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daisy (english profrry x TA!yn)

part one of english profrry is here!!!!!

word count: 6.3k

BIG content warnings: massive, glaring warning for an inappropriate relationship. y/n is a graduate student in this and of legal consenting age, but there's an age gap of four years between her and harry. she is his TA, which means there's a big power imbalance between them. bc this is fic we'll pretend it's romantic and all very consensual but if this is triggering to you in any way, DO NOT READ IT. it's not worth hurting your mental health. also, if anything remotely like this happens in your personal life, IT IS NOT OKAY.

other CWs: small smut scene at the end (m masturbation with descriptions of m receiving oral, slight cum play), y/n alludes to having seasonal depression but it's never outwardly said (just be aware since the descriptions of it could be triggering to some!), a bit of angst but nothing crazy

with all that out of the way, if you still choose to read, I hope you enjoy :) love you all lots!!

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. . .

Professor Styles is a dick.

That’s what the entire English department said when it was announced that Y/N would be his newest teaching assistant for the spring semester.

They all sneered at her, throwing what they pretended to be caring warnings her way, claiming that he was impossible to work with and he didn’t even actually need a TA, he just liked picking students to embarrass. With their noses upturned at Y/N but not actually offering any kind of advice, she left the small English building shortly after the Dean unveiled the new schedule for TAs, anxiety bubbling in her stomach and thick, salty tears in her waterline.

She knows Professor Styles doesn’t have the greatest reputation on campus. She actually actively avoided taking any classes with him throughout the duration of her bachelor’s degree, and even as she chose to stay on to enter her first year of graduate school, she picked any other available professors over him.

He was known for his less-than-personable demeanor and the way he picked apart students’ essays, leaving them questioning their entire life path. Y/N has never felt much insecurity about her career — she’s always wanted to go into English, maybe opting for a small but impactful job in publishing or editing — but having a professional ruin her writing sounded… well, awful.

In reality, Y/N didn’t have much of a choice when it came to her teaching assistant preferences. She needed a job that wouldn’t take up too much of her time. Her first semester of grad school was difficult and stressful. All of her friends graduated and went on to cool jobs all over the country, while Y/N just stayed in the same apartment. She was homesick for her family and walked through a campus every day that reminded her of a better version of herself — one who had a flourishing social life and excellent grades. Just a few months of working on her masters degree had worn her down.

Despite the slight dip in her grades from university to graduate school (an expected change, her advisor had explained), she was still recommended as a TA for the English department in the spring. She’d really been gunning after Professor Rooney, a kind, middle-aged woman who had spent years working glamorous jobs in the publishing world. She had connections everywhere and was incredibly sweet, and Y/N knew she would feel comfortable working in her sections for the semester. All winter break, she imagined how wonderful it could be; that maybe it was the huge win she needed after such a shitty fall.

But Professor Rooney didn’t choose her. Professor Styles did.

Even with a promise of a reasonable stipend contingent on the completion of her TA position, Y/N’s world felt like it came crashing down just a little bit — but she knew better than to complain or blubber on about not getting her way. Instead, she chose to just get through it.

In the final days of winter break, Professor Styles emailed her to meet in his office the day before classes began. He didn’t ask if she was back on campus or if she had a good break. Y/N wanted to resent that, but chose to swallow it down.

When she got to his small office in the department, she gently knocked on the open door, signaling her arrival. He peered up from whatever book he was hunched over on his deck, straightened his posture, and checked his watch.

“You’re late.” he said flatly, shutting the paperback with a force she didn’t even know was possible. With furrowed brows, she glanced at the lockscreen on the phone she held.

“You said 10:30, right? It’s 10:30 now.”

“On time is late,” he muttered, folding his hands on his desk, “Early is on time.”

She swallowed, her lips parting like a guppy. He rolled his eyes and motioned to the seat on the other side of her desk. Quickly, she took it, placing her tote bag at her feet and making a mental reminder to arrive at his classes five minutes early from this point on.

“Right, so you’re my TA, then?”

She nodded, “Yes, for the spring semester.”

He hummed, though she couldn’t tell if it was a sound of approval or discontent. He moved his computer mouse over the surface of the university provided mouse pad, making his computer buzz to life. With an awkward silence settling between them, the sound of the mouse clicking was the only thing that filled the dim office.

“You just graduated from the English department last spring,” he said, eyes scanning over what she now assumed was her student file, “3.8 GPA. That’s fine.”

She blinked at that, resisting the urge to balk at him. 3.8 was .2 away from a perfect GPA. It was more than fine.

“You didn’t take any classes with me during your time as an undergrad.”

“Um, your sections were always full—”

“I don’t really care what your reasoning is,” he cut her off, continuing to scroll down the screen. A lump formed in her throat but she tried to swallow it down. Nothing sounded more embarrassing than crying in front of Professor Styles. “And now you’re getting your masters in English with a concentration in Feminist Literature. That’s an unusual one. Why?”

She’s surprised he’s bothered to ask her a question, so it takes her a moment to form a cohesive answer on her tongue. She’s flailing a bit and she knows he can tell, based on the unamused expression on his face.

“I’ve read a lot of literature where there’s a female main character and she’s just used to state a point or some sort of backwards lesson that was considered modernized for the time,” Y/N speaks softly, picking at her nails in her lap, “I’m interested in studying that more.”

“What kind of literature?” Professor Styles instantly fires back.

“Well, I wrote my undergraduate thesis on The Scarlet Letter, but I’ve also been thinking about basing my graduate capstone on Ophelia from Hamlet.”

He makes that annoying humming noise again, and she’s still unsure if he’s pleased or thinks she’s an idiot. She wasn’t unused to the latter — a lot of snobs in the English department thought it was stupid of her to care for critiquing older pieces of writing from an argumentative, feminist perspective, even if they acted like The Odyssey was an “absolute must-read” for everyone.

(It’s not. Y/N thinks The Odyssey is dumb and boring, but she’ll never say that, especially not to Professor Styles.)

“Right, well,” he lifts a white ceramic coffee cup to his mouth and swallows briefly. She glances down to see he’s drinking hot black coffee, and her lips furl into a quick, involuntary wince. “You’ll be with me three days a week. You are to attend the daily lectures — Mondays and Wednesdays are the shorter section and Friday is the long, three-hour one. Helping out with grading and holding office hours will be your primary tasks. If you fall ill or need to take a day off, I need at least 24 hours notice. If I receive any complaints from students, you’re out. Otherwise, it should be a fine semester. Any questions?”

She shakes her head, hoping he’ll show some inkling of delight at her quick ability to understand and process. Instead, his lips remain in a flat line and he nods, taking another sip of his coffee.

“You can go now. See you tomorrow.”

She scrambles to leave his office as quickly as possible.

. . .

Professor Styles barely speaks to Y/N for the first few weeks.

It’s unsettling in a way, especially because she doesn’t know if she’s doing a good job. She thrives off of reassurance, but every time she hands him a neat stack of newly graded papers or drafts, he simply waves her off with an, “alright, thanks.”

If she’s being honest, it makes her want to try even harder, though she’s not entirely sure why. She has the urge to claw her way to the very top of Professor Styles’ repertoire of students and assistants — a need for perfectionism that can only be quelled by the person least likely to give it to her.

And it’s driving her absolutely insane.

She wants to ask, straight out, “am I doing an alright job? Do you need anything more from me?”, but she’s positive that will only make her glow with insecurity. He’d probably laugh in her face and call her a baby for needing his acceptance.

It eats her alive as she sits at the front of the lecture hall, watching his female students stare at him with hearts in their eyes as he discusses the politics of Ursula Le Guin. It bugs her only more than he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen, always impeccably dressed with long, ring-clad fingers.

Grumbling, she realizes that she probably looks just as pathetic, so she quickly straightens her posture and runs her fingertips over the mousepad of her laptop so it glows back to life. She’s supposed to be going over the grades of the students’ first essays — her and Professor Styles were meeting after class to discuss them in the event that anyone needed additional assistance for the upcoming paper.

She busies herself with that until he ends class, creating a list of a few names that would potentially need to be met with one-on-one. He doesn’t say anything as he gathers his own materials from the lecture, and she follows him out of the hall and to his office just as silently, carrying her laptop in one hand and her tote bag on her shoulder.

Professor Styles’ office is always cold and dark, never failing to send a shiver down her spine when he unlocks the door. Today, her shoulders shudder involuntarily and she pushes her sweater sleeves down to cover her hands. With a rumple in his eyebrows, he sits down.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Y/N snaps her head up in surprise. She doesn’t mean to look shocked, so she quickly revises her facial features in an attempt to look collected.

“Oh, it’s just cold,” she says, waving him off nonchalantly, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. I think this winter has been especially brutal.”

His reply especially dazes her — she’s unsure if that’s an attempt at making small talk, something Professor Styles has never done with her before, but she instantly nods her head, as if she’s speaking with a toddler who’s expressing their emotions for the first time.

“Yeah, I think so,” she says softly, “The snow is awful to walk through.”

“Do you live far from campus?”

She shakes her head and sets her laptop and planner on her side of the desk, across from Professor Styles and his things.

“No, just a 10 minute walk or so, but I don’t have a car.”

He hums at that — that stupid, unassuming hum that contributes absolutely nothing to the conversation. She wonders if she’s in her head about it, but she feels his eyes linger just a beat longer on her face before tearing them away. He licks over his teeth as he taps on his laptop to wake it back up.

“Right, then. Did you go over their grades?”

As she pulls her things out from her bag, she tries to ignore the small pit of disappointment in her tummy from Professor Styles shifting their conversation back over to class.

. . .

That weekend, Y/N thinks she’s hallucinating as she meanders up and down the aisles at Target.

She’s not really looking for anything in particular. Sometimes she just comes here for something to do. Her bank account isn't exactly flowing in a way that permits her to buy all the cute home decor she gazes at, which is why her basket currently consists of the following: pads, a new pack of her favorite gel pens, cookie dough, and a lip balm that she’ll probably put back before she checks out.

It’s another harsh, cold day out, the freezing temperatures refusing to let up as the days of the month flit by. This is Y/N’s least favorite time of year — when winter sticks around despite the holidays being long gone. All that’s left between now and spring is pesky snow and fake Hallmark holidays, and she yearns for the days where she can walk to campus and admire the tulips peeking out from the damp soil. By then, she’ll be closer to returning to her hometown for the summer, where she’ll likely get a job for a few months working in the local library or bookstore.

It’ll be good — she’ll get to see her friends and spend time with family and save up some money, and maybe the hopefulness of life warming up in a few months will be enough to get her through this semester.

And as she’s daydreaming of brighter days, that’s when it happens — when she thinks she must be fully hallucinating, because as she strolls down one aisle in particular, Professor Styles is standing there, his bottom lip pinched between his fingers as he stares at space heaters.

She’s never seen him off campus. Sometimes that happens since a lot of professors live close by, so it’s not unheard of to pass by an advisor or faculty member at the supermarket or through the park. But seeing Professor Styles here feels… illegal, somehow, especially given his casual, dressed down attire. He’s wearing what looks to be a cozy sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts, despite the temperature nearing the 20s today. (Y/N is bundled up in three sweaters, a jacket, a scarf, gloves, and leggings beneath her jeans.) White socks go just above his ankles, and the running shoes on his feet make her wonder if he’s insane enough to actually be working out in this weather.

She must be analyzing his form for a beat too long — maybe it’s the shock from it that still hasn’t worn off — because he feels her gaze, eyes veering to his peripheral, realizing that his teaching assistant is standing there as if she’s waiting for permission to enter the aisle.

“Hey,” she blurts out when she realizes she’s been caught.

Confused by her frank, laidback greeting, he lifts his head to face her. “Hey.” he echoes awkwardly.

“Um, sorry.”

He quirks an eyebrow and Y/N’s body heats with embarrassment. “Sorry?”

“Sorry… I-I should’ve just walked away when I saw you,” Y/N quickly attempts to revise, but she realizes it’s just making her sound stupider, “I was just surprised to see you here.”

“In a public store?”

“Right,” she nods curtly, turning on her heel, “Have a good rest of your weekend—”

“Wait, did you need something down here?” he rushes out, almost as if he’s fearful she’ll leave. She pushes the thought down but parts her lips nervously, eyes scanning over the contents on the shelves. She doesn’t need anything, she was just putting off having to brave the cold weather on her walk home.

“Yes,” she says slowly because, once again, she’s suddenly stupefied and enamored by the prospect of small talk with Professor Styles, “I needed… lighters. For my candles.”

He nods, a quiet “ah,” sounding from his lips, and they stand there like they’re doing some sort of parallel play; Y/N pretending to look at the long, safety lighters while Professor Styles continues to look at space heaters. She wonders if he for some reason is pretending, too, but then he’ll squat down to look at the features on one box, making a tsk-ing noise with his mouth, and straighten back up to analyze a different model.

When he finally decides on an option that’s best fit, he grabs the box and places it in his cart. Quickly, Y/N plucks a random display of lighters and throws them in her basket.

“Hope you found a good one,” she mutters out dumbly, feeling the need to interject one last sentence into their silence. He glances down at his cart, then at her basket, and then, finally, at her.

“It’s for the office,” he says. “You said it was cold.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“This should help with that.”

“Sure, yeah. I have one at home, it helps a lot with the draftiness.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

“Maybe you can get an extra lamp in there, too. Spruce it up a bit.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows, “What do you mean?”

Y/N wishes the ground would swallow her up whole.

“Nothing! I just meant— like, sometimes it’s a bit cold, and with the weather, it can get dark, too. The winter’s tough, don’t you think? That’s all I meant, I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re right,” he says with a decisive nod. “You’re the only other person that really spends time there besides students. Do you want to help pick one out?”

“Sure, okay.”

They walk in silence to the lighting display, which is filled with a myriad of different options. Professor Styles looks semi-overwhelmed by it all and Y/N has to bite her lip so she doesn’t smile too widely at his confused expression. She points to a simple, inexpensive standing lamp.

“I think something like this would be good, in the corner or something. Just for some extra brightness.”

“Is that the one you like?”

Y/N doesn’t have strong lamp preferences, especially when it comes to a space that she’s not even living in, but for some reason, it seems important that she says yes. So she nods her head, flashing him a small smile. He returns it, and she realizes that’s the first time he’s ever smiled at her.

“Okay. I’ll have this stuff set up for when you come in on Monday.”

She swallows, feeling the mountain of adoration in her stomach grow. She shoves it down.

“Thank you, that’s really kind of you,” she says.

“Sure. I’ll see you then. Have a good rest of your weekend.”

She hides in the lamp aisle for another 15 minutes, until she’s positive he’s left the store.

. . .

Professor Styles and Y/N are working in their typical silence when he says something that makes her jaw nearly drop to the floor.

She thought that after their short but personable interaction at the store, things would change a bit. Maybe he would feel more comfortable talking to her outside of monotone grunts or the occasional “are they failing my class?”, but things remained the same. When she came in that Monday, the space heater and lamp were both on and running as he promised, but it was as if nothing happened.

It irks Y/N to no end.

She assumes that he sincerely doesn’t care for her, which she supposes is fine considering kindness or approval aren’t part of the job description. That’s why she’s shocked when he says it a few weeks after the weekend they saw one another in public.

“I think you should ask to change your advisor to me.”

Y/N chokes on her spit, hurriedly coughing into her hand so she doesn’t spray saliva all over his desk. Once she recovers, he’s staring at her expectedly, as if what he said was completely and utterly sane.

“Sorry?” she asks, “Why would I do that?”

She doesn’t mean it to sound rude, but it’s a genuine question. Typically, there’s some type of rapport between a grad student and their advisor, and she and Professor Styles have absolutely none of that.

Professor Styles clears his throat and folds his hands on his desk. “Because I got my masters degree in the same thing, so I spent four years studying exactly what you’re studying. I think you’ve been doing very well as my TA and I would like to advise you.”

“Why would you ask me why I was studying that, then?” she blurts out, confusion apparent on her face. “The first day we met, you told me it was unusual.”

“It is.”

“But you studied it.”

“I did.”

“So why would you say that?”

Professor Styles sighs as if this is the most boring and obvious conversation he’s had all day.

“I wanted to hear you defend it. See why you’re interested and make sure it’s not all bullshit.”

Y/N shakes her head, “So you were playing some kind of mind game with me? For fun?”

“It wasn’t a mind game, Y/N. I just wanted to know why you’re interested in it.”

She bites her lip and looks down at her laptop screen, which has since gone dim since they began talking. If she’s being truthful, she’s grown tired of Professor Styles. Up until now, she was positive she was doing things wrong and he just didn’t care enough to correct her — only to find out that he wanted to work with her even more. It made zero sense.

“Are you going to do it, then?” he asks, tearing her from her thoughts. Her expression pinches as she rolls her lips into a thin line.

“I don’t know.” she answers in a watery voice. “I like my advisor, and I assumed you didn’t like me very much.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

“You barely utter three words to me on a daily basis and never tell me if you’re happy with my work.”

Professor Styles scoffs, leaning back against his leather computer chair.

“You need regular approval from me to know whether or not I like you?”

“Yes,” she admits, anger building in her chest until she can’t help but blurt out what she’s thinking, “It’s how I work. If you were a good professor, you would’ve asked how I best function at the beginning of the semester. Instead, you ignore me for fun.”

“You don’t think I’m a good professor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean that. I think you are. I just don’t think you’re the best at managing teaching assistants.”

He shrugs, but she notices a slight wince in his features. “We can’t all be good at everything, can we?”

“Right,” she mumbles, drumming her fingers on the edge of his desk. When he doesn’t reply, she shuts her laptop and stuffs it in her bag. “I’m gonna go then. I’ll see you next week.”

He’s silent as she gets her things together and pulls her jacket on, wrapping her scarf around her neck and zipping it on top of her sweater for extra warmth. As her boots carry her across the length of his office and to the door, he stands from his seat.

“Y/N,” he says, and she turns to look at him. “The deadline to change your advisor is next Friday. I hope you’ll still consider it.”

. . .

That evening, all Harry can think about is his sweet, quiet TA. The one who he undoubtedly offended earlier today — he cringes at the thought of it, replaying their conversation over and over in his head. He can’t stop thinking about the upset look on her face. When she asked if he was playing mind games with her, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness. He never meant to hurt her, not one bit.

He sighs as he runs his hand through his hair. He’s had reruns of some shitty sitcom on since he got home from work a few hours ago. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, but even a laugh track and ‘90s era merriment couldn’t distract him from thinking about her.

He considers the things she said about wanting his approval. He’s never been well-liked in the English department, likely because of his rough exterior. He’s not immune to the things he hears from students and faculty, about how he’s grumpy and someone to be feared, even if he didn’t even intend to come off that way. In all honesty, he never wanted to be perceived in that matter — but once his reputation began to precede him a year or two ago, he figured there was no use in trying to convince people otherwise.

That's how it had always gone, anyway — in high school, when he started experimenting with different styles of clothing, everyone assumed he was gay. He'd desperately tried to refute those claims, even if he wasn't completely sure of his sexuality himself. But no one cared — they'd already made up their minds, and it seemed useless to attempt to change their ways of thinking.

And when people spoke here, mumbling about how mean and terrible he was... well, what was the point?

Y/N was the only person he cared to win over, and it was eating him alive.

So much so that he made the blind decision to maybe, possibly cross a very clear boundary between professor and TA. Despite Y/N being of legal, consenting age (after looking at her student file, he found that he’s only four years older), he still attempted to prioritize maintaining a professional relationship with every one of his students and TAs.

He couldn’t help himself with her, though. He knew it was bad — he could feel his heart thumping quickly in his chest, the logical part of his brain telling him to stop while he’s ahead, but he couldn’t. Not as he grabbed his laptop, logged into his work email, and composed a message to her student address. Not when his fingers danced over the keyboard and resisted the urge to implore her to start fresh with him. Not when he clicked ‘send’ without even proofreading to make sure it sounded appropriate, not creepy or weird.

He pushed his laptop away and got up to pour himself some wine, attempting to rid himself of any lingering guilt.

. . .

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Today

Time: 9:57 p.m.

Hi Y/N,

I wanted to apologize for how I acted today. It wasn’t kind of me and you deserve far better than that. I understand if you have no interest in changing your advisor. Please know that whatever you decide, your TA position will not be in danger, should you choose to continue working with me.

Thank you for all of your hard work. You’ve been doing an excellent job and I’ve very much enjoyed having you this semester. Have a good weekend.

x Harry Styles

. . .

On Monday, Y/N’s mind is whirring.

It’s not because the semester is nearing midterm season, although that’s part of it. It’s because Professor Styles emailed her an apology at almost 10 pm on Friday evening, and she’s repeatedly read it over at least 50 times since receiving it.

She didn’t reply because she wasn’t sure what to say — and, most shockingly, he didn’t sign it as Professor Styles. Instead, he ended the message with a kiss, for crying out loud, followed by his name. His name!

It’s all she’s been able to focus on for days, to the point where she contemplates not showing up to his lecture on Monday. But she’s better than that — she’s stronger, and she’s smarter, and she doesn’t want to hide.

She avoids Professor Styles’ gaze all throughout his lecture, instead focusing on grading first drafts for the class’ midterm paper. She knows she’ll have to sit with him in his office afterwards, and her stomach churns at the thought. In some way, she feels ashamed that she said anything to begin with. Her comments about him not managing TAs properly have made her shrivel into a mortified version of herself, and she’s shocked he didn’t fire her on the spot.

Worst of all, she hates the way her heart jumped into her throat when his name popped up on her screen on Friday night. She craved the feeling, hoping he would, for some reason, do it again, even though she never responded. She wasn’t playing hard to get by any means, but the fact that her brain even veered in that direction proved one thing to be true: she has a big, fat crush on Professor Styles.

The knowledge sits like a rock in her stomach, especially as they walk in silence to his office after class. The air between them feels awkward, but she’s not sure that there’s ever been a time where it hasn’t felt odd between them. When he unlocks the door, she quietly steps inside, her heart skipping a beat at the space heater and lamp already turned on.

Usually, he keeps the door open while they work. Today, he shuts it, the soft click of the lock making her jump.

“Can we talk?”

Y/N’s throat dries but she nods, gripping the strap of her tote bag close to her arm. She turns to face him, and for the first time ever, she notices that he looks… nervous.

“About last week. I’m sorry, but I’m even more sorry for emailing you that on Friday,” he rushes the words out like he wrote a script out and was waiting to perform them, “It was completely inappropriate, and I got the hint when you didn’t reply.”

“The hint?” she peeps out, her voice squeaky and embarrassing.

“Yeah,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “About not wanting me to advise you and… you probably found my email to be weird, right?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. “No, no. I.. I actually haven’t given much thought to the advisor thing, but I didn’t think it was weird. I just didn’t know how to respond.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why’s that?”

“Because I felt guilty about what I said to begin with! A-and you could’ve fired me if you wanted to, but instead you apologized and said that I’m doing a good job—”

“You are.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims frustratedly. “I didn’t know how to respond to that.”

“To me being… kind?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at her, the crinkle between his brows deepening.

“I’m just not used to it, Professor Styles.” she says with a sigh.

“Harry,” he corrects.

“What?”

“My name is Harry. I don’t want you to call me Professor Styles.”

Y/N ignores the quickening of her heartbeat and shifts her stance from foot to foot.

“Why are you doing this?” she eventually blurts as she crosses her arms over her sweater-clad form. She’s not sure if she detects an inkling of pity in his face, but if she does, she wants nothing more than to run for the hills and never return. For some reason, the thought of Professor— Harry feeling bad for her makes her shoulders shudder, a prickly sensation tip-toeing down her spine, as if shame is completely and utterly eating her alive.

His lips part in a quiet sigh. “I just… I spent the weekend thinking of you and feeling awful for the way I’ve treated you.”

Thinking of you.

I spent the weekend thinking of you.

Her stomach turns as his words echo throughout the chambers of her brain. But then there’s a click — like the second part of the sentence just ekes its way through, planting a seed of self-doubt and insecurity. And she backs away like he may explode at any moment.

“You shouldn’t— no, that’s alright,” she shakes her head, gaze set low on the carpeted floors of his tiny office.

“Y/N—”

Again, she cuts him off with a shake of her head, raising her eyes to look at him. His expression is pained and she wonders if hers is any better, though she assumes for different reasons: He doesn’t want to get fired for torturing another grad student. She has an inappropriate crush on the professor she works for.

“It’s all good. Call it even?” she rushes out, leaning over to grab her things from her chair, “Fresh start on Wednesday. Don’t mention it again, alright?”

She’s gone before he can stop her.

. . .

Harry accidentally falls asleep in his office that evening.

It’s half because he’s absolutely swamped with work, too fearful to email Y/N and add things to her grading pile after the way she all but ran away earlier today. He’s terrified he made her uncomfortable.

He doesn’t want to return to the quiet loneliness of his apartment, where he’s constantly faced to force the reality of his life: A man in his early 30s with a job that he likes, but no one actually likes him at it. His entire family resides in London and with the exception of a few friends from his schooling years, he’s alone. Especially in the romance department.

His heart aches for Y/N. He realizes it’s a bit dramatic, even slightly taboo given the nature of their professional relationship, but he likes her. He likes her so much that he doesn’t want to go home and think about how badly he messed things up, so he falls asleep face-down on his desk, his cranium wedged between piles of pens and a Post-It list of to-do’s.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for. The soft, golden light from the lamp is still just barely bathing the circumference of the room, but as he blinks his eyes open, he realizes that it’s silent. He can see through the small frosted window that the hallways are dim, which means it’s most definitely sometime in the evening.

He feels… somewhat guilty but charged as he wakes from the fog of his sleep, eyebrows furrowing as he stretches his arms out. His neck already aches from the discomfort of his sleeping position and he groans, lifting a palm to sort the knot out.

And that’s when he realizes it — why he feels as if his body is buzzing, his hands sweaty and his throat dry. He’d woken up in the middle of a sex dream and, like a pathetic teenager, the star of it had been his crush. Y/N.

He scoffs to himself as he glances down at his crotch where, sure enough, his length is painfully hard beneath the constriction of his trousers and underwear. He swallows, eyes flickering closed. He can remember the exact details of his dream, even if they send a bead of guilt dripping down his chest — they’d been in his office, just like this. She was between his legs, knees pressing into the carpet of the floor, her eyes rounded and expectant as he toyed with her, pretending to guide his cock between her lips only to take it away at the last minute. She pouted every time, a plushy lipped-frown punctuating the words he hadn’t even realized he’d been dying to hear: “Please Professor Styles, stop teasing me.”

At the realization, he’s sent into a frenzy. He doesn’t even think to check whether the door is locked (or maybe if he’s locked in the building, no less), before he’s clawing at his belt and zipper, yanking the fabrics down to reveal a pair of swollen balls. His length stands hard, his eyes nearly rolling back just from the feeling of looping his fingers around the base. He can’t remember the last time he was this pent up just from his own imagination, but it’s not a difficult place to return — not as his head leans back against his office chair, allowing his dream to pick up and take form in full consciousness.

So much pre-cum is bubbling at the tip that he doesn’t need much of his own spit to lubricate himself. He bites his lip hard to prevent himself from groaning out too loudly, envisioning the way she’d finally suckle around the tip of his cock, looking up at him with proud eyes. He’d gradually help her go deeper, but she’d be excited, willing to bruise her throat for him. She was so good — in his dreams, in real life, she was always so, so good.

“So good, Professor,” she’d pant out, popping off to lick a stripe up the side of his cock. With spit-swollen lips, she’d venture down to his balls, rolling them in the palm of her hands before taking each one into her mouth. In reality, he gasps at that, tugging them in his own hand.

But what really gets him there is an impossible thought — one that has nothing to do with the silly wet dream his brain conjured while he slept. Her in her own bedroom, her naked form wrapped up in her sheets while he gazed over lovingly, pressing soft kisses along her shoulder and down her arm. She’d giggle breathily before flipping onto her side to face him. And she’d say it — I love you — and it’d feel like heaven.

That’s what pushes him to finish all over his hand, cum dribbling over his fist as he pants and gasps like he’s just discovered masturbation. His orgasm encompasses his entire body, a few beautiful, peaceful moments of complete pleasure that causes all of his muscles to tighten deliciously. Of course, he envisions her taking all of his cum, licking it up eagerly over his digits, making a show of it — she’d open her mouth, pretty pink tongue out, and he’d watch as she swallows. He shudders at the thought of it, quickly snapping his eyes open and grabbing a tissue from the box on his desk to clean himself up. He’s immediately back to his grumbly state as he does, irritated that he allowed himself to lose control in such a finite way.

He tosses the dirty tissue in the garbage can and stands up to tug his briefs and pants back up. The clink of his belt buckle is the only sound throughout the small room, so he jumps when a knock sounds on the other side of his closed door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, someone knows, I must have said her name, I’m such a fucking freak—

His eyes widen when the person speaks: “Profess— Harry? Are you in there? It’s Y/N.”

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orteil42 · 5 months

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some undifferentiated thoughts about my Starfield playthrough as i have them. i am a game developer with a strong interest in procedural generation and i've enjoyed a bunch of other bethesda games so this might get pretty mean sorry

(this is a long one)

starfield dialogue is already exhausting me "oh you must've been living under a moon rock ;)" get it! because they're in space! this would've been too corny for the Jetsons

there's a kind of cheap dusting of space theme over everything. the food isn't salmon but alien salmon. it's not seaweed but alien seaweed. cooking alien stir-fry. come on

cannot get over how clumsily the theming is handled. books, board games, weapon names revolve heavily around space. these people have been living on alien planets for hundreds of years yet have this unending sense of novelty about it. the game takes itself completely seriously but feels like it's attempting to parody itself

people's EYEBALLS are CLIPPING THROUGH THEIR EYELIDS

a woman is speaking to me in french. her accent is about as believable as her haircut

these are some of the worst reflection maps i've ever seen

next to nothing is interactive. you can sit in chairs and sleep in beds and that is about it. can't even drink from people's toilets. disgraceful

game helpfully crashes 5 seconds after i decide i should get some sleep. very handy!

my character has not said a single thing since i started playing. not one peep. this is an unmitigated improvement over Fallout 4 i'm so glad honestly

the more i poke around the big city the more the NPC quips feel like something out of gen-1 pokemon. can't get enough of this coffee :) this city is where it's at :) spacesuits are comfy and easy to wear

very strange sense of altered reality from the quest dialogue too. has anyone at bethesda met a person before? i move on to some mission that has me scanning wildlife on a faraway planet hoping this will, somehow, feel less alien than human conversation

just as with No Man's Sky, every planet is uniformly dotted with equidistantly-placed points of interest that you slowly make your way to (no vehicles besides your jetpack) which always turn out to be some cave or building identical to those you've cleared before

unlike with No Man's Sky, the seamless exploration is faked and the biodiversity is nil. you do get an impressive amount of raw loading screens however

the prefab bases and power stations found everywhere on planets seem to have very sparse, very specific slots for spawning consumables, which results in encountering some giant industrial installation in the middle of nowhere with, i don't know, a loaf of whole-grain sandwich bread just casually sitting next to it all proper. there is no breathable atmosphere here. who is eating this

planetary traversal is a CHORE. i am saying this as someone who loved Death Stranding

heinous "hold to confirm" buttons sprinkled in various flow-breaking places throughout the interface

enemy AI is abominable. nobody is pathing their way to get my ass. "must've been the wind" taken to the next level. an infant playing peekaboo has more object permanence

hoisting yourself up on ledges when jumping is…nice

companions randomly nowhere to be found. persists through multiple fast-travels and loading screens until, just as randomly, they pop back up

storage space is now limited! unlike in Fallout 4 and virtually every other bethesda game, your containers now hold a finite item capacity. god forbid we let the player have fun

baffling inventory UI. i imagine there's a mod out there that completely overhauls it the way SkyUI did for Skyrim. this should not be needed! how are your UIs getting worse a decade later!

scanning the precious few species inhabiting some dusty planet; one of them is this arching red root i've already seen several times before. my job done in this biome, i travel (read: teleport with a loading screen) to the polar region to find some other species. the first one i catalogue is the exact same red root again but this time it's named "boreas root" todd howard is a genius

some alien horror comes at me full fangs out. i hop on a pebble. obscenely, i am safe

procedural terrain generation beyond dull, impossibly unimaginative. these people have not had one critical thought on what makes a procedural world interesting. beginning to feel validated in my belief that only i should be trusted with proc gen. along with perhaps tarn adams

jokes aside this is making me feel genuinely insane. there have been excellent procedural generation techniques that produce compelling explorable maps for decades now. bethesda absolutely has the budget and know-how to do miles better than this yet somehow they just…do not? the same way Pokemon has decided to just no longer bother with their mainline games despite being the highest-grossing media franchise in history? hello? what is for real going on

some of the most cynical breadcrumbing i've seen in years. approaching some random cave and this person in space gear, who in the vast immensity of the infinite cosmos just happens to be snapping pictures right here, tells me more-or-less verbatim "if you like this place, you should see this other place" [other random cave has been added to your map.]

i do not like how good this makes No Man's Sky's gameplay look. it depresses me how much i have to hand it to No Man's Sky for at least not fucking up this bad. please stop making me wish i was playing No Man's Sky instead this is grotesque

i think i've exhausted my interest and patience for this game at the moment. i'll get back to the main story at some point and try some other systems ie. crafting and base-building to see if there's any engagement to be found but so far, my god. my god

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obssessivethorn · 5 months

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Yuu Makes Constant References No One Else Gets

Since I started playing Twst Wonderland, I can’t help but imagine Yuu starting out by constantly making references to pop culture and memes from their world only to realize midway through that no one else around them will understand it

Just imagine:

In the early stages of the game, Yuu starts to gradually feel more comfortable around their friends, mainly Ace, Deuce, and Grim

At first, they slowly start to feel at home again

They’d begin loosening up and speaking more like how they would in their home world

In this case, that means more references and obscure humor

Especially if we’re basing Yuu’s home world on our current day world

There are so many intricate inside jokes on the internet that wouldn’t make an ounce of sense to anyone who has never been exposed to that kind of environment like we have

So, when Yuu first made an obscure reference in a conversation with the Single Braincell Gang™, they fall back into their closed off space

Because they’re not from here

They have a whole other world to get back to

If they can even get back to it

And while Ace and Deuce may not be the brightest, the two had gotten to know Yuu enough to know that something was off with them. They just couldn’t place what

After the first few slip ups, Yuu had started talking less and less

They started letting Grim speak for the both of them more often, only speaking when others addressed them or when it was about a topic concerning Twisted Wonderland

From an outside point of view, nothing seemed to have changed. They still hung out with the other first years, laughed and teased their friends, and regularly asked or answered questions in class

But those closer to the Ramshackle prefect could sense the hesitation whenever they were about to say something

“You should have seen Crewel’s face when Deucey asked that question!” Ace recounted the event between fits of laughter. Yuu sat with the other first years at their (unspokenly claimed) lunch table, happily chuckling at their boys’ antics. They held Grim in their lap, being used as his personal high-chair like usual, subconsciously running one of their hands through the monster’s soft fur and munching on their own sandwich with the other. “I wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question if I wasn’t so tired from you keeping me up all night with your complaining about that test we have today!” Deuce retorted, grumpily taking another bite of his egg noodles. Though he looked away from his friends, the flustered blush on his cheeks was still easily seen by the group. The prefect let out another giggle, “I swear, Crewel looked exactly like that one meme with the lady surrounded by all those different equations-!” “Huh? Is that a new one I haven’t seen?” Epel asked, his head cocked to the side in question. Had it been any other situation, Yuu might have found it cute. But their embarrassment was too strong for any thought like that to surface. “Ah-! Nevermind, sorry. It’s an old meme from my home world.” They let out an awkward laugh before looking down and stuffing another bite of their sandwich into their mouth. Their face felt hot and they wished for nothing more than the floor to open up and swallow them, never to be seen in Twisted Wonderland again. “Y-yeah, and then Crewel assigned Juice like, a hundred more pages of homework to make sure he understood the topic!” Quickly, Ace diverted the others’ attention back to him, no doubt after sending a look of pity to the prefect. “Hundre-! It was only ten!” Deuce exclaimed, mouth full of pasta. Yuu could only mentally thank Ace for saving them from the piteous stares from the others. It was no secret that home was a sore subject for the prefect. Any time they spoke about it, their eyes would glaze over with nostalgic longing. Ace and Deuce would often ask them about traditions or cultures back in their world, both out of interest and because the two knew Yuu loved telling them about it.

Other times, however, aren’t grim reminders of how Crowley isn’t actually looking for a way home

Instead, they have these little moments with themself where they make references to things from their home world as an inside joke

Even if they don’t understand, Yuu’s friends still notice the tiny smirks or held laughs on occasion

But they’d never say anything about it, because it’s obvious how the small joke grounds Yuu and comforts them with the familiarity

“C’mon! We’re all in this together!” Yuu hastily spouted, trying to stop Ace from running away from his cleaning duties, again. Before Ace could even respond, the prefect immediately let out a bout of laughter and grabbed the boy’s arm, yanking him down the hall while humming a song he’d never heard before between occasional giggles.

Yuu starts recording Grim who is knocked out on their bed. Light snores come from the fluffball. Yuu is heard sniffling behind the camera. “Oh meow meow get up,” they croak. Their hand comes up to lightly shake Grim, stirring him awake and now very confused. “Oh shit meow meow, I thought you was dead-,” Yuu giggles out, further confusing a very dazed Grim

“C’mon, Yuu, the question’s not that bad!” Epel said in between laughs. “Yeah, Yuu! It’s just three more of these!” Ace could barely get the words out as he slowly collapsed in silent laughter. He slid further down in the library chair he occupied, hand clasping his chest in an effort to breathe yet still remain quiet. “No, I’ve had it! I am disgusted!” Yuu continued to furiously pack their materials. “I am revolted!” They fumble in closing their notebook and quickly give up, letting the papers crumple up as they shove it into their bag. “I dedicate my entire life to our lord and savior Jesus Christ, and this is the thanks I get?” The rest of the first years watch as Yuu slings their bag over their shoulder and promptly makes their way out of the library. Ace practically gasps for air. Epel finds himself in a giggle fit, unable to stop. Deuce is a mixture of confusion, amusement, and horror while he very obviously is still processing what just happened. Sebek can only look surprised, unsure of how to proceed. And finally, Jack is just as surprised but is holding back his own chuckles that threaten to spill.

“Ace, you idiot! There’s a ‘b’ in ‘subtle’.” Deuce scolded. “What?! Where’s the ‘b’?” “There’s a bee?” Yuu’s quivering voice quietly broke the tension. “Yuu!”

“Whoa, Yuu, I honestly didn’t know you could do that!” Yuu looked at him with a deadpan expression bordering on offended. ”Do you think I fuck around?” (definitely more obscure but if you understand this i love you) ((Hint: Brennen Lee Mulligan in a Game Changer episode))

Any g-note plays and Yuu’s eyes widen in recognition

“Floyd, Jamil, Ace. You guys gotta get your head in the game.”

Whether you wish to view it as romantic or platonic, the fact in undeniable that the cast is weak to hearing and seeing Yuu ramble on about things back from their world, specifically the first years or Heartslabyul boys

I personally really like the headcannon that only really the Heartslabyul boys, and maybe the rest of the first years, are in on Yuu being from a different world. It makes certain moments hurt just a bit more with the idea of little to no one knowing that Yuu is meant to inevitably leave. But i digress

Yuu could just be reminded of their favorite dish back home or a song they were obsessed with when they were younger, but the way they talk about it is mesmerizing to the boys. Their eyes light up with an aching mixture of nostalgia, longing, and joy. Recounting old stories or stupid trends they participated in never fails to crack just the slightest bit of a smile on their lips.

For some odd reason, the way they describe their home world feels like taking a sip of a warm drink on a cold winter day. Comforting in all the right ways. Warming you from the inside despite the harsh environment surrounding.

Not only does Yuu make it all sound like a fantasy at times, which is technically true given it’s a different world/dimension, but they somehow give the boy a strange glimmer of hope too. Like they too will have a chance to visit and experience the same joys. Only, there’s no chance of that happening. Right?

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autistichalsin · 2 months

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Some of my favorite, understated moments with heartbreaking implications for Halsin

1. Halsin threatening to turn into a mouse in the epilogue if the player brags about his achievements- he's so shy and humble that just being acknowledged for LITERALLY BUILDING A COMMUNE HIMSELF makes him want to hide. A mouse is a very symbolic choice here: not only easy to hide, but also easily overlooked and forgotten. The idea of his accomplishments being acknowledged is so terrifying for him that he wants to turn into an animal no one will notice, instead of his usual strong, large, noticeable bear.

2. "Sometimes, I think people look at me and imagine my feelings can't be hurt." This isn't the kind of thing that happens after one or two people act like jerks. This is years and years of cruel treatment, of his emotions being demeaned and mocked because of his size. Of people judging him before even meeting him- and forming an entirely wrong view of him. Halsin is a bighearted, tender, sentimental man, yet because he's big... Well, big people don't have feelings, surely. /s

3. "You and I may struggle to go unnoticed in such environs, Karlach[...] Folk of our stature can be a lure for drunkards seeking a brawl, I have found," combined with, "There is a particular discomfort to besting one you know to be weaker than yourself - even when needs must," from a different scene. People have sought him out and fought him because of his size (which had to have been terrifying, especially the first time), and he feels guilty when he takes out someone he knows is weaker, even if they STARTED it. How many times has the poor guy been traveling and then had to defend himself against someone 1/2 his size, making HIM look like the asshole to onlookers, and reinforcing that whole "people think I can't be hurt" thing?

4. "It was always destined to be so, if we prevailed. But the foreknowledge makes it no less bittersweet..." (About the players' paths diverging post brain battle), combined with "I see... After all my years of living, I know all too well that nothing lasts forever. Yet a parting can sting, nonetheless," if the player breaks up with him in the ending. This poor guy was having the time of his life adventuring with the group (and possibly falling in love there) yet never believed it would truly last (because of his abandonment issues). And then to have it confirmed.... he must have felt so awful in that moment, even if he was being dignified about it.

5. "You came for me... thank you. I feared Orin's accursed smile would be the very last sight I beheld," when Halsin is freed from Orin, combined with, "Orin's blades. I hoped my friends would save me..." If he is killed by Orin instead and Speak With the Dead is used on his corpse. The tone of his voice in the first line, especially added to that bit in the second... he never thought the player was coming to save him. He HOPED they would. Not "believed". Hoped. He thought he was going to die there- just like how he was in the Underdark for THREE YEARS and no one came to save him. And if it's confirmed... Yeah. That. (Sidenote: if you ask his corpse if he has any regrets, he says not telling Thaniel and Oliver goodbye, and not getting to see their land flourish. :( My heart. :( )

6. "I... have not had true confidantes for some time. The Shadow Curse robbed me of almost all my peers, and replaced them with the weight of responsibility. Perhaps that caused me to gild undeserving memories of my youth." Halsin was so miserable and stressed being Archdruid that he romanticized his past as a sex slave, viewing it as a safer, even happier alternative. There were actually times when Halsin thought he might rather be a sex slave than continue to be Archdruid. In a sense, for the 100 years the Shadow Curse was around, Halsin was just as much a prisoner as Thaniel was in the Shadowfell, but Halsin's prison had invisible bars. The Shadow Curse took away his entire support system, and being Archdruid forced him to be the strong one, always, never allowed to be weak or scared, forced him to take control of situations when he hated it, forced him to spend his time sorting out people instead of being in nature. And he was MISERABLE. For 100 years.

7. "You understand me almost perfectly. Only my late mother may have bested you." (Said if you get one question wrong at the love dryad test). He misses his mama. :( Especially when you consider that if you steal Balthazar's "Mother Dearest" and taunt him about it, Halsin disapproves (and is the only one to do so), while returning her gets you approval (which only Halsin approves of). And then the line when you look into a mirror while controlling him, "more like my father, with each passing day..." He really misses them. :(

8. "I am loathe to see anyone behind bars. It reminds me of my time as a guest of the goblins." He is, secretly, still quite traumatized from his time in the goblin pens, but he brushes it off. Just like every OTHER time he is hurt.

9. "I am aware [of having a habit of getting captured]. Perhaps I put too much faith in my skills of negotiation, or want to see good where there is none. It would be easy to resort to nature's fury whenever something stood in my way, yet I cannot help but feel I would be sullying the Oak Father's gifts. Naive perhaps... but I still draw breath." Halsin is aware he gets hurt often because of his desire to see good in people until he has no other choice, but refuses to give up anyway (which is backed up by that letter Gut had on her where she reveals Halsin TRIED to help the goblins, saying he could cure them of their tadpoles, only to be thrown in the cage, with Gut threatening to have his stomach cut open and maggots placed inside it.) Further, even though he is an Archdruid, and one of the most devoted, and explicitly has Silvanus's favor (Halsin says that gaining his favor was the only way he was able to open the portal to the Shadowfell), he still constantly worries about using Silvanus's powers, to the point of wondering if an actual threat to his safety actually merits using his powers. Which... combined with some other stuff, reads like one hell of a problem with self-worth.

10. "At least you were not present. Grim as [the ruined battlefield] is now, it was worse on the day of the battle. A vivid wound upon my memory[...] I was lucky - I lived, when so many did not. It would take me a day and a night to recite the names of all the friends I lost" combined with, "I was [present when the Shadow Curse was unleashed]. Part of my spirit was shorn away from me here, and never left," and, if Last Light falls, "All gone... devoured by the shadows. Oak Father preserve us, it's just like a hundred years ago[...] We are [still standing]. Yet there is a burden to being the survivor... the witness to others' tragedies. It only grows heavier with time." He has so much PTSD and survivor guilt from the Shadow Curse. :( No wonder it's all he can think about- to the point that some of the other companions even get annoyed at him for his obsession.

11. "I never quite realised how burdened I was, until I met you. The threat of the shadow curse, the politics of the grove... I was forgetting who I was, but you lifted the fog. Thank you." Not only does this tie in with the above, with his PTSD from the curse and his utter misery at being Archdruid, but this HEAVILY implies Halsin had depression. Like... that "fog" line hits HARD if you have or have had depression, because that's exactly what it feels like. And the "forgetting who I was" bit too. Not just losing his sense of self to the depression, but to the neverending responsibilities of being Archdruid. I keep repeating myself, but damn, this guy has really and truly spent an entire century being absolutely MISERABLE. :(

12. "Forgive me. I... lost the run of myself. Sometimes, if blood runs hot enough, it's difficult to tame the beast." With that little disgusted groan/sigh, the fury and disgust at himself visible on his face, and the way he rushes to get out the rest of it- he thinks he fucked up so badly that you're about to leave him, maybe forever. And then if you reject him after this? "Ah... I see. Well, of course. Back to camp then." He has the most heartbroken look on his face here, and the way he says "of course" like he just... knew this was coming the instant he accidentally wildshaped. He felt that the first time he let ANY of his imperfections show, the player would leave him. :(

13. "Death is nature's final slumber - it awaits us all. Do not punish yourself over those lost, or give in to despair - not while there are still folk in need of your help." (Said to a Dark Urge if they tell him they're not much of a hero and most people needing them end up dead) Not only is Halsin speaking from experience here, but it's very clear he is STILL doing exactly what he tells Durge not to do, to himself- punishing himself over those who were lost, struggling with devastating survivor guilt.

14. "The grove has cut itself off from the world, to jealously guard its own little pocket of nature. No one shall ever enter or leave again. And I have been evicted from the very place I was charged to safeguard. A telling summary of my time as Archdruid, perhaps..." If the Grove is sealed and you ask him about it later, this is what he says. Interesting that he views being evicted from the place he was in charge of protecting to be a "telling summary." He was forced to take the leadership role there, and yet it was clear he wasn't wanted or respected by a great number of the Druids (exempting Nettie, Rath, and Apikusis). He got a truly thankless job that took damn near EVERYTHING from him emotionally/mentally, causing him to develop depression and causing him to backslide in his previous healing from his trauma from his time as a sex slave, he still gave EVERYTHING to the Grove, and in return...... almost none of his Druids appreciated or even liked him. (I could seriously write at least five metas about how obviously miserable Halsin was at the Grove, despite caring for it deeply).

15. "You could have done anything, gone with anyone... yet you chose me." Said at the epilogue to a solo romanced player who went to the commune with him. There's so many layers of heartbreak here. He is still surprised, six months later, that the player chose him. He even thinks the player will regret it, and will decide they want an adventurer's life after all after seeing everyone else. He doesn't think he is good enough- doesn't think he deserves the player, and yet at the same time he loves them so much that he is heartbroken over the possibility they might agree with him. He thinks that given a chance, there is little chance they would actually choose him again. (He is put at ease quickly when the player promises they picked him for a reason, but even the explanation he gives for why he was so worrie is heartbreaking- that he's so used to a tumultuous life that he thinks something must go wrong. He has been so traumatized so many times over the years that he just has almost no ability to think that true happiness is possible [or deserved] for him.) Something about that is just heartbreaking, even though his ending is one of the happiest of any of the companions.

Someone give this sweet bear man a hug, please :(

#halsin #halsin silverbough #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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forteafy · 10 months

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A House, A Home | CL16 & CS55

Summary: A loveless marriage usually comes after years, not before. You've always loved him, his best friend has always loved you.

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: Hard Angst, Cheating, Mentions of Sex, Death.

Note: This piece has two heavy inspirations. The first is @lxclerc's amazing pieces 'Moth to a Flame' and 'Call out my Name.' They are both incredible pieces and I highly suggest you give them a read. The second is from a TikTok Account called 'ForPercival,' they are currently doing a social media AU which I cannot recommend enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

Charles Leclerc is a husband.

At least, he was your husband on paper. One year ago, a hidden agreement had been put in place between Scuderia Ferrari and the Leclerc Household; their son, the ‘Il Predestinato,’ of the team, (albeit one whom had had the most terrible season,) could continue to drive for the team, so long as he married the daughter of one of their longest-running investors.

That so happened to be you.

You had been against the entire idea since the first day. After being introduced to Ferrari’s driver, you had instantly felt the divide between the two of you. You’d reluctantly shaken his hand and since then, had been thrown through a mixture of fake dates, a fake engagement and the fakest wedding that could possibly be imagined. The ceremony hadn’t even ended with a kiss, per tradition.

It didn’t take long for your walls to crack; living with Charles, seeing him at his highest and lowest points, his most vulnerable behind the four walls of your home had caused your heart to soften. Forget being forced into this marriage, you’d grown to care, to adore the man who’d once burdened you with his presence. You dreamed of the day he would return your affection; how long would it take for you to realise you lived in denial? In your late-night fantasies, lying alone in one of the guest rooms you’d sought refuge in on moving into this house, you’d dreamt of lying in his arms, lazy morning breakfast, slow kisses when he would come back to you. To your home.

A home, however, is where you feel safe, warm, protected. You lived in a house with Charles. The man who would barely glance your way and after three months of your marriage, started coming home, smelling of rich perfume and lipstick marks littering his jawline.

The first anniversary of your marriage should have been special, even if he despised you in every known form to man. You’d woken up in your room, slipped on the silk robe which had been lying on the empty bedside and slipped out of the bedroom. In your heart of hearts, you knew there would be no significance of today; no flowers, no card, not even a simple text from your husband to signify the date in question. The only text you had received that morning, was a stern reminder from your father, that you were due to attend the Monza Grand Prix in less than one week.

A soft sigh emitted itself from your lips; it was a routine you knew all too well. Every few races, the more significant ones; Monaco, Silverstone, Spa-Francorchamps, Monza, you’d play the doting wife; cheering for your husband whilst dressed in soft summer dresses, a forged grin if he managed to battle his way into the points. On those rare days when he would obtain a podium position, he’d greet you on the barriers with a soft kiss. It was all fake; a routine which had been performed so many times. Yet, each time his lips met yours, you could dream he meant something behind the affection.

The train of thought had played through your mind for so long that you were unaware of the tears pooling on your lower lash line. So, what if Charles wasn’t at home for your anniversary? It was your thought for feeling any kind of emotion towards him in the first place. It was a business deal, after all. Did your husband enjoytreating you like this? His disappearance on that morning was a cold reminder that he felt nothing towards you. No sentiment, no adoration.

Despite the tears which had bade your eyes that morning, until the mid-afternoon, you had a productive day. Of course, leaving the house was out of the question; what would the media say if devoted wife of Ferrari’s driver was seen without him, on their wedding anniversary of all days?

Instead, you’d played soft music whilst re-organising your wardrobe, something you’d put off for a while now. Cooking a meal whilst lazily treading around the kitchen, experimenting with the spices that Yuki had gifted to you on your previous visit to a Grand Prix. The meal itself was too big to eat alone. Instead, you boxed up the remainders of what was left in the tray, carefully placing it in the fridge, knowing Charles wouldn’t actually eat it.

Your evening had been…less productive. You’d found solace in a glass of red wine, lounging on the sofa of the main living area; usually, you kept as far away from that zone as possible. Charles would spend his evenings in the couch, eyes flickering between the television and his phone, no doubt sending longing messages to his mistress whilst his wife was in the home.

The third glass had just about been drained. You were adamant upon gaining a fourth, no longer caring of any commitments you had the next day. Instead, you sat up abruptly from the sofa, hearing the gentle click from the front door.

He had come back to the house.

His green eyes barely took a second to meet yours, slipping off his shoes and placing them into the rack situated by the front door. A rustle of his jacket signified his option to stay. You saw him carry the garment over his arm as he trudged into the living area, set to lie in front of the television for some personal relaxation.

With his entry to the room, you suddenly remembered your position. You’d hastily stood up from the couch, collecting the half-finished bottle from the low table, holding the glass to your chest to draw the attention away from your beverage.

Charles said nothing; he’d unlatched the top two buttons from his dress shirt; faint purple marks nestled on the lower joint of his neck; a clear mark that his mistress had previously made, a sinful reminder of his adultery.

“I left you some dinner in the fridge.” You mumbled, voice barely picking up over the sound of the television. “There’s some clean loungewear on the end of your bed, too.” You finish your sentence. Your husband doesn’t even attempt to tell you he’s acknowledged your words, eyes transfixed on whatever news was currently playing on the television.

“Happy Anniversary.” You mumble, feet leading you back to the kitchen, the bottle of wine against your chest now seemingly the only attention you’d ever get.

Charles Leclerc is an actor.

The entire drive to the track had been bade in complete silence; not even the radio had been switched on to drown out the undeniable tension in the car. You had originally tried to make light conversation with the man; he couldn’t even be bothered to make a sound in response to any of your questions.

You couldn’t handle the harsh tone he had snapped at you with the previous time you had been in the car; instead, you watched the rolling hills and glistening sun of Monza. It was always one of the highlights of the year. If not for the racing, you would have come here in your own time, to bask in the sun and to enjoy the secluded section of Italy as an individual.

The incredible views soon began to fade out, instead replaced by expensive cars and adoring fans, leaning over the barriers in an attempt to see their favourite drivers; there was an uproar as your husband drove past the crowds; he was clearly the home favourite, as any member of the Ferrari crew would be in this location. Silently, you slipped on the sunglasses which had been resting in the pouch of your bag, knowing the paparazzi would be blistering your eyesight sooner rather than later.

Charles effortlessly parked his car in the allocated spot. Silently, he switches off the engine, removing the keys and shoving them into his jean pocket. The man doesn’t so much as register your presence as he opens his door, leaving you to venture out of the car yourself. You’d carefully adjusted the flowing fabric of your dress; the patterned fabric flowing gently around your calves.

You looked beautiful. You just wished your husband would care enough to tell you.

Instead, his priority is the cameras leaning over the barriers. He doesn’t even look in your direction, instead firmly grasping your hand in his own; an act the two of you had performed for the crowd oh-so-many times. He waves towards the crowds; neither of you miss the adoring sounds, the coos for many of the fan’s favourite ‘couple.’ To so many, his affection seemed to clear to you, and yours did to him.

Charles didn’t hold your hand with any adoration. His grasp was harsh, palms roughly mashed together, no intent to keep your grip safe against his own. You were certain that if you were to let go, he wouldn’t think to remedy the situation. Your theory is proven when you gently let go, instead keeping in step, just behind his figure; Charles’ hand seems as if it’s gone into idle mode. His eyes, however, stayed alert, vigilant. Silently, the two of you pass through the paddock security, pausing every few moments for Charles to sign a cap, take a photograph with a fan.

It isn’t until you reach the outskirts of the Ferrari Building that you see her. Soft hair around her shoulders, clothing exquisite, her eyes flickering to your husband, offering him a sympathising smile.

He may have been a devoted husband towards the press, to Ferrari, even to the majority of his team. However, the moment that the cameras were turned off, microphones pushed away, he was sneaking to his mistress, one he had shamelessly invited to so many Grand Prix’s over the past nine months. She was what he wanted; a fun and fancy-free lady, rather than the wife whom stood by his side. There’s a glance between the two of them, as if a whole conversation is had in that moment.

You stay silent as you follow Charles into the Ferrari Building. Instantly, you’re overwhelmed by the welcomes that your husband obtains; so many of them pass onto you. Upon the questions of how married life is treating him, he smiles, fakes a laugh as he pulls you into his side, one hand firmly resting upon your waist.

“Married life is perfect.” He insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, one which you falsely giggle about, ignoring the butterflies which were nestling in the pit of your stomach. “It’s even better when she’s standing right here, beside me.”

The entirety of the room buys the staged scene, all except for two people. The first, obviously, is your father. He’s always there, watching that the driver is performing well. He knows of his affair, but in his mind, as long as the affair is kept out of the light, and his marriage was still official, their deal continued. Besides, he would speak to you both sooner rather than later upon extending the family; that would seal both of your fates towards one another. Nobody liked a husband whom left a wife and child.

The second was Carlos Sainz; the second driver for Scuderia Ferrari.

The Spaniard was all too aware of the affair between Charles and his mistress; after qualifying from Baku, Carlos had found his teammate behind the garage, his hands with a firm grip on her waist, their kisses entirely formed of tounge and teeth. The man had furiously ripped Charles from the woman, bellowing in his face about the wife he had, whilst this woman warmed his bed. A deep blush had formed over both of their cheeks, Charles explaining that you were aware of his actions.

Carlos didn’t want to believe it; he’d frantically messaged you that evening, to which you had answered his question, confirming you knew of the affair. That evening, you had revealed everything to him, watching his eyes get glossier as the cruel details were flickered in front of his eyes. It pained him; he’d cared for you since the moment you’d first stepped foot into the paddock alongside your father. His heart shattered upon finding out that you had been betroved to Charles, that he had missed his chance, all that time ago.

He waits; waits until later in the day to approach you. By this point, you had made yourself comfortable in Charles’ driver room. Of course, your husband isn’t actually there. After a brief encounter with most of the members on his team, he’d excused himself. Carlos knew that he had snuck away from the crowds adorned in red to see his mistress, likely stealing kisses and rough fumbles between one another. Whilst that was happening, you, were sat in his drivers’ room, skirts spread across the soft lounger, eyes engrossed in a book which had been enclosed in your bag alongside your sunglasses.

You were the epitome of beauty in Carlos’ eyes. He could have stood at the ajar door to the room, watching you as you engrossed yourself in the story. Instead, he offers a light cough, drawing your attention from the book in your lap. He’s engrossed by your eyes, how the light reflected off them, the glow they offered. Your smile, how you presented your real smile to him so naturally, not the one you forged next to your husband on every single encounter.

“Good morning, Carlos!” You greet him with a bright tone, standing up from your position on the couch. You offer him a hug, feeling his warm arms wrap around your waist, his breath against your face when he kisses your cheek gently. ‘In another life,’ you always tell yourself. One where you were happy, free to marry a man who would return your affection.

“Good morning, Mariposa.” The nickname rolls of his tongue; one he had presented ever since you had once showed up in the paddock, the most beautiful butterfly-imprinted dress flowing in the soft breeze of that Monaco weekend. “You’re hiding out in here today, yes?” He teases. You offer him a small shrug, eyes not able to meet those sweet brown ones of the man stood in front of you.

“Charles is…busy.” You finish the sentence abruptly. Carlos knows not to question further; the two of you have a mutual understanding as to where he would be at this point during the day; wrapped up in the arms of another woman. “He’s probably on his track walk…maybe. I’m just…keeping occupied.” You motion towards the window, looking onto the first straight of the track. “Plus…it looks windy out there.”

“Well…” Carlos invites himself into the room now, looking down at your attire, seeing that your feet were enclosed with the brilliant white trainers you’d left home in that morning. The man shrugs off his own windbreaker, holding it in his arm. “If I give you my jacket, would you like to come on my track walk?” He offers, holding out the garment to you.

You knew you would probably live to regret that moment. However, if you stayed resting in Charles’ driver room much longer, reading the same line of your book whilst your thoughts trailed away to how he would be with his mistress, you would go crazy.

“I’d love to.” You finally respond, slipping your arms through the large sleeves of Carlos’ jacket. Offering you a pat on the shoulder, he motions towards the exit of the driver’s room, determined to keep you on his side whilst walking across the track loved by fans far and wide. He hopes that everybody misses the longing gazes and soft smile on his face every time you make a comment, or your hands brush a little too closely.

Charles Leclerc is a neck kisser.

It’s not as if you would know this. The only kisses you ever had were those for show. Cold, meaningless interactions between somebody who attempted to show unconditional love and one who could dream of being anywhere else in that moment.

You’d carefully unlatched the front door of the house, your wireless earbuds resting comfortably in your ears, unable to hear any other sound apart from the music playing. Slipping off your shoes, hanging up your jacket; your only intention for the afternoon was to go through some of the notes you had made regarding education courses in the area; sitting at home day after day was truly aggravating. You couldn’t pick up yet another hobby. Maybe some form of learning would interest you.

But first, you needed a drink to cool yourself off from the sun. You’d remembered the smoothie packs you made earlier in the week; one of those and going through your notes seemed a perfect plan for the current moment.

The second you rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen, you wished that you could have taken the scenic route home.

His mistress was sat up on the kitchen island, back straight, legs wrapped around the waist of your husband, her hands grasping at the soft curls atop of his head. Charles’ hands slid across her back, soft grunts coming from his lips, his mouth leaving open-mouthed kisses along her slender neck. She was loving it, at least, that’s what you could judge from the noises leaving her mouth.

Before either of them could clock your arrival, both too wrapped-up in their embrace, you’d stepped out of the kitchen, hand over your mouth to silence the sobs which were threatening to escape. In a moment, you’re out of the hallway, letting your feet carry you up the carpeted stairs.

The only intention now embedded in your mind was to drink so much you would forget the scene unfolding in front of your eyes.

Charles Leclerc is a slow replier.

The smell of tequila and sweat is strong in the cramped hallway of the club. It was insane to believe that less than three hours ago, you had been cocooned in your king-size duvet, lips slightly parted as you strung a meaningless thread of text messages to one another; you didn’t truly care how one of your friends felt in that moment, the heartbreak shattering in your chest was stronger than any other emotion you could begin to comprehend.

No, your sole reason for texting was to leave this god-forsaken house. You kept telling yourself not to care. Charles’ eyes were all you could think about as you picked out your shortest, slinkiest dress; one which enhanced every curve and dip in the most elegant way. Charles’ dimples were all you could think about when your attention was drawn to outlining your lips with a deep red gloss. Charles’ lips were all you could think about, your foot sliding into the black heeled shoe, your feet finding no solace in being propped up within six inches of their life.

Your friend had messaged you the location of the designated club. How anybody could enjoy one of those places sober was beyond your comprehension. Instead, you had taken the route of every other supposed being in that club; one shot of a suspicious-looking liquid had turned into sixteen – his number, you couldn’t help remembering. That was the reason you had found yourself stood motionlessly in the hallway, trying to navigate yourself back to the bar. At least seventeen wouldn’t have been tied to any other emotion.

The plan, however, was short-lived when you hear a familiar voice call your name. Turning too quickly in your ridiculous heels, you’re met with the figures of Kelly Piquet and Max Verstappen, hands linked together, clearly nowhere near as intoxicated as you were in that moment.

Kelly moves first; you had always enjoyed her presence, spending time with her around the Paddock when you were bade to attend. Penelope was one of the sweetest three-year-olds you had ever come across, always greeting you with a toothy grin and a story of her and ‘Maxie’s’ escapades. When her mother encloses you in a hug, you can feel the tears fall, your drunken façade falling immediately. The woman simply cups your hand in her face, delicately wiping the tears from your lash line, making sure to remove any heavy clumps of mascara. She asks you where Charles is, where your husband is. You can’t make any sound which you believe is cohesive, something about him being back at the house.

Max by now, has his own arm resting around your shoulder. You were Charles’ wife, after all. He knew Charles would do the same for Kelly if she was ever to be found in this state. Something strange stabs at his chest; maybe he was too protective, but he would have never of let Kelly get into this state, at least, not on her own. The driver carefully fumbles in his back pocket, unlocking his own device and filing through his contacts to phone Charles.

The phone goes straight to voicemail, not even a dialling tone. Max tries a second time, a third time. Instead, he leaves messages. How on gods earth did Charles feel relaxed, knowing his wife would be out, probably on some form of alcohol, and not think to check that she would be safe returning home? If only he knew.

The duo moves to a second plan. You needed some fresh air before they could attempt to get you into a car and take you home; standing in the corridor of a nightclub was not an ideal situation, instead moving you to the exit. Your eyes widen, looking up to Max and Kelly as if you had shrunk right down to Penelope’s age, as if they would be the saviours to get you home. By the way Max was holding you by his side and Kelly stroking your hair behind your ears, you may as well been their daughter.

Conversations are had; neither of them is sober enough to drive you home, nor do they think it’s wise to try and sneak you into their hotel room when they had already issues when checking in a little too late. Their prayers are answered when a group of men wander past, one of them stopping to smack Max, his fellow driver on the back. His dark eyes, ones you know so well, widen when he sees your figure, looking so fragile in the light of the early hours in the city.

“Mariposa.” He murmurs, running a hand across your cheek, wanting nothing more than to hold your frame against his chest. Your soft eyes meet his own dark ones, glossed in concern for how on earth you could do this to yourself. The man murmurs something to Max and Kelly, ensuring them that he’d been the sober friend out of his group; promising he would get you home himself. The duo has no reason to not trust him, both of them leaving a gentle kiss on your cheek before retiring to their own hotel.

As the couple walk away from the club, you can only feel the warmth of Carlos’ hand, still resting on your face. When he at last turns his attention back to you, he simply wraps a strong arm around your waist, supporting you to stand in those awful, heeled shoes. At the pace you’re walking back towards his car, you would get there just after the sunrise. Instead, he scroops you into his grasp.

The affection, the physical contact is all too much for you. It had been so, so long since anybody had held you, cared for you like this. Your clouded mind, now overwhelmed by warmth and alcohol allowed you to lean your head into Carlos’ sturdy chest. If you were sober, you’d be able to feel the way his heart raced when feeling you rest against him.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Mariposa?” He murmurs, settling you into the passenger seat of his car. He can’t help but remove his own jacket, wrapping the soft fabric around your arms, letting you nuzzle into the scent of his fabric softener and aftershave. Once settling himself into the driving seat, he begins the route back to the house, one hand gently resting atop of your leg, some form of comfort for the world in your mind which seemed to be caving in.

“I’d never do this to you.” He whispers, turning into the driveway that he had become accustomed to since the marriage.

Across the city, Max Verstappen is sound asleep. His phone, plugged in on the dressing table across the room buzzes once, notifying a text from his racing rival.

03:21: Charles Leclerc

Hey, sorry, was busy with something. Is everything good?

Charles Leclerc is a traveller.

You hadn’t expected anything to awaken you after the way your body had reacted to the previous night. A natural awakening, however, would have been a lot nicer than hearing the clicking sound of wheels against flooring. Whatever, whoever was outside of your room most certainly had a death wish to awaken you that morning.

It felt as if pins had been pressed into every square inch of your head, the task of even sitting up and forcing yourself towards the door of your bedroom, still dressed in your slinky garment and…somebody’s jacket? The night for you had truly ended as soon as you had that ninth shot of tequila; you thought you could remember Max and Kelly in the same location at some point, maybe that was your mind playing tricks on you, longing for people who enjoyed your company.

You were pulled back to the present when the figure of your husband appears at your doorway. He’s dressed already; loose hoodie and tracksuit bottoms cover his frame; his hand is clasping tightly onto a suitcase. There wasn’t a Grand Prix this weekend, you were certain. He would have left days ago for that. There was-

“I’m going to stay with…” He pauses, clearly trying to think of the correct way to word the fact he would be staying with his Mistress until further notice. Even in your state, you understand, simply raising your hand to stop him from speaking. You didn’t want to hear her name, you didn’t want to know that he would be spending the next nights wrapped in her arms, because for once…you didn’t care.

They say alcohol causes dangerous mistakes, but in this moment, your hangover seemed to be your best friend. Every single time, you would think later, Charles would come back from seeing her, would leave to spend an evening by her side or sneak away during your paddock appearances…and you would be focused, your sole attention being on when he would return. Now? Your sole focus was on throwing up the remains of alcohol in your stomach, placing on a facemask and ordering some kind of comfort food to your home.

You didn’t care about him, not right now. Your actions relay this, simply offering him a nod before speaking, your voice surprisingly clear for how much your throat was weeping for a drink.

“Okay.” You pause. There’s nothing left to say after that. What does he want you to do? Wish him a happy time? Charles looks equally taken aback, usually expecting some kind of warm drabble on how he needed to stay safe. In that moment, he can’t help but…want it.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday to pack for Singapore.” He pauses this time, taking in your appearance, your face so…gentle, soothing. “You’re coming, yes?” He remembers a conversation had many a time; his wife should be there to support him as much as possible, even if he wasn’t a fan of the sly ways he would have to leave her in front of his team members.

He isn’t expecting a shrug of the shoulders, bringing a hand up to rest on the door, clearly ready to close it at any given moment.

“I’m not sure.” You offer him, sighing as you begin to close the door yourself. “My father said that race isn’t a priority.” That was the last sentence you offered him before closing the door. You obviously do not see it, but on the other side of the wall, Charles stands in confusion for a full twenty seconds before snapping back to his reality, his clutch on the suitcase a little tighter as he begins his decent down the stairs, wondering where on earth he had seen that jacket you were wearing before?

Your own priorities that morning was in full swing; you had placed your phone on charge, messages beginning to thread through as you stepped into the shower, the cool water savouring your skin. A fluffy robe is tied around your waist, brushing your hair around your back whilst your attention focused on rehydrating your skin, brushing your teeth and cleaning the dirt from underneath your eyes.

The silence is strong when you walk back into your bedroom. In that moment, you opt for some music whilst changing into some comfortable loungewear, easy to roam around the house in and let your hair dry naturally. Sitting at the end of the bed, you’re able to check notifications, seeing Kelly had sent you a photo of Penelope that morning, smiling for her favourite aunt. You see your most recent text had come through from none other than Charles’ teammate, following one which had been sent early that morning.

03:45: Carlos Sainz

Sweet dreams, Mariposa. Let me know if you need anything please.

11:51: Carlos Sainz

Just seen on Twitter Charles is at the airport, he’s not off to see her, is he?

His message brings so many emotions to you, and also answers the question of who’s jacket you had been wearing that morning. Your heart can’t help but soften, knowing already that Charles is on his way to see...her. You think back to your mindset from earlier, how it was the last thing you wanted to care about. Why on earth would you care about them, when you could be focusing on ordering your favourite food and calling your nail technician to come to the house? That would make you feel better, better than he ever had.

You first drop a message to Carlos in response, wanting to let him know you had woken up from potential alcohol poisoning.

12:25: You

Yeah, he is. Didn’t seem so happy that I couldn’t care less. Thank you for the jacket last night, I hope you had a good evening.

12:28: Carlos Sainz

All the better for seeing you. Hoping the hangover isn’t too bad today.

The messages spring backwards and forwards between the two of you for the afternoon; you’re smiling whilst you go through your favourite meal, the taste of it filling your mouth in the best way possible. There’s still a smile on your face when your nail technician arrives, painting some delicate designs into your fingers and toes, subtly asking who on earth has you smiling that much.

It isn’t until that evening; you’re sat in front of the television, a series you had watched one-too many times playing, your eyes glued to the storyline as if it would change again. The notification on your phone instantly drew your attention away from the screen, looking down to see a text on your screen.

21:03: Carlos Sainz

Why don’t you come and stay in Madrid for a few days? I’m sure we could both do with the company.

Charles Leclerc is a stalker.

Well, maybe stalker was too strong of a word. However, his intentions were identical, having watched your latest Instagram story three- no, four times. Since leaving the home several days earlier, his mind could not stop thinking about the fact you truly could not care less about where he was going. This wasn’t you, was it?

He’d arrived at her house, being temporarily distracted by luring himself into her bedroom, an afternoon of escapades and touches until she had rolled onto her side, telling him she was going to shower, and he would be more than welcome to join her. Instead, he pulled out his phone, seeing if you had done your usual; texting him to check that he had arrived safely, asking when he could be coming back to the house.

There’s no messages, no notifications. Huffing to himself, Charles instead pulls up your Instagram, seeing that you had posted a new story that evening, a suitcase in hand, an emoji of an aircraft and a Spanish flag. You were off somewhere, and hadn’t told him? No, no. You always told him where you were going, you always-

“Are you not joining me, then?” Charles’ mistress’ voice suddenly draws him out of his trance, a towel wrapped around her body, hair around her shoulders. It was nowhere near as soft and as gentle as yours was, he realised in that moment. He eventually nods, pulling himself from his phone and following her into the en-suite.

He’s so…distant for the remainder of his visit. When the two of them go to a secluded spot for lunch, when they go for a drive in a car they had hired for the afternoon. When she’s lazily pressing kisses along his neck, trying to grind into his crotch, desperate for his attention. When she finally falls asleep, Charles pulls out his phone, looking through any of the photos you had posted from that day. The soft sands of the beach, a hugestrawberry ice-cream cone, a mirrored selfie of yourself in the most beautiful sundress, hair curled and clearly ready for an evening in the Spanish sun.

The routine continues, he sees your adventures, day after day. You’re touring small markets, trying local delicacies. One day, you’re simply lounging by a pool for the afternoon, a fat paperback resting on your stomach, clearly engrossed by the story which was resting on your stomach. Each time he sees a post, he can’t help but be drawn to how he wants to know how you’re doing. Maybe that’s why he drops you a text message, trying to gain some sort of traction from how you were doing.

23:54: Charles Leclerc

Are you home? I’ve got a flight tomorrow afternoon.

You don’t respond; now, your phone is at the bottom of your bag, resting on the inside cabin of Carlos’ boat. For your final day in Madrid, he had insisted on taking you for a boat ride. You’d shyly mentioned earlier in that week that Charles had never taken you on his own boat, despite the fact that you were indeed married.

The sun began to set over the rolling waves of the ocean; the boat is gently rocking, the sounds of water lapping over one another was music to your ears. You were sat at the edge of the now stilled boat, contemplating dipping your toes into the water. Your attention is so drawn to the scenery that you don’t hear him step away from the wheel, crouching next to you.

“You could just go in.” He teases, “rather than staring at the water. You know how to swim.” The taunt causes you to roll your eyes, simply looking to the Spaniard on your right-hand side.

“What? And have you speed off without me?” You retaliate, using your shoulder to nudge his body. Carlos clicks his lips together, mumbling something incoherent, before he’s suddenly scooped you up into your arms; despite your sounds of protests, he simply holds you against his chest tighter. His dark eyes flicker between yours and the ocean water below the two of you. Before you can say anything, his feet have made their own choice, jumping off the edge of the boat, both of you tumbling into the sea. Your briefly submerged entirely, before your head pops out of the waves, blindly reaching around until two strong arms encircle your waist.

Both you and Carlos laugh for a moment, in pure awe that you just did that. He moves first, one of his hands releasing from your waist, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. There’s a silence between the two of you, where the only sound emitting from your surroundings is the gentle waves of the sea. In that moment, Carlos Sainz wants nothing more than to lean forward, pressing his lips to your own. They look so…soft. He craves to give them the attention they had been longing for so long. But…you’re married. And even if your marriage is loveless, to a point where your husband is openly in an affair, he would never do that to you. Instead, he settles for resting one hand on your cheek, gently kissing the top of your forehead, murmuring some Spanish wording you would never remember.

If you did understand it, however, you would have known that he said there and then that he would always be devoted to you.

Charles Leclerc is a loud shouter.

His voice seemed to travel for miles, you were almost certain the entirety of the secluded neighbourhood could hear him at this current moment. The man had returned home from his secluded stay with his mistress to an empty house; at that point, you were still in the depths of Madrid, packing up your own suitcase, wishing Carlos luck on the Singapore Grand Prix. You had intended to return to the house after Charles had left himself; the heartbreak of seeing him littered in love-bites, his eyes transfixed to his phone from her messages was too much for you.

However, if you had been at the house when he had arrived home, you would have seen his neck clear, phone shoved into his back pocket as he called out your name, wondering if you had returned home yourself. Charles notices your trainers haven’t been left on the shoe rack; there’s no music to signify your afternoon relaxation. A light knock to the door of your room signifies there’s nobody home. The house feels empty.

Maybe, Charles Leclerc was beginning to understand how you felt.

His first instinct is to message you. Surely, you would have seen his text from his previous message by now; what would it hurt to check in once more. The man feels against his rough jean pocket for the device, swiping away from the multiple notifications from his mistress, instead scrolling to your contact’s name, seeing you hadn’t been active in almost twelve hours. You hadn’t even opened his message.

His thumb hovers above the keyboard, not entirely sure what to say in this situation. Instead, he opts to call your number instead; you had always picked up to him; whenever he needed you to stay away from the house, or to remind you to be ready to leave at a certain time. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, your voicemail comes through the speaker, signifying him that you were too busy to pick up the telephone.

Charles didn’t grow concerned during the evening; he grew angry. You were his wife. You were supposed to be at the house to greet him, to welcome him with open arms, ask about his day. Even if…even if he had chosen to ignore your welcoming’s and kind heart for over a year. The man found a distraction in going through the information that Scuderia Ferrari had sent him for his journey tomorrow, making sure his passport was in the correct place. He hadn’t needed to pack; you had made sure to do that for him before your own departure, making sure his comfortable clothes were packed and sunglasses safely secured in the pouches of the case.

It was late, late for you when the door finally opened, signalling the arrival of a second being. Charles immediately sits up from his slouched position on the couch, stepping up from the sofa, almost ready to give you a piece of his mind. Upon reaching the hallway, he sees you, slipping off your trainers, leaving the suitcase next to the front door. Even underneath your jumper, he can see your skin is glowing from the Mediterranean sun, yet your eyes are watering, tears leaking from your lower lash line.

“Where on earth have you been?” He snaps, not actually wanting to hear an answer. You open your mouth to respond, but the man cuts you off before you can speak. “I am your husband. You’re supposed to wait for me!” His temper is getting the better of him, green eyes flickering with anger.

At this point, you’re exhausted, overwhelmed from the news you had received on your drive home, and for this man to question your loyalties to your marriage? You can’t help the scoff which falls from your lips, the emotions building a little too much.

“You’re my husband?” You mock in confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise my husband was around at long last, not wrapped in the arms of another woman!” Your temper flares, pushing your hair behind your shoulders, grasping the suitcase to take upstairs and repack.

“You didn’t pick up your phone once.” Charles retaliates. Oh, the cheek of-

“Like when you pick up your phone when I call?” The tears are beginning to flow freely now, wanting nothing more than to get upstairs and completely ignore what has been happening. “You don’t Charles. You’ve done nothing to show that you’re my husband in the past twelve months!” You can’t help yourself now. Instead of seeking the new suitcase, you simply turn around on the step of the front door, slipping your trainers back onto your feet.

“Where are you going?” His voice is now laced in concern; you couldn’t leave yet, surely? You’d only just returned; you wouldn’t be safe to drive in this condition. Why on earth did he care now? His question is answered, but not in the way he desired.

“Like you would care.” It’s the last thing you say before the door to the house is slammed shut.

Charles Leclerc is an investigator.

When arriving in the Ferrari Garage of Singapore, there’s already an eerie feeling through the air; there are no smiles, sympathising looks thrown towards the back end of the garage. The driver isn’t stupid, he knows something must be wrong. He’s unsure of who to ask; who would know what is going on?

His original plan was to ask Xavi, maybe during their morning briefing, until he is told that his flight has been delayed and wouldn’t be there until the late afternoon. Eventually, he spots his racing partner, nestled in the corner of the garage, his eyes flickering across his own phone screen, rapidly typing a message to somebody he would rather not admit to.

“Hey.” He speaks softly, not wanting to startle the man. Silently, Carlos looks up from his device, offering his teammate a small nod, not wanting to prolapse the eye contact for too long. Charles can sense he knows what has happened, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why is everybody so…quiet?”

The look on Carlos’ face signifies he’s said something wrong. His eyes darken, shaking his head in disappointment rather than fury. It correlates to the kind of look his father would give him during a long talk, when he had broken something and not admitted to it. The Spaniard isn’t sure he should even tell his teammate what had happened. Instead, he changes his phone application to the Emails App, handing the device over to Charles. His eyes flicker across the screen, taking in the information.

Ferrari’s biggest benefactor, your father, would not be attending the race weekend after the untimely death of his wife. Your mother. It suddenly correlates; how the night before, you had seemed inconsolable, despite the fact you had obviously had an incredible vacation. You’d tried to simply walk away, to let yourself grieve without bothering him. Instead, you had found comfort in Carlos as he had driven you to the airport, whispering sweet words of comfort, promising that everything was going to be okay.

Charles feels his blood run cold, he feels sick. The look on the man stood in front of him tells him enough; he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Murmuring an excuse, he leaves the garage, stepping to the secluded back area, the realisation that he is everything his mother never wanted him to be, hitting hard. He still had the ability to run to her, to ask for her advice. You didn’t have that anymore. You didn’t have anybody, least of all your husband.

The first thing he does in that moment, is pull out his phone, scrolling to the contact of his mistress.

10:09: Charles Leclerc

We need to talk.

Charles Leclerc is a phone call away.

The past day had been filled of tears, clinging to your father, to your younger siblings, to your elder cousins. How on earth your mother had left this world early was beyond you. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. Your mother was the one whom had been your rock for the past miserable year of your marriage. If not for her, you were almost certain that you would have thrown your silvery key to the house down a drain so long ago.

Without her guidance, without her tutoring, you felt like bird trying to fly individually for the first time; surrounded by fears and almost certain you’d fall into compromising position.

You hadn’t rested. Not since you had arrived at the bleak family home. As customed, every curtain was drawn close, doors to each room sealed, no natural light emitting to the large house, making every shadow and crook of the building seem more terrifying. Eventually, your father had retired to his own bedroom, your younger siblings tucked into their beds, butterfly kisses pressed against their foreheads, a silent promise you were only down the hall if they so desired you.

The bedroom you had grown up in remained almost identical to the one you had painted in your mind; pale pink wallpaper, a luxury bed lined with a rosebud-patterned quilt set. The vanity you had last used to get ready on your wedding day remained pristine, the perfumes and scents which had been your favourite still sitting atop of your shelf. And the photographs. A polaroid of your two closest friends from your childhood; one of your sisters on her christening day, the entire family dressed so elegantly; Charles is in that photograph, off to the side alongside his brothers; you had no idea there and then that boy with the ocean eyes would become your estranged husband.

You could have continued going down memory lane, if not from the buzzing which was coming from your bed. The phone you had carelessly thrown atop of the blankets when first entering the room had finally got some service, a thread of text messages and missed phone calls beginning to filter through. Silently, you take a seat on the edge of your bed, eyes flickering across each message. Some are from members of the Ferrari team, others from family members you hadn’t heard from in what felt like centuries.

There’s one. One from the man whom you had spent the previous week with. The one who had consoled you whilst travelling to the family home. Your husband’s teammate.

23:05: Carlos Sainz

Mariposa, please let me know how you are doing. I’m so worried about you. Let me know if you need anything at all.

23:31: You

Thank you, C. I should be heading home tomorrow, with a bit of luck I’ll be able to swing by and say hello.

You hadn’t expected anything else that evening. You were settled, ready to focus on yourself for the remainder of the evening; in your eyes, there was a high likelihood that your siblings would be burrowing into your blankets later. Once dressed in nightwear, the makeup that had stained your cheeks removed, you noticed the soft glow of your phone screen. Another message had just been received, and in your wildest dreams, you could not have imagined whom it was from.

00:24: Charles Leclerc

I heard about your mother this afternoon; I am truly so, so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. I mean it.

Your eyes had barely had time to view the message which had just been received, before your phone screen changes, taking the message away from your sight. The message thread is replaced by a photograph of your husband, his name lighting up on you phone screen. You don’t even think; instead, your thumb swipes across the screen, pressing the green button and holding the device to your ear.

“Charles.” You speak one word, hearing your husband visibly relax on the other end of the line. You realise it’s the first time you’ve said anything coherent in hours; the tone of your voices echoes around the room. Did you always sound that sad when you spoke to him?

“Hey.” He isn’t too sure what he wants to say; the lack of conversation between the two of you means he isn’t aware if there are any boundaries, anything you wouldn’t discuss with him. No, he just wanted to speak to you, to check in. In reality, he had realised how lonely the house was as an individual. His mistress was gone from his contacts, not inviting her around to fill the void had made him realise how you had felt for oh-so-long.

“How…” He pauses, not sure on how to finish his question. He doesn’t need to, because despite the lack of understanding of one another, you know he’s trying, trying to make you feel better.

“I’m…yeah.” You can’t find the correct words to say; ‘sad’ is an understatement, ‘fine’ is a rude response. Neither of you can find the words, but in that moment, you crave somebody who isn’t mourning the loss of your mother as heavily as you are.

“We have some new neighbours.” He’s trying to find anything to create some conversation. It’s almost as if he knows the quiet of the room is making you feel uncomfortable. “They left us an invitation to join them for a tennis session- not that I’m any good.” He laughs to himself, remembering the previous time he’d attended a tennis game alongside his fellow drivers; he’d had to step out after a few minutes, completely terrified he would end up breaking his hand.

He doesn’t hear anything from the other side of the line but continues to talk. “Are you…” He catches himself for a moment. “Are you coming back soon?” His voice turns into barely a whisper, as if saying the wrong thing will cause you to hang up immediately. He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, taking a gentle sigh and awaiting your response.

“Yeah.” You pause. Are you doing this? Are you having a conversation with your husband? “I’m going to fly home tomorrow afternoon. I think my father wants space.” Your sentence closes, looking around your room. The silence is deathly; in that moment, you don’t care about everything that’s happened. All you want is for somebody to hold you in their arms and tell you it would be okay.

“I’ll come and get you.” Charles has spoken before his mouth has had time to catch his brain. Your eyebrows quirk in confusion. The only time your estranged husband ever drove you himself was on your endless journeys to races; you would sit silently, curled away from his figure, eyes transfixed as the world passed by around you. The man not only offering but wanting to pick you up from the airport was a new-found curiosity.

“It’s okay.” You don’t let him continue. If previous standings have taught you anything, it’s that behind those mesmerising eyes cannot be trusted. You knew the secrets that lied beyond the ocean settled in his eye. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you.” Part of your heart is craving to bring up his mistress; how she would probably be warming his bed in the current moment, walking around the house which you ached to find comfort in.

“You wouldn’t.” Charles is quick to respond; in his heart of heart, he knows getting you to trust him again would be a monumental task. He’d do anything to prove he would be the husband who would look after you. Who would love you unconditionally; the husband you deserved.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve landed, okay?” It’s your final compromise. The woman whom you had been twelve months ago would love nothing more than to run into Charles’ arms; whether he cared for you the way you did; you would always desire his attention and affection. You’d had to learn through the months that some of life’s biggest temptations had to remain untouched.

Charles Leclerc is your husband.

Landing back in the country was almost eerie; despite being away for only a miniscule amount of time, you felt changed; changed by the loss of your closest companion, changed by the fact your husband had been the one to call you, and not to throw some crazy request down the telephone line.

Arrivals, as always, were completely smothered; couples reuniting, children screaming at the sudden change of scenery. After obtaining your own bag, your eyes flicker through the never-ending crowds, desperate to find some recognition.

Standing apart from the crowd, looking effortlessly rugged in his athletic shorts and hoodie, hair pushed underneath a snapback. His eyes are trained on you, as if he had sensed your presence into the room in less than a moment. The breath catches in the back of your dried throat, a pair of eyes that you trusted undoubtedly. Stumbling, your feet carry you over to the arms of your favourite Spaniard, your head instantly finding solace in the joint between his shoulder and neck, the cologne you were used to from his attendances around the paddock creating a cloud of comfort.

Carlos’ hands effortlessly lock around your torso, pulling you tighter into his chest, one palm rubbing up and down your back. It was the first time, the first time in a long time that anybody had offered you this sort of affection. Mindlessly, the soft tears begin to pool at the bottom of your lash line. Soft snuffles emitting from your lips cause the man to hush you gently, pulling your face away from his body, cradling your head between his larger hands.

He mumbles something quietly, something about taking you back to the house. If it was him, the man would bundle you into his car and drive to his own home. He’d nestle you under his bedroom blankets, dress you in one of his hoodies. Instead, his rough palm finds your soft fingers, intertwining your hands together. Carlos takes your suitcase in his free hand, guiding you to his car parked outside of the airport.

Not much is said during the shortening journey back to the house; the tears glossing your eyes reflect the streetlights, transfixed on the roads which you had left for a few short days. The tears will continue to fall; her loss had taken a part of you that you would you never thought would return. The man to your right, eyes focused on the road can sense your heartbreak. He doesn’t wait to push you; he had spoken to you shortly after the news had originally broken, in that conversation, you had barely been able to say ten words before your voice cracked. Instead, Carlos rests a warm hand on your leg, a silent promise that he will be there no matter what.

The journey feels too short; eventually the driveway to the house rolls into sight, Carlos slowing down the car. When it comes to a halt, he steps out immediately, obtaining your suitcase from the rear of the car, placing it down on the wheels. By this point, you’d wiggled from the seat, ready to wheel your case into the house. However, before you can move, his arms engulf you once more, clinging so tightly, your feet began to lift from the floor. You had clung back just as tight, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek; a silent ‘Thank you,’ for everything.

The embrace ended, Carlos awaiting until the door had unlocked, nodding when he saw you safely enter the house. The building is practically silent; no television sounds, no gentle music, not even the whirr of Charles’ simulator in his downstairs office. Ears pricked, you could hear the jets of a shower from upstairs, the assumption that he must have been in the shower. Paranoia threads your mind, she wouldn’t be showering alongside, would she?

You don’t let your mind wander; instead, you focus on lugging the suitcase along the staircase, silently glad you had gotten further with it since your trip to Madrid. Beelining towards your room, the suitcase rolls behind you, resting it in the corner of the room, a silent promise you’d wash everything tomorrow. However, a delicate bouquet of soft, pink and fresh flowers decorated the vanity of the room; you knew you hadn’t bought flowers since Madrid, and these…They looked as if they’d been placed mere minutes ago.

Overthinking had always been dangerous; instead, you keep yourself busy, wiggling your skincare bag from the suitcase, padding into your bathroom with that and a fresh set of long pyjamas; the late-night breeze had begun to tickle your skin since removing yourself from Carlos’ warm arms. The relish indulges your body, shampoo trickling through your hair, body wash bubbles tickling your body. You’d stepped out a few moments later, changing into the soft clothing, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing your hair out as carefully as you could have.

Silently, your feet carry you from the en-suite towards the main bedroom. Standing at the head of the doorway, is none other than your husband, hair own hair damp from his shower, dressed in soft tracksuit bottoms and a tight tee-shirt. He’d seen your suitcase nestling in the corner of your bedroom, your phone had rumpled the blankets of your bed. Charles had been the one to hear the shower this time, deciding to wait, just to see your soft eyes.

They’re bloodshot; you look so…frail. The years of heartbreak littered across your face. Charles’ heart practically breaks; before you can say a word, he’s across the room, arms pulling around your torso, pulling your head under his chest. Your instinct tells you to fight it, why on earth would you accept some form of affection from a husband who had openly destined you for so long?

And yet, you subcome to his affection, hesitantly holding your own arms to his chest. His scent, his warmth.You felt as if you were dreaming, eyes wet from the overwhelming care, feeling gentle kisses press to the top of your head.

You don’t remember when Charles scooped you to his chest, tucking you into your fresh blankets before nestling in behind you himself. You remind yourself; this is a one-off. You’re almost certain that by tomorrow, he’ll be back in the arms of his mistress, your moment tonight will be an absent moment to your husband. You’ll take it; if it’s one night in his arms, feeling his breath against the back of your neck, tip of his nose pressing into your back, one hand pressed against your stomach in comfort, you’ll take it.

Some point during the night, your phone buzzes, the sound barely audible on the blankets of your bed. You groan slightly, the bubble of yourself and Charles giving you a true form of sanctuary, a true form of home. Curiosity in the night takes the better of you, lifting the dying device to your eyes, slightly blinded by the glow of the screen.

Despite being wrapped in the arms of your husband; you can feel your blood turn cold when you read the one sentence which had been left for you to find.

01:46: Carlos Sainz

I’m in love with you.

3K notes · View notes

strangermarvelss · 2 years

Text

strange love- e.m

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

Summary: eddie has a date, with someone who isn’t you. you’re less than thrilled about it

Warnings: ANGST, jealousy, unrequited love, eddie being clueless, cursing, mentions of vomiting, me knowing nothing about D&D (i’m sorry but it deserves a warning), eventual best friends!-to-lovers!

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: alright y’all this is the imagine i had talked about a few days ago and as someone who loves these kinds of fics, i’m quite proud of myself. also i apologize for my lack of knowledge about D&D, eddie would definitely be disappointed, but i had a friend read it over and he thinks it makes sense so we’re going with it! i hope you all enjoy :)- sava

part two

“Well hello everybody!” Eddie exclaims, scaring half the Hellfire lunch table with his presence. You hear groans and curses fill the table as Eddie laughs at the reactions he pulled from his friends. You just sit in the seat that’s located on the left of his, laughing at his usual antics, but curiosity begins to strike when you take a look at Eddie.

His face is bright and shiny, his smile stretching from ear to ear as he sits down with his lunch, pulling out some pretzels to munch on. You take in the other details about him, how his hair looks actually kept up and how he doesn’t reek of his usual pot smell, but of…cologne? You had no idea who it was that was sitting next to you, but it sure as hell wasn’t Eddie Munson.

“What’s got you so happy today, Eds?” You ask, nudging him with your elbow. He flashes you a big smile, pretzel bits showing along with his pearly whites. He looks adorable as ever.

“Well I’m glad you asked, sweetheart. I, Eddie Munson, have a date tonight,” he announces. Your heart does a summersault at the nickname, his nickname he always uses on you, before you fully process the second part of his statement, making your breathing stop for a moment. What the fuck?

You didn’t make this fact known, but you were crushing on Eddie…hard. The two of you have been close since your middle school days, having really connected with his band Corroded Coffin playing at the school talent show and approached them afterwards to share your appreciation. It’s been history ever since.

But it wasn’t until your freshman year of high school when you started crushing on Eddie. You had been having a hard time at home due to your parents divorce, and your father winning full custody meant you moved into the same trailer park Eddie and his Uncle Wayne lived in, the two of you growing closer than before now that you only lived a few doors down. You and Eddie would spend most of your nights together anyway, and one particular night your freshman year, you felt these butterflies flutter around in your stomach as your head rested against Eddie’s shoulder watching Sleepaway Camp, your and his favorite movie that you’d watch at least once a month together. Since that day you had kept your feelings hidden from him, not wanting to ruin things between you and your best friend. You thought the pain of not having him in your life at all outweighed the pain of being stuck in love with him, and that was a fight you’d be willing to battle.

“W-what? W-with who?” You ask, trying to cover up your slight stutter with a cough.

“Okay so you remember our latest show at the Hideout? Well with more and more people starting to show up as of recently, we’ve been getting some fans. And this girl, her name is Shirley, gave me her number and I thought ‘What the hell?’ and rang her up yesterday,” he explains to you and everyone at the table, the freshman not being able to help their curious little selves.

“That’s cool Eds,” you reply back, trying with all your willpower to remain neutral and shove the emotions you were actually feeling down deep inside.

“Yeah. We’re actually hanging out after Hellfire. She even said she might swing by, she’s been curious about the game a little. At least, that’s what she told me,” he tells you, causing you to drop your fork and look at him. He shoots you a weird expression at your reaction.

“Oops, sorry. But uh, I thought you weren’t allowing non-members into the meetings anymore?” You ask, your eyebrow raised.

“That’s true, but, as Dungeon Master, I’ll make an exception this one time. Who knows, maybe she could become an honorary member. She’s really cool, Y/N. You’d get along with her great,” he tells you as he clasps his hand on your shoulder.

“I seriously doubt it,” you mutter lowly, hoping your close proximity to Eddie didn’t allow him to hear. As if a saving grace occurred, the lunch bell rang and you jolted up from your seat, collecting your trash. You could see Eddie eyeing you from your peripheral. One thing there is about Eddie, he’s observant as hell. You’d usually applaud and commend it, but in cases where you were trying best to hide your feelings, you absolutely hated it. Sometimes you wondered how you were able to get away with him not knowing how you truly felt, but all the more relieved that he didn’t.

“Hey sweetheart? Is everything okay?” He asks you. You quickly turn to him with a slight smile and nod, before rushing towards the trash can that sat behind him.

“Yep, all good. Just gotta go tend to some newspaper stuff. I’ll see you at Hellfire!” Your words moving as fast as your legs as you bid the table goodbye until your meeting tonight, practically sprinting towards the newspaper room, where you’d spill your feelings to one Nancy Wheeler in your secluded gossip corner.

Nancy was one of the only people who knew about your crush on Eddie. The two of you have been super close since you started high school, and even more so with all the shit that’s happened with the Upside Down that started when the two of you were sophomores. Plus, with her brother now joining the Hellfire Club, she asked you to keep an eye on him, especially with everything that’s already happened in Hawkins, but you really didn’t blame her for that.

Stumbling down the hall with your backpack sliding off your shoulders, you open the doors to the newspaper room and see Nancy’s head pop up from her collaborating with Fred. You walk down the stairs calmly while giving her a pleading look, nodding your head towards the corner the two of you have your major discussions at. She gives you a small nod before returning to her conversation with Fred.

You unpack your bag and begin working a bit on the paper while you wait for Nancy. You were trying your best to remain calm, focussing on your breathing so you didn’t get worked up more than you were when you started talking with Nancy. Your mind had a habit of working against you, running a hundred miles a minute coming up with the absolute worst scenario of every situation you encountered. You didn’t need to be thinking doubtfully about your friendship with Eddie, but you physically couldn’t help it.

How could Eddie have a date with someone and not tell you sooner?

The two of you were best friends, he always told you when something great happens to him immediately after, and you do the same with him. Living just a few doors down, you had that luxury of always being near the person when you celebrate your wins, or comfort one another in your losses. So him keeping this from you until the next day? It definitely hurt, in more ways then one, and you didn’t quite understand it. Would you still be upset about it? Absolutely, so that bit didn’t matter much. You just wanted to know why. Why he’s choosing to date someone now, after being single for so long. Why he-

“Hey, I’m here. Sorry, I was working with Fred on the basketball story,” Nancy tells you, pulling you out of your zoned-out state.

“No worries,” you say, your voice residing somewhere distant. You feel a slight kick come from under the desk, prompting you to look down for a second, before bringing your eyes up to see Nancy, who shoots you a look of concern. Nancy too, was very observant, from what you’ve seen over your friendship the past three, nearly four, years. The people you surrounded yourself with the most were some of the most observant people in Hawkins, which was both a blessing and a curse. You sigh, turning slightly closer to her, ready to confess.

“Eddie has a date tonight,” you whisper softly. You watch her jaw open, as shocked as you were. At least, hoping in the same sense that you were, and not in a negative way. You never really knew about Nancy’s stance on Eddie, whether she liked him or not. The way you talk about him all the time you would think she’d be sick of it all, but never stopped you from spilling your secrets out to her.

“No way! With who?” She whisper-yells, scooting closer to you. You watch over her shoulder at Fred and some others looking your way, so you fake working on a spread, signaling Nancy to do the same.

“Some girl that came to their gig at the Hideout on Tuesday. I didn’t see it so it must’ve been when I went to the bathroom,” you continue to tell her while fake focusing on the piece of paper in front of you. Your entire demeanor suddenly became deflated, saying it aloud and hearing it from yourself. All becoming so real.

“That’s crazy. Are you okay, Y/N?”

“No, but what can I do about it? He and I aren’t dating, so I have no room to say who he can or can’t date,” you answer. You peak over at her and see her looking you dead in the eye, to which you couldn’t blame her. Even you didn’t believe what you were saying.

“Yeah, I know. He said she might stop by Hellfire, and, Nance, I have no idea how I’m supposed to get through the meeting tonight if she’s there,” you tell her. She reaches out and squeezes your hand and you give her a tight-lipped smile.

“Hey, if you think it’ll help, I can pick you up from Hellfire tonight and we can chill at my house for a sleepover. Junk food, distractions…I can even invite Robin and see if she’ll pick up some tapes after her shift at Family Video tonight,” Nancy suggests. You eyes widen in excitement and nod, truly needed a night where you don’t talk or think about Eddie. Just a night with your girls.

“That would honestly be the best, thank you Nance,” you tell her. She flashes a warm smile your way and scoots a bit away from you.

“Perfect. I’ll pick you and Mike up at 9 after I get Robin from her shift, if she’s free. It’ll be fun,” you tells you. You agree and continue working on your spread, excitement flowing through your body at the thought of a fun night ahead, even with the dread buried in the pit of your stomach at the thought seeing Eddie tonight at Hellfire with a woman at his side. A woman that wasn’t you.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Running down the halls and towards the room behind the theater, you look at your watch and try to pick up the pace. You had lost track of time in your efforts in avoiding Eddie by doodling some drawings in the sketchbook that you kept on you at all times, which in turn made you late to Hellfire, something you never did. But in your defense, you usually had Eddie giving you a ride to and from the meetings. Today was not like the rest. Walking through the threshold of the meeting room, you give yourself a few moments to catch your breath.

“Sorry I’m late, I-“ you began to say, but were interrupted by giggling coming from Eddie’s throne. You see a girl with strappy heels and a short, short dress leaning against it playing with Eddie’s brunette fringey curls. That must be Shirley.

“Oh good, you’re here. We almost started without you,” Dustin exclaims, his goofy smile appearing on his face.

“Yeah, I doubt it,” you tell him, throwing your bag in the seat closest to him and ruffling his hair, him protesting and swatting at you in return. You notice out of the corner of your eye Eddie giving you a confused look, then looking towards your usual seat, which remained empty. It was no secret that you had your own seat in Hellfire, right next to the Dungeon Master himself, but today, you knew it was best to keep your distance. Didn’t want to interfere with his date and all.

“Alright, now that everyone’s here,” Eddie pauses, giving you a look. You chose to just look at the table in front you to avoid eye contact. “Lets start.”

Dustin is the first to roll the dice, and everyone around watches as the campaign for the week begins. You try your best to pay attention to the game in front of you, but keep getting distracted by the amount of giggling coming from Eddie’s throne, due to himself and Shirley. They were acting like those couples you and Eddie would make fun of in the halls that were practically fucking in the halls of Hawkins High, and you’d always make fake sick sounds as you passed by them. Now that he’s acting those same people right in front of you and the rest of the club, you felt yourself growing sick, for real this time.

You stood to the side as you watched Shirley climb in Eddie’s lap, draping herself all over him and her lips ghosting over his ears as she whispers little things in his ears, and the reactions he gives to her words make you want to punch a wall. Not in anger, but in jealous. The green eyed monster had awoken inside you, and you felt yourself getting riled up at the thought of them continuing this act throughout the rest of the meeting. The worst part of it all? You knew this isn’t where the night ended for them, and you could only imagine what other kinds of plans they had up their sleeves.

“Y/N, you’re up,” Mike whispers to you, snapping you out of your small jealousy-induced trance. You take the dice from Gareth and shake the dice in your cold hands a few times, before tossing them on the table.

You didn’t have enough health to pull any big moves. No luck to play the hero tonight. You sigh and slump your shoulders as the rest of the group lets out an annoyed groan. You were completely off your game for the night and you knew with how observant the club was, they could tell. But luckily for you, they didn’t press you about any issues you may be having.

“What’s your move, Lady Y/N?” Eddie asks you, his smug look making your skin crawl. Usually his dramatics during the game always wowed you and you’d join in, but it was hard to take in anything he was saying or doing with the leech that was attached to his hip.

“I…retreat,” you say, taking a step back from the table and Mike is quick to take the dice and roll for himself in order to save the campaign. You walk over to the seat you set your stuff in and take the sketchbook out you’d been busy with before the meeting and begin to draw.

“Do you know where the closest bathroom is, rockstar?” you hear Shirley ask. You mentally groan.

“Sure thing. Y/N, can you show her where it is?” Eddie asks, turning to you. You place your sketchbook back in your bag and stand from your chair. Flashing Eddie a fake smile, you nod and begin to walk towards the door, the sound of Shirley’s heels clicking behind you filling your ears.

The halls are quiet as you make your way to the bathroom around the corner.

“So you and Eddie, you’re best friends right?” Shirley asks you as you continue your journey to the bathroom.

“Yep, since middle school,” you answer.

“Oh that’s cool! I’m gonna be honest, I was a little worried when Eddie told me he had a girl best friend. I always think guy girl friendships are weird and don’t last. They usually always end up dating in the end or ending the friendship because one likes the other, and the other doesn’t feel the same way. At least, that’s how I see them,” she rambles. You slowly nod and point out the bathroom, her thanking you and doing a fake little run inside.

Pressing your back against the wall outside the bathroom, you can’t help but think on the words she said, the thoughts of you and Eddie ending your friendship lingering and seeping into every fiber of your body. It’s the exact reason you kept your feelings deep down and hidden, but would that work out in the end? Are you putting yourself through the pain and heartache for nothing?

The bathroom doors opens once more and she comes out.

“Thanks for waiting for me. I’m really excited to hangout with Eddie after your club ends,” she tells you.

“What exactly do you two have planned?” You ask, your curiosity getting the best of you. Part of you didn’t want to know, but your brain was screaming at you to find out.

“Nothing special. We’re gonna go back to his place and hangout, maybe smoke some. He also mentioned something about watching a movie…Sleepaway Camp? Have you heard of it?”

You froze.

Did she really just say that?

She stops and turns to you, giving you a look of concern. You felt the world around you starting to spin, the feelings from everything starting to come up.

“I-um, I’m sorry, but I-I’m not feeling too great right now. The theater’s in there, but I’m gonna go outside and get some air. C-Can you tell someone to bring my stuff out to me when everything ends?” You ask, your voice shaking as you lean against the wall for support. She gives you a nod and scurries inside the theater, leaving you to bolt out the doors of the school and towards the parking lot.

You bent over and held onto the railing by the stairs that spilled out into the parking lot, convincing yourself you needed to wretch. The feelings clouding your brain were mixed, swirling together in a nasty mixture that you weren’t sure how you’d describe to Nancy and Robin. The feels of hate and sadness blurring the lines and becoming one as you stood outside, wishing you had your jacket to protect your from the harmful feelings and the cool March temperature.

Sitting on the stairs with no luck on spewing your guts out, you let out a sigh and hug yourself in a pathetic attempt to warm up a bit. Your body grew cold rather easily, something that was always an issue, but the solution, or rather the two, were inside. You kept your jacket on you at all times, even despite the temperature being hot, because you never know when you might need it. In the event you forgot your jacket, Eddie would either lend you one of his, or just wrap himself around you, rubbing your arms with his big ring-clad hands to get you in a good place. You always welcomed that comfort. It felt nice being so close to him, even if he may not feel the same.

Your pity party is interrupted by a car pulling into the lot and parking right by the stairs. As the window rolls down, you see Robin pop her head out in a cheerful manner, but soon her features soften when she takes in your sour expression and sad body language.

“What happened?” Nancy asks from the driver seat. You rise to your feet with a sigh and walk over to the car, leaning inside through the window.

“More like what didn’t happen,” you respond, shaking your head and shrugging.

“Did that girl show up? Nancy filled me in on everything when she picked me up, so I have a ton of movie choices for tonight,” Robin rambles.

“Yeah she showed up. And they were being gross and lovey-dovey all night. Made me want to puke,” you explain. You feel Robin’s hand touch yours in an attempt to comfort you, to which you place your other hand on top of hers and give it a pat.

“And what prompted you to be out here instead of inside?” Nancy asks.

“Well first off-“ you begin, but hear laughter coming from behind you as the school doors open. You turn and see everyone laughing and walking together, the meeting drawing to an end for the week and you let out a soft sigh. Everyone goes in different directions, with Jeff, Gareth, and Dustin going off in one direction, Eddie and Shirley going towards their van, and Lucas and Mike coming towards you guys. Mike nor Lucas had your bag in their hands, which made you worried that you’d have to go all weekend without your supplies and homework.

“Wait, Y/N, where’s your stuff?” Robin asks. You shrug your shoulders and turn to the side, Eddie standing by Nancy’s car. You see his unreadable demeanor comes closer to you, his eyes fixed on yours as he holds out your bag to you. Taking it, you sling it over your shoulder and slide over as he kept walking closer to the window you once hung out of.

“Wheeler, you might if I borrow Y/N for a sec before you take off?” He asks. You watch Nancy nod and Eddie leads you over away from her car, out of ear shot of both Nancy and that crew, and Shirley, who’s waiting at Eddie’s van. You both just look at each other for a moment, you not really knowing what to say.

“Thanks for grabbing my-“

“What’d I do?” He asks you, his voice sounding neutral. You look towards the ground and swing back and forth on your feet for a moment, trying to think of a reasonable excuse for your behavior today.

“Nothing,” you reply, your eyes glued to the ground.

“You can’t even look at me, Y/N,” he says, looking down to try and catch your eyes. You let out a huff and look back up at him, trying to get this conversation over with, which was something you never wished with Eddie.

“There’s nothing wrong, okay? I promise,” you tell him. Now it was his turn to huff, added with a kick to the ground. You could see that you’re irritating him, and if you were him, you’d be irritated as well. But today was not your day, you just needed time away from him and try to bury the feelings you had towards him even further down. Take the weekend and recoup. Not to mention, his date was merely a hundred feet away and waiting for him to go back to your place and watch a movie together. Your guys’ movie.

“Y/N, please, I know you better than anyone. Can you please ju-“

“Eds! Are we going soon?” Shirley yelled from the van.

Ouch.

She just used your signature nickname for him.

What else did they plan on taking from you today?

“Soon sweetheart, I promise,” Eddie yelled back.

Double ouch.

Now he was using your signature nickname.

“You know what Eddie, just go, she’s waiting on you. Have fun watching Sleepaway Camp,” you tell him. Shit, why’d you just say that.

Your mind was starting to think before your mouth, the feelings that have been brewing the entire day bubbling to the surface and taking over the part of your brain that had rational thinking. That green-eyed monster was started to show her true colors. You turn on your heel and begin to take off towards Nancy’s car, when you feel Eddie grasp your wrist, stopping you.

“Wait, Y/N, how’d you know we were watching Sleepaway Camp? Did she tell you that?” He asks. You sigh and shift towards him.

“Yeah, we talked in the hall. But it’s not big deal Eddie, just go,” you say, not understanding why he was so determined to make things right between the two of you right now? Yeah, the two of you hated leaving things in a bad place, but you never pressed him about anything he was super upset about or just didn’t feel like talking about, and usually he was the same with you. Maybe today was not destined to be in the cards for you after all.

“You’re jealous,” he says matter-of-factly. You scoff and cross your arms, trying to add another layer of defense between you and your fragile heart that was about to break loose with all these feelings. You were starting to lose your resolve, and you weren’t sure how much longer you’d be able to hold yourself together.

“I am not jealous!”

“You are totally jealous! Jealous that I’m spending time with someone, a girl, who isn’t you. Don’t worry, Y/N, you aren’t being replaced, I’ll always make time for you,” he tells you, thinking he’s helped, when really, it only hurt more. Like he thought he’d have to pencil you into his life.

“It’s not that Eds-“ you begin to say, but his laugh cuts you off.

“Then what is it then? You mad you don’t have a ride? Or-or-or upset that we’re watching Sleepaway Camp?” he pesters you. You could feel yourself getting really worked up and uncomfortable, wanting to just jet off to Nancy’s car and ride far away from this conversation.

“Oh wait, do you like me or something Is that it? Do you have a big ol’ crush on me?” He asks mockingly, making you freeze. “Just tell me what’s wrong Y/N, please.”

You hesitate.

Fuck.

You. Fucking. Hesitate.

“N-no, I don’t have a crush on you,” you say, brushing it off with a weak laugh. You see Eddie himself freeze, looking at you with a deadpan expression. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Wait, Y/N…you have a crush on me?” he asks. That was definitely an understatement. You swallow down a breath that wasn’t able to escape, your body beginning to shake in fear.

You see the way his entire demeanor changed when he realized. The dramatics you so desperately loved stopped all together, replacing it with a scared look. Scared that it’s true and he had to let you down? Scared that he didn’t feel the same way? Scared it was you, of all people? That familiar feeling of wanting to throw your guts up began to boil in the pit of your stomach, your chest tightening as you continued to stare Eddie down like a dear caught in headlights, the silence booming throughout the parking lot. You couldn’t handle this, not tonight. You’ve already had the shittiest day possible, you need to escape before you lose your best friend forever.

You take off in the opposite direction, towards Nancy’s car as you hear Eddie calling after you. The tears were brimming your eyelids, desperate to fall and let every emotion you’ve been bottling up all day to come out in a flood. You open the car door and hop inside, practically shoving Mike in the middle.

“Drive Nance,” you say, shooting them a pleading look.

“Wait, Y/N, what happened?” Robin asks.

“Nancy, can you please drive away, now,” your voice raising as you plead. Nancy responds by changing the gear and stomping her foot on the gas pedal, making your escape out of the parking lot and away from Eddie Munson, who you can see still standing in the empty lot watching you leave. You let out a shaky breath as you turn and face out the window, hot tears rolling down your cheeks and sobs racking your body as you all make the journey to the Wheeler’s house.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #angst #fanficion #fanfic #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #gareth

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mickyschumacher · 11 months

Text

𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 .ೃ࿐

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: being in a secret relationship with lando norris has been a journey in itself. but nothing comes harder than the moments where you both struggle to keep your hands off one another.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minors DNI), unprotected sex (wrap it before your tap it lol), cumming inside, voyeurism, fingering, slight handjob, boyfriend established but secret, cute cringe couple humour, obvious pining, poor knowledge of pr specialist things, mentions of mental health and stress, mclaren in itself needs a warning, mention of fave menace w*ll b*xton (simply ew), allusion of future marriage

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: lando norris x mclaren’s pr specialist!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4k+

𝐀/𝐍: this is based of taylor swift’s ‘dress’! okay, so i’m giving you lovelies this one and some others while i study for my last exam 😔 i actually have some requests which are exciting and nerve wrecking but i'm gonna try my level best to do them after my exam. although i’m also supposed be on a plane not too soon after. anyways, thank you so much for your support and patience ♡︎

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

⋆ •°. 。 .°• ⋆

As a PR specialist, things were constantly changing. For example, for a certain amount of time you were assigned to Fernando Alonso when he was under McLaren. Quite honestly, it was a nightmare.

There was nothing wrong with Fernando. For the time you had spent with him, he was rather sweet. But the media had painted him out as some sort of tyrant of McLaren, claiming that the F1 team belonged to him as opposed to being owned by Zak Brown. Then again, you supposed the Spaniard’s lack of care for listening didn’t help either.

When learning that Fernando was leaving, you could only hope that whoever you were assigned to next was less work than him.

In came Lando Norris, a young driver with ambition and humour, and lucky for you, little work.

Somehow he just knew the right things to say. And if he didn’t, he was always asking you beforehand.

Between the both of you there was only a two year age gap so of course it was easy to befriend each other. You were always talking about something to the other.

His passion for DJing, his childhood or your love for travelling and the gossip of certain celebrities. How you were absolutely certain JLo and Ben Affleck was a PR couple because who on earth had a nude portrait of themselves above their bed?

It wasn’t until almost a year ago where you realised you liked him more than just a friend. There was just something about the way you two communicated that left in trailed sighs, awkward laughs desperate to talk more and grins that got your hearts pacing.

Or perhaps it was the way you had poured your hearts out to one another. As happy as Lando looked, he was one under a lot of pressure which affected is mental health. You were there for all of this ups and downs. You were his number on speed dial for everything.

And when things got a little too much for you, Lando did his best to not only be there for you but to cheer you up. Stupid jokes, random flowers and, teddy bears.

How were you not supposed to like him?

Surprisingly, Lando had been the one to confess his feelings to you. Well, only after one of the engineers from Mercedes was openly trying to court you at an F1 dinner.

Lando had gotten so jealous that he had pulled you aside that evening and begged you to not think of anyone else but him. That you were only supposed to smile like that at him… with him.

At first, you were thrilled and kind of shocked that Lando felt the same way. But that happiness and smile he liked so much quickly faded when you thought about your job.

‘F1’s Lando Norris is dating his PR specialist’…

Yeah… the implications of that sounded terrible. You could imagine it already. What was Lando hiding to date his publicist? Is Lando that good of a person?

And while you and all the people knew the truth, those types of rumours would’ve undermined your job in the first place and honestly, you were sure that McLaren wouldn’t exactly be jumping with excitement that you two were dating.

So you mentioned this to Lando with the suggestion of being secret about your relationship for now.

You could literally see some of the shine in his eyes fade. He was gutted but he understood what you meant. He’d rather be with you secretly than not at all and without his best friend.

our secret moments in a crowded room

they've got no idea about me and you

there is an indentation in the shape of you

made your mark on me, a golden tattoo

Your relationship with him had been a roller coaster. Neither of you had been in a secret relationship and neither of you could deny how fun it was.

Take right now for example. Today was the McLaren’s car launch for the 2023 F1 season. The room was filled to the brim with all sorts of people: journalists, publicists, engineers, marketers, social media managers, the new driver next to Lando, Oscar.

Yet with all those people, Lando and you found it impossible to not find each other. You were constantly meeting each others eyes, especially when you were nearby for his interviews.

There was a thrill, you must admit, about no one knowing about the two of you.

A rush of adrenaline at the thought that no one knew nor expected you to be in Lando’s bedroom this very morning before the launch.

“Remember to be sort of vague about the car and, well, everything. I mean obviously but I don’t think Will’s going down without a fight,” you reminded your boyfriend with an annoyed sigh.

Will Buxton was not only a F1 journalist but a man who got under everyone’s skin. You couldn’t fathom why people liked him in the first place.

Lando, who was leaning on his elbow on his bed, gave a hum of response. He only had half of his mind present as he watched you get ready. “Surely, this can’t be fair,’ He asked.

You raised a brow at him through the mirror. “What?” You queried before putting on a necklace. Sorry, attempting to. You weren’t exactly sure why the clasps of necklaces were made so poorly.

Lando got up from the bed and walked up behind you. He grabbed the necklace from your hands with an amused expression before bringing it to your neck. With one hand, he pushed your hair to the side and joined the clasp to the metal ring. He rested his fingers on the back of your neck, slowly rubbing the area as he met your gaze in the mirror.

“I mean, you get to wear this,” Lando started. His hands ran over the satin silk material of your black dress. It was fairly casual, landing mid-thigh. Perfect enough for you to blend into the crowd. Although, it didn’t matter for Lando. He could always pick you from the crowd. Especially, if you were wearing this. “And I wear this? It doesn’t seem fair,” he whispered into your ear.

You let out a small laugh, eyeing his new uniform for the season. You turned to face him, rubbing your hands over his chest and pretending to dust it. “I think you look quite good, love.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. You felt his hand travel up your neck and to your lips. “When did you even buy this? It wasn’t even in your closet?”

Your heart started to pace when you caught that knowing glint in his eyes. His mended brows seemed to ease when you didn’t respond. Sometimes you didn’t need to open your mouth to say anything. Instead, you let your eyes talk.

A small grin came to his face. He turned you to face the mirror. His hands came alive, roaming your thigh and waist. “Just for me, huh?” Lando smiled.

“Lando,” you warned weakly. You had a feeling where this was going. Honestly, you weren’t opposed to it. But the both of you needed to clock in soon. “It’s supposed to come off after the launch.”

Lando pursed his lips, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck and meeting your gaze. “Oh, it supposed to come off too? Jesus, I don’t think I can’t wait that long.”

Lando could feel the perfume he has come to love so much infiltrate his nose. God, this dress and now the perfume. How on earth was he going to get out of here?

“Fuck,” He murmured out. He closed his eyes and rested his chin on your shoulder. He needed to get himself together. But the thing about your skin was that it was so inviting… so warm.

You felt his his arms wrap around your waist as you added some finishing touches to your look. Lando pouted at you through the mirror.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You cooed, squishing his cheeks with your free hand.

“I don’t think I can leave this room. I can’t,” Lando groaned, starting a line of kisses on your neck.

“Lando…” You whimpered out pathetically, feeling your neck stretch out even more willingly. You could feel him close in on the one area near your ear.

“Fuck, Lando. Not there,” You swore but with no effort to stop him.

Lando’s greed seem to increase upon your exclaim. He furthered his attack on the spot, sucking enough of your intoxicating skin, not only to get his full but leave a fresh purple mark.

Now he was satisfied enough to leave the room.

You watched his lips leave your skin, almost leaving you to pour for a second before that dark spot on your skin caught your eyes.

You gasped. “You didn’t,” you said in disbelief, whacking your boyfriend.

Lando’s blues twinkled at you as he planted a cheeky kiss to your cheek. “I did.”

Now you were in a room of all these people. It was exhilarating for Lando to know that he had given you a tattoo of some sorts. To attend those interviews and know that behind your carefully placed hair, he had given you something no one else would ever… yeah, he was aching to leave.

It wasn’t any less for you. Even last night you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. You were walking around with the fact that you knew what was underneath the damn racing gear. The scratches and indentations of your hands on his skin caused by the will to bring Lando even closer to you.

all of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation

my hands are shaking from holding back from you… ha, ah, ah

all of this silence and patience, pining and desperately waiting

my hands are shaking from all this… ah, ha, ha, ha

Lando was looking at you probably more than one should look at their PR specialist to the point he was sure you could feel his eyes on you.

But he couldn't help. Every little thing you did in that dress had caught his attention.

Your pinky-red painted lips covering the champagne glass you held. Those lips he wanted for himself. On him. Everywhere. Now.

The occasional brush of your hands that sent shudders he had to surpress.

The lights of the venue practically spotlighting you so everyone could see how beautiful you looked. So Lando could see exactly how nicely the dress clung to everyone of those damning curves.

The polite smiles you offered every single person you met. A gesture that sent his heart racing.

The forced polite laughter and chuckles you gave to the people that flirted with you. A gesture that made him both proud and frustrated. Proud in that you were clearly faking it because he knew what your real smile and laugh was. Hell, he had the pleasure of making it everyday. And that people clearly found you as beautiful as he did. Frustrated because people were clearly into you and he could do nothing but watch in silence.

Lando couldn't blame them either. If he was them, he too would've stopped to impress. But he didn't need to. Not when you were his entirely and he yours.

The more he looked at you the more his hands shook and his patience wore thin. His hands ached for this day to end, for him to take you to his room, and remove that goddamn dress.

He could imagine what his former teammates Carlos and Daniel say. Something along the lines of "stop staring at her like you want to eat her".

Which, in all honestly, wasn't true.

Lando didn't want to eat you. He wanted to devour you. Slowly and gently. He wanted to appreciate you... all of you. So much that only his name was falling from those beautiful lips of yours.

say my name and everything just stops

i don't want you like a best friend

only bought this dress so you could take it off

take it oh, ha, ha, ha-ah

carve your name into my bedpost

'cause i don't want you like a best friend

only bought this dress so you could take it off

take it oh, ha, ha, ha-ah

Lando couldn't imagine the poor luck he had. The event was finally over and he was home. Without you.

You had become slightly tied with some last minute discussions with the reporters and journalists, even your dear favourite Will.

Which meant for the past hour, Lando had nothing but his thoughts. Thoughts that consisted only of you, that dress, and what he was going to do with you.

What was he supposed to do?

Unbothered to put on a new change of clothes, Lando was in bed only in his boxers which had a very obvious bulge.

Lando let out a sigh, his hand brushing over his clothed cock. "Fuck," he muttered out through a clenched jaw. If it was any other day, he would've lost all self-control and jerked off to his thoughts of you. But you were going to be home soon and he desperately wanted to feel you.

"Lando? Honey, I'm home!" Your voice echoed through his house, teasing him.

Lando whipped his head up, feeling all his thoughts and emotions briefly stop as he darted towards the entrance.

You were taking of your heels when you saw Lando stand in all his glory almost naked. You couldn't help but laugh lightly. "Oh my... I thought we discussed you not walking around the house naked, Lando."

Lando said nothing. Instead, he took a step towards, eyes searching your face and arms encircling your body closer to him.

The hairs on your body stood straight while goosebumps started to sprawl across your skin. Lando's thumb brushed across your bottom lip. "You were later than expected," He said in a tone that almost neared a whine.

You let out a sigh, kissing the tip of his thumb. "I know. I'm sorry, baby."

Lando grinned. "It's okay," He quipped before scooping you up in his arms.

You let out a yelp before smiling as Lando ventured to your bedroom. You could soon feel the soft sheets of your bed touch your skin while Lando hovered over you.

"You have to tell me what the deal with this dress is, love," Lando whispered. His finger slid under the strap of your dress before trailing all the way down to your bare breast.

You opened your mouth to answer but not even a hint of a sound came out as Lando's finger circled your nipple gently. You met his eager blue eyes, waiting for answer.

"I only bought this dress so you can take it off. Simple as that."

Lando let out a low exhale, feeling his cock harden even further. God, were you even real?

"Yeah?" He hummed, pushing the straps of your dress down your arms. He pushed his face down lower, wrapping his lips around your nipple as he continued to pull your dress down your body.

Your back arched on the bed, pushing yourself into his mouth even further. Without a word, you lifted your hips up and Lando had fully taken the dress off.

His other hand reached your other nipple, paying it an equal amount of attention. He rolled the pebbled mound between his thumb and index finger, giving it a slight squeeze.

You let out a small whimper. Your hand navigating through his short curls. You could feel your core tighten and your pussy become slick with your arousal.

Lando unlatched his lips from your breasts, using both hands to gently thumb your nipples. "Tell me want you want, love. I want to hear it from these pretty lips."

God... you couldn't even decide. "I don't know. I want your lips. Your fingers. Fuck, I want it all."

Lando couldn't help but grin as a he felt a surge of energy rush through. "I can do it all," He chuckled before bringing his lips to yours. His tongue darted between your lips and into your mouth. His hands trailed up and down your waist while a muffled moan came out of his mouth.

You kissed him back with the same intensity of fervor, bringing your hands around his neck, willing him closer to you.

Lando could tell by the slight squirm of your legs, you were getting impatient down there. Slowly, he trailed down your waist and reached your panties. His own lips quirked at the damp material. Pressing his fingers into your core, he could feel a shudder overcome you.

Lando continued his assault on your lips as he rubbed you through your panties.

You removed your lips in a gasp for air. "Don't tease, Lando," You moaned out, clenching your thighs so it trapped his hand to your pussy.

Lando chuckled. He used his free hand to brush over your swollen lips. God, he wanted those lips around his cock. Maybe tomorrow morning. Or maybe in the shower tonight. Right now, he wanted to focus on you. "Say please. A good girl should always use her manners, no?"

This good girl thing had always infuriated you. It felt childish. But then it paled in comparison to the tingling and blossoming sensation of Lando's fingers rubbing your clit.

But of course, if you were going to be a good girl, you were always going for extra credit.

"Please, Lando. Fuck. I need your fingers. Please. I love the way they fill me up. The way they feel in me. Please."

Lando wanted to grin. But all he could do was groan in response. How could he not reward his dear overachiever?

His fingers pulled down your panties, snatching down the damp material past your legs. A guttural sound of pure sin fell from his mouth as he saw your pussy. It glistened in front of him, almost as if it was flooded. Sliding his fingers down those soaked folds, he watched you writhe under him and whimper.

Lando kept his eyes on you as he pushed two fingers into you slowly. He could feel your core envelope him and welcome him graciously. He watched your back arch once he began thrusting into a pace, feeling your walls clench around his fingers.

"Shit," you moaned, reaching for your breasts to both add even more pleasure and bring some sort of sanity. "Faster, baby. Please."

Lando sped up the pace of his fingers, bringing his thumb to rub your clit. His eyes flickered to your pussy. He licked his lips. You were swollen and engorged. Your puffy lips continuously took him in and it was almost paining his cock that he wasn't inside you yet.

A new intense wave of euphoria settled over you. Your body convulsed with a buzz that provided the almost silent moans from your mouth. "Fuck.... I... I'm gonna come," You moaned out, head falling back as your mind became clouded with pleasure.

Lando's cock throbbed from not being touched. He could do it no longer.

The whine you released when Lando took his fingers out of you almost made him want to put them back in. But instead, with a speed he had never even found in his car, he took off his boxers and hovered over your body.

"I know. I know," Lando murmured, pressing his lips into yours to silence your begging plea.

You placed your own fingers in your mouth, drenching them in your saliva. Removing them, your hand travelled down his waist, brushing past his v-line before circling your hand around his cock. You could feel Lando moan into the kiss, briefly stilling at your touch.

Slowly you rubbed him up and down, dangerously thumbing the slit of his cock. You watched as your saliva lubed him, giving him a unique shine. Your shine.

"Jesus fucking christ," Lando moaned out. He was sure if you kept up like this, he was going to cum in your hands rather than inside you.

"Fuck, as much I love your hands and touch. I need to be in you, baby," Lando sighed, removing your hand from his cock and slowly pressing into your body to slide his cock up and down your pussy.

You moaned at his words, feeling his lips wrap around your nipple once again.

"Stop teasing," You panted. The buzz created by the tip of his cock rubbing your clit was almost paining and torturous.

Lando didn't even mean to tease. But even just feeling your pussy felt like a different type of high. He groaned, pushing the tip of his cock into your swollen lips. A rush of warmth surged through him as he laid in you for a brief moment.

Your pussy was a safe haven. A cocoon made for his cock. This high... this pleasure... he could feel it with no one than you.

You sobbed in ecstasy. Lando was almost bring cruel. You raised your hips, fucking yourself onto your cock.

Lando had to keep himself above you, almost collapsing at your action. He let out a small laugh at your impatience before he started to move in you.

As he thrusted into you, you could feel his cock glide through your folds, reaching those familiar areas of arousal. You clenched your walls around him teasingly, silently urging him to speed.

"Fucking hell," Lando hissed out, speeding up the movement of your hips.

Sweat and arousal doused the both of you as the room was full of your pants and the obscene sound of your skin slapping.

"I'm gonna cum soon, baby," Lando said once you clenched around him once again. This clenching action always drove him overboard. It pulled him in even further into you and pressured his cock to pulse inside of you.

"It's okay. Cum with me," You moaned, bringing him into a sloppy kiss.

Your muffled moans became impossibly higher as Lando rutted into you at a merciless speed. The wave of pleasure and euphoria that had sprawled across the both of you was inexplicable. A transient unearthly state of mind. A paradox of what was holy and unholy.

Your hands had found their way to Lando's back. Your fingernails dug lightly into the smooth skin of his back. You dragged them down as your hips bucked higher in the chase of the climax.

"Fuck! Lando!" You cursed.

Lando could feel his cock twitch and throb inside you. The nails. His name. Your lips. It was any second now. "Fuck. Say my name, Y/N!"

'When your eyes had started to roll, you blinked focusing on the most beautiful boy in front of you. God he was a sight to behold. Blue eyes hooded with lust, lips swollen and puffy... albeit sweaty, but handsome nonetheless. 'When your eyes had started to roll, you blinked focusing on the most beautiful boy in front of you. God he was a sight to behold. Blue eyes hooded with lust, lips swollen and puffy... albeit sweaty, but handsome nonetheless.

"Lando!" You moaned, "I love you so much, Lando! Fuck!"

Your loud groans disturbed the quiet peace of the air as Lando and you felt the wave of euphoria hit you hard, his hips stilled within you. His body shook, warming your walls and folds with an influx of white.

Lando let out a soft moan, chin falling into your shoulder while both your sweaty bodies pressed together. You could still feel Lando's cock within you, giving every last dribble of cum to you.

"I love you, I love you, I love you.," Lando's hoarse voiced mantra made it's way into your ear. He planted a lazy kiss onto your shoulder before turning his body to face the ceiling. "Fuck, I love you so much, Y/N."

You turned on the side of your body, leaning on your hand. Your eyes were weighed with exhaustion but nevertheless you smiled at him. "I guess I should buy more dresses often," You joked.

You could feel Lando's body rumble with a gentle chuckle. His hand reached to move your sweat-ridden hair behind your ears. His blue eyes trailed over your face, in awe of how he had gotten this lucky in his life. The woman he loved so much was right next to him and he hoped forever.

Lando smiled at you, bringing your fingers to kiss them. He briefly thought backed to the small box he had managed to hide away in his closet. Three podiums. He was going to get three podiums and make sure that ring adorned your finger.

"Love, I'll buy all the dresses you want. And I'll take them off for you too."

#f1 x reader #mickyschumacher #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #lando norris smut #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris #formula 1

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headspace-hotel · 1 year

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some times i see people talking about the Earth and climate change saying things like "now i know it is difficult to deal with utter hopelessness, terror, and visiting the thoughts of death"

and it's like wow I am so deeply sorry about the suffering. but...concern. Concern. Tell me, am I missing something important? Why do I feel a sense of hope for our planet? Am I a lonely fool? Have I been consumed by naïveté and misguided optimism?

That would be weird. It feels weird. It feels like I would be well suited to despair. My natural temperament is Mortal Terror making my body crushed for a thousand years at the bottom of the deepest trenches of the ocean. I've thought before "I can't live any more. This exceeds the tensile strength of the human spirit."

And then? After irreversible catastrophic failure of the soul, there is...what?

We try to imagine the future where we fight to save our home and it is very painful. The resistance feels so small and the machine of death feels so vast. But something's missing.

Everyone else is missing—the plants, trees, bugs, beasts, and creatures. Hello? Are the other humans seeing this? Nature wants you to know that she is not a princess in a tower. Look! Look at the chaos moving through every cell! Iterating! Adapting! Becoming! Thriving! Watch the pollinators tirelessly at work, observe the mycorrhizal network in the forest floor distributing the rich fruits of decay and photosynthesis for every inhabitant! Pay attention! We belong here too. They feed and shelter us, give us the very air we breathe, and in return we plant and propagate, cull, thin, and burn, shape, trample, till, shepherd and sprout seeds. Our species can look toward the future, to the world of our descendants. We can call every plant and animal by name and teach our children to use and care for them responsibly. We can feel this anger, pain, and grief on behalf of the family of Life, OUR family, and we can love the smallest beetle and the humblest moss.

Look at it! This thing is nothing like me, it does not benefit me, it has no use or purpose for me, but LOOK at it! Look at its intricate structure! Look at the marvelousness of its behaviors and biological functions! Look at its uniqueness throughout the whole universe! Look at it, and see its infinite value!

I saved a baby tree from the scorching hot gravel of a parking lot. I watched it grow and thrive in the hands of its caretaker. Many more followed, trees and herbs and flowers, rescued and carefully placed in cups and old tubs that once held yogurt and sour cream. This is so strange, I thought. They're everywhere, offering themselves for free, and no one thinks to take them. Everyone thinks transplanting a tree is hard and that nothing grows on the edge of the pavement but weeds. But it's so easy??? This is weird. Plant Nurseries Hate Her: Get Free Plants With This One Weird Trick.

I protected an old barren garden patch where nothing had thrived from being mowed and weed-whacked, and transplanted little plants that I found. I marveled at the bees that came. Chicory bloomed, then asters and goldenrod. I shed actual tears over a spicebush swallowtail. I ordered some milkweed from the internet, and the monarchs came for them. Less then twenty-five bucks for a divine experience like this. Wow, everyone else really needs to know!

I started volunteering at a nature center, and was allowed to transplant flowers where they sprouted in inopportune locations. I collected tons of seeds all fall and winter long.

There is much, much more, all of it bigger than I ever would have imagined. But this spring there were more birds, in number and in species, than I'd ever seen in my back yard before. Chickadees, swallows, finches, nuthatches, jays, cardinals, warblers, sparrows, woodpeckers of every kind...I remembered just a couple years prior when all I ever saw out there was a couple grackles or starlings or robins, with the occasional sparrow. Those birds come in flocks rather than couples now. And then the bumblebee arrived. An American bumblebee, endangered now, a queen. For a few days she was always out there, would fly out and buzz around me when I came out to tend to my now-innumerable plants. It's nesting time for them. She chose this place I was creating. She saw that this place would take care of her.

A week ago, I discovered wild strawberries growing in my Mamaw's driveway. I found lyreleaf sage growing beside a gravel road. I've become a master of transplanting; I took several of each home. Yesterday, I saw a tiny, metallic blue bee, an Osmia mason bee. Today, I saw an oriole and a strange, very fancy fly. I see something new almost every day. Every day I am being irreversibly changed as a person. How did I ever fail to see how much this matters?

I said I feel hope...do I feel it? I don't think it's a feeling, I think it's a practice. It's being part of our communities and our ecosystems. Nature's interconnectedness is both reality and example: to survive, we take care of one another. And when one member of the community helps another thrive, it creates a cascade that increases the thriving of all. Just by existing, you help us all survive.

You can only take care of so many plants before you have to give some away. You can only hold so much knowledge before you have to give it away. I gave seeds to a dozen different flowers to my next-door neighbor and she invited me inside and wouldn't let me leave without food, and we talked about plants and trees. A family friend lets me have goats' milk and heirloom vegetables in exchange for help around the farm, and I listen to him talk about trees, bugs, and soil and learn so much I feel like I'm about to explode from knowledge.

Being a caretaker is unavoidably a community-oriented, community-forming thing. You can't grow plants all by yourself. Your garden will make too many tomatoes. Share them. Your milkweed will make hundreds and hundreds of seeds. Spread them. Wild blackberries invite you to take and eat. Your lonely retired neighbor invites you to talk and keep her company. Once you grow delicious fruits or little oak trees, you always have a reason to greet someone and say, "Look, it is a gift!"

We're not alone. We are not separate. We take care of each other. Every species, every individual. A single action of caretaking creates a cascade effect of thriving. A single unapologetic love for a creature creates a blossom of curiosity and fascination in everyone surrounding. It's so powerful.

As my chemical romance says "I am not afraid to keep on living"

#nature #community #plants #gardening #you are not separate from every other thing #the wonders #caretaking #plantarchy

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harunovella · 3 months

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*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ love language (verse iv); s.g.

synopsis: you and gojo go on your first double date... or is it really? content: canon divergence (teen!gojo era), fem!reader, hopeless romantic gojo, best bros satoru and suguru bickering as always, gojo may have had a 'help I've fallen on your boobs and I can't get up' moment, bestie shoko, not beta read (sorry for any errors!) note: another addition to my gojo anthology series! this one was sm fun to write, I love writing gojo and geto being nothing but idiots tbh... wanna be tagged? lmk in the replies!

"A dinner? A fancy dinner?" Shoko asked as you nodded. "What's a bunch of sixteen year olds gonna do at a fancy dinner?" She raised a brow in confusion. Ever since being paired by Yaga with Shoko, the two of you have grown quite close. You were more than thankful, as much as you loved your own little trio (including Nanami and Haibara), it was nice to have a friend that wasn't... well, a male.

Not that there was something wrong with that, you saw Nanami like a sort of twin—though you were a bit more on the social side—he got along with you the most. Then there was Haibara, who was an absolute sweetheart and a gem, the energy both you and your blond twin needed. However, seeing as Ieiri was your senior, there was quite a lot to learn from her—outside from the jujutsu world.

There was also Geto and Gojo... Geto was an interesting person to be around. He had dark humor but also was nothing but kind to you. Gojo, on the other hand...

"A double date?!" Satoru exclaimed as he was alone with Suguru after you invited the two young men to the dinner you told Shoko about.

Arching an eyebrow, Suguru crossed his arms. "Who said this is a double date? In your delusional world, you're dating our little junior when she only sees you as a friend—"

"That's a lie!" Gojo snapped, earning a snicker from his best friend. "I'll have you know we get along very well, we hangout a lot! And— and we have a lot of fun conversations!"

"Sounds fun," Geto said sarcastically. "We all know you're madly in love with her. However, we have no idea how she feels about you."

"Then explain the double date, huh?" Gojo was now the one to cross his arms, tapping his foot. "You and Shoko, me and my mochi?"

Sighing, Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. "Again, not a double date. It's four friends going to a nice restaurant to support one of our friend's family members. Nothing more, nothing less," he explained, only for everything to go into one ear and out the other for the white haired boy before him.

Satoru was in his own world, delusional as always, eyes sparkling at the thought of you in a cute dress. Heels or no heels, makeup or not, he just couldn't help but fantasize about how beautiful you were going to look tonight!

"Earth to Satoru?" Geto waved his hand in front of his best friend, only to laugh. "Thinking about how cute she'll look tonight, huh?"

"Yeah..." Gojo nodded, a face of pure ecstasy, as if he were about to drool.

"Maybe I'll swap dates, you can have Shoko, I'll have our beautiful—"

"No!" Satoru shouted, instantly jumping Suguru. "She's my date for the night!"

"Good luck with that, if you look like an idiot right now thinking about her, just imagine you tonight!" Suguru laughed as he shoved Satoru off of him. "You're gonna look like a complete idiot!"

"You're not discreet..." Geto mumbled towards Gojo as the young man sat beside you, cheek pressed in the palm of his hand as he ever so casually gazed at you. You were in the middle of a conversation with Shoko, something about a movie you both recently had seen together. Too lost in your discussion, laughing and enjoying the evening as Suguru watched his best friend look like he was in a trance. "You are literally staring..." Furrowing his eyebrows as a look of slight disgust took over his face, Suguru kicked Satoru.

"Shh," Gojo brushed off, kicking him back.

"You're lucky she's in her own world with Shoko to even hear us," Geto kicked again, feeling his best friend constantly kick back. Gojo was too focused on you to even pay him any mind.

The restaurant, although fancy, was quite lively and practically filled to the brim. The reservations were endless and everyone that came and went looked like they came from money. Satoru and Suguru wore similar suits, solely because they bought them last minute and ended up with the same look (Satoru was NOT happy, but Suguru found it very funny). Shoko, after seeing them, called them tweedledee and tweedledum... You, on the other, found it cute.

Cute... Gojo kept hearing your words echo in his head. You thought he, himself, was cute?! Forget Suguru, you said he was cute! He couldn't help but indulge in it as he gazed at you practically the whole dinner. For a split second, he did acknowledge the fact that you looked beyond gorgeous. In a white, fitted dress, hugging your curves with a sweetheart neckline... It was safe to say his mind was split in two. In particular, the two brain cells he had. Half of his mind was floating in the clouds of your compliment while the other half was focused on the top of your breasts (practically where his eyes kept falling to). He was... somewhat of a gentleman, he just couldn't help that dirty side of him. You were beautiful! He wanted you!

In his defense, he was used to seeing you in your uniform jacket, skirt, and tights... the times you weren't, you were always dressed cute and comfortable. Never had he seen you like this, curves and all.

Reaching over the table and yanking on Gojo's hair, Geto stifled a laugh as his best friend snapped his head and growled. "Rude, I was busy!" He hissed, reaching over and tugging on the bangs that hung over the dark haired young man's forehead.

Caught up with your conversation with Shoko (and not entirely hearing the commotion beside you with all the various voices around you in the restaurant) a sudden gasp left the brunette as she watched it all happen before her in slow motion. Gojo and Geto shoved one another, completely forgetting where they were as others nearby watched in confusion.

From one second to the next, you were knocked off your chair, head thudding with the ground as a body collapsed against you. Various gasps and whispers were heard as you winced. Blinking a few times and trying to sit up, you felt a pressure against your chest. Both Shoko and Suguru (who was pulled to his feet by Shoko), stared at the disaster before them. Satoru, with his face planted against your chest, as you stared at him, wide eyed.

"Satoru!" Shoko exclaimed, smacking his head as he lifted it, staring at you with a shared blush, before both of his friends yanked him up.

"I— I am so sorry!" He exclaimed, reaching for your hand to help you up as you looked stunned.

"God, you two are so immature. Before we get kicked out, take her home and I'll handle this," Shoko tsked as you blinked, only to snap out of your daze.

"It's— It's okay! I'll handle this! I invited you all—"

"No, you hit your head hard, let me handle this. Dummie over here will take you," Shoko kicked Satoru's calf. "Go. Now."

Without second thinking his actions, Gojo took your hand and lead you out. Both of you ignored the displeased stares and gossip that spread over the four kids who "shouldn't have been allowed into a restaurant like this in the first place."

Walking out, Satoru stopped in his tracks before turning to face you. "I'm so sorry about... my face being in your... Anyway, are you okay?" He asked, using his free hand to gently touch the back of your head. "There's no bump, but, are you alright?"

"I— It's okay, I'm not hurt," you swore as you nodded your head, looking up at him with your doe eyes. Gojo swore his heart grew two times its size. "I promise," you softly smiled.

Nodding, a small smile grew on the young man's lips. He couldn't help but gaze at you, softness in his eyes as he kept his hand on the back of your head. Silence weaved its way between the two of you. Nothing uncomfortable. You stood there for what felt like hours, looking at one another and nearly forgetting what you were doing or where you were.

The sound of honking snapped the two of you out of it as you realized you were out in the open, with people walking by and cars driving along.

Clearing his throat, Satoru lowered his hand from your head and kept his other in yours. "Let's get you home, yeah?"

tag list: @bakananya @strangehuman101 @thirtykiwis @sillygoosegoose (some of u I sadly couldn't tag!)

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poisonlove · 2 months

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We can't be friends | w.a

Request @ortegalvr

Pairing: wednesday Addams X reader

Words: 8 k

Author: I try it

Belladonna

The belladonna plant, also known as Atropa belladonna, is notorious for being poisonous, but some of its chemicals can be used in medicine to treat certain conditions, as in traditional medicine. However, its use requires extreme caution and medical supervision due to its toxicity.

I scrunch up my nose and look at the words in our herbology book with confusion. I had to do thorough research on poisonous plants and any potential benefits they might bring, so I decided to take advantage of this research time at the Weathervane.

"Here's your macchiato," I raise my head from the book and see the barista. The brown-eyed, curly-haired guy gives me a small smile. "Thank you," I return the smile and notice him walking back to the counter, wiping some cups.

I sigh audibly and sip the coffee, closing my eyes to the delicious flavor. It wasn't Italian, but it was still good, less watery than I imagined. I lick my lower lip and return my eyes to my notes, tapping the pen on the paper, thinking of some other poisonous plant.

I needed to get a good grade.

The sound of the bell in the shop marks someone's arrival, and I look up curiously, seeing a familiar figure. A sensation of chill runs through my body, my heart pounding frantically against my chest.

I couldn't move.

Wednesday Addams was accompanied by a girl, a blonde with colorful highlights. The blonde was smiling broadly and chatting with the brunette, who was looking at her with her usual apathetic gaze. Wednesday was wearing an all-black school uniform, her unmistakable braids hanging over her shoulders.

Her eyes flick in my direction, and I feel my shoulders slump, my eyes softening as I look at Wednesday after so many years. Wednesday seemed surprised to see me, but she didn't show it. Her posture remained perfect, no hint of shock or surprise, just her eyes staring into mine as if trying to read something in them.

The blonde, noticing where Wednesday was looking, leans towards her, probably asking who I was, interrupting the staring contest that had developed between me and her. "I didn't know you knew anyone here in Jericho," is the only thing I manage to catch from their dialogue, and I lower my head to the table, playing with my hands.

It was a habit I had when I was nervous and embarrassed, which was plausible considering it's been years since I've seen little Addams. "Wed, are you okay?" the blonde asks again, two tables away from me. I purse my lips, feeling bitterness in my mouth at the nickname she gave her.

Wed? Now you're letting her call you by my nickname? I thought bitterly.

I sigh audibly and turn my attention back to my assignment, trying to ignore the conversations between the blonde and Wednesday, even though the latter barely spoke. I unconsciously smile, knowing it was just like her to behave this way.

Let's say that every time we went out together, I was the one who talked the most of the two, the brunette just looked at me without blinking, her deer-like eyes watching me with curiosity as I talked and talked. It made me smile and shiver at the same time to be watched with such intensity, but Wednesday loved listening to me talk, she always said she liked my voice

Oleander... Poison... Wednesday.

I knew perfectly well that Wednesday loved this kind of thing, studying every kind of weapon or poisonous plant, a passion her mother passed on to her. But this connection came to mind only now seeing Addams' figure.

I raise my gaze, unconsciously looking at the girl who was my downfall, the love of my life... A girl I still think could be mine. I see her talking to the blonde, smiling shyly, almost imperceptibly at her words.

Apparently, she can understand you, right?

Because I'm different from her, right?

"No! You can't understand! I don't want to hurt you," Wednesday's voice suddenly rises, looking at me seriously.

"But..." I start, feeling tears welling up in my eyes.Wednesday turns her back on me and walks towards the entrance of my room, her hand on the doorknob, her back rigid.

"We can't keep seeing each other, I don't want to see you anymore," her voice lowers again, a cold chill creeping into my bones.

"You're leaving me?" I whisper, looking at the brunette in disbelief. Wednesday doesn't even hint at turning around, her shoulders slumping as she opens the door.

"Wed," I say timidly, my voice breaking as tears threaten to fall. Addams tightly grips the doorknob, her posture still perfect.

"Don't be pathetic, y/n... You're smarter than this," she says with such coldness that it leaves me stunned. After this sentence, Wednesday walks through the door of my room, leaving my house and my life.

It's been 3 years since that moment, and I still shiver at the memory.

I clench my jaw tightly, trying to suppress the anger and pain I still feel, as I delve into my assignment, trying to find comfort in the pages of the book.

"What do you want to order, Wed?" asks a high-pitched voice. I look at the paper while waiting for her rather obvious response.

"Iced espresso," Wednesday replies neutrally.

Her favorite, I know.

Apparently, she still liked the coffee I made her try at my house during our first study project.

Umm... What can I offer you?" I ask nervously as I watch the brunette marveling around my kitchen. Wednesday touches my microwave and looks at it closely.

"What do you have?" she asks spontaneously, her voice small but determined.

"I asked you for a reason, don't you think?" I chuckle timidly, smiling at Addams' strangeness. Wednesday didn't seem like a very... Simple girl, indeed, she had a morbid sense of humor and a loyalty to the color black.

Wednesday gazes into my eyes, making me blush at their intensity. Black eyes stare into mine without blinking, whether curious or annoyed, I still don't know.

"What's that?" she points to the coffee machine, and I blink incredulously.

"You really don't know what it is?" I ask in surprise, and she tilts her head sideways, analyzing me with her gaze.

"It's a coffee machine... Do you want to try my family's famous iced espresso?" I ask proudly, my eyes lighting up with excitement.

The corners of Addams' mouth lift, and she timidly nods her head.

I shake my head and try to focus, a solitary tear rolling down my cheek before falling onto the book. I clench my jaw and try not to cry. Focus on the task.

Don't be weak, don't be pathetic

"Enid, can you hurry up and finish the frappé? It's almost writing time," Wednesday asks with a hint of irritation, earning a glare from what I now know is called Enid.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch their interaction, Wednesday's black eyes pointing towards my direction again. I look away towards her features: high cheekbones, full lips, a stoic but incredibly attractive gaze. Wednesday remains motionless, staring at me, and I surrender to her gaze, starting to pack up my things to put them in my backpack.

The memory of our first date...

We were in the dark room of Wednesday's house, enveloped by the tense and mysterious atmosphere of a horror movie playing on the big screen. Sitting on the couch, I was completely immersed in the plot, but every now and then a shiver of terror would make me jump.

I felt the tension building inside me as the scenes became increasingly eerie. My hands were clenched into fists on my knees, and my heart was beating so fast I feared it might burst from my chest, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen.

Suddenly, a particularly scary scene materialized on the screen, and I couldn't hold back a small scream of terror. Without hesitation, Wednesday grabbed my hand firmly, surprising me with her quick action.

The touch of her hand on mine made me jump, but immediately I felt a sense of calm spreading inside me. Her fingers were cold, but the grip was comforting, as if she wanted to protect me from the terror surrounding usI looked at Wednesday with gratitude, finding comfort in her dark and deep eyes.

She didn't say a word, but her simple gesture spoke more than a thousand words. In that moment, I understood that I wasn't alone, that she was there with me, ready to support me.

So, with Wednesday's hand in mine, I faced the rest of the movie with a renewed sense of courage, knowing that no matter how terrifying it was, I could overcome it with her by my side.

Our first kiss, which happened later that evening.

Wednesday and I locked eyes, a silence filled with tension and emotion enveloping the room.

Our gaze met, and I could sense the same uncertainty I felt.Then, slowly, Wednesday leaned towards me, her eyes fixed on mine with intensity. My heart was pounding so hard I feared it might burst, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from her.

Her lips brushed against mine cautiously, as if she was afraid of hurting me. I felt the warmth of her breath on my face, and a shiver ran down my spine as I leaned in closer to her. Our first kiss was a moment of pure enchantment, a whirlwind of overwhelming emotions.

Wednesday's lips were soft and warm against mine, and the contact was so intense that for a moment it seemed like the world around us stopped.

An onslaught of memories overwhelms me, making me feel vulnerable. My heart breaks at the memories of what we were, of what we shared.

I feel like that flood of memories could easily drive me to madness, but I don't want to feed this monstrous fire. I just want to let this story die, and I'll be alright.

"Shit," I whisper, clenching my jaw tightly.

I stand up from the chair, and the cup near me falls to the ground, attracting the attention of the others. Tyler, the barista, walks over to me and crouches down to pick up the broken pieces. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," I say with concern. "It's okay, accidents happen," he says, smiling kindly.

My eyes glance at Wednesday, and I see her turn her head upon hearing the noise. The blonde next to her continues to drink her frappé, unfazed by the events. Wednesday keeps looking at me in a strange way, her eyes... Glassy. They're kind. Her body invites me to approach and I freeze at the thought of standing just a few steps away from her, face to face.

Maybe she wants to talk and sort things out?

Be friends?

I purse my lips and break the eye contact between us. I grab the backpack with my assignments inside and look at Tyler with concern, who smiles broadly at me.

I give him a small smile and leave the shop, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.

We can't be friends, there are too many feelings.

But I'd like to just pretend, maybe one day not too far away I'll be able to.

But a part of me... Wait until you like me again.

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x you #wednesday addams x you #wednesday adams x reader #wednesday x reader #request #taking requests

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goldenwilliamson · 5 months

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strangers | leah williamson

pairing: leah williamson x reader

a/n: longest fic yet. enjoy pls, i kind of love this. slight warning it does touch on the grief that one feels after a big breakup including (briefly) the awful physical symptoms of breakups. if that's sensitive for you i wish the best and advise that this might not be the fic for you x

summary: reader and leah are together for years before breaking up due to long distance. after a couple of years reader moves back to england and sees leah, and all the love comes flooding back. angsty, but fluffy.

word count: 3.3k

Your life changed when you were eighteen, not only because you signed for Arsenal, but you were in love for the first time in your life. From your early encounters with Leah, you could already feel yourself falling for her. You found her endlessly endearing, drawn in by her quiet confidence and warmth off the pitch, and her fiery commitment to every game she played.

Even though you were too scared to confess your feelings to anyone, you somehow found yourself one evening telling Leah how much you adored her. You told her about how you had felt a connection with her since the first time you met, and how it had only proved itself since then. And she reciprocated every single word of your rambling romantic confession.

From that night, you two were together for almost six years. For the most part, it was the best time of your life. You were playing at your dream club, with the perfect girlfriend, and you were happier than ever. Things always ran smoothly for you and Leah, it was just the way your personalities complimented each other. Conflict resolution came easy to you both, and you were able to talk to each other through anything that was troubling you.

For years it felt like you two were growing at the same pace, and that was why you were able to be together for so long. You both had the same visions for your future, and you had really planned on staying in London with Leah by your side for the rest of your life.

But that was all before you got the offer from Bayern Munich. You never imagined being away from Leah, and maybe you were naive in thinking long-distance would be easy for you guys. So you made the difficult decision to leave Arsenal, to leave London and Leah, and move to Germany.

After your move it became clear very quickly that proximity was important for you both. When your were living several countries away from each other, your connection which you thought was strong enough to withstand the world ending had started to be put to the test. You were talking and understanding each other less, and fighting more about stupid, trivial things. You saw a new, jealous side of Leah who would accuse you of spending too much time with new teammates, and not making time for her anymore. And you yourself were questioning Leah's attraction for you, as you couldn't feel that daily love and affection you'd been so accustomed to through the phone.

It all got to the point where you were struggling to even get yourself to training because you felt so drained by your inability to make things work with Leah. Your teammates at Bayern had noticed and had created a space where you felt safe enough to confide in them. After talking it through with some of your teammates who provided you with their objective opinions on the situation, you made the hardest choice of your life.

Leah's voiced was raised to the point where her it was almost breaking, "Six years Y/N, does all that mean nothing to you?"

"Leah, I will always love you. I just don't think as long as I'm in Germany we can be together. It's not good for us darling, we've been fighting more than ever, and I don't want to feel this resentment towards you... I don't want you to feel badly about me either," you had tried to explain, but it had come out much less clearly through your own tearful voice, punctuated with short breaths as you gasped for air.

"You can't do this Y/N. You can't give up on us," Leah had begged you, but you had remained firm in your decision and it was the last proper conversation the two of you had. Other than a couple of Champions League games where you avoided each other, and one brief trip back to London where you collected all your things from the apartment you shared, you hadn't seen Leah since.

The breakup was something you'd tried to forget, and even though it's been two years since then, you still often question whether or not you made the right decision that day. What stuck with you was the empty aching you felt every time a thought of her passed through your head. In spite of your best attempts to put it behind you and to move on, you will never forget how much love you felt for Leah, and how much grief and sadness you felt the instant you ended things.

Every week that has passed since then you have wondered what your life would be like if you and Leah had made the long-distance thing work. But now you were thinking about it even more because after a few seasons at Bayern, you were going back to play in the WSL.

When Man City approached you, your first instinct was that you absolutely could not go back to England. Because to you, England was Leah. Every memory of your time in England from when you moved at 18, to when you left at 23, is connected to Leah. As much as you loved your time in the country, you never thought you could go and live there again without her by your side. It just wouldn't feel right. However, after several meetings with your manager and calls with City, it became an offer you couldn't turn down.

At least you weren't going back to London, you thought. The distance between the capital and Manchester was just enough to feel like Leah wasn't completely within reach. Of course, it had been different once you were actually living back in England, playing with City, and having to face the reality that you and Leah would be on the same pitch again, but this time as virtual strangers.

You'd heard through the grapevine that over the last couple of years Leah had done her fair share of dating around, but you also were aware that she hadn't been in any serious relationship since you two broke up, and it was the same on your end. How were you supposed to move on when you still thought about your ex every day?

One night you were cooking dinner at your flat for yourself and Georgia Stanway, who had become a close friend of yours since her arrival at Bayern. You two had hung out a bit when you and Leah were still together, but even though Leah was one of Georgia's closest friends, she had never uttered her name around you or asked you anything about your relationship since she transfered to the German club. Not until you two were talking about how you felt about moving back to England and what it would be like playing for City, and you mentioned it first.

"It feels kind of wrong," you said honestly, "I still can't imagine not being an Arsenal player. And you know, being there without Leah."

Georgia looked at you sympathetically, "Do you miss her? I can't imagine how hard all that was for you both."

"I miss her every day, Georgia," you sighed, smiling just to ease the pain, "But I just have to keep telling myself it was the right decision, otherwise I think I'd just live in misery."

She gave you a hopeful smile, "I hope you two can work it out one day, even just as friends. I've never seen two people make each other so happy."

"Yeah I hope so too," you agreed, though the voice in your head told you that you could never make up with Leah after the way you ended things.

You had finally moved back to England after a tearful goodbye to your teammates at Bayern, but you knew it was for the best. Your first week in Manchester you were reminded of how much you loved living in England, mostly because of how different it was from where you grew up. Stepping outside always felt like stepping onto a film set. It was nice too, to catch up with old friends. It was already so much easier to organise trips into London to visit old teammates.

It was on a weekend that you were down in London, when you saw Leah for the first time. You should have known better, walking around St Albans, expecting that you wouldn't see anyone you knew. It wasn't a big enough city to get away with that.

It was still August and the League hadn't started yet, so you were free to make a trip down to London for the weekend to visit Caitlin and Katie, friends you had missed so much while you were living in Germany. You missed everything about Arsenal, but you knew there was no way you could go back there after the way things ended with Leah. It would be much too painful to even try to be friends after everything. There was too much history there that would have been impossible to set aside.

In the morning you had told Katie and Caitlin you would walk into town and buy some bread since they were out, and it was on your way home that you found yourself looking into the face of the person who you once loved more than anyone. It took a moment to register that she was actually there, getting closer as you kept walking.

"Oh my god," you said out loud, finding it extremely jarring to see her after all this time.

You both slowed to a stop in front of each other and Leah, who had always been the more talkative one, was left speechless. Looking at you her heart was both beating for you and breaking all over again.

After a few beats of silence you shook yourself out of your state of shock, "Hi, how are you?", you said.

"I feel like I'm dreaming," Leah said, finally smiling a little as she also moved away from the initial shock of seeing you again. The sound of her voice and the smile on her face brought you instant comfort. She looked different, in the best way. She looked older, which surprised you since she always had such a baby face. But now she looked mature, she looked her age, somehow so different from the 24 year old version of her you last knew.

"Me too," you agreed, laughing slightly at how awkward you were finding this to be. You'd imagined this moment endlessly over the last couple of years, but now that it was really happening you were at a loss.

"What are you doing here?" Leah shook her head, trying to make sense of seeing you.

"I'm staying with Katie and Caitlin for a couple of days," you explained.

"Oh, they didn't mention anything," Leah said, though she knows that people avoid talking about you around her. They know it's still painful for her to hear your name. Just like how Georgia never mentioned her around you.

You realised then that your transfer hadn't been announced yet by the City, and that Leah must know nothing of the news.

"You probably haven't heard, but I've actually moved back here," you say tentatively, knowing that the only reason you two weren't together was because you were living apart. But now you were closer than you had been in two years, and you had no clue what that meant, or if it had the power to change anything.

"What, to London?" Leah said quickly, her voice raising an octave in shock.

"No, I'm up North now. I've actually signed for City," you explain.

"Wow," she says, nodding her head and processing the news. The way she is looking at you doesn't give much away. Her face actually looks quite blank, as if she doesn't know at all how to feel about this.

"Yeah," you say quietly.

"Sky blue will suit you," she says simply and you smile, grateful for the playful comment.

"I don't know, I'm still struggling with the fact I'm not going to be back in red," you say, more meaning held in those words than you intended. Because not being back in red also for you meant not being back with Leah.

"I expected you to stay in Germany for a lot longer," Leah says and the feelings of guilt rush in. You'd thought about this a lot when you decided to come back to England.

The main reason you had called it quits with Leah was because you thought Germany was going to be your home for at least another five years. You couldn't do that many more years of distance, of short phone calls, of fighting and miscommunication. But of course you never thought after just a couple of years you would be coming back to England. And if you had, you might have been able to stick things out with Leah.

"I really did too," you say sincerely, hoping that she knows you wouldn't have done what you did if you knew you'd be back so soon.

Leah runs her hand roughly through her hair, and you can almost see the cogs turning in her head through the look in her eyes.

"This changes things then, doesn't it?" She asks, voicing the thoughts floating around both your minds.

"I suppose it does," you nod imperceptibly, afraid to admit it.

You stand in silence now, looking at each other trying to work out exactly what this changes.

"I miss you so much," Leah says, her voice thin and wavering.

"I know. I've felt sick without you," you say, voicing things you'd never voiced to anyone. You have genuinely experienced the most physical forms of grief for Leah. The first few months after the breakup you were nauseous everyday, throwing up even when your stomach was completely empty. It just felt impossible to go on without her.

Leah just nods, having been through the exact same things.

"I'm so sorry," you say finally taking the opportunity to apologise for the thing that you've felt so much guilt and remorse about.

"It's okay," Leah assures you, but you shake your head instantly.

"It's not, I don't know what I was thinking Leah," you say honestly, feeling the emotions all over again. Your eyes well up and Leah is quick to embrace you, allowing you to let it out in her arms.

"You were right about everything but," she says, "Things weren't working."

"Yeah, but I should've tried to work through it," you voice the things you'd been thinking over for the last two years, trying to compose yourself with deep breaths.

"I wasn't making it easy for you, I was so hard on you. I feel really bad about the way I treated you when you left," Leah reflects on her own behaviour.

"It's okay," you tell her now.

You stand in the middle of the footpath in St Albans, holding each other, both unable to believe that this was real.

"You don't absolutely hate me do you? Because I'd understand if you did," you say, stepping back to look at Leah, trying to ease some of the tension.

She laughs, "I tried hating you," she says, "But that lasted about a minute and then I just went on trying to love you less."

"And how did that go?" You ask hopefully.

"Yeah not very good," she says.

"I couldn't really get the hang of not loving you either," you say.

Leah is smiling, but you can see the reservation in her eyes. She knows that everything has suddenly changed, but still, nothing is the same as it once was. You feel it too.

"What do we do now?" She asks.

You shrug your shoulders, "I've got to deliver this bread back to Katie and Caitlin, do you want to come?"

"I'll come," she nods, "But what happens after that?" Leah says.

"After that," you sigh, "We are about two years overdue in catching up on each others lives, so I'd say we'll have a nice long chat."

You are stepping forward now, beginning the journey back to Katie and Caitlin's, and Leah is by your side.

"Best start now then," Leah says, and the two of you fall deep into conversation immediately. It warms you heart how at home you feel, even after all this time.

When you knock on the door back at the girls flat, Katie answers with a look of absolute shock on her face.

"What are you doin here!?" She looks right at Leah, as if she was an intruder.

"Well I bumped into this one in town and she invited me over, is that alright?" Leah explains.

Katie takes a moment to process the words before nodding and stepping back to let you both inside.

"Oh my god, what are you doing here?" Caitlin echoes when you all walk into the living room together.

"We've just bumped into each other," you say, "I thought I'd drop off the bread before Leah and I go and catch up."

"Cool, cool," Caitlin says, trying to mask her shock while Katie looks on, stunned into a very uncharacteristic silence.

"God, you two look like you've seen a ghost," Leah says.

"I feel like I have!" Katie stresses, and you feel the exact same way.

"Alright, let's go down the park," you suggest to Leah, a place where you two used to walk around in circles, chatting for hours. It seems like the perfect place to go.

"Perfect," she nods, "Bye you two," she looks between her teammates.

"See ya, have fun," Caitlin says.

"Don't kill each other," Katie says and you scoff.

"We won't," you roll your eyes.

You and Leah step out the front door you share a moment of laughter about the interaction.

"Did I hide my shock better than those two when I saw you?" You ask.

"Absolutely not, I believe your words were oh my god," Leah laughs.

You two end up at the park, walking around at first, talking about how you are going to be playing for City now and your time at Bayern. Leah gives you the big run down on what's been happening at Arsenal since you've left, telling you about all the new players. It's like seeing an old friend, and you're just so glad that she hasn't spent two years hating you.

After what must be over an hour, you two sit at a bench. Same one you would always find together on your morning walks.

It's weird being so physically close to her again. You want to reach out and hold her forever, but you think it might be too soon. Leah feels the same though and she shows it in the way her hand reaches out to find yours.

"Can I be honest with you?" She asks.

"Of course you can," you say with a squeeze of her hand.

"I haven't felt this..." she pauses trying to find the word, "Happy? Peaceful? I don't think there is a right word to tell you how right this feels to be with you again," she says, healing all the cracks in your broken heart.

"It feels the same as I remember it feeling," you say in agreement, "Like this is just how it's supposed to be."

"Would it be absolutely crazy of us to try to pick up where we left off?" Leah suggests.

"People will definitely think we're crazy, but I don't have a problem with that," you say.

"Is this really what you want?" Leah asks, using her free hand to gesture between you both.

"Yes," you say without missing a single beat, "I don't want to ever go without this again."

"Good. We're on the same page then," she nods finally.

Not wanting to wait any longer you ask her a question you've been dying to ask, "Can I kiss you, please?"

Without even a word Leah just smiles, leaning in to kiss you. Somehow it's a goodbye kiss, and a hello kiss, an I missed you kiss, and an I'm sorry kiss. It's everything you wish you could've said to each other in once simple gesture.

"I haven't stopped loving you for a minute, I hope you know that," you say quietly, as you pull apart.

Leah smiles, looking at you with all the love in the world, "I've spent years dreaming that one day we'd see each other again and you'd say that."

"In my dreams, you say it back," you joke.

"Sorry," Leah shakes her head, "I love you."

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