls and take him home, making sure he was comfortable.

You hadn't done that for months, not because you didn't still offer but because you expressed how Jack felt about you being alone with him, so Arthur simply stopped calling when he was drunk.

Nodding at the barman as he slides the shot he ordered to him, knocking it back like it was nothing, however, the way his face twists into a grimace and the alcohol burns the entire way down makes him realize what he's done. He knows how terribly he handles his drink but he went ahead and let his intrusive thoughts win.

Quite a few things are swirling in his mind as he stares at you from across the room, shamelessly letting his eyes flick down your body to your legs in those ripped skinny jeans, he bites hard on his lip when they fall upon your ass in them. Fuck. He feels all the blood in his body rush to his face when you turn and look directly at him. And dammit now you're walking over.

Never has he really been a religious man but he's praying you wouldn't notice him eye-fucking you or the way he was now watching the way your tits bounced against the tight, cropped top you were sporting or how he practically salivated over the sway of your hips as you stalk toward him.

"What ya up to?" he picks up on your sing-song tone. Just thinking about how much better I could be for you, he wishes he had taken another shot because then maybe he'd have the courage to utter that sentence: "Was getting a shot, and now I'm getting another martini. " He states untruthfully, but the matter-of-fact edge he has to his voice has you nodding, suspicion swirling in your mind.

His gaze lingers when you notice you wrap your arms around yourself, leaning your weight onto one foot. You hate how he made your pulse quicken, and when you saw him standing alone across the room, you felt a gravitational pull in his direction.

Jack never made you feel that way; sometimes, you felt the opposite. Arthur's just different—he always has been. He never made you feel weird about your interests; hell, you shared most of them. If you ever needed anything, you knew he'd be a call away, and vice versa.

You hadn't noticed how long you stood in silence or how he was reading you like a book until he said, "What're you thinking about?" His eyes roam over your features, watching you stutter with a knowing smirk, "And don't lie to me. You're an awful liar, love."

You internally swoon as the name makes your stomach somersault, "Just that I miss you, we never hang out anymore," he scoffs glaring daggers over your shoulder, presumably at Jack who you can feel staring a hole straight through you. His chin tilts slightly, eyeing you once more before murmuring, "You and I both know why that is."

Racking your brain for a rebuttal you come up empty, any and all words dying on your tongue, as much as you hate to admit it, he's right. You let your relationship drive a wedge between you, despite it not always being strictly platonic, the two of you were still incredibly close for years and all that's changed in three months.

Your phone comes to life in your back pocket, the custom tone Jack chose for himself echoing through the space between you. You resist the urge to sigh, his timing is always impeccable. "I'd bet you a tenner, he's suddenly ready to leave," you murmur, Arthur observing the screen with a hint of irritation in his gaze.

"He has a knack for butting in at the most inconvenient moments," Arthur comments with a dry chuckle, clearly amused yet envious of Jack's presence in your life.

You snort, it shouldn't be true for a man you claim as your boyfriend, but it is, you swear the more time you've spent with him the more overwhelming he's become, "Just gonna tell him 'm going with Liv tonight." You know that won't happen, she told you before you rocked up tonight, that she'd be going home with her boyfriend as they had set plans for the next morning.

Never have you been supportive of those who are enough of an asshole to break up with someone over text but you definitely might have to become one of them with this guy, he won't take it well no matter how you do it. If he made you feel how the man standing just in front of you, fiddling with his fingers did, maybe you would consider things.

He mutters, "She's going with Bach, you can always stay with me," his voice conveying hints of uncertainty and yearning. You lift your gaze in an attempt to meet his eyes, which he carefully sidesteps suddenly fairly interested in his ratty airforces.

"I was promised a Harry Potter marathon the last time we filmed with Chris anyway," he adds with a smirk. You can't help the way the corners of your mouth twitch. The fact that he remembers sending a flutter through your chest, his thoughtfulness always has you giggling like a schoolgirl.

You hum in agreement as you continue typing up your response, a playful smile on your lips, "I might just take you up on that," you nod moving around him in the direction of the bathrooms, "Let me know when he's gone, yeah?" you throw over your shoulder before disappearing out of sight.

Arthur watches Jack's reaction from the bar while he orders his martini, feeling full of himself. Your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend shoves his arms into his coat sleeves and bids your friends goodbye as he stalks out of the pub his jaw clenched so tight he swears he's grinding his teeth

#arthur tv #arthur frederick #arthurtv #arthur tv x reader #arthurtv x you #arthurtv x reader #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv fluff #arthurtv smut #arthurtv fics #fluff #george clarke #arthur hill #italianbach #chris md

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ilovewomenfr · 3 months ago

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can u do a Vi x a bullied! chubby! fem! reader where the reader gets bullied and Vi makes her feel better with taking her virginity and Vi is very experienced while reader is a virgin?

cw: virgin!r, experienced!v, fluff, pretty vanilla, soft sex, body worship, praise kink, porn with a bit of a plot, use of y/n when necessary, reader is shorter than vi, vi lokey just yaps for a bit, pet names, a bit of overstimulation (r! receiving), oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), KNEE THING (r!receiving)(YIPPEE!!)

~~~men dni!! 18+~~~

an: i kind of played around with structure and text in this just to get back into the flow of writing. the photo of the outfit is just kind of what i was picturing the reader wearing in the video mentioned. im gonna get the requests out slowly, i havent forgotten about them i just got way more than i expected! i’ve got another one in the works rn as well as my own little ellie fic along with being in school.

You recently posted a tiktok on your pretty small account, only followed by friends and a few random people. It was just a fun little video of you and your girlfriend doing a fit check; you were wearing the cutest maxi skirt and felt confident as hell. That was until the video blew up, raking in thousands of views, which then evidently resulted in several comments about your weight. Of course some of the comments were positive: ‘you guys are so cute together’, ‘omg this is soooo butchfemme i love it’, ‘stunning!!’ But they quickly got overshadowed by all the hate: ‘ew your girlfriend deserves better’, ‘oh she’s fat… gross’, ‘this isn’t cute…’

After your classes you head into your single dorm, setting up to study and trying to ignore the comments that just keep flooding in, some homophobic and some body-shaming. Your phone is blowing up and you seriously just need to focus on school, so you go to put it on do not disturb, the last comment you see in your notifications says ‘people like you don’t deserve love’. That’s the last straw, you sit in front of your laptop as you feel tears building up for the umpteenth time today. Your phone buzzes once more; you reluctantly check it,

vi❤️ - i saw the comments on your video are you okay?

With a deep breath you answer:

can you come over?

Less than ten minutes later she knocks at your door, when you open it she pulls you into a hug, “I’m so sorry y/n” she murmurs, pressing a kiss onto your head, you look up at her, “how much did you see?” Vi shakes her head, “doesn’t matter because none of them are true.” You look up at her, bleary eyed, “how many of them did you read, Vi?” you ask, your voice breaking as you bring her to sit with you on your bed. The two of you sit down as Vi nods her head, her throat bobbing as she swallows, “I saw most of them, and they’re all fucking ridiculous.” she scoffs, “so you don’t agree with them?” Vi turns her head, “are you serious right now babe? Why on earth would I agree with them?” You sniffle and Vi pulls you onto her chest, lying down with you, “Hey, don’t pay attention to those comments, you’re beautiful.” She pulls you in for a kiss. It’s soft and gentle, her hands holding your hips, when she pulls away, she smiles fondly, “I love you, so much. Don’t let random people on the internet get in your head okay? Your body is perfect and who cares if you’ve got curves it just makes everything better.”

With a small smile on your face, your lips meet hers once again, her tongue making its way to meet your own, drawing a hum of desperation from you. Vi flips you while keeping her lips on yours, carefully slotting her leg between yours; quelling the soft ache beginning to form. You pull away, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, “Vi- you know I haven’t-” you whisper, “We don’t have to if you don’t feel rea-” “No! No, I want this, I’m ready.” Vi grins, “yeah?” You bite your cheek and giggle, “Yeah.” “You’re so cute holy shit.”

Vi’s lips crash into yours and her thigh presses against your clothed cunt, your breath hitches, she hasn’t even done anything yet and it already feels worlds better than when you do it yourself. Vi’s tongue delves into your desperately parted lips as if on a journey, swallowing the moans coming from you. Her hands are everywhere, one on your hip, on finding its way up your shirt to brush her thumb over your nipple, eliciting a whine from you. If you weren’t soaked before, you definitely are now. She smiles, tugging your bottom lip with her teeth before her lips find their way onto your neck, finding your pulse point and sucking gently, your breathing gets heavy as Vi trails her lips down to your clavicle; teeth and lips and tongue all along the skin. “Let’s get this off you” she tugs your shirt up- throwing it somewhere in your room once it’s off.

Her blue irises darken at the sight of your tits, “God you’re so gorgeous babe,” Vi squeezes them together and pulls your right nipple into her mouth, tongue swirling and sucking the pebbled skin; “H-holy shit” you gasp, hands finding her pink locks, “haven’t even gotten to the good part yet” she mumbles, a slight chuckle coming from her. Vi does the same on the other side and moves down your stomach, kissing practically every inch of skin, “You’re so pretty y/n” she murmurs against your skin, the pits of your stomach flip-flopping as she finally gets to your waistband. “Can I?” “Please.”

Vi eagerly tugs down your pants, leaving you in a soaked baby pink thong, “Holy shit you’re so wet.” she smiles, amused. You bite your lip as Vi runs her thumb along the fabric, “o-oh” your voice comes out as a breathy moan, heart racing as she starts teasing your clit ever so slightly through your underwear. She pulls her hand away and runs the both of them up your thighs, “why’d you stop?” Vi just grins, swiftly tugging down the fabric, pupils blown out. “Oh my god.” the words sound so desperate, without any warning she pulls your legs over her shoulder, “you’ve got a pretty pussy,” her breath fans across the wet curls. Vi looks up at you, ensuring to make eye contact before she licks your aching cunt from the bottom to the top then focusing her tongue on your clit, drawing a whine from you, “Viii.” You feel her smiling as she rolls her tongue perfectly against you. It feels better than anything you could do yourself. The soft licks gradually get stronger until she’s flicking your clit and your nails are digging into her scalp.

“Oh fuuck” whines are escaping you without any control and it’s only egging her on, “Fuuuck Vi!” you try to squeeze your legs around her head but she pushes them back open, her middle finger tracing around your entrance before gently curling it into you, “Holy hnghh shit!” your back arches as her slender finger pushes into you repeatedly, Vi laps at your clit again, a soft moan coming from her and sending vibrations up your body. “More pleaase babe” you beg and feel her smile against you. She adds a second finger, filling you up, and your moans become pornographic at the dual stimulation she’s providing you. Vi’s fingers are grazing your g-spot perfectly and you think you might have already came a couple times but you’re so in the moment you don’t know or care. Your pussy is squelching obscenely with every movement of Vi’s fingers, soft moans leaving her as well. “Vi I think I’m gonna cum!” you grasp onto her hair and you hips buck as you clench around her, resulting in more moans from Vi. You feel yourself shaking as she slips her hands out but keeps licking at your drenched cunt like it’s the air she breathes, sucking onto your clit like she’s never going to get this opportunity again. “Vi! I- mhh too much!” you push her head away from your pussy. She smiles lazily, her chin sheen with slick, “You taste so good, got carried away” she giggles, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. “Wow.” you breathe out as Vi wraps her arms around your waist, “You okay?” she asks as she holds your face, resting her forehead on yours as you nod, she kisses your nose softly, “I love you so much” you smile for the umpteenth time tonight, “I love you more.” After a few moments Vi sits up from the bed, “Where are you going?” “Gonna grab a towel so I can clean you up, stay here okay?” she kisses your forehead. The two of you fall asleep in each other’s arms shortly after.

#arcane #wlw #vi arcane #vi x reader #violet arcane #top!vi #lesbian #fanfic #chubby!reader #wlw smut

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calaisreno · 1 month ago

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Victorian Edition, Part 2: Five Recs + 2

I promised a second part of this edition of RRR, and it looks like Part 2 won't be the last. I've read so many fantastic ACD fics that I'd like to share:

The Beginning of Always / @mydogwatson : John Watson wants to be a doctor. Sherlock Holmes wants to be a consulting detective. Most of all, they both want to be loved. Author note: The idea of using Joseph Bell [the inspiration, in part, for ACD in creating Holmes] came to me from @thegildedbee and I was excited to run with it.

My note: If you're looking for well-written, fully imagined ACD stories, you could go to no better author than @mydogwatson. Mostly short stories, lots of Christmas ones.

Bad Dog by RatTale: During a hard case Holmes and Watson part ways after an argument, and now Holmes suddenly has more to worry about than missing children.

My note: RatTale has written a number of stories, all of them loved by me. This one was taken down for a while, but has recently been restored.

A Pertinacious Idea by @victorianpining : "I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader."

Summary: One wintry evening, Dr. Watson returns home to find that Holmes has rekindled their most longstanding disagreement by creating his own rendition of one of Watson's narratives. Braced for criticism, in reading Holmes' story Watson instead finds the one thing he had long believed Holmes to be incapable of giving.

My note: Go read this! Beautifully written.

Heaven and Earth by @a-candle-for-sherlock : At first, the wonder of his resurrection had blazed so bright that I saw nothing else. Joy, joy impossible had been returned to me; death itself had been undone. But as the miracle faded into everyday light I began to see that time had not been likewise reversed; time had done its implacable work. He was not the same as he had been.

My note: tender, beautiful. I've reread this one a thousand times.

Rewriting History by rachelindeed ( @educatedinyellow): A correspondence between Holmes and Watson in the immediate aftermath of the Great War in which they discuss questions of history both public and personal.

My note: another one I've reread over and over. Developing relationship, Thucydides. That says it all.

Plus two of my own:

The Silence Between Us by @calaisreno : Watson is a proper Victorian man, a stranger to himself, unwittingly complicit in his own unhappiness. On a journey to London to see Holmes after ten years of silence, he tries to understand their broken friendship and his own grief.

My note: This might be my single favorite ACD story I've authored. This unhappy, conflicted Watson finally breaking down and realising he loves Holmes is one I cherish.

Bodyguard by @calaisreno : Captain John Watson, wounded in Afghanistan, is looking for employment. Sherlock Holmes is looking for something else. Fortunately, they can solve one another's problems.

My note: One of my oldest stories on AO3, this one doesn't get read much, but it's funny! A casefic, with an enthusiastically involved Watson (in drag for one scene) and an indulgent Holmes.

Thank you for reblogging! Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged.

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes

@redmondcollege @raina-at @7-percent @lhrinchelsea

@a-victorian-girl @ghostofnuggetspast @friday411

@meetinginsamarra @inevitably-johnlocked @copperplatebeech

#johnlock #fic rec #acd sherlock holmes #re-read recs #victorian johnlock

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muffinlance · 1 year ago

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Wait, what’s going on with Embers???? That fic has been on my read later list since 2021, what’s happened with it???

Brief overview, then I'm likely never touching this topic again, because this is not a Drama Blog:

Context: Embers is a super old AtLA fic that was written during the early fandom days, read widely at the time, and was the origin of the widely-used fanon name of "Wani" for Zuko's ship (kind of by default that it was one of the first popular fics to give his ship a name, I think?), even though most fic writers don't seem to realize it's from there anymore.

"What's Going On": I used to include a link in all my stories to it, because I believe in crediting other writers for borrowed elements, and I was using "Wani" in all my fics. But BOY did I not want to be sending readers that way anymore, so I've adopted a new name for Zuko's ship, and removed all Embers links.

None of the criticisms about Embers itself are new; I'm assuming they date back to when the fic was being written, because this isn't an "it aged badly" thing, this is an "actually yeah this gets worse the longer you think about it and I shouldn't have ignored my bad feelings just because some of the worldbuilding was interesting" thing.

An Incomplete List of Why I Made the Change:

I don't actually like the story that much anymore, and don't want to rec it

I tried to re-read it recently to see if some things were as bad as I remembered and it turns out they were So Much Worse Oh Yikes. More specifically, the treatment of Katara and Aang and their respective cultures has... rather a lot going on. One example: The Fire Nation and Air Nomads are both given multiple backstory elements in an attempt to make the average Fire Nation soldier's participation in the genocide/war in large part the fault of the Avatar and the Air Nomads themselves, and also fully justified from the Fire Nation perspective. And I do mean fully. One of its core tenants is "People from the Fire Nation (and only people from the Fire Nation) who don't follow orders Literally Die, therefore murdering pacifists and babies and continuing the war (and their regularly scheduled war crimes) is the only thing it is physically possible for them to do". I cannot emphasize enough how literal that is.

Also the name "Wani" means "Alligator" and is... objectively a pretty lame name for Zuko's ship? Where's the personality, where's the deeper meaning, where's the resonance with Zuko's themes? @tuktukpodfics initially thought I was calling the ship "Wanyi", and that's what I've switched to, because it is Objectively So Much Better. In their words: “Wànyī (萬一): Literally ��one in ten thousand,’ ‘perchance.’ Used grammatically in Chinese to mean ‘what if’ or ‘just in case.’ I think a ship called ‘The Perchance’ is perfect for a boy clinging to false hope.”

TL:DR; I don't rec Embers anymore, because I don't actually like the story anymore, and there are things about it that get worse the more I think on them. I've removed links to it and renamed Zuko's ship to "Wanyi" ("The Perchance") because our boy deserves a ship name that reflects his character arc.

#for the record if you ever find something kind of rancid in my fics #do please let me know #EX: I've rewritten scenes to be better Actual Blind Rep for Toph based on blind reader feedback #and I'm debating how hard it would be to ignore/re-write the canon issues of Water Tribe sexism (for the Southern Tribe at the least)#because that is a common complaint I see from the people who's RL cultures the Water Tribes was based on #probably I can do more interesting things with that going forward #in other words justice for Hama and Hahn #at least the show itself made Hama excellently complex #anyways back to doing actual writing #please no follow up questions #though I will say anyone who wants to update their own fics to use Wanyi (or any other name): go for it!#all you need to do is plop your chapters in a word editor and find/replace the ship name! it took about 40 minutes to do literally #all of my fics and I had some other editing to do besides! it'll be even quicker for you!#let's sink the Wani #avatar the last airbender #atla #Zuko

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

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Counting the Minutes

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Dirty talk, masturbation, phone sex. Word count: ~1k

Summary: Separated for the Christmas break, her and Michael have to get creative.

Author's note: A little addition to The Golden Ratio, though can also be read as a standalone piece. Day twelve of the Smuffmas prompts - "promise and phone sex". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She nestles beneath the duvet, clicking through the contacts on her Nokia until she reaches Michael’s name. A faint smile tugs at her lips as her finger hovers over the call button, she can’t wait to speak to him.

They have been inseparable since the night that Oliver ditched him. They brought out the best in each other. Michael lit a fire underneath her that made her want to study harder, to strive for perfection in all things. In turn, she softened him up and taught him not to see the world through such a harsh lens.

Their relationship had become serious enough that they had both chosen to spend their reading week together, instead of going home like the vast majority of people at their college had.

Now the term was over, and Christmas had beckoned them both home; Michael back to his mum, and her back to her dad. It’s odd not to see him every day, and though they’d stayed in touch on MSN Messenger, nothing compares to sitting with their legs entwined as they discuss their notes for their upcoming tutorials.

It’s only been a week and she misses the way he rests his chin against his hand when he’s deep in thought, how the intensity of his unblinking, blue eyed stare causes her skin to grow hot, and the smell of Imperial Leather soap and old books that she inhales when she rests her face in the crook of his neck.

Holding the phone to her ear, it rings once, twice, three times before he answers.

“Hello, you.”

His voice gives her butterflies. It’s the sound she’d attribute to how it feels to run your fingertips against plush velvet.

“Hi,” she says back with a coy smile. God, she wishes she could see him.

“How long can you talk for?” He asks.

“I put credit on my phone yesterday, ten pounds, so should be good for a while.”

“One hundred and sixty six point seven hours.”

She huffs a laugh. Of course his mind wanders to the maths of it.

“You think we could talk for that long?”

“Hmm,” he muses, “I’m sure we could find a way to pass the time.”

“Like we did during reading week?” She asks softly, her fingers drawing lazy circles against the cotton of her bedsheets.

“Can’t really do that over the phone.”

“Have you ever had phone sex before?”

She hears him suck in a harsh breath before he replies. “What do you think?”

It causes her to giggle. Of course he hasn’t.

“Would you like to try it?” She holds the phone tighter to her ear, a lazy grin upon her lips.

“What does it entail?”

“Well,” she begins, switching her mobile from one ear to the other, and snuggling further down into the bed. “We describe what we’d like to do to each other while we touch ourselves.”

“One thousand, two hundred and fifty.”

“What?”

“On average, I can make you orgasm in about eight minutes. If we run through all of your phone credit then that’s how many times I could make you come.”

“Michael!” She gasps, feeling her insides flutter at the thought. “I don’t think that would be physically possible. I’ll settle for just the one today.”

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound breathy through the receiver. “Yes, I suppose that’s a bit impractical. Alright then, you start.”

“I wish you here right now,” she purrs seductively. “I want to push my hand up your t-shirt and run my fingers against that little trail of hair that leads all the way down your stomach, before I wrap them around your cock.”

His breathing grows heavier and she can hear the faint rustle of clothing in the background. She bites her lip, her own hand snaking beneath the duvet and into the waistband of her knickers.

“I miss the way you feel,” he tells her, voice shaky, “how tightly you grip me when I first push inside of you. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that sensation. You’re so wet, so warm…”

She can hear the slick sound of his hand pumping over his cock, the sound sends arousal pooling between her legs and she circles her pearl in earnest, the added wetness aiding her ministrations. She hadn’t expected him to focus on the sensation of physical touch quite so much, but Michael is pragmatic after all, and his innovative approach excites her.

“Mmmm,” she moans quietly, “I want you to do that thing where you grab my hips to pull me back against you as you fuck me, it feels so good.”

A broken whimper escapes him, and there’s a brief moment of just his ragged breathing before he speaks again.

“The way your thighs tighten against my waist drives me mad. I swear I can still feel you there when I close my eyes, see the way your tits bounce– fuck!”

She whines, circling her bud faster, the coil in her gut tightening. “Wanna slide my hands down to your arse, push you in as deep as you’ll go, watch how your eyes screw shut as you come inside me.”

He grunts. “Wish I could come inside of you so badly. I need to feel you clenching around me, hear the pretty sounds you make as I fill you up.”

Her hips jerk involuntarily against her hand, and she knows she’s close. It’s been a week since he’s touched her and his filthy words have sent her unravelling much faster than she anticipated.

“I’m close,” she pants.

“M–me too,” he huffs back. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard the moment we get back to college.”

“Oh god–” Her response is cut off by her pleasured cry, as she falls apart, her walls spasming around emptiness as her thighs tremble.

A grunt and heavy breathing on the other end of the line lets her know that Michael has reached his end too. There’s nothing but the sound of their shared gasps for air, as they both recover.

“Do you promise?” She finally asks. “To fuck me hard when we get back to college?”

“Tell you what, let’s go back a day early and we can spend an entire day doing just that.”

She giggles excitedly, rolling onto her side. “I’ll be counting the minutes until then.”

Part two || Series masterlist

#michael gavey x you #ewan mitchell #michael gavey smut #michael gavey x y/n #michael gavey #michael gavey saltburn #michael gavey imagine #saltburn michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey fan fiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fanfic #michael gavey fan fic #saltburn #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn fan fiction #saltburn fan fic #saltburn fanfic

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love--and--venom · 17 days ago

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Had Your Fun?

Summary: A mishap at the studio leaves you and your boyfriends waiting impatiently to record. Jooyeon decides it would be fun to do a livestream, so you all hide in a dance practice room for a couple hours. Unfortunately for you, the songs you were dancing to, live for thousands to see, showed off a bit too much for your boys' liking. So now you have to face the consequences

Warnings: Oh god where do I start, smut, oral (m + f receiving), anal sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (dont), double (triple??) peneration (p in v, a, mouth), possessive xdh, a few spanks, objectification, dubcon if you squint but safewords are in place, i think that's everything? lmk if i missed any

i don't have an explanation. i was apparently possessed by some kind of horny demon and wrote the nastiest smut i've ever written so far. and it's 12 fucking pages. anyway stream george the lobster

Based on this hard thought

also i did not proofread this i'm sleepy

Links to fancams for each song mentioned in the fic: ⬩Crazy Form⬩Teeth⬩Cyberpunk⬩Taste⬩Wake Up⬩GGUM ⬩

“What do you mean ‘the studio’s flooded’?!” Gunil shouted, making all of you pause in your tracks. Ten minutes ago, their manager texted the leader to wait in the lobby for a bit due to some “technical issues” they were having in their reserved recording booth. That did not sound like a technical issue. Gunil stormed a few feet away, whispering angrily into the phone while you and the other members shared a wary look.

“Fuck,” the drummer cursed after he hung up, running a hand through his hair.

“Everything alright?” You asked as you grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“No,” he sighed. “A pipe burst, so they had to close five of the recording booths, including ours.”

“Does that mean we can’t record today?” Jiseok grumbled, shoulders drooping with disappointment.

“We can, it’ll just be a while. We have to wait for one of the other booths to open up.” The boys all groaned. It could take hours for another group to finish up.

“So do we just go home until then?” Hyeongjun asked with a slight furrow in his brow.

“We can, but our manager also said that one of the dance practice rooms is open if we want to wait here,” Gunil explained. The group fell to silence as they weighed their options.

“If we hang out in the practice room, we could do a live,” Jooyeon suggested. Well, hanging out with the Villains was definitely a better option than sitting around at home. You made your way to the practice room, stopping briefly to grab a tripod. Gunil snagged one of the two chairs in the room and began setting up his phone to stream on Instagram. The other chair was quickly stolen by Jiseok, leaving the others to spread out on the floor.

“Will you get in trouble if I play music?” You asked, eyeing up the speaker against the wall. After getting the go-ahead, you connected your phone to the aux cord and pulled up your dance playlist while Gunil greeted the Villains and filled them in on their current predicament. You threw your hoodie onto your bag, leaving you in a tank top and joggers so you wouldn’t overheat while dancing to your music.

“Ah, that’s Y/N.” You perked up at the sound of our name. Jungsu had the chat open on his phone and was responding to comments. “She’s our sound tech, so she has to wait just like we do.”

“And she gets the zoomies,” Jiseok teased. You rolled your eyes at him before returning to half-heartedly performing the choreo to the current song.

“You’re in frame,” Gunil warned. “Do you want me to move the camera?”

“Nah, I don’t mind. Hi Villains! I hope my dancing isn’t too horrible,” you smiled and waved at the camera. For a while, things continued just like that: you absentmindedly answered questions thrown your way while the boys chatted about upcoming recording plans. You interrupted Jungsu as he was reading a comment with an excited scream when the intro to Crazy Form began playing.

“I think she likes this song,” Jooyeon laughed as you put way more effort into the choreography.

“Villains are saying we should be worried about Ateez,” Jungsu noted while scrolling the chat. Seungmin peeked over his shoulder, but the chat wasn’t offering any clarification. The first body roll hit and the boys had to fight to contain their surprise. Hyeongjun hid his mouth behind his hands when you did Wooyoung’s butt wiggle. Teeth came on next, and while the lyrics raised some concerns, the dance wasn’t as bad, so they relaxed a bit. That was a mistake on their end.

“Oh my god!” You froze, frantically looking for a chair while Cyberpunk started. “Jiseok, I need your chair now!” You hurriedly kicked him to the floor, knowing he was more lenient with you than Gunil was. You hopped on just in time for the lyrics to start. The warning looks began with Seungmin, but you were blissfully unaware as you continued to dance to Cyberpunk, then Taste. By the end of Wake Up, Hyeongjun was staring in horror with a bright pink flush while Jungsu, Seungmin, and Jiseok gave you the look. Jooyeon was absolutely delighted.

“Why are they so mad?” He whispered to Hyeongjun. “She looks good, dude.”

“Jooyeon,” the guitarist looked at him incredulously. “We’re on a live. We’re not the only ones watching her.” The smile immediately dropped from his face and now he, too, joined in the glaring contest. Gunil managed to remain neutral through all of this despite his growing annoyance. But he was fed up and turned to you once GGum started, completely ignoring the stream. You were in the middle of the first verse when you finally noticed them.

Oh, shit, you thought, faltering momentarily to consider your options. Fuck it, I’m in trouble anyway. You jumped right back into the dance, ignoring the ‘don’t you fucking dare’ eyes from the group as you finished out the choreography.

“Had your fun?” Gunil asked in between songs, raising an eyebrow at you since the camera couldn’t see his face.

“Uhhhh, yep!” You laughed somewhat nervously. You, in fact, did not have a death wish so you opted to switch to an alternative playlist and bring your stolen chair up to sit next to the leader. “So, do you guys have any questions about sound production?” You hoped to turn the attention away from yourself. It worked, since all six band members started reading the chat. You leaned forward, squinting to try and find some comments you could answer. Gunil’s hands shot up in front of you, palms to the camera, as the boys made various noises of shock and panic while your eyes widened at their reactions.

“Y/N, sit back.” You tilted your head at the drummer, confused until Jungsu handed you his sweater.

“Put it on,” he instructed and it dawned on you that you were in a tank top and leaning forward had put your tits on full display for the stream.

“T-Thanks,” you cleared your throat and pulled his sweater on. Several people in the chat were questioning the interaction, calling the boys out on their use of their ‘dom eyes’ throughout the stream. Gunil steered the conversation back to their production process, and things went normally for the next hour until the Villains pointed out how much you did to make sure the recordings were successful.

“Oh, trust me, these boys would be lost if I wasn’t here,” you bragged while they all rolled their eyes.

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a bit?” Jiseok scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Nope! I am the literal backbone of your production team. You’re lucky I haven’t gotten sick or anything, cus if you had to deal with everything on your own, nothing would get done correct–”

“Okay, princess, we get it,” Seungmin interrupted, covering his intentions with sarcasm. Your jaw snapped shut and you immediately sat up straight, knowing exactly what that particular pet name meant for you.

“O.de, be nice,” Gunil warned the younger member. A knock on the door stole everyone’s attention as the manager for the freshly-debuted KickFlip poked her head in the room.

“We’re done in studio 7 if you guys want to take over,” she informed you with a bright smile. Gunil nodded and thanked her, then turned back to the stream once she left.

“All right, back to work. Thanks for hanging out with us, bye~!” You all waved goodbye to the stream until Gunil ended it. As soon as the camera was off, the leader squeezed your thigh, staring you down with an extremely unimpressed expression. Seungmin and Jungsu moved to stand in front of you, arms crossed and looking much more annoyed than the drummer.

“Oh, fuck,” you swore and drooped in your chair, hiding the bottom half of your face in the collar of your sweater.

“Yeah, ‘oh fuck’ is right, sweetheart,” Jungsu mocked while impatiently tapping his fingers on his bicep. The chair screeched against the floor as Gunil yanked you closer to him while Seungmin grabbed the back of the chair to loom over you.

“Did you have fun showing off what’s ours?” Seungmin asked as his eyes bore into yours.

“U-Uhm…” You trailed off, looking to the other three for help. They rapidly shook their heads.

“Nu-uh, babe. You did this to yourself,” Jiseok denied while making an ‘x’ with his fingers. Gunil turned you to face him, squishing your cheeks in his fingers.

“You’re lucky we need to record,” he chastised with a click of his tongue. “You better hope our Villains don’t post any screen recordings of you.” He patted your thigh and stood, signalling the other to back off, for now. The air was tense in the studio, but your (thankfully) clueless production manager quickly diffused the tension.

Villains certainly lived up to their name. Many, many videos were posted of the stream. Most of them gushed about how well you performed the choreography, but there were some that clipped together all of the moments where the boys slipped up.

‘Am I insane or were they staring at her a little too hard 👀’

‘Oh shit, they were giving her the same look my dom gives me when i misbehave’

‘I would pay real money to have o.de look at me like that’

These were just some of the comments under one of the videos, and you didn’t even know they were being made. Not until you got back to your apartment.

“Knees,” Gunil ordered once the door was closed. You immediately scurried to the living room with Hyeongjun moving to do the same.

“Not you this time,” Jungsu stopped him by grabbing his wrist. “Sit back and watch or do as we say, up to you.” He nodded slowly, following the others to sit on the couch while you sat on your knees in front of Gunil.

“Villains made edits of you already,” Jiseok said while scrolling through tiktok. “You should see some of the comments.”

“I’ll ask again,” Seungmin began while leaning on the arm of the couch next to the drummer. “Did you have fun showing off what’s ours?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you argued quietly as your nails dug into your knees. “I didn’t realize—”

“Yes you did,” Gunil cut you off and you pressed your lips into a thin line. “Maybe not at first, but you knew toward the end.”

“But you disobeyed anyway. Why?” Jungsu asked, arching one eyebrow expectantly.

“Uhm, well, y-y’know. I knew I was in trouble anyway…” you trailed off as your heart beat wildly in your chest.

“So you decided to make it worse,” Seungmin scoffed, shaking his head while Gunil leaned forward to hook a finger under your chin.

“You know the deal, baby. Bad girls get punished. So,” Gunil paused when Jungsu tapped him on the shoulder, prompting the drummer to move closer. Jungsu covered his mouth as he whispered, making you squirm in place. The corner of Gunil’s mouth twitched up. He nodded, relaxing into the back of the couch with one arm crossed behind his head, the other draped lazily across his lap.

“Hyeongjun,” Jungsu turned his attention to the three members sitting on the other end of the couch. Hyeongjun tensed slightly.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Strip her for us.” He immediately jumped off the couch to pull you to your feet, stopping with his hands curled around the hem of your shirt to glance between Gunil and Seungmin.

“Can I kiss her? Please?”

“You’ve been good, so you can do whatever you want without asking permission this time,” Gunil answered. “Just one rule: don’t let her cum.”

“Yes, sir,” Hyeongjun mumbled before crashing his lips into yours, squeezing your hips as he licked into your mouth. Jungsu swatted the back of your thigh when your hands fell naturally onto Hyeongjun’s shoulders, making you whimper into the kiss.

“Hands to yourself, sweetheart. You don’t get to touch us until you’ve earned it,” Jungsu instructed, slapping your ass at your hesitation. Your hands dropped to your sides, curling into fists and digging your nails into your palms. Seungmin’s eyebrows raised as he finally caught on to Jungsu’s plan.

“Arms up,” Hyeongjun whispered against your lips, practically tearing your sweater and tank top off before your arms were fully raised. The rest of your clothes followed suit, crumpled in a useless pile on the floor, leaving you the only one fully naked. Hyeongjun’s eyes flicked between you and Gunil apprehensively.

“Go ahead, baby. Do what you want,” Gunil reassured him, making a devious smirk grow on the guitarist’s face. He bit his lip, looking back at you while nearly bursting at the seams in his excitement.

“Sit between Jiseok and Jooyeon,” he instructed as he took a step back. You hesitated again, earning another sharp slap on your ass, this time from Seungmin.

“You better listen to him, princess,” he warned you with a slight tilt of his head. You sat down and let Hyeongjun maneuver your legs, draping them over one knee from the boys on either side of you to keep you spread open. He dropped to his knees, giving you no warning before licking a thick stripe over your clit. Your hands instinctively threaded through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as your hips bucked forward.

“Hey, brat, put your hands to better use,” Jungsu ordered, gesturing to Jiseok and Jooyeon with his chin. “Jerk them off.”

“You don’t get to cum until you make us cum,” Gunil noted. “That sounds fair, doesn’t it, princess?” You nodded, whining when Hyeongjun’s tongue circled your entrance. You hastily shoved down Jiseok’s sweatpants just enough to free his cock. You turned to do the same for Jooyeon, only to see that he had beaten you to it. You spat into your palms, pumping both of them with as much coordination as your fucked-out mind could handle.

“Hyeongjun,” Jungsu said to call the guitarist’s attention. Hyeongjun hummed in acknowledgment, the vibrations sending a spark of pleasure down your spine. “Get her ready for me, sweet boy.”

“Mkay,” he slurred and pulled back slightly, pulling a broken whine from your throat as the fire building in your lower belly died out from the lack of contact. He sucked on two of his fingers, then using a mix of his saliva and your arousal, he slowly pushed one into your ass while leaning back in to lap at your clit.

“Breathe, baby,” Jooyeon softly encouraged as he noticed you subconsciously holding your breath. You took a deep, shuddering breath, giving yourself more fuel to moan pathetically. Jiseok’s head tipped back, squeezing his eyes shut as his hips rolled up to meet your hand.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he panted. Your hand tightened around his cock, twisting your wrist at the base in a way you knew drove him wild. On your other side, Jooyeon pushed Hyeongjun’s hair out of his face to watch his tongue and fingers disappear in both of your holes. The bassist lost all composure when he noticed Hyeongjun’s unoccupied hand slide into his pants, palming himself to the taste of you and the sound of your whimpering. A few more pumps had Jiseok spilling ropes of cum over your hand, followed quickly by Jooyeon, their moans sending a rush of heat straight to your pussy.

“Enough, Hyeongjun,” Seungmin warned him when you showed all the signs of your own orgasm approaching. Hyeongjun either didn’t care or didn’t hear him over his heart pounding in his ears, cus he didn’t pull away from you.

“I said enough,” Seungmin growled and roughly yanked Hyeongjun back by his hair. A high-pitched whine escaped his throat, and he panted as a wet patch grew on the front of his sweatpants.

“Poor thing just needed a little pain to cum,” Jungsu cooed with mock sympathy. Seungmin rolled his eyes, releasing his hold on Hyeongjun’s hair before returning to his place next to Gunil.

“He’s lucky that she fucked up way worse, otherwise I’d be punishing him, too,” Seungmin scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Come here, princess,” Gunil beckoned you with a wave of his hand. You stood on shaky legs, letting the drummer pull you down to straddle him once you were in arm’s reach. He shifted so his back was against the arm of the couch, putting your face level with Seungmin’s still-clothed cock.

“You’re going to keep my cock warm in your pretty little pussy while Jungsu and Seungmin have their way with you. Understand?” Gunil asked with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, sir,” you replied without hesitation, nodding rapidly. He smirked and patted your hip to get you to rise up on your knees. He pushed his pants down his thighs before lining himself up and guiding you down to sit on his lap, this time with his cock buried deep in your cunt. You barely had time to adjust before Jungsu’s fingers thrust into your ass.

“Hyeongjun did good with you, huh?” He mumbled absentmindedly, removing his fingers to spit on your back entrance. Despite their harsh words, they still made sure to help you relax as Jungsu sank his cock in your ass. Gunil’s hands ran up and down your sides while Jungsu used his thumbs to trace gentle circles on your hips.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Seungmin cupped your cheeks as he praised you, swiping away any stray tears that dripped down your face. “Taking your punishment like such a good girl.”

“I’m in, sweetheart. Let me know when I can move,” Jungsu murmured, pressing kisses down your spine as he waited patiently for you to adjust to having both holes filled.

“What’s your color?” Gunil asked.

“Green. Bu-But I need to hold myself up, and I-I don’t know where to put my hands without touching,” you replied while flexing your hands where they hung at your sides. Gunil brought your hands up to rest on his chest, making your eyes go wide.

“It’s okay, baby,” he softly reassured you. “Just keep them here.” You nodded, taking another deep, calming breath to help regain some semblance of composure.

“Move, please.” With your confirmation, Jungsu dug his fingers into your hips, pulling out halfway so he could snap his hips against your ass. Your nails scratched down Gunil’s chest through his shirt as Jungsu fell into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck,” Gunil moaned as his eyes momentarily rolled back. “God, I’ll never get tired of feeling him fuck your ass from inside you.” You whined in response while Seungmin gathered your hair in a makeshift ponytail.

“Open.” You looked up with watery eyes, nearly drooling as he stroked his dick inches from your face. He raised an eyebrow, tugging your hair as a reminder to listen. Your jaw dropped, letting your tongue hang out. He tapped his tip against it, giving you a taste of his pre-cum before pushing your head down far enough to briefly trigger your gag reflex. Unlike Jungsu, Seungmin lazily fucked your mouth, watching the saliva drip down your chin through hooded eyes.

“Shit, ‘m close,” Jungsu panted as he leaned down to suck dark purple marks along the side of your neck, supporting his weight with one shaky arm on the back of the couch. Gunil’s hand shot up to press against Jungsu’s shoulder to keep him from collapsing on you.

“Easy, babe,” the drummer gently warned.

“Good, ‘m good. I got it,” Jungsu insisted through breathy moans. “Gonna cum in you, sweetheart. Gonna pump your pretty little ass full of it, fuck.” HIs teeth dug into your shoulder as he continued to fuck you through his orgasm, prolonging his pleasure and making you whimper around Seungmin’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Seungmin cursed, tightening his grip on your hair as the vibrations from your moans sent him abruptly over the edge. Your mouth was flooded with the salty taste of his cum. He pulled out, hooking a finger under your chin. “Let me see.” You opened your mouth to show him the white liquid coating your tongue. He smirked, then pressed his lips to your forehead. “Swallow,” he mumbled against your skin. You obeyed immediately, shuddering at the sensitivity from Jungsu pulling out to collapse into the couch cushions.

“One more, baby. Then it’s your turn,” Gunil promised while rolling his hips up. You squealed at the sensation, fire running through your veins from getting stimulation after staying wrapped patiently around him for so long. He propped himself up on one elbow, dragging his tongue from between your breasts up to your collarbone. He pressed heated, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, adding to the marks Jungsu left earlier. Your thighs trembled with the effort of holding back your swiftly approaching orgasm.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last long with you squeezing me like that,” Gunil admitted with an airy laugh. “Seungmin–”

“I know, I got her,” Seungmin cut him off as he moved to Jungsu’s previous position behind you. His chest met your back while his arms wrapped around you. His chin rested on your shoulder as his fingers trailed feather-light up your inner thighs and across your tummy before roughly cupping your tits. Your eyes clamped shut so you could focus on holding back rather than the warmth of Seungmin’s hands and the way Gunil’s cock brushed against your cervix. You gasped, eyes snapping back open when one of Seungmin’s hands abandoned your chest in favor of rubbing tight circles on your clit.

“F-Fuck, I can’t-! Let me cum, please. Wanna be good for you, bu-but I can’t hold it,” you helplessly begged, throwing your head back onto Seungmin’s shoulder since neither of them stopped or even slowed down.

“You can and you will,” Seungmin borderline growled in your ear. His breath fanning over the sensitive skin on your neck sent another shiver down your spine.

“Please,” you whimpered, completely forgetting about the ‘no touching’ rule as your nails dug into Seungmin’s forearm.

“Please, what, princess?” Gunil asked after pulling back far enough to watch you writhe against Seungmin’s chest. Tears now freely ran down your cheeks as you attempted to speak between broken whines and high-pitched moans.

“Let me cum! Please, fuck, wanna cum,” you cried. “Please, pleasepleaseplease–”

“Jiseok, shut her up,” Gunil ordered, shooting a pointed look at the guitarist. He shot out of his seat, crashing his lips into yours to messily swallow your pleas. He threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling slightly to give his tongue more room to lick into your mouth. Your chest heaved while Jiseok dragged his tongue along yours, making more spit pool at the corners of your mouth.

“Fuck,” Gunil swore under his breath as his thrusts got sloppier the closer he got to his orgasm. His hips stuttered after a few more harsh thrusts, flooding your pussy with his cum. You whined into Jiseok’s mouth, gripping his bicep desperately with both hands.

“Cum for us, princess,” Seungmin encouraged while pressing down on your clit- hard. All of your muscles tensed as the overwhelming wave of pleasure crashed into you. If Jiseok wasn’t there to dampen your screams, you definitely would’ve gotten a noise complaint. You winced as Gunil pulled out, vaguely registering him and Seungmin maneuvering your body to a more comfortable position. The two of them whispered praises while running their hands along your skin to help bring you down from your high. Once you came back to your senses, you looked up at Gunil from where you sat in his lap.

“There you are, pretty girl,” he grinned when he noticed your bleary eyes on him. “I want you to sit with Seungmin and Jungsu while I grab some stuff to clean you up, okay?” You nodded, prompting Gunil to place you between the two keyboard players before heading toward the bathroom.

“You did so good for us, sweetheart,” Jungsu smiled fondly as you pressed your cheek into the palm of his hand.

“Is Hyeongjun okay?” Your voice was muffled from your squished cheek, making you a little difficult to hear. Since you were so cute, though, none of the boys really minded.

“I’m good, love,” he reassured you, knowing you wouldn’t be able to relax until you knew that both of you were being taken care of.

“Alright,” Gunil started as he returned to the living room to scoop you off the couch. “Let’s get you in the bath, then we can watch that movie you’ve been talking about.”

“Yay,” you cheered quietly. He shook his head with a short laugh.

“You’re lucky I love you, that we love you.”

“I love you, too. All of you.”

Permanent Taglist: @furfoxsake22 @babygirlskz98 @miniverse-zen @holly-here @corgilover20 @eastjonowhere @bookswillfindyouaway

Xdinary Heroes Taglist: Open

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mortem-writes · 2 months ago

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5. A Widow's Bite | Simon Riley x Black Widow!Reader

Fic masterlist- CHAPTER 5 ❋ Read all chapters on Ao3 ❋

Main tags: Innocent reader is accused of being a traitor trope, torture and interrogation, AFAB reader, questionably platonic bed sharing, strangers to lovers, sloooow burn, eventual smut, angst/hurt/comfort, kidfic Chapter word count: 1.6k

Previous chapter | Next chapter

>>> 2005

This is your first time on a real plane, queasy would be a good way of describing the feeling in your stomach. Lunch may make a reappearance if you’re not careful. On top of the queasiness, though, sits excitement.

Excitement for the fact that you are going on your first mission, with Natasha as your CO no less. Or, you’re supposed to, but Natasha is wasting time and lecturing you instead.

She’s saying nothing you haven’t heard from her before. Nothing new. Her usual tirades that imply the Red Room is something else under a facade. Something more sinister. The usual speeches that you have to pretend don’t hit you like a freight train and throw you into week long spirals of doubt.

“This is not like how it was in training, Milenka. Your targets are no longer made of cardboard, but of flesh and bone. This is real, those people are real. What you are doing is real. Can you handle that?”

“I have killed live targets before, Natasha. It was part of our training, beginning in 8th year curriculum.”

“That is my point!” she throws her hands up into the air with exasperation. “This is not training. These are not live practice targets. They are people. The people you kill are responsible for the moving parts of the world, not some low-level American P.O.W. from one of the gulags.

“These people are real, their influence on the world is real. Sure, you kill the target, one person, but their death results in tens if not hundreds— maybe thousands— of deaths. Are you ready for that to be in your hands? In your mind, for the rest of your life? Because once you kill your first, there is no going back.”

The sick feeling in your stomach worsens, churning now not just because of the turbulence.

Your mind feels like it’s being pulled taut in two opposite directions— the Red Room and Natasha. You struggle to decide between them. You’re confused. You’re afraid, because what Natasha is saying makes sense. You’re hurt, because you’re going on your first mission as a real Black Widow operative, and could Natasha not just be proud of you for just once? Be happy for you? Love you?

Your heart yearns, and it hurts so badly. You don’t want to feel this emotion, sitting like molten tar in your stomach.

It is eerily natural and easy for you to stunt that growing emotion with anger, to douse the embers with fuel. Madame’s voice is in your head, gun metal smooth, lecturing, anger is a secondary emotion, it blooms from some other emotion: disgust, shame, grief… weaponise it.

You succeed.

Flushing hot with fury, you brandish your anger like a bayonet and turn on your heel in a whirlwind to face Natasha.

Before you even realise, your mouth is running, spilling all the doubts that have festered like an inflamed wound for over six years. It explodes from you, this rotting doubt relieved through rage.

“Tell me Natasha, where is your pride? We kill for the glory of the soviet culture, we kill because it keeps us at the top in this world's hierarchy, we kill because it is necessary for the order of the world to remain in balance. When the world is spiralling out of control, we clip the branches of impending chaos and return it to correct functioning. We keep the world in check. We kill for maintenance. Us, the fucking Black Widows. That is our duty!

“I am proud to be a Black Widow. We were born to balance the scales! So tell me, Natalia, why use the bastardised western version of your name instead of the name given to you by our government? Are you ashamed? Are you stained by the piss of Western culture? God forbid, are you soft? ”

Tirade over, you deflate, waiting for her to respond with your shoulders tense like iron is threaded through the fibres of the muscles there. Natasha just regards you with a gaze that reminds you of Madame’s, one that strips the flesh from you in agonising layers until just the skeleton remains with all your deepest fears and desires etched into the bone.

You almost flinch away, but you are too angry to be worried about self-preservation. Despite your anger, you begin to fidget nervously as the silence painfully crawls onwards. You stroke the gauntlets at your wrists to calm the growing sense of anticipation.

Then the thought strikes you to your core, sinking deep and anchoring deep in your soul, who are you without the academy behind you? Without the iron around your wrists what are you?

“Speak!” you spit venomously.

More shrewd appraisal. An almost imperceptible flicker of benign amusement sweeps over Natasha’s features before they harden into a face you’ve never seen directed at you— a face like marble, unreachable and coldly distant.

“Are you done spewing all the shit from the handbook they have told you to memorise?”

You huff, like a child. Doubt simmers, are you not a child?

“There is a whole world out there. You’ve been locked in the same four walls your whole life, but now you are going outside. We are not the heroes the Academy wants you to believe we are. And when you realise that, you will understand everything I have tried to teach you.” Natasha shifts her weight, hip cocked almost arrogantly if you didn’t know any better. “It will crush you, because you are nothing if not too trusting— both of the Red Room and of me.”

Choose a side, is what Natasha is laying out under all those words.

It’s like a slap in the face, to hear her say that. You don’t know what to believe. You have no idea who you are if everything she’s been saying is true. At least if you believe the Academy, you have your identity; you are assured that your actions are justifiable because of your duty. Something resembling Madame’s voice invades your mind for a moment, your duty is noble. It is necessary.

It is necessary.

It has to be.

All this blood on your hands has to be worth the violence it took to spill it.

“We’ll be at the DZ in 10, be ready,” Natasha sighs, before turning away to collect her equipment.

The silence while you both check over your weapons and fix the strap of your parachutes is suffocating. You almost choke on it, you don’t want Natasha— your only safe space— to be angry with you or distant.

You glance over your shoulder but Natasha has her back to you, and you don’t miss the symbolism of that.

There’s an apology ready on your tongue when Natasha slides with silent feet to your side and begins checking your gear for you; fiddling with the straps on everything— especially your parachute. She continues, tightening straps and then loosening them before tightening again, checking the buckles, adjusting the goggles on your face so they sit better on the bridge of your nose.

Finally, she wraps a gloved hand around your bicep, curls her fingers tightly into the flesh to get your attention, the unforgiving metal of her gauntlets digs into your skin slightly.

“You’re confused, this is new for you, I understand. But let us be clear about something, get you to clear your confusion about something. I am not a Black Widow— I’m the Black Widow. You are a malen’kiy pauk. I am soft for your benefit only, understood?”

You nod stiffly, feeling the ire in her words despite her calm and almost professional tone. Her grip on your arm slackens somewhat, she holds you there softly now, almost comforting. She checks your gear over with her green eyes one last time.

“I promised to you that I would fix this, Milenka, I will if it kills me. I swear.”

With her determination blazing as bright as her hair through the cadence of her words, you have no doubt. The thrilling sensation of air rushing past your ears, whistling, when you jump from the lowered ramp of the plane drowns any worries other than those of the mission from your mind.

>>> GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE

>>> VIRGINIA, UNITED STATES

>>> February 15th, 2020

Kate Laswell prides herself on being the person with all the facts. Her reliable reputation precedes her for a reason.

Almost a 32 year long career under her belt means that she is weathered by and quite familiar with doubt. Doubt in her, a woman; doubt in her work, because she is a woman— doubt a woman, because of her work; doubt the work, because of the woman. Three decades have gone by, and it has improved only slightly. The solution, then, was quite simple to her: if she is doubtable, then her work must be undoubtable. Bulletproof. Air-tight.

All the facts, or none.

If she doesn’t have all the answers, then she’s going to get them. It’s the perfectionist in her. Unfortunately, perfectionism in this field typically leads to workaholism and a really unhealthy sleep schedule— and oftentimes alcoholism, though she doesn’t plan on reaching that point.

Her wife Sophia, bless her, loudly vocalises her complaints about Kate’s addiction to perfectionism and, by default, to her work. Valentine's day had been wonderful, an appreciated break to spend with the woman she loved, but now Kate is back at her cramped desk in the dead of night reading through the impressively extensive biography of a long dead man, hoping for something useful.

Special Agent Clinton F. Barton is the victim of her relentless scrutiny tonight. There are many who say that the resume of a dead man is a useless one, Laswell disagrees wholeheartedly.

The hours tick by, marked by the soft pattering of rain tapping on the windows, while she scans his files, the tower of ancient mission reports and documents on her desk slowly dwindling into a stout stack. CIA. Top agent. Wide range of skills. Polyglot— seven languages. Dual citizen. Specialised in surveillance and infiltration, excellent marksman... died young too.

She checks Barton’s beneficiaries for a brief moment, noting the name of who must be his widow for a potential follow up.

Sometime after the hands on the clock pass 3 in the morning she gives up, reaches first for a swig of coffee and then for the laptop. She scrubs at her aching eyes while she waits for the screen to light up. The light rain has turned into a drenching storm, heavy and loud. She loads the security footage from that warm sunny day in Budapest, seemingly so long ago in 2005.

The scene plays out the same way she’s witnessed a dozen times before. The film itself is crackly, and grainy static dances across the screen, almost obscuring potential crucial details.

At this point, after how many times she’s watched this footage, she’s used to it.

It begins and ends the same, as always.

Barton crossing the street and extending a hand to a woman dressed in dark but casual civvies— except for the black jacket, red hour glass insignia sewn on the sleeve burning into Kate’s retinas.

A distant thrum of gunfire sounds. The first bullets ringing out, the pair of them immediately ducking behind a car. The same bloodshed. Trading bullets, Barton hit first and the woman sits him up against the side of the car as the life bleeds from him onto the tarmac. She’s putting pressure on his wound, cradling his face, and completely giving up on the firefight.

She pulls her hood down, revealing rusty auburn hair twisted into braids, and begins slashing the material with her blade; clearly intending to use it as a makeshift bandage.

It happens suddenly, the violent jerk of her head falling backwards and her body following suit. Her blood and hair look almost indistinguishable from each other with the poor quality of the film.

Headshot, the autopsy later recorded. Clean, through and through.

Laswell skips ahead a few minutes, waiting for Barkov’s men to enter the frame. They enter, bypassing the pair of corpses bleeding on the sidewalk, and continuing on into the flaming ruins of the children’s hospital.

Her eyebrows furrow tightly, a squeak of wheels renting the air as Kate leans back on her chair, as she mulls over what she has seen.

Why? Was Barton and the defector not the primary objective? Why cross into the debris? What is there except bodies?

They’re looking for something, someone, is the only logical answer.

So, with the hours slipping away into morning and another work day, Laswell sits there with a finger pressed into her lips as she thinks. She thinks about what Barkov’s men were looking for in the ruined remnants of that hospital; thinks of the mystery she has cradled within her palms. How she feels simultaneously so very close and unbearably far from the defining answer to this riddle. How it feels like something is missing.

That sensation of a gap is back again, the missing tooth in the bloody gums staining her tongue with iron— a metallic reminder of what she doesn’t know yet.

Laswell thinks finally of the irony of how the woman with the blood red hair could have escaped her death simply if she hadn’t waited for Special Agent Barton.

>>> ABERDEENSHIRE, SCOTLAND

>>> February 21st, 2020

Freedom is a tricky thing to deal with when you’ve never had this much of it before. A quick search on Google shows there are too many options. Too much freedom of choice.

Perhaps Jennifer? Jenny could be her nickname. There are way too many options to choose from. Jenna. It isn’t that much different from her current name, so it won’t take much for the girl to get used to it. Soon, you promise, you will forge the papers and change the girl’s name into something that sounds more regional.

It’s been almost two weeks since you arrived, and both you and young Jenika have already settled into a routine. Every day begins the same way with you waking only a few minutes after the first rays of the Sun peek over the green fields that extend in every direction as far as the eye can see.

Mornings are not your thing, but the importance of routine has been hammered into the very fabric of your being.

You wonder what life might be like without routine while you toe on your slippers, pull on a warm jumper. Would it be liberation? Or would you be lost without it?

Jenika is still sleeping at this point, and you slip into her room to check if she’s breathing— a poisonous habit you can’t seem to shake no matter how many traps and trip-wire alarm systems you wire up along the perimeter of the house.

You wait, quiet as a soft breeze, at her side until you see her little rib cage moving under the covers, up and down, slow and steady with every breath in and out.

She’s breathing, you sigh with relief and watch for a few moments more just to make sure. In and out. You move on, close the door behind you gingerly.

By the time the sun has fully risen to properly paint the morning sky with light, Kalmyk chay is made and poured, steaming in a mug with the distinct scents of different spices staining the air.

Cradling the warm mug in your palms, having already learned where all the creaky floorboards are by heart, you walk throughout the house with silent socked feet to check all the alarm systems. Once assured, you return to the living room. Next, the needle and thread are pulled out from the coffee table drawer and you cross to the window to sit and do some needlework.

With nothing to do in your isolation, and a growing itch of boredom growing in the forefront of your mind, you’ve taken up embroidery again. You used to embroider during the early years of your time in the academy before the training flooded into every corner of your life and overwhelmed you. Now you struggle through the mornings, tripping over the stitches and relearning how to make flowers and vines bloom across the fabric. Perhaps you could go into town for some beads.

It’s therapeutic in a way, soothing, to watch your hands create instead of destroy.

In and out, twist, then in again goes the needle. Again. In and out, twist, then in again. Over and over until a sprig of lavender has emerged from the waltz of threads.

The impulse to sink a weapon of any kind into flesh, to maim and injure, to do something, hums quietly under your skin every day you spend in this peaceful solitude, but the way the needle perched between your fingers dips in and out of the fabric satisfies the need for now.

You drag your finger down your work proudly, feeling the stitches, and then suddenly remember with startling clarity how the embroidered red hourglass insignia had felt beneath your fingers at graduation. The needle punches through the material in your hands with growing intensity as you chase off the memory.

In and out, twist, then in again goes the needle. Again. In and out, twist, then in again.

At 08:15 you set down your needlework, and prepare Kasha on the hob for breakfast. At 09:00, you slip up the stairs to where Jenika’s room to rouse her from sleep.

You find yourself at her bedside, standing on the exact floorboards where you have stood every morning for the past weeks. She’s still breathing, and you are temporarily breathless because of it— the weight of responsibility to protect this stealing the air from you.

You wonder if life is supposed to be like this, full of moments where you hold your breath during the storm and release when it has passed. You wonder if this feeling, this fear, for another’s life means that you love them. Did Natasha feel this for you? She must have.

She’s still breathing. In and out.

This too is love, you think albeit hesitantly. A bit unsure you may sound now, but you’re not worried. After all, you have a whole lifetime ahead to discover love— to be sure of it— and wear it proudly.

Kasha= buckwheat porridge, a typical feature in a traditional Russian breakfast.

taglist:

@violentdeliiights, @foreignbrunette, @justagirl707, @watermelonmala, @babystudentroadthing, @random-fandom-smoothie, @usr1234225429, @sciencehadbabies, @imjustherematee, @lexiidumpp, @butbutbutb, @violentdeliiights, @ataintedtemptress, @ryuzakemo128, @its3nvy, @lostmypopsicle, @hedgewitch23, @jkhourly, @butbutbutb, @iamsuchanasshat

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley

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amtrak12 · 3 months ago

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After a conversation with a friend about this weird trend of fic readers who only want epic length fics (and also what seems to be a massive misunderstanding between parties on terms and their definitions), I went searching for the fandom sources I cut my teeth on. I don't have much bookmarked from those days anymore, but googling got me to this fiction length/terminology breakdown from a Livejournal blog. (Which also has good fandom definitions for other terms like A/N and fanon too, so if you're super new to fandom, go check that out.)

The definitions come from the publishing world (hence the page counts), but fandom and fanfic has always borrowed heavily from official publishing terminology. Flash fiction (aka, anything less than 1k words) is called a 'ficlet' within fandom. We call everything else a fic until it reaches the novella mark -- which may start at 20k words but as synecdochic breaks down on their Dreamwidth blog, there's a lot of overlap between short stories and novella word counts. Because, when you're not constrained by physical page counts, the real dividing line between short stories and novellas are the number of plots and themes you're using. (Seriously, go read their meta on this topic. It's fantastic!) Either way, once you're hitting tens of thousands of words, you're in longfic territory. And then if your fic is even longer than that -- 100k+ like shown in the screenshot above -- it's called an epic fic.

And these terms, longfic and epic, are important because they're used to differentiate these stories from the average fic. Because, at least in the 2000s up until the 2020s, the most common fic lengths you ran into were between 1k-20k words. "Fic" made the reader assume only a few thousand words at most. It's only when you changed the term to drabble or ficlet or longfic that they would realize 'oh this is going to be shorter or longer than normal'.

I don't really understand why that baseline assumption has changed amongst the newer demographics (and maybe amongst some long-running fandom members too?). I've seen a lot of theories and 'tiktokification' complaints, but I honestly don't know what's true. And I don't want to start a fight or even try to change anyone's minds if they are dead set against reading short story length fics. You can do what you want!

Just maybe shift your attitude about it a little bit? Remember that it's a personal preference the same way tropes are, and that one story length isn't better than another. Just like tropes, each story length serves its purpose. Some stories are best told in 1-2k words. Some are best told as 100 word drabbles -- or even a single sentence! And then, yes, some stories do need to be 100k+ in order to be told properly.

But that's not every story. And it shouldn't be expected of fic writers to pad a 1500 word plot into some sprawling epic just because they left it on a cliffhanger. The cliffhanger is probably the point of that fic! Short stories are an entirely separate art form to novels and as such are able to cover different topics than novels can or cover the same topics differently. And that's what makes them special!!

And look at that word count breakdown by genre! That's mainstream publishing standards! Now, go back up there to the definition of a novel and notice that the average published novel is 80k words long.

Let me repeat that:

The average length of a published novel is 80,000 words long.

Could a novel go longer? Sure! And if you're dipping into adult sci-fi or fantasy, absolutely it will be longer! But does your fic need to be longer than the average novel in order to be good? In order for you to feel satisfied when you finish reading it? Why does the length of the fic matter more to you than the content?

idk just some rambling food for thought, but I guess too long, don't read:

~✨~ Every story length is valid ~✨~

It just depends on the plot you have and the structure you want to use to tell it.

#fandom history #writing #fanfiction #my meta #I mean my god people Big Bang challenges traditionally required 50k because it was a CHALLENGE #and most people didn't even try to attempt them and only like half the people who signed up actually completed their fics on time #BECAUSE 50K WORDS IS A FUCK TON OF WORDS!!!#And do you know what Big Bang challenges did in order to survive all these years? THEY LOWERED THE WORD COUNT REQUIREMENTS!#The femslash challenge I just signed up for only requires 10k even though they're still giving us months to finish it #And there are people out there pooh-poohing on that effort because it's not novel length???#FANFICTION HAS NEVER BEEN NOVEL LENGTH #Those were always the exceptions! Never ever the rules!#I just don't get it #Excepting more from writers feels so disrespectful of their time and energy and skill #No one's expecting full color art with multiple subjects and detailed backgrounds from fan artists every week!#(Or I don't know maybe they are which would really suck too.)#😩

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httpsserene · 1 year ago

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𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞'𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐬 (𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠!) - 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜.

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: maybe this time, the natural distance between them concerning their now different job requirements would help max get over his small, miniscule, tiny, fractional, microscopic, miniature, little, itty-bitty crush on daniel. it didn’t work the first time, when younger-max had avoided his ex-teammate like the plague after his move to a different team—if anything that absence made his heart ache for daniel more, even though he tried his hardest to hate him. so now, maybe that max isn’t the one causing the growing gap between him and daniel, this space might dissolve max’s fondness. 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 18+ only. idiots in love. mild angst. fluff. happy ending. attempt at humor. plot with a side of porn. the timeline is mostly accurate. max verstappen is an oblivious idiot. daniel ricciardo is an obvious idiot. 5+1 things (in a way). the three musketeers: charles, pierre, and lando. light praise kink. light dom/sub undertones. mild orgasm delay/denial. 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 9.5k 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x daniel ricciardo

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲: so....how's life been treating y'all while i disappeared for two months :) ? no, um, sorry for ghosting you guys; i know, i'm surprised that i didn't forget my login info. life started being life for a good amount of time and i got really sucked into school and work. aside from the boring everyday stuff, i've got an internship this summer (yay!), i'm pretty sure i have a bit of a mutual-crush with this boy in my morning lecture, and i've started playing final fantasy sixteen.

anyways, this is my longest work ever! and i'm dedicating it to one of my sweetest betas, bianca. you requested this long before my disappearing act in december, and i told you i was nearly finished with a 6k-word fic for your request. to make up for my unexplained absence, i rewrote the entire thing into a near ten-thousand word feel-good masterpiece.

i hope this fic is of good enough quality for all of you wonderful f1-stans to forgive me because, i'm back, and hopefuily here to stay lol. enjoy reading, loves < 3.

requested & written by/for @biancathecool

join taglist | feedback & requests | table of contents↻

milton keynes, red bull racing headquarters, pre-season 2023

daniel looks happy. max doesn’t know why that surprises him—maybe he’s projecting his emotions (his therapist says he does that quite often) onto the man. the surprise makes sense though, max thinks, as he watches the australian chatter away with the engineers, the largest toothy smile spread across his face like he never left red bull behind in 2018. if it were max who had gone through the mclaren bullshit along with not having a guaranteed seat for the upcoming 2023 season, and he had to settle for a third driver position: he would scourge the world with his fury.

but: it’s not max, it’s daniel. it’s daniel, who was warmly welcomed back into navy blue (papaya did not suit him), it’s daniel, who doesn’t snap at the marketing team when they ask how he’s “coping” with not being on the grid. it’s daniel, who becomes friends with checo easily. it’s daniel, who’s scheduled to fulfill the pr activities that the two red bull drivers refuse to complete. it’s daniel, who has clocked in insane hours in the sim and factory while max has been enjoying his off-season.

it’s daniel, who hasn’t shown any signs of disappointment about not having a seat this year.

if he won’t show or admit it, max will. having a race weekend without daniel doesn’t feel right. max knows this, even though the season hasn’t started yet: he’s going to be miserable. it’s like when daniel left him the team. of course, max had pushed daniel away after he signed with renault. what was he supposed to do? react calmly with the emotional intelligence he didn’t have? max thought the man hated him when he didn’t tell him that he was leaving before the news was released.

regardless, instead of the australian leaving, this time around he’s coming back, which max had originally believed was the best thing to ever happen. he’s not so sure of that anymore. daniel belongs in the car chasing him with the smell of burning rubber and petrol surrounding them. max doesn’t appreciate how the smell of race tracks has already disappeared from him. he could tell it was missing when daniel made a show of giving max the biggest hug as soon as he stepped foot in the factory.

maybe this time, the natural distance between them concerning their now different job requirements would help max get over his small, miniscule, tiny, fractional, microscopic, miniature, little, itty-bitty crush on daniel. it didn’t work the first time, when younger-max had avoided his ex-teammate like the plague after his move to a different team—if anything that absence made his heart ache for daniel more, even though he tried his hardest to hate him. so now, maybe that max isn’t the one causing the growing gap between him and daniel, this space might dissolve max’s fondness.

“max, kid,” christian waves a hand in front of max’s face with an unimpressed look, “did you hear a single thing i said or were you too distracted by the sight of daniel in red bull gear again?”

the tips of max’s ears redden, and he snaps his head away from where it was turned to watch daniel’s constant smile, to face his team principal. max doesn’t know what he was thinking; his crush is going nowhere.

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐎𝟑.

taglist: @saintslewis @cherry2stems @lorarri @inloveallthetime @mindless-rock @biancathecool @barnestatic @my-ylenia @katekipshidze @darleneslane @lovingaphroditesworld @smoothopz @vetteltea @tallrock35

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dirty-bosmer · 24 days ago

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TES Crushes

Which NPCs in TES (all games included!) do you crush on, and why? They don't have to be marriage candidates (in vanilla), just people you find yourself blushing around. Hell, it could be a Deadric Prince if that's what you're into. Name them and say what about them you find appealing! Then feel free to tag a friend or two!

Tagged by @babyblueetbaemonster @theoneandonlysemla Thank you <3

Tagging: @ladytanithia @unironicallytes @gilgamish @kookaburra1701 @saltymaplesyrup @rustyram035 @darcxaosit @moriche @pocket-vvardvark @heavy-metal-dick @alma-amentet @pyre-of-pages @guardianlizard

Borrowing some of Julia's number scheme cause it's nice organization :)

#1: Characters I crushed on during my first ever playthrough as a wee lass:

Methredhel: 10 year old me spent countless hours watching her sleep in that huntsman vest/bralett outfit XD

M'raaj-Dar: Young me was so predictable. Some character is mean to me? Gotta make sure I fall in love with them and do everything in my power to get them to like me. Then he apologized to me right before the purification and I knew I was done for. After the purification, I hoisted his body onto a bed in the living quarters and surrounded him with flowers lol

Enilroth: That one stable boy in Anvil who places the last of Mathieu Bellamont's fake dead-drops out for you. I thought he was so normal looking in a game where everyone looked like they were melting.

Cutter: I just thought she was pretty.

Relmyna Verenim: Being a crazy mad scientist devoted to your passions is hawt.

#2: Characters I crush on now:

The Ordinators in Morrowind. It's the ten packs a day ash-choked voice.

Dagoth Ur. He invaded my dreams with a wedding ceremony. I'm pretty sure we've moved past the prosaic love confession. We are now bounded in our blood.

Nazir: He will always be Skyrim's Sexyman to me <3

Astrid: I'm a simple gal. I see a woman who does fucked up things being torn to shreds by the fandom, I 👀

Arquen: Same as above. She’s a baddie to me and I don’t care about the rumor where she ate Lucien’s entrails, that just makes her weirder and sexier 💕

Raminus Polus: He's smart and gives you a fancy necklace and tells you that you're doing a good job, like what else do I need really?

Mathieu Bellamont: the only man I will ever call baby girl. Love a revenge arc. Love a twisted obsession. I genuinely dgaf that he single-handedly wrecked the Dark Brotherhood, maybe the Black Hand should not have been so trigger happy and eager for self-destruction!

Lucien Lachance: Despite the hundreds of thousands of words I've written about him, my feelings for Lucien are kind of complicated 😅 I don’t dislike him, but at some point while writing my fic I realized I gaslit myself into believing he was hotter than he is lol Upon replay, I was like 'man this dude is such a scrub I have to write him to be as creepy and dripless as possible,' which like... I'm still into lol I just feel like a fake fan for it.

Ondolemar: Unique, kissable lips, him degrading me in public only to whip out that, 'there are so few pleasures in life as fine as your company' once he realized he wanted me, oooooh girl

Razum-Dar: I wanted him SO BADLY during the Aldmeri Dominion quests.

#3 Characters I actually married in game:

Nels Llendo: Had a mod to make it possible for my Morrowind playthrough. He killed all the cliff racer for me :)

Jenassa: She might be the only character I ever married on my main LDB's save, and it was actually so devastating because all she would do was stand in the foyer of Proudspire Manor with no clothes on, asking about kids we never had. Look how the glitches massacred my girl :(

Derkeethus: I married him on my Arch-mage save but only on PC because he too was glitched and every time I told him to go home he would run away!!!

#4: Characters I’m only crushing on because of Fics I read

@theoneandonlysemla's Ancano and Faralda I'm so weak for horribly, toxic elves. Yes, abuse your power! Make everyone around you miserable!

@sylvienerevarine's Roggi Knot-Beard. Had no idea who this man was until Sophrine rolled into his life, and from then on I was smitten. Wholesome, sexy, husband of the year <3

@skyrim-forever's Aicantar. Scholarly, bashful mage nerd <3 I actually always thought Aicantar was a cutie and had considered marrying him on one playthrough because even with cheat codes, a lot of the Altmer characters don't have voice lines for marriage. Aicantar's voice made him a suitable candidate.

#5 Characters that have made me 👀 but in an way that makes me embarrassed

The Spider Daedra from Oblivion. I was obsessed with her rack LMAO

Dremora: something about unintelligible, guttural screams and fiery eyes, I think...

Molag Bal. I also blame this one on @theoneandonlysemla

#tag games

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teamchasezwrites · 5 months ago

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Second Chance (3/3)

Word Count: 6,538

Characters: Damian Priest/Unnamed OC

Genre: Romance

Tags: Hurt and Comfort, Kissing, Getting Back Together, Some Fluffiness

Summary: some people are worth a second chance. (A Wrestlemania XL Night Two fic)

Catch up: Part I Part II

Author's Note: The last part of what was only supposed to be a one shot. I did go back and forth with adding smut here, but I decided to keep it fluffy. Thank you for reading.

Embassy Suites was located near the Philadelphia airport. Tucked on the opposite side of the Interstate with a handful of other hotels for weary travelers. She was a bundle of nerves. The ball in her stomach grew as she got closer to her exit on 95 from her place in Northeast Philly.

After Wrestlemania concluded, she and her sister fought the crowd out of the stadium to the parking lot, then fought those same people in vehicles out of the sports complex where police office directed the majority of people onto 95 south. Which was annoying because they needed the north bound lanes but she was happy not to be tunneled onto 76.

The traffic cleared tremendously once they were headed north, so it took them no time at all to make it home. She used the time to freshen up and ward off her sister who wanted her to pack an overnight bag. Then there was nothing to do but wait. The clock was pushing one in the morning before her phone lit up with a text.

‘Sorry for it being so late.’

‘I’m back at the hotel.’

‘I hope you can still come.’

Now it was pushing two. She was hard pressed to remember the last time she stayed up late. Usually she was crawling into bed at nine and turning the bedside lamp off at ten. Right now she was nowhere near tired. She was wired. Nervous but wired.

There was one parking spot remaining near the main entrance. A sign verified it was for hotel visitors. The rest of the parking spots were behind a barrier arm that needed a room key to be swiped. Those looked completely full; probably from Wrestlemania attendees.

Climbing from the car, she hovered in indecision on taking her purse. Deciding she didn’t need anything beyond her car keys and phone, she shoved her purse beneath the driver’s seat. The headlights flashed with the press of the lock on her key fob. With a deep breath, she entered the hotel, her eyes darting around.

The front desk was empty. A sign told people to ring the bell for assistance. Not a soul in sight. Her hand made its way into her coat pocket to pull her phone when she heard her name being called. Looking over her shoulder she spotted Luis coming down the hall.

He was just as commanding walking through the dimly lit hallway wearing black joggers, black hoodie, and white Vans as he was standing in the ring in front of thousands. She was struck how much confidence he exuded now than he did when they were together.

“You made it.”

His voice blanketed over her, a deep lilt that caused goosebumps to break out over her skin. She shivered involuntarily.

“Thankfully the traffic was all cleared so it was a pretty quick drive.”

A blush darkened her cheeks. She felt awkward talking about traffic something her father tended to do. A small topic conversation one would have with a stranger while waiting somewhere.

“I know it’s a little chilly, but they have a seating area outside with a fire pit. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go to my room or not…” It’s what he wanted. To gather her up in his arms. To reignite that spark he felt when his lips touched hers at the stadium. To feel her body against his, skin on skin.

The offer was tempting. It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes. To take his hand and allow him to lead her further into the hotel and to his room. “That sounds good. Lead the way.”

Damian swept his arm out toward the hallway he just walked down. He smiled, “after you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she returned his smile and walked down the hall with him falling in step with her. A ghosting touch rested upon her lower back and her breath hitched. How many times had they walked like this? With his hand on the small of her back as they worked their way through a crowded Atlantic City club or filing from the movie theatre where he made her watch Paranormal Activity 4.

With a palm over her head, he held the door open. Before he allowed it to latch, he did a quick pocket check to make sure he had his room key. A short distance away stood a propane gas fire pit in the middle of a concrete slab. Two sides of the fire pit had 2 black Adirondack chairs while the remaining two sides had a couple of whicker outdoor loveseats with grey cushions. Damian was happy to find the little spot when scoping out places they could spend time. The late hour would give them the privacy.

He hoped.

While he reached down to turn the knob and pressed the ignition switch, he let her pick a seat. Flames came to life dancing over the fake wood. Turning, he couldn’t keep the smile off his face when he saw she chose a loveseat. Thanking God for the gift, he sat down on the cushion next to her.

The fire chased away the chill surrounding her. Though it could be the heat radiating off Damian next to her. His tall stature nearly dwarfed his side of the loveseat. The creaking of the whicker made her second guess her decision not to take one of the Adirondack chairs. Her reasons for not selecting the chair were sound. The slope of the seat would angle her away from the fire and it was cold. Two – the loveseat allowed her to be closer to Damian. She wasn’t going to pass that up.

She watched the flames dancing in front of her aware of Damian’s presence next to her. She could probably use her sister at the moment to kick her foot or shout out she loves him. The silence was slightly awkward. They had nothing to talk about and everything to talk about.

“What made you come to Wrestlemania?” Damian asked breaking the silence. He had so much he wanted to say. He wanted to drop to his knees in front of her and beg for forgiveness for taking control of the decision to end their relationship.

An undignified snort escaped. “My sister says it was cheaper than getting a tattoo removed.”

“You have a tattoo?” Damian’s eyes widened. She couldn’t even come with him when he was getting work done on his tattoos or adding a new one. Completely terrified of needles. “No…” he said when she nodded.

“Guilty.” She looked at him with a small smile and shrugged. “Apparently all I have to do is be really drunk. Like insanely drunk that I don’t even remember it.”

Damian laughed. “Can I see it or is it in a delicate location?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

She blushed, her face heating on top of the fire. “Ask me later.” The words came off flirty and were met with his smile. She blew out a quiet breath and slowly felt herself relax. “I came with my sister. I’m glad it was a little warmer tonight. I nearly froze last night.”

“Yeah, I’m almost glad I didn’t have a match last night. Everyone was talking about how cold it was. Especially the later on it got. I was supposed to wrestle but Finn got hurt a few weeks ago. So we had to relinquish the tag belts.” It stung to relinquish them due to injury, but they were slated to lose them last night so it didn’t hurt as bad.

“You were supposed to be in that ladder match?”

Damian nodded. “Finn and I had the belts. Both sets. The red are Raw tag belts and the blue for Smackdown. They are usually on different teams for each show, but they’ve been combined for awhile now. The ladder match was to make sure different teams won them so they’d be separated again. When they found out Finn wouldn’t be cleared, we vacated the titles and had to withdraw from the match.”

“That had to have sucked.”

“A little, but we were losing them anyway.”

“Did you know everything in advance?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just an outline,” Damian explained. He placed his right arm along the back of the loveseat and he scooted back into the corner of the loveseat. As he relaxed he rested his ankle on his thigh. “Anything can change up until the last minute. I was nervous all day today. Got to the stadium hours before Wrestlemania even started. Kept thinking I was gonna get pulled aside and told they were scrapping my cashing in. Between Seth’s match and everything with Roman, Cody, and The Rock, my opportunity was dependent on all that. They had to flush that out before I was even in the picture.”

“The crowd really loves you.” A sense of pride enveloped her for Damian. Not only did he achieve his dream of wrestling for the WWE, but he was the champion. The fans went crazy when his music hit and then again when he was declared victorious.

Damian smiled, ducking his head in a wave of embarrassment. “It’s been awesome. Each week it seems to get louder and louder.” The fingers of the hand on the back of the loveseat tangled in the soft silky strands of her blonde hair. He played with the strands as he continued talking. “I’m supposed to be a heel… a bad guy. They are supposed to boo me…hate me… but somewhere along the way fans started cheering for me. I can’t believe it.” Another feeling of complete disbelief washed over him. “I’m actually the champion.”

Without thought she reached out and placed her hand on his thigh. The hard muscle twitched beneath the knit black fabric. “Oh Luis, you deserve it. You worked so hard for this.”

“There were a lot of moments over the last ten or so years I questioned if I even belonged here. If it was ever going to happen. Questioning if I was even good enough.”

“You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

He moved his left hand from the arm of the loveseat to her hand resting on his leg. He wondered at her words. Right here was on top and next to her. “The road to get this point was probably…”

“Like the roads of Philadelphia? Filled with assholes, potholes and construction cones?”

Damian laughed and squeezed her hand in his. He shifted in his seat sitting more upright. The move put him closer to her. “Something like that. I’m not sure there were assholes unless maybe in the mirror.”

“Oh come on,” she rolled her eyes. “I doubt that.”

“Maybe not an asshole,” he gave in. Looking down he stared at their hands in the glow of the fire. His hand was void of the rings he usually wore. She had a thin gold ring on both her index and middle fingers. Her fingers were long and elegant. Her hand such a contrast to his which made it fit perfectly in his. “Maybe a dumbass.”

“Now that I can believe,” she laughed. Warmth wrapped itself around her when Damian grabbed her hand. Her heart beat faster when their eyes met. She nearly melted under his gaze. “You wear eyeliner better than I do.”

Damian gave a surprised laugh, not expecting that particular line to come out of her mouth. “Thank the make up department for that. Sometimes I swear they use a sharpie with how hard it is to get off.”

“The hair is amazing.”

“I think I was in the hair department longer than some of the women.” He still had the dreads in, pulled back away from his face. Before Raw, he’d get them taken out and go back to his regular look.

The night grew darker as they sat there letting the fire chase the chill away. She filled him in on her sister’s new marriage, her job in the city, and the small place she had in Northeast Philly. He updated her on his family and his newfound family in wrestling. He even spilled the direction creative was thinking about taking.

“I can’t believe after the celebration I saw tonight they are gonna break you guys up.” She’d gravitated toward him – or him to her - while they talked. Now she was pressed against his side with his arm wrapped securely around her shoulders. His left hand still held hers in his lap. What chill the fire didn’t chase, his body heat did. Not a part of her was cold. Sleep was the furthest thing on her mind.

“It’s one thing you gotta learn in the business. Pieces are constantly moving and evolving. With Rhea taking time off here soon to get married, it’s just something that can easily be inserted into the storyline almost organically. It’s gonna suck to not be with them anymore. We travel together. Room together. Then in one night the plug gets pulled and that’s it.”

“Like a break up.” The words were out before she processed them. What Damian described mirrored a relationship. Days, weeks, years spent doing everything together. Being in the same orbit. Then it was just gone and you were supposed to carry on.

Carry on as if your whole world hadn’t ended. Carry on like your heart wasn’t in pieces all over the floor. You were left to pick up and try to put them back together. The pieces never truly fit together though. Pieces were too damaged. Some even missing.

Damian felt the words as if an arrow pierced his heart. If his hands weren’t currently holding her, he would have rubbed one over his chest to sooth the aching muscle. The chill sweeping over him had nothing to do with the outside temperature. It was time to pay the piper.

“What happened Luis?” She asked staring into the fire watching the orange and yellow dance. Just like that her heart recalled that painful memory where he walked out.

‘This isn’t working anymore.’

“Honestly?”

“No. I want you to lie to me.” She snapped and sat up. The movement displaced his hold and she felt the immediate chill penetrating her body sweeping through every recess pushing the warmth out. “Why did you break up with me?”

“Looking back now I can see all the things I should’ve done and how I should’ve handled it. But at the time, I was that dumbass in the mirror and made a selfish decision.” Damian sat up, his own body chilled with the loss of her in his arms. He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. His head hung looking at his hands dangling between his legs.

Silence greeted his admission. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Our relationship was never the issue. I…”

“I swear to God if you give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ I’m gonna punch you in the face that will have you spending more time in the make up chair than Rhea.”

Damian believed it. After all, he taught her how to throw a punch. “I’m sorry…”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. The beginning of anger starting to creep on the outer edges. The emotional rollercoaster of the weekend was going to end right here. Off the rails and crashed into the pavement. She moved to stand but his hand shot out. Her leg burned where it rested on her. She moved her eyes from it to his face. His eyes were pleading.

“Please stay,” Damian begged. The bubble they were in the whole night, cocooned in old memories and past feelings burst. That selfish part of him wanted to blow it back up and allow those feelings to encompass them once again. To not allow old hurts in.

She nodded and watched as his shoulders sag. His posture reminded her so much of Luis back when they were together. He rubbed his eyes beneath clear framed glasses. There was a vulnerability coming off him and her heart twisted. “Luis…” she whispered.

“I know you don’t want to hear it. But it was me. It was all me.” Damian’s voice came out low and muffled behind his hands as he rubbed his face. “I was in such a bad place… bad mindset. I wanted to become this wrestler... it’s all I ever wanted to do and I thought it would just happen. And it didn’t. It wasn’t working out. I had no back up plan.”

She stayed quiet listening to Damian. She knew it was rough for him trying to break into the scene. It wasn’t a business you could just walk on and succeed. You had to put in the work and pay dues in hopes that someone would notice you who could give you a shot.

“There was such a spiral. Where I tried out for WWE the first time and didn’t make it, it was just another hit already beating me down.” He stared into the fire as all those old feelings of inadequacy and failure were drudged up from deep places inside of him. “I was lying to you…I quit my job at the club because they wanted to give me a promotion and a raise, but I had to stop wrestling.”

“But…” she started but the words never came.

“I didn’t want to give up wrestling. It’s all I wanted to do. So I walked. I walked and it just got worse. I lost my apartment with the job. I ended up sleeping in my car a lot. Even on church steps…”

“Luis,” she whispered. Her eyes filling with tears. Her heart twisted up with hurt. She had troubling swallowing past the lump in her throat.

“I was broke. Living off the few dollars I’d get wrestling.” Damian’s own eyes grew wet with tears as he remembered those days. The unknowing. The desolate feeling drowning him as he parked his car in a random parking lot to sleep.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have stayed with me?”

“I was in a bad place mentally. You were the only good thing I had and on those nights where I laid on the church steps I kept thinking about you and how I had nothing to offer. I was a loser in my 30s. Homeless. How could I ask you to stay? How could I ask you to believe in me when I was starting not to believe in myself? But I was just selfish enough to keep you… then my car got broken in to and all my ring gear was stolen. It was all over.”

“Because I loved you?” She said quietly, her heart breaking. “I believed in you because I loved you. You didn’t have to ask me to. I already did. Sure we didn’t have much but I just needed you. Nothing else mattered. You were my person.” While she hurt for Damian and what he was going through at the time, she hurt for herself too. How could she not have seen it? How could he not trust her enough to open up to her about how bad it had gotten?

“I know.” Damian turned his head to look at her. His fingers rubbed together in jerking movements and he wished he had one of his rings on so he could twist it back and forth to control his hands. “I knew that, but in my head the voices were louder that you deserved so much better than what I could give you… what I was giving you.”

He wondered, as he watched a tear escape and roll down her cheek, if it had been better to not have noticed her in the crowd tonight. If they should have just let the past lay. He thought about her over the years sure, always equated her with the one who got away. Because of that, a part of his heart would always be hers. But was it worth it to drag up all the pain from the demise of your relationship?

“I felt like I was doing you a favor. Letting you go. I would end up wherever I ended up, but you… you had your whole life ahead of you. You’d move on, meet someone new. Someone better and more stable who could give you the life you deserved.”

“That was never your decision to make.” Her tone was hard and bitter.

“I know,” Damian said with a sigh. “At least I know that now. Rhea was coming to me for relationship help with Matt – who is her husband now. I could see it clearly. Probably because it wasn’t that long ago I was doing the same thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Standing in her own way. Making decisions for the other person without consulting them. Placing the weight of the entire relationship on her shoulders.”

“Did the irony slap you in the face?”

Damian chuckled, nodding. “Oh yeah. By then I knew it was too late. It been too long. I had no idea where you were. And even then,” he shrugged. “Assumed you’d be married and out of reach anyway.”

“There you go assuming shit pertaining to me again.” She reached into her pocket, where the make up wipe her sister handed her earlier in the night remained. It was still damp enough. Removing the towelette she rubbed it over the inside of her ring finger on her left hand.

Damian watched the movements perplexed. It wasn’t as if she was washing her hands. She was concentrating on one spot in particular. He wondered if she put her hand in something on the loveseat.

“You asked me why I came to Wrestlemania and I told you it was cheaper than getting a tattoo removed…” she kept her eyes down as she held her hand out across the seat to him. Her hand trembled as he took it in his.

Damian’s gaze hovered on her face for a moment before his eyes dropped to their hands. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until a slightly dark blemish caught his eye. Hard to see in the shadows of the fire.

Turning her hand so her thumb faced up, he squinted. She curled her index and middle fingers down out of the way and his breath caught in his throat. The delicate script font stood out like a beacon in the night. A lighthouse in the harbor calling a ship home.

He raised questioning eyes to her, but she still kept her gaze averted. The tattoo pulled his gaze and he stared at his name etched in black against pale ivory skin. He took it all in. The cursive font made his name look so delicate. The heart attached to the tail of the s drawing him in; a siren calling a wayward sailor. He ran his thumb over the tattoo.

“I don’t remember even getting it,” she spoke softly. Her eyes followed the movements of his thumb gently moving back and forth across her finger. “Happened about three years after we broke up. My roommate at the time wanted to be a tattoo artist…”

“You let an inexperienced person ink you?” Damian’s voice rose. The disbelief evident in his tone.

“I like to think I put up a good fight that night to ward her off and that she just eventually wore me down. Either that or held me down,” she laughed quietly. “I really don’t know. I woke up with a massive hangover the next day, no memory of the day before, and your name tattooed on me.”

Using his free hand, he reached across his body and cupped her cheek. Her skin cool against his warm hand. He didn’t give her a chance. He ducked his head and pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her surprised gasp.

This time there were no cameras, no fans yelling and screaming trying to get his attention. It was just them. The quiet of the night only broken by the hum of passing cars on the nearby interstate. Their lips moved together, opening and closing on each other. Their hands shifted in his lap to clutch and fingers entwine. His hand shifted up her cheek and his fingers tangled in her hair.

He licked against her lips, nipping at her bottom lip. When she sighed and her lips parted, his tongue licked into her mouth. Chasing a taste that was both foreign and familiar at the same time. He tightened his hold on the back of her head, pulling her closer to him. A moan fell from his lips when he felt her hand press against his chest in an effort to balance herself. He wanted her to fall onto him.

With that thought, he dropped her hand and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into him. The kiss turned slower and deeper.

“Mi Corazón, te extrañé…” he whispered against her lips.

“I missed that,” she sighed, blinking her eyes open. During the kiss she moved closer to him, now pressed to his side. His arms wrapped around her holding her in place. She was turned toward his body.

“Missed what?”

“You speaking Spanish to me…”

Hearing this, Damian let the words fall from his lips as he trailed kisses across her cheek to her ear. His accent heavy as he spoke words of love and how much he missed her. How he would do anything for her. How he would never let her go again.

“You’re not playing fair,” she answered, her words soft. His breath was warm against her skin. She shivered not from the cold. From his words. His voice. His touch.

Damian chuckled, his breath dancing across her cheek. He trailed his nose once again on the soft skin of her cheek. This time his goal was her lips. Those sweet tasting lips made him weak inside. “I’m a bad guy… I play dirty.”

He captured her lips again. When the kiss ended they were both breathless. She laid her head on his shoulder, the material cool against her flushed cheeks. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close to him. Her right hand lay on his chest. Her left caught between them. She shuddered and snuggled closer. “Fuck it’s cold.”

Damian laughed and tightened his hold. The temperature dropped noticeably in the time they’d been sitting outside. He wasn’t even sure what time it was. He was sure he wasn’t ready to let her go. “We can go up to my room…”

The invitation hung between them. A door masked as Pandora’s Box. Going upstairs with Damian – to his room – was a major decision. She’d already given in to kissing and being held by him. Did she want to take it a step further? Hours ago, the answer was no. Her sister tried to make her take an overnight bag. Nearly thrusting the duffle in her hands with a knowing wink. She could still hear the scoff and see the eye roll when she tossed the bag back on her bed.

“I’m just not ready to let you go,” Damian confessed.

“I’m not ready to jump into this like nothing ever happened between us.”

“I’m not pressuring you to. I’d stay right here all night like this. I really just don’t want you to go. If you’re not comfortable going to my room, there is a little alcove inside we can sit.”

Truth be told, she didn’t want to leave either. She wanted to stay just like she was, wrapped up in Luis’s arms. Her toes, however, were screaming. She can no longer feel them and she was close to thrusting her hands beneath his hoodie seeking his body heat. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Damian repeated. “My room or the sitting area inside?” He wanted to be sure he didn’t misunderstand. God, he didn’t want to screw this up.

“Your room,” she answered and used the hand on his chest to push herself up to a standing position. “No funny business though.”

Damian laughed and stood. With frozen fingers he killed the fire pit. The chill was instant. “Scouts honor.”

“That’s not even the sign,” she rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand with only two fingers held up instead of three.

“The third finger was frozen,” he grinned. He adjusted their hands so their fingers were entwined. They walked swiftly up the sidewalk to the side door. He pulled his room key from his hoodie pocket and pressed it against the pad next to the door. The light turned green and the click of the lock disengaging echoed in the night.

“Oh that feels nice,” she groaned as the heat of the hotel hit them as they walked inside. She followed his lead down the hall to the elevator. The car was waiting for them so the doors opened immediately when he pressed the button. The front desk was still unmanned. The clock on the wall read four am. She groaned as she stepped into elevator.

“You okay?” Damian asked, pressing the button to the fourth floor.

“Just saw the clock. It’s already four.”

“Really? Doesn’t feel like it.”

When the doors opened, he led her from the elevator; his hand still grasping hers. The hotel was completely silent. The patrons all tucked into bed hours ago, except for them. Two people who were reconnecting again; looking to start a new beginning. He squeezed her hand. He turned his head and looked down at her with a smile.

“You okay?” She asked as they came to a stop outside a door with a do-not-disturb placard hanging on the door knob.

“Oh yeah.” He held the room key to the key fob on the door. Just like the door downstairs, the light flashed green and the sound of the lock disengaging echoed into the quiet hallway. He held the door open, allowing her to go first. He had a momentary freak out as he ran through his mind at the state of his room.

There was no need to worry. After leaving the stadium and arriving back at the hotel, he showered and picked up his room in hopes she’d be joining him.

The suite had two rooms – more than he needed. The door opened directly into the first room. It housed a pullout sofa bed to the right with a bedside table on either side. An ottoman in front and a green flowered chair to the right of the couch in the short wall shared with the bathroom. A table with two chairs sat in front of the window. The window looked out over the hallway which he felt was weird. The first thing he did when he checked in to the room was pull the shades closed. Across from the couch was a dresser with a flat screen TV on top. The section came in handy last night when the rest of Judgement Day came to hang out after the show for a celebratory drink for Rhea’s successful title defense. A small counter that housed a mini fridge below was the last item in the room.

The bathroom door stood open across from the fridge. His shower items still littered the shower and the bathroom counter. A damp towel hung on the hook behind the door. A few droplets of water still clung to the porcelain sink from where he brushed his teeth after showering. The blue pack of make up remover wipes would have caused him some embarrassment but it was what it was. He wore eyeliner sometimes and it was a bitch to get off.

A step further was the bedroom, the king sized bed taking up the majority of the room. The shades were tightly shut to block out the morning sun. The bed still messed up from where he crawled out of it nearly twenty four hours ago. A flat screen TV stood on a dresser across from the bed. The remote thrown haphazardly on the bedside table where his phone charger cord hung off.

Next to the dresser on the window side was an armoire. The suit he wore today already hung from the hanger neatly, next to the one he was going to wear on Raw. A table with a lamp sat right inside the door, it held his black suit case, the lid open. His clothes – both dirty and clean – held a riffled through look. Usually what his suitcase looked like at the end of a trip. Nothing was neatly packed. Everything ended up thrown inside ready to be tossed in the washer when he arrived home.

She slipped out of her coat and placed it on the back of the chair at the table. Her body still held the chill from behind outside in the early spring temperatures. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get warm again.”

“I can help,” Damian said and pulled her into his arms. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders. His hand dug into her hair and pressed her head to his chest where he tucked it under his chin. He felt a shudder run through her body before ending in his. His eyes drifted close as her arms wrapped around him.

She laid her head on his chest and pressed her hands on his back. She released a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes. He smelled of the crisp spring air and a spicy musk that made her turn her nose into him. She breathed deeply as something inside her settled.

“I will be forever grateful for you shouting you loved me to get my attention tonight.” Damian’s words were spoken softly as he continued to hold her in his arms. There was no coat between them. No barricade. She was flush against him. Finally. After all this time.

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She lifted her head from his chest to stare at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“What?” Damian stared at her, his eyebrows drown down.

She giggled. “That wasn’t me.”

“No way… I heard you.”

She shook her head, the teasing smile on her lips. “Nope. It was my sister. I was struck stupid. I couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak…”

“No…” Damian started laughing. That shouted proclamation caught his attention, causing him to turn his head and see her. He assumed it was her. “I guess I owe your sister a thank you.”

“She’s accepting a seven day Italy vacation.”

Damian laughed as he tucked her head back under her chin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She stayed in his arms another moment or two before lifting her head. She stared into his eyes. The deep chocolate orbs reflecting back everything she wanted to say. She saw their past - the love they had, the memories they shared. She saw the present – the moment their eyes met earlier surrounded by thousands of screaming people and how everything stopped and faded until it was just the two of them.

Raising up on her tiptoes, her lips pressed against his. No words were needed. Their lips said everything that needed to be said and things that couldn’t be said… yet.

Her hands drifted from his back around his sides and up his chest. Her hands cupped his cheeks, the stubble of his beard scratching the soft skin of her palms. She tilted her heard and the earth moved beneath her feet. It felt like an electric current moved from their lips through her body following each vein down to her toes and back igniting a fire she hadn’t felt since these very same lips kissed her a decade ago. Damian’s arms tightened around her drawing her impossibly closer. Her toes barely on the floor. Thrown off balance, she trusted him to keep them upright.

The kiss broke and they pressed their foreheads together. Their breaths mixed, coming out in heavy gasps. Her fingers traced the planes of his face where her hands still cupped him. “That’s really playing dirty.”

“Corazón, you kissed me.” Damian pointed out, pressing a series of small kisses to her lips.

She hummed against his lips. “So I did…” She opened her eyes catching his gaze again. His irises were blown wide, the black nearly over taking the dark brown. She took a step back from him, her hands falling from his face and kicked off her shoes. With a quick glance around the room, she reached back and flipped the light switch by the door, sending the room into darkness. A feint glow from the bedroom offered the only light.

Without a word she took his hand again and this time, she was leading him. Toward that glow in the bedroom. Spinning on him, she tugged at his hoodie. “Off.”

Curious to see where this was headed, Damian didn’t voice any complaints. He simply reached down and pulled his hoodie over his head. He smirked when he heard a soft gasp as his bare chest was revealed.

“No shirt?” She stared at his chest, unable to look away. She thought he had a t-shirt on underneath. Her eyes roamed over the bared skin. The tattoos she remembered on his pecs and down his left shoulder. His arms were filled in more and she wanted to explore the ink. A new tattoo sat on the left side of his belly, like birds in flight.

Her fingers trembled and she itched to touch. She drew her own sweatshirt over her head revealing a tank top. She placed both the sweatshirt and her socks over the pushed in chair at the tables where his suitcase laid. The jeans were a bad idea, but she hadn’t planned on being in this position.

That position was climbing into his bed where the covers were already tossed back. The sheets were cool to the touch and she was quick to shove her naked feet beneath the blankets. She looked up, meeting his eyes and sent him a smile while patting the empty space next to her.

“What are you doing?” Damian asked after he climbed in next to her still wearing his pants. He pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it on the charger. He double checked the alarm set before settling back against the pillows.

She moved closer to him and there was a few moments where they shifted and maneuvered in the bed to get into a comfortable position. It ended up being Damian laying on his back with her snuggled into his side. Her head lay in his chest, an arm across his stomach with her hand resting on that new-to-her tattoo. She crossed an ankle over his. His arm wrapped around her back, his hand resting on her hip. The blankets pulled up to help chase away the remnants of the outside temps.

“We’re gonna talk, probably kiss, and maybe sleep.”

“Okay,” Damian said not offering up a complaint. After all, why would he? She was in his arms right where he wanted her. He wasn’t letting this moment – this second chance- pass him up.

Before he reached out to turn the light out, casting the room in darkness, she saw the future in his eyes.

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