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macfrog · 1 year ago

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ace sex on fire chapter six

this entire chapter is me making up for 1. the golfing line in chapter two, and 2. joel's entire experience of tlou2. naughty dog i'm waiting for ur response. 24 hours to reply

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel takes you on a day trip to go golfing. it turns out to be more fun than you expected

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) golf. idk what else to say. age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, more sugardaddy!joel, discussions of pregnancy + reader perhaps not wanting children, sort of possessive!joel?, praise kink, unprotected piv car sex, daddy kink, exhibitionist fantasy, creampie, more teasing + flirting, angst + pining, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 9.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Good girl. He there?” The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare. “Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel. “He watching?” “Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily. “Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

The cab squeaks to a halt right outside the office, dropping you at the bottom of the concrete steps leading up to the revolving door. There are already bodies filtering in and out of the building, despite how early it is.

You thank the driver – Mick, you’ve come to learn. He seems to run this route on weekday mornings; it’s always him who shows up at your apartment when you can’t be bothered to walk to work, or miss the damn bus. Mick tosses a thumbs up over his shoulder and you swing out into the brilliant sun.

It’s Thursday. You’ve been home sixty-five hours, by your count. Joel gave you a couple days after landing stateside to catch up on sleep, readjust. He’d gone back to work Tuesday morning, though, 8AM sharp. Martha had text to ask where you were, and had sent six laughing emojis back when you replied with, How the fuck is he back already?

You make the climb up the steps, back to work, back to normality. It drags like a weight at your heels, the thought of returning to that gray office after three days wandering around picture-perfect, painted-pink Paris. After three days of Joel.

That split-open feeling, the cavity between your ribs – it’s sewn itself up since you got back to your own apartment, your own space. Since you showered a couple times, washed your clothes, started smelling like yourself again instead of Joel. Its sutures are made from the sound of the subway squealing to a halt, the smell of Chinese takeout from the place across the street.

But there’s a tiny piece of you, small enough to stay hidden from even yourself sometimes, that you know misses it. Misses…him. It only hurts when you touch it – the sewn-up scar, messy in your frantic attempts to close it up – it aches when you remember his hands on your waist whenever you wanted them there, his lips below your ear whenever you needed him.

As you approach the glass doors, you hear a whistle from behind, and turn to watch Joel slip out of his Rolls and jog up the steps. There’s a sports bag hanging from his left hand.

“Am I a dog?” you ask when he reaches you.

“It was an endearin’ whistle.”

“Very endearing. Don’t do it again.”

He nods once. “Yes, ma’am. Feelin’ awake yet?”

“Almost.” You follow him into the building, clicking along the polished marble floor at his side. “You didn’t waste any time getting back into the swing of things, I hear.”

You both nod good morning to the receptionists, and Joel hits the button to call the elevator.

“I’m an important man, baby,” he says, shrugging. “My job ain’t just answerin’ the phone ‘n making coffee.”

You scoff, slapping his back as he leads you through the sliding doors, which closer over and shut you both into your first moment of privacy in almost seventy hours. Joel immediately turns to face you, words behind his eyes that he can’t seem to sort into a coherent sentence.

In what you hear as an attempt to summarize, he says: “Back to reality.”

You brush the shoulders of his blazer, tug on his tie to straighten it. It’s the most you can bring yourself to do that doesn’t involve throwing yourself at him. There’s a throbbing right below your chest, like a magnet tugging you towards the man stood in front of you. Touching the padded shoulder of his suit will have to do. For now.

You lift your eyebrows, staring at the knot of his tie. “Yep.”

It’s pretty reductive, Back to reality. But then, what else is there to say? What else that wasn’t said between your bodies in Paris? A line was crossed there – you both went somewhere you can’t come back from so easily. And moving forward the way you had been before, seems equally as impossible.

There are eyes on you here. There are people who care to know what might be going on – whether they like it or not doesn’t matter. No more strutting out onto the terrace, running your hands all over one another, connecting skin and tongue in ways you wouldn’t have dreamt up two weeks ago.

No. This stays secret. A secret between you, Joel, and the French skies.

Joel places a hand on the small of your back as the elevator doors whip open. He ushers you out, and then, once in view of Martha’s desk, sidesteps to an appropriate distance.

“Welcome back,” your colleague greets you as you approach her desk. “Missed you, kid.”

You smile coyly. “Thanks,” you mumble. Guilt isn’t the easiest of emotions to hide.

Joel taps your arm gently and then nods towards his office. “Catch-up,” he says, and Martha rounds her desk to follow after him.

You drop your jacket and purse over the back of your chair and slip in behind them, leaning back on one of Joel’s leather couches with your arms crossed.

“Alright,” Martha sighs, “few things needing done this morning. First…”

You take a deep breath and slump down until your ass sits comfortably on the couch cushion, your knees draped over the arm, cradled inside your elbows.

Joel notices, and smirks to himself. He dials into his voicemail, hits a button, and a familiar voice echoes from his desk.

“Hey, Joel,” Drew’s voice says, “hope you enjoyed Paris ‘n aren’t still too hungover. I know what Jean-Marc’s like…”

Martha moves to the next bullet point, tilting her pad and tapping the tip of her pen to some messy scrawling you can’t read. You nod, eyes flitting up to watch Joel.

“Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re still good for later. S’posed to be a good day for it. Let me know if you need any help with directions. Alright. Looking forward to seeing you two soon. Cool.”

The machine cuts. Joel sits back in his chair, rests his heels on the wood in front of him. Black, shiny, ridiculously expensive shoes crossed over on top of a black, shiny, ridiculously expensive desk.

“…now, Ken needs to receive this as soon as possible, alright? I said I’d have it done by end of day yesterday – I did not, so I need you to –”

“Who’s you two?” you ask Joel, peering over Martha’s notepad.

He looks up, tossing a rubber band ball in his hands. “You ‘n me, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha declares, “am I talking to myself–?”

You push her notepad out of your view, still staring at Joel. “What do you mean, you ‘n me?”

Martha drops her hands with a sigh. You repeat your question.

“Us,” Joel says, hint of irritation in his voice like you’re supposed to be in on something. “We’re goin’ golfing with him.”

“We’re going golfing?”

Martha, now exasperated, swings the pad under her bicep and crosses her arms over her chest, makes something of a growling noise. “You two are unbeliev…Are you listening to me?” she demands, clicking her fingers in front of you.

“No,” you reply simply, eyes locked on Joel’s.

His lips curve with a soft laugh. “You ain’t read your emails?” he asks.

Your head darts between him and Martha. Bewildered. “I was catching up on sleep, thank you very much,” you assert, nodding with finality at the blonde updo hovering over you.

You know she cares about you – at least enough to water your monstera deliciosa while you were gone – but Martha can be sharp; her outspokenness is something to admire and to fear, in one small five-foot-three frame.

She snorts, glancing over to Joel with a disbelieving shake of her head, but he doesn’t take her up on it. Just looks at her blankly and then turns back to you.

“We’re meeting Drew up at Aspen Heights. Few of his buddies are in town, he wanted to introduce ‘em to me.”

“And I’m coming – why?”

“Because he met you last week, musta liked you, ‘n he invited you.”

Your mouth opens to reply, some retort to bring into question the need for your presence at a fucking round of golf, when Joel and his words cut yours short in your throat.

“And I want you there with me.”

Martha raises her eyebrows when you look up at her. The thing is: this all seems very normal, from her perspective. You did such a good job at keeping Joel right in Paris, didn’t you? He made his flight there on time, he met with Jean-Marc without a hitch, and he was actually an hour early for his flight home.

That last part was because you’d woken up with the sun and couldn’t get back to sleep, so you woke him, too and…well. Kept each other busy until you physically couldn’t anymore. There wasn’t much point hanging around in the hotel suite when your cases were packed and your bodies were…fragile, so you left for the airport.

To her ignorant eyes – and bless her – this is all just networking. It’s you building work relationships, Joel at the helm overseeing everything and setting it all up for you. This is clear – that that’s all she thinks – when she says:

“He’s doin’ you a favor, sweetheart. You should go.”

“I don’t even have any golfing gear. I’m in suit trousers.” Your eyes trail down your black pinstripe pants, legs dangling from the arm of the couch.

“And you look fantastic,” Joel quips, though you know he’s half-serious, “but you do gotta find somethin’ more…” he waves a hand, “…golf.”

“Something more golf. That’s helpful.”

“Here,” he says, stretching into his back pocket. His hips lift from the seat of his chair, and your eyes land on the space just south of his belt buckle. He pulls his credit card from his wallet – the same one you could probably recite the numbers of by heart at this point – and holds it out. “Go grab somethin’ nice. My treat.”

My treat. Like he didn’t treat you all damn weekend.

You pull yourself up and take the card from his fingers.

“’n what about my list?” Martha asks.

Joel shrugs. “Ken can wait one more day. You got two hours,” he tells you, and then sits up straight, rubber band ball placed safely next to his Newton’s cradle. “I’ll have Rand take you.”

You follow Martha out of Joel’s office when his phone starts ringing and his head falls into his hands, letting you both know it’s not a call you want to be around to hear. As he lifts the handset, he lightly calls your name, and you exchange a sly smirk as you slip out the door.

Martha wanders off behind her own desk as you pull your purse over your shoulder. She loads her computer back up, chin lifting as she squints through her glasses at the screen.

“There’s a golf shop downtown,” she tells you, two index fingers tapping away on the keys. “Alan uses ‘em. Don’t think they’re too expensive, either. Wouldn’t know for sure, though, he spends so damn much anytime he’s in there.”

You watch her for a moment, nodding along. “Thanks, Martha.”

She holds up a finger as you walk past her desk toward the elevator. “Remember you still got my to-do list to tackle, so don’t be long!”

----------

Rand drops you on a quiet side street. He gives you his number, tells you to text him once you’re done, and the sleek black car rolls off.

On the corner sits Ace’s Pro Golf, a small, charming store, peeling wooden front painted fern green with golf-themed decals decorating the windows. You set off inside, passing under two transparent putters crossed over one another on the window above the door. An old brass bell rings out from overhead when you enter.

Its exterior is misleading. This store is huge. Overwhelmingly huge. Walls stacked with bags, clubs dangling from pegs. Baskets of balls and tees and other accessories dotted all over the creaky wooden floors, which are lined with racks upon racks of golfing clothes – shirts, trousers, dresses, skirts.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, edging towards the rails.

You slip between them, hand running along the multicolored choices, when your phone starts to ring, vibrating somewhere deep in your purse.

“Hey, Mom,” you mutter, slipping your cell between your cheek and your shoulder as you begin to search through the shirts in front of you.

“Hey, baby,” her voice sings to you. “Wasn’t expecting to catch you, thought you’d already be at work. Where you at?”

You sigh. “I’m shopping. Joel’s taking me golfing later.”

She almost chokes down the line. “Golfing?”

“Yeah. It’s this friend he went to school with, I met him at lunch last week. There’s a few of ‘em going, so he asked me along, too.”

“Nice guy. So, you’re shopping for an outfit?”

“Mhm.”

“Any…dress code?”

“Dress code?” You straighten up, switching the phone to your other ear. “Like, golfing gear? I dunno.”

She laughs. “Alright.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing! Nothing, baby.”

“Meant something, Mom. Tell me.”

“No, I just…” She sighs. “You’re sure this isn’t, like…It sounds an awful lot like a date. Like, you’re going on Joel’s arm.”

You’re silent. You suck in a deep breath, fixing an order of words in reply, when your mom cuts in again.

“I bet I’m way off. Forget I said anything.”

“Yeah, gross,” you refute, metal hangers squealing against the rail when you unfreeze. “No. Not a date. It’s, like, networking, or whatever.”

Mom snorts. “Right. Exactly.”

“Not – a date,” you repeat.

You’re relieved when she changes the subject. “Show me what you’re looking at.”

You huff, pulling the phone down and switching to FaceTime. In a second, your mom’s bright, swollen cheeks and ringlet curled hair are on the screen, and she flashes you a pearly smile.

“Was thinking maybe this…?” You angle the phone to show her a navy-blue polo shirt. “And then a white skirt?”

“Nah,” she cuts, and you flip your camera back to your face.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Too blue. You look better in neutrals. Try beige or brown. Boring colors, y’know? Blend into the walls.”

You hiss something she doesn’t need to hear under your breath and then follow it up with a slightly more polite, “Screw you.”

Her image on your screen shakes violently with how hard she laughs at herself. “I’m messing with you. You know you’ll look beautiful no matter what you choose. Wait a second, though – can you even golf?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a golf club in my life.”

“Thought as much. Does Joel know you’re about to embarrass him like this?”

“He’s aware.”

“Please get him to take some videos. I gotta see this.”

“You know what,” you grumble, holding back your own laughter now, “I’m hanging up. You just solidified your place in the nursing home, you know that?”

She’s still laughing, words pushing through her cackles in desperate punches. “Wait, wait! I gotta tell you why I called you.”

“Alright, go. Thirty seconds.”

“Riley’s pregnant.”

Your face screws up. Lips curl upside down into a grimace. “Oof. Good…good for her…?”

Your mom throws her head back with a roar of laughter. “Be more enthusiastic about it. A little niece or nephew for you!”

“’s more like a…second cousin, or whatever. I bet Aunt Rose is over the moon.”

“She called me screaming this morning. I just thought you’d like to hear, being that you’re in a permanent state of baby fever.”

“Ha,” you state, blank expression never changing. It causes her to erupt into another fit of giggles. “That’s nice, I guess. For Riley. Tell her I said congrats.”

“I will. And I’ll leave out the part where you almost threw up. Alright, I’ll let you go. Good luck golfing. Come back with a hot millionaire boyfriend, maybe! Love you!”

“Yep. ‘kay. Love you. Love you, too – ‘kay – bye – bye, Mom.”

You hang up mid-laugh and her caramel cheeks disappear from the screen. You drop your phone back into your purse and slot the navy-blue polo under your arm, spinning to the rail behind you to find a skirt to go with it.

Riley, pregnant. That’s fucking insane. You two used to spend entire summers riding your bikes around your hometown, spending all of your allowance down at the mall. You swear you’re not old enough to have babies yet. Swear you’re not even old enough to be out of Mom’s house, living on your own in the city.

But then here you are, five years in, making a mental note to buy a baby gift for your cousin, on top of the pre-existing ones reminding you to message that girl who lived across the street when you were kids to say, Congrats on your engagement, and pick up a new home card for your two friends who are on their third mortgage.

Your mom finds it funny – always has. The instant repulsion you feel, the way you recoil whenever you’re asked about kids, about a partner, about a three-bed-two-bath in the suburbs with a big yard and good school nearby.

You don't think any of it's for you. And that’s fine, and every time you skate over the topic, your mom tells you it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s –

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Oh,” you snap out of your daydream, clutching a white skirt in your hands, “sorry. I’m sorry. No, I’m good, thanks. Sorry.”

The assistant smiles kindly and nods. Then he spins on his heel and waltzes off, disappearing behind a cardboard cutout of a golfer mid-swing.

It’s not lost on you, by the way – what your mom said. Sounds an awful lot like a date. You’d be lying if you said it hadn’t also crossed your mind. Joel, wanting you there with him. Giving you his card to buy somethin’ nice, which, after the last week, you translate roughly as: something I’ll like. Something he’ll see, and his second thought will be ripping it off your body.

His first thought will be what you’d look like taking it off for him.

And for that reason, you slip the short skirt under your arm beside the polo, and head across the store to find some more stuff to waste Joel’s money on.

----------

Rand pulls up by the curb a few yards down from Ace’s, where you’re sat on a bench enjoying an ice cream. He rolls the window down and lowers his black sunglasses.

“You bein’ paid for this?” he asks, grinning.

You nod, gleeful. “By the hour. Want an ice cream?”

He snorts when you hold Joel’s black card up between two fingers, tilting it in the sunlight. And then he puts the car in park, climbs out, and jaunts over to the ice cream cart by your bench.

He orders a three-scoop cone, and you nod in approval when he sits down alongside you, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

“Respect it,” you say, cheersing your own half-finished cone against his.

----------

When you get back to work, Joel’s already changed into a crisp, clean golfing outfit. It weakens your knees a little when you saunter into his office.

A long-sleeved, dark polo shirt that shows off every curve and flex of his toned arms, paired with gray, just-tight-enough trousers. And pristine white shoes so sharp and clean you’d swear he’d had them polished just for the occasion.

You ignore the way your head lightens at the sight of him and throw yourself into the chair to his right, white back from Ace’s falling between your ankles.

“Alright, Tom, thanks for lettin’ me know,” he says, arms folded, sat back against his desk. He leans back, places the phone back in its cradle, and looks you up and down. “Have fun?”

You shrug, leaning forward to pick a piece of lint from his thigh. “Didn’t know what to get for the most part, so there’s probably stuff I don’t need in there.”

He squints down at his cell phone. “Like, uh…Duke’s Scoops?”

You stare back at him, mirroring his cheeky smirk. Your leg swings, arms cross over your chest, covering the way your breath falters. He’s seen the transactions.

“You gonna grudge me three dollars on an ice cream, Miller?”

“Six fifty,” he mutters, glancing down at his phone again to double check. His tongue runs across his top lip. You want to replace it with yours. “So…that’s at least two ice creams, pretty girl.”

“It’s a hot day. Rand deserved something to cool down. We sat on a bench in the shade ‘n had a nice chat. He taught me how to swing. Verbally,” you add, when Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“Taught you how to swing,” he echoes, and you nod.

“Did you know he used to compete? Junior league?”

He pouts his bottom lip. “Mighta come up in the, what, fifteen years since I met him?”

You beam in reply, standing up and hooking your fingers through the string handles of your shopping bag. “I’m gonna go get changed now.”

“Could just get changed in the car on the way, ‘s a thirty-minute drive.”

You lean in close, eyes flitting over to Martha’s desk to make sure she’s not watching. Your lips brush softly against his ear. “I don’t wanna take any time away from other stuff we could get up to,” you murmur, and Joel’s hand locks around yours, attempting to pull you back as you skip off.

“Be right back,” you call, letting the door fall shut on his suggestive smirk, his tight trousers, and the hard bulge beneath them.

You return five minutes later in your getup. Joel has much the same reaction as you did with him, though he’s not half as good at hiding it. He sits upright in his chair, fingers tight around the armrests.

“Uhuh,” he says, eyes diving to your legs and then resurfacing somewhere around your chest. “Let me just –” he leans over to his phone, “– call Drew, let ‘im know we ain’t comin’…”

“Shut up,” you scoff. “Looks good, though, right?”

Joel’s eyes are still trained on your bare thighs, one crossed over the other. “Looks…better than good.”

You bat your eyelashes. “Still mad about the ice cream?”

“No, ma’am. Not mad at all.”

He stands, slinging both his bag and yours over his shoulder, and walks around his desk to meet you. You give him one final warning.

“You know I’ve never played golf before, right?”

“I know,” he affirms.

“So…bringing me is kinda pointless. I am not gonna bring anything worthwhile.”

“You in that outfit,” Joel mutters – and as he passes by, he makes sure to brush his swollen crotch up against your ass – “makes it worthwhile already.”

----------

Aspen Heights is a hundred and fifty-acre course, vibrant green fairways rolling over hilly land laid out like crinkles in a sheet of green felt. Rand drives slowly up to the clubhouse, gravel crackling under the tires of the Rolls as you and Joel lean over to stare at the landscape – the unkempt, sprawling wild plants guarding the pristine course, the bunkers like giant splotches of white paint on the grass.

You turn back and look to Joel, brows knitting in an expression which could be translated as amazement, could be intrigue, or could simply be: What the fuck are we doing here?

He mirrors it, shaking his head. And it makes you laugh.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You could buy this place, easy. Don’t act like you don’t fit in.”

“If you think I fit in here,” he grunts, getting out of the now parked car, “you think very highly of me, angel.”

He doesn’t deny that he could afford to buy it.

The clubhouse is…much the same. Huge, grand, surrounded by a wide-open porch and fronted by a dome-shaped room, paneled by windows that reflect the scene before them.

You follow Joel’s lead, climbing the steps to the double doors by his side, staying close enough that he can guide you with a bump of his arm against yours, but far enough apart that it doesn’t look like you’re showing up together.

Inside, you follow two smartly-dressed attendants through to a room finished in dark oak, shining wooden floors under bare-bulb light figures, a solid marble bar in the center and six perfectly symmetrical high tables surrounding it.

You glance nervously around the room. Drew’s stood over by the windows with three other men – a tan guy with a white baseball cap on, fluorescent orange polo buttoned up to his neck, a shorter guy with tight black curls, fiddling with the cap of a bottle of water, and finally, a guy with dark hair combed within an inch of its life into perfect place, shoulders almost ripping through his blue polo. He looks like he’s been copy-pasted straight from a magazine called Golf Weekly, or something.

Joel takes one step across a patterned rug and Drew notices you both. He breaks off from the group.

“Hey, man.” He grins at Joel and leans over to shake his hand – well, it’s more of that slap-hand thing. They slap each other’s palms, fingers lock, one quick shake of the wrists together, and then a nod of the head. You know?

Then he leans over to you, kisses your cheek. “Sorry it’s just us guys,” he says, hand on your arm. He looks over to the three men by the window, now looking out over the course and pointing. “My girlfriend was supposed to be joining us, but she got called in to work. You two woulda gotten along, you ‘n Rach.”

You smile warmly. “That’s okay. Thanks for asking me.”

“You play much?” Drew asks, leading you both over to the windows.

You shake your head and Joel breathes a laugh.

“Total beginner,” you admit.

Drew bats a hand. “We’ll show you the ropes. This is, uh, this is Steve,” he points to Fluorescent Orange, “Caleb,” Water Bottle holds his hand out to shake yours, “and that’s Daniel.”

Up close, Daniel’s handsome. Sharp jawline, shadowed by the beginnings of stubble, a dimple in the center of his chin. He steps forward, holding a hand out, and you take it. His palm engulfs yours and squeezes – soft but sure. And then you pull away.

The men all nod to Joel, who probably nods back from behind you, and then catches you gently in his arm, cradling it around your back out of view of the others.

“We’ll be getting started soon,” Drew says, “they’re just fixing up a few buggies for us.”

Joel nods, lets go of you, and crosses his arms. You knot your hands awkwardly at your waist. He stays right by your side, though, which you’re grateful for. The last thing you need is another Jean-Marc, some cloaked assistant swooping you off away from the comfort of Joel.

“How’s business, Joel? Drew was tellin’ us about some deal you’re tryna nail.”

Daniel’s eyes are sharp, cerulean blue drilling deep into the warm brown of Joel’s, which calmly stare back. He looks a little younger than Joel, maybe on the cusp of forty, only a few light strands of grey through his deep brown fringe. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. You don’t know why you’re even looking at that.

Joel doesn’t reveal much in the way of answers. Typical of him – or typical of the Joel he is to the rest of the world. “Yeah, ‘s good. Just takin’ my time, we’re workin’ on it.”

Daniel nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He crosses his arms, biceps bulging, and then rounds on you.

“You gotta be run off your feet, chasing after him all day, huh?”

You tilt your head toward Joel. “He keeps me busy, yeah.”

Daniel leans into you, laughter crooning from his lips. It wobbles you a little, forces you one step nearer Joel’s side. You smile back, as pleasant as you can muster the courage, and he eventually leans away.

Before he can ask another question, Drew’s calling you all over to the sliding patio doors. Daniel hops back a step, nods to you, and says, “After you.”

“Thanks, Dan,” Joel cuts, stepping into the space the blue-eyed man had left specifically for you, sweeping you off as he goes.

----------

There isn’t anything about golf that intrigues you. Not even remotely. You’ve never watched it, never wanted to play it – the most you’ve dabbled in it is minigolf, and even that became a fucking bore after two anniversary dates in a row there with Blake.

Still, you watch patiently and politely as the men take their shots one by one, starting with Drew, all the way through to Daniel, who gives his driver a quick shine with a gloved hand before stepping up. On your left, Joel scoffs quietly to himself.

Daniel swings back, and his biceps swell under the tight sleeves of his shirt. You watch as his arms follow through, sending the ball hurtling through the air and well past its three predecessors.

Joel nudges your elbow.

“Ow,” you mumble, running a hand over the skin.

He gives you a perplexed look. “I said, you can use my clubs. You in there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little too defensively. “Just…paying attention.”

“Hm.”

The men on your right groan as Daniel strides back over to join them, a satisfied grin across his face. Your eyes trace him as he leans on his driver, one white pant leg crossing over the other.

When you turn back to the tee box, Joel’s lifting his own club from his bag. His broad, muscled shoulders flex under the dark material of his shirt; his tall figure walks over to the tee, delicate fingers dancing along the handle of the club, and he clears his throat.

And suddenly, the memory of Daniel and his stupid biceps is dust in the wind.

Joel takes, like, half a practice swing. Doesn’t even have to aim, not really. Just pulls his arms back, sucks his waist in, and goes for it.

His ball lands a couple meters ahead of Daniel’s. And you wonder when the fuck golf became this sexy.

He turns back and runs his tongue over his top lip, breathing a little heavy. The sight drives you fucking insane for the second time today. And then he’s smiling at you, jerking his head in a gesture for you to join him.

You step forward, a little shy, a little hot, and wander mutely over to him.

“I got you,” he says, and reaches for your wrist.

You move to take the driver from his hand and Joel clicks his teeth, shaking his head.

“Said I got you,” he utters, and pulls your body into his, shelling around you. His beard scratches lightly against your ear.

“Joel,” you whisper, laughing nervously and tossing a quick glance back over to the men standing just feet away. Drew just said something apparently hilarious. Caleb gives him a solid whack on the shoulder and doubles over laughing. Steve’s watching a butterfly float by.

“They ain’t watchin’,” Joel says, curving his arms around yours and fixing your hands on the handle of the club. “s just you ‘n me.”

You wriggle under his grasp and feel the hum of laughter from his chest between your shoulders, the weight of his belt riding on your ass. Your cheeks heat when his chin rests on your collarbone.

“Alright,” he says, hands tightening around your own. “You’re gonna line it up, stand with your legs a little apart, little more…”

The toe of his shoe taps your heel and you widen your stance.

“Good girl,” he whispers. A pulse shakes through your body. “Now, on your backswing, you’re gonna want your left shoulder under your chin, ‘n your hands above your right shoulder. Yeah?”

“Got it,” you mumble, so unconvincing that it makes you laugh after you’ve said it.

He gives your waist a tiny squeeze and steps back, watching as you carefully lift the club and curve it around your shoulders. You hear him from behind.

“’attagirl. Keep your knees bent, you got it.”

You take one good swing, and hit the ball on your first try, but it’s…it’s bad, for sure. It’s pretty terrible. The ball lands on this side of the fairway, muddled in amongst the longer grass of the rough. But it’s your first ever shot – least not with colored balls and spinning windmills in the way – and so when you turn back to Joel with a huge beam across your lips, your expression is reflected in his.

“Good job!” he chuckles, stalking back over to you.

“Good job,” you echo with a laugh, handing him the club. You twist and hold your hand up to shield your eyes, staring down the course. “Look where it is, ‘n look where yours are.”

He glances back over to where your sad little ball sits. “We’ll get a few drinks down those guys,” he whispers, hand on your back. “See how good they are in a few holes’ time.”

----------

You’re back in the clubhouse after finishing the eighteenth hole on something of a high. Joel managed to worsen the accuracy of your competitors only so much – your end of the deal was to improve as the round went on, which you try to argue you technically did, given that you began to land your shots on the fairway around hole seven, but your argument is let down by Joel’s reminder that, on hole thirteen, he had to dig your ball out of the bunker for you.

“And I am eternally grateful to you for agreeing to never fucking talk about it again,” you say through gritted teeth, and he laughs.

“Last time, promise.”

Drew joins the pair of you at your table and slaps an arm down on Joel’s shoulder.

“Your round, asshole.”

Joel grumbles, gives your elbow a cursory tap, and slides off to the bar. Drew takes his seat, nudges your arm.

“I am impressed,” he tells you, slurring his words a little.

“Yeah?” you ask, and he nods. “I didn’t think I was so good.”

“Oh,” he shakes his head, “you weren’t. I meant I’m impressed you stuck it out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss.

He snorts, head bobbing with the alcohol bubbling in his blood. “I’m kidding. You were great, for your first time. I’m really glad you came.”

“Me, too,” you admit.

Drew opens his mouth to say something else when a clatter from across the clubhouse interrupts him. You turn at the same time to see a waiter on his ass at the other side of the room. His metal tray rattles against the wooden floor, flutes smashed in a pool of champagne by his side.

“Oh, shoot,” Drew mumbles, setting his glass down on the table.

You push off your stool, sliding your drink alongside his, but he motions for you to stay.

“I got it,” he says, palm lightly tapping your wrist. “I got it.”

He shuffles off to the waiter, now being helped to his feet by Caleb. The last you see is Drew bending to grab the silver tray, before he’s swept out of your view by –

“Poor guy,” Daniel muses, fist locked tight around a lager. He pulls Joel’s stool out and slips onto the cushion, elbow brushing against yours.

You readjust awkwardly in your own chair and pull on the hem of your skirt.

“So,” Daniel clears his throat, the bottom of his glass scraping along the wooden tabletop, “how’d you find your first round of golf?”

You smile politely. “Uh, good. Yeah. I wasn’t expecting to be much, but it wasn’t too scary.”

He chuckles. “Yeah? Think you’ll be back?”

Your shoulders jerk with a shrug. “Maybe.”

He nods and dives headfirst into some long ramble about golf – something about the time he brought his sister and her kids here and how much worse they were than you, so you should really be proud of yourself, and he’d love to see you around here again sometime – but you’re only half listening. You’re stealing glances over at the bar, hunting for a chiseled jawline and monochrome beard.

You spot him locked between Steve and some other guy in all black, waiting for the bartender to draw up his order of drinks. He’s nodding, saying words back to the pair, but keeping his eyes locked on you.

You give him half a smile, half a, There you are, what the hell’s taking you so long? Can you come the fuck back? and hope he reads the words across your face.

“…so, as long as you stick with what you know, it’s actually a really enjoyable game.”

Daniel stares at you blankly, waiting for a response.

“Sure, sure,” you answer, after too long a pause to convince him that you were listening. “Sorry,” you close your eyes and give your head a shake, “was just checking on that waiter.”

Daniel nods. Follows the trail of your eyeline across the room, and looks back to you. “So, uh,” he clears his throat nervously, “I know this place downtown – Italian, has this big open rooftop seating area. If you’re interested, I’d, uh…I’d love to take you, sometime.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, frozen. Like, actually convinced the air in your lungs has turned to ice, frozen. Your eyes probably look like they’re about to burst out of your head, your mouth stuck in a dumb O-shape as you search frantically for the words to form a reply.

He smiles awkwardly. Watches as you blink straight back at him.

“I…” you manage, after what feels like fucking hours. “…That’s – so nice, Daniel, I – really – I’m flattered. Um…”

He interrupts, and it’s like a cold flannel on an acid burn. “Oh, Jesus. I – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

“No,” you shake your head, suddenly animated, “no, listen. It’s – you’re –”

Daniel’s still apologizing. “Are you – sorry, I don’t mean to assume – are you and – you and Joel…?”

His head jerks. One eyebrow cocked. His fingers press into the table, making counter-rotating circles across the gleaming surface.

You stare from his hands to his face, open-mouthed. “N-no,” you tell him, with a single shake of your head. And then you realize he’s being serious. “No, no, we’re not – no, absolutely not. We’re just – friends.”

“Right,” he says, brows knitting. “It’s just – the guy hasn’t taken his eyes off you the entire time I’ve been sat here, so I just figured…maybe…”

You follow Daniel’s gaze across to the bar again, where Joel’s still standing, this time with Drew at his side. He’s mouthing Yeah, in reply to whatever Steve’s gabbing about, but not fucking listening to a word of it.

“No,” you say again, looking Joel dead in the eye. “We’re just friends.”

You turn to look back at the slick-haired man by your side, and he nods.

“But, uh,” you look into your glass, the ice suddenly more interesting than Daniel’s hopeful expression, “you’re a really nice guy, and I appreciate you asking, but I’m…not…exactly looking for anything right now. I’m – yeah.”

“Right – no, absolutely,” he says again, flustered. His fingers wrap tight around his glass and he shifts as if to stand. “That’s absolutely fine. I just thought I’d ask, y’know?”

He laughs nervously. You feel kinda guilty. He’s being so decent about it, and he means well, but you really just wish he would…fuck off.

He isn’t given the option.

Drew comes bounding over like a golden retriever and leans in to Daniel, another freshly poured pint swinging in his fist. “You’ve improved your game, Gilbert,” he sings in your suitor’s ear. “Must be years since the last time you scored an eagle!”

Daniel copies Drew’s guffawing, nodding along. He opens his mouth to say something, but Drew jumps ahead, offering to buy him a drink to celebrate.

“C’mon, my treat,” the blond tells him, and swaggers off towards the bar, a vice grip on the blue polo shirt.

The shadow of Joel slips around your back as soon as the two figures are out of view. He brushes against your shoulders and nudges his stool nearer to yours with his foot, before sitting back into it with a sigh.

You stare at him, smirking behind your hand, elbow resting on the arm of your chair. He catches your eye and watches you for a few seconds.

Sorry, he mouths eventually, and sneaks a hand onto your thigh.

You lean into him, feeling the weight of Daniel and his proposal and his fucking Italian restaurant fall like insignificant grains off sand off your shoulders. You trace a finger along the shape of Joel’s knuckles. “I feel bad,” you whisper.

“The hell for?” his voice asks, a deep rumble by your temple.

You shrug, looking up at him. “He’s a nice guy. He asked me on a date.”

“And did you want to go?”

Your face pulls into a wince, lips flinching. “Not really.”

“Then what’d I tell you about doin’ stuff you don’t want to?”

You don’t reply. Your mind sails back to that boat ride in Paris, when he basically told you off for feeling guilty about rejecting a fucking marriage proposal, never mind a downtown dinner. It doesn’t bear thinking about what fantastic rant he’s currently bottling up where Daniel’s feelings are concerned.

Joel’s a no-nonsense guy, you know this. Known it for as long as you’ve known him. He’s rational, he’s pragmatic. He says what he thinks, and you deal with however you feel about it. He doesn’t waste time making anyone feel better with lies or cushion-soft landings. His yes is yes and his no is no. And sure, maybe there’s something in there that you’d do well to adopt, too.

But there are inconsistencies to him that you can’t work out – yet. Something that makes him break his rules. He still hasn’t shared whatever the hell Jean-Marc said to him that made him sweep you off of that terrace minutes later. He won’t admit why he keeps dragging you along to these so-called ‘work’ events.

Part of you wants to break him open, chip away at him like the sculptures in the Louvre until his beating heart is in your hands, the rhythmic pulses sharing secrets like it’s speaking in Morse code.

And part of you – bigger, stronger, wiser – hopes you never get close.

When you come back to the room, sound of glasses clinking and men’s roaring laughter washing away any thoughts of jilted boyfriends or lonely golfers, Joel lowers his head to look you in the eye.

“You wanna go?”

You nod, scrunching your nose. “That okay?”

He leans in close, as close as he reckons he can get without drawing attention, and smiles softly. “You coulda asked to go home the minute we pulled up ‘n it woulda been okay. Let’s go.” And he takes your hand.

Drew’s slung over the shoulders of some argyle-patterned men who you’re sure have spent more time drinking than they have actually on the course. He’s lifting his glass, about to toast to life, or love, or fucking golf, when Joel sneaks by behind him, never letting go of your hand.

The Rolls Royce is sat in park at the bottom of the stone steps, hazard lights blinking. Joel holds the door open as you hop in under the twinkling ceiling.

“Well?” Rand asks, looking in the mirror. You respond with a toss of your head, squinting. “Did you keep your feet straight like I taught you?” he demands.

“Honestly, I was more focused on making sure I hit the ball, Rand.”

He snorts. “Office, Joel?”

“Office, Rand.”

As the partition closes, Joel’s hand comes up to cup the back of your head. You lean into it, tilting to look at him properly through eyes glazed with tiredness, alcohol, relief to be back in only his company.

And he’s staring back, eyes flitting from yours down to your mouth when you speak.

“Did you…did you send Drew over to get Daniel away from me?”

Joel’s eyes stay fixed on your lips. “You didn’t want me to do that?”

You ignore him. You want him to answer your question. “Did you?”

And then he looks up. Searches your eyes for a second, and then says, “Yeah.”

Your stare falls down into his lap. To his closed fist, resting on his thigh. His fingers are stroking the back of your head in lulling movements. You focus on the shine of his watch. And horror sets in.

“You wanted him to stay?” Joel asks, bringing you up for air for half a second.

You’re quiet when you reply. “…No. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.”

And that’s somehow scarier. That you didn’t want this decent, attractive-enough man around you. That the entire time he sat nipping your ear, your eyes, your hands, your heart was searching all over the room for Joel. Listening for the twang of his voice, looking for him out of your peripheral. Counting every second until he sauntered back to your side.

It’s rolling. The feeling. Like a snowball gaining speed down a mountain. Starts off a twinge, a plucking somewhere buried deep in your heart, and turns and turns and turns until it’s a weight behind your ribcage. Unable to burst free.

You take Joel’s wrist and move his hand to the curve of your thigh, then lock your fingers between his. He lets you. You lift your free hand to the cut of his jawline, training your fingers down his bristled beard, and he lets you do that, too. And when you pull his face down to meet yours, lips warm and wet and starving, he opens his mouth and slips his tongue past your teeth.

Your hands are knotting in his hair. You’re leaning back, trying to pull him down on top of you, but he’s stronger. His hands take a strong grip of your waist and hoist you over the center console and into his lap, your knees pressing into the soft leather either side of his hips.

“You gonna tell me what you’re up to, pretty girl?” he asks, tipping his head back. His shirt smells like his cologne. Fresh, sharp, clean. It sends your head spinning.

Your lips find his jawline and nip kisses and bites along the sharp ridge. He tastes like whiskey, tastes like the sun, tastes like he did four days ago. Sweet and smoky and laced with something intoxicating.

Joel sighs. His hands knead into your hips, and he pushes you down, grinding you into his body.

He’s hard. Already.

“Feels like you already know,” you mutter, still peppering his neck with kisses.

He laughs the cocky way he always does when you’re on this road, heading this way. His hands find your hair again and he pulls your head back, drawing a whine from your lips.

“You gonna take it like a good girl? Take daddy’s cock?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, rubbing your damp panties over the bulge in his pants.

Joel unzips his trousers and shifts the waistband loose. You move his hands and peel back the top of his boxers yourself, and he watches from under heavy lids as you take him in both hands.

“That’s – my girl,” he chokes, eyes following your pumping fists. His head tips back with a quiet groan.

You push yourself up, shuffle nearer to him until your cunt hovers over his cock, and pull your panties to the side. You’re fucking soaked, already wet enough that Joel’s thick head catches on the cusp of your entrance as you line him up, stealing a gasp from your lips.

You sink, slowly, letting him push through into your sex inch by inch, feeling yourself pull open around him. Your brows furrow, jaw falls wide at the white-hot feeling between your legs, and you look up to see your expression reflected in Joel’s.

His hands clutch at your hips. “So – fucking – tight,” he hums, eyes rolling.

You lock your knees and begin bouncing, resting your hands on top of Joel’s. You’re steadily picking up pace, each nudge of his tip against the edge of your pussy sending another spasm of stars across your quickly-blinding vision.

“Off,” Joel mumbles against your lips, fingers pinching the fabric of your shirt.

“Huh?” you ask back, looking down to where he’s already peeling it up your torso.

“Just the skirt,” he pants, desperate, “nothin’ else.”

You lift your arms and let him pull the polo from your body, tossing it onto the carpeted floor. Joel unhooks your bra and pulls the lace down, before he’s angling his hips up again, hitting you somewhere deep enough inside to steal the breath from your lungs.

And then his lips are on your naked chest, sinking into the valley between your breasts, kissing over to your nipple. His tongue flicks over and over until the bud is pointed, enough to take it between his lips and graze over it with his teeth.

Your thighs are burning. Your skirt sits bunched up on your hips, only just covering your ass as Joel’s hands press into the supple skin, lifting you effortlessly up and down. You melt into his touch, let him do the work for a few seconds as he sits back in his seat to watch your body on his.

“My good – girl,” he groans, voice thick with arousal. “You know how pretty you look right now?”

You hook your hand around his neck, draw him in a little nearer. Shake your head with a filthy smile on your lips. “Tell me.”

Joel laughs shakily. “Wanna – fuckin’ – show you off to everyone, babygirl.”

He’s kissing you slowly, his tongue pressed to yours, when you pull back and separate your lips. He’s planted a seed in your mind.

Joel’s hips stop moving immediately. “Y’okay?” he asks, light hand on the side of your head, keeping your eyes on him.

You nod, breathing heavy. “Mhm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, “just…”

You look down to your skirt, your bare thighs spread over Joel’s lap. The thought flips over and over in your head, unsure if it’s brave enough to trot down to your lips and show itself to Joel.

“Baby?”

It’s Joel, though. Same guy who bent you over his desk, same guy who fucked you senseless feet away from his flight attendants. Same guy who, a few days ago, you were in this exact position with: writhing in next to nothing on his lap.

Fuck it. Right?

“…want him to watch,” you say, in a small voice.

Joel’s expression doesn’t change, save for the way his eyes narrow. “Want who to watch?”

You look at him a beat longer, and it sinks in. He gets it.

“Yeah, babygirl? That what you want?”

“Mhm,” you reply, shifting with him when he starts moving his hips again. The car moves forward, pushing you closer into him. “Want him to – watch you fuck me.”

“Dirty girl. You want him to watch you cum for daddy, pretty girl?”

“Ye-ah,” you moan, Joel’s hands now pushing your waist down, the stretch of his cock deep inside you almost burning with pleasure.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispers, watching as your face pulls and your brows knit together.

“Only cum for you, daddy,” you whimper.

“I know, darlin’, I know. Close your eyes.”

By this point, Joel’s assured tone, his strong hands on your hips, his fucking length buried inside you, are enough to convince you. You just do as you’re fucking told – as soon as you’re fucking told.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder and feeling him turn, his lips pressed close to your ear.

“Good girl. He there?”

The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare.

“Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel.

“He watching?”

“Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily.

“Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

You focus on the feeling of Joel, cock fucking deep into you, nuzzling against your walls and splitting you open; the sound of his voice in your ear, gently encouraging, sweetly reassuring; the smell of him, the taste of him, the heat from his skin, and…the sight of the steel-blue stare behind your eyes. The tight polo shirt. The round biceps. Watching you.

Watching you be fucked by someone else. Watching you come undone for someone else. For the same guy whose stare he couldn’t shake while he so much as talked to you. Watching your face as it twists in filthy pleasure; listening to you make sounds, whisper words, whisper daddy in the ear of your fucking boss; have him whisper words back that make your cunt tighten around him and push the image of Daniel two steps back with shock.

“Tell me again, angel.” Joel’s voice starts to swipe Daniel away.

Your eyes peel open, the backseat of the Rolls a blur as you roll your head back. “What, daddy?” you whimper.

His hand takes your jaw, holds you in line with his own. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You breathe a laugh. It pulls across your mouth two seconds later. “M-me.”

Joel mirrors your grin. His hips buck once. You cry out. “Yeah?”

“Uhuh,” you yelp, getting louder as he snaps up into you deeper, faster, harder.

You’re drawing around him, warm and wet, feeling him deep in your stomach as your movements become sloppy and staggered. Pleasure swirls like a whirlpool between your legs, tightening, tightening, tightening.

Joel’s face sharpens into your vision. His eyes are fixed on yours. You watch his lips shape the words good girl, before he pulls your foreheads together, noses flush against one another.

“’n who fucks it like this?” he asks into your mouth.

You take a deep breath, inhaling his question, and let a satisfied exhale carry your answer back out.

“Just y-you, daddy.”

And you both fall.

You rock back and forth as the feeling drowns you both; open-mouthed, silently screaming, eyes trained on one another as you ride out your high together.

You throw your head back, eyes losing focus just inches under the stars until they blur into little white halos. Your arms lift up to lean against the tiny dotted lights, steadying yourself.

Joel’s hands clamp around your waist, holding you down on his cock as he shoots hot ropes of cum deep inside you, mixing with your own and filling you up. Your name escapes his lips hand in hand with a deep, throaty moan.

You body aches. Your cunt throbs around him, still humming with pleasure as your body curls again, falling forward until your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. His hands run up and down your spine, lips press featherlight kisses to your ear, shhing, whispering praise, bringing you slowly back into the car with him.

“Daddy��” you whisper into the soft cotton of his shirt, and you feel the weight of his cheek on your head.

His hands cup your cheeks and he lifts your face until you’re staring at one another. Your eyes are tired, you can hardly keep them open, but Joel holds you upright.

“We gotta stop this,” he whispers, and your foreheads fall together again as you laugh. “I’m gettin’ too old for it, baby.”

He’s still buried deep inside, slowly softening, but you don’t want him to go. Not yet. He reaches for your bra, helps you slip it back on, and you bend back to take your shirt in two fingers.

When you’re dressed, you sink back into him.

Joel laughs, brushing the wisps of your hair disturbed by pulling your shirt over your head. “That what you were thinkin’ about? While he was talkin’ to you?”

You smile lazily. Shake your head no. “Was thinking…about you taking me to the Italian he was talking about.”

Joel’s smile grows bigger. Biggest you think you’ve ever seen him smile before. It breaks into a laugh, a toothy chuckle, and then he kisses you.

You melt into him, tongue and teeth crashing against one another. Joel’s open palms surf along your thighs, molding around your skin. He squeezes the dimpled skin on your hips between his fingers.

“Tonight work for you?” he asks, and you giggle.

“No,” you tell him, “I got Martha’s to-do list to work through.”

He nods knowingly, eyes closing. “You want a hand with it?”

You smirk. “Can we fool around in your office between items?”

His head tips back against the headrest with an obvious expression. “What do you think?”

The car slows to a stop and Rand’s knuckles rap against the glass of the partition. You slip off of Joel’s lap, fix yourselves quickly, and then amble off back to the top floor, still a little weak in the knees.

“Home time, Martha,” Joel calls almost as soon as the elevator doors pull open.

“Excuse me?” she yells back.

He laughs. “I’m lettin’ you go early. It ain’t fair that we get to go have our fun ‘n you’re stuck here ‘til five. Let us know what needs done, ‘n then you can get goin’.”

“Ain’t that chivalrous?” Martha beams, blinking at you.

You saunter by her with a smile and toss your bag under your desk. You spin around, brace yourself against the arms of your chair, and throw yourself back against the comfortable leather.

“So,” she announces, almost fucking skipping over to you with her trusty notepad back in her clutches. “I whittled it down to just six things, so it shouldn’t keep you much longer than five o’clock…”

You lift your brows and nod along.

“…as long as you don’t find anything to distract yourselves with, that is.”

----------

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bebebelll · 1 year ago

Text

Pretty girls and flowers | lando norris smau

pairing: lando norris x student!reader warning: cursing, unrealistic if lando did this in real life the girl would absolutely get doxxed

yn_phd good morning by best pals! this month's episode will be out this tuesday. my lovely amazing talented so pretty best friend got two tickets to silverstone so if you're there come say hello👋! the podcast guest will be my old professor from freshman year so put down any questions you have about mary i of england! stay healthy and hydrated ❤️❤️

liked by bestie_n and 8 475

bestie_n omg dont praise me like that im blushing

username can you ask why henry 8 never made a marriage for mary?

username god i dont even like history that much but fuck are vlogs calming and sweet and pretty af

scuderiaferrari it's been a lovely weekend with charles_leclerc and carlossaiz55! P4 and P7 💪 Here is the first taste of the silverstone photo dump!

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 193 847 others

username CHARLES IN P4 CHARLES IN P4 CHARLES IN P4 I REPEAT CHARLIE CHUCK IS IN P4

landonorris whos that?

carlossainz55 its me landonorris no the pretty one charles_leclerc me? landonorris ew no the PRETTY one charles_leclerc ew? i will drive you to the wall

username not charles threatening to send lando into the wall in the comments

username you just fucking know he'd do it too just ask max

username is lando trying to hook up with the girl in the photo?

yn_phd i put on a little bow so i could be the prettiest girl at the bookstore ❤️today i wrote a page, went on a reading binge about chariot racing in ancient rome, had a breakdown and ate pasta.

liked by bestie_n, carlossainz55 and 11 264 others

username is this the girl @ landonorris

username lando the pretty girl is here

username cmon lando shoot your shot

username i mean he'll miss but its gonna be funny username no one trusts the rizz of this man with a shit beard

bestie_n who is lando? where have you people come from?

carlossainz55 i think this is the girl we were with

carlossainz55 she got lost around the track so we took a photo and got a staff member to help her. she was prettier in real life. good luck mr no rizz you need it username NOT CARLOS COMING FOR LANDO

username LANDO NORRIS

username this is the girl? not really seeing it doesnt feel like landos type you know

landonorris haha okay people lets not do this haha its not that funny it is a bit embarrasing hah (my dms are open for pretty girls always)

alex_albon well youre talented in the car at least

landonorris my dad scolded me for getting drunk on twitter so i went to eat their fridge empty. love being home

liked by carlossainz55, yn_phd and 385 749 others

username is he trying to look extra cute and soft to seduce the pretty girl?

username you just googled boyfriend material and tried your best huh

georgerussel63 i though youd chosen to go with the shirtless gym photos?

alex_albon you sent like fifteen different gym pics to the groupchat and then dont choose even one? fuck our help then i guess landonorris shut up shut up shut up

username i can see the pretty girl in the likes though 👀

yn_phd me and the gang went to a lecture about lord byron's sex life on thursday. i had a pretty cute visitor this weekend and even our lord and king aragorn the cat liked him!!

liked by landonorris, bestie_n and 9 736 others

bestie_n it was a lecture about lord byron's reputation and fame and how it effected the romance genre?

yn_phd exactly!

username are we gonna get an episode about THE george gordon byron please say yes

yn_phd my best pal i will rant about the whole geneva squad

username did lando norris actually do it

username did landonorris attend the lecture too?

landonorris ive never been happier that i chose karting and skipped school

yn_phd i have discovered hidden depths in myself. i can cry about essay structures and then drive bumper cars an hour later

liked by landonorris, alex_albon and 11 379 others

landonorris it was just karting babe they were not bumper cars

yn_phd but i crashed so much? landonorris you were great!! i was so proud!! 🧡

username okay but how does this relationship even work? if she doesnt know anything about racing?

yn_phd i tell him everything about the tudor dynasty and he explains to me how the drs works

landonorris use date night to play uno and see whos more competitive (me, i won)

liked by yn_phd, alex_albon and 385 739 others

yn_phd the way i screamed after you gave me those cards

username lando really be gambling with a new relationship

alex_albon poor girl

georgerussell63 remember when we played uno and lando got a +4 card from all of us and he got a mental breakdown alex_albon yeahh we had to take 10min break cause he left for a drive around the block maxverstappen1 the neighbours made a noise complaint too

yn_phd i got him flowers and later we both crash landed on the bowling alley floor

liked by landonorris, bestie_n and 13 847 others

alex_albon oh so this why you called me crying your tits off

maxverstappen1 he called you too?

landonorris pretty girl🧡🧡

yn_phd pretty guy❤️❤️

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #formula 1 x reader #lando norris insta au #f1 social media au #lando norris imagine

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ginnsbaker · 1 year ago

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Bulletproof (7/10)

Part Summary: “You sacrificed yourself for me,” she ends in a whisper. “I did what?” Knowing you don’t have any family, anyone you’re supposed to care about, the revelation stuns you. Who is Wanda to you?

Chapter word count: 3.1k+ | Tags: Light Angst, Still UST, Still gay, Still sharing a bed, Memory loss

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Next Part | Series Masterlist

You slide the change across the counter, offering a warm smile to the satisfied customer. “Have a nice day!” you call out with practiced cheerfulness.

You let out a sigh; only six more days until it’s Thursday again.

Without looking up, you mechanically go through the motions of preparing the register for the next customer in line.

“I’ll have the vanilla latte, please.”

The voice unmistakably belongs to the one you've been waiting to hear all week. Wanda stands on the other side of the counter, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, looking every bit as nervous as you feel the moment your eyes land on her. Your heart rate quickens, an involuntary response to the sudden nearness of her.

Subconsciously, you open your mouth to greet her, the words, "Hi, Wanda," at the tip of your tongue. But you snap your mouth shut at the last moment, realizing the slip that almost occurred. You know her name, yes, but not because she's told you. Louisa had been the one to fill in that blank.

“Your... vanilla latte will be right up,” you manage to say, mentally kicking yourself for sounding so out of sorts. The news that she was searching for you last night still lingers in your mind. And though every part of you yearns to question Wanda about it, you're uncertain how to broach the topic with someone who's essentially a stranger.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Wanda says, her tongue fleetingly grazing her lip. The sound of her saying your name only intensifies the blush warming your cheeks.

Your hand, as it's done this countless times before, reaches for a cup. Without thinking, without asking, you write ‘Wanda’ on it, surprising even yourself. You pour the milk, steam rising as the frother does its job. A few times, you sneak glances at her, and each time, you find her already looking your way, her gaze unwavering.

Finishing the final touches on her drink, you set it down at the pickup station where Wanda is waiting for it. She steps forward, her fingers brushing yours as she takes the cup. “Thank you, Y/N,” she responds, deliberately emphasizing your name.

As you move on to the next order, you catch Wanda out of the corner of your eye, making her way to her usual spot by the window. It's a table tucked away in a cozy nook that offers a clear view of the counter. You can't help but smile, feeling a warmth of contentment knowing she's there, within reach whenever you want to see her.

Lost in her thoughts, Wanda takes a sip of her latte. It's only when she sets the cup down does she notice the name written on it.

In your handwriting.

How did you know her name? She never let on because she'd signed a legal document that forbade her from telling you anything, unless... unless you remembered something?

She feels her heart rate pick up, and without thinking, she stands up abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over. Taking quick strides, she's in front of the counter faster than she realizes.

“Y/N,” she starts, her voice catching a bit. You feel a blend of confusion and terror all at once.

“Why...Why did you write my name on the cup? Do you re—”

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” Louisa interjects before you can dissolve into a heap of embarrassment on the floor.

Wanda pointedly turns to Louisa, arms crossed in front of her.

Louisa toys with the edge of her apron, her cheeks slightly pink. “Well, it's not like I straight-up told them, but Y/N might've heard your name from me... accidentally.” She gives a small, awkward shrug, trying to dodge Wanda's piercing look.

“Anyway, I've got orders to fulfill,” she adds quickly. Then with a hurried nod, she heads back to her station, leaving you face-to-face with Wanda.

You gulp, struggling to speak up. Your hands feel clammy, and you kind of wish the counter was tall enough to duck behind.

“Why would your colleague tell you my name?” Wanda asks, her tone more curious than accusatory.

Your eyes dart around, looking for an escape, but it's clear Wanda expects an answer. “Um... I might've asked about it,” you admit, trying to sound casual, but failing miserably.

“You wanted to know my name?” Wanda's voice reaches your ears while you keep your focus on the countertop.

You take a deep breath, mustering up some courage. “I hope this doesn't come off too weird, but ever since you first walked in, I've been curious about your name,” you admit, your gaze dropping even further to your shoes. “Okay, that sounded kind of creepy. Sorry about that.”

Wanda blinks in surprise, processing your words. “Oh,” is all she manages to say. Then, without another word, she returns to her seat by the window, leaving you flustered and second-guessing every word you'd just uttered. From behind the counter, you watch her, heart sinking. You watch as she sips her latte, lost in her thoughts, occasionally peering over the rim of her cup, casting glances your way.

Did you just ruin any chance of getting to know her better? It's probably not a great sign she walked out without reacting to you admitting your crush on her.

From her seat, Wanda’s mind races. A part of her is wracked with sadness. Sadness to see no recognition in your eyes still. How could someone forget something that meant so much? And more importantly, why did fate have to play such a cruel hand?

How could you forget her? Someone you risked your life for?

But then, another realization strikes her.

You wanted to know her name—for weeks now, since she started visiting you on Thursdays. Perhaps you don't remember her from your past, but your interest in getting to know her offers Wanda some reprieve. Maybe for now, she has to be content with that.

Maybe there’s no harm in what she wants to happen next. She recalls the countless secrets she’s already kept, the rules she’s broken, and the distances she's traveled just to see you. With Vision’s help, she’s been flying back and forth between states, all the while keeping it from the team. If she’s already breaking a non-disclosure agreement due to your reassignment, what's one more rule?

Taking a deep breath, she stands up, resolve steeling her nerves. She walks up to you with confident strides despite the fluttering anxiety in her chest. “Hey,” she starts, drawing your attention, “When does your shift end?”

You look up, slightly taken aback by her directness. “Um, 8 pm.”

“And after that...?”

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest. Why would she ask? Does she want to... spend more time with you? Before Wanda can make the situation even more awkward with her stammering, you attempt to flirt in the only way you know how, “Planning to kidnap me or something?”

Wanda's cheeks flush a deep shade of crimson, her eyes widening in surprise. “No! I just thought—”

“Oh, I didn't mean to—” you begin, regretting the choice of your playful words.

Wanda, clearly flustered, tries to formulate a coherent response. “I was just—You know, trying to be forward for once and—” She pauses, taking a deep breath, and chuckles at her own awkwardness. “I'm not great at this, am I?”

You grin at her. “Clearly, I’m no better.”

“Do you want to, uh, grab ice cream after your shift?”

“I’d love to,” you reply, your smile growing to match Wanda's. “Meet you later outside?”

Wanda nods, anticipation gleaming in her eyes. “It's a date.”

You spend the last few hours of your shift in a state of giddy excitement, frequently glancing at the clock, eager for the end of your shift. Each time the bell above the door chimes, you hope it's Wanda entering. By 7:45, you're already tidying up and getting ready to leave.

8pm arrives and with a quick farewell to Louisa, you push open the door to the café, the cool evening air wrapping around you.

Just as you step onto the pavement, there's an unexpected, sharp tug on your arm, pulling you into a dark alley.

“Hey!” you shout.

Fear courses through you, and you struggle, trying to break free. Just as one of the abductors attempts to cover your mouth with a cloth, a red blur races toward them. The abductors are thrown off their feet, their bodies slamming into the nearby wall. It happens so quickly that it's almost a blur.

But when the dust settles, standing protectively in front of you is Wanda.

“You okay?” she asks, her tone devoid of the commanding presence she displayed earlier.

You nod, but the shock has rendered you speechless.

As you try to gather your bearings, Wanda wraps an arm around you, guiding you away from the scene. “It's not safe. We need to get out of here.”

You're both a few blocks away when you finally find your voice. “What was that? Why did they... and you? What did you do?”

She stops, turning to face you, her features softening. “I didn't want to get you involved. Not like this,” she says.

“Involved in what? What's happening?” you demand.

Wanda looks down, taking a step back. “Do you trust me?”

“I... I don't know,” you say, trying to reconcile the kind woman you've grown fond of with the apparent superhero who had just saved you.

Wanda sighs, taking your hand gently. “There's a lot you don't remember. About us, about you. It's safer for everyone if you don't, but now... it seems you're in danger regardless.”

“You're scaring me,” you whisper, holding her hand loosely.

She looks at you with pained eyes. “I promise I'll explain everything. But right now, we need to go somewhere safe.”

“My apartment. We can—”

“Absolutely not,” Wanda cuts you off sharply. “If they know where you work, they probably know where you live. They'll be waiting.”

The thought of strangers lurking in your home, waiting to ambush you, sends a shiver down your spine. "Then where?" you ask, feeling vulnerable and exposed out in the open.

“There's a place,” Wanda says. “Somewhere they won't think to look.”

She leads you through winding streets, and eventually, you find yourself at a seemingly abandoned building. Wanda carefully approaches a hidden entrance, pushing open a concealed door.

Inside, it doesn’t feel abandoned at all. The walls are lined with bookshelves, filled with titles from all genres. There's a quaint kitchenette in one corner, and a cozy living area with plush sofas and a fireplace in another. A few framed photos adorn the walls, though turned face-down so you can't quite see who's in them.

“This is...unexpected,” you comment, looking around the transformed space. “Is this where you live?”

Wanda chuckles softly, “No, I live at the Avengers compound. But Vision helped me set this place up... for emergencies.”

“For emergencies?” you echo, your eyebrows knitting together. “Like being attacked outside coffee shops?”

Wanda looks away. It doesn’t matter that you don’t remember anything. You’re still so naturally gifted at figuring her out.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But also... I was thinking about making this place a sort of... second home,” Wanda says.

You tilt your head, puzzled. “Why would you need a second home in North Carolina when you live in New York?”

She looks around the place, seemingly avoiding your gaze. But then, she turns to face you, sincerity in her eyes, “To be close to you.”

It suddenly clicks—she's been planning, making moves, all for you. As much as you'd love to revel in the fact that Wanda feels the same way, knowing she's been watching and even got a place nearby just to be close... Well, it's a lot to wrap your head around.

To say it's overwhelming is putting it mildly.

You’re not sure what to feel about these myriad of revelations. What you do feel strongly is that Wanda doesn't come across as a stalker with harmful intentions (even though saying any stalker has good intentions is a stretch).

“Look,” you say, leaning against a wall as your legs feel like they might give out. “I need to understand. Why all this? Why not just approach me or talk to me instead of... this?” You gesture around the apartment.

Wanda runs a hand through her hair, looking genuinely troubled. “It's not as straightforward as you think. Given who I am, my past, my abilities... There are dangers, complexities. And I wanted to protect you.”

“From what?” you question, your frustration steadily growing. “From you?”

“From the likes of me,” she whispers.

You take a moment, letting her words sink in. “So, all those Thursdays, at the coffee shop... you weren’t just stopping by for coffee. You were... watching me?”

Wanda sighs heavily. There’s no point in lying to you now.

“I knew where they had relocated you after you lost your memories and your powers,” she says.

“Relocated? Powers?” The words swirl in your head, conflicting with everything you thought you knew about yourself. Part of you half-expects someone to jump out and reveal this is all an elaborate prank, because how can any of this be real?

She nods slowly. “You were an Avenger, Y/N. Just like me. We fought together. We... were close. And after the incident, they moved you to keep you safe. But I needed to be sure. I needed to see for myself.”

You attempt to sift through the influx of new information, attempting to grasp each piece individually.

“How did I lose my powers?” you ask.

Wanda’s eyes meet yours, and you’re not ready for the vulnerability displayed in them.

“You lost your powers because you saved me,” Wanda says. Before you can even question her, she delves into the account of the attack at the compound, of finding her beneath the rubble, on the brink of death. You'd pulled the steel impaling her, using every ounce of your strength to mend her wounds and keep her alive. Once impervious to bullets, your depleted energy left you exposed.

In Wanda's eyes, it was all her fault.

“You sacrificed yourself for me,” she ends in a whisper.

“I did what?” Knowing you don’t have any family, anyone you’re supposed to care about, the revelation stuns you.

Who is Wanda to you?

Wanda swallows hard. “Your powers, Y/N, are linked to your emotions, to your very soul. And when you saw me in that state, you poured every bit of your energy, your very essence, into saving me. You brought me back from the brink, but in doing so, you lost everything that makes you... you.”

Your pulse quickens, snatches of memories pushing to the forefront: the tang of smoke, chaos everywhere, the gut-wrenching sight of Wanda, still and lifeless, and that burning urge to rescue her. It's like a fog's lifting, but everything's still a bit blurry.

“Why don’t I remember any of this?” you say under your breath, your hands balling into fists.

“There were complications. They said the exertion, combined with the traumatic event, caused a severe memory block,” Wanda murmurs. “We—we tried everything to bring your memories back. But nothing worked. And then they decided... it was safer to relocate you. To give you a normal life away from all the dangers that come with being an Avenger.”

“Who's 'they'? I can't even—” You stop mid-sentence, feeling a sharp headache building as Wanda's words start to sink in.

Wanda quickly moves closer, her hands reaching out to steady you. “Easy,” she murmurs gently. She pulls you into a nearby chair and kneels before you. “I'm sorry, this is a lot to take in all at once.”

You take a few deep breaths, trying to stave off the dizziness. “I just... I don’t remember any of it. Any of this.”

Wanda’s gaze drops guiltily. “And for that, I’m so sorry. I wish you never had to go through any of it.”

After a brief pause, she adds, “You should get some rest. It's been one hell of a day.”

Guiding you gently by the arm, Wanda leads you to the adjoining room. As you step inside, you notice the room’s simplicity: a wardrobe, a bedside table, and a single bed positioned under a window. Your eyes dart between the bed and Wanda, and you mumble, “I can take the couch.”

Wanda shakes her head, dismissing the idea, “Nonsense. You'll take the bed.”

“That's not fair. I can't take your bed,” you argue, your eyes fixed on the plush pillows and blankets.

She smiles, feeling a sense of déjà vu from the first time she took you to her room. “I'll sleep on the floor.”

“No way,” you retort. “If anyone's sleeping on the floor, it's me.”

Wanda sighs and then says, “Look, the bed's big enough for both of us. It's not like we haven't shared a bed before…”

You blink, taken aback. Another missing memory? You ponder for a moment, then give a reluctant nod. “Alright, but only if you're sure.”

Wanda grins, the edges of her lips curling up sweetly. “I am.”

She then moves to a small closet and pulls out a shirt and some sleep shorts. “Here,” she hands them to you, “they should fit.”

You thank her, examining the clothes. They look comfortable enough. Both of you stand awkwardly for a moment before you break the silence. “Shall we...?”

Wanda nods, and with a quiet agreement, both of you turn around, ensuring your backs are to each other as you change. After that, you both move to opposite sides of the bed. Before lying down, you grab a pillow and place it squarely in the middle, creating a clear boundary.

Wanda glances at the pillow barrier, a smirk playing on her lips. “Seriously?” she says with a playful lilt.

“What?” you shoot back, a bit defensive.

Her fingers tracing the edge of one of the pillows. “We used to do this, you know,” she explains vaguely.

“What?”

“We had a pillow barrier for a short time in the past. It didn't last long, but…” Wanda trails off, feeling a little silly for bringing up a memory that you clearly don’t recognize at all.

Sensing her despondency, you urge her to tell you more. “Why didn’t it last long?”

Wanda dares to meet your eyes in the darkness. “We became closer, in every way. The pillow just... became unnecessary.”

You nod slowly, processing her words. Even though you can't recall the memory, you can sense the significance of it to Wanda.

“Well, for tonight, the pillow stays,” you murmur.

She nods, her eyes misty. “Of course. Tonight, it stays.”

Both of you turn away, but just being near each other brings a sense of peace. Given everything that's happened today, it's surprising how quickly the two of you are pulled into a deep slumber.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #captain america civil war #the avengers #vision

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writingshushf1 · 2 years ago

Text

Does your mother know?

Summary: "Now you're so cute, I like your style And I know what you mean when you give me a flash of that smile"

When a new Ferrari driver crosses paths with the one and only Sebastian Vettel.

Rating: +18

Warnings: shameless smut, age gap, grief/mourning, slight mdom vibes, y/n being a brat, oral (f and m receiving), p in v (wrap it before you tap it!!!)

Word count: 4.8k

Note: more filthy fiction w/ seb! they have a 8/10 year age gap, if that bothers you- don’t read!

masterlist

There's that look in your eyes I can read in your face that your feelings are driving you wild Ah, but girl, you're only a child

You were the new Ferrari driver. That was amazing, you weren't the first AFAB racing, yet the only one to get in a position as high as that, in a top team. Charles Leclerc was your teammate and you knew him before, you were good friends, you often went out with him and his younger brother, who was closer to your age. The pre-season tests in Bahrain happened, but you didn't talk to the other drivers, more out of insecurity and fear of someone judging you, you preferred to stay in your corner, studying about the car and its possibilities.

Thursday and the day went very well, just press conference day. You saw some drivers, said hello and introduced yourself, but nothing too big, because the focus was different.

Friday was the day. Free practice to test how ready the car was for your style of racing. You arrived early and had lunch alone at the Ferrari hospitality, waiting for the weather to get milder so you could do the paddock walk. When you decided to go, you found Sebastian Vettel doing the same, alone; as soon as he saw you, he started to slow down to keep the same pace. Initially, you preferred to stay silent, you didn't want to bother him anyway - and as you consider yourself an annoying person in general, it would be better to keep your mouth shut anyway. He probably noticed your insecurity-and in a way, fear-of starting a conversation, so he decided to start it.

"Welcome to Formula 1." He smiled and you couldn't deny it, he had his charm. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I hope it was only the good stuff."

"Of course, the newest Scuderia Ferrari driver, who has had an impressive year in Formula 2 and clearly a great contender to take the lead away from the Red Bulls. As well as being the youngest female driver to win that position."

"I'm not that young."

"But you're younger than me, that's for sure." He chuckled low, patting her on the shoulder twice.

"Like you're that old."

"Death is already knocking on my door." You couldn't hold back your laugh and he discreetly paid attention to your reaction, smiling. "Anyway, how are your expectations for the weekend?"

"Great. I hope... Actually, I will get on the podium on Sunday."

"Ambitious, that's what I find amazing about you younger drivers."

"Like you were not the same in your Red Bull days."

"So I've got a fan?" The suggestive tone in Sebastian's voice at that moment didn't arouse anything in you, in your opinion, he was just joining in the fun.

"How could I not? I always saw you as a role model. Especially with your more recent community work.... In fact, if you need someone one day, I'm a person who has a pretty free schedule."

"I'd love to. Mick usually joins me too. Have you met him? You two would become good friends."

"He was from the Ferrari academy, obviously! It's years since I've seen him properly."

You may have understood a pretext that he wanted to set you up with the younger Schumacher, but preferred to ignore - well, that wasn’t actually the case for the moment, he just treated the younger boy as one of his kids. You said your goodbyes, as soon began what you had been waiting for all day.

Practice had been great, the car was living up to your expectations, so the podium you were counting on would come out on Sunday and you could prove to everyone who doubted your ability that yes, you deserved to be among the best. You were radiant, the team director even asked if there was something wrong, since most of the time you remained serious, without smiles and ready to kill someone if necessary; it was as if you could be who you always wanted to be, it was a hard way and the criticism would never stop, but nothing could take away what you were feeling. Going back to your motorhome - since you preferred to spend the weekend there and not in a decent hotel - you saw Vettel walking with his head down, taking his bike and leaving; you thought about saying hello, but he didn't seem to be in a good mood and maybe he wanted to be without anyone in his ears babbling about random things

Meanwhile, on the way back to the hotel, the German's mind could only think of one thing: Ferrari's new driver. Sebastian was conflicted by the conversation with you during the walk, it was strange for him, seeing such a beautiful person and feeling that buzz in his stomach, something he hadn't felt for months. Since Hanna died , he had completely shut down; just thinking about her brought tears to his eyes, because it was hard to live alone after spending since your teenage years by the side of someone you loved, a person who built a family - that now, he juggled between leaving the kids with her family and yours, trying to see them whenever you had a break from racing and that action made you feel guilty, of them not having their father there when they needed him the most. The grief had consumed his body, the first months the only thing that got him out of bed were the race weekends, but with each defeat, his mind weighed more and more; months later, he finally decided to start therapy, he needed to be getting better mentally, he couldn't stay in this situation forever, for the kids, for the team and for everyone that counted on him; and it helped a little, the depression was easier to deal with, the days were lighter, even though the feeling was there. Even though the beaming smile was back around the Paddock and his volunteering to help the environment was back in full swing, it still wasn't enough to make him optimistic about living, even though two years had passed since the whole tragedy and sometimes Hanna's voice came in his head, telling him to move on. For that reason, seeing you walking beside him, smiling and being interested left him with this strange feeling, of a piece of the puzzle finally being found again. He quickly cleared that thought away, it wasn't what he was thinking at all, it was just a happiness to see a person like you on the track - and even if it was a little flare of romance, you were too young for him.

This grief stage wasn’t over, of course, even though he was in the last step: acceptance, although it still hurt deep in his heart and because of it, for a while he hadn’t made the best decisions for his life, however, that stayed only with him. Vettel didn’t open up about it with anyone for a while, friends would come and talk to him, but they only received nods and “I’m fine” type of responses, until the first anniversary of her death, during a Saturday post qualy, where he broke down during an interview and Mick took him back to his driver’s room, on that afternoon he blurted all his feelings out, all the shit he had done during this period, only for two people, Mick and Lewis. Nowadays, he still wasn’t 100% back on his feet again, however, he was trying his best and maybe, the new rookie had something to do with this new motivation.

…..................................................

Your first race was a success, as hard as it was, p3 came with a taste of victory. That night you chose not to go out and celebrate, you were too tired, because something they didn't tell you before was how the car would suck your energy - it was different to what you were used to in Formula 2.

The weeks and your next races were going well, lots of podiums and scoring zones, but still no wins. The situation of not having any wins yet was driving you crazy, no matter how flawless your performance was, the media was starting to get on your nerves with harsh criticism and you hated to admit it, but it annoyed you having to listen to this negativity while other drivers with cars with equal or better machinery than yours who are still winless were getting nothing but praise. The highlight of the week was on Saturday, after an accident during qualifying, you were in Q3 and ready to take your first pole position, but due to Norris braking hard during an 'S' corner in front of you, there was no time to slow down, your car hit the back of the number 4 McLaren, bringing both of them off track and subsequently causing your current times to be deleted and a red flag. You were angry with him and were ready to cuss him out, however after a rather lengthy conversation while your cars returned to the pits, he acknowledged his mistake and you worked it out; even though he admitted it in the post qualifying interviews, there were still allegations and questions about the possible crash being your fault, which made you so angry that he ended the interviews earlier than the others.

On Sunday, even if you started P9, you would do your best to win at Imola, it was a question of honour. You changed strategies with your team, talked to everyone and tried to be as assertive as possible, you knew that they had the ability to make this win happen. Nervousness was running inside you, it seemed that the world would end as soon as the lights turned off. The race was fine, already at the start you had already got p5, the tyre changes were in the time that you had stipulated with the team of what would be better and could hold the others until the end. In the last two laps you were less than a second behind first place, which at the moment was Max, and you wouldn't hesitate to pass him no matter what. Seconds before you crossed the win line, you accelerated the car harder than before, hearing the engine squelching, however it wasn't the moment to stop, not until you passed him; that's what happened, seeing the chequered flag in front of everyone else.

"P1, you are p1." Your response was just to shout back, he was very happy and didn't know what to say.

"P1 piccolina ! You did it." You heard your engineer say on the radio.

"And Charles?" Your voice was still euphoric, you wanted to know where your teammate was standing too.

“P3.”

The interviewers this time were kinder, with several people stopping you and congratulating you on the flawless race you had run. This time you deserved quite a party.

In these weeks you got closer to Vettel, he became a great friend and mentor. You admired him a lot, because he was always a great example and to be able to call him a friend was a privilege, so you didn't hesitate to go and bother him after the race, knocking on the door of his motor home - you knew that he hadn't gone back to the hotel yet, as he always warned you and offered you company on the way back.

"What's up?" his tone of voice was not the most welcoming, maybe he wanted to be alone, however the moment he opened the door and saw it was you, his expression lightened. "Oh, hi. What are you doing here? Do you need anything?"

"Um... So, I won the race..."

"I know... I gave you a hug right after." He cracked a smile, a little confused by the situation.

"Me and a few other drivers... Almost all of them actually, we're going out tonight, it's a nightclub.... I know it's not your style, but it's a celebration and I'd love for you to go." Your face was turning red, it was such a simple request, but you wanted to hide because of sudden shyness. "We reserved some tables near the smaller dance floor, because not everyone is a fan of dancing."

"Do I really need to?" He whined, grimacing and leaning against the stopper.

"Please... Make that sacrifice for me." You gave him the puppy dog look.

He looked at you for a few seconds, wondering whether or not it was really worth it to hang out with several young pilots in a nightclub. "Okay. For you, I'll go." He snapped, sighing loudly, and you gave the German a hug, squealing loudly.

"I'll give you the address! Wear something cool and that doesn't make you look like a middle-aged school teacher."

"Hey! That's an insult against my style."

It was almost 10 o'clock at night, you had just put on your high heels, finally ready; Charles was texting you five times a second, telling you to hurry or he would go alone and you would miss your ride.

When you arrived at the nightclub, you went quickly to the group where the other pilots were, greeting them and drinking your first shot of tequila to open the night properly. Half an hour later, from far away you saw curly blond hair entering the place and at the same moment you knew who it was: Sebastian; he arrived shyly, saying hello to everyone, getting close to you, who gave him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. You noticed that he took your advice about the outfit, this time wearing light brown jeans, a white tank top with a larger dark green short-sleeved button-up shirt and some black sneakers, but what took your breath away was his hair up in a loose bun with a few strands falling off. Maybe you checked him vigorously, but you could blame the alcohol.

"You're not sober." He commented, discreetly checking your look.

"And you won't be either," And then you handed him a bottle of beer - because you knew he liked it.

Sebastian felt guilty that he was checking your body every five minutes, a conscious voice in his head screamed that you were too young for him, too innocent - I mean, not so innocent, but that made him even more curious. His thoughts were dissipated when he saw you turning a shot of some coloured liquid, paying more attention on what you were going to do or react, his protective instinct was above the desire of wanting you; he didn't comment anything, just watched, disassociating a little bit of reality, having again that little voice that he didn't fit with the others there, that he was too old for this generation.

A few more shots and drinks in, your body already felt lighter. You were chatting with Gasly and Ricciardo, until they came up with the idea of everyone hitting the dance floor - even if most of them weren't the best dancers or didn’t like to, however, when all of them are at least tipsy, they don’t even think before abandoning the tables to go. Vettel hesitated to go with them, so you patted Daniel on the back and said you would be dancing in a few minutes.

“Hey… Don’t you wanna go with us?” You put your hand on his shoulder, looking at him.

“I don’t feel like dancing.” He didn’t look back at you, something was wrong.

“Is something bothering you? You can go if you’re not feeling good here.” Maybe it was the drunk you, but you placed your hand in his neck, making him look at you. “I’m not gonna be upset if you leave. We talked, drinked and it’s okay if you want to go.”

He was hesitating, he didn't know whether to leave or stay there, moments like that were hard; Sebastian was never someone so social, of course in his Red Bull years he partied a lot, but it was never his favourite thing to do. The German looked around and then deposited his eyes on you, still conflicted with all his thoughts running through his head. His biggest dilemma at the moment was about the Ferrari driver, whether he would stay for her, dance along and have fun, finally let go and be able to live a little, move on, on the other hand, this feeling of leaving the past behind was overwhelming. He stood for a few more seconds thinking, while you waited; "what could possibly go wrong?", "what am I being so afraid of?", "why couldn't I make out a little?" , then he sighed low, grabbed another bottle of beer and cracked a smile.

"Let's go to the dance floor." He held her hand. "I can't keep living like this."

"Like what?" Tu asked, not sure what exactly he was talking about.

"Grieving." You didn't know how to answer, for a moment you had forgotten he was a widower, so you just guided him into the huddle of people, squeezing his hand.

You started to dance, letting your body free, it was nice to be able to move to the beat without someone being able to judge you. Daniel came over with two shots of vodka for you, you drank them both quickly and giggled quietly, watching him do the same. This time, the drink hit a little harder, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol more and more. As a result, your movements were dirtier, rolling your hips on your own while your friends were glued to unknown girls or dancing shamefully while drinking. Meanwhile Vettel was trying to dance with the younger drivers, but he felt out of place, he wasn't as young as them anymore, so after a while he started to walk past people to walk back to the table, but he caught your eye first.

"Stay dancing here with me." You held his arm, pulling him closer.

"Are you sure? Because… I can see what you want, but you seem pretty young to be searching for that kind of fun… So maybe I'm not the one to be dancing, call Mick or Charles.

“Stop with this no sense!” You blurted the words, laughing. “Just follow the rhythm, look."

Chloe's song 'Have mercy' started playing and you cracked a smile, starting to move your body slowly, maybe you weren't noticing, but it was in a sexy way that turned Sebastian red, looking sideways until you put your arms around his neck, catching his attention.

"Keep moving with me." He placed his hands on your waist, slowly getting more into the rhythm.

You both forgot about the world around you, dancing just for each other, with your bodies glued together and embarrassed smiles as you tried to keep in rhythm until the song ended. He pulled away a little, brushing a few strands of hair out of his face. “Montero” by Lil Nas X started playing and you cracked a big smile, turning your back to him and letting the older pilot's hands on your waist, rolling your hips against him. It took a few instants before he understood and got into the rhythm, loosening up and starting to have fun with you.

“Does your mother know you dance to older men like that?” He whispered, travelling his hands around your body.

What had happened after, was that you had spent it together, drinking even more and dancing more overtly, which the others noticed-especially Daniel and Charles, who were closer to you, but they would let the matter die. The point of leaving was when the blonde was really wanting to kiss you, but the last shred of notion he had showed.

"Let's go to the hotel." He muttered, with his accent stronger than usual.

You didn't even say goodbye to anyone, you just hailed a taxi and went to his hotel, arriving there and making sure no one saw you together. When you entered the room, he quickly locked the door and came close to you, passing his hands around your waist.

"I hope I didn't get the wrong signals." He then brought your face closer against his, initiating a sloppy kiss that you reciprocated at the same moment, slipping your arms around his shoulders and your hands stopping at his neck, caressing the spot. His tongue was already going against yours in a desperate rhythm, like he waited all night to be with you; when you broke it off to breathe, you looked at him, worried.

“Is it okay? To be kissing… I know you…” You started, but he put his finger on your lips.

“It’s okay… Let’s focus on us.”

So you kissed him again, this time with more urgency than before, allowing yourself to run your hands down his back, gripping the fabric of his button-down shirt. He broke the kiss this time, looking into your face for a few seconds, admiring you, before he started trailing kisses from the back of your ear to the collar of your dress, sucking and licking a few specific spots, which made you whimper with pleasure.

"Can I continue?" He asked as he touched the zip of your dress.

"You don't have to be so gentle, Seb."

"But you deserve it."

"And I say... You can be rough with me, I know you like it." You cracked a smile, disentangling yourself from him and sitting on the bed.

He looked at her for a few seconds, biting his lower lip before he started to move closer, standing between your legs.

“Oh… Since you like to be dominated…” His face got closer to yours where you could smell his breath, but didn’t kiss you. “Strip for me. Now.” He backed off, crossing his arms.

So this was a game and you would follow his rules, with a little bit of a twist. Slowly, you started taking away your high heels, then your panties that you put in his trouser pocket, with only a part of the red lace sticking out and finally you took your red lace bra off, putting it on the ground. Now, you were only wearing your tight black dress with your legs a little bit open while you waited for his response.

“The dress.”

“I want to keep it on.”

“I don’t remember you being in charge.” He whispered, holding your face with one hand. However, when he saw you like that, his body liked it for sure. “You can keep it on, but don’t disobey me again, okay baby?” You nodded.

He started to kiss your neck again, being rougher than before, biting and leaving marks you would regret in the next morning. Meanwhile, his hands were travelling around your body until they stayed at your breasts, pulling down the fabric just for them to pop out; Vettel looked a few seconds at your boobs, before starting to suck one and pinching the other nipple harshly. You moaned his name repeatedly, feeling your core dripping wet from the attention he gave to both of your breasts. Suddenly he stopped, earning a whine from you.

“Wait up, baby…” He backed off, getting on his knees on the floor - you never thought a man could look this hot on their knees.

He opened your legs, starting to kiss every single inch of your thighs in a provocative way and you just whined in the process, because you wanted him tasting you. “What?” He stopped, looking at you, the vision of a messy haired Vettel between your legs made you moan and throw your head back. “I need you to use your words.” As much as you wanted to say, nothing would come out, it was overwhelmingly good to just have that moment. “Lieb, use your words, I’m not going to say again.”

“I want you to taste me.” He looked at you, cracking up a smile.

Then he lowered his head again, leaving a few more kisses, especially on top of your core. The German’s tongue started to move around your clit, moving it in a tortuous pacing so you could feel every move of his; at the beginning you were already chanting his name, putting a hand on top of his head, holding his golden curls around your fingers. Unexpectedly he put two fingers inside you, moving in a quicker rhythm and curling the tips just a little bit, hitting that sweet spot of yours. What made you orgasm for the first time was that besides his fingers working it up inside you, he started to suck gently your clit - you were moaning incoherent words when you hit your climax. Looking at him when he lifted his face towards you with a smile, licking his lips made you let out a wimp, quickly pulling him up and you getting on your knees.

You kept looking at him while you undid his belt and pulled his trousers to the floor, however, his hard-looking dick with leaking pre-cum inside his boxers called more your attention. Slowly, you reached the bar of his underwear, pulling it down and seeing it; you looked up at him before he nodded so you could do what you wanted for a while. You let your tongue pass through his tip, focusing a bit on there, hearing him hold back moan. In one go, you had put his dick in your mouth, feeling it hit your throat, starting it to quickly bob up and down, finally hearing him groaning in pleasure. His hand reached your hair, guiding your head to go slower than you were. “I won’t last long… You’re too good for me.”

You pulled back, looking at him. “Then I want you to finish inside me.”

He smiled at your cockiness, taking the rest of his outfit and laying you on the bed, while he grabbed the condom and the lube.

“Do we have to use it?” You whined.

“Maybe next time we don’t.” He whispered, covering two fingers in lube and pushing them inside you. Him inside you like that made you whimper, looking at him.

“Please, just fuck me.”

“Patience, honey… I don’t want you to feel pain.”

He quickly slid on the condom and spread your legs to his sides, now getting even closer and placing his hands on your sides.

“Ready?”

You nodded, then he adjusted his dick in your entrance, moving in slowly until all of him was inside of you. Sebastian left little kisses up your neck when he saw you closing your eyes, trying to get used to the feeling, only starting to move when you gave him the signal to.

Your walls were clenching around him as he started to pick up his pace, going faster every thrust - this was near pornographic, you were both moaning each others name, fixing your gaze on each other. You could feel every single inch of him inside you going and your climax getting closer, letting your moans even louder - if that was possible. Then Vettel lowered one of his hands, starting to do circles around your clit with two fingers, which made you come for the second time of the night. The blonde wasn’t that far from reaching his either, his thrusts were more erratic and soon he groaned your name close to your ear, laying on top of you.

“That was… Wow.” You whispered, running your fingers along his back.

“Yeah, wow.” He kissed your cheek, slowly disconnecting both of your bodies, which made both of you groan with the sensation. He took off the condom, throwing away “Let’s take a shower before we go to sleep.”

“How clever, staying the night.” You got up, wrapping your arms around him.

After you took a warm shower together - that could have been shorter if you didn’t kept kissing and caressing each other, you two laid on his bed. You were wearing one of his old Ferrari t-shirts and he was only in his boxers, drinking wine - that he already had, from the bottle.

“I always had a crush on you…” You whispered, trailing his abdomen with your fingers. “Teenage me would be very happy, especially that she used to shamefully read smut about you on the internet.”

“Oh, wow… So I have always been your target?” He joked, running his hand up and down your thigh.

“Don’t say it like that! It’s just… You’re too hot to not check out.”

“So I’m winning from younger drivers, with more energy to keep you up all night?” He was still being playful, grabbing your ass and squeezing it.

“Well… You just fucked me and looks like would go for a second round.” You lowered your hand to his boxers. “Besides, I like more mature men, who know how to make me feel good.”

He was at a loss of words, your words had left him red in the face and his classic smile. He placed the wine on the bedside table and pulled your body up, starting to kiss you again.

That night, you still did it two more times, enjoying every second together.

Maybe it was wrong and you would regret in the morning everything you had done together, especially for your reputations within the sport, but that moment was about enjoying what life had to offer you.

#sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel fanfic #sebastian vettel imagine #sebastian vettel one shot #sebastian vettel smut #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 one shot #f1 fanfiction

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midnightcrw · 1 year ago

Text

Mission

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader

Summary: On a mission with Simon while the TF141 looks after Daisy (Simon and your daughter)

Warning: Smut, Fingering (though it's not very long)

a/n: Did I just finish writing this in class? Yes, I did. This is probably the longest piece I have written in a while. I'm not entirely satisfied with some aspects of it, but hopefully, you'll all like it. There is also a mention of another piece I wrote on Thursday, in this one

"I can't believe we're doing this," you mumbled under your breath, not thrilled about the situation at hand. It's not that partnering with Simon on a mission bothered you; it's the whole pretending-to-be-someone-else deal. Luckily, being married to Simon was the only genuine part.

Simon's expression mirrored your sentiments; he wasn't thrilled about the mission either. Home with you and Daisy, enjoying a movie, sounded way better than being here. Ever since Price pitched the idea (thanks to Soap planting the seed), Simon's face maintained a constant frown, adding to his already intimidating aura.

"Look at your mom and dad, Daisy," Soap chirped through the earpiece, his cheerful tone cutting through the tension. Clearly, Soap's ulterior motive was getting you two on the mission, leaving him more time with Daisy—especially considering the fact that he, Price, and Gaz burned down most of your house.

After all, you'd decided a week ago that they wouldn't be visiting Daisy after the recent incident. Yet, here they were—Price, Soap, and Gaz—squeezed into the cozy van. You and Simon, on the other hand, were decked out in your finest attire, ready to infiltrate a ball where you had to play the roles of affluent snobs.

The biting cold outside did little to improve the situation, but once inside, the warmth gradually enveloped you. The opulent decorations of some wealthy bastard's 'home' caught your attention, if one could even call it that.

Entering the venue proved surprisingly simple, thanks to Laswell's good work on your fake identities. At least, there was someone reliable to count on while the trio fawned over Daisy.

"I can't believe it either," Simon whispered, his arm securely wrapped around your waist, unwilling to let you out of his sight. Your husband, though impeccably dressed and handsome, exuded an unmistakable discomfort about the entire affair.

Playfully teasing him, you touched the hand wrapped around your waist, gazing at him with affection. "You look good, don't worry."

Simon rolled his eyes, confident in his appearance. His concern lay elsewhere, irritated by the lingering gazes directed at you, as if you weren't already claimed.

Choosing not to engage in your banter, he retaliated with a gentle pinch on your waist, evoking a gasp before you playfully pushed him. Looking down at you, a subtle smirk played on his lips. "Behave," he said, causing your heart rate to quicken.

Despite being accustomed to his antics, it still stirred an emotion within you – an emotion only your Simon could evoke.

Your eyes roamed the polished surroundings, every detail meticulously in place. A grand chandelier adorned the center of the room, its crystals glistening in the radiant light.

The crowd, dressed impeccably, momentarily making you insecure about your own attire, despite knowing it was far from the truth. Lingering eyes turned your way, a subtle awareness settling in.

Simon and you strolled, exploring the opulent venue and stumbling upon a grand staircase. However, the stairs could wait; first, you needed to blend into the ball and find the opportune moment for distraction.

Through the earpiece, multiple voices echoed, dominated by Daisy's delightful coos and giggles. The urge to express your adoration almost escaped you, as Simon's hushing finger pressed to your lips.

"But Simon, she's so cute," you protested as Simon pulled you abruptly flush against his chest. Knowing that he had to shut you up somehow, and making sudden decisions always seemed to work well on you.

"I know, she's cute, but we're on a mission," he exclaimed, leaning down to press a kiss on your temple. You sighed, resting your forehead on his chest.

Daisy, only a year old, had never been far from your side, making it tough to focus without worrying, despite trusting Soap, Gaz and Price.

"I'm sorry," you apologized, feeling a twinge of guilt. Simon, all seriousness, maintained focus while you struggled to compose yourself.

"No need to apologize, love. It won't take long, I promise," he reassured in a soothing tone, his embrace bringing a momentary calm.

Tilting your head, you locked eyes with him. The softening of his gaze revealed a side reserved just for you and you leaned in for a kiss, a sudden interruption made both of you pull away in surprise.

"Is everything alright?" The man, around his forties, in a well-put-together white suit and a black tie, asked. His black hair had a few distinguished white strands, adding to his attractive appearance—a face you found oddly familiar.

Before you could place him, Gaz's voice chimed in through the earpiece, "That's Robert Harris."

Robert Harris, the man whose 'home' you were infiltrating, stood as the alleged cause behind multiple soldier disappearances and stolen weapons, cleverly concealed behind the mask of a successful CEO.

"Everything's alright, Mr. Harris," you replied, offering a smile to downplay any suspicion. "Just call me Robert. And you must be?" he inquired, returning the smile, his gaze focused on you, seemingly oblivious to Simon's presence or deliberately avoiding eye contact.

You slipped your hand into Simon's, drawing him closer as you smoothly introduced yourselves with the fabricated names designed for this mission.

As your fingers intertwined with Simon's, Robert's gaze shifted to your husband, and his expression hinted at displeasure. Sensing the tension, your grip on Simon's hand tightened. Having looked through Robert's file, you knew he wasn't exactly the most loyal husband in his marriage—an aggressive man unburdened by consequences.

Sensing your distress, Simon entered the conversation. "A few guests mentioned your recent endeavors. What's your newest project, if I may ask?" Uncharacteristically wordy for Simon, but for you, he'd go the extra mile.

As Robert engaged in the discussion, you seized the opportunity to ask about the restroom. "Up the stairs, first door to your left, darling," Robert said, letting his eyes linger a little longer on you as if he was mentally undressing you while putting an emphasis on the 'darling'.

Nodding, you made your way upstairs, leaving Simon alone with Harris. The uneasy feeling that settled in when Robert approached lingered, taken by the realization that Simon couldn't watch your back for the moment.

The moment the word 'darling' slipped from Robert's mouth, Simon's jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists. It wasn't the term itself that bothered him, but the deliberate intent behind it, as if Robert aimed to provoke him.

Simon, consumed by a simmering anger, barely registered the details of the project Robert was discussing. "You have a beautiful wife," Harris stated with a smug voice, an infuriating smirk accompanying his words.

Before Simon could retort, Harris continued, "I'm sure having a wife like her never gets boring." That remark struck a nerve, sparking Simon's irritation.

"Damn," Gaz uttered with a shocked tone, earning a smack on the back of his head from Price. "Not in front of Daisy!"

"Simon is probably going to kill him," Soap exclaimed, drawing a giggle from Daisy. "You definitely are Simon's daughter."

Having finished washing your hands, Laswell's voice echoed, "His office is at the end of the corridor, and for now, the way is clear."

With Laswell's guidance, you swiftly headed outside, walking briskly towards the indicated door. Left to your own devices, you might have been lost, grateful for the assistance.

Standing before the door, you braced for it to be locked. To your surprise, the handle turned easily. "He's not only sleazy but also dumb," you mumbled as you entered.

"I agree," Gaz chimed in, offering support for your opinion on Robert, bringing a small smile to your face. The room, akin to the rest of the ball's elegance, was well-organized and pristine.

Moving around the desk, you delved into the drawers, recognizing this task might take a while with numerous files and papers that didn't stand out at first glance.

"Fucking finally," Simon breathed out in relief as Robert disappeared from sight. He was just about to lodge a knife into either Robert's throat or his own, depending on his mood. Fortunately, for Robert, the guests took the man away before Simon could do something he could enjoy regret.

Having monitored your conversations through the earpiece as he ascended the stairs, Simon was visibly pleased to find you unharmed inside the office.

"I would have thrown a knife at you if Laswell hadn't warned me," you quipped, your husband approaching you behind the desk.

"Maybe I would have liked that," Simon whispered, dangerously close to your body, trapping you between himself and the desk.

"Not now," you warned, despite the craving to feel his touch. Ignoring your caution, Simon wrapped his arms around your waist, planting kisses on your neck, prompting a quiet gasp at the sudden contact of his lips.

"Hate the way he looked at you," Simon rasped out, his hand venturing beneath the leg slit of your dress, his intense gaze locking onto yours, awaiting your response—permission or denial hanging in the balance.

Unable to resist any longer, you nodded, granting Simon the freedom to explore your body.

His left hand held your waist possessively, while the right pushed your underwear aside. Gripping the desk tightly, your head tilted forward.

Without warning, Simon cupped you between your legs, eliciting a whimper from you. "Fuck..."

Drenched with desire, the touch left you yearning to be bent over the desk and fucked senselessly, losing yourself in a passion that momentarily eclipsed the lingering mission at hand.

He slowly released his grip, running his middle finger through your slit, prompting a clench of your thighs and earning a spank. "Keep your legs spread for me, darling," Simon urged, a hint of spite lingering in the term Robert had used.

Gulping, you complied, and as you let go, Simon plunged a finger deep inside you, drawing a moan. "Shh, we wouldn't want them to hear you now, would we, darling?" His voice took on an unexpectedly deeper tone, causing you to bite your lip and compliance. "Good girl."

With that, he started fucking his digit in and out of you, not at all being gentle as he usually would be. Your lip was likely bleeding from the force, but Simon reveled in the sight of you unraveling.

"More, please," you quietly pleaded, a desire for another finger inside as he began rubbing your clit, the sensation almost pushing you to cry out.

"Only because you've been good so far," he whispered into your ear, adding another finger, curling both digits, causing you to lean forward, supporting yourself with your arms.

Not long after, you reached your climax, nearly collapsing to your knees if Simon hadn't held you up by your waist. Taking deep breaths, you tried to compose yourself as Simon cleaned his fingers with a handkerchief from his suit pocket.

Allowing you a moment to rest on the chair by the desk, your husband retrieved the files, finding the one you needed. "I'll take care of you once we're out of here, love," Simon promised, giving you a kiss before pulling you up by your hands.

"You're lucky that we were able to turn off the mics and the screen for the office," Price scolded the both of you as you leaned against Simon.

"You shouldn't have forced us on this mission then," Simon replied.

"I hope you feel guilty, Simon."

"I would do it again."

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olsenmyolsen · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter Eight: Back To Work

The Farmer's Daughter - (A WandaNat Story)

Masterlist

Tag list: @xenaizogie

Summary: Wanda invites Natasha out with her friends, but they run into someone from Natasha's past.

Word Count: 3.4K

Content: Drinking, Jealousy, Feelings

Thursday.

It was Thursday.

As the clock rolled into the afternoon, it had officially been four days since Wanda came home with a newfound... feeling... for Natasha.

It wasn't love or a crush. At least, she didn't think so. She was still flirty, but it wasn't as blatant as before. Maybe it was? Wanda truly wasn't convinced.

Regardless, one thing was for sure.

She loved to see Natasha work up a sweat in one of her old t-shirts.

"Howdy, partner!" Wanda embarrassedly said as Natasha approached the fence near the house to grab her water bottle. "Oh, is that what we are doing today?" Natasha teased as she took a big sip.

Wanda shrugged. Honestly, her accent could've been worse.

"Did you see my story?" Wanda asked as Natasha laughed and set down her water. "Wanda, you know I don't check my phone. Especially today." Natasha turned away and saw Erik on a horse in the distance. "I can't believe you guys used to have horses."

Wanda looks at her father in the distance. "Yeah. Cookie Dough." Wanda says. "Cookie Dough? The horse's name was Cookie Dough?" Natasha wears a cute smile as she leans closer to the fence.

Closer to Wanda.

Wanda smiles at her before looking away. "You can't make fun of me. I was eight." Natasha keeps her mouth shut and gives a playful tilt of the head. "Cookie Dough is a good name." Natasha turns back to see Erik making his way towards her.

She turns to Wanda. "Back to work."

Wanda watches the latest Farmhand start jogging away. When she's far enough away, she gives one last look and starts making her way back to the house, where she opens a group chat with her closest friends.

Seven Peas In A Pod

Sunday: Jarvis has been kicked

Darcy Renamed The Group to Six Peas Minus A Bitch

Darcyyyy

D: Fine 😒

Darcy Renamed The Group to Six Peas In A Pod

Today:

We should go out tonight

S: Its Thursday...

D: damn sam stay home then. where we going bestie???

M: I can't sorry guys

That's okay Monica. But I was thinking city??

C: City? I'm down.

D: surprise surprise

C: 🙄

B: Is Natasha coming??

D: Bucky.. but fr 👀

Darcy kick Bucky

B: No! Okay I'm sorry

👎

S: No but fr is she??

I have to ask..

Wanda flipped her phone over and laid face-down on her Queen bed.

Why did the thought of asking Natasha to hang out feel like a monumental task? It was Natasha.. What made that difficult?

Wanda dwelled on it for a few more seconds before she shook her mind free of the redhead and lifted herself up. Her eyes drifted to her open closet with a black cocktail dress hanging in the corner.

Would that be too much?

Of course, I'm hanging out with friends, not going to a rooftop restaurant.

Wandas flopped back down her bed and grabbed her phone. Ignoring the group chat and instead going to Pinterest to look for inspo.

Hours later, with clothes thrown everywhere and multiple eyeshadow pallets open did she receive a text from Carol outside of the group chat.

"Hey, I'm not saying this to stress you out or anything, but have you asked Natasha yet? I wanna know if we're gonna meet here or not."

Shit.

Meanwhile, Natasha was finishing up her last lesson in horse care for the day with Wanda's father as they put Butterball into his stable.

"...and in the morning, I'll worry about his food if you just focus on keeping the area clean and work on getting the addition to the coop built."

Natasha turned towards the house of chickens and sneered.

"Yes, sir." She replied, making Erik laugh. He knew of Natasha's hatred for the pecking monsters, but a bigger coop needed to be built. You win some, you lose some.

"Romanoff." Erik started as the pair walked down towards the house. "Sir?" Natasha questioned. Erik stopped and took his hat off to wipe his forehead. "I just want to thank you again for everything you've done for us so far. Even though it's been a short time, it sure as hell feels longer."

At that moment, Wanda walked out of the house looking for Natasha.

Natasha spotted her immediately.

"I know just what you mean, sir." Natasha pulled her focus back to her boss. Erik hummed and turned his head to Wanda as the two continued walking. "I guess what I'm saying is, is that good help is hard to find, but you sure found us at a good time,"

Natasha turned her head to the man as they reached the fence gate. "Thank you, sir." He smiled, and it looked like he wanted to say more, but as Wanda walked up, Erik didn't say a word. "Hi, sweetie." Erik smiled at his daughter. "Hi, Papa!" She waved before her eyes moved to Natasha's.

Erik turned slightly and made his exit known. "I'll see what Magda's feeling for dinner."

Natasha waved bye before moving to take off her work gloves. "What's up?" Natasha questioned Wanda. Wanda held the end sleeve of her heather grey oversized sweatshirt. "I was kinda wondering if you wanted to come out with me and the group tonight?" Wanda asked without any stutters or flubs.

Natasha looked at Wanda, a little surprised. "Oh!" Natasha looked down and smiled before finding Wanda's beautiful face. "Out like to a club or-"

"No, no, no. Like a beer garden that has like board games and stuff!" That interested Natasha a lot more. "Oh!" She said again. "Yeah. Sure. That sounds like fun!" Natasha genuinely couldn't remember the last time she played a board or card game, but if she had to guess, it was probably at Clint's before the man flipped the board over and walked away like a baby.

Wanda felt ecstatic!

"Great! I'll let everyone know!" Wanda rushed off to get ready for the night without giving Natasha any additional information, but seeing the smile on Wanda's face was more than enough for her.

Now, she was glad she splurged more on her body wash.

But just like Wanda before, Natasha was now left figuring out what to wear.

Natasha turned her back to the mirror. She was watching the way her ass filled out her favorite pair of black jeans.

This could work.

Natasha, happy with that choice, sat on the bed as she looked at her newly filled closet while she put a pair of socks on and her brown boots. Natasha planted both feet on the hardwood floor and sighed. She stood up once again and walked to the mirror.

Her eyes found the scars on her left arm before she moved to look at a mole in the center of her chest. She brought her hand up and circled it with her healed index finger. She smiled as she briefly thought about the seconds before she cut herself on the kitchen knife.

Three.

That's how many small moles she counted on Wanda's left breast.

She also remembers the teasing look Wanda wore.

Natasha lifted her face slightly to look at herself. She looked better and knew Wanda was a reason for it—that and leaving the military.

Still, Natasha cleared her throat, and instead of looking for a shirt, she parked herself at the small desk by the door. She began lining her ears with additional gold pieces of jewelry she had been absent of.

Natasha turned her head and beamed at her beauty. She opened her phone camera and looked at the freshly applied lipstick and lip liner.

She was trying something new.

Natasha wasn't too sure about it. But before she could reach forward and grab a wipe, a shadow caught her eye.

Away from the dipping sun behind a pink sky, Wanda was in her bedroom window with her light on. She stood posing in front of her mirror in blue jeans and a lacy black bra.

Natasha felt her cheeks run red as she couldn't pull her eyes away in time to watch Wanda check herself out. Soft hands were smoothing themselves across her beautiful skin.

Natasha closed her mouth and looked away before a noise could disrupt this tranquil moment. She threw on whatever was the nearest shirt she could find, as her mind wouldn't let go of Wanda.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Magda asked as she looked her daughter's outfit up and down. She smiled. Her daughter had grown up into a beautiful, intelligent woman.

Wanda looked down at her outfit of blue jeans, brown boots, and a white t-shirt with a red button-down open-dress shirt.

In the right light, her black bra could be seen through the white shirt.

Wanda did this on purpose for one person tonight.

"Out with friends. Natasha's coming." This was news to Magda. "Oh!" Her surprised voice turned into one of acceptance. "Okay. Well, have fun and be safe!"

Wanda smiled and entered the living room to hug her mother. "I will."

Natasha will make sure of it. Wanda thought.

"Where's Papa?" Wandas asked. Magda pointed upstairs. Wanda nodded and said another goodbye as her mother joked about ordering pizza now that no one would be home tonight.

Wanda laughed and closed the front door just in time for her to see Natasha walk up the path from her place like a goddess. Natasha had a natural beauty that was only exploited even more by the paint on her lips and the jewelry on her body.

Wants didn't miss the way the leather jacket stuck to Natasha in a way that would look good on her. Not to mention the jeans.

It was then that Wanda found herself being wrong. She did, in fact, have a crush on Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha smirked as her eyes savored in Wanda. Wanda wasn't just attractive tonight. She was hot. And judging by the lacey bra she wore underneath, Natasha knew that Wanda knew how gorgeous she was.

Wanda smirked and walked off the porch as Natasha stepped closer. "Oh, Natasha, I don't think you understand what you're doing to me." Wanda hid the truth behind a teasing voice and smile.

Natasha would've rolled her eyes, but something shifted between the two.

Natasha gave a wink instead that she instantly regretted, but Wanda laughed, so maybe it wasn't that bad. They each walked closer to Natasha's bike.

"So, are we meeting everyone at one of your friends?"

That was the plan.

"Umm.." Wanda didn't want to do that anymore. "Actually, we're gonna meet them at the beer garden."

Natasha didn't remember that being the plan but went along with it. It's not like she was in the group chat. "Okay." She said and smiled as Wanda stepped closer to her motorcycle. "Oh wait!" Natasha said.

Wanda took a step back, unaware if she had done anything wrong.

"You need a helmet!" Natasha said, which led to Natasha laughing as they hit the main road. "It's not funny!" Wanda shouted as her arms wrapped tighter around Natasha's middle. She smelt her shampoo in the wind.

Natasha giggled as she caught the reflection of Wanda in a bright pink helmet that barely fit her anymore.

As Natasha parked her bike, she felt a little sad when Wanda's arms unraveled themselves from her body.

Wanda hopped off the bike first and stood on the sidewalk as she watched Natasha swing her leg around the bike. God, it was hot. And how did Natasha not get helmet hair?

Natasha placed her helmet on the seat as she peeked over at Wanda before full-blown laughing again. Confusing Wanda. "What?!" Wanda smiled. Natasha came closer and raised her rough hands to Wanda. Her fingertips brushed up Wanda's neck to her chin.

"Were you planning on wearing this inside?" Natasha unclipped the strap to the bright pink helmet. "Oh, right! Duh!" Wanda closed her eyes, embarrassed, as Natasha lifted the helmet. "It's okay. We'll just leave it here." Natasha put it on the right handlebar. "I don't think anyone's gonna want it." Natasha joked, making Wanda agree with laughter.

Natasha, meanwhile, took her helmet with her and placed it under her arms as she and Wanda walked side by side to the beer garden.

The two felt an electric touch when their hands brushed against each other more than once.

"Wanda?" Natasha tilted her head to the younger woman as they approached the establishment. Bouncer in sight. "What's up?" Wanda blinked her big doe eyes. "Aren't you 20?" Natasha innocently asked.

Natasha didn't care if Wanda had a fake ID or not. Even if Wanda showed that she did, in fact, have one, she ignored Natasha's question and presented the bouncer with an ID that said she was 22 years old.

Natasha just didn't want for Wanda to be turned away at the door. She didn't want to see her sad.

However, to Wanda, Natasha's question was an unwarranted reminder of the eight-year gap between the two.

"Happy?" Wanda asked with a slightly sour tone that surprised Natasha. "Of course," Natasha replied as she followed an already guilty feeling Wanda.

Wanda turned to Natasha and gave a warm smile. A subtle apology that Natasha didn't realize before grabbing her arm and leading her to the bar. "I'll buy the first round!"

Natasha widely smiled and accepted. "I'll buy the second." She found Wanda's eyes and leaned in a little closer until their sides touched.

Wanda and Natasha both hid smiles.

As Natasha kept her eyes occupied with reading the menu above the taps, Wanda received a text.

Six Peas In A Pod

I have to ask..

D: did she ask??

C: Where are we meeting btw?

S: We doin shots tonight right? Wanda??

D: wanda? babes?

B: What is Natasha said no...

D: bucky i will kick you out don't play. wanda??

C: Imma text her.

SHE SAID YES WE'LL MEET YOU THERE!

M: Omg!! Girl I can't wait to hear all about it!!

B: Five step plan to make Natasha fall I love with me starts now.

D: @Bucky🙄 as if

S: We doing shots!!!

Now:

D: gotta say im loving the way natasha fills out the jeans 👀

HUH!?

Wanda flipped her phone screen down so hard she thought it might have broken. Natasha noticed. "Is everything okay?" Wanda nodded as she began looking for any signs of her friends. She found them when Darcy started shaking her hands wildly.

"Oh, I see." Natasha laughed. "Let's order, and then we'll join them," Natasha suggested, much to Wanda's agreement. Moments alone were going to be rare, and Wanda wanted to make it last.

"Nice helmet!" Sam noted as Natasha and Wanda sat next to each other—separate seats. Darcy immediately caught the way Wanda was watching Natasha converse with the rest of the friend group.

She smiled behind her second beer of the night.

"So Natasha, be honest with me." Sam began making everyone be prepared for him to say something crazy. "Oh boy," Carol mumbled. Sam waved his hands at his friends. "Is Wanda a snorer?" Bucky and Carol immediately slapped his arm and head as Wanda became red in the face.

Natasha, surprised and amused by everything happening, cleared her throat before sipping on her second beer. Her green orbs caught Wanda's before they darted away. "Umm.." Natasha said. "I don't have an answer for you. But if I had to guess..." She looked at Wanda and smirked. "I'd say she's definitely a loud snorer. She would probably keep me up the whole night!"

"Oh my god! No! Shut up!" Wanda lightly pushed Natasha but glowed at the mention of Natasha and her sleeping together.

Natasha laughed and high-fived Sam. Darcy even joined in.

Conversations like that flowed again with a round of shots before a stranger made their presence known.

"Excuse me..." A soft voice interrupted a story Bucky was telling about the group's time at the beach. All eyes turned to a dark-haired woman with a bandage on her nose. She wore a purple flannel over a grey shirt, dark-wash jeans, and black boots. She had a very striking complexion.

Carol and Bucky both found themselves looking the woman up and down. Sam, like with Natasha, noticed the dog tags around her neck.

Sam turned his attention to Wanda.

Wanda's soft eyes and smile changed when she saw how the woman was looking only at Natasha.

"Tasha?" The woman asked as her cautious face turned into a smile when Natasha turned to face the mysterious person. "Oh my gosh! Kate!?" Natasha rose to her feet and hugged them.

It had been years since "Tasha" had seen this person.

Darcy looked to Wanda, who quietly sipped her beer. The rest of the group also watched the interaction unfold in front of them.

"How are you!?" Kate kept her arms on Natasha's side. "I'm good. Doing some work in the city." Natasha raised her eyebrows and grinned. "Oh wow. That's great!"

Kate lifted her arms away from the redhead. "I heard you're a free woman!" Natasha laughed and knew exactly who told Kate the news. "Fury?" Kate nodded. "Fury."

Darcy slapped Wanda's leg as Wanda sneered at the friendly exchange.

"It's nice when he calls. It's rare, but it happens." Kate said as the friend group watched the way Natasha and Kate spoke in what might as well be riddles.

"So, did you ever-" Natasha's eyes caught a glimpse of the metal hanging around Kate's neck. Kate shared a knowing look with Natasha as they both saw the other person wearing their dog tags. "Get that dog?" Kate finished Natasha's question. Natasha nodded.

"Yeah. Fanny's her name. She's great! I can show you pictures!" Natasha loved how excited Kate was talking about Fanny. "I'd love to see them."

It was then that Natasha could sense all eyes on them. Especially a brunette who was burning a hole into her head. "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry guys!" Natasha spoke to the group.

Wanda thought Natasha should've acknowledged her first as she finished off her third drink.

"This is Kate Bishop. We..." Natasha trailed off, and half the friend group thought exes. "We were in the military together." Kate once again finished Natasha's sentence. Kate waved to the group.

Bucky flashed his eyes towards Wanda.

"How about you join us!" Darcy spoke up, making Wanda spin her head around. Natasha didn't notice the shocked look Wanda wore.

Darcy was an ally for Wanda through and through, but she also lived from drama and gossip.

"If everyone is cool with it?" Natasha posed to the group. Everyone gave nods and waves of approval.

Everyone but Wanda.

Wanda darted her eyes back and forth between Kate and Natasha. Kate was shorter than Wanda but closer in age to Natasha.

"Here, take my spot!" Natasha moved her drink next to Wanda's empty glass and sat on the loveseat with Wanda. Wanda's stomach jumped, and for a brief moment, a smile was found on her face again. Natasha's stomach also flipped, but she was too focused on giving her attention to Kate than worrying about whether she and Wanda were too close to one another.

This drove Wanda crazy. Her little movements and longing touches seemed not to faze Natasha throughout the night as card games and more drinks were had.

Too many drinks for Wanda.

This is why when Natasha unsubconsciously put her arm on the backside of Wanda's part of the loveseat, Kate's eyes flickered between the two.

She had been eyeing Wanda most of the night, but when Wanda blushed as Romanoff scooted closer to her, Kate felt safe in making a comment about it.

"I must say, Romanoff, it suits you," Kate said as the game of UNO ended with Carol winning again. Her laughing in Bucky's face.

Wanda could've won multiple times, but she couldn't focus on her cards. Plus, she saw doubles when there weren't any.

"What do you mean?" Natasha inquired. Kate nudged her head towards Wanda, who was turned talking to Darcy.

Darcy was trying to stop Wanda from leaving.

"Oh no.." Natasha shook her head and turned her eyes to Kate. "We're just friends."

Everyone heard it and froze.

The corners of Wanda's eyes immediately began to sting. She got up and started walking away before anyone could stop her. "Wanda!" Darcy yelled, causing Natasha to spin her head in that direction.

Why was Wanda leaving?

Natasha swung her eyes across everyone's face, no one looking directly at her. "Natasha..." Kate spoke up. "Did she know that?"

Natasha's mouth dropped, but no words came out. Every little thing Wanda did tonight finally hit Natasha, and she felt awful. "I-.." She needed to find Wanda. "I'll be back." Natasha stood up and chased in the direction Wanda ran off.

The friend group all turned to Kate.

"Just who do you think you are-" Darcy started yelling at Kate before Sam stood up and stopped Darcy from being a real one. "Look at her tag!" Sam yelled.

"Oh shit..." Bucky's face fell as he saw it.

dividers by @/benkeibear

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fluffvstheworld · 1 year ago

Note

hihi! i had n idea so i was holping you could indulge me maybe... matthew patel with a (male) reader who saw him fight in the rockit and made a craigslist post to try and find him again afterwards? idk if it makes sense but i think it would be silly :-3

A/n: This was such a cute prompt to write TToTT hope I did it justice! I decided to use the original universe in this one because I feel like Matthew would be moping on his computer after losing to Scott

Note: Although no pronouns are used, it was written in mind for a male reader

Reader Trying to Find Matthew Patel on Craigslist After the Rockit

You were pretty excited for the battle of the bands

It was Crash and the Boys vs Sex Bob-omb, two of the most well known indie bands in Toronto

There was a lot you were expecting. Cool songs, the fun of competition, the excitement in the crowd…

What you weren’t expecting was a man blasting his way from the balcony towards one of the main bassists

As he got punched back into the crowd by Scott, landing himself fashionably, you finally got a good look at him

And to your surprise... he was quite cute!

A lot of talk started about his ex-girlfriend in the crowd, a league of exes apparently made in her stead. But once they stopped, the fighting started again

Along with a musical number!

You do admit it was quite catchy

Sadly the mysterious boy was defeated, sent back to his home only leaving $2.10 in his wake

But as you walked out of the venue in shock, there was only one thing on your mind:

I need to find that guy!

And the thought stuck to you like glue

At your home, at your job, on the bus, etc

Even now, as you lay on your bed staring up at your ceiling, the thought still continued its rampage in your mind

Your eyes slowly wandered towards your desk, most of its space being taken from your computer

You shut your eyes in thought for a moment before promptly getting up and sitting down on the chair. You were not going to wait any longer, otherwise you were going to go insane

Booting up the crappy piece of hardware was a challenge, but eventually you got onto craigslist and into the general tab, typing away

[Hey! The other day there was this guy at the Rockit fighting the bassist for Sex Bob-omb.. anyone know him? I think his name was Matthew?]

After you clicked enter, you leaned back into your chair and waited

And it surprisingly didn't take too long

A notification from your email made your heart jump as you quickly clicked onto it

[...Are you perhaps talking about me?]

You smiled widely. You finally found him!

[Depends. Is your name Matthew Patel?]

[...yes?]

[Then yes!]

[May I perhaps ask as to why?]

[Your musical number left a very big impression on me. Plus I think you're cute.]

Although you couldn't see it, you could tell the comment flustered him as the next email came back a few minutes later

[Oh..!]

You giggled a bit to yourself. Guess he didn't really know what to say to that

[Was that a good or a bad 'oh'?]

[..A good one I guess.]

[Well that's good at least haha. I was thinking... do you wanna meet up one of these days? I know you live in America, but I want to learn more about you!]

[Oh.. sure! I live close enough to the border.]

[Alright, it's a date then! Meet you back at the Rockit this Thursday?]

[Sure.. though I didn't quite catch your name.]

You smiled as you typed in your name and leaned back once more

[Well alright then, I'll see you there]

Your grin widened as you shut off your computer to process what just happened

You got a date! With a cute guy at that!

The grin faded as you realized you needed to iron out your clothes

As you scrambled to get up from your chair towards your closet, you smiled knowing that Thursday was going to be a great day

#matthew patel #matthew patel x reader #scott pilgrim takes off #scott pilgrim vs the world #spto x reader #scott pilgrim takes off x reader #scott pilgrim vs the world x reader #spvtw x reader

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wh1spyz · 3 months ago

Text

a little bit awkward

03. yeonjun is not COOKED (half written)

a/n : unfortunately im a bit lazy so only one chapter this week...

tuesday, 2:40pm.

you'll be fine.

is what yeonjun tried telling himself SEVERAL times before stepping into that god forbidden starbucks. sure, he definitely wanted to apologize, but he was beyond nervous (he was genuinely shaking in his boots).

taehyun stood beside him as they stood outside the starbucks like weirdos, peaking inside for the same girl yeonjun saw that day.

"are you sure you dont see her.. its been like 30 minutes since we came out here, and i still don't see the girl you described.." taehyun mumbled.

"shut up! she'll show up eventually." yeonjun said, still peaking inside, keeping his eyes locked onto the front counter

"..."

then, the door to the starbucks opens, revealing an extremely confused giselle.

"can i help you..?" giselle mumbled, tapping her foot awkwardly, looking at the two stalkers customers standing infront of the window.

taehyuns eyes dart to her, and so do yeonjuns.

"uhm.. well..."

"we are here for one of your staff, my friend here wants to talk to her. she was here at 11:30 am yesterday." taehyun says with ease, saving yeonjun from any further embarrassment.

"oh! i remember you! are you the one that called y/n madam?"

silence.

"ill take that as a yes. but unfortunately, she doesnt have a shift today. she only works mondays, wednesdays, and thursdays."

shit, so we just stood for nothing... great.

"good to know! thank you for informing us! we'll be back tomorrow then!" taehyun says, dragging yeonjun off before he can even utter another sentence.

".."

"i definitely have to tell y/n about this."

< back | masterlist | next >

tag(s): @aduh0308

#txt x reader #yeonjun #choi yeonjun #yeonjun x reader smau #yeonjun x reader #choi yeonjun x reader smau #txt smau #txt #tomorrow x together smau #smau #kpop smau

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discokicks · 1 year ago

Text

BOLT FROM THE BLUE - ROY KENT.

PART ONE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (series playlist!) (AO3!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: with the departure of afc richmond’s wonderkid, the club is desperately on the hunt for a new coach. luckily for them, you’ve just been wrongfully terminated from your position over at west ham. however, with your outlook on the football world tainted and massive hesitation due to your past with a particular member of their coaching staff, you’re less than convinced about the job. but, that same member may just be the one to convince you.

word count & rating: 8.7k, R (too many roy kent 'fucks' to be pg-13)

chapter warnings: whole lotta swearing (it’s a roy kent fic, do i even have to say it?), talk of workplace misconduct, allusions to (no descriptions of) sexual harassment, roy and the reader are long-lost bickering, angsty enemies with a past, reader is a former team usa player and present coach, author is american (sorry </3)

author’s note! hello hello. so happy to have you here. welcome to my first tumblr fic. certainly not my first fic ever, but first fic on here! hooray! for the sake of this fic, we’re going to pretend like the coaching career of the reader is actually possible in the current misogynistic world football climate. it’ll be fun to fantasize. also, this takes place in s3, and reader is earlyish/midish thirties. also also, i know next to nothing about football/soccer and haven’t played since i was 10, but i’m doing my research! hope you enjoy and love u all tons. -mags

PRESENT DAY. (AUGUST 2023)

Your ex-boss's ex-wife is currently standing outside of your apartment and somehow, that’s not the most surprising thing to happen this week.

While yes, of course, seeing Rebecca Walton on your front steps at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning is shocking, the numbness that’s been coursing through your body since Monday takes some of the edge off.

She’s right before you, clutching her purse tightly, dressed in a fitted trench coat and aggressively expensive heels. Everything about her contrasts the four-sizes-too-big sweatshirt you’re sporting with the age-old pajama shorts with embroidered soccer balls that you’ve been rotting away in for the last three days. When your eyes finally meet once more and you see she’s been sizing you up just as you’ve been doing to her, she plasters on a wide, practiced smile.

“Hello,” Rebecca says. Her smile doesn’t falter.

You blink at her. “Hi.”

She motions to your door and you feel your hand tighten on the knob. “May I come in?”

Your lips part in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a moron. “Like, into my house?” you ask, head whipping to look at the current warzone state of your living room.

Rebecca’s smile gets slightly more genuine. “If that’s alright?”

The shock of her standing before you seems to have worn off, because you find yourself shutting the door slightly. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Look, if you’re here to get me to talk to that Independent journalist who’s called me like, three times asking for a perspective on Rupert for his book or whatever, I’m really not interested.” Your frustration is clearly peaking through your typically reserved manner, and frankly, you’re not in any mood to mask it.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Who? Trent?” You nod at Rebecca’s furrowed brows. “Oh God, no. We barely want him writing that thing anyway.”

Well, okay. “Then why—”

Rebecca motions to the door again. “May I?”

You suppose if she’s being so insistent about entering your home, it’s her funeral. You step back to allow her in, and the second she sees your living room, she seems to regret it. When she turns to face you, you can’t help the way your brows shoot up, everything about your demeanor saying I told you so. “The kitchen’s cleaner,” you tell her, nodding in its direction.

“Wonderful,” she says as she follows you through the hall. Her next question is hesitant. “So, is all this—”

“The result of getting fired on Monday?” you finish for her, turning to meet her gaze as you stand at your counter. Her eyes read pity and part of you already wants to kick her out. The other part of you wants to hug her. “Yeah. Things, uh…”

As you trail off, you realize something. That thing in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s empathy. Rebecca, more than anyone, knows Rupert. She knows how much of an asshole he is. She knows how special he can make you feel, only to have the rug ripped out from under you moments later. She knows what it feels like to be wronged by him. She knows.

Through your silence, you think she recognizes the sudden shift in tension as your expression morphs into something less hard, and you allow yourself a moment of vulnerability. “Things haven’t been great over here.”

Any sort of practice in Rebecca’s smile completely fades and is replaced with something more compassionate. “I can only imagine.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. While the initial discomfort has passed, the awkwardness still lingers and you realize that you have literally no idea why she’s in your apartment. “Can I… offer you coffee? Or, uh, tea?” you ask.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Thank you though.”

“You sure?” you try again. “I taught myself how to make an insane shaken espresso during my ACL recovery. Mastered it over the years.”

“Mastered it?”

You shrug. “It was either that or alcoholism. Chose the path less traveled by most washed-up athletes.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch upward. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”

“Great,” you say, turning to your cabinet to grab your bag of coffee beans. Now for the moment of truth. “And while I get that together…” You stand on your tiptoes to reach the bag. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing here.”

For a moment, you think she’s going to feed you some joke or some bullshit answer. You glance over your shoulder to watch her mouth even open to do so. But she suddenly decides against it.

And you drop the bag of coffee beans and have to stabilize yourself against the counter as she says, “I’m here to offer you a job.”

A job? She wants to give you a job at Richmond? She can’t be serious. Out of all the things that floated through your mind when you opened the door, this was the last thing you thought possible. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

It has to be a pity offer. That’s where the pity of it all went. But no one knows about what actually happened, you remind yourself. She just knows you were suddenly let go. Well, then it’s just a revenge offer. Some petty thing to get back at Rupert. As much as you want to think that you’d be on board with that, you had no interest in being some sort of piece in the game.

You’re staring blankly at Rebecca as your mind goes to war, certain that you look like even more of an idiot than you did when you let her in. There’s a small pool of coffee beans sitting on your counter. But you can’t find it in you to care. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

Rebecca suddenly clears her throat. “Is everything alri—”

“Why the fuck do you want to give me a job?” Is what comes out of your mouth, head too far gone to consider a filter. A smirk appears on her face at your words. “Sorry, I just… I don’t get it.”

She looks at you for a moment, taking a solemn pause to evaluate exactly what it is she wants to say. Her eyes flash to your embroidered soccer shorts peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, then to the plethora of sport-themed mugs hanging beneath the cabinets in your kitchen, then to the framed photo you keep on the wall of your team’s 2015 World Cup win.

“Because,” she finally lands on, “when I see that the new, passionate, wildly qualified West Ham coach is suddenly fired less than two months after she begins, seemingly out of nowhere…” It’s her turn to trail off, and she shrugs. “Something tells me it wasn’t just leadership differences.”

You look away from her as she drops the famous press-release line. Discomfort floods your body as you remember Rupert’s smarmy smile when he asked for your badge. “No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

Rebecca nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “Now, I don’t know what happened,” she tells you, “and I don’t expect to know. But as I said, you’re wildly qualified. You were a remarkable talent on the field and more so as a coach. Four Uni championships in a six-year career isn’t just impressive, it’s unheard of.”

You pause your coffee bean cleanup at that. Your brows shoot up and a wry smile crosses your lips. “You know my college coaching stats?”

Rebecca stares at you for a moment. Then, “Not until this week,” she admits quickly, forcing you to bite back a laugh. “But my coaching staff knew. Sang your praises.”

A pit forms in your stomach as you realize exactly who’s a part of that staff. Bull-fucking-shit he sang your praises. You think you’d despise him more if he had.

Attempting to brush off your sudden uneasiness, you try your hand at a joke while measuring out the beans. “Well, two-thirds of them are American, so I guess that makes sense.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Well, Roy Kent doesn’t say much of anything, but you did get a—’” She cuts herself off to make an affirmative-sounding grunt. You’re so thrown off by this that you almost forget to smile at her impression of him. “Which, you know, is about as close to singing as he gets.”

That it is. Because you do know. And that’s Roy code for ‘trying to be normal about this, but dear God, never speak about her to me again.’ You hope the mere mention of your name made him run out of the room. That the idea of you potentially joining the team keeps him up at night.

(The last three days haven’t been good for your dramatics either.)

A sigh escapes your lips and you avert your eyes. There’s an air of embarrassment as you shift uncomfortably. “This is going to be loud, sorry,” you apologize, turning the grinder on. You make a general estimation that this is what your brain would currently sound like if someone decided to listen in. After a moment, the machine turns off, but you don’t turn back to Rebecca. “Would this be a coaching offer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else,” Rebecca responds. Her tone shifts slightly as she looks at you. “Unless there’s—”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s nothing else I’d want.” You shift again. “I just…”

Rebecca watches as you trail off. You still haven’t looked at her, focused solely on your espresso task at hand. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she arrived at your home, but it certainly wasn’t this. Every time she’d seen you, whether it was on the field, blowing past defenders with impossible efficiency, or coaching your college girls in a way that commanded respect despite the seemingly ever-present smile on your face, there’d always been this confidence about you.

An admirable sense of ego. A love and passion for the game that made every young girl want to wear the number 14. A spirit that made everyone look upon you fondly. A pleasure to be around, and an honor to work with.

Rebecca was now staring at what she presumed to be the shell of the woman she’d heard about. A woman distracting herself from the discomfort of this conversation with coffee-making, afraid of her own shadow. And as you spoke, she knew her assumptions were correct.

“Listen,” you manage to get out. You’ve already tamped the grounds and had returned to the big, fancy espresso machine bought for you long ago by a former friend. “I appreciate you coming over here, but…”

“But?” Rebecca questions.

The words feel dry in your mouth and you have to push them out. “I think I’m done with it.”

It’s Rebecca’s turn to blink at you dumbly. “Done with what?” she asks. “With coaching?”

Shame floods your body. “With soccer,” you reply weakly. That look remained on Rebecca’s face. “Football. Whatever. Whatever you want to call it, I’m done with it.” You turn to stable yourself on the countertop once more as the coffee begins to brew. “It’s just— I’ve spent the majority of my life doing this one thing. I’ve done the Olympic gold thing, I’ve won a World Cup, I’ve won college championships, I’ve been…” Your eyes shut, shoulders sagging. “I’ve just been. And I thought I could go a step further. Break a ceiling or whatever. I thought I was ready for it. And then everything I’ve worked for is fucking destroyed by some douchebag, diva athlete who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his—”

You raise your hand to your mouth as if that’ll keep it all in, and you realize you’re shaking. You don’t have to turn around to know how Rebecca’s looking at you. “So, yeah,” you finish lamely. “I’m done. It was ruined for me. And I don’t want to go back.”

Rebecca says nothing for a long while. Taking everything you said in, drawing her conclusions, whatever. You grip the granite countertop and it feels cool beneath your fingers. Your eyes open when you finally hear her respond.

“You’re letting him win,” she tells you, voice soft. Slightly broken. Like she knows the feeling.

When you do turn back to her, Rebecca’s sitting at your breakfast bar with her hands folded together, anger poorly concealed. But it’s not anger at you, it’s just anger.

But then you start to feel angry. “I’m not letting him win,” you insist.

“You are,” she replies. Before you can let your temper get the best of you, she continues. “They’re calling you emotional, you know? They’re saying that the ’leadership problems’ were you just being abrasive. Joking that they should have never let a woman into the league because of the drama. Apparently, women can’t handle AFC-level coaching.”

You swallow. “I know,” you say. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who do you think’s pushing that narrative?” she asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, but you still feel like giving an answer. “Basement-dwelling losers who barely made their intramural leagues?”

It’s then that Rebecca smiles for real. It’s like she’s seen a flash of the woman she’s heard about and she couldn’t be more pleased. She makes a noise of agreement, then continues. “This is what he wants. He wants you to feel like this. He wants you to quit.” Her gaze bores into yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to look away. “If you give it all up, he wins. He beats you and he’s got another name under his belt. He doesn’t deserve your name.” Rebecca’s index finger jabs in your direction. “Don’t allow him to fucking win.”

The passion in her words is what gets you. Your throat clenches as you feel your eyes start to burn, knowing that everything she said had some amount of truth in it. There’s a frustration that rises in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

You were letting him win. He took away your career and then threatened your reputation. He made you take the blame for everything. He allowed this to be ruined for you and played an active part in ensuring it. And here you were, cowering in fear at the notion of this small man.

She’s right, and the espresso has finished brewing.

You know she’s right. Rebecca knows she’s right. So, as you stand in your kitchen, fighting an inward battle that’s got you on the verge of tears, your scared, stupid, frustrated little brain can only think of one more thing to say as you pour the coffee over ice.

“Even if you were right—” you begin, not ready to admit that just yet, “—even if you were, and even if I did want to join Richmond, I refuse to work with Roy Kent.”

This takes Rebecca completely by surprise. She shifts back in her chair, eyes wide despite the drawing of her brows. “R-Roy?” she sputters. “Our Roy Kent?”

The word our tells you that he’s been embraced by the club and isn’t going anywhere. Not that you had expected him to. He’d clearly nested well into the team and had taken his coaching position in stride. Just like you said he would years ago.

“Yeah,” you say shortly. “That one.”

Rebecca’s expression remains the same. ”But he’s… I—” She cuts herself off with a question. “—but why?”

A mirthless grin crosses your lips, head shaking like you don’t have the energy to get into it all. “That’s an answer you should probably hear from him.”

Rebecca looks as though she’s trying to make sense of all of this. You want to wish her luck. Because you’ve been doing the same thing for eight years. “I understand he can be a bit… coarse. And intimidating. And hot-headed. But he really is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” you tell her with the most polite, tight-lipped smile you can muster up. “I know who he was. And I’m not interested in working with him.” The words leave your mouth with a bit more venom than anticipated and guilt floods your body. “But thank you for the offer.”

The Richmond owner continues to stare at you while you shake the coffee, still puzzled, but slowly coming to the realization that she’s not going to change your mind. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

She figures that trying to convince you to do anything would be pointless. Your stubbornness had made you a star on the field and had clearly transferred off of it. She supposed it made sense that you and Roy had apparently butted heads.

So, reading the room, Rebecca nods at you and stands from the stool behind your breakfast bar. “Alright,” she says, a somber, apologetic smile on her face. “Message received. Loud and clear.” You watched as she turned and began to fumble inside her purse, placing a white card on the bar when she’d found it. “But… please. Consider it. The offer’s good for the next couple of days. And I… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that you’d be an asset to our team. I truly mean that.”

There’s a genuine lilt in her voice that makes you believe her. Whether or not this was a pity offer, or if she just want to scoop you up to get back at Rupert, she really did want you with the team. You’re rational enough to know that there’s some merit in that.

“Thank you,” you say again, offering a truer smile this time around. You hold up the espresso. “Now, do you have a milk preference? Because I’ve got them all.”

Rebecca Walton left your apartment with the best fucking shaken espresso she’s ever had in her life and a phone held up to her ear.

“Hi, babes,” greeted the voice on the other line, cheery as ever. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this early. Not that I’m complain—”

Rebecca abruptly cut off her friend’s rambling by saying your name. “How the fuck does she know Roy and why the fuck is he the reason she won’t work for Richmond?”

Uncharacteristically, Keeley Jones went silent. Rebecca heard the static from the other end. And then, very quiet, and wildly serious, Keeley said, “Oh, fuck.”

The words made Rebecca stop in her tracks in the middle of the street. “What?”

“You want her to be the new Richmond coach?” Keeley asked, sounding a whole lot like she just scrambled to sit up in bed.

“I just left her apartment. She rejected the offer and sent me on my way with the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “I want to be bitter about it, but it’s too fucking good.”

“Yeah, got it, she’s a fucking barista on top of being an Ace.” Rebecca wanted to ask about how frantic her best friend is right now, but didn’t get the chance. “Did Roy know you were doing this? Asking her, I mean?”

“He did. I asked him about her,” Rebecca answered. “And he grunted at me. Generally, that’s Roy Kent for ‘go on with it.’”

“Oh, that stupid, fucking self-sabotaging prick,” Keeley muttered. “Of-fucking-course he did. Put yourself in this kind of situation instead of dealing with your emotions like a normal fucking human, good on you, Roy—”

“Keeley.” The rambling stopped once more. “What happened?”

The other line was momentarily silent. Then Keeley sighed, long and heavy. “Well, I don’t know it all,” she began. Her voice was soft. “But I know they knew each other a while back. Like ten years ago, when they were both still playing.” Keeley sighed once more. “But he said he, uh… apparently fucked her over somehow. Didn’t get into it or say what he did, but I think it was pretty bad. And then she got back at him for it and fucked him over. And it… really messed him up. Like, totally broke his heart.”

Rebecca stepped out of the way of someone passing by. “Broke his heart?” she asked, eyes closing at the implication of that. “Were they—”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He wasn’t exactly open about it. Which I thought was weird because he became pretty open about everything else,” Keeley said. “All I know is that whatever it was, it ended ugly. And that they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

Whatever Rebecca had been expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Oh,” she said lightly.

Keeley hummed in uncomfortable agreement. “Maybe I’m reading too far into it,” she continued. “Maybe it wasn’t like that. But, he… never talked about anyone like that. Or, y’know, refused to talk about anyone like that. And you know Roy.” Rebecca said nothing, leaving Keeley to ask the million-dollar question. “Are you sure you want to follow through with this?”

“I want her. She’s the only feasible prospect I’ve liked who hasn’t been a fucking twat so far.” Rebecca’s voice was sure. Final. “And I won’t allow for another woman to be quietly taken down because of Rupert. Especially not if what I think happened actually did happen.”

“Well, then babe,” Keeley said, “I think you might need to have a chat with your coaches.”

Then, as Rebecca stood on the edge of the sidewalk, picturing the look on her coaches’ faces as she prepared to integrate Roy Kent, the gravity of the situation hit her like a freight train. “Oh, fuck.”

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

The entire locker room froze at the voice of Rebecca Walton echoing down the hall, each click of her heels sounding as dangerous as the next. Immediately, all eyes are were on Roy. From Kitman Will to Coach Ted Lasso himself. Not a word was said and Rebecca’s stomping started to sound like a death march.

But when she rounded the corner into the Coaches’ Office with a fire in her eyes that screamed run; that’s when Roy started to sweat.

Immediately, a million things ran through his mind. He wondered if this was about his break-up with Keeley, then realized that she was the one who wanted a break from him, so Rebecca’s got no reason to be mad about that. Had he said something stupid to a reporter? Been photographed poorly? Did something come up in a tabloid from his past? Roy wished he could identify one singular thing he’d done back then in poor taste, but he had a fucking laundry list.

Beard quickly jumped up from his chair to shut the door to the locker room so that the team couldn’t hear whatever was about to unfold in this godforsaken office, and pulled the blinds too. He heard the beginnings of an objection from the boys as they began to race to the window, and sent them all a look before the shade fell.

Rebecca walked further into the office, eyes never leaving Roy’s. If she weren’t so fucking mad, she figured she’d bask in the fact that she was able to make the great, big, scary Roy Kent nervous, but she was currently seeing red. She decided she’d reflect on that later.

“I had a fascinating conversation this morning with a prospective coach,” she finally said, voice eerily calm. “Your name came up. A lot.”

Roy didn’t dare say a word. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Thankfully, Ted chimed in. “Well, Boss, we’ve got a lot of those. Would you mind narrowing down which one you talked to?”

But Roy doesn’t need it to be narrowed down. There’s only one name that’s been floated around that could possibly have garnered this reaction and level of anger. But his stomach sank further as a wild smile crossed Rebecca’s lips.

“Oh, just our Ace Olympic gold-medalist, World Cup-winning, four-time college coaching champion, West-Ham-hating top prospect,” she said, gaze pinning Roy to the wall. “Who apparently has not only been fucked over by Rupert but has also been fucked over by our own Roy Kent.”

All eyes flashed to Roy in surprise. Rebecca hadn’t been lying. Roy hadn’t objected to her name being considered as seriously as it was, and had given absolutely no indication to anyone in the room that there could potentially be conflict with this hire.

“Oh,” Ted said. “Well, that’s a bit of an issue.”

Roy looked at Rebecca evenly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replied, knowing that that was the very issue. “She just said she refused to work with you. Told me to ask you for the details.”

Roy nearly scoffed. God, that was really fucking like you, wasn’t it? Somehow making his life harder without scorching him alive, leaving him to be the one to burn himself down. Because you could if you wanted to. You could burn him to the ground if you chose.

(And you had. But he wasn’t sure what was stopping you from doing it again.)

He eyed Rebecca, knowing his boss and the way she thinks. There was a piece of him that was curious as to whether or not she’d drop the bomb in front of Beard and Lasso. “And what did Keeley tell you?”

That seemed to take his boss by surprise for a moment. But, as she caught on, it was made clear that she had the intention of saving his ass. For now. “Nothing that you didn’t tell her yourself,” Rebecca said. “Which was pretty much nothing.”

That was true too. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told Keeley, but he drew the line at you. Not only would Keeley look at him differently if she knew the truth, but you were just… too hard to talk about. Way too hard for him.

Which is why when Rebecca threw her hands up in question, desperation in her eyes as she asks, “So, what the fuck did you do to our prospective coach?”, Roy had to calm himself for a moment.

Between his rapidly increasing heartbeat and freshly clammy hands, Roy knew he had to figure out a way to not appear one hundred percent, completely freaked out about this. Besides his vague talks with Keeley, he can’t remember the last time he spoke about you. In fact, he’s not sure he’d ever spoken about you. And he certainly wasn’t in any headspace to do it now.

So, Roy being who he was, looked at the expectant expressions of his coaching staff (and Trent fucking Crimm, who he still couldn’t believe had managed to weasel his way into the club) and sighed. He knew he couldn’t be as intentionally vague with his explanation, especially now that the careers of those he knew and respected were in the mix, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“We—” Roy’s voice came out gruff and he cleared his throat with the roll of his eyes. “We knew each other a while back. I met her at the London Olympics. We were… fucking friends. For a while. And then we weren’t.” Roy shrugged, as if that would get rid of the discomfort he felt. He still hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. “I did some shit I’m not proud of. I hurt her and then she fucking hurt me. We haven’t talked since.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how long haven’t you spoken for?”

Exactly? Roy knows exactly how long. He could tell her the exact fucking day. But that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t know,” he chose to answer. He’d never faked indifference well. “Couple of years? Eight, nine?”

Beard pursed his lips in confusion. “And you didn’t think to… mention this conflict of interest?”

He’d taken the words right out of Rebecca’s mouth. “Or tell me there was an issue so I didn’t look like an idiot?”

“There’s no fucking conflict of interest!” Roy shouted. Rebecca’s brows rose dangerously at the tone and volume of his voice, forcing him to take a moment to collect himself. His voice was more even as he said, “I didn’t fucking say anything because I didn’t think it was important because we’re fucking adults and I didn’t want to be the fucking reason she didn’t—”

Roy’s words died in his throat, chest heaving as he forced himself to stop short. He finally looked up, glancing between his colleagues. He tilted his head back as he realized that each of them were trying to figure out whether or not to believe him.

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t said one lie. They just didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t allow them to get it. Not yet, at least.

“Well,” Rebecca said after a beat, “inadvertently or not, you are the reason she’s not joining the team.”

(Those words alone sting Roy in a way he wasn’t prepared for.)

Rebecca wasn’t done. “But I want her, Roy. More than anyone we’ve seen. She’s the best we’ve had a chance with so far. And if I have to go with another coach or one of those pricks we interviewed because of that?” She shook her head as if the idea repulsed her, then pointed squarely at Roy. “Fix this.”

His jaw went slack. “Fix— How the fuck am I supposed to fix it?”

Roy was shocked to find that Ted had his back. “I’m with Roy on this one, boss,” he said hesitantly. Rebecca blinked at him in surprise. “I want her too. I’m all for having this Ace up our sleeve. But this all seems like a lot to be fixed overnight.”

“Send her flowers, send her a singing telegram, get on your fucking hands and knees and beg— I don’t care how you do it! Just try!” Rebecca’s gaze had turned back to Roy, this time a bit more pleading. “Please. Fix it.”

And with that, Rebecca left the office, leaving two coaches and a journalist staring at Roy Kent.

This was the worst day of his life. It had to be. He’d never prepared himself to see you again because he was convinced that there was no probability it would happen. Selfishly, he’d figured that you coaching here wasn’t a true possibility, not because of any sort of lack of skill, but because some other team would scoop you up. But it was happening. This was a reality and Roy was sure he’d died and finally gone to hell.

And now he was expected to fix this? To interact with you? To potentially see and speak to you again? He was going to fucking throw up.

With this settling in, Roy released a deep, shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Fuuuuuck,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from his desk and storming out of the room.

And then there were three. Ted broke the silence with a question directed at Trent. “Y'all have singing telegrams over here?”

Trent nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure they’re just as awful as American ones.”

As Ted hummed in agreement, Beard narrowed his eyes at how his best friend’s attention was back on the open laptop in front of him. “You looking up where to get one?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied, eyes glued to the screen.

Beard got up from his chair. “Move over.”

Roy Kent is standing on your doorstep, and somehow that’s not the most surprising thing to happen to you all week.

However, you are surprised. So much so that the second you see him, a mix of red-hot anger and panic run through your veins, making you instantly slam the door in his face. Tragically, he’s quick enough to slip his foot between the door and the frame, not allowing you to keep him out. You see him grimace through the slit.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That’s a fucking heavy door.”

“Yeah?” you ask, continuing to push on the door like a five-year-old. “Surprised your reflexes were fast enough to pull that one off, Grandpa.” You glance down and do the math. “With your bad leg, too. Impressive.”

You see him wince at the pressure. “If you keep pushing on that door, we’re going to have an actual fucking problem.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” you reply. “Do I get a headstart when you have to pop the knee back in?”

Roy grunts. “I think it’s fair game with that ACL.”

You push harder on the door.

Roy’s had enough. His weird, Superman strength peaks through as he holds out an arm to push back, making you stumble slightly. “Can you fucking… stop?” His voice strains on that last word, finally opening the door enough to free his foot and keep it open. You know him well enough to know that trying to push back is useless. However, as you hide yourself behind it, your hand remains on the door, just in case.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“I frequent the West Ham directory,” he answers dryly. You move to push on the door once more, but he speaks before you can. “I fucking texted Rebecca. She somehow knew.”

While you were also weirded out about how Rebecca knew your address, her presence was much less off putting than the man’s before you. If he’d texted Rebecca about you, that meant you’d been talked about. Which meant that Rebecca had confronted Roy about your conflict. Which meant that he was here to…

The implication of it unnerves you. But still, you ask, “Why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

You scoff. “Well, we talked. I’m good for another ten years.”

It’s then that he says your name. Your actual name. Not your last name, or your number, or the stupid nickname he used to call you. And it’s said so softly. So much more gentle than you ever remember his voice being. It straight-up ambushes you, and the remainder of the grip you have on the door fades.

“Please,” he says in that same way. “Give me five minutes.” You rest your forehead on the door, wanting nothing more than to shut it in his face again and walk away. “Five minutes, and then you can tell me to fuck off.”

You’re not sure what makes you do it. You’re not sure why your resolve suddenly crumbles and you start to consider his words. Maybe it’s because you’re still surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted from this last week. Or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last four hours mulling over Rebecca’s offer and have realized you may actually want this.

Whatever it is, you groan dramatically, say something that sounds a whole lot like fine, fucking fine to Roy, and open your door all the way to really look at him for the first time in eight years.

The sight of you seems to catch him as off guard as he does for you. He looks older, years more mature than the last time you saw him. But it’s not just in the face. His entire presence seems matured. Healed. It’s jarring.

He’s well-groomed, a vast contrast to the guy you met back in 2012, but similar to the man you left in 2015. It’s just more so. Everything about him is… more. More well-polished. More striking. The TV spots you’ve seen don’t do him justice.

(You mentally kick yourself for even thinking that and immediately feel like you need to wash your hands.)

The dark Richmond Coaching shirt he wears nearly blends in with his eyes, but you swear they’ve gotten lighter. However, the intensity of his stare hasn’t changed. And that’s the first thing you notice as you realize he’s been doing the same sort of evaluation to you.

However, that stare stays on the stupid embroidered soccer ball shorts you now really wish you’d changed out of after Rebecca had left. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he says, “I can’t believe you still have those fucking shorts.”

A sudden, overwhelming feeling of… something washes over you and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. Because you don’t know what to say to that, and because you’re not sure you can respond to that in any sort of way, you cross your arms over your chest. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze on him. “Five minutes,” you tell him.

Roy seems to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, any trace of humor disappearing. Instead, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and clears his throat. He’s standing as if he’s about to make a grand speech, and it leads you to believe he’s rehearsed this. You may have laughed at him if you weren’t anticipating whatever the hell was about to come.

So, as Roy opens his mouth, you brace yourself for impact and wait.

And wait.

But nothing seems to come out. He’s stuck there, like he’s frozen in time, as if he’s some sort of animatronic that’s glitching out. You glance around to double-check that the trees on your street are still blowing in the wind.

Your head tilts, and you awkwardly press your lips together. “I think you’ve got four minutes now.”

Roy glares at you. “Can you just fucking—” He cuts himself off, pointing to his G-Wagon that’s parked outside of your apartment. “I spent two fucking hours in that car figuring out how I was going to fucking do this and then another hour outside of your fucking flat trying to work up the nerve to knock on your fucking door, so can you just shut the fuck up?”

Your hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” you say lightly. Then, you mutter, “You just like, gave yourself a time limit and—”

When he grits out your name, you raise your hands higher and shut your mouth.

A good thirty seconds go by before he finally says, “You played for how many years?”

You blink at him. That’s his big opening line? He knows how long you played— “Seven?”

“Yeah, I fucking know you played professionally for seven. How long overall?”

You have to think about it for a moment. “Since I was three,” you answer. “So, twenty-five years.”

“And how long did you coach?”

He knows this too, but you assume he’s doing it to prove a point. “Six,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Six,” he repeats. “That’s over thirty years you’ve devoted your life to football. Three fucking decades. That’s your entire fucking life.”

That same frustration you felt when Rebecca was talking to you this morning rears its ugly head. “What’s your point?”

Roy doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder. “My point is,” he says, “you’ve been in this game for three decades. Why?”

“W-why?” you stammer, staring at him like he’s insane. Nobody’s ever asked you that before. “What do you mean why?”

Roy returns the look. “There’s gotta be a reason you’ve been doing this shit for thirty years. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, shaking your head. “Because I’m good at it? Because it’s literally all that I’m good at? Because it’s all that I’ve ever known? I don’t—”

“No,” he says firmly, and for a moment, as he steps forward, you think he’s going to grab you by the shoulders in the way he used to. To get you out of your head and focus on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Fucking nobody does anything for that long just because they’re good at it. That can’t be the only reason.”

As he stares at you expectantly, you start to understand his train of thought. What he’s trying to get you to admit. What all of this has been about since you first kicked a ball at three years old. What allowed you to sport the number 14 for twenty-five years. Because it’s only ever been about one thing, and he, more than anyone, gets it.

So, as your shoulders slouch and your head bows slightly in an annoyed sort of surrender, he knows he’s got you. Roy fucking Kent, anger-management case study and hothead of the millennium, has got you. And he’s showcasing the type of speech and traits and breakthrough abilities that told you eight years ago that he’d be a fantastic coach. Not that he believed you. Or took it very well, for that matter.

Then, you hear his voice again. And this time, it’s a bit softer. As if there’s a fraction of a smile on his face. “So, why the fuck have you been playing this game for thirty years, you stupid fucking Yank?”

The nostalgia of the name hits you like a bus, and you’re thankful you’re leaning on the doorframe because you truly may have stumbled over. However, there’s no time to dwell on that. You’ve got an answer ready and it takes everything in you not to smile.

A heavy, labored, dramatic sigh escapes you, and you open your eyes to look at him. “Because I love it.”

“Because you fucking love it,” he echoes, and that fraction of a smile you heard in his voice happens to be hidden amongst his perpetual scowl. He takes a step closer to you, pointing at you and tapping on your shoulder. “Don’t you dare let that prick take that away from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look away from him. He’s right. Just like Rebecca, he’s right. You hate that he’s right, but he’s right. It’s been years since you’ve seen him be right, but it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.

You think back to what Rebecca said this morning. Don’t let him win. You didn’t want to. There was actually nothing less that you wanted than to allow him to have that sort of power over you.

But still, the fear lingers. It sits in your stomach and churns it. He said he’d ruin you. Turn the world against you. It’d be your word against the club’s and more importantly, your word against football darling and West Ham star, Tom MacDonald’s.

(“Sure, you can go public with it,” Rupert had told you, basking in the anger written in your expression. “But to be completely honest, love, I’m not sure anyone’s going to believe you.” He shrugged. “Only female coach in the league suddenly crying sexual harassment after she’s been fired? Seems a bit convenient to me, don’t you think?”)

You don’t mean for your voice to be as small as it is when you say, “But what if I’m actually done?”

Vulnerability’s never been something you’ve embraced, especially with your career path, and you hate the way you sound. Weak. Timid. Afraid. As you meet his gaze once again, you realize that you hate the way that Roy’s looking at you even more.

“You’re the furthest thing from done. Done hasn’t ever been a word in your fucking vocabulary,” he tells you. There’s no room for argument. “You wanna know why?” You shrug at him in response, cueing him to continue. “Because unfortunately, I fucking know you. And I know the only time you’d ever be done with this sport is when you’re fucking dead.”

This time, you do allow yourself to smile. It’s small and humorous— a tight-lipped agreement, but it’s enough for Roy to know he’s gotten through. You want to laugh, partly because you know he’s right, partly because you can’t fucking believe that you’re smiling at him, but you’re strong enough to keep that in.

“So, yeah. Don’t let that prick kill you. Don’t let any prick keep you out of this game. Especially coaching.” Roy shakes his head, pausing for a beat, as if he’s making an effort to say, “You’re too… fucking good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Took a lot to get that one out, huh?”

Roy’s quick with a response. “You’re lucky you got it at all.”

You scowl, but there’s not much in it. You’re used to that type of compliment from him. If you can even call it that. Still, the familiarity of it makes you the most uncomfortable you’ve been all day.

However, you’re distracted by one thing. Don’t let any prick keep you out of the game. He’s said it so casually, like he’d actually meant it. As if he had no sense of irony about it. It boils your blood and stirs something ugly in you.

That feeling prompts you to meet his gaze. “What if one of those pricks is right in front of me?”

For the first time all night, his stoic expression falters, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expected you to say. It was only a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.

But you hadn’t missed it. You’d seen the Tin Man facade crumble, even for just a second. You’d seen the hurt in his eyes, the regret. You’d celebrate it if it didn’t make you feel so unexpectedly awful.

He abruptly clears his throat with a solemn nod. “Well,” he says gruffly. ”Then don’t let me take that away either."

You look away from him, because you know that’s all you can do right now. Your mind’s racing a million miles an hour, thinking about him, about Rupert and West Ham and Tom MacDonald, and about the Richmond job. There’s a piece of you that wants to believe that everything that had happened this week was leading to this. To seeing him again, to being offered to work with him, to gain an opportunity for redemption in more ways than one.

But the more logical piece of you knows that’s all bullshit. And it’s that thought that puts you back in a more comfortable headspace.

“You know I can’t forgive you for what you did,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more. The weight of your words is heavy on your shoulders and you lean against your doorframe again. “I won’t forgive you.”

Roy nods stiffly. “I know,” he says. “And I can’t forgive you.”

You return his nod in understanding. “I know.”

His gaze leaves yours for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say next. How to work up the courage to do so.

“But if—” Roy’s voice comes out strained and he clears his throat. “If this is something you want, this coaching thing at Richmond, then I…” He looks at you and all you can see is sincerity. You hate it. “It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues or… fucking whatever.”

He appears to be just as bad at this as he was when you last saw him. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold in your laughter. By the way his face becomes instantaneously annoyed, you can tell he’s noticed.

You’re already talking before he can retract his statement. “How’s the team?”

If he’s offended by you not thanking him for doing the bare fucking minimum, he doesn’t show it, and takes your change in topic in stride. “Good,” he replies. “Pretty fucking good. We’re still trying to figure some shit out when it comes to—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’ve seen you guys play. I know you’re good. I mean—” Your throat suddenly gets tight, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach completely out of nowhere. A shaky breath leaves your lips. “The team. The guys. Are they…?”

Roy catches on. “They’re good lads,” he says, his voice telling you that it’s not a statement, but a fact. “Some of the best I’ve ever played with. Easy to coach too.”

Your brow quirks up. “Easy?”

“If two fucking clowns from Oklahoma and fucking… me are saying they’re easy,” he says, looking at you with intent as he trails off.

That same pit of anxiety bubbles up once more. “And, uh… Jamie Tartt? Is he—?” Roy’s brow furrows. “I’ve just heard some less-than-great things. Him being the star and all. Football darling or whatever. Are they true?”

Your over-explanation of the Richmond striker makes Roy narrow his eyes in suspicion. He opens his mouth to question it, but then realizes it’s you. There had to be some personal reason for you to bring it up. Whatever issue it was, he knew he was no longer personal enough with you to ask.

“He was a prick,” Roy finally settles on. “Now he’s less of a prick.”

The fond look in Roy’s eyes tells you that he’s warmed up to Jamie more than he’s letting on, and it puts you at ease. You nod in acknowledgment. Silence fills the air between you two, neither of you knowing what else to say.

You think about the team you’ve watched quietly on TV, studying up for your rivalry games with them when you were preparing to coach at West Ham. You think about your prospective coaching staff and the vitriol you heard in Nathan Shelley’s voice when you asked him about Ted Lasso. You think about the job and what evidently comes with it.

But most importantly, you think about the potential of this new position and the potential of this new beginning.

And while you’ve got questions, you realize they’re all for yourself. Not for Roy.

You’re out of questions and he’s out of time. Way out of time.

You remember this as you rock back on your heels. “I think you’ve gone over your five minutes.”

Roy looks at you expectantly. “Are you going to tell me to fuck off?”

“You? Absolutely,” you tell him, earning yet another eye roll. “But Richmond?” You pause, trying to ignore just how quietly hopeful he now looks. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Tell Rebecca I’ll consider it.”

Roy releases a relieved, thankful breath, nodding at you. “Good,” he says.

You nod back at him. “Wouldn’t want you to spend another three hours in your car trying to figure out how you’re gonna break the bad news to her.”

That eye roll returns, but there’s a bit of levity in it. He looks at you for a moment longer, biting the inside of his cheek like he's contemplating saying something else. Your brows furrow in interest, and as soon as they do, he seems to decide against it.

Roy turns to go down your steps with a shake of his head. “Get out of those fucking shorts and stop your wallowing, Fourteen,” he throws behind him as he walks away. “And clean your fucking flat!”

Glancing behind you, your jaw drops in outrage as you realize there’s no way in hell he saw your warzone living room from where he was standing. “You can’t even see into my apartment!”

He doesn’t turn around when he says, “I don’t need to see! I just fucking know you.”

You manage to suppress the urge to actually yell at him to fuck off at that, and instead choose to live with the wildly strange and undefinable feeling that overtakes your body, one that doesn’t dissolve until you watch him speed off down your street.

This fucking week, man.

You shut your door and turn to face your living room, a newfound disgust for the vile state that it’s in. Your lips curls up and you sigh, walking into your kitchen to grab a trash bag, making a plan of action for the night as you shake it out.

You replay your first conversation with Roy in eight years as you tidy up your apartment. You make a mental pros and cons list of the Richmond job as you take the longest, most necessary shower of your life. You chuckle to yourself at the idea of Rupert and Tom’s faces if they were to see that you’d been picked up by Richmond.

You sleep well for the first night in three days, on clean sheets, in clean pajamas, embroidered soccer ball shorts joining your dirty laundry.

You’re bounding into your kitchen at nine the next morning to grab Rebecca’s card that you left on your counter, brewing an espresso as you call her.

#roy kent #ted lasso #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent fic #roy kent x you #ted lasso fanfiction #aatwe #the one who can't walk up stairs #aces

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jebewonmorelike · 1 year ago

Text

Whatever You Say, President-nim

Part Two of "So You Can Do Yours"

⋆ ✮ ⋆

part one: "so you can do yours" wc: 2.6k pronouns: none used; n/a warnings: mentions of food-- specifically gunwook saying he skips lunch to get to work quicker (he's fine, he's just in love), lots of fluff, reader is a bit angsty bc they are missing out on being a kid/young adult/student summary: younganddumbCEO!reader offers to pick up assistant!gunwook at his university one afternoon to "help get him to work on time" ~masterlist~ ♡ ~kofi (no pressure at all)~ so after you read this... you will notice its still open-ended. i really liked this little story i'm crafting for wookie so i think i'll have one more part to it! i really wanted to write this; i definitely got a lot of intrinsic joy out of it and that is what i've been missing from my writing recently. it was super fun to write-- i hope the couple of friends who have asked about a part 2 enjoy this too!! thanks for supporting me on this quasi-break, it means a lot. please give me any feedback you have no matter how small; i just love hearing that you liked it. :)

“It’s almost there, but...” You whisper to yourself, carefully dotting your paint brush to the canvas to touch up the mossy bank in the bottom right corner. Creating a deeper shadow in the greenery, you smile as you imagine what your assistant will say when he sees your progress.

Gunwook typically requests that you save your painting for when he’s working so that he can adequately cover all your job-related duties for you. You know you should be responding to your emails or reviewing the paperwork he finished for you yesterday to better familiarize yourself with it, but you just couldn’t help yourself. The idea of adding deeper shadow to the green areas of the painting had come to you last night in a dream and you’d been bursting at the seams to follow through on it since you woke up this morning.

What time is it? You wonder, glancing up at the clock above your doorframe to find that it’s almost 1 P.M. On Thursdays, Gunwook clocked in at 1:30 P.M. after finishing his classes at his university for the day. Just a little bit longer...

“President-nim?” The voice of Secretary Lee over the intercom breaks your focus from your painting. The small brush you're holding tumbles from your hand, a dot of dark green landing onto the perfect pale blue sky. You close your eyes, inhaling for four seconds and exhaling for six-- the breathing exercise that your assistant had introduced to you last month to cope with your frustration and anxiety at work.

With the amount of times you’d had to use it to keep yourself from impulsively firing his own mother, you’re sure Gunwook was glad he’d found the right one for you.

You pick up your paintbrush calmly and place it into the mason jar of water on your desk before leaning over to the intercom and pressing the microphone button. “Yes?”

“Could I come have a word with you, President-nim?” She asks politely, but hurriedly. “It’s a bit urgent.”

“Come in, Secretary,” you agree, shutting the top of your desk quickly to conceal your artspace. You throw some papers that Gunwook had completed yesterday for you across your desk in an attempt to make yourself look busy.

With a soft knock at the door, Secretary Lee enters as you pretend to study some of the papers-- tapping the base of a ballpoint pen to your chin in faux concentration.

“President-nim,” Secretary Lee greets with a bow as she makes her way up to your desk. She glances down at the papers you’re pretending to fill out, eyes lingering a bit too long. “Are you very busy with paperwork?”

“Oh, um,” you start, nodding a bit too hastily. “Yes, but please share with me what you need to.”

After a moment of continued suspicion, Secretary Lee finally moves on, responding, “I have to leave now to get the plans you approved from the Engineering Sector this morning to Board Executive Han in Incheon. He requested they be delivered immediately to his office.”

“That sounds great,” you reply with a nod. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll get back to work now.”

“Well, there’s--,” Secretary Lee says quickly, bowing slightly in apology for the continued interruption. “There’s a slight problem that I have to make you aware of.”

You frown, an eyebrow raising expectantly.

“The drive isn’t too long and I don’t mind making it,” she prefaces, clasping her hands together. “But it will interfere with my lunch break and... That's when I pick up my son from his university and bring him to work. He can take the bus, but there've been long delays recently so I’ve been driving him to and from school so he isn’t late.”

“Ah,” you reply, placing your pen down on the table.

“So I wanted to apologize and warn you that Gunwook could be very late today,” Secretary Lee says, fidgeting with a button on her coat. “I’m sorry about this, President-nim.”

To your embarrassment, a flood of disappointment hits you. You’d been really looking forward to showing your assistant the new additions to your painting.

And drinking his expertly-made coffee. And being both offended and impressed by at least one unavoidable and perfectly crafted new insult. And seeing that genuine, absolutely magnetic smile...

“I can pick him up.”

The offer slips out impulsively. Looking up at Secretary Lee, you notice that she’s somehow much less surprised by it than you are.

“Are you sure, President-nim?” She asks with a small smile. “That’s a lot of trouble to ask of you. You’re so busy right now with all of this paperwork!”

“I am so busy with paperwork, yes," you nod, putting on your most convincing performance. "But I... I actually was going to run something over to my mother’s office, so...”

“Ah,” Secretary Lee affirms with a nod. “Then if it’s no trouble, I’m sure Gunwook would love that, President-nim.”

Your face flushes slightly at her words. You wish she hadn’t told you that her son had finally agreed to be your assistant after he’d seen a picture of you. It was wildly unprofessional.

But even worse, it sometimes made you... think things.

Like maybe when Gunwook smiled at you, he wasn’t just trying to please his boss. Like maybe he actually liked you. Even just as a friend. Maybe he really meant all of his niceties. That wasn't something you often experienced in your life.

“Right,” you reply finally, shaking your head a bit to stop the thought spiral. “Well, have a safe drive, Secretary Lee.”

“You as well, President-nim,” she says, glancing at your paperwork one more time. “Do you need new pens to be ordered for you?”

You tilt your head to the side confusedly. “Why do you say that?”

“Your writing isn’t as neat as it usually is, President-nim,” Secretary Lee says; the hint of a smirk appearing on her lips. “You’re starting to write chicken scratch... just like my son!"

“Very funny,” you deadpan, shooing her towards the door with your hand. “I do my own paperwork, Secretary Lee.”

“Of course, President-nim,” she allows with a laugh as she opens the door to your office and steps outside. “Whatever you say, President-nim!”

Like mother, like son.

__________________________________________

Pulling into a parking spot in front of Yonsei University’s Yonhee Hall, you quickly notice a small group of students in front of you ogling your car. In your high hopes to feel nostalgic and comfortable on a university campus again, you’d completely forgotten about the spectacle that is your baby blue 2024 Porsche 911.

Grabbing your phone and keys and stuffing them into your back pockets, you open the car door and climb out-- a chorus of excited whispers when the three students in front of you see your face.

“Whoah,” one boy says in disbelief. “Expensive car AND good-looking? That's just not fair."

“A student could never afford that car,” the girl next to him whispers back as you start to walk over to where they’re standing in front of the steps to the building.

“I’m not a student,” you reply, which visibly shocks the girl and her friends. “Did you guys just get out of class?”

“At 1:15, yeah. Public Policy Analysis,” a shorter boy next to her replies. With a timid smile, he continues, “We’re heading to eat. Do you wanna join us?”

The girl hits his arm. “Don’t be so desperate.”

“Sorry,” the boy says quickly.

“Let’s just go,” the taller boy says. “Gunwook never comes to eat with us anyway-- I don’t know why you continue to insist that we invite him.”

You notice how the girl looks away in what appears to be embarrassment. Had this girl fallen for Gunwook, too?

You did not just think ‘too’.

You clear your throat, quickly repeating, “Gunwook?”

“Yeah, he’s our friend, sort of, who--...” The shorter boy starts to explain for you (which is very kind of him, considering you’re a total stranger), but his attention suddenly shifts to the top of the building steps behind you. “Oh there he is. Gunwook-ah!”

You turn around slowly to find Gunwook staring back at you wide-eyed. Noticing his black university hoodie and his Adidas joggers, his backpack slung over one shoulder, and his un-styled hair falling into his eyes... you have to physically swallow down the lump of anxiety that’s formed in your throat.

“(Y/N)?” Gunwook asks, running down the building steps to you. “What are you doing here?”

“Y-your mom had to deliver something in Incheon,” you reply nonchalantly as your downright adorable assistant flops his way down to you; towering over you from the step above and smiling.

"So you came to rescue me?" He asks with a smirk.

“Gunwook-ah,” the girl beside you calls, the slightest air of annoyance in her voice. “Is this your friend?”

“Yeah-- or... Um,” Gunwook stumbles as he grins at you. “My boss, actually.”

“You’re Gunwook's boss? I thought you worked for the President of KCTech Company,” the taller boy replies, eyeing you up and down suspiciously.

Gunwook nods-- not once taking his eyes off of you. “I do.”

“The President of KCTech Company is a teenager?” The girl scoffs, folding her arms in front of her chest.

“I turned 20 last month,” you correct with a grimace.

“Whoah,” the shorter boy whispers in awe. “So are you part of a chaebol family?”

Both of his friends issue a punch to his arms. “Sorry,” he says quickly.

“It’s okay. I am,” you say, shaking your head dismissively. “But I anxiously await you political science majors striking my family down with new policies in the future.”

“Okay, and we’re leaving,” Gunwook says, taking your arm and dragging you the rest of the way down the stairs with him.

“But I meant it,” you protest, trying to keep yourself from fully processing that Gunwook has now engulfed your hand in his gigantic one and seems to have no plans to let it go.

“I know you meant it, but we don’t need three university students selling a story to a tabloid about how the President of KCTech challenged them to economic warfare after class,” Gunwook explains with a sigh. As he pulls you towards your car, you hear the group of friends still mumbling about the interaction they just witnessed.

“Am I going crazy or is Gunwook... holding his boss’s hand?” The taller boy asks, wiping his eyes with his fists to make sure he’s seeing clearly.

The shorter boy laughs. “I'm pretty sure he also used informal speech.”

“Whatever,” you hear the girl huff sadly as Gunwook opens your car door for you and gestures for you to get in.

Once you’re inside your car, Gunwook shuts the door for you and makes his way to the other side. That’s when you realize... you’re sitting in the passenger’s seat.

Gunwook opens the driver’s side door and hops inside; watching as his classmates talk amongst each other-- debating whether or not to start to head to lunch. Your assistant waves to them happily through the front window.

“What are you doing?” You ask, shocked at your assistant’s actions.

“Waving to my friends,” he answers dumbly.

“Why are you acting like you’re about to drive my car!?” You exclaim, hand flying to his shoulder to shake him a bit.

Gunwook smirks at you. “Because I am.”

“No, no, no, no,” you squeeze his shoulder harder. “No, you are not.”

“You wouldn’t embarrass me in front of my classmates,” Gunwook challenges, batting his eyelashes cutely. “Would you, President-nim?”

Every time you think your assistant’s gone as far as he can go, he always pushes you a bit further. And you’d be bold-faced lying if you said you didn’t love it.

“Gunwookie,” you whine rather unprofessionally. “Ugh, fine. But if you crash this car, I swear I’m gonna--.”

Gunwook presses the start button on the car excitedly, fastening his seatbelt before pulling out of the parking space without looking both ways.

“Please, Gunwookie,” you beg, fastening your seatbelt frantically. “I really like this car. It’s the only present my father’s ever gotten me that I actually liked.”

The boy tenses a bit, meeting your gaze and nodding quietly in agreement before pressing the gas pedal with his foot at a responsible velocity. Gunwook drives through the campus and out onto the main road diligently, stopping for 3 seconds at stop signs, minding crosswalks, and breaking gradually. He’s a good driver-- which shouldn’t come as much of a shock to you, considering he’s good at pretty much everything he does.

He’d even painted some pretty convincing trees last week when you’d shown him the brush technique before you left work.

“How come you don’t drive more often?” You ask, reaching to your back pocket and pulling out your phone. “Your mom has to drive you to work every day.”

“I don’t have a car,” Gunwook answers, signaling a turn. “Or a license.”

Your phone drops from your hands into your lap. “WHAT!?”

“Relax! I have a permit,” he says with a laugh as your hands fly to cover your face in despair. “You’re supervising me, President-nim. I know you won’t let anything bad happen to your favorite assistant.”

“The ice is so thin, Wookie.”

The nickname leaves your lips before you can consider its implications. Gunwook clears his throat awkwardly, focusing back on the road. You continue in silence for a bit, looking out the window as Gwanghwamun approaches. But there’s something you still want to say before you reach the office building.

“Gunwook-ah?”

The boy glances at you expectantly. “Yes, President-nim?”

“Those kids,” you start, watching as his grip on the steering wheel slips gradually to a more comfortable position. “They said they keep asking you to go to lunch after class with them.”

“Oh,” he replies, nodding as he sucks his teeth. “One, they're not kids-- they're literally a year younger than you and so am I. And, two, I don’t really have time. I have to get to the office by 1:30 to--”

“One, you're two years younger than me. And two, come at 2:30 from now on,” you interject. Gunwook’s eyebrows knit with confusion, but you continue, “Eat lunch with your classmates while you can.”

Your assistant’s expression softens as he meets your gaze, but you think you would prefer that he didn’t look at you with this much pity again any time soon.

“You’ll regret not spending more time doing fun things like that when you can’t anymore,” you explain, tugging at the skin around your nails. “You should be doing things you enjoy, is what I mean.”

“Thank you, (Y/N),” Gunwook says with a smile. “I’ll eat lunch with my classmates more often. But...”

You raise an eyebrow as Gunwook pulls into a parking spot on the street-- one that luckily doesn’t require him to parallel. He’s a good driver, but you’re not ready to test his skills that much. Pushing the engine button to turn the car off, Gunwook leans back in his seat and turns to look at you.

“I hope you know I also enjoy working, too,” he says; a cheeky grin lighting up his face as he adds, “With you.”

You pout at him to combat the smile that’s desperately trying to creep onto your face. “Who wouldn’t enjoy working with me?”

“Literally every person you’ve ever hired,” he throws back at you.

There’s not much you can say. He’s right. Which begs the question...

“Why do you like working with me?”

Gunwook hums contentedly. “There’s a lot of reasons.”

“Huh,” you reply, still admiring him in his street clothes. Unfortunately picking up Gunwook after class had only made your desire to be normal grow stronger. If things were different, maybe you would’ve met Gunwook in the dining hall on campus-- stared at him in his round glasses until one day you finally worked up the courage to speak to him. You’d have friends instead of employees. Art classes instead of meetings. Parties instead of paperwork. “They must be pretty good reasons to ditch lunch with your friends.”

“I actually usually skip lunch altogether so I can see you quicker,” he rebuts; eyes widening in panic as soon as he realizes what he’s just said. “I--... I mean, get to you quicker. You know... For work. And stuff.”

Gunwook was not known to throw an “and stuff” around very often-- he’s usually more eloquent and thoughtful when he speaks. The way his cheeks start to flush as he blinks at you; lips pouted like a baby chick... It's enough to make you wonder if his words might not have been a simple misspeaking, but rather a truth that slipped out accidentally.

“Come on,” you call, unfastening your seatbelt and opening the car door-- stepping out onto the sidewalk and waiting for your assistant to follow. Gunwook hops out of the car before sheepishly joining you on the sidewalk. You head towards the doors of your office building, but then, much to Gunwook’s surprise, continue to walk past them.

“President-nim?” He calls after you. “Where are you going?”

“To lunch,” you answer over your shoulder. “My assistant’s been going hungry in order to report to his boss on time! We don��t want a headline about that, do we?”

Hearing footsteps pounding against the pavement to catch up with you, your arm brushes against Gunwook’s as he falls into step beside you. “He does it willingly, though, (Y/N).”

“Not anymore, he doesn’t,” you reply, eyes focused on the road ahead of you in an effort to ignore his use of your name. “From now on, my favorite assistant will eat well and he’ll like it.”

Gunwook laughs next to you and you make the deadly mistake of looking up at him. He smiles at you fondly through the fringe that’s falling in his eyes and says softly:

“Whatever you say, President-nim.”

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the-red-thread-that-strangles · 8 months ago

Text

Part I

"Are you free Thursday evening?" Akai's facing away from him, getting out of the car in a hurry. Rei's picked him up from his flat this morning (his mustang broke down, apparently), which is how they're both running late now. It's a good thing the meeting can't start without them.

In any case, Rei isn't - things have been busy in the aftermath of the takedown of the organisation, as Akai should be well aware. He did, after all, just return from a three-month vacation to FBI headquarters in Washington. The official cover story, as far as Rei knows, is Okiya going to the US to continue his PhD, while the authorities prepared to reintroduce the reborn Akai Shuichi to the world. Now he's back for good, officially appointed as the FBI's liaison to the PSB.

While he didn't share what he was up to while he was waiting to be processed, Rei has a pretty good guess - the higher-ups have been expecting all sorts of reports from him, after all, and surely Akai is just as vital a source, involved as they both were. The thought of him doing paperwork is amusing, and strangely domestic in its mundanity. (He'd love to see it.)

So, he'll figure something out. Several people owe him favours, and he has five years of vacation to catch up on. This is the first time Akai is reaching out for a meeting outside of work (not that Rei kept track or anything), and he's not about to let that chance slip through his fingers.

"I'll make it work. What for?" Agreeing without even knowing what he agreed to, he really is pathetic. And yet. He trusts the other won't waste his time or ask for the impossible.

"Dinner at the Myosotis. Seven p.m."

Rei blinks. That rings a bell. Western style fine dining, prohibitively expensive. Waiting lists of half a year, at least. Back then, they were just barely collaborating, surely Akai didn't plan this far ahead? How, then, did he get a table, and why is he inviting Rei to go there? That's the kind of place people go to for romantic marriage proposals; not the sort of restaurant the two of them would frequent, if they do eat out.

"I've already said yes, but... that's quite high-class, isn't it?" Not that he minds - being Bourbon taught him how to frequent places like that. It's just that Akai has never given any sort of indication he might like that kind of place. Huh.

(And really, if he's being honest, any place would be fine as long as it's with Akai. They have a couple of months to catch up on, after all.)

The smile Akai gives him in response is...odd. Small and genuine, private in the way that he's only ever seen Shuichi look at a select few people. Akemi. His siblings. Shinichi. But it doesn't reach his eyes, this time; instead, they're narrowed, burning with something like dread. Rei can't quite make sense of the expression.

"I think the occasion warrants it", is all Akai says before he slams the car door shut, turning his back to Rei. And that's the end of that conversation.

Alright then. Weird.

After that, Rei can't shake the feeling that Akai avoids him outside of work. Takes his smoke breaks alone, leaves immediately after they're done.

In situations like these Rei wishes he could talk to Hiro. It's a best friend's duty to help figure out if he's making something out of nothing, right? Maybe Akai really is just busy. And maybe he truly is in the mood for a celebratory dinner; after all, they haven't really had time to spend together since they came out of hiding, ripped apart by work and duty. They've talked, of course, but now that he's back it seems like the circumstances have calmed down enough to consider such a thing. (Even though a nagging thought tells him the official celebratory gala will be held in a couple of months, marking the half-year anniversary of the operation, and he knows Akai isn't looking forward to it.)

The thing is, that doesn't warrant it the look Akai gave him. That look was charged, it meant something. Through the years, Akai has looked at him a great many different ways. Rye mostly cold and disinterested at first, then with that faintly concealed amusement that still drives him up the walls. Okiya usually observed him with curiosity and caution. And Akai? A variety of expressions. Laughter and pain and gratitude. That bone-deep weariness that seems to cling to him like his shadow. Just once, with surprise. But rarely, if ever, as scared as he'd looked when he'd asked him out.

What was he afraid of? It's not like Rei was going to decline dinner, even if he's a little insulted it's western food. (Then again, he's quite proud of his prowess regarding traditional Japanese cuisine, so really, that would've been a worse choice.) Akai might just crave nostalgic food.

This is the third time this week he's reached this point in the argument with himself, and it really doesn't feel like he's getting any closer to the truth.

In the years he's known him, Akai has never shown to be the type to celebrate. Not that the organisation left much room to celebrate. As Okiya, Rei never got close enough to figure out his preferences. And as for Akai...well, he seemed happy enough, if exhausted, coming back from his sister's birthday party, and that's really the only indication Rei has. Maybe he doesn't know Akai as well as he thought. The idea stings.

Still, it makes no sense. If he wanted to celebrate, the takedown was a team effort, and Rei knows agents Starling and Black are in the country. He's checked their schedules, but neither they nor Kazami are free next week, at that certain hour. (Alright, well, in Kazami's case it might be Rei's fault he's busy, but he needs someone capable to cover for him.)

The Kudos, arguably the masterminds behind the operation, have left for a vacation to the Swiss alps, too. Allegedly, they've taken Shinichi with them to recover in mountain air - privately, Rei has heard through the grapevine that talking things out with Ran didn't go so well. She's asked for some time to think about their relationship, so Shinichi is off bringing crime to Swiss ski resorts for a change.

None of the usual suspects are free, or invited. It seems it's really just the two of them.

He doesn't want to, can't afford to indulge the foolish hope that Akai might've missed him as much as Rei did (his dry wit, his dependability, the scent of his cigarettes and aftershave in their sheets). They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but is it enough for such a shift to occur with Akai?

Their work did keep them too busy to do anything but exchange short texts or calls every once in a while. That little had been a must, for Rei; while officially the organisation might be gone, some stragglers have yet to be found. Thus, he's been checking up on Akai, just to make sure he's still alright out there. (He wants to touch him and hold him and hear his heartbeat, wants to make sure he's alive. Wants too many things he can't have, as usual.)

Rei has promised himself he'll never act on these feelings; can't destroy this careful balance they have managed to attain. But if Akai's the one reaching out, who is Rei to decline? If after all they've gone through Akai still wants to stay by his side, Rei doesn't have the strength to push him away for his own good.

Throughout their relationship, it's always been Rei asking to meet him to exchange sweaters and information. For Akai to take this step now, and in such a grandiose manner, leaves him reeling, uncertain of the other's intentions. Among the living, he's probably the one who knows the sniper best, and yet he just can't figure out what this means. The uncertainty is maddening.

Damnit, really, what is he supposed to think about Akai inviting him to a high-class dinner? Just the two of them?

Hiro hasn't contacted him either, since that time in the Kudo mansion. He'd assured Rei he was safe, doing alright. Sorry for not being able to meet. And that was that.

(In a moment of weakness, Rei's asked Akai for his number. But Akai had revealed he'd only gotten the contact info for a burner phone, worthless after that one use.)

He's missed Hiro before, when he wasn't sure whether he was alive or dead, but somehow, knowing he is out there and not being able to reach him is worse. Hiro was supposed to have his back, and now he can't even help him out with his uncertain thoughts and feelings regarding one Akai Shuichi. Traitor.

Rei's fretting for hours about his look for dinner. (When was he last out on a date that actually mattered?)

It's not like he's lacking in confidence. He knows he cleans up nicely, and working with Vermouth for years has left him fashion-conscious. He's perfectly aware of how to dress up appropriately for a venue like the Myosotis. Honestly, he's more concerned (and quite frankly, intrigued) how Akai will fare.

Still, he wonders if the red tie is perhaps a bit too much. He's added it on a whim, for a splash of colour, but now he's considering whether it's too bold, wearing Akai's namesake openly. He's probably overthinking it. It's not like Akai to pick up on such clues.

He's triple-checked, by this point, his nails and hair and teeth. His suit is crisply ironed. It's perfect. What could possibly go wrong?

Rei finds himself at the restaurant a quarter hour early. A waiter shows him to the lovely window seats Akai has reserved for them, looking out over the city's lights. It's beautiful. The place is pleasantly quiet, a separée creating an ambience of privacy. Bathing the space in warm light is a cream candle, placed on a perfectly ironed tablecloth. After a couple of moments, the waiter returns with a bottle of quality champagne, chilled for their convenience.

Myosotis couldn't be more stereotypically romantic if it tried, and Rei finds his face burning as hot as the flame in front of him. It's a good thing he's a little early; he'll need time to steady himself to face Akai. Maybe have a glass of cool champagne to calm his nerves.

Rei runs one last check, refreshes his cologne on neck and wrist, and waits.

A couple minutes go by, during which he tries several different grounding techniques, to limited effect. He still perks up when, from the corner of his eyes, he spots Okiya's pastel pink hair - though it is in confusion, the excitement dying down quickly, replaced with fury. The posture of the man is incredibly familiar.

Conscious of where they are, and what is appropriate, Rei gets up from their table to greet him.

"You've kept me waiting long enough."

And with the brightest possible smile he can muster, he slaps his best friend across the face, hard.

"Yeah, I guess I deserve that." At least it's his own voice. Hiro's awkward smile looks off on Okiya's pretty face, and Rei has to fight the urge to throw his arms around his neck. Whether to hug him or strangle him, he doesn't quite know, himself.

"You..." 'deserve much worse than that. Deserve much better than that. Are an asshole and an idiot and it's so good to see you-'

People are noticing the commotion. Bourbon's reflexes kick in, uncomfortable with the attention. He finds himself closing the distance and hissing at Hiro.

"Take a seat before we cause even more of a scene."

Hiro-as-Okiya follows him into the separée. A waiter comes by, pouring him a glass of champagne too. The mood is as frosty as their drinks.

Hiro makes no move to continue the conversation. Great.

"...would you care to explain", Rei asks through his best Amuro smile, "what exactly you are doing here?" He considers adding 'and why you are dressed as Akai's ridiculous cover', but figures that one's self-evident.

"I wanted to see you, so Akai helped me out. The paperwork is taking its sweet time." He says it nonchalantly, as if it is that simple. As if he hasn't been MIA for half a year, and presumed KIA for years before that.

He's willing to bet this meeting was Akai's bright idea. Rei's all too familiar with his idea of 'help'. Doing what he thinks is best in the shadows, without talking to the person he's allegedly helping out.

It sucks, because he knows the FBI agent meant well. He probably thought this was a pleasant surprise. (And it is, just a little.)

It just very much does not help that Rei had quite different expectations of how this evening would go. He was expecting something much nicer than spontaneously having to decide whether he should make use of Hiro's shellfish allergy and poison him right then and there. (The answer is no, will always be no, who is he even kidding.)

Hiro's blue eyes stare at him from across the table, illuminated in warm candlelight. They clash horribly with the pink hair. It makes Rei nauseous. He looks down at the table.

He manages a strangled "I would have appreciated a heads-up." For this situation in particular and the fact that Hiro's alive, in general.

"Did he not tell you?"

"No. And it's not like I expected anything of the sort from him." 'You, however, should have known better.'

"Look, Zero-" Rei's withering glare makes him falter for a second, but he presses on. "I couldn't let you know. It was too dangerous at the time, for myself and Rye. And you."

Oh, great. Another person looking out for his supposed well-being. Except, it really only was about the success of their mission, wasn't it? As if that was ever worth his best friend's life.

He clenches his fist under the table, tries to calm himself. Fails. "I get that. I really, truly do." He rises, slams his hands on the table, leans across. Stares at the farce that is Okiya, just a lie this time.

"But it's been three years, Hiro." Then, quietly: "I thought you were dead."

Countless nights spent visiting morgues, checking if all bodies matching Hiro's stature were accounted for. Checking international flights. Investigating the ruins of the exploded building, in hopes of finding evidence of tampering. Looking over the remains of the body, burnt and crushed, with only the totality of the destruction hinting at foul play. Years and years of hounding Akai, trying to get answers from the one person who had to know, only to not make it in time. That terrible night Gin had sent him a gift, Akai falling lifelessly back into the video's frame, joining Scotch in a violent end; his last lead going up in flames and smoke. Mourning Matsuda and Date, alone.

He fights down the bile rising in his throat with practiced ease. His eyes sting and burn, but he won't be embarrassed now by giving in.

To his credit, Hiro has backed off as far as he can, shrinking under Rei's glare. Familiar blue eyes lock with his, and Rei needs to focus on them because everything else about the Okiya getup gives him whiplash he doesn't know how to deal with. Hiro takes a breath, steadies himself.

"Zero." A warm hand is gently laid atop his own. So familiar, so comforting, even after years apart. Rei wants to run, or fight, or both, but finds himself anchored in place.

"I'm sorry. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, as many times as you need me to."

As if any number of apologies could erase years and years of grief and guilt and loneliness. If he'd just been faster, if Hiro had just trusted him, they would've found a solution, it was never worth his life-

"...why didn't you come to me, Hiro?" Idiot.

Because after months and years to contemplate it, that's the root of the problem, isn't it? The start of the betrayal. The broken promise from their academy days, splintering even further. 'We can handle anything, as long as we're together.' And then fate had ripped them apart, one by one, counting down to zero. Except Hiro had had a choice.

"I'm sorry. I did what I thought was necessary." He wears his emotions on his face.

And for a split-second, Rei doesn't see Hiro. He sees Akai, a week ago; his small smile, his pained eyes. Denial and self-sacrifice. Just what in the world made Akai look at him like that?

It's disorienting enough that he finds his spiralling thoughts interrupted, blinking at Hiro. He backs off, sits back down.

"Promise me, now, that you'll never run off like that again." Please, he can't say, but tries to convey through squeezing Hiro's hand just slightly too hard, before he pulls back in time for the waiter coming in with their entrées.

"I'll try."

Rei glares at him. Not good enough.

"Okay, okay, I won't." Hiro laughs, and oh, how Rei has missed the sound. Some of the tension bleeds out of him, and he finds himself joining his best friend, helplessly.

This isn't over, the pain isn't gone. It's unlikely it ever will, and there surely will be more arguments in the future (and sparring. He really wants to knock some more sense into Hiro). The trust they're missing will be hard to rebuild.

But Rei has had no choice but to live without Hiro for three years now. Has missed him painfully, every single day. If he's going to live in pain either way, might as well have it caused by Hiro's continued presence by his side.

If he gets a second chance at life then Hiro deserves one, too.

...................................................................................

Part II

Dinner after that is slow, but pleasant.

Akai has apparently pre-ordered roasts that need several days to be prepared for them, and while the quality is good, the style of food just isn't Rei's favourite. Hiro seems pretty delighted by it though, so that's something at least.

They leave charged topics carefully untouched. Since Hiro isn't on active duty, Rei can't really talk about his PSB work, and Hiro isn't at liberty to talk about his cover either. So small talk it is. Rei shows Hiro pictures of Haro, and he's immediately taken (as he should).

By the time they've made it past the main dish, they're running out of idle chitchat. Hiro's bracing himself, seems to be working up the courage to ask something. Rei can already tell he won't like the upcoming conversation.

"So, Zero." He folds his hands together, and leans on the table, looking inquisitively. "Do you mind explaining what's going on between you and Akai?"

"Nothing." The answer comes too quick and too pressed, he's not fooling anyone. And that's without accounting for the fact that Hiro knows him too well, even after three years apart. He smiles, faintly.

"Of course. Nice cologne, by the way. I'm sure Hagiwara would approve of the selection." He taps the fingers of the hand he's wrapped around Rei's wrist earlier on the wooden table. Rei feels embarrassment well up. Hiro, as usual, is annoyingly perceptive. Still, cologne is not too out of the ordinary. He tries to cover his choice up with professionalism, and even almost believes himself.

"Yes. It's only proper for an establishment such as this one."

"Yes, yes." Hiro concedes, too easily. His eyes narrow, aiming for the kill. "And I guess red just happens to be your new favourite colour?" The crimson tie around his neck feels too much like a noose, suddenly, restricting his airflow. It's probably the damn candle's fault too, burning all their oxygen. He flushes, despite his best efforts.

"Not my favourite, but it felt appropriate for a celebration", he gets out. It really doesn't help that Hiro is wearing Akai's second skin, the one he's too comfortable seeing. Though the eyes are different, he has trouble shaking the reminder of certain evenings in the Kudo manor. Drinking their sorrows away, just the two of them.

"And you were going to celebrate with a romantic candlelight dinner?" Hiro's arched eyebrow could reach space.

"Trust me, that is as strange to me as it must be to you."

"Oh no, it isn't - I've seen the look he gets when you text him."

And Rei hates himself, hates his traitorous body that perks up at those words, hates the burning curiosity. Wants Hiro to explain, wants it to be true. Hates that Hiro knows how to play him, still, judging by that infuriatingly kind smile. Hiro is so lucky they're in public. He'd very much like to wipe it from his face.

Rei wonders, briefly, if that's why Akai selected the location, and didn't tell him the truth - if he'd asked, Rei's not sure he would have agreed to meet Hiro, the betrayal still too painful in his mind. Not that this kind of secrecy is appreciated. He really thought they were past that, by now. He'll need to deal with Akai, properly, later.

"Do I look like I care about what the FBI idiot is up to?"

He knows a tactical misstep when he sees it, and he's walked right into this one.

"To be quite honest with you: yes." Hiro hides his smile behind his glass of champagne. Badly. His eyes shine with amusement.

Damnit. What's the point of pretending when Hiro just sees right through him anyways? Rei's so tired of fighting himself at every step.

"Alright, fine. Make yourself useful, then. What did he look like?"

"He lit up like his phone's screen whenever a new text arrived." That, at least, is soothing. There had been quite a few texts. He'd assumed, after all, that he was keeping a bored and lonely Akai company. Just how long has Hiro been with him? Did Akai just ignored his best friend during their flight in favour of chatting with Rei? Asshole.

"If I dare say so, it was quite cute."

Rei doesn't bother to dignify that with a response. His burning cheeks probably provide more of an answer than he would like to give, anyways.

"Alright, I won't push you if you don't want to talk about it. Just know that I'll have an open ear for you, if you change your mind." He slips a card with a handwritten phone number in it. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. Rei memorizes it, then burns the paper.

"By the way." Hiro seems a little concerned, fiddling with his glass. "Akai gave me a couple of odd looks while we were flying back. Any idea what that's about? He went out of his way to sneak me into the country, and we had some good talks, so I struggle to see why he's upset with me?"

At this point, the waiter brings in their dessert.

A medium-sized chocolate cake, heart-shaped. A fork is delicately placed on either side.

Hiro shrugs in response to his questioning look. Amuro's customer service smile slips on easily enough. "I'm sorry? I think you've mistaken the dessert for this table."

"Ah, no, gentlemen. All dishes have been prepared according to the requests of the person making the reservation." How odd.

They thank the waiter, wait until he's out of earshot.

Disjointed information is snapping into place.

"Hiro, you've seen more of him recently. Please tell me this is Akai's idea of a joke."

Because the man has a keen sense of humour, even if it's often only for his own amusement. Gods know as Bourbon Rei wanted to strangle him for his quiet mockery.

But surely he can't be implying what Rei thinks he's implying.

"Hm." Hiro pauses for a minute, bless him, actually contemplating the issue while taking an appreciative bite from the chocolate cake. Which they will not be sharing, like that. Rei cuts it in half with his fork, dragging one half towards his side of the plate.

"I don't think so, no. It's hard to tell with him." 'No, it's not', Rei wants to say, 'you can tell by the barely visible laughter lines around his eyes.' He wisely keeps his mouth shut. It wouldn't help his case about how little is going on between him and Akai.

"But I'm inclined to say he was painfully sincere. It was his idea to arrange this dinner, and before he dropped me off, he wished me good luck. I assumed, at the time, that he was concerned about me walking back out alive without my head bitten off. Now, I think he might have somehow gotten the wrong idea about us."

Rei shoves a piece of chocolate cake into his mouth. The icing melts pleasantly on his tongue.

Akai set him up on a date with his best friend.

The FBI agent can be so smart when he needs to. How is he so hopeless whenever interpersonal relationships are involved?

"Idiot."

That's going to be a fun talk.

Sweater Weather AU masterpost

#this one's long. I recommend a tea break after part 1 #if I had any sense I'd post this split in two. for better impact. but I don't want to.#this plot belongs together #putting rei through the wringer for a change :)#anyways. i was this 🤏 close to writing “why does akai call you babygirl”#in my heart of hearts Akai blackmailed a guy for his spot on the waiting list #threatened to publicly expose the mistress he planned to bring. poor guy is probably even sponsoring this dinner #long post #akam #iris writes things #sweater weather AU

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millersdjarin · 2 years ago

Text

I Only See Daylight

Chapter Four

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: E (eventually)

Chapter warnings/tags: slow burn, dad!din, bonding, injuries (not in detail), negative self-talk, mentions of past trauma/abuse

Chapter Length: 4.2k

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist & Info

notes: im sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the others! if it's any consolation, a few of the chapters in this fic are 10k, so there's that. :) i've set a posting schedule of mondays and thursdays, but this week i'm posting on sunday because i'm going to be travelling on monday and i have to stay off tumblr to avoid tlou spoilers until the evening. so, surprise :)

i don't wanna look at anything else now that i saw you

“How do you feel?” Is the first thing you hear when you wake, rolling over on your makeshift bed to find Mando standing at the cave entrance again. He’s leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his hip cocked out, one leg bent casually.

Kriffing hells, how is he so attractive when all you can see of him is his posture and his impossibly shiny armour?

You force the thought from your mind, blaming it on your half-asleep state.

“I don’t know yet,” you answer with a grimace. It’s been two days since your fall. The pain is better, though the rest of your body feels stiff now, muscle soreness finally catching up with you after the tumble. There hasn’t been another storm, at least, so Mando has managed to hunt for every meal so far. He goes out to get water every morning, filling canteens to the brim. He makes you drink so much that sometimes it feels like you’re swimming in it. “Hydration helps with healing,” he says every time, even though you already know; he says it just to counter your playful glaring at him every time he hands you the flask.

“Sun rose not that long ago,” he cranes his neck to gaze up at the sky, “if you’re feeling up to it, we can probably travel today.”

You manage to sit up, but the minute you do, pain shoots down from the wound on your calf and into your ankle. It circles there around the joint and throbs. “Have we got any more ice packs?”

“One more,” Mando answers as he heads right over to his medpack and gets it out.

“We should ration it,” you hold out your hand to stop him activating it. “For when we’re travelling. I’ll probably need it.”

He looks down at the pack, hesitates. Then nods and puts it away. “Do you think you’ll be okay to travel today? If so, we should move soon, make the most of the daylight.”

Shifting a little, you try to get a gage on your body, how it feels. A grimace makes its way onto your face without your consent. Everything hurts. Literally everything. Muscles you didn’t even know you had are strained and stiff.

But you’ve been here for two days. He’s been stranded here for four.

“If the answer is anything but yes,” his voice cuts through your rapidly declining thoughts, “then my answer is no.”

Relieved, you smile. But you protest, “Mando, you’ve stayed with me so long now. I can make my own way back.”

“No,” he says definitively. “We move when you’re ready.”

You relax, settling back against the wall. You’re too sore to argue.

“The kid’s enjoying the vacation, anyway,” Mando says, the lilt of a smile in his voice.

As if summoned, Grogu steps forward from his little bed at the back of the cave. He yawns, his tiny mouth opening as wide as it can go, his eyes screwing shut.

Oh, Maker, he is adorable.

“You take time off a lot?” You ask with a wry smile as Mando scoops the kid up into his arms.

The huff of a laugh comes through his helmet. “Not really.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Mando tickles Grogu’s cheek, earning a little giggle.

You watch them. There’s that warmth again, creeping its way between your ribs, around your heart.

You have to look away.

All three of you are starting to get a little stir crazy by the time the night comes around.

You’re feeling better, though. Mando’s hydration obsession is working to help loosen out your stiff muscles. It doesn’t help, though, that you have to keep getting up every hour to pee. Especially because you have to tell Mando every time nature calls, which is, admittedly, rather humiliating—it shouldn’t be, it’s fucking natural, but he’s Mando and he’s been making you feel a certain way, and you don’t want to have to admit to this terrifying yet comforting man that you have to piss. It’s even worse that he has to help you hobble outside, then walk away while you do your business, and come back and pretend to not notice the puddle sinking into the ground.

It’s demoralising. Your cheeks are tired from flushing red all the time.

But he insists on you drinking enough, even when you protest.

“I don’t mind doing this, you know,” he says as the sun sets, an arm around you as you hobble to the designated Nature Area.

“Yes, you do,” you grumble, kind of just wanting the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“I don’t,” he insists. “It’s fine. Besides, it’s good to move a little.”

“A little? Mando, it’s every hour, on the hour, at this point.”

The unfamiliar sound of a soft laugh comes through his helmet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it sounded fond. But you’ve never heard a laugh like that. So. “It’s good. Just call me back when you’re ready.”

He never comes back until you call, no matter how long it takes you.

It isn’t lost on you, either, that you never would have been able to do this on your own. You’d have had to piss where you sat. Which seems like a worse concept than just ruining your leg, and subsequent mobility, forever by forcing yourself to walk home.

As darkness approaches, Mando takes his flashlight—yours is long dead by now—and puts it in the far end of the cave. He stays over there, rustling in his pack for something. Curious, you watch, wondering what he’s doing; he angles the light strangely, propping it up with a few stray rocks on the ground, and then fishes out a small piece of canvas, pulled from what remained of your tent. He puts it over the flashlight, folds it once.

Then, the light is softer. Diffused around the cave.

Grogu, who is sitting against the wall playing with a little silver ball, looks up at the newly-lit cave walls and laughs in glee.

“You like it, kid?” Mando asks him.

The kid claps his hands together, gazing around. Mando laughs softly and sits back down beside the kid, watching him.

You’re watching Mando. It’s impossible not to, with the soft light reflecting from his armour in a new way, casting new highlights and shadows across every curve and edge. You wonder what places he’s been, how he’d look in all kinds of light. Harsh, bright, sunshine of a bright summer’s day, the dark ashy colour beneath rain clouds.

“Mando?” You find yourself saying.

He looks up at you, one hand holding the kid.

“Tell me about somewhere else you’ve been,” you request. “Please?”

“Where do you want to hear about?”

“Anywhere. First place that comes to mind.”

For a second, he’s quiet, just looking at you. Considering. When he speaks, he doesn’t say what you expected him to, and his voice is softer than it should be. “You really want to travel, don’t you?”

And, okay.

That hits a nerve.

You look away, blinking. It’s clear that you’ve tensed, that something has made you uncomfortable; and you expect him to backtrack, to apologise, but he just waits. So patient, like he wouldn’t mind if you didn’t say anything, or even if you just told him to fuck right off. You wish you could see his face, decipher his expression. Match it to the soft curiosity of his lovely voice.

“Yeah,” you manage on a shaky breath, imagining yourself up there, in the vastness of space, free to explore the Galaxy. “Yeah, I do.”

Quiet again. He’s giving you space.

You take it, let it sink in.

Then, his voice is there again, “So why don’t you?”

And if that isn’t a question and a half. “It’s, uh,” you clear your throat. You’re about to say it’s complicated. But that doesn’t even cover the half of it. Instead, feeling a cold, familiar dread slowly creeping through your veins, you say, “I like it here.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you still, some kind of unexplainable patience coming from his dark visor.

It’s unclear if he can hear the omission of the truth.

You don’t want to lie to him.

You’re sitting here, in a cave that he so beautifully lit as best he can, on top of a bed that he made just for you to be comfortable, after he’s helped you pee about twelve times a day for the last two days. He’s been nothing but kind.

And it’s not that you feel like you owe him answers because of that. Nor, in fact, that you think he feels you owe him answers. His quiet, unassuming patience in the dim intimacy of this cave is proof enough of that.

No, it’s not that.

It’s that you’ve been alone for so long. You’ve never said this to anyone.

And after all this, once you’re back at your hut and you’ve fixed his ship together, he’s going to leave. And you’re never going to see him again, anyway.

So.

“Truthfully,” you say, “as much as I like it here, it’s not where I’d choose to be. If I had another choice.”

Instead of staying still and silent, he starts to nod. His gaze is unwavering, solid and stable, weaving its way into the tension and uncertainty beneath your skin, soothing it.

Grogu gets up and waddles over to you. He climbs clumsily into your lap.

Then, with a quick look to Grogu, Mando says, “I understand.”

And that, those simple words, make something release in your chest.

The weight of your confession doesn’t feel as heavy as you’d expected. In fact, it feels like something has lifted in the air between the three of you. Like even the kid understands.

Well.

This is new.

As the third morning in the cave rolls around, you wake up feeling much better.

Once you’ve relieved your always-full bladder, you tell Mando as much, staggering back into the cave and to your bed. “You can stop over-watering me now,” you tease as he lets you back against the wall, gentle. Your hands are on the backs of his arms, and slide all the way down them as he moves away. You wish you could linger there, and the way he moves so slowly, his visor gazing down into your sleepy eyes, makes you think that he wishes that, too.

As your palms brush against his wrists, he seems to catch himself. He pulls away quickly and turns to distract himself with the kid.

“So, you’re ready to travel?” He asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply, staring at him from behind. He has a nice behind. (And you need to stop. Immediately.)

“You can lean on me. We’ll take it slow, I promise.”

Kriff, say that again… “I’ll be alright. You’ve got enough to carry.”

He looks at you again. “I’m leaving the parts here,” he says, like that should be obvious.

“What?” You frown. “But your ship…”

“Once we find our way back, and you’re safe, I’ll come back for them.”

“Mando, I can manage. Seriously, we should take the parts. You’ve been here long enough.”

The helmet tilts. “You trying to get rid of me?” It would concern you, if the teasing in his tone wasn’t arousingly obvious.

You just about manage to recover from the stirring in your belly, and you laugh, “Totally. Sick of you already.”

The kid, standing beside him, looks at you and makes a sad noise. His ears turn down towards the ground.

Kriff. “Hey, I’m just kidding,” you assure him with a smile. As a peace offering, you reach your hands out to him, and he relaxes in an instant, immediately plodding over to you and climbing into your lap. You hold him, give him a quick hug, then just let him sit there. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually gonna miss you,” you whisper into his ear. He coos happily, tugging at a loose thread on your coat.

When you look up, Mando is, of course, staring at you. This time, you know for sure that it’s at both you and the kid.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he answers after a moment of hesitation. “I’m going to pack up. Then we can move. You okay to sit with the kid?”

“You know I am,” you smile, and watch as Mando nods and heads outside.

That pang in your chest is back. Well, you’re not sure when it turned from a slow warmth into a pang.

But it’s there. Too obvious to ignore.

For a few miles, you manage pretty well. It took some convincing, but you got Mando to agree to taking the parts along with him in the end. You do lean on him, but only when moving over particularly rough terrain, fallen logs, or exposed tree roots.

“How we doing?” Mando asks at around noon.

“Fine,” you say, feeling a little breathless.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. We can stop soon for a break.”

Another hour passes, your ankle is starting to throb, and you’re really fucking glad that you saved that ice pack for this exact moment.

Mando sits you down on a fallen log, keeping his arm around you until you’re properly seated, lingering just a little too long for you to tame the way it makes your heart beat wildly. To feel the heat of him through his flight suit, your hands and arms pressed to parts of him not covered by armour, just the soft parts; it’s a lot. When you first saw him, this wall of metal, you never thought you’d see any further than that. Kriff, you never even thought he’d get closer to your hut than he was when you had your blaster pointed at him.

Maybe that would have been best. Because if he’d just left, if there was another way for him to get the help he needed, you wouldn’t be thinking about him the way you are right now.

The softness of the crook of his elbow, the curve of his waist and hip. The warmth of his skin that you have yet to see an inch of. All of the weapons strapped to him, so close to you, close enough that if it were anyone else, you’d be scared.

But it’s Mando.

This might be the least scared you’ve been in a lifetime.

He cracks the ice pack to activate it, then kneels down in front of you. Reaching out to grab a smaller log, he places it under your ankle, elevates your leg slightly. Then his gloved fingers tug at the hem of your trousers. “Can I?” He asks.

Kriff. You nod, unable to form words.

The rough-yet-smoothness of the gloves is all you feel at first, brushing delicately against your skin as he lifts your trousers, then unlaces your boots, gently pulling them off, followed by your socks. Your ankle is more swollen than it had been this morning, but you’d expected that.

And, besides, that is not what you’re thinking about right now.

Instead your mind can only focus on the softness of his hold under your foot, the gentle way he places the ice pack on top of it. The heat of his hand starts to come through. You wish it was his bare skin. Wish you knew what his skin is like. Is it calloused, or soft from always protecting them? Does he have scars? Is the hair on his arms dark, light, a thin covering or thicker, perfect to run your fingers through—

His hands are gone before you realise it. It takes your glitching mind a second to catch up.

You chase him with your eyes, silently wishing for him to come back.

But then.

Then.

As he turns away, he reaches for the flask in his satchel. You watch his hands lift to his helmet, take a gentle hold of the base of it. At first you panic, thinking he’s about to remove his helmet, no you don’t have to do that it’s okay—

But he just lifts it the tiniest bit, such a small movement that you only know it has been lifted because he puts the rim of his flask to his lips and takes a sip.

You can’t see his skin, not a hint of it. But you can hear him drinking, hear the water against his lips, the gentle gulps as he swallows.

And the way it entrances you, takes you away from the forest and the pain of your ankle and the fact that this is so not appropriate for you to be thinking—yeah, it’s probably for the best that he can’t ever show his face to you.

You look away before he even lowers the helmet again.

Maybe the worst part about all this is that you’re starting to dread Mando and the kid leaving.

That’s not how this was supposed to go, not how any of this was supposed to play out. You helped him because it was the right thing to do, because it’s exactly what They would tell you not to do, because your life has been the same every single fucking day since you got here.

But that’s been fine. It’s been safe.

“Pass me that wrench?” Mando asks, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You pass him it, noting the tilt of his helmet in a wordless ‘thanks’ before he turns back to his job. He’s up on a ladder, leaning against the ship’s exterior wall with one of the panels fully off, fixing something to do with the foundation for the body.

His ship is bigger than you’d expected. He tells you that it’s bigger than his old ship, the Razor Crest, but only by a little. “It’s a similar shape,” he’d said, “but it has two bunks and more space. For the kid.” He has a star fighter too, apparently, docked at some other base off-world with a friend of his. It’s funny to imagine him with friends, though you’re not sure why. Especially because, since getting to know him the last few days, you know how generous he is. How kind, helpful. Gentle, despite everything.

Why wouldn’t he have friends?

Beneath him, you sit on a crate and lean against the ship, waiting for him to give you more instructions. The engine has been mostly fixed now, as much as it’s ever going to be out here in the middle of nowhere using scrounged-up parts. He’s just getting the last of the body work done, enough to make sure it’s aerodynamically sound.

It’s interesting, watching him work. You ask a lot of questions, and every time you do, you expect a frustrated sigh or an exasperated response. But he answers every question thoroughly, and it doesn’t even distract him from his work.

The sun is warm against your face. The afternoon of Mando’s fifth day on this planet is drawing to a close, fading into the evening. As the sky turns to duller shades of blue, tinted with oranges and pinks, you can’t help but admire the way he looks beneath the light. His armour is always the same, always so distinctive, yet it reflects different lights in different ways. Sometimes it makes the beskar appear darker, like a gun metal grey. Other times it’s a bright silver. Then there are times like this, when it goes with the colour of the sky, reflects the beauty of everything surrounding him.

You think back to the light in the cave, how that looked different still. The urge to see the Galaxy comes over you again, though this time it’s not staring at his ship and dreaming about taking off in it that does it; this time, it’s wondering what he looks like in even more places, more environments. Does the metal get hot in the sunshine? Or is it always as cool as it’s been when you’ve had the chance to feel it before?

The kid is sitting on the ground in front of you. There’s a beetle scuttling around in the mud, and Grogu is toying with it, blocking it off when it runs one way, then doing the same when it runs the other. You wonder if he’s going to eat it, or if he’s just having fun by being cruel to the little six-legged creature.

“Don’t play with your food,” Mando says to him, answering your silent question.

Grogu looks up at him. His ears turn downwards, sulking. Mando ignores his obvious pleas to change his mind, turning back to his work. When Grogu looks back at the beetle, he only just catches it before it runs off, and instead of toying with it anymore, he just shoves it in his mouth with a loud crunch.

You find yourself smiling at him. He smiles back, ears lifting again.

“Alright,” Mando starts to step down from the ladder. You reach out and hold one of the ladder’s legs, knowing he probably doesn’t need you to, but still not wanting to risk it. Ladders make you nervous. “Think that’s the best we’re going to get.”

You look up to the ship. He’s fixed the panel back on again. Now all that remains is the burnt metal from his “interesting landing”, with some bends in it, exposing little sections of the framework beneath. It’s definitely a patchwork job. But it looks better than it did when you got here this morning. So.

“How’s your leg?” He asks as he folds up the ladder.

“Good,” you answer. It’s stretched out in front of you, propped on another crate. “Ship looks good.”

With a resigned sigh, he puts his hand on his hips, and tilts his helmet to look up at his handiwork. “No, she doesn’t. But she’ll do.” Then he looks back to you, “I couldn’t have fixed it without your help. Thank you.”

You shift under his gaze, unable to help it. Every time he looks at you it feels like his eyes can see right through you, and the part that makes you uncomfortable is that it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. Self-conscious and disgustingly aware of your own inappropriate, lustful thoughts? Yes. Uncomfortable? No. You don’t think it ever could.

“Of course,” you say eventually. “And, hey, I’ve got a scar to remember our little adventure by, huh?”

He laughs softly. You see the shake of his chest as the chuckle comes through his modulator. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“Hm, no. But there’s no gift shop around here. So.”

He shakes his head, and you imagine, hope, that he’s smiling under all that beskar. He certainly looks casual, a hand on one hip, one leg relaxed while his weight rests on the other.

“Do you always stare so much?” You find yourself asking with a teasing, daring quirk of your brow.

“Yes.”

“At everyone, or just me?”

He pauses. Your heart rate spikes briefly as you wait for his response to your terrible excuse for flirting. “At everyone,” he answers eventually, and disappointment starts to set in before he says, “But it’s harder to look away from you.”

Oh.

The disappointment quickly shifts to nervousness, heart beating fast again as you clench your hands in your lap. He just stands there, staring despite the awkward and loaded silence between you, and stares. As if he’s making his point by offering an example.

You look away. Suddenly, your cheeks are hot. “You hungry?” You find yourself asking.

He pauses again, then nods. “Yes.”

“I’ll make us some dinner. You just come back to the hut whenever you’re ready.” It’s only as you stand to hobble back home that you realise he might not want that. You swivel back around to face him, backtrack, “I mean, unless you want to eat out here. Your ship’s fixed now, I guess you can—you can stay in that? You don’t have to come back with me. I’ll be okay.”

Again, getting more and more infuriating with each silence he lets stretch out, he just stares. Kriffing hells, does he ever stop!?

“Would you let me cook for you?” He asks, finally.

You weren’t expecting that.

Shifting weight to your good leg, you raise your eyebrows. “You want to cook me dinner?”

He nods once. “Yes. To thank you for all your help. And as a farewell.”

You’ve been trying your hardest not to think about that part. It sits in your stomach, cold and dreadful and confusing, too far down for you to swallow it. “Alright,” you agree with a soft smile. “I can’t promise I’ve got any decent ingredients, though. You might have to perform a miracle.”

“I’m up to the challenge,” he says, hooking his thumb over the belt around his hips. You’re distracted by it, finding your eyes sliding down to his middle before you catch yourself and look back up. The tilt of his helmet suggests he might have seen your gaze shift. “I’ll walk back with you. Just give me a minute.”

You can’t find a reason to refuse.

♡ updates posted Mondays and Thursdays ♡

notes: thank you for reading! all interactions are appreciated as always, but comments and reblogs especially fuel my need for validation ❤️ as always, the title and lyrics at the start are from taylor swift's "daylight"

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