#and the new tennis season | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angelwithdemonictendencies · 3 months

Text

rot my teeth, melt these cotton candy lips, i'd let you; left this trail of breadcrumb broken hearts so you'd follow me home.

js1 x reader: the fisherman puts the heartbreaker out of commission.

(warnings: blasphemous filth, unprotected penetrative sex (m on f), oral sex (f on m), idk like marking and lots of limbs and obviously we've been warned about the talking. i know i'm forgetting a lot but all my usual suspects. (please be warned, don’t read if you’re not 100% sure.)

(a/n: favorites! what's new? probably nothing, right? (love a self-reference). this should serve as a warning for all of you - if you drop an anonymous ask, no matter how simple, you are running the risk of me emerging from my cave of teeth with a 14k story about someone i barely noticed until recently. and i may, consequently, become weirdly infatuated with a random third line winger (tf11) and force him into my story. my obvious disclaimers of lack of realism and weirdly flowery language and crazy plotholes and status as fiction are still very much on the table. of course i know nothing about being a private chef, or alaska, for that matter. so, uh, congrats to js1 on being an all-star, i guess? this is your prize! i posted about what's going on in my world recently - there's a lot, it's a lot, and just know that no matter what, what i feel most for you is gratitude. thank you. tell me what you think, i live for it. takeaway for today - your past does not determine who you are, what you are capable of. no matter how many guys insist it does, your body count and/or experience, or lack thereof, even, is irrelevant to the lovely person you are. you are a treasure, and you deserve to be treated accordingly. may we all find partners who think they're dreaming when they look at us. my snakes told me to tell your snakes they have a crush on them. okay, until next time, go canucks. all my love).

summers, for you, had always been something magical.

when you were young, they meant lake house vacations and playing tennis with your siblings and strawberry shortcake, grass stains and popsicles. when you were in school, they meant working as a line cook at a country club, a job and space that felt all your own, they meant salty beach days with your friends and pulling the caddies (the cute ones, at least) behind the clubhouse, kisses that tasted like gatorade.

now, a bit older, summers meant something different, but they were still magical. during the year, you worked as a personal chef for the same lovely family, the montgomerys, that you had built a trusting relationship with - a family that travelled extensively over the summer, leaving you, each may, to look for temporary work elsewhere.

you took work from whatever family offered you the best gig any given summer, usually on a referral from your main employer, usually a place like nantucket or charleston or something like that.

last summer, spent in the hamptons, you cooked for the family of mrs. montgomery's best friend. it had been a season of fish tacos and roasted artichoke salad and berry cobbler, cut with fireworks and white linen dresses and aperol spritzes.

this summer, mr. montgomery's coworker, mr. kelly, had hired you to keep him and his family fed for the season while they summered up at their alaskan vacation home.

so, this job, it wasn't new, not really. you were a seasoned professional in the world of being a private chef, in recipe building and gardening and plate presentation.

this place, however, this small town in alaska, was completely and utterly unfamiliar. you had met the kellys a few times, so you knew the parents and their adorable young son, but that was where the recognition would end. the rest was new, foreign.

you loved the prospect of learning a new place, though, like earning a new badge on a girl-scout sash. your mind hummed on the flight over as you thought about different seasonal produce, a new set of tastes and preferences to account for, techniques for preparing the seafood that would surely be spectacular.

a new set of streets to know the names of, a new community to put faces to, a new routine to settle into.

summers were magical, for you, they always had been, and you knew this one would be no different.

this was very much not the hamptons, though, you realized, very quickly upon landing at the tiny airport, which had only a few gates. which was fine, you considered, you didn't need to work at some crazy expensive beach town, or anything, but this place was kind of, well, scarce, maybe?

the taxi ride to the house was fast, a blur of main street and trees and not much else. finally, you arrived, a flurry of suitcases and thank yous and hair in your face.

the kellys welcomed you, all open arms from the mrs and kind smiles from the mr and timid waves from their son, stanley. they showed you to your room, gave you a quick tour, left you to settle in before the work started tomorrow.

exhausted from travel, you fell asleep quickly and dreamlessly.

the next morning, you awoke to the sun streaming in through the window, warm and lazy. after getting ready, you made your way downstairs, had your planning meeting with the family.

they told you their preferences, the important dates of the summer, when people would be coming over. thankfully, there were no allergies. they showed you to their garden.

"we'd love if you got some use out of it," mrs. kelly said, a gentle hand on your shoulder, "lord knows i don't give it enough attention."

"we're so excited to have you," mr. kelly said, "thanks again for doing this. see you for dinner?"

you called out your confirmation as you grabbed your market bags, began the five-minute walk to downtown, to the pier. the walk was peaceful, the air pleasant and fresh.

you made your way through main street slowly and methodically, learning the stores and their energies, their offerings. the market, sure, that would be where you spent a majority of your time, but you tried out the bookstore, too, the coffee shop, the vintage store.

before you knew it, your arms were loaded with bags, overflowing with produce and ingredients, a couple books, a bag of coffee beans, a vintage silk scarf.

your arms were full, but you still decided to make one last stop, at the fish market, all the way at the end of main street.

the smell made you scrunch up your nose, if only slightly, as you pushed the door open with your hip, heard the bell ring over your head.

you made your way to the glass display case, surveyed all the different seafood over ice. you were thinking salmon, for tonight, something simple that everyone would like.

you picked your head up, looked behind the counter, found nobody to help you. "uh, hello?" you called out. "anyone home?"

almost immediately, two tall figures came barreling out of the back, through the double doors. two men, bottom half in fishing gear, the rubbery protective pants attached to suspenders, which laid over black long sleeves.

"what's up?" one of them, the dirty blonde, said, his voice deep, almost cartoonish.

"hi," you said, "i'm looking for some salmon."

"didn't look very hard, did you?" the blonde said, teasing, nodding down to where the mass of pink fish laid atop the plane of ice. he cut a look to his coworker, who's gaze hadn't dropped from you since he came through the door. "but, uh, i think my friend jeremy's gonna help you out," he said, "i, uh, gotta do somethin' in the back real quick."

the blonde made a quick and forced exit, forcing you to turn and face the other man behind the counter.

"okay?" you said, halfway confused. "you're jeremy, then?"

there was a pause potent with awkwardness as he stood there, blinking at you.

a pause during which you realized, however slowly, that this man across the counter was sort of beautiful. beautiful in a way you weren't used to, beautiful in a way your men of the summer had not been before.

it was sort of an inside joke now, between you and your friends. how, no matter where you were, what job you were working, you'd have a "summer boyfriend," a guy with a finish line, someone pretty and nice enough to hang around until the sun set over the blood orange summer skyline one final time. your best friend joked that it was a seasonal position, almost like an internship.

the caddies you went for when you were a little younger were division one golfers, with all of the laser-focus and goody-two-shoes attitudes to match.

last summer, in the hamptons, it'd been a beachfront bartender named mat, all easy charm and comic book facial structure. he'd cared a little too much about his physique, said a little too much about what you'd cook for him, but he'd also been really sweet, sometimes, letting you borrow his jackets whenever you got cold on the beach.

jeremy, though, he didn't look like the laced-up amateur golfers, and he didn't seem like the discipline-fueled superhero, either. he was tall, for sure, tall enough that your neck craned slightly to get a good look at him, and wide in the shoulders.

it was his face that really got you, though - even with that sharp jaw, he just looked so soft, so gentle, so tender, like he wore every emotion across his face completely and utterly shamelessly. his eyes had welled up with something you had the sneaking suspicion was just kindness, brimming on his waterline, threatening to spill forward like salty tears.

you waved a hand in front of his face, cleared your throat, felt the slightest of blushes across your nose. "earth to jeremy?"

you watched consciousness creep into his eyes, cloud over the awe that was previously there. he gave a rigorous shake of his head, as if to snap himself out of a trance. "sorry, beauty," he said, and his voice was so genuine, so unabashed, it made you smile, your stomach turn. "must think 'm a real space cadet, eh?"

you shifted the bags in your hands. "well, you did just zone out for a bit," you said.

he let out a laugh, and it bubbled out of him, uninhibited. "my fault," he admitted, "i was thinking, 'woah, am i in a dream right now?' and then i was like 'wait, no, i don't dream about work,' but you look straight 'outta a daydream, beauty, i swear it."

his manner of speaking dripped with honesty, like every aspect of his thoughts was completely on the table, like you were someone entitled to knowing exactly what was going on in his head.

you averted your gaze at his confession. when was the last time someone had made you feel practically timid?

when you spoke, your voice felt unsure. "whatever you say," you told him. "maybe you could help me, now? i-"

"anything," he said, completely stone-faced and serious, which forced a laugh from your throat.

"right," you said, a slight smile quirking up on your lips. "i'm hoping to get some salmon for dinner tonight?"

he hummed, a sound you felt in your chest. your fingers twitched. "you cook, too?" he asked, sounded almost pained as he leaned his head onto a hand, the other flat on the counter.

you nodded absentmindedly. "'m a private chef. anyways, need enough for four, five people, maybe?"

"at your service, beauty," he said, in that funny voice, and then he shot you a wink before snapping his gloves on. the tips of your ears must have been a vengeful pink, at this point.

as he prepared the fish for you to take home, weighing it and wrapping it in paper, you set your bags down on the ground, stretched your arms out above your head, your body stiff from holding so many things.

"that's a 'lotta bags, there," jeremy said, nodding towards the floor. "what're you hoarding in 'em?" his smile pulled at his mouth, revealed a flash of white teeth that was nothing but teasing, kind.

you ran a palm across the back of your neck. "it's my first day on the job," you said, "first dinner for the new family, want to make a good impression."

he gave a light-hearted scoff. "ever made a bad impression?"

you rolled your eyes at him. "you don't know me, jeremy," you reminded him, not mean, almost a sing-songy melody in your voice.

he put up one hand in mock-surrender. "'course, you're right," he said, "just find it hard to believe, 's all."

"okay, sweet-talker," you chided, shifting on your feet as he finished wrapping up your fish.

his grin was triumphant. "think 'm sweet, do you, beauty?"

you handed over your payment, ran your tongue along your teeth as he gently took it from your fingers. you let that confidence well up in your gaze, willed the smile that worked on everyone.

the one that convinced caddies that maybe they could take a quick break, that maybe they deserved to have a little fun, the one that convinced the bartender everyone had lusted over that you were the only girl in the world, that no one else was worthy of his attention.

"oh, you'd rot my teeth, jeremy," you teased as you slotted the paper package into a bag, took back your credit card, loaded your arms full again, made for the door.

you looked over your shoulder one last time, found him leaning on his palm, again, watching you, practically with a wistful sigh. "'m not rotten," he said, gaze alight with something dangerous.

you smiled at him. "goodbye, rotten boy," you said, leaving as the bell rung above you, feeling his gaze on your back the entire time, until the air around you smelled less of the sea and more of the forest, like tree-sap and soil.

you fell into a routine quickly, like you had planned on, like you were so used to doing. you prepped and planned and worked on recipes. you cooked and cleaned up after yourself and looked after the garden with diligence. you spent your free mornings walking to get coffee, your free weekends exploring the nearby beaches and lakes and trails.

you gained the trust of the kellys, until they treated you like family. until mr. kelly was asking when your crabcakes would be making another appearance, until mrs. kelly was swearing there was sorcery involved in your strip steak, until little stanley would sneak into the kitchen when you were making dessert, just because he knew there would be some cookie dough to spare, maybe a finger swipe of brownie batter.

until the garden was looking almost complete, the pantries and fridge fully stocked, until the menu had a fairly regular rotation.

you made your first friend a few weeks into the summer, one morning, waiting in the short line for your daily coffee. you had long ago come to terms with the fact that, yes, it would probably be cheaper to make coffee at home, but you'd soak the economic losses to support a small business. coffee was one thing you'd spend money on, no matter where you were.

so, this morning, you were second in line, which should have meant a short wait, but the middle-aged man in front of you was taking a truly devastating amount of time to make a decision.

the poor teenager working the register was trying not to be rude, you could tell, but after a couple minutes, the growing line had begun to grow restless.

you were about to tap the man on the shoulder, but the woman behind you, maybe your age, a bit older, beat you to it.

"jesus christ, jerry!" she bit out, "just get your regular, or i'll run an article about how someone so indecisive shouldn't own a hardware store!" she huffed out an angry breath, shook her head as a scared jerry ordered a drip coffee with cream.

you met the woman's eye, and she smiled at you. "hey, new kid," she said, sticking out her hand. "i'm tj, local paper."

impressed, you shook her hand, gave her your name. "local paper, eh?" you asked, "lots of coffee shop and hardware store headlines?"

she laughed as you stepped forward and ordered your americano, motioned for her to order, too. "we don't get a lot of blockbuster news, around here," she said, making to pay, but you held out a hand to stop her. "you're probably just about the most interesting news we've had all year, since the frederic's dog got lost."

you hummed. "i could use you on my side, tj," you mused, "could help me get up to speed with this place."

she tilted her head, appeared in thought for a second before eventually nodding. "sure, new kid, i'll get you all caught up," she agreed. "and not just because you bought my coffee."

you laughed. "anytime," you offered.

"say, same time tomorrow?" she asked, headed for the door, swinging her shoulder bag around. "meet here?"

you agreed and waved goodbye. she saluted you, let the door close behind her.

"that girl's a terror," jerry warned you, careful.

"good," you told him. "all the best girls are."

as promised, you met up with tj the next morning, bought her coffee with your own before making your way up main street.

"so, i'm sure you're already familiar, because you've been here for a bit," she said, in step with you, "but we'll go over the basics."

"honestly, i don't know much," you said, "i'm at the market almost every day, every other place i've been only once or twice. and besides the kellys, you're the first local person i know by name." a flash of molten brown eyes and a tender smile blazed across your mind like a comet. "well, second."

tj's gaze shimmered, and you guessed this was the curiosity that makes someone want to be a reporter. "who else?" she asked.

"no one, really," you said, "this guy in the fish market, jeremy, but we talked for like a second."

she nodded like she understood. "oh, the fish market," she sighed. "the two biggest goofballs in town." she shot you a look. "don't worry, we'll make a stop there."

"oh, we don't have to, i'll go back eventually, mr. kelly's been wanting crab, anyways-"

"we'll make a stop there," she repeated, and that was that. first, though, she introduced you to the owner of the grocery store, an old woman who whispered to you that all the best stuff gets delivered on wednesdays.

next was the pizza place, and all the teenagers who seemed to be running it. "luke likes jenna, but jenna has a thing for her friend kayla," tj whispered to you as the door shut behind you.

"this is the kind of inside scoop you're privy to, eh?" you asked, amused.

she shrugged. "it's a real mixed bag. i'd never, like, run a story on the love lives of high schoolers, but everything is significant in a town this small."

you hummed, supposing she was right.

between the vintage store and the post office, she asked about your history, where you were from, your job.

"sounds like a pretty sweet gig," she said with an impressed sort of shrug.

you nodded. "it's a lot of work, but it's pretty awesome," you said, honestly. you loved what you did, and felt very lucky to be doing it.

"come back soon, girls!" mailwoman mindy called out after you both. you waved your thanks.

eventually, after your head was overcrowded with insider information and useless gossip all the same, you and tj stood in front of the fish market, the smell making your palms sweat with the memory of last time.

when was the last time a guy made you nervous? you shivered the thought away as tj pushed open the door.

"right, so this is the frederic's business, has been for decades," she said, "boys! show yourselves!"

on cue, the two men from last time shouldered through the double doors with the same lack of gracefulness.

"good morning, sunshine," the blonde said, almost taunting, looking right at tj, "to what do we owe this great pleasure?"

your friend looked particularly annoyed, all of a sudden. "'m giving new kid a tour," she said, gesturing to you, "she says she's been here, but i figured you probably didn't introduce yourself."

"right, as always, you sleuther," he said, making up the word, before turning to you. "i'm trent. and i remember you." he smirked, nodded to his coworker. "guy's been moanin' and cryin' 'bout when you'd come back."

"nice to officially meet you, trent," you said, giving him your name before finally allowing yourself to look at jeremy, whose gaze you'd felt like the sun on your face since he entered. he was every bit as beautiful, as genuine, as painstakingly tender as you'd remembered. "hey, jeremy." your words came out softer than you meant them to.

"hey, beauty," he replied, almost disbelieving, his hair just a bit shaggier than you remembered.

his smile was something brutal.

your grin was sly as you rolled your neck to the side, let his gaze drip over you greedily, but never shamefully.

tj cleared her throat. "well, not much of anything interesting happens on this end of the pier," she said, to which trent placed a wounded hand over his heart.

"no gossip for me, tj?" you asked, almost surprised, but not quite. these two seemed like open books, if jeremy's telling gaze was anything to go by. not to mention the fondness that had invaded trent's eyes when looking at your new friend, the way your eyes settle on your science class crush in middle school.

"you'll tell me something useful eventually, won't you, boys?" tj asked.

"guess you'll have to keep coming back, then. to find out," was trent's smug reply.

you weren't listening to their banter, really, though, not anymore, because you had drifted closer to jeremy, felt yourself walk over to him as if pulled by some thread. until you were leaning forward on the counter, like you were about to tell him a secret. until you could see each of his dark lashes, the light smattering of freckles on his nose.

"been moanin' and cryin', eh?" you teased, little more than a whisper, tilting your head at him.

"wouldn't've had to," he said, but it came out like a whine. "if you'd've come back to see me."

what would it be like, to be just, so, so honest? with others, with yourself? so honest, it rendered you just about speechless. almost.

you gave him that smile. "rotten boy," you said, watched his gaze become drenched in corn syrup. "so impatient, hm?"

"when do i get to see you again?" he asked, undeterred, not unaffected but so beautifully unembarrassed in his focus on the more, the next.

"soon," was all you said. he gave you a pout that you wanted to bite down on.

"alright, we're off," tj said, her voice pulling you from the daydream you had settled into. "when you've got something i can use, you know where to find me, frederic."

"you can use me anytime, tj!" he pronounced her name like tee-j, smiled as she rolled her eyes.

"good to meet you, trent," you said, "jeremy, i'll see you around."

"not if i see you first, beauty!" his goofy voice called out after you.

as luck would have it, you didn't even have to wait for the weekend to see him again. because, the universe, you were convinced, was trying to force you closer, closer, closer to this tall, kind, man with eyes that glittered. and what was there to do, really, except say thank you?

stanley, whom you had come to grow close to, whose laugh was like a bell, who was quiet but observant and passionate about things like glaciers and rainstorms, had started fishing camp earlier that week, but this afternoon, neither of his parents could pick him up.

"i know it's not in your job description, and i promise it won't be a regular thing," mrs. kelly had said to you over the phone, "but could you swing by the pier super quick to walk him home?"

and of course you had agreed, told her it wasn't any trouble at all.

and it really wasn't any trouble at all, until trouble was staring you straight in the face.

until you stood on the pier, waiting your turn in the pick-up line, and spotted trouble, himself, lifting kids by the waist from the small boat onto the dock.

he sparkled with life, in all of his gear, down to his water-proof boots. he appeared to have made something of a game out of pick up, making a rocket-ship noise as he hoisted kids into the air before setting them down. their laughter rang out in the clear air.

you could feel your heart beat in your chest, suddenly became acutely aware of what you were wearing, how your hair looked. this nervous energy was so foreign to you, it almost felt like a sickness, like a cold.

you scolded yourself to calm down, willed your heartbeat to normalize. these nerves, they weren't you - or at least, they weren't the you that you were used to. they were not the careless summer you that you had come to know and love. they were part of a different you, one that was not as familiar, perhaps one you believed to be not as magical.

"beauty!" you were pulled from your self-conscious daze by jeremy approaching you with agile steps, until he was right in front of you, larger than life, unobstructed by a counter for the first time. before you could do or say anything, his thick arms were around you, pulling you tight against his chest in a hug that muffled your surprise, maybe confusion. you didn't know him, he didn't know you, yet he was doling out hugs like they cost him nothing? "so happy you're here," he said into your hair, and you could have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

maybe you would have, if his embrace didn't feel so right around you, if his chest wasn't so expansive, yet so soft, if you didn't feel so completely safe, practically at peace in his arms. maybe you would have laughed, if there had been anything funny about this.

you rubbed circles into his back with your palm, almost dazed. "you work fishing camp?" you asked into his chest, felt the heat of your exhale in your face.

he didn't let you go, not yet, only pulled his head back slightly so he could talk to you, face to face. "oh, yeah," he said, generous with his smile, "boat captain of the baby minnows, more like."

you couldn't help your smile. "okay, big shot," you said, feigning being impressed. "do i call you captain, then?"

did you imagine the way his eyes darkened, if only for a second, a storm cloud over the sea line? did you imagine the way his embrace grew heated? did you imagine the way you wanted it to?

"think 'd let you call me just about anything," he said, breathy, and the air sparked.

he's not for you, a voice whispered in your head. he's not your seasonal plaything.

you coughed, tried to gracefully step away from him. he let you, didn't seem to be bothered by it. "have you seen stanley?" you asked, your skin itching to feel his arms around you, again.

jeremy smiled. "stan, stan, my bug-saving man? he's 'round here somewhere." he looked around, his gaze finally settling on the boy you were looking for, bent over a rock, looking at some critter that had caught his eye. "there he is." the two of you walked over to him. "not just here to see me, then? pickup takes priority?"

he didn't sound disappointed, not even sad, really, but almost wistful, hopeful. his words upset you, though, which scared you. it scared you, how much you didn't want to hurt his feelings.

it was this scared part of you that took his wide hand in yours and squeezed, which made his gaze cut to yours, wide, surprised. "'m happy to see you," you said, and it felt forbidden to say so, but you did it anyways.

you were happy for the distraction of the kid in front of you as you reluctantly let go of jeremy's hand and crouched down. "hey, stanley," you said, so as not to spook him.

he hummed his hello, pointed to the beetle in the dirt. "look," he said, seemingly content with just observing.

"i see," you said, "pretty cool." you had never been the best at talking to children. somehow, jeremy seemed to sense this.

"guess what, stan?" he said, eyes wide, like him and this small boy were in on some secret.

"what?" stan said.

"your friend over here told me that the first one home gets an extra special dessert tonight," he stage-whispered. stan's eyes grew wide at this information. he promptly took off, in the direction of home.

thank you, you mouthed to jeremy as you made to follow stan.

he ran a hand through his hair. "thankful enough for a helping of dessert tomorrow?" he called out after you.

you scrunched up your face playfully. "rotten!" you said, loud enough for him to hear, which made his bright laugh echo behind you, echo in your head. the feeling of his embrace, of his hand in yours, of his laugh in your mind, it all followed you home, where it stayed.

it lingered for long after, into days spent wrapped up in work, throwing yourself into your everyday tasks so that a certain someone would stay at an arm's length, so that your head might maintain some semblance of clearness.

between shucking corn and braising short rib, though, whenever you weren't entirely preoccupied, your mind would wander to corded shoulders under black long sleeves, to giggly belly-laughs and honesty that made you blush.

it was your wandering mind that had you seeking out stan, when he and his dad got back from fishing camp pick-up. "how was today?" you asked him, gentle, probing.

he shrugged.

"anything to report?" you tried, hoping maybe he'd say something about jeremy, but you'd take an update on the bugs and slithery things he seemed to like so much, too. you pushed a bowl of chocolate pudding and strawberries across to counter to him, placing a finger to your lips in a request for secrecy.

this, stan seemed to understand. "didn't catch anything," he said, digging into his treat. "set all the worms free."

you suppressed a laugh. "was jeremy mad at you?" you knew the answer though, knew it would take a lot more than that to make him anything close to angry.

stan shook his head, and his eyes flickered with a memory. "he told me to tell you about the pier party."

"what's the pier party?" you asked.

another shrug. you figured you'd ask tj about it.

"did he say anything else?" you asked, trying to mask the hope in your gaze, which probably appeared kind of scary to this kid.

stan thought for a moment, then his face scrunched up in distaste. "oh, and he told me to tell you that his hair looked really good today."

"did it?" you asked.

"not really," stan said, and then he laughed, muffled around his spoon, forcing a laugh from you, too.

following clarification with tj about what the pier party was (like a block party, summer tradition, that weekend), you walked downtown with the kellys on saturday night to find the pier all lit up, local vendors having set up stands, music playing from speakers, kids running around everywhere.

the night air was warm and sticky, making your thighs feel damp, your hair heavy on the back of your neck.

stan ran off with some of his friends from camp, the kellys joined a conversation with some people they knew, leaving you to find tj.

you quickly spotted her, leaning on a post next to the cooler, writing something down in her nearly-abused notebook.

"no days off, eh?" you said, amused, when you approached her, making her look up, roll her eyes at you as she shut her notebook, clicked her pen and shoved it into her messy bun.

"inspiration is everywhere," she said, joking, but you could tell there was some truth to her statement. "drink?"

"no, thanks," you said. you had grown sort of disenfranchised with the whole alcohol thing since last summer. not in a pretentious way, or a judgmental way, you didn't mind at all if others drank. you just didn't like the way it made you feel, sort of sluggish and swollen, and as soon as you'd stopped, you realized you didn't really miss it. "what were you writing?"

she opened her mouth to answer, but she was cut off by a funny, cracking voice. "oh, that's not her work book," trent said, grinning. "that's her diary. 'm sure my name's makin' quite a few appearances."

"in your dreams, frederic," tj chided, shoving the notebook into her bag nonetheless as trent pulled the pen from her hair, tucked it behind his own ear.

of course, where one was, the other was never far behind, so you weren't all that surprised to feel jeremy slide into place beside you. you did become momentarily distracted, though, by the smell of him so close, by the fact that he wasn't wearing his gear, instead opting for casual pants and a t-shirt you thought appeared a little too small.

you swallowed around your distraction, lodged in your throat, at his arms, thick with muscle, his body less-so obstructed by water-proof gear and more-so highlighted by his everyday clothes.

when your eyes finally found his, he looked positively delighted by your distraction.

you shook your head. "sorry," you said immediately.

his smile only grew. "don't be, beauty," he said, giving the arm not holding his beer a hard flex, posing like a bodybuilder, making you laugh. "just get my good side, hm?"

maybe it was his easy humor that had honesty welling up in you like a cresting wave. "every side's your good side," you said, placing a gentle hand on his forearm, willing him to relax. rest, you might as well have whispered into his ear. you can rest, with me. "you're so good."

that's what he seemed to hear it as, anyways, as his gaze melted into something like awe, like wonder, like pure kindness. when he spoke, there was a rasp to it that made you shiver. "want a drink?" he asked.

you weren't embarrassed to shake your head, softly. "'m not into drinking, right now," you said, then realized that could be taken as judgmental. "but i don't mind if you do, like, at all."

his expression didn't change, though, as he held out his beer bottle to trent, snagging his attention from whatever conversation he had roped tj into. "freddy, finish this for me, eh?"

trent just shrugged, took it from his hand, downed it in one go. tj grimaced. "you're gross," she said.

"it's saturday night," trent said with a one-shouldered shrug, as if that explained everything.

"you didn't have to do that," you told jeremy. "i really don't mind."

he just waved you off with a smile as trent and tj continued their argument about being appropriate at a neighborhood party.

the song that floated through the thick air grew slower, maybe something like the last song at a middle school dance. something that had the older couples swaying in time with each other, that had luke gazing across the pier at jenna, who was laughing with kayla. something that had jeremy extending a broad hand to you. "may i have this dance?" he asked, like some old-timey medieval, and you could have laughed, if he didn't appear to be completely serious.

so you only smiled, took his hand, said, "you may."

you set your free hand on his shoulder, tried not to blush at the firmness you felt under your palm as his other hand rested on your waist. you swayed and moved together gently, slowly, in time with the song, the pier under your sandals.

in a moment of indulgence, you dug your hand harder into his shoulder, massaging the muscle there. "a little tense, hm?" you said, meeting his gaze, coated in bliss.

maybe it backfired, a little, though, when he let out a little groan at your touch, at the feeling of your careful hand undoing the knots in the pocket between his shoulder and neck. something stirred in your stomach. you exhaled slowly.

the moment felt oddly charged, a sensual eye in the hurricane of normality around the two of you.

he hummed. "consequence of the job," he said, giving you a slight spin.

"it's tough on you, eh?" you asked, genuine, his touch on your waist distracting. time seemed to melt like a fourth-of-july popsicle.

he shrugged, a movement you felt in your fingers. "'m tough," he said, and you could tell he knew it to be true, knew it to be a keystone of his being.

you nodded, because you knew this, too. "can tell," you whispered, giving his hand a squeeze. "feel it in your hands."

his eyes became glossy, for a moment, like your admission was too much for his consciousness to bare.

this glossy look spurred you on, made the flirt in you emerge with a vengeance. "like to break a bit of a sweat, yeah?"

and he was nodding before you got the words out, feverish, almost desperate.

the music felt far away, up in the clouds, below the surface of the sea. it felt like you two might have been there, too, waltzing in some misty sky dreamland, some foamy ocean kingdom.

it felt perfect, he felt perfect, and when you went to sleep that night, your waist felt cold without his wide palm against it. your fingers twitched without his firm grip around them.

the next day, you called one of your old friends from the city, who had known you for a long time, who was the kind of friend that, no matter how much time had passed from when you last spoke, you would pick up right where you left off, no matter what.

you asked her about how she was doing, how her partner was, her job, her house renovations.

"alright, enough about me, i'm boring myself to death," she said after getting you effectively caught up. "tell me about your summer adventures, so much more exciting than redoing the master bath."

you laughed, and you told her about the kellys, their beautiful home, this lovely town. you told her about how the air was just different up here, how everything tasted fresher, how you had made a friend who made you laugh.

"and who's the lucky guy?" she said, eventually, as you sort of knew she would. at your silence, you could practically hear her disbelief. "don't tell me you don't have a seasonal hire, yet? how small is this town?"

you rolled your eyes good-naturedly. "it's not that," you said, "i mean, there is this guy, and he's really, really-" you trailed off, kind of, tried to think of how to describe him. scarily kind? handsome and beautiful at the same time? you let out a small laugh. "well, he makes me nervous, i guess."

there was a pause. "you're telling me," your friend said, slow and pronounced. "there's a guy in this universe who can make you nervous? and he's in alaska?"

"it's weird, right?" you said, almost laughing at yourself.

"weird? it's unprecedented!" there was a squeal from the other end of the line. "so, you've been there for a couple weeks now, right? so you must know him pretty well?"

you looked down at your hand, flexed it, cleared your throat. "i, uh, haven't really, like, initiated anything with him," you admitted. "i don't know, it doesn't feel like how it normally does. like i feel like my order and timing is all wrong, like i'm behind and going too fast at the same time."

"holy fuck," your friend said. "you, like, really like him. that's what really being into someone is, babe. exactly that."

you swallowed, blushed, even though her words just confirmed what you already had suspected.

"you have to ask him out," she said, as if she had made up her mind. "or, like, i don't know, next time you see him, just, like, kiss him, or something."

you laughed, rubbed your palm against your leg. "pretty sure there's, like, laws against that," you joked, but you got her point. whether you liked it or not, all signs were pointing to you being completely taken with jeremy. and even if it had happened quickly, and even if it wasn't in your typical summer style, perhaps it was time to do something about it.

"next time you call i'm expecting a wedding announcement," were your friend's eventual parting words. "and i like a sweetheart neckline for my bridesmaid's dress." you said your goodbyes and hung up with well wishes and a plan.

a plan that involved picking up some crab from the fish market the following day.

of course, when you entered, the main space was empty, as it always was.

"jeremy?" you called out, "you there?"

"coming!" came that tell-tale voice.

if trent was there too, he didn't make his presence known, as it was only the brown-haired boy who came bursting in from the back, eyes wide with delight when he registered your figure. he actually gave a little laugh, short and boyish. "beauty!" he said, like he couldn't believe his luck. "so soon?"

he didn't stay behind the counter, either, this time coming all the way around to lean against the display case, face you head-on. it was hard to imagine a time when the sight of him like this wouldn't make your mouth dry, just a little. when him, close to you, wouldn't make your heart sing.

he looked conflicted, standing in front of you now, like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands. that made the two of you - because what lines did you still want to remain in place? what boundaries did you want to abolish entirely?

your exhale felt like a bloodstained white flag, waving. "couldn't wait any longer to see you," you said, simply, trying on some of his honesty like a hand-me-down leather jacket. it made you feel just as cool.

and it was worth it to see the way he practically melted at your words, the way his eyes softened, how he seemed to lean further into the display case for support more than comfort.

maybe to push your luck, maybe because you knew you weren't really pushing it at all, you swung your bag to your back, opened up your arms, only a little timidly, stepped forward a bit.

the elementary school bully in your head snickered at your awkwardness, but jeremy only pushed out of his lean immediately, wrapped his thick arms around your frame until your nose was pressed against the black cotton of his shirt. he was warm, so warm, and smelled like the sea, and you had to have been imagining how your limbs practically gave a sigh of relief to feel him hold you again.

how could this possibly be? for so long, you'd been the heartbreaker that boys warned their friends about, and now you were weak in the knees because of a hug?

jeremy laughed, and it rumbled through your body.

"what?" you asked into his firm chest as your fingers fluttered on his back.

he didn't say anything, only pulled his head back a bit, a motion your mirrored until you were staring up at him, curious.

his gaze was almost dazed as he reached a hand up, pinched at your cheek.

you made a sound like it hurt more on instinct than actuality, batting his hand away nonetheless. "what was that for?"

he laughed, leaned down and pressed his lips lightly to where his fingers had been, making your nose and cheeks erupt in strawberry pink. the most tender touch you'd felt, almost embarrassingly soft, enough to make you want to hide your face.

his humor was evident in his tone when he spoke. "had to make sure i wasn't dreaming," he clarified. "with you showin' up here, sayin' you wanna see me, and all. lookin' like this."

the memory of his lips burned like a flame on your skin as you looked up at him. "pretty sure you're supposed to pinch yourself for that," you told him.

something awoke in his eyes. "pinch me, then, beauty," he said, daring you, "'s only fair."

you scrunched up your nose. "only want me to so 'l kiss it better," you mused, knowing the look in his eyes, knowing exactly how that felt.

he hummed, greedy, guilty, let the pause settle like molasses. a moment during which you could have said a million things, but nothing felt quite right. nothing could possibly add to the peace you felt here, right now.

"i know," jeremy said, a self-deprecating sort of tease in his tone that didn't quite fit with the shimmery satisfaction in his eyes. "i know it, 'm so rotten for you."

and maybe you had been about to make some joke about him being rotten, but he had flipped this whole conversation on its head entirely by saying that he was rotten for you. because now this was no longer a joke, now this was just so, so serious.

so serious you cleared your throat, but didn't step away, couldn't bring yourself to. you swung your bag around. "brought you something," you said, tried to hide the shake in your voice as you took the plastic container from your bag, held it up to him. "extra portion of dessert, as promised."

he took it from your hands like it it was made of glass, smiled so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners. "thank you," he said.

there was something almost violent about his kindness.

"anyways," you said, moving right along, for fear that you'd forget what you came for if you looked in his eyes any longer. "was wondering if, i don't know, maybe, you, uh, wanted to-"

as you rambled and stuttered, which was like speaking a foreign language, to you, which made you feel like the tongue in your mouth was not your own, his grin grew, and grew, until you had to shake your head at your ridiculousness. "yes, please," he said, putting you out of your misery.

you rolled your eyes, your face hot. "if you'd only let me finish, i was almost there," you said.

"'course, beauty," he said with a nod, a gesture for you to continue, "didn't mean to interrupt."

you took a breath. "was wondering if you wanted to get ice cream with me, tomorrow?" you managed, the words rushed. "like a date?"

you'd ask him a thousand times, if he kept looking at you like his, as long as he'd take you in his arms, as he was doing now, as long as he'd hide your burning face in his chest and hold you like to let you go would hurt. "yes, please," he repeated into your hair. "did so well, beauty," he said, softer, a murmur. you hadn't known how much you needed someone to tell you that until he mumbled it into your temple, the affirmation sitting atop your head like a crown dipped in gold.

you made it back to the house that day with a package of crab and plans for tomorrow. you immediately texted tj, needing to tell someone, anyone, so much so that you would have told stan, if he'd been around, even though you knew how he would grimace, said something about you not making any sense.

free tomorrow morning? you texted her.

coffee place at eight was her prompt reply.

that was where you sat, now, across the table from your friend, filling her in on what you'd done, what you were doing later today.

she let out a low whistle when you finished, a little out of breath.

"ice cream date, eh?" she said, finally, raising a brow. "what, will you get his snap after?" she crossed her fingers and shook them at you, teasing.

you rolled your eyes and waved her off, but something about her words resonated with you. because it did seem juvenile, it did seem childish and weird.

but you'd never done the juvenile and childish. you'd skipped that part, right to the thoughtful flirting and manipulative mannerisms that you now associated with adulthood. was it so bad that you wanted some of that time back? was it so bad to want the ice cream dates instead of the motive-driven smiles? the bear-hugs instead of the whole let-me-buy-you-a-drink dance?

was it so bad to want it to just be easy, for once? for you not to have to do all the heavy lifting, just so they thought it had been their idea all along? you were tired of hiding your tracks just so they could feel proud when they discovered what you had led them right to.

you told tj as much, and she gave you a soft sort of smile, much more gentle than her usual expression. "well, in any case, i'm proud of you," she said, before looking down, swirling around her mug. "i could use a little bit of your courage."

you tilted your head. "oh yeah?" you asked, "got someone in mind?" of course, you had quite the strong intuition, but you knew it had to come from her.

tj just shrugged. "'m not really looking for anything, right now," she said, non-committal.

"not even from a certain sunshine?" you said, giving her a look, to which she rolled her eyes.

"jesus, not you, too," she said, which had you asking what she meant. "our families have been trying to get us together since we were practically babies," she elaborated, "our moms are best friends."

this new information rolled in your head like creamed butter in a stand mixer. you waited for her to continue.

"and 'm not the kind of person to do what everyone wants, what everyone expects from me," she said.

"oh, really?" you said, sarcastic, "news to me."

she hit your forearm playfully. "'m serious," she said, "and it was fine, because he was on the same page, too, until pretty recently." she looked down. "now he's making it pretty hard to maintain my stone-cold reputation." she said this like a joke, but there was an air of truth to it, too.

you took her hand and squeezed it, because if anyone knew what that felt like, it was you. if anyone knew what it felt like to feel that pull, that pull towards something, someone, who was just so unlike the person you had built yourself up to be, it was you. and you told her us much.

"to the death of the heartbreaker and the ice queen," you said, raising your mug to hers, teasing, but not really, "and the birth of the softie and the lover girl."

she laughed, clinked her mug against yours. "maybe not the death," she amended, "maybe the birth of the softie with a flirtatious streak and the lover girl with a mean one."

you'd toast to that, any day.

later, after you'd prepped for the day's meals, tended to the garden, and planned out tomorrow, you spent a little too much time deciding what to wear for your date, eventually landing on your typical summer uniform of jean cut-offs and a flimsy tank top. you spent a little too much time messing with your hair, a little too much time worrying about how you looked, about everything, but as soon as you saw jeremy that worry all melted away.

you had walked downtown, of course, to the ice cream stand towards the end of the pier, which was attached to the pizza place, and therefore run by the same teenagers. you'd made sure to be on time, but it appeared that jeremy had gotten here early.

he was already standing out front, notably not looking at his phone, just looking around, like he was taking everything in. it felt like a privilege, to see him before he saw you, to simply observe him for a second.

it seemed unfair that you still weren't used to what he looked like without his fishing gear on. this other version of him, this more intimate, everyday version, in goofy cargo shorts and some old t-shirt, seemed almost scandalous in comparison. you'd become so enamored with him, so attracted to him, and you'd only seen his arms bare once before.

it didn't help that he appeared to be wearing a suit jacket over his t-shirt, despite the heat that made the air wilt and waver. his hair curled over the tops of his ears, his face flushed with excitement that multiplied exponentially when he spotted you, now just a couple of steps away from him.

his eyes lit up, his body seemed to hum, like a kid waiting in line for a roller-coaster, finally up next. of course, the first thing he did was wrap you up in a hug. of course, the first thing you did was melt into it.

"beauty!" he exclaimed, "you're here!"

you couldn't help the delighted laugh that he pulled from you as you squeezed him tighter before looking up at him. you smiled, and it wasn't the practice-perfect one, the one that worked on everyone. it was a genuine one, the slightly lopsided one, the toothy one that lit you up from the inside out. "'course i did," you said, before your voice took on a teasing tone. you tugged on his lapel. "you dress up for me, jeremy?"

he blushed, slightly, and you wanted to feel the pink under your lips. for now, you settled with tracing your fingertips across his cheeks and nose, a touch he leaned into, ever so slightly. "you said it was a date," he said, simply, like that explained everything. maybe it did. maybe it explained him.

"you look so handsome," you told him, only because you wanted to, only because it was true. and it was worth it, to watch his eyes well up with bashfulness, to see the way his gaze grew boyishly pleased.

"can't think much 'bout how you look," he said, and it came out soft, almost strained, "know how distracted i get."

with that, with both of you making the other flush, he made to hold the door open for you, followed close behind you as you stood in line, surveying the different flavors.

"what's the chef's favorite flavor?" came his voice from behind you, making you scrunch your mouth up in thought.

"the chef loves a good strawberry," you mused, "what about the fisherman?"

he thought for a moment, appeared to be taking this very seriously. "the fisherman gets something different every time," he told you, and this made a lot of sense. that he wouldn't confine himself to a singular order. "and today, i think it's gonna have to be cotton candy."

"cotton candy?" you asked, surprised, amused.

"oh, yeah," he said, didn't stray from his decision, though, as you stepped up to the counter to order. "lukey knows what 'm talkin' about."

he held out his fist for luke to bump with his own, the teenager sighing, like he was used to this. "hey, jeremy," luke said.

jeremy waved him off. "i thought i said you could call me j-money," he said.

"you did say that," luke deadpanned, picking up a scoop. "i just didn't agree to it."

"what's up, j-money?" jenna, the other worker called, approaching now with a wide grin. "what can we get for you?"

jeremy gave her a fist bump, too. "that's more like it, jenner," he said. "and we're gonna do two scoops of strawberry and two scoops of cotton candy, please and thank you." he turned to you, looked at you like he was trying to read your face. "cup and whipped cream for the berry, cone and sprinkles for the candy."

it wasn't what you'd normally get, but you'd never let him know that. "how'd you know?" you asked, stepping to the side so that the line could move along.

he came up behind you, wrapped his arms around your torso, clasped them in front of you, urging you to lean back into his warm chest. you turned your head to the side, peered up at him. "'m physic about these kinds of things," he said, low, like a secret.

"must be," you mused, a quirk of a smile on your lips.

you both got your ice creams, jeremy insisting on paying, also leaving a tip for luke and jenna, urging the closest thing to a smile you'd seen from luke.

you walked together in stride down to the pier, eventually sitting down on the dock, during which he asked about the menu for this week (cherries, corn, and tomatoes were in right now, so those were your focus), how stan was warming up to you (pretty well, if you did say so yourself), how on earth you had gotten tj to be nice to you (you explained that her nice looked different than other people).

in turn, you asked about how the market was doing (well, especially now that scallops and rockfish had begun to make an appearance), what was new with camp (he'd finally gotten luke's younger sister to hold a rod correctly), what trent was up to tonight (his family liked to do board game nights every week).

as the sun began to sink deeper into the sky, and as your ice cream began to melt into a soupy pink at the bottom of your cup, the conversation naturally became a little more substantial, too. you were surprised at how easily you welcomed that from him, surprised how easily you answered questions about how you got into culinary arts (there was something about food that brought people together in a way nothing else did), what your favorite part of being a private chef was (learning new people and places so closely), what your least favorite part was (you'd always wondered what it'd be like to cook for a larger, more diverse audience).

and you asked him about how he had grown so close to the frederics (trent had been his best friend since he was in preschool), what he loved so much about this place (he knew everyone, loved everyone like they were family), what was so special about fishing (there was nothing quite like feeling as if something as powerful as the sea was on your side).

eventually, the sky was saturated with that blood orange haze, the heat had subsided into something much more drowsy, more pleasant, the kind of air that had your gaze lingering on his mouth as he spoke, as he laughed.

the kind of air that had his knee against yours feeling like something much more serious.

you both took last bites of your ice creams, hands sticky and heads clouded with sweetness. you set your cup down, looked up at him again, found the corner of his mouth blue and pink with residue.

"you have, uh, something, right here," you said, motioning on your own mouth where.

he wasn't embarrassed at all, of course he wasn't, as he made to wipe at the wrong side of his mouth. "did i get it?" he asked, his gaze growing heated, hooded.

you gave a slight shake of your head, bit your lip slightly. how shameless could you be, here? how rotten?

time seemed to slow, to liquify as you reached out a delicate hand, gently swiped at his lips until your fingers felt sticky.

pretty shameless, you decided, especially rotten.

you brought your fingers to your own mouth, sucked the sweetness off of them in a moment, watched the way his eyes practically glazed over, the air vibrating between the two of you.

there was no one else on the dock, the sun was almost done setting, its slow descent all but finished. even if there had been other people there, though, you doubt you would have felt their presence, doubt it would have mattered.

there was very little that seemed to matter, now, as you let him tug you onto his lap, facing him. very little that seemed to matter as your eyes searched his, very little that seemed to matter besides the feeling of him, under you, besides his exhales and yours.

"please," he breathed, entranced, like in a dream, and of course you pulled him to you by the lapel of his ridiculous suit jacket, of course your lips met his in a kiss that felt like waltzing through a rainstorm, like equal parts innocent and sinful, like something cinematic, something spectacular.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, urging the softest of noises from his throat, something like a sigh of relief, something like a whimper as one of his hands found the side of your face, the other pressing against the plane of your back, pushing you closer against his chest.

he tasted like sugar and something waxy, from the sprinkles, making you smile against his mouth, almost laugh. you much preferred this to the kisses of gatorade and vodka, of rum and coke from summers past. this was something beautiful, something so entirely him, and you, and no one else.

his mouth slanted across yours like a smirk, easy as a laugh, and when you pulled away, rested your forehead against his, both of your chests were heaving, mirroring swollen lips and flushed cheeks and heated gazes. his thumb drew barely-there hearts into your jawline.

he looked practically blissed out, from only a kiss, the rambler at a complete loss for words. you smiled. oh, to make the sweet-talker speechless.

he gave your cheekbone the lightest pinch, a thousand words you understood in the action, and then it was your turn to be speechless.

there was something monumental in this quiet, the lull of the ocean harmonizing with your exhaling breaths.

this harmony echoed in your head the whole night, into the next morning, when you got a text from jeremy asking if you were free that afternoon.

freddy wants to take the boat out on the lake, he texted, followed by please come, followed by can't stop thinking about you.

so, of course, because you were very much past being able to say no to him, and because you had finished your work for the day by three, you found yourself on the smaller dock on the lake, dressed for the heat, a swimsuit under your shorts and tank, your bag slung over your shoulder.

tj stood next to you, mumbling something about how you had conveniently left out whose boat this was, to which you mumbled something back about how she probably should have guessed it.

"sunshine?" that odd voice called out once the two of you approached. "didn't know you were comin' out."

"finally got somethin' i can use, eh?" tj said, that sharp tongue quicker than ever.

"should'a warned me," trent shot right back, "would'a worn my five inchers." tj rolled her eyes as jeremy hopped down onto the dock, immediately enveloping you in one of his hugs that you had come to crave.

"hey," you said into his chest, rubbed careful circles into his back.

he pulled back slightly, planted messy kisses on your cheeks and nose until you were giggling. "missed you," he said against your jaw.

"missed you, too," you told him, because it was the truth.

the memory of last night sat between the two of you like a weighted mist, like a velvety curtain, making your stomach flip, making his embrace feel hot. the heat was cut by a familiar voice.

"no wandering hands, frederic," tj said to trent with a warning finger as he made to help her into the boat, placing his hands on her waist.

he rolled his eyes. "relax, sunshine," he said, lifting her smoothly and placing her down, slapping the side of her thigh playfully. "these hands don't wander." his eyes grew teasing. "they know exactly where they're going."

tj scoffed and made to set her things down on the bench at the front of the boat as jeremy crouched down in front of you.

"hop on," he said, grunting slightly as you wrapped your arms around him. he held onto your legs, pushing up as you laid your cheek against the back of his neck. you hadn't had a piggyback ride in ages, and it was just as fun as you remembered.

jeremy stepped up onto the small deck area, walking you up to the front, shifting you and setting you down gracefully on the bench, next to tj.

"thank you," you said, giving him a smile as you put your bag down.

he winked at you. "anytime, beauty."

the lake was stunning this afternoon, like the inside of a snow-globe, without the fake powdery snow.

it was an afternoon distinct in its easiness.

easy, how you and tj chatted about where you'd gotten your swimsuits, you launching into a story that involved a surf shop in nantucket.

easy, when jeremy asked you to help him with his sunscreen. how you gently rubbed the white lotion onto his forehead, his cheeks, how he laughed when you scrunched up your face at the smell, how you squealed when he nipped at your fingers.

easy, how, when the sun began its drowsy dip, the temperature stirring slightly, trent dropped his zip-up hoodie on tj's shoulders and told her to "knock it off and put it on, teej," before she could argue.

easy, how trent insisted that the food you'd brought for them was the best he'd had, even though it was just sandwiches and fruit. how tj said she knew there was a reason she was friends with you, immediately citing the way you'd cut up melon into perfect cubes. easy, how jeremy's lips on yours tasted like watermelon, that afternoon.

it was a beautiful day, through and through, filled with refreshingly-chilly swims and hours laying out in the tart lemony sunshine, until you felt pleasantly tired, until you felt the weight of the day in your limbs, the evidence of a day laughing in your throat and voice.

at some point, jeremy had pulled you onto his lap by the slinky strings of your swimsuit bottom, shifted you until you sat on one of his firm thighs, your legs crossed over the other as you leaned your side into his bare chest. you'd thrown one arm around his neck, tracing your nails over his shoulder, his collarbone.

this, sitting with him like this, like neither of you were really quite sure where one of you ended and the other began, this was easy as breathing. you had nothing to prove to each other, and you felt that lightness like a breeze.

the two of you watched tj and trent bicker with knowing smiles. you commented on what songs were playing from tj's speaker, your favorite concerts you'd been to. you talked about your plans for tomorrow.

when jeremy felt you shiver, he helped you shoulder on the sweater he'd brought.

"you won't be cold?" you asked, balling up the soft fabric in your fists. he only shook his head, kissed your temple, making your smile come easy.

"i run hot, beauty," he said, shifting you closer.

you hummed, feeling just about ready to fall asleep in his arms. "i know," you told him, pressing your lips to his chest, the underside of his strong jaw, which made his exhale shaky. you smiled. "my own heater," you whispered.

"anything for you," he breathed into your ear.

it was almost too much, this confession of his that seemed to get you, every time, combined with the feeling of him all around you, under you, his bare skin against your palms. almost. just enough.

just enough that when you were back on dry land, when the sun had set, when trent and tj had insisted that they'd pack everything up, jeremy's gaze on your frame felt like fire. enough that his grip on your waist felt heavy, made your stomach twist with want. enough that you told him you'd walk back to his place with him, if only to get a couple more seconds in his presence.

until you stood in front of his door, and the air seeming to bend around you like refracting light. you looked up at him, his eyes leaden with desire.

and it was sort of weird, because what was so different about him was how he made you feel younger, more innocent, less of the heartbreaker and more of the easy-to-smile sap.

was it odd that there was something sort of innocent in the purity of the want you felt, then? that there was something almost angelic about just how deeply you wanted him, how it was so undiluted by any other motive. you wanted him because of him, and because of you, and because of everything that had led you to this moment.

did you imagine the halo of light around his head as his gaze caught on your mouth, like a snag on a record player?

"d'you wanna come in?" he murmured.

did you imagine the way that halo melted into something like mischievous horns when you nodded, let him reach around you to unlock the door, lead you inside?

and you'd pause, for a moment, think about how this was technically the first time you'd been in his place, about how much it meant that he had offered this piece of himself to you, about how you wanted him to see your apartment back home, some time.

but that pause would stretch like putty, like something you could hold, when his voice would come out rough, choked, when he would ask, "do you want a tour?"

and you'd tilt your head, like you knew something he didn't, as he'd switch on the hallway light. you'd lean back against the wall, wait for him to settle, right in front of you, a breath apart. "no," you'd say, softly. "later, maybe."

his gaze would grow thicker, and he'd lay a light hand on your hip, boxing you against the wall with his frame. "what do you want, beauty?" you'd reach up, lay an arm around his neck, tugging him down to you. "tell me."

"let me show you, hm?" you'd breathe, and he'd give a desperate sort of nod that'd have you clashing together in a kiss of teeth and flame and fairy-floss sweetness.

now, you whimpered into his mouth as his grip on you grew more forceful, more intentional. he pulled you flush against him, wide hands clutching at your thigh, rooting in your hair.

you hooked a leg around his hip, to which he moaned, his mouth falling open wider, neck falling back, allowing you better access. you left open-mouth kisses down his jaw, his neck, his slight stubble rough under your lips, your teeth, your tongue, as you nipped and sucked, relishing in the noises you drew from him, whimper-ish moans cut with breathy pants.

he was already impossibly hard across your front, you could feel how affected he was by this, by you. it made you smile. it made you pull away, barely, for a second. you brushed his eyelids with your fingertips, willed them to flutter open.

"lost you, there," you said, your voice rough. you were acutely aware of the slow, almost undetectable grind of his hips against you, even though it seemed as if he was doing it subconsciously.

he gave a short shake of his head. "not lost," he rasped, holding the side of your face in his palm. "'m here, beauty, swear it." and maybe lost wasn't the right word, maybe it was something close to blissed out, maybe even fucked out, even from just a kiss, a couple marks on his neck.

"good," you said, and you certainly didn't miss the way his eyes darkened. "then will you let me-"

"yes," he said, before you could finish, which tugged a laugh from your lips, somehow more significant, more telling than any moan could be. he took you by the hand and pulled you to his bedroom.

"didn't let me finish, rotten boy," you teased, to which something like sorrow flashed in his eyes.

"'m sorry, beauty," he said, shutting the door behind him, pulling you onto his lap as he sat on the foot of his bed, and it was something sort of innocent, to be having this same conversation, again. "please, please, tell me what you need."

you massaged the muscles in his shoulders gently with your palms as you shifted on his lap. "need you in my mouth, jeremy," you said, the words heavy in their honesty, weighted when spoken through swollen lips. "let me make out with your cock, yeah?" and there was that glassy look again, simultaneously like he was somewhere far away and in the palm of your hand. you sunk to your knees in front of him, peered up at him through your lashes. "please?"

"fuck," he bit out, tugged and twisted his clothes aside. "yeah, beauty. yeah, you can."

you smiled as you took him in your hands, spit onto his cock, pumped your gentle grip up and down, watched the way his head fell back, the way his thighs clenched when you dug your nails into one to ground you.

that slick, lewd sound echoed in your head, making you aware of how wet you were, how potent the desire inside you had become.

you ran your tongue up the length of him, could have laughed at how his choked exhale gave you butterflies, instead took all of him in your mouth, held your head down until you felt resistance, hollowed out your cheeks.

when was the last time you had done this with a fire in your stomach? the last time you'd wanted, more than anything, to make it so, so good for someone?

you'd known you were good at this, for so long, that you couldn't remember the last time you'd sucked someone off like you had something to prove.

that's what it felt like, now, with the hard, hot weight of him on your tongue. i'd work for you, you seemed to be screaming, i'd let you work for me.

his rooted grip on your scalp was firm, warm. "fuck, beauty, like that," he groaned, the other hand coming to rest on top of yours, on his thigh. like a reminder than he was truly present, that the act of you, like this, wasn't lost on him. like he understood. like he was grateful.

you tilted your head to the side, forced him deeper, the tip running along the inside of your cheek. his neck rolled at the sensation, making you pick your head up off of him, continue to run your hands over his cock, wet with your spit, look up at his flushed face. "like this, baby?" you asked, your movements painfully slow. "bein' so good for me, hm?"

he was nodding, and when he spoke, it was a whine. "please, beauty, can i see you?" he asked, "wanna see all of you, need it."

you were long past being able to deny him something he needed so deliriously, so you let him pull your shirt over your heart, tug your shorts aside, paw at the strings of your swimsuit until there was nothing obstructing his view of you.

you pulled at the edge of his shirt, helped him out of it, and sighed at the sight, at the already darkening bruises on his neck, the solidity of his stomach and chest.

his gaze had grown awestruck, and you found yourself embarrassed, sort of, maybe just restless, at the heaviness of his eyes on you, coating you like a red candy apple.

"get my good side," you managed, throat rough, voice rougher, a smile on your face at the nostalgia of the moment, how you'd been here before.

he laughed, then, a genuine one, pulled you to his chest and kissed you, so gentle and soft your heart sprouted angel wings. "never seen anything so pretty," he mumbled against your lips, urging a flush you felt up your neck.

you grinned, not the one that worked on everyone. the one that worked because it was for him. "please, can i have-"

"yes," he said, and it sent both of you into breathy laughs, because how many times would he say yes to you before knowing what you were asking? then he flipped you onto your back, though, the cottony fabric soft under you. "yeah, beauty, you can have me inside you."

you wanted to ask him how he'd known, but then he dragged his fingers through your folds, found you practically dripping, caught his thumb on your clit, making you jolt. "please," you moaned, "dyin' for it, baby, 'm soaked for you."

"don't need to beg me, beauty," he said, running the head of his cock along your center, making you whimper. his grin grew wicked. "sound so pretty when you do, though."

your reply would have been witty, you were sure of it, but it was mangled, torn from your throat in a strangled sound when he pushed inside of you, finally, slowly, making you clutch at his shoulder for something to hold onto.

the stretch grew as he pushed further into you, until you felt him in your bloodstream, in the back of your head like a memory, in your palms.

"fuck," you bit out, "fuck, just there, hm? stretch me out, baby, want it so bad."

he finally bottomed out, fluttered his molten eyes open again. you watched them soften when they regained focus on you, witnessed yourself become his beacon, calling him home from dreamland.

he pulled back slowly, pushed forward again, began a slow rhythm that had your head spinning, had your vision clouding over, sun showers exploding behind your eyes at the impossible stretch.

time oozed like strawberry jam, thick, you almost expected the clock on the wall to stop ticking entirely, for its face to stare back at you, frozen.

"how's that, beauty?" he rasped, at some point, when his pace had progressed into something more mind-numbing, when your thighs began to feel the start of the coming-soreness, when his stomach and shoulders started to contract and tense in the most delicious way. "that good?"

you nodded, choked on a whimper when he moved his hand to your lower stomach, stretched his thumb to swipe methodically at your clit. "that's, fuck," you tried, exhaling shakily, "fuck, that's so good, baby, you're so good."

you clenched around him, making him stutter, his hips jerking. "won't last like this," he warned, "can't, beauty, feel too perfect. too, fuck, too perfect for me."

he pressed you down harder until you could feel the outline of the mattress against your shoulder blades. "'m close, too," you breathed. "just need, just-"

your words were lost as he dragged the heel of his hand along your clit and back, the friction so stunning that your fingers twitched. "please cum, beauty," he pleaded, like he needed it, like he'd die for it. "cum on my cock, yeah?" you practically writhed around him. "fuck, give me it, hm?"

your high came abruptly and brutally, so sharp and consuming you barely registered his own orgasm, the warmth and sensation of it, the way he dipped his head down to bite gently on your chest, just sharp enough to leave a mark. you only really noticed the way the heavy weight of his body collapsed onto yours, pinning you between his damp chest and the bed.

breaths came slowly and drowsily, as you regained a sense of the room, of time, of space, as he rolled over slightly, just to give you more air, laid a massive arm on the outside of your thigh, pulled you half on top of him.

he looked so beautiful, then, a glossy adoring gaze paired with swollen lips, traces of your mouth all over him. you had a feeling you looked in a similar way, fussed hair and watery eyes.

you could have stayed there for hours, the measure seemed irrelevant, as he palmed, kneaded your thigh softly, as you twisted his messy curls around a finger.

at some point, he brought his free hand up, pinched at his own cheek.

you smiled at the cyclical sense of it all. "you're not dreaming," you rasped.

"oh, i know," he said, a smug, lazy grin peeking through his lips before he turned his cheek to you, expectantly. "i still think you should kiss it better, though."

butterflies stirred in your stomach as you gave a playful roll of your eyes, leaned your head forward to press your lips to his cheek.

"rotten," you breathed.

"for you," he clarified.

dreamland had nothing on here. on this.

you know, i hear she used to be a real heartbreaker, the big hand on the clock whispered, low and secretive.

really? the little hand said, shocked, her? there was a pause. what happened?

the big hand shrugged. don't know, it said. shame.

a real shame.

fin.

635 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 1 year

Text

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder.

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich.

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface.

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

—

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft.

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead.

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast.

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance.

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle.

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time.

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.”

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.”

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink.

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why.

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you.

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober?

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look.

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking.

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows.

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment.

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly.

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing.

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger.

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

“Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air.

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his. “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

“Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him.

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness.

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily.

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn.

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it.

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader

2K notes · View notes

sourcherryandsprinkles · 1 year

Note

Rafe x reader "you feel that, that's what you do to me."

Yes yes, more Rafe!! Get ready for so much more OBX when the new season is out on Thursday!!

Warning: implied smut, erectile disfunctions

my taglists are here+you can requests hereat any time

—

Never in his life did Rafe think his manhood would betray him. He trimmed it well and emptied it regularly, complimented it and kept it fresh. So why did it betray him like that? Why did it embarrass him like that?

He was in one of the backrooms of the country club with a hot blonde, her white tennis skirt flipped up and underwear pulled to the side, ready to get railed after her golf session with her daddy…but Rafe’s got a problem. Little Rafe’s got a problem.

Rafe tried to pump it to get it hard, but it was not working.

He cursed and tucked himself back into his shorts before leaving. Finding the course of the problem had not been difficult. Rafe’s dick never faulted him before he met you, before he fucked you in his dad’s office a few days ago.

The tires of his truck screeched in the parking lot, rage in his blood as he drove home. If he was in luck, you would still be there filing paperwork for Ward. His old man was at a business meeting outside the island and put you, his assistant, in charge of his phone calls and other business related things all day.

‘’We need to talk,’’ Rafe declared, walking in his dad’s office as if it was his own.

You looked up from the paper you were reading, more serene than the boy before you. ‘’Do we? I’m waiting for a call from a buyer. It could be a pretty big deal and your father counts on me to—’’

Without warning and only a few steps, Rafe crossed the distance to the office desk and grabbed your hand, pressing it right over his semi-soft bulge. ‘’You feel that, that’s what you do to me.’’

‘’Rafe, I’m working.’’ You tried to move, but he would not let go of you. Thank god Ward was not home. ‘’I don’t have time for a quick fuck in your father’s office.’’

His intense blue eyes were narrowed, a mix of frustration and anger all over his face. ‘’You’ve ruined my life.’’ He lowered his voice next. ‘’You broke my dick.’’

You drew your eyebrows together, feeling him harden under your touch. ‘’It seems to be working just fine.’’

‘’Because it’s you.’’

A laugh spilled from your lips, unable to hold your seriousness. ‘’Excuse me?’’

Rafe let go of your hand and rubbed his over his face. ‘’Since we fuck last week, I can’t get hard for other girls.’’

‘’Damn. Am I that good of a fuck?’’

‘’I’m being fucking serious! It’s like you put a curse on my dick.’’

You laughed again. He was being ridiculous. ‘’Every time you open your mouth, the situation gets funnier.’’

‘’And every time you open yours—’’

‘’You get hard?’’ you interrupted with a smirk. ‘’I can see that, but unfortunately, ‘little Rafe’ will have to wait until the buyer calls.’’ You traced the outline of Rafe's cock over his shorts, making him hold his breath. ‘’Then, I'll let you bend me over your dad's desk.‘’

—

OBX taglist: @moralina @eudximoniakr @toylewestinnyc @rottenstyx @sweeterheartxamerica @jordierama @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @lilaconner @Katsukis1Wife @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue @acornacreacure @snownjune

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x you #outer banks imagine #outer banks

3K notes · View notes

dreamgrlarchive · 6 months

Text

A Prissy Girl’s Guide to Spring

since i won’t be active on tumblr when next spring comes around, and i’ve done 3/4 seasons, i felt it was appropriate to go ahead and finish the series! if you find yourself inspired by my aesthetic/looks, you can absolutely use this as a guide for the next primavera season! 🐇

what’s the look this spring?

my personal forecast for fashion spring ‘24 is “pink pilates bimbo” for sure. the renewal of spring is the time for a wellness reset. so i’ll be engaging in a physical activity but i’ll still be in barbie attire. pink athleisure pieces with super girly additions is my predicted aesthetic. 🎀

first and foremost…

let’s talk about what spring symbolizes: renewal, cleansing, and restarting. that makes itself apparent in the seasons colors; the darkness of winter transitions to the soft pastels of spring.

preparation

start spring cleaning and prepping for seasonal allergies. stock up on in season fruits to keep in the house. take up outside activities like biking, outdoor yoga, and jogging. buy new fragrances. prep your skin and hair for the overtime humidity.

essentials

pretty umbrella

allergy meds/quarterly check up

new water bottle/tumbler

fresh and clean candles + home fragrances

matcha and jade citrus tea

humidifier

neti pot

clothes and accessories

pink athleisure. the lululemon strawberry milkshake jacket is a must! (or a dupe if you’re on budget)

foldover yoga pants

bedazzled pieces

pastel colored pieces

cute mini bags

victoria’s secret totes

tennis skirts

sheer + lacey tops

florals for spring? groundbreaking.

glitter + sequins

satin dresses

lace up sandals

hunter boots

coach baguettes

victoria’s secret co-ords, leggings and sweaters

ballet flats

ugg slippers + fluff sandals

cute gym shoes with pink/sparkly details

lace up pieces

baby blue is a staple color for spring

ruffle trims

warm materials + revealing cuts

“pastry princess” looks inspired by sweets and dessertz

cropped baby tees

stripper heelz

diamond jewelry

body jewelry + belly chainz

sparkly hair clips and headbands

butterfly aesthetics

ribbons and bows

ostrich feathers

sparkly keychains and wristlets

bodysuits + heels combo

statement jewelry like hello kitty, fruit or desserts

beauty

pretty eye pigments (try mac, huda or iconic london)

vibrant pinks

warm bronzer

glitter gloss

translucent glosses in pink and orange

charlotte tilbury flawless filter

nars super orgasm blush

morphe 8r complexion palette

morphe nikita palette

natasha denona diamond & glow (favvv)

a bunch of clear glosses

fenty diamond bomb

fenty fussy gloss bomb

urban decay moondust shadows

cake beauty products

joseon spf 50

bright and/or floral fragrances (gucci flora gorgeous gardenia, jimmy choo illicit flower, carolina herrera good girl blush, juliette has a gun collection, yves saint laurent mon paris intensement, marc jacobs daisy fragrances)

victoria’s secret love spell + warm and cozy + la crème fragrances

sol de janeiro body mists

body shimmer (fenty beauty or bath and body works)

sweet body butters

sol de janeiro beija flor

exfoliating gloves

juicy sheet masks

cetaphil moisturizing cream

native candy shop collection

victoria’s secret tease + eau so sexy

5 blade razors and post shave oil

cute mirrors to keep in my purses

glitter nails

lavenders and pinks

protein treatments for moisture overload

#diva seasonz!#the prissy girl agenda #dream girl beauty #dream girl journey #my posts

624 notes · View notes

maxverstappendefender · 2 months

Note

Hi I was wondering if u can make an imagine with max verstappen where the reader is an athlete also (tennis player please 😮‍💨😮‍💨😭😭🥹🥹) and she is also from Netherlands

her and max were like in the same school or neighbors or even Victoria’s friend and her and max used to be dating since they were young teenagers but they broke up because of their careers (more like she broke up with him lol🤭) and they meet again at a gala or a wedding when they are at the top of their game her being world no.1 and many grand slams winner and him being world champion and then they have a confrontation with a lot of angst and yelling and max being heartbroken 💔💔🤌🏻🤌🏻

other part to this request: "Also about the max and athlete reader like if u can make it inspired by “call out my name” by The Weeknd 🥲"

a/n: this is such a good idea, i love some good angst. i made it a smau and also written parts (more towards the hend). i don't know much about tennis but i tried. the google translate dutch is probably bad but that's fine. hopefully i did your idea justice <3

warnings: profanity (?), alcohol

my masterlist !

The Dutch Athletes

yourusername posted on instagram!

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 933,481 others

yourusername and that's a wrap on the lovely game of tennis, back to training for next season :)

view all 91,029 comments

user PROUD TO BE DUTCH BC OF THIS LADY AND THIS LADY ONLY

liked by yourusername

landonorris you're serving! (do you get it? im so funny)

-> yourusername ty lan (the tennis jokes are never funny)

-> landonorris not even a pity laugh.

user i see a certain someone hiding in the likes

-> user 🤺🤺🤺 be gone sir

victoriaverstappen cannot wait to see you next week!

-> yourusername i miss my favourite dutch person

-> user max is punching the wall rn

user wait, im new. why is everyone hating on max verstappen here?

-> user y/n dated him a while back but they ended it in 2021 for reasons no one knows. lots of speculation but they never confirmed or denied anything. he still has loads of pictures of them on his insta but she deleted hers, probs wasn't a mutual breakup in that case. she's still good friends with lando, charles, and max's sister!

-> user he probably cheated or something

-> user they both seem happy so we shouldn't make assumptions :)

liked by yourusername

liked by f1fan1, vstppn, y/nflowers, and 14,912 others

y/nmaxupdates still no new content of our favs together so we are doing a little throwback thursday to one of y/n's posts from 2015 (she has removed the post).

comments are turned off

yourusername posted a story!

yourusername posted on instagram!

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc, and 791,492 others

yourusername vegas baby! vv thankful lando is okay. congrats on the podium charlie!

view all 83,001 comments

charles_leclerc You say congrats but you wear a McLaren hat

-> yourusername only because lando invited me, not you!

user max being cropped out has me CACKLING

user we were so so close to some y/nmax snippet by her posting him but she fucking cropped him out

landonorris i'm so mad i crashed, my helmet was so sick for this race. do you think i can wear it to the clubs tonight?

-> yourusername lando istg if you wear your damn helmet anywhere tonight. you are supposed to be staying at the hotel with me anyways?

-> landonorris i don't see a doctor that will stop me from leaving. but my helmet looked sick right?

-> yourusername eh

landonorris we literally spent like 3 days together before the race and you still chose that ugly picture

danielricciardo VEGAS BABYYY. tonight we party.

liked by yourusername

yourusername posted on instagram!

liked by landonorris, maxverstapen1, and 701,831 others

yourusername 'VEGAS BABYYY. tonight we party.' ~daniel ricciardo (and don't worry, i didn't let lando leave the hotel looking like that)

comments are turned off

it had been a wonderful night so far. lando couldn't drink due to the drugs the doctors gave him so you didn't drink either out of solidarity. lando had gone off to do lando things, probably finding a way to the dj booth or socializing with whoever he can. you were just sat at this couch in the vip area. you were talking to charles for a while before he went off to do celebratory shots. you were so tired from the timezone difference, vegas compared to the netherlands was messing with your system. you had your head leaned back against the couch, your eyes were just looking at some of the drivers having a lot of fun and celebrating in one of the best party cities in the world.

you felt someone sit down next to you on the couch. you didn't know who it was at first but you quickly smelt the cologne and knew. max. you two hadn't really spoken since 2021, when you ended it. it wasn't the prettiest of breakups but we were both stupid kids and in love back then. you both should've known it wouldn't work out. you tried, though. you tried with every single thing you had in you but at the end of the day, fate would always be stronger.

"hey, y/n. haven't seen you in awhile," max finally said, breaking the silence. he sort of had seen you though, on instagram. had he missed you? every fucking day. you broke up with him though, and you seemed happier. if you were happy, he would accept that.

"sure," was all you said. that was your telltale sign that you did not want to talk. but let's be honest, max verstappen not having a conversation when he wants to sounded impossible. he wanted to fix things, he wanted to fix it all. why wouldn't you let him? "any chance we can talk?" he asked you. he wouldn't really take no for an answer. he would just talk to you while you listened, but even that would be stretching it.

you stood up from the couch, careful to not look at him. if you looked at him, you would be a goner and would do just about anything he asked you to. you were a strong person except when it came to max. "see you around," you muttered to him before leaving the vip area. you would infact not be seeing him around, not if you can avoid it. maybe not drinking was a bad idea. you had spotted lando who was busy chatting away to someone. "fuck," you whispered under your breath, realizing that the person who you had to make sure got home safely was still having a good night. you wouldn't want to cut his night short, especially when his night started bad with the race.

you felt some hands wrap around your waist and before you could protest, these hands were pushing you out this door to the club's back alley. you knew those hands though. you knew them all too well. "max, what the hell?!" you shouted at him as you felt the cool night air hit your face. it felt better than how being inside that club felt.

he knew this was probably too far. but when has 'too far' ever stopped him. he was so done with this all. 2 years of not having more than 10 words shared between you two. you two used to talk every single day, where did it all go wrong? he knew this one was his fault. he was the one who had lost you, all for racing. he gave up you for racing. he was a royal idiot for that. "i am so done with you not even talking to me!" he shouted to you. he was thanking god that you two were in an alley and not somewhere public for this.

"i don't want to talk to you," you said to him. not many people held their ground against max, but you always did. you never wanted to talk to him again, not since your breakup. you were happy and had a great life, you didn't need the mess that was max verstappen. "you never do!" he said back. that was true and you both knew it.

"you're right! i never do! because you fucked up," you shouted to him, putting your finger straight to his chest. the breakup was infact not mutual like the media made it seem. you two broke up because you were trying to support him in racing while still building a life in tennis for yourself. you could see the stress eating away at max that year and he still wouldn't let you help. even if it was help from afar. you tried to be there. he didn't even try to be there for you and your goals either.

"i know i did. believe me, i know i fucked it up," he said to you. there had been quite a few sleepless nights where his brain just wouldn't turn off. he had only been thinking about you. tonight was just his breaking point. he was done acting like he hadn't been thinking about you.

there was a moment of silence as we just looked at eachother. we had grown up a lot since we last got close like this. "so then why? just why?" you pleaded to him to just give him a real answer. 2021 had been a hard year for him and you knew that. but you were his girlfriend. you were meant to be there and help him but he wouldn't let you. he pushed you away at any chance he got. then you were alone. it was an endless cycle of you trying to help max with his stress, him pushing you away, and then you also getting lost to your own stress.

he put his hands on either side of your face. he knew he couldn't give you the answer he had given you when you asked this question 2 years ago. he couldn't say "just a tough year" because although that was a part of it, it wasn't the entire truth. and you deserved the truth. "i pushed you away before you could push me away," he said to you as he looked into your eyes. he felt like an idiot for saying that but it was the whole truth.

you gave him a slightly confused look. that had been a different answer than what you got 2 years ago. how could he even think you would push him away? you loved him so much and you had for years. you would have clung to him, even in death. "if i wouldn't have won in 2021, there was that thought that you would be gone," he admitted.

"i wouldn't have left. i wouldn't have ever done that," you quickly said. you had to say that really quickly before he spoke again. clearly your words took him aback a little. he really felt stupid for ever thinking that you would leave, let alone leave simply because he won a championship. mentally, you said 'fuck it', and just kissed him. you pulled away for a second to whisper, "je bent een idioot, max verstappen (you are an idiot, max verstappen)". then you kissed him again.

he smiled in the kiss, his hands in your hair and yours in his. your words were true, he was an idiot. he would probably have to kiss you a million times to make up for him pushing you away. and that was a price he was willing to pay. he felt you pull away and as desperately as he wanted to pull you back into him, he knew you had some more words to say.

you pulled away. "but you left. you left when it got hard and i will never put myself in that position ever again," you said to him. your lips stung with how much desire you had for max. but you had to make smart decisions, you could not get hurt again. and deep down, you knew he would leave if it got hard again. him leaving again would hurt too much. you had a good life now, he had a good life now.

he felt his heart shatter at your words. but he knew you were right that he had left when it got hard. he had taken the coward's way out. he wanted you to be happy and you seemed so happy with your life now. he couldn't take that from you. he nodded his pain away and spoke softly to you, "i hope you have nothing but happiness in life". then he walked away. he walked away but this time for your sake. he knew you wouldn't walk away from him so he walked away from you. he really did hope you had nothing but happiness in life. he could hear all about your happiness from the bits that victoria shared with him.

liked by y/nlover, heartsfory/n, mvfan, and 19,254 others

y/nmaxupdates NEW CONTENT!! I REPEAT NEW CONTENT OF MAX AND Y/N!! that kiss?? oh we are SO back.

comments are turned off

#f1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen smau #formula 1 #f1 blurb #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 smau #f1 smau

396 notes · View notes

withwritersblock · 28 days

Text

Colorado (For the First Time)

~Colorado (For the First Time) by Daniel Nunnelee~

Author's Note: I'm lowkey really proud of this idea ngl Summary: Y/N returns to Denver after her breakup with Nate Warnings: none? Word Count: 3,935 Nathan Mackinnon x fm!reader

She hasn’t returned to Colorado since she broke up with Nate a year ago. It was a difficult time on her part, to break up with him right before he had a six away games but it was the only time she was able to move everything from their shared apartment to her new place in Seattle.

She didn’t want to go back to her hometown in Nova Scotia since she’s been away from it for eight years now. She couldn’t stay in Colorado because everything reminded her of him.

The street they lived on for eight years together, the coffee shop she would go to every morning and before every one of his games. The hike they would take together every weekend he was home. The friends she made were also his friends.

The signs all over Denver that talked about the Avalanche and Nathan. He was having the best season of his career, which was difficult to say because it seemed as though every season he was getting better and better.

She moved to Seattle because that’s where part of her has always wanted to live. She loved the ocean and the rain. It seemed as though it was the perfect place to live. Except, she missed everything about Denver.

Nate and Y/N’s relationship was perfect. She was happy with him and he was more than happy with her. Except they had been together since they were seventeen years old.

It’s silly to say but Y/N wanted to get married and have kids before she was thirty. She was twenty-seven and Nate kept telling her he wanted to wait until after his career was done to get married. Which was understandable but Nate could have a career that would last another decade.

Selfishly, Y/N couldn’t wait another decade to get married and start a family, she wasn’t even sure she could have children by then. She spoke to Nate about her wants and desires out of the relationship but he wouldn’t listen. He thought that she would drop it and then they’d go along his plan. But eventually, Y/N got tired of waiting around and just being his girlfriend.

If he wasn’t ready to settle down and start an official life as one, she needed to step away. He couldn’t say the words and she couldn’t stay with him anymore. Within a few days her entire life in Denver was behind her.

Except her friends. She missed her friends dearly. Melissa and Gabe have been begging her to come and visit. Alongside a few of the other wives and girlfriends. She wanted to go but she felt as though it would be going behind Nate’s back. She didn’t want to do that. But here she was with her suitcase waiting on her Uber to her AirBnb she was going to be staying in for a few weeks.

It was March in Denver and it was fifty degrees. It was beautiful and not too cold. Her Uber stopped in front of her, she double checked it was her own before she climbed inside. The driver was making small talk about why she traveled to Denver.

“Are you a sports fan? You should go see the Avs play tomorrow night,” he explained as he glanced towards her at a red light. She forced a polite smile.

“Yeah, I was thinking about it, I do love the Avs,” she mumbled as she took a deep breath before glancing at her phone to see Melissa had texted her.

“Nathan Mackinnon is supposed to continue the home point streak tonight, you have to go see it. He’s insane,” the driver explained.

Hearing his name, felt like a dagger in her chest. The driver had no idea but it was unbearable to hear about him.

~~~

He was lying on his apartment couch tossing a tennis ball into the air with a random movie on his TV screen. He had an optional practice today, and he decided that he needed a day of recovery. He spent the morning getting a few treatments done at the arena and he was ordered to lay down and do nothing. Which was weirdly harder than he thought.

Gabe left the arena at the same time as Nate and decided to invite himself over to Nate’s apartment. Nate was starting to feel like himself once the season went into full swing. Except he was still empty. His entire NHL career he had Y/N by his side, this was the first season he was without her. Except, he knows that she still watches every game.

He knows she was at the game in Seattle in November. She posted something on her Instagram story about being in Climate Pledge Arena. He got three assists on the night. All he wanted to do was call her and see her before he left Seattle.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was selfish and waited too long. Her mind was already set on not wanting to wait, he couldn’t change it.

“I’m trying to decide if I should tell you this or not,” Gabe muttered as he liftedh is gaze from his phone. Nate caught the ball and threw it for his dog, Maggie, before he switched his gaze to Gabe.

“Well now you have to tell me,” he let out with a huff of air as he sat up, leaning his head against the top of the couch. Gabe paused for a few moments as he dropped his gaze towards his phone again before he took in a long breath.

“Y/N in town for a few weeks,” he said, meeting Nate’s gaze. His eyes widened slightly as he became still. “Melissa has missed her a lot, she’s staying at a BnB near uh-here actually,” Gabe explained further.

Nate dropped his gaze towards his lap at the ball, Maggie dropped in his lap. He took it and threw it down the hallway. “Have you seen her?” he asked, his voice breaking while he spoke.

“Yeah, she saw the kids and stayed for a few drinks,” he said as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his hands. “She’s good, I mean she loves her new job in Seattle. Her and Johanna are still close, she sees Burky all the time. She loves it there,” he explains.

“That’s good, I’m-I’m happy for her,” Nate said hesistantly, forcing a tight lip smile while switching his gaze towards the movie. Gabe smiled half-heartedly as he lets out a dry chuckle.

“That’s a load of bullshit, you wish she was miserable,”

“That’s not true, I am happy that she is happy,”

“Oh come on, Nate, you know damn well you wish she was miserable like you are,” Gabe countered while throwing his hands to the side.

“I am not miserable, look at the year I’m having,” Nate argued back as he shook his head. “If she’s happy, I’m happy,” he repeated with a forced smile before leaning back. Nate dropped his gaze towards his hand as he watched Maggie drop the ball in his lap again. Gabe clenched his jaw as he looked over Nate’s hesitant frame. “Did she ask about me?”

Gabe smirked as he chuckled, “She asked if you thought it would be weird if she went to the game tomorrow,” Gabe met Nate’s eyes and his mouth fell open and he shook his head.

“Not weird,” he mumbled as he kept eye contact with Gabe, “It wouldn’t be weird at all.”

“Okay, good because she’s coming tomorrow, hanging in the suite with us,”

“Even better,” Nate mumbled as he tossed the ball for Maggie. Gabe furrowed his eyebrows as he stared towards Nate suspiciously.

“It doesn’t bother you one bit that the girl you’re probably supposed to be engaged to right now is staying at an AirBnB two streets over,” Gabe said as he paused the movie on the screen. Nate shrugged.

“What do you want me to say, Gabe?” Nate said as he clenched his jaw, “I had a ring ready but I made her wait too long and she left. What do you want me to do?” ~~~

Every morning, she’d go to the coffee shop on the same street her old apartment was on. She wanted to avoid Nate but it was inevitable that she was going to see him after the game tonight. Which Gabe convinced her to go to.

She walked up to the counter and Jeremiah was standing behind it with a wide grin, “Oh my god, Y/N! It's been so long! How have you been?” he said excitedly as he pulled out the large plastic cup and began writing the details of her usual drink on the cup. She returned the kind smile as she handed him her card.

“I’ve been good, I live in Seattle now,” she replied as she added fifteen dollars as a tip to her drink. His eyes widened as he smiled. There was no one waiting behind them so he pried some more information out of her.

“What happened to Nate?” he asked in a hushed voice, leaning closer to her. She let out a dry chuckle.

“We broke up, but I’m back in Denver visiting a few friends and my favorite places,” she offered as she met Jeremiah’s gaze. His eyes widened as his mouth fell open.

“You’re kidding!? You guys were soulmates, I’m sure,” he let out as he was handed back her coffee order. She took a hold of it, sipping it. Seattle had some amazing coffee but nothing was like her coffee shop directly across from her apartment. She’d spend many hours in the coffee shop working on her writing.

“Even soulmates don’t end up together sometimes,” she offered him a sad smile before she took a deep breath, “Seattle has nothing on your lattes Jeremiah,” she mumbled.

“You know, he still comes in before every home game. Tips fifteen dollars like you, but never smiles. He stopped smiling just around the time you stopped coming in. I knew it had to do with you,” he explained. She pressed her lips together as she tilted her head to the side.

“He only gets a two dollar coffee,” she let out with a dry chuckle. She glanced towards her watch. It was three hours before puck drop, Nate would be stopping by to get his coffee any minute. Jeremiah glanced towards his watch before glancing towards the door. “Well, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow Jeremiah,” she mumbled as she began walking out of the coffee shop.

She shoved the door open and turned left to walk back towards the AirBnB. She glanced towards her watch before she lifted her gaze to see Nate standing dead in his tracks. She stopped walking as she met his gaze. His blue eyes were bright, even from a distance.

His nose was more crooked than before, she remembered the game he face planted against the panthers that messed up his jaw and his nose. He was wearing a navy suit, one of his many suits that pratically look identical. But if you’d ask him, he’d say they were a slightly different shade of blue.

He took a few steps towards her as he dropped his gaze towards the concrete. He admired the black leather pants she was wearing with her grey sweater with the words Avalanche written across it. Her lips curled upward once she met his gaze, it was almost a reflex. It was so natural.

He was only a foot away from her, maintaining eye contact with her as he had so many words on his tongue. Marry me? I love you. I need you. I haven’t been the same without you.

She kept staring at his nose, it was already crooked but it was much worse than before. “Your nose,” she let out, reaching her hand towards him, but she quickly dropped her hand to her side. His eyebrows raised as a smile formed to his lips. A real smile.

“Is it that bad?” he asked, scrunching his nose slightly when he asked. “Didn’t think it looked that bad,” he mumbled, raising his hand up touching it.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, concern still written all over her features. He shook his head as he scanned her features. “Can you even breathe with that, Nathan?” she asked, a small smile forming on her lips. His cheeks flushed red at the sound of his name falling from her lips. She rarely called him Nathan, or Nate for that matter, so when she did say his name it felt extra special. She also only called him that when she was being serious or flirtatious.

“I can breathe fine, my-” he cleared his throat, “I use a breathing strip sometimes, but I’m fine. No nose job needed, unless you think it’s too crooked now,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb across the bridge of his nose.

“Not too crooked, it fits you,” she mumbled as she scanned his features. He chuckled nervously as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Seeing him felt like the first breath of air after being underwater for too long.

“How’s Seattle?” he choked out. Her smile faltered slightly as she took a deep breath.

“It’s great, but I do miss home,” she said as she tilted her head to the side, meeting his light blue desperate gaze.

His breath caught in his throat as he glanced towards the coffee shop behind her. He clenched his jaw as he dropped his head. “What if you stopped by after the game? Maggie would love to see you,” he offered, meeting her gaze.

She wished she would’ve contemplated a little longer but the words, “Yeah, of course, I’ve missed her a lot,” came out of her mouth before she could come up with an excuse. In all honesty she probably didn’t have any excuse. He smiled widely.

“Okay, I’ve got to go before I’m-”

“Off schedule, I know, I’ll see you later,” she muttered as he kept eye contact with her for a few seconds before he walked past her towards the coffee shop. Her heart fluttered like it did every day for a better half of a decade. She missed the feeling in her chest when was around.

He was her soulmate and she knew that but she was so tired of waiting around. She needed to step away. But here he was, the same person she fell in love with. Was it all worth it?

~~~

She was sitting in the suite beside Gabe as he was holding his son in his lap. The first period was underway and it was a lot of back and forth. Gabe bumped into her shoulder, “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded as she watched Nate skate towards the penalty box. She lifted her gaze towards the jumbotron to see the penalty. She rolled her eyes as she turned her gaze to look at Gabe. “You’re like extra quiet,”

“Don’t have anything to talk about,” she countered, fighting the smile forming on her lips.

“Uh-huh, you’re smiling,” he muttered.

“I’m a smiley person,” she countered as she looked back towards the ice. She watched the penalty kill work.

“You haven’t been smiley in a while,” he observed as he looked back towards the ice watching twenty-nine skate back onto the ice. He smirked, “Did a certain someone help with that?” he teased.

“I saw him earlier when I stopped at my old coffee shop,” she muttered.

Gabe started laughing excitedly, “I knew it!”

The game ended in a disappointing shootout loss and the loss of his home game point streak. She waited outside of the locker room like she had done for their entire relationship. He walked out first, wanting to avoid the media frenzy. He smiled widely as he walked towards her. Making sure to keep his hands to himself.

“I’m sorry about the point streak,” she let out as she tilted her head to the side. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Stupid technicality, nothing to worry about,” he mumbled still with a wide smile. “Come on, Maggie is dying to see you,” he said as he guided her towards his car through the parking garage.

“You got out pretty fast,” she observed as she glanced towards the locker room to see a few of the other guys leaving. He nodded as he ran his hand across his chin.

“Was avoiding the questions about the home point streak. Honestly, kinda glad it’s off my plate,” he expressed.

“I’m sure it was a lot of pressure,” she mumbled as he stopped in front of his car to open the passenger door for her. Like he used to do every time they would drive together. She smiled towards him as she climbed into his car. It smelled the same of black ice car scent he’s had since he first ever bought a car.

He jogged to the other side of the car and quickly collapsed in the driver seat. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he let out as he met her gaze, he gave her an over the top wink before he turned the car on. “Mikko totally put it in the net though,” he mumbled as he started backing out of his parking spot. She chuckled.

“Gabe thought so too,” she mumbled as she tilted her head to the side as she looked out of the window as they pulled out onto the streets of Denver.

“When do you go back to Seattle?” he asked as he tilted his head to the side to meet her gaze at the red light. She clenched her jaw as she scanned his features, the cut on his lip got worse after this game.

“In two weeks,” she mumbled barely above a whisper. He nodded as he began driving back towards his apartment.

They remained in comfortable yet awkward silence. There were so many words she wanted to say to him, and he had so many words to say to her. After twenty minutes they walked up towards her old apartment. It was like deja vu as he pushed the door open and Maggie ran towards the door. She began to squeal and jump up on Y/N.

She laughed excitedly as she leaned down and let Maggie jump all over her. She got teary eyed as guilt consumed her. “I know, Maggie girl,” she mumbled as she glanced towards Nate who was smiling widely.

After a few minutes, Maggie calmed down and wandered away from the pair. She turned her gaze towards Nate. His eyebrows furrowed harshly as he reached his hand over to her and rested it onto her cheek. It was a reflex, “Hey, hey, hey,” he mumbled as he scanned her features. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he ran his thumb across her cheek. She shook her head as she pulled away from him.

“This was a mistake, I’m sorry, Nate. I should go-” she let out as she began walking towards the door. He shook his head as he reached his hand towards her again resting his hand on her waist. She squinted her eyes hard as tears fell onto her cheek.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled as he pulled her towards him, she didn’t pull away as she rested her hand onto his chest. “Don’t leave,” he let out again as he looked deeply into her eyes. She had a small smile on her lips as she continued reading his light blue eyes. “Don’t leave,” he let out again, barely audible, before he leaned towards her and kissed her urgently. She gripped his suit jacket tightly as she returned the kiss.

He pulled away as he took a deep breath, breathing in her vanilla perfume. “How’d I manage to not kiss those lips for a year,” he mumbled before he pressed his lips against hers again. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she pressed her body against his. She needed to be close to him, and nothing seemed to be close enough.

She tugged his suit jacket from his body as she stumbled backwards towards the hallway that leads towards their, his, bedroom. “Wait,” he mumbled as he pulled away. She leaned towards him and kissed him again. He chuckled as he pulled away again, “I need to ask you-” he trailed off as he clenched his jaw, still panting hard as he kept his hands on her waist.

He swallowed hard before he took a sharp breath, “Did I do something to make you end things? I know I waited too long, I know I fucked up with that. I shouldn’t have-I just need to know if that’s actually the reason,” he muttered as he brushed a few pieces of hair away from her face.

She scanned his features, “You didn’t do anything,” she mumbled. He clenched his jaw as he nodded. He licked his lips before he pulled away from her, “Nate,” she muttered.

“Wait there,” he mumbled as he walked towards his bedroom. He clenched his jaw as he dug through his drawer next to his bed and pulled out the ring box. He walked confidently towards where she was waiting in the living room, still teary eyed. He opened the ring box and showed the ring inside the box.

Her eyes widened as she gasped, “Nathan,” she mumbled.

“I had the ring for months, I just thought that when I asked it didn’t matter. I didn’t realize how much it actually mattered to you and-and I should’ve realized it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he explained, waving the box dramatically in his hands. “I wanted to ask you, of course I wanted to ask you,” he let out as he took another step towards her.

She met his gaze as she took short small breaths. “Nate,”

“Still do,” he let out as he scanned her features. She fought the small smile on her lips as tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel like I wanted to. I’ve spent every day since you left regretting I didn’t get the chance to ask,” he muttered.

“Ask me,” she let out, her voice breaking. His eyes widened.

“What?” he asked barely above a whisper.

“Ask me,” she let out as she nodded her head. He smiled as he kneeled down onto one knee without an ounce of hesitation.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Of course, Nate, oh my god,” she muttered as he stood up from his kneeling position as she jumped into his arms and kissed him urgently. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he guided her towards their bedroom. She pulled away, resting her forehead against his, “It wasn’t just the ring, Nate,” she mumbled before she kissed him again, “I was worried you were bored with me that’s why you didn’t want to ask,” she let out as she ran her fingers through the short ends of his hair.

He shook his head slightly, “I love you, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t show it. But I’m going to do better, alright?” he reassured as he shoved open the door as he guided her towards the bed they once shared. She nodded as she hummed.

“I’ll do better too, I love you so much,” she mumbled as she pressed her lips hard against his as he slowly laid her down onto her back. He pulled away as he admired her features.

“Let me remind you how much I love you,” he whispered as he started to kiss her neck slowly.

#nathan mackinnon #nathan mackinnon imagines #nathan mackinnon x reader #nhl imagines #nhl #nhl x reader #nhl fic #hockey #colorado avalanche #colorado avalanche imagines #cale makar imagines #cale makar x reader #cale makar #erik johnson #erik johnson x reader #erik johnson imagines

158 notes · View notes