#i’ve been on cocktails since fuck knows when.

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader

[teyamsatan]

High Infidelity III (the end)

Adult!Neteyam x (f)Metkayina!Reader x Ao'nung

Warnings: smut (fingering, oral - m and f receiving, spitting in mouth, anal play, p in v, creampie, praise kink), mentions of cheating, cursing, violence, blood, 18+ minors dni for the love of god !!!!

Word count: 6k words

Notes: honestly i need to be doused in holy water after writing that, but i'd probably just burst into flames anyway. i hope you enjoy reading the last instalment of High Infidelity, and I hope it's everything you've ever wanted and more, cause omg, did I enjoy writing it besties. thank you for all the love of this series, I really felt it. i love you all sm xoxoxo

previous part (x)

You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love

The slowest way is never loving them enough

Do you really want to know where I was April 29th?

Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?

Neteyam’s face snapped in the direction of your voice, an unreadable expression marring his beautiful features. 

“What did you say?”

You were boldened and empowered by the ache running through you, by all the feelings that mingled into a cocktail that looked a lot like bravery, that looked a lot like you were going to finally give in to your biggest desires and wildest dreams. 

You moved closer to him, taking slow, purposeful steps, until you circled around him and kneeled in front of him, in between his legs, placing on hand on each knee to help you, and you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered as you noticed the goosebumps on his skin where you touched him. 

You looked at him intently, wanting to show him that you meant it, that you were in this, that there was no doubt in your mind, no wavering in your resolve.

“Neteyam… I want you to fuck me. I’ve needed you, ached for you since the moment on the beach, since you apologised, since you were kind to me and showed me there’s more to life than men who take and take until there’s nothing left. That there’s more to love than what I’ve known all my life. That when it’s right, you’ll know it in your gut, you’ll know it in the way your whole body reacts like it’s been set on fire, or like it’s been set free. 

I should have called it off the second I knew I started having feelings for another. I was afraid, afraid of the consequences, afraid of breaking people’s hearts, afraid of broken expectations and unfulfilled bonds, but I am not anymore. I’m not afraid anymore, the only thing I am afraid of is living without knowing this feeling, living without knowing I’ve done everything in my power to give in to you.

You told me one day I’ll beg you to fuck me. So here I am. I am begging you to fuck me. To take me. To show me all the things I know only you can. The things I only want you to.” 

Neteyam’s expression turned wild and fervent, and you felt the growl he let out deep within you, deep in your core. His hand went to your jaw, that he brought closer to his face, so close, your eyes were struggling to focus on him, and the tint of green in his yellow eyes. You found yourself tracing each gleaming dot on his face, each stripe that marked his skin like a battle scar, his full lips that were parted, the deep breath that came out through them and into you, and you inhaled deeply, closing your eyes, allowing yourself to drown in the weight of his presence, in the weight of the feelings he brought out of you. 

“Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me. You have no idea what I’ll do to you. I told you you will beg me to fuck you, but baby girl, when I do it, I’ll do it until you’ll beg me to stop. Until I’ve made you come so many times, until you’re so drunk on my cock you can’t see straight anymore.” 

“But not tonight. I don’t know what happened in the time you went away, but we are doing this the right way this time. I won’t risk losing you again. You can sleep it off, sleep the drink off and the night off, sleep Aonung off, and tomorrow, if you’re ready and you’ll still want me, I’ll be here for you, and I’ll be yours forever.” 

You whined as he let your jaw go free and your mind twirled with images of his words come to life, burned in your imagination forever, gnawing at you to make them come true. 

“But I want you now. And I know you want me to, I can see it in your eyes. I’m here, I’m begging you, isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“That is what I wanted, just when you’re sober and not reeling from Aonung’s mistakes. Come, I’ll take you home.” 

You woke up dazed and confused, needing a long while before realising you were back in your marui, back to the comfort of your sleeping mat and loosely wrapped in thin covers. You slowly rose, quickly regretting it, as the motion made you dizzy and nauseous and want to reconsider every moment that made it so this was your current life. Flashes of last night and all the hurt it brought with it started appearing in front of your eyes, furthering your sullen mood and unhappy state. So much happened, so much that you would give anything to forget.

As the world settled a little around you, you noticed a little trinket on your mat, next to where you lay your head. It was a bracelet, you noted in shock. A beautiful, intricate bracelet, crafted with a technique and materials characteristic of the Omatikaya.

Neteyam…

You immediately removed the bracelet that was already on your arm and swapped it for the one you were holding tightly in your palm, and tried to not think what a perfect allegory this was, how this was the beginning of your new life. The beginning of new love. 

Your body loved the touch of the breeze as it caressed your skin, soft and tender, like a lover. It was necessary, like the air going in and out of your lungs, keeping you alive, allowing you to keep going. You tried your best to relax, tried your best to remove the anger and anguish for one man, need and ache for another, both of which felt like poison coursing through your veins, and tried to replace it with other, less intense emotions, like the relief of knowing, despite the hurt and the pain, that you could finally be free of Aonung, free for the first time in your life to make your own decisions, to live outside of the expectations and the burden placed on you since you were young, free to follow your heart, free to grow and be yourself, and to discover who that is to begin with. 

You felt entranced by the beauty of the nature surrounding you, that you grew up with, that you’ve experienced every day of your life and yet somehow never took for granted, never fully got used to it, as you allowed your feet to feel the soft grainy sand beneath them and the water splashing over your ankles and calves as you walked on the beach that felt like your safe space, like your haven in the storm. You thought about Neteyam and his words, about the bracelet he left on your pillow and how it felt against your arm where it now resided and it will continue to for as long as you could help it, how even this gift was a perfect metaphor of your past and present. Aonung’s bracelet was beautiful and opulent, with rare stones and shells, with what he thought you wanted, but in reality, it was harsh and it scratched at your skin every time it was on your body, leaving friction burns and scratches that left you bruised and bloodied if you weren’t careful. When you lost it, you didn’t realise it, you just felt freer and weightless. Neteyam’s bracelet was understated and carefully crafted, with soft leather and round, polished pebbles, and it felt like velvet touching your skin, it felt safe and healing. It felt like the calming nature around you, like the warmth of the sun caressing your skin. It felt like new beginnings.

As your mind wandered over the events of the past few weeks, and those of the past few years, you came to the conclusion that this, this whole mess, is not about Neteyam or Aonung. Not anymore. It might have started that way, it might have been what set everything in motion, but it wasn’t the whole picture. This wasn’t about two men. It was about you and your life, your past and your future, and who you wanted to be moving forward. It was about realising that the shackles that bound you to one destiny were loose and rusted, and with a little force, you could be free of them, free at last to be more than who your chains led you to believe. The dark feelings that possessed you made you aware that there was more to you than what you thought, than what everybody thought. The ache and need you felt for Neteyam showed you you were a woman now, a woman who wanted to learn and explore her sexuality and learn what makes her body tremble, what makes it convulse in pleasure. Kissing him and letting him explore your body allowed you to see you were capable of wrongdoings, you weren’t just a two-dimensional being with only positive and light coming out of you, but you had a darkness in you, you had the capability to be selfish and put your own needs first, something you have never done before. The anger that enveloped you when you heard Aonung cheating on you, the thirst for revenge and vindication, the way you told Neteyam that you wanted him, showed you that you were strong, that despite your and everybody else’s view that you were frail and weak, and not a warrior, there was something in you - a power, strong and unflinching, an infinite untapped potential that you swore you would get to know in time. 

You were so deep in your own thoughts, that the tug of your arm that spun you around almost knocked you to the ground, and you had to swallow the vomit that rose in your mouth at the harshness with which you were handled. 

“We need to talk.” 

As soon as the world stopped spinning around you, you were able to make out Aonung’s body and his face, sullen and tired, and you knew instantly he was battling a mean hangover, much worse than yours. You found yourself smirking at his state, hopeful that he was suffering and revelling in knowing he did. 

“I’ve been looking for you for fucking ages.”

“Well, you found me. What do you want?” 

Aonung’s eyes went wide at your words. He wasn’t used to you talking in such a way, determined, devoid of tears or quivering lips, of soft words and a trembling voice. 

“What do you mean what do I want? You fucked off with another man last night, with the tree hugger of all people, and you’re asking me what I want? I want you to explain to me what he was doing there, and why you chose to leave.” 

You were so shocked by the nonsense coming out of his mouth, so flabbergasted that the only thing you could think to do is laugh. A crazy, maniacal laugh that continued until there was no more breath in your lungs. 

“You know? I knew you were a selfish, self-involved, self-centered jerk for so long, and yet I was continuously blinded by my own desire to see the best in people, the best in you. I held a flicker of hope that the kid I knew was still there, somewhere deep down inside of your shallow soul, but I see now I was blind. You want to talk? Fine, let’s talk. How long have you been fucking another girl, Aonung?” 

You watched as Aonung’s mouth opened and then closed, and did so a few more times, while he was trying to come up with an excuse or an explanation, and you felt so free, so weightless, it was like you were floating. No more guilt, no more angst plaguing you, just a light, soft feeling, like a warm hug or sleeping on a cloud. 

“Was yesterday the first night? Was it a drunken mistake? Did causing me pain, almost forcing yourself on me turn you on so much that you just needed to do it desperately, that you couldn’t help yourself?”

Your questions were once again met with nothing, no sounds, not even a twitch of the ear or of a facial muscle, no hint that your words were even registering in his mind. 

“Come on, Aonung. You said you wanted to talk, let’s talk. Did an Akula get your tongue?” 

“Fine, if you don’t want to talk, how about I talk? We’re over, Aonung. So, so over. You want to know why Neteyam came to get me yesterday? Because he’s a better man than you will ever be. Because even on your best day, you aren’t even a fraction of him on his worst day. Because in a few weeks, he has managed to make me feel things you never have, because in just a few weeks, he showed me there’s more to me than what you led me to believe, more to love than what I grew up thinking. And you know what else? I let him do things to me you could only dream of. I let him touch me in ways you never will, let him pleasure me in ways you couldn’t if you tried. And it was amazing. And I will do it again and again, while you will live your life knowing you blew the best thing that ever happened to you.” 

Unsurprisingly, that seemed to wake him up from whatever trance he found himself in. The surprise clear on his face made way for panic, a quick brush of sadness that settled finally on anger, deep-seeded anger, manifested through flared nostrils and shallow breaths. 

“What did you say?” 

“You heard me. Good luck, Aonung. I hope one day you grow the fuck up, but it won’t be for me to help you through it. Not anymore.” 

“You’re such a fucking slut, aren’t you? You act all high and mighty with me, refusing me what’s mine, what was MY right, and you go give it up to some asshole you just met? I guess it’s true what they say, it’s the quiet girls. Always the quiet girls.” 

You tried to not let it affect you, his words, his horrible words that somehow manage to pierce through you like knifes, and kept your gaze steady on his face contorting in anger. 

“Leave, Aonung. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

You turned around to follow you own advice, but found yourself again being yanked back like a rag doll by his much larger hands wrapping around your arms and pulling. 

“I’m not fucking done, you sl-“ 

The bone crunching noise that rang in your ear as Neteyam’s fist made contact with Aonung’s nose was weirdly satisfying, and you watched as the Metkayina man was knocked straight to the ground, blood pouring from his face and dripping down his chest. The impact was so powerful that his blood splattered over your face, painting you in red spilling drops. Whatever form of sympathy you felt for Aonung left your body the moment he called you a slut for doing something he was doing behind your back just a night ago, while not taking any accountability or exhibiting any ounce of remorse. You felt a sick satisfaction, watching him try to gather himself, hand on his nose, forehead scrunched up in pain and confusion.  Neteyam put his body in between you and Aonung, taking a few steps in his direction. 

“Leave. Now. If you ever, ever touch her again, if you ever look the wrong way at her again, the next thing I break is both your legs.” His voice was low and unflinching, calm and unperturbed by any emotion. He was scary. So scary, you felt that voice in every fibre of your being, and you assumed Aonung did, too. You watched as he got to his feet slowly, and a little wobbly, turned around and started walking away.

“I would tell your parents it was unfortunate, but it didn’t work out. That you felt like I wasn’t the right person for you and you felt bad stringing me along. That you fell in love with someone else. You choose, but I would hurry. Unless you want me to tell them what happened, but then you might not get to keep your family jewels, and I’m sure the girl you were fucking behind my back last night would be very disappointed about that. Good riddance, Aonung.” 

You couldn’t stop staring at Neteyam, at this man who drove you to the point of madness, who made you want to do things that Eywa herself would cower in shame at, whose back was tensed with each deep breath he took as he watched Aonung leave like a wounded animal, like the coward he was. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins, making you light up with excitement and need, making you pant with the aftershocks of the fight, with animalistic desire at how powerful and forceful, how brave and imposing he was. As Aonung disappeared from sight, and from your mind forever, you watched as he turned to face you, a desperate wild look haunting him. He approached you and you were able to take note of the blood on his face, that adorned him like war paint, and on his knuckles as his hands found their way to your face and hair. 

“Are you alright?” 

You just nodded, too overcome with his presence and all it invoked in you to be able to speak. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that. That you had to go through that.” 

You shook your hand and placed a hand on his, smiling softly. 

“It’s over. It’s finally over.” 

You couldn’t wait any longer, would not wait any longer, and you swiftly closed the gap between you and kissed him. Kissed him the way you have dreamt since the moment you saw him on the beach, kissed him like your life depended on it, like your sanity hung in the shaky balance between his touch and your body, like he was everything. The taste of blood on his lips did nothing to deter you, emboldening you instead, and he moaned in your mouth before deepening the kiss, lifting you in his arms effortlessly until your legs wrapped around him. He only broke the kiss to replace your mouth with your collarbones and chest, and you threw your head back as his touch brought fluttering in your stomach and throbbing in your core, that was calling for him, begging him to fill you. 

Neteyam knelt slowly with you still in his arms, handling you like you were no heavier than a child. His strength and physique never failed to amaze you, and right now, neither did the bulge that brushed against you as he guided you onto the ground. You propped yourself up onto your elbows and stared at it, at him, until he smirked and lifted your gaze onto his own by a touch of your cheek. 

“Like what you see, princess?” 

You gulped and nodded meekly. He took your hand in his and placed your palm on his hard erection, and you couldn’t help the way you started feeling him, tracing its curve and girth, or the soft moan that escaped you at its feel, at how tight the loincloth was stretched around it, at how big he felt, at how empty your brain was at the thought of it slamming into you over and over until you saw white.

 

He spoke lowly, teasingly, while reaching for your loincloth, that he loosened and removed without any effort. 

“Feel that, baby girl? It’s all for you.”

He pushed you on your back by placing a hand on your chest and used a little force to spread your legs, and you were puny in his hands, malleable to his touch, willing to be whatever it was he wanted you to be. He swallowed as he took you in, admiring you while his fingers trailed over your folds, reaching down south until they circled another little puckered hole, eliciting a small gasp from you at the prospect of what was coming. 

“All for you. All for this pretty pussy, and your tight little ass, for this fuckable mouth.” 

“So, so fuckable, I don’t even know what to start with.” He pushed two fingers in you without any warning and you dropped to the ground and arched your back almost on command, so excited to finally get some release, any release, like you have needed for so long. Soon enough, it became too little, and you found yourself needing more, much much more. 

The bucking of your hips was met with a mocking chuckle and words that made you whine in frustration.

“Not yet, baby. Not yet. You’re not ready for my cock yet. We need to get you ready, and you need to be a good girl and get me ready. Come on, on your knees, my love. Gonna fuck this pretty face, first… what do you think? Do you like that idea, pretty girl?” 

You moaned at his words, but did what you were told, rising on your knees, noticing dripping going down your leg as you did so, and came face to face with his hips as he rose in all his perplexing, over 9 foot glory. Being so close, so close with the bulge you were just caressing earlier, knowing faintly what was hiding underneath, made you almost vicious, and you found yourself reaching for his loincloth, untying it hurriedly, your urgency making Neteyam scoff lightly, patting the top of your head in a gentle and surprisingly loving motion.  

“So eager, my love. Eager to get stuffed with my cock, aren’t you?” 

As the loincloth fell to the floor, so did the rest of whatever pathetic inhibitions you had left, taking in his length, that was even bigger than what it felt like under the loincloth, so big in fact, you were genuinely concerned at how it was ever going to fit in your mouth, fit in you. Your wide eyes didn’t go unnoticed by the Omatikayan, who lifted your chin so you could meet his gaze, and whatever expression he was met with made a low growl emerge from his lips, and you felt yourself clench around nothing. 

You couldn’t wait any longer without his touch, without feeling him, so you tentatively grabbed his cock in your hand, struggling to make your fingers meet as you wrapped around his base, and you started stroking him up and down, all the while grinding on the ground, trying to get any relief from the enormous pressure building in your core. Primal curiosity took over you as you closed your lips around his tip, dying to feel the taste of the liquid spilling from it and you moaned around his cock as it was better than you could have ever foreseen. The sound and vibration made Neteyam push your head closer to his body, and you gagged slightly as his impressive length made its way down your throat. 

“That’s it, baby. Look how well you’re taking my cock. You’re doing so well, princess.”

Without any warning, he started a slow pace in and out of your mouth, holding your head in place with his hands, and fuck, you loved how he was using you as his own personal sex doll. It was so obscene, so filthy, so so good. He felt so good in your mouth, his sweet taste flooding your every sense, welcoming him further in, until your nose was touching his hip bone and his balls were slapping against your chin with every thrust. You wrapped your hands around his thighs, propping yourself to get a better angle, to be able to suck him off the way you wanted, the way you knew he wanted.

“Look how you’re dry humping the ground with my cock so deep in your mouth. You want to be fucked, don’t you, baby? Such a slut for my cock, aren’t you?” 

His unrelenting pace made tears appear in the corner of your eyes, spilling down your cheek, mixing with the saliva pooled around your mouth, that dripped all over his balls. 

“You’ve never looked prettier than when you’re getting your face fucked. So pretty, princess. Those fucking eyes looking up at me, all innocent, so wild, so - fuck, you will be the death of me.” 

“Gonna let me come in this pretty mouth, huh? Want to suck me dry, baby girl?” 

You mewled approvingly around his cock, hallowing your cheeks and pushing your tongue against him to drive him to his release sooner, wanting, needing to feel him, to own him, a piece of him, like he owned you, like he would - forever. 

“Ohh, fuuck - fuck, princess, just like that. It’s like you were born to suck my cock. Doing so well for me, baby.” 

Hot spurts of thick liquid came shooting down your throat and the deep guttural groans he released as the orgasm washed over him was almost enough to bring you to your own - you’ve never heard something more erotic, something more salacious, something better, in your life.  

“Good girl.” He slowly removed himself from you and pushed you back into the ground, towering over you, his still fully hard length slapping over your inner thigh haphazardly. “Do you feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I still am for you? I’ll never get enough of this body, princess. You will be dripping in my cum by the time I’m done, this is what being next you does to me.” 

His lips crashed against yours aggressively, and his tongue pushed past your teeth into your mouth, exploring you, tasting himself on your tongue. His cock twitched and brushed your dripping folds and you whimpered in his mouth. He smirked at the sound, and positioned himself alongside your core, started slowly grinding his length on you, teasing you, bringing new tears to your eyes and unintelligible sounds to his ears, that revelled in it, that thrived off of how much of a pitiful, writhing mess you were under him. 

“Please, Neteyam. Please, fuck, f-“ 

“You’re still not ready for me, princess.”

“I-I’m ready, please, I’m so fucking ready!” 

He tutted in disapproval and removed his body from yours, leaving you empty and aching. You tried closing your legs together, but that too was promptly interrupted by his hands, keeping them far apart. He started a torturous ritual of kissing and licking every part of your body he had access to, masterfully avoiding the only places you wanted, needed to be touched. He started with your collarbones, and down your sternum, alongside your abdomen, and hip bone, your thighs, and inner thighs, and you were crying, the pleasure so great, and yet so incomplete it was hurting you, it was turning into pain. 

“Neteyam, I - “

“Hush, baby. Let me take care of you. Let me show you why it couldn’t have been anyone else but me.”

With that, he placed a tender, barely there kiss on your bare pussy, then another one, and another one. His mouth closed around your clit, sucking on it softly, alternating between it and kitten licks, and the rough texture of his tongue made you see stars, made you convulse around his mouth. His tongue moved languidly, drawing numbers on your swollen pussy, pushing into you and lapping at the liquid falling down his chin. You tasted like heaven to him, like a ripened summer fruit, like a flower in spring, blossoming around him, inundating his smell, coating his tongue in its aroma. He loved seeing you like this, all of this, falling apart at the seams in pleasure, tears prodding at your eyes, lips parted and cheeks flushed, chest heaving up and down, hands in his hair, pushing his tongue deeper in your sopping cunt. He loved all of it. 

Two slender, long fingers made their way inside of you, feeling you, curling them to massage the perfect spot, the spot he found last time, the spot he knew would make you come undone, and he couldn’t help the arrogance in his tone as he talked. 

“Come for me, princess. Let me hear how good I make you feel.” 

Your orgasm flushed over you, the most intense feeling you have ever felt, and you now understood why he edged you for so long, and even in your dazed mind, you were grateful that he seemed to know your body better than you knew it yourself. 

He continued licking at your entrance, not wasting a drop of your cum, not when it was better than any liquor, better than any drink he’s ever been fortunate enough to taste. When he finished, he got back on top of you until you were face to face, and you noticed weakly the glistening on his chin as your juices coated it, and the smirk he had on those beautiful lips that was unrelenting. He knew he was amazing, he knew what he was doing to you. 

“See, baby? I know what you need. I’m what you need. Open your mouth.” You did so, no questions asked, and watched as he spit in your mouth, licking your lips in order not to miss anything, humming to yourself as the taste of your own cum registered on your tongue. 

“Feel how good you taste. So fucking good, princess.”

“I think you’ve suffered enough. I think it’s time you get what you deserve for being such a good girl. The best girl.” 

You felt his arm on your abdomen as he reached down and aligned himself with your folds, his bulbous tip rubbing against your warm, aching entrance. Slowly, gently, he starts sinking into you, allowing you to feel each inch, allowing you to take in the delicious stretch, and the feeling of you wrapping around him brought shivers down his spine. The mewls escaping your lips fuelled his hunger for your body, fuelled his need to push you until you were so overstimulated, you were blacking out with him still deep inside your cunt. 

“Eyes on me, baby girl. Look at how deep in you I am, I want you to watch me fuck you.” Neteyam’s cock twitched inside of you at your incredulous expression, at your wide eyes and fucked out face as your stomach deformed slightly, a bulge appearing every time he pushed deep into your cervix. It drives him to the point of insanity, that look, and he starts a maddening pace, quick and rough, rutting into you deeply, watching as your tits bounce with every thrust. 

Your mind is blank of any thoughts and full of immeasurable pleasure, unholy sounds escaping your lips like a prayer, like a litany to keep going, to not stop, because fuck, this is the best feeling of your life, being so owned, so free, so helpless, so in control of your own desires, so full, full to the brim with pleasure, with love, with his cock. You start to see stars, as the now familiar feeling draws closer, and your entire body starts shaking in preparation for the wave you knew was about to hit you any second. His thrusts are unrelenting, hitting your cervix mercilessly as your walls tighten around him, wanting to keep him, to never let him go.

“That’s it, baby. You’re clenching my cock so tightly, want to come all over me, princess? Want to cover my dick with that sweet cum?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes! Yes yes yes!” 

Your eyes roll in the back of your head as the orgasm drowns you in overwhelming, toe-curling sensations, and you start doubting you will ever see or hear properly ever again, as the world is enveloped in a white, over-exposed glow and your ears lose their ability to discern the waves and the birds flying above you. 

“We’re not done, my love.” You barely registered his manoeuvring your now limp body, turning you upside down, so that your chest was flush against the ground as his hands lifted your ass up, his cock once more prodding at your entrance, and you whine, crying as you are barely able to understand what is going on, much less able to appreciate the way he’s spreading your ass cheeks, massaging them slowly, purposefully, while he sinks back into your wet, sensitive, throbbing cunt. 

“Neteyam, I can’t anymore… ’s too much.”

“You can, baby. One more for me, come on. I promised you I’d fuck you til you can’t see straight anymore, and I don’t think we’re there yet.” 

“You say you can’t, but look how good this pussy’s taking me, look how it moulds around my cock, how you’re squeezing me. You’re so good for me, princess. I can’t believe I get to do this, can’t believe you’re mine.”

A slap on your ass makes you yelp in pain, waking you up like from a daydream. 

“I need to hear you say it, my love.”

“’m yours, Neteyam. Yours.” 

“That’s right, you’re mine. And I’m yours. You own me.” 

You can’t help the way you instinctively push back on Neteyam, can’t help the way, even in this fucked-out state, you’re still searching for more, you still need him deeper, need him to fuck you dumb, fuck you until you’re passed out on the sand. You match his animalistic thrusts the best you can, moaning loudly, wildly, as each of them takes the breath out of your lungs, as each of them fills you up to the brim, as each of them takes you closer to that third release. 

“M-more. I need more.”

“You filthy girl. Such a slut for me, aren’t you? My little slut, drunk on my cock.” 

You gasp as his thumb traces your asshole, then slowly removes it and brings his hand to your face, his other hand caressing your lower back. 

“Open your mouth, pretty girl.” You did as you were told, and he pushed two fingers inside your mouth and down you throat, and you sucked on them, allowing your tongue to trace in between them, coating them with your saliva. 

“Good girl.”

He moved his hand back to your ass again, and slowly pushes one finger in, ignoring the mewling sounds spilling past your lips. He started moving his finger in and out of you slowly, adding the other, all the while rutting into you like a rabid animal in heat, pushing you forward with each thrust, holding you tightly by your hips, leaving imprints on your sensitive skin that you knew would be bruised when this was all over. You loved it. 

The feeling of his cock burrowing deep inside your core and his fingers moving in an out of your ass slowly was too much, and you were bracing for the snapping of the coil that has been tightening inside of you, knowing that when it snapped, so will you, and your last remaining consciousness. 

“You gonna let me cum in this pussy? Want me to fill you up real nice, paint those pretty pink walls white?” 

You tried to answer, but only ugly whimpers came out, and by the sound of his melodic laugh, you knew he took that as a yes. 

“Come on, princess. Be a good girl and milk my cock dry.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, as the orgasm took everything out of you, and you would take everything out of him, as a result. He was right. When he was done, you were so drunk on his cock, you really couldn’t see anymore. And as he lowered his body on yours, resting his chest on your back and peppering small, gentle kisses on the back of your neck, whispering sweet nothings and telling you how good you did, you knew you were excited not be able to see straight every day, for the rest of your life. 

thank you again to everyone who likes, replies and reblogs and asked to be tagged, i love you all x

@jackiehollanderr @afro-hispwriter @sanranrin @universal-s1ut @neteyamforlife @arminsgfloll @avatar-on-top @neteyamsyawntu @farleyis @jjkclub @doulcha @adaiasafira @teyamsmate @ang-taylorsversion @junnniiieee07 @americanbeauty-americanpsycho @thatonegirlwiththebeanie367 @netemoon @shayligames-blog @hotmenwhoree @yan-ghost-yan @iikatsukii @rgbsona @moneyoverl0v3

#༊*·˚ andra's works #high infidelity #avatar #avatar the way of water #avatar twow #atwow #avatar 2 #avatar masterlist #avatar writer #avatar writing #avatar fanfic #avatar smut #avatar angst #neteyam #neteyam fanfic #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully #neteyam x you #neteyam smut #neteyam angst #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam suli x reader #neteyam x metkayina!reader #neteyam x na'vi!reader

[toorusluvr]

… ⇢ ˗ˏˋ F.O.M.L ࿐ྂ - FUSHIGURO TOJI

characters: coach!fushiguro toji x volleyball player f!reader

cw: college!au + volleyball!au + penetrative s*x + missionary + slight impact play (slapping)

word count: 1.9k 

note from nis: f.o.m.l stands for fucks or makes love. the skipped scene is intentional by the way :))) i didnt want to drag unnecessary stuff so i just got into the smut part.

Everyone in your team was talking about what they should wear for the event tonight. Your college volleyball team finally made it to the final round of collegiate level, together with 10 other colleges from other states. Tonight’s event is a remarkable day for each and every one of your team members, including your coach.

Your coach, Fushiguro Toji, though he’s not really friendly and very strict, has worked so hard to get your team to this level. Coach Toji has been with your college’s volleyball team ever since 3 years ago when you first joined the team. The man’s body is literally sculpted and his abs can make everyone else around him drool at the sight of it. 

He’s well, uh, not really fond of using nicer words. Surprisingly, it’s effective how being straightforward can lead your volleyball team to victory. His lead successfully brings justice to how hard your team has worked for the past few years, despite your college not wanting to boost your team’s potential. 

With Coach Toji’s help and determination, your team finally made it to the top. Which is why your team was beyond excited to attend tonight’s event. You sure didn’t miss their genuine smiles and laughter in the locker room trying to decide which dress they should don tonight. Everyone’s happy, and so do you.

“Alright, girls, chop chop! Hurry up!” the assistant coach yelled from the bus’ door, asking your team members to hurry the hell up because she didn’t want to be late to the party. She informed you guys that Coach Toji was already waiting at the event. 

Not wanting to get on the man’s nerve, you guys literally ran in your heels to get on board. After the assistant coach ensured everyone was there, she told the driver to start driving. Chit chatters filled the bus as you slowly felt yourself falling asleep on the shaking bus. 

Once the bus arrived at the venue, your team members walked to the banquet hall together. As soon as you stepped foot into the hall, the familiar figure of your coach came into your sight. He was with… a woman. You have never seen her before. 

Oh, right. Coach Toji kinda has a girlfriend, he mentioned it before maybe once or twice. Only because several other staff members were asking him about it. 

The woman was linking arms with Toji, talking while smiling to each other together with a few other unrecognised faces. An uneasy feeling coiled in your stomach as his piercing gaze met yours. You diverted your gaze hurriedly, not knowing what to do because you aren’t exactly close with him either. 

Yes, he is your coach but that does not mean you have a close relationship with him. He seems… unapproachable most of the time. 

Your teammates gathered around the bar, whispering to one another while eyes fixated on your coach’s figure, stoic expression on his face as always, who was having a conversation with some other people. He was too busy with them, not sparing a glance to the team under his care. 

“Hands to God, I’ve never seen our coach with a woman before. I almost thought he is… not straight,” one of your teammates opened her mouth, sipping on her cocktail after dropping the bomb out of the blue.

Your teammates gasped, all heads nodded in agreement. They all thought of the same thing. Today was one of the rarest days in history– seeing your coach with a woman! 

Another one of your teammates’ laughter erupted, disrupting the momentary silence. “He looks… so fond of her. It’s unlike him. He almost killed us during practice but he looks different today. It makes me think… does he fuck or make love?” 

Your drink almost spilled out of your mouth hearing the ridiculous question. The said teammate was known for her unfiltered words. Her question was out of pocket. But, your teammates’ response was the same as your answer. 

“He definitely fucks,” the girl beside you grinned, laughing sinisterly before taking another sip of her cocktail drink. 

Your teammates laughed. Their laughter echoing in the venue, all heads turned to the sound of their laughter. Your head hung low, not wanting to grab the others’ attention or accidentally meet their eyes. 

“But he looks fond of her! My bet is on ‘makes love’,” another one of your teammates spoke but this time it was a different answer. Her answer was the opposite of the majority’s vote. All heads turned towards her, the looks on their faces showed concern. 

Someone cleared their throat and your teammates let out an almost audible gasp. “I’m sorry. Just making way to the drinks,” the gorgeous woman apologised as she made her way to the bar. She was hesitating to interrupt the conversation that caused her to hear everything. 

Your teammates were in full panic mode when Coach Toji’s girlfriend broke the conversation. Shit. She definitely heard your stupid bet on her boyfriend’s sex life. Their sex life. Shit happens and that’s fine.

“Sorry,” your teammates apologised under their breath. Coach Toji’s girlfriend dismissed their apologies, saying it’s fine and turned on her heels. 

“He definitely fucks,” the woman took a sip of her drink, her red lips wrapped on the glass, slowly sipping on her drink as she locked gaze with the rest of your teammates. “It’s nice meeting you, girls.” 

And, she disappeared into the crowds with her heels clicking on the expensive marble floor. 

Your teammates definitely got goosebumps. You looked at her figure disappearing and blended with the crowd, something swirled in your stomach at that moment. 

“So, whatcha say, doll? I told you that your posture needs to be more flexible,” the voice grunted softly as he pushed your legs above your chest, his thick cock penetrating your tight hole with force. You writhed in pain trying to adjust to his size. 

“Pl-please, it hurts,” you gnawed your teeth into your bottom lip as Coach Toji pushed your legs further above your head. The tip of his cock was pushed inside you inch by inch, slowly bottoming out but the girth, it made you scream in agony plus the pleasure. He’s so big and… and it hurts so good that you could never look at him the same again after this. 

Coach Toji felt your whole body squirm underneath him. His purpose for doing this was to test your flexibility, he said. But that was not at all his intention. The man had been eyeing you ever since he joined the club. Such a pretty thing. So delicate and fragile. He wants to break you, spoil you with everything he has to offer, and teaches you to be tough because you are so weak. So weak underneath him moaning and whining his name. 

You were helpless. As much as you would love to hate the fact that you’re being used by your coach like this, you also wanted this to happen. It started when you had a dream about Coach Toji and it wouldn’t stop there. You wanted to feel him— feel his hands all over you and inside you. 

“Bend your legs more, doll. Did you not hear a word I just fucking said?” He seethed, a firm slap across your face that subconsciously made you moan in pleasure. Did you just moan from being slapped? That definitely crossed one item from your bucket list.

Coach Toji does not tolerate disobedience. Ever. He tells you what to do, you fucking follow what he says. 

He bent your legs, pushing the plush thighs against you. Your back arched, his cock hitting deeper into your g-spot. It was new. The whole feeling you experienced right now was new. Toji was introducing you to plenty of new things. Instead of telling, he preferred to show you it instead. 

The pressure of your legs pressing onto your abdomen almost killed you. Coach Toji didn’t give you time to stretch your body, hence the pain. His hips started rocking slowly to build his rhythm before bringing your hand over his shoulder. Your hand was placed on his built muscle, nails clawing on his glorious skin. The bite of your teeth on your lips hurt. But not as painful as how Toji’s cock was stretching you out and pushing your orgasm over the edge. 

Coach Toji grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eyes. His hair stuck on his forehead, sweats dripping on his temples. The sound of his grunts while burying his cock deep inside you drove you insane. The size of his cock that you couldn’t fit at first but now your cunt clenching around it and wouldn’t be the same without it. 

“You’re so fucking tight. I love how you taste, doll,” he smirked. The scar on his lips inched upwards, showing how fucking attractive this man is. No other man could ever match the standard Toji has set for you the moment his rough hand touched your delicate body. 

You moaned, eyes shut closed as his hips roughly snapped against yours. Toji won't stop until you come for him. His massive hands circled around your thighs, tightly holding your thighs together binding them close so he could fuck your tight cunt. The position only made you scream louder. 

His pace was harsh and fast. ‘Coach Toji definitely fucks.’ You suddenly remembered the stupid assumption your teammate made just a few days ago. Now, you are his fucktoy, all his to use. He got you all to himself to satisfy his needs. 

Coach Toji noticed the hazy look on your face. He gave a deep thrust— a sudden one that snapped you out of your thoughts. “Fucking look at me when I am fucking you, doll. My cock got you all dumb, huh?” His hand tapping your cheek firmly. 

Your breath staggered, not knowing how to respond to his words. His piercing gaze looked down on you, his hips ruthlessly fucked your drenched cunt. The sound of his balls slapping against your plush thighs filled the silence. Your moans slipped out and he shut your mouth with an angry kiss. 

His teeth bit on your lower lip in an unforgiving motion. You moaned in his mouth, your eyes locked together. “I’m close,” the last word dragged in a whiny voice. The tight feeling in your lower stomach filled your system. Your mouth formed into an ‘O’ shape, breathy moans escaped past your lips at Toji’s unforgiving pace. God, it made you want to scream louder and louder until you squirted around his cock. 

But, Coach Toji was a better man. He knew you were close, and so did he, so he pulled out his cock, leaving you empty. His rough fingertips found your clit and he rubbed on the sensitive bundle of nerves furiously. Your breath was getting out of control, your hands gripping tightly on his shoulders leaving crescent marks on his skin. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit, I’m gonna-” you started to squeal in a high-pitched tone. His fingers flicked your clit mercilessly until you squirted like you desired in your wet dreams. Coach Toji watched you struggle to keep your thighs open as you continued making a mess on the couch. 

You panted heavily from the crazy orgasm you just had in your entire life. Coach Toji definitely fucks so hard, you ought to tell your teammates but that will jeopardise everything. 

Coach Toji was determined to test your flexibility again. He definitely would work you out the next time he wants you again.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji x reader #toji smut

[dreamwatch]

STWG daily prompt 09/10/23

Prompt: balcony

c/w outing

****

“It’s beautiful, Eddie.”

And it really is. A two storey house over looking the beach. Real wood floors, so many windows, leaving the house bright and airy. The furniture was all new, too. There was a huge beige sectional in the living room and Wayne didn’t think he knew enough people to fill it. It was crazy.

And the view. There had been no money for vacations when Eddie was growing up, so save for the occasional camping trip they made do with looking at brochures from the travel agency in Hawkins. And they would plan. Make lists of all the places they were going to go. Picked their hotels and their holiday homes. Always the biggest suite available. Always with sandy white beaches and clear blue seas, swimming pools and cocktails.

This place was all those vacations rolled into one.

“You like it?”

Wayne just nods back, feels a little choked if he’s honest. He’s so fucking proud of this kid. Every achievement in his life has been hard won, no one handed him anything on a platter. Even for this, he worked his ass off and Wayne knows for a fact Eddie pushed himself, pushed the band, into touring more than was good for them. Eddie had become a workaholic over the last couple of years, something Wayne was going to have to keep an eye on. Though the distance made it hard.

The day Eddie left Hawkins was bittersweet. It broke Wayne’s heart, truth be told, but he did the thing you’re supposed to do when you’re a parent. Stood outside their trailer and sent his boy off into the world and told him the door was always open. That had been five years ago and Eddie hadn’t stepped foot in Hawkins since then.

And look at him now, buying fancy beach front property. Wayne walked out onto the balcony and shook his head. They were a million miles away from that trailer right now.

“You know I’ve a mind to take a photograph of this and stick it on a poster in the middle of Hawkins.” He spread his hands out, framing the imaginary image. “‘Welcome to Eddie Munson’s beach side abode.’ It would be worth the cost just to watch people choke.”

Eddie gives him an impish grin. “Uncle Wayne, this isn’t my house.”

He frowns back. “Please tell me we’re not trespassing, Ed, I’m on vacation son, I just want a nice-“. He stops when Eddie grabs his hands and drops a set of keys into it, a heavy key ring attached. A single silver ‘W’.

“This is your house.”

There’s silence for a while, though anyone with really good hearing would hear the cogs screeching to a halt in his head. 

“I don’t understand.”

Eddie leans back against the balcony guardrail to face Wayne. “I bought it for you. I want you to live out here with me. I fucking miss you, old man, I hate it. Hate not having you close by. So. Yeah.” He ends with a shrug.

“Can you even afford this? I mean, you have a place already, can you afford another?”

Eddie nods. “I can afford it. Bought this outright, it’s yours, bank doesn’t own a single square inch. My place is mortgaged. I figure, you know, I fuck everything up eventually, so I still need a home to come back to when it all comes to an end.” Wayne tuts at him, hates the way he puts himself down. Hang over from school, and his parents. He thinks it’s so deeply ingrained he’ll never break him out if it now.

“I took the liberty of picking my room out, but the masters all yours.”

“Son, I don’t know…”

Eddie’s face falls. “You don’t like it. I should have asked. Fuck, I knew it, I shouldn’t have just assumed you’d want to move, you have a life back-“

“Eddie-“

“-and I didn’t even consider if you’d like to pick out your own home, like, who fucking does that, and I don’t even let you-“

“Eddie!”

“Yeah?”

“Calm down, son.”

“Okay.”

“I love it.”

Large brown eyes meet his, full of hope. Not without some fear. “Do you mean it? Because we can look elsewhere? Like, another neighbourhood, maybe? You know, if you don’t like this one.”

Wayne laughed. “Where’s your place? In relation to this?”

“Fifteen minute drive.”

“Hmm, fifteen minutes beats thirty hours, I think.”

“It’s only five hours if you fly.”

“Fifteen minutes beats five hours, too.”

So that’s how Wayne Munson, previously of Forest Hill’s trailer park, winds up living in a million dollar beach house in California.

—-

It’s weird, the not working, the finding of a new routine when yours has been the same for literally decades. He’s a creature of habit, likes a little order. So he still wakes early every morning. Still likes to sit out and smoke every evening. Only now he gets to do that lying on a lounger on a huge balcony watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean. It’s a new routine he’s very happy to have.

—-

“That boy of yours working yet?”

They’re sitting, knocking back a couple of beers watching the sunset. Eddie’s been spending more time here lately, and Wayne loves it, but he’s also not an idiot.

Eddie nods before finishing the last if his beer. “Yeah. Got some modelling work coming up.”

Wayne hums.

“Don’t, Wayne. Not tonight.”

So they don’t.

—-

Eddie swings by as much as he can when he’s not touring or working. Wayne worries about him everytime he heads into LA, especially since the riots, but he tries not to mollycoddle. He’s twenty seven now. Not a kid anymore.

But he’s touring a lot. They just got back from the biggest one yet, 331 days, 189 shows. It’s too much. Wayne hates it. But Eddie doesn’t listen. So on they go.

—-

“Forgot to tell you, I got a postcard from Curly.”

“I can’t believe you still call him that,” laughs Eddie.

Dustin will always be Curly to him, and no rockstar is going to tell him otherwise.

“He’s hiking on the Appalachian Trail, did you know that? Think he’s got the Wheeler boy with him, too.”

“I did know that, they tried to get me to go with them.”

Wayne stares at him likes he got two heads. “Have they not met you before?”

Eddie splutters. “I’ll have you know I’m incredibly fit. Touring is hard work. I’m in peak physical condition, thank you.”

They laugh at the thought of Dustin Henderson and Mike Wheeler hiding from bears and finish another couple of beers, watching the sun go down.

—-

Wayne has started to build a new routine. He likes to walk in the early evening. He tried it after lunch one day and nearly collapsed. (He never told Eddie about that.) So now he heads out around five in the afternoon when the temperature is a little more manageable, and has a leisurely stroll around the neighbourhood or along the beach before heading back to the house.

The first thing he notices when he comes through his front door is the hold-all on the floor, barely zipped up and hastily packed.

“Ed?”

He doesn’t get a response but the sliding door is open and he just makes out the figure curled up on a lounger. 

“Son?”

“Can I stay a couple of nights?” There’s a broken sound to his voice, like he’s been crying. Wayne hates it.

“You know you never have to ask.” 

Wayne brings them both beers, and takes his usual seat. Just waits.

“There’s going to be an article in the press. Don’t know the details, but looks like I’m being outed.”

And there it is.

“By who?”

Eddie looks at him forlornly. “Does it matter?”

“And what does… Luke, does he know?”

“He’s leaving tonight. I just didn’t want to be there until he’s gone.”

“Good. I’ll go round tomorrow make sure he’s out. Get the locks changed.”

They sit for a while, listening to the ocean. 

“Is it so bad? Hmm? You got a lot of fans now, people love you. They wouldn’t care.”

“You don’t know that,” Eddie replies, sounding pained. “And it’s not just me. I have to think of the others. If they take me down they might take the band with it. And…” he looks at Wayne, large brown eyes spilling with tears. “It was mine. They had no right to take that from me.”

“You’re a public figure though,” Wayne sighs, hates he’s having to say this. “It was always a possibility, hmm? Not saying it’s right, just… just saying.”

They finish their beers in silence before Wayne cracks open a bottle of whisky Eddie bought him a couple of years back. Pricey, he knows, but if ever it was needed it’s now.

—

It’s news, for a while, but mostly in some of the shittier publications. There are jokes and taunting in some of the rock magazines, and it starts being a thing interviewers want to talk about. Their management company make sure everyone knows it’s off limits. 

Wayne hates it so much.

—-

He puts up some wind chimes. He spends more time out on that balcony than in the living room, so he decides it’s time to jazz it up a bit. He’s far enough from his neighbours that it shouldn’t bother them, but he also doesn’t give a shit.

Just as he sits the phone rings, and he needs to get a line out here, because somehow it doesn’t matter who it is they always get him the moment he sits down.

He’s a little rude when he answers the phone.

“Uh, Mister Munson?”

“Yes, and who is this?”

“It’s Steve Harrington, sir, I don’t know if you remember me? Um, from Hawkins?”

Yes. Yes he remembers Steve very well. You tend to remember people when they save your kids life. Tend to remember them when they spend a lot of time with your kid afterwards.

“I remember you, Steve. Don’t worry about that. I didn’t know you were in contact with Eddie again, he’s not here I’m afraid, he’s on tour, not sure where is today-“

“Sydney. He’s in Sydney.” Steve clears his throat, and there’s something about the tone.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s okay,” Steve gets in as fast as he can, “he’s- honestly, he’s going to be fine.”

“What’s wrong, Steve?”

“He collapsed, on stage.”

Wayne feels the air leave his lungs, doesn’t realise he’s made a noise until Steve cuts in.

 “He’s okay, but they’re keeping in the hospital overnight, doctors are saying it’s exhaustion, so they’re getting fluids into him and they want him on bed rest for a while. He hit his head on the edge of the drum riser when he went down, so he’s got a few stitches and he’s gonna have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. But he’s going to be okay.” 

Eddie’s home two days later, Steve in tow carrying the bags, and he looks terrible. Gaunt, dark circles that need more than a good nights sleep to erase, and a gauze dressing in the middle of a dark purple bruise on his temple. He looks pitiful. Wayne pulls him into a gentle hug and he feels Eddie go loose in his arms. 

“Let’s get you up to bed, hmm? We can talk later.”

After, Wayne takes Steve out on to the balcony, and closes the door behind him.

“Thank you, for looking after him.”

Steve smiles. “You don’t have to thank me for that, he’s my… he’s my friend. I’ll always look after him.”

Wayne thinks on that for a while. He can read between the lines as well as anyone else. 

“I didn’t know you were back,” together?, “in contact.”

“Yeah, a few months back, Dustin’s wedding? Yeah, it um… yeah it was nice. Unexpected.” He sees the look on Steve’s face. Knows that look. Saw it on both their faces back in Hawkins before Eddie left to conquer the world.

“So, when do you go home?”

Steve taps out a rhythm on the side of his can. “I got a couple of days of leave I’m gonna take, just till I know he’s okay. But I need to get home soon, work you know.” He carries on with his tapping and Wayne thinks he recognises it, one of Gareth’s grooves. Catchy. Not that he’d ever say that to the band.

“I, uh. I’m thinking of moving out here, actually.”

There’s a couple walking along the beach, their dogs racing back and forth and in and out of the ocean. They can hear them laughing from here. 

“This is a nice neighbourhood. You know, if you were looking for a place to settle.”

Wayne can see Steve smile and nod out of the corner of his eye.

“So I’ve heard.”

—-

They’re out on the balcony at one am with a bottle of champagne and three beers. He’s usually very respectful, but tonight his attitude is very much ‘fuck the neighbours’.

“So, where you gonna put it?” Wayne asks.

Eddie sways, he’s been celebrating all evening, long before he arrived here with Steve. The two of them in sharp tailored suits and shiney shoes. Wayne should get a photo before they take them off. Eddie in actual shoes.

Eddie leans over and grabs it, the gold gramophone glimmering under the balcony lighting. 

“Hmm… I was thinking right over there,” he says, pointing to a litte decorative table on the other side of the sliding doors.

Wayne’s stares at him, confused. “You got to take it home, put it somewhere where everyone will see it.”

“I don’t need everyone to see it. I just need us to see it.”

Maybe it’s the champagne and the beer he’s been mixing, but suddenly it all hits him. The heat in his face, the stuffy nose. Ten years. Ten years of hard work.  

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” He dabs at his eyes, and he watches as Eddie wipes his on his shirt, Steve tutting at him about using a handkerchief.

Wayne grabs the Grammy and takes it inside, placing it on the table next to the photograph of Eddie and Steve that he likes to keep close by. 

They spend the night out on the balcony, drinking and talking, wind chimes twinkling, and they wait for the sun to rise.

#stwgdailyprompt #eddie munson #wayne munson #steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson #steddie #steddie fanfic #my writing #dreamy writes #steddie fanfiction #cw outing

[celandeline]

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (19)

It’s well past midnight when the party is over, and even later than that when I retreat upstairs, following after a drunk Venetia to make sure she doesn’t fall on the steps. My feet hurt from my borrowed heels, and the thin straps of the blue cocktail dress Venetia gave me are beginning to cut into the skin of my shoulders. 

“You’re sure you don’t need help getting out of your dress?” I ask as Venetia opens the door of her room. 

“You just want to see me naked.” She teases, leaning so that her nose almost brushes mine. 

“And what if I do?” I tease back. 

Venetia giggles. “Goodnight Evie.”

“Night V.” I return, heading into my own room. 

This time, when I see Farleigh sprawled over my bed, I’m not as surprised. He grins, tilting his head. “Do you need any help getting out of your dress?” He drawls. 

I shrug out of the straps, wincing as the elastic scrapes across my tender shoulders. “No, but if you wanted to rub the red marks out of my shoulders, I wouldn’t say no.”

He rolls his eyes, but sits up, gesturing for me to sit on the floor in front of him between his knees. The straps of the dress dangling from my shoulders, I sit down, tipping my head back against the edge of the bed so that I can look up at him while he kneads at my shoulders. 

“So.” I ask. 

“So.” He replies, eyes flicking between where his hands work against the indents left from the straps and my eyes. 

“What brings you to my bedroom?” I ask, grinning. “Besides the obvious things.”

“The obvious things being..?” He asks, the look in his eyes telling me that he knows exactly what I’m implying. He’ll never say it though, not unless I make him. 

“That you’re madly in love with me.” I say.

He laughs, just a little breathy thing, and rolls his eyes again, but notably doesn’t deny it, only - “That seems a bit dramatic.” He says. “But - if you must know, Oliver said some… things.”

“I see.” I say. “You’ve come to complain.”

He digs his fingers into a particularly sore part of my shoulders, and I sigh, melting further against the bed. “I’ll leave, if you want.” His tone is teasing, and his eyes twinkle.

“No, no.” I say. The thought of him taking his hands away from my shoulders seems like the worst thing in the world right now. “Keep going. Tell me about Oliver.”

He continues his massaging. “When you and Felix and V got up to get drinks, I asked him, fuck, chuck or marry - Richard III, Henry VII, or Henry XIII?”

“Fuck Richard III, marry Henry XIII, chuck Henry VII.”

Farleigh hums. “Interesting. I also said fuck Richard III, but I would have switched the other two. Not the point - he, first, outright says that I could just fuck him instead, which, what the hell does that mean? And then, second, tries to talk to me about how he understands what it's like to come from an unstable home and how humiliating it must be for me to have to ask James and Elspeth for everything, which is such bullshit coming from him. I swear, he gets off on having to ask Felix for help.”

“Mm.” I say. From what I know about Farleigh - from what Venetia has told me and what I can piece together from the way the rest of the family talks about him when he’s not around - it’s something of a sore spot, how his mother is running on fumes and how he has to beg for James and Elspeth’s kindness. From what I know about Oliver, he’s been riding on Felix’s coattails since they became friends, and happily. I’ve seen it myself, the adoring way that he looks at Felix, and how he devours even the smallest kindnesses with such vigor it’s almost disturbing. It’s a little offensive, that Oliver would pretend to understand how Farleigh feels when he so clearly doesn’t mind having to beg at all. 

“He knows that I don’t like him. I don’t hate him, obviously, but I don’t-” He pauses. “He just gets under my skin. I mean, he would lick the dirt out from between Felix’s toes if he asked him to, and he would smile about it. It’s pathetic, but it’s exactly the sort of shit that makes these people go wild, and I can’t-” He stops, and lets his hands slide from my shoulders. “Sorry.”

I turn in my spot on the floor so that I can look at him. “Sorry for what?”

He waves a hand through the air, dismissive. “It’s stupid, really. Felix’ll get tired of Oliver by the end of the summer and that’ll be that.”

“Sure.” I say, standing up from the floor. “But it seemed like, and you can correct me if I’m wrong here, you were going to say that you can’t grovel like Oliver does. And I don’t think that’s stupid to be mad about. You shouldn’t have to grovel, I mean, these people are your family.”

Farleigh sighs, turning his head to look out the window, out over the pitch blackness of the grounds. “Yeah.”

“Sucks.” I say, sitting on the bed beside him. 

He turns to look at me as I do, his eyes searching mine. I let him, and after a moment he groans, and flops back onto my mattress. I follow him back with a grin, propping myself up on my side so that I can look down at him. For a minute, we just look at each other, before he breaks the silence. 

“You’re a pretty good singer.” He says. 

“So are you.” I return easily, my free hand moving to brush through his curls, playing with the coarse strands, pulling at the little ringlets. 

His eyes flutter shut as my fingernails scratch against his scalp. I take the opportunity to let my eyes wander over his face. I could stare at him for hours and be content the whole time. If I were a painter, he would be my favorite subject. A modern reimagining of Apollo. 

“You’re just looking at me.” He says, eyes still closed. 

Even though he can’t see my face, I smile. “I’m always looking at you.” I say, dropping my voice in the same way that he did that night on the roof. 

He opens his eyes to meet mine. He almost looks helpless, looking up at me with wide eyes while I play with his hair. 

I lean down, slowly, stopping when the barest hint of our lips brush together. I can feel his sharp intake of breath against my cheek, and before he can say anything, I ask, “Will you unzip my dress?”

He swallows. “Sure.”

Backing away, I slip off the bed, and turn so that my back is toward him. I feel him stand up behind me, and I pull my hair over my shoulder, exposing the zipper. His slender fingers tug at the zip until the dress falls open. I don’t bother holding it up, letting it fall to the floor and leaving me in my underwear. 

I turn back around. There’s a needy look in his eye, and for a moment, I’m tempted, but there’s still a good month of the summer left. Better to stretch it out, I think. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“Okay. Yeah.” He says, sliding past me to head towards the door. Once he reaches it, he lingers, one hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for letting me vent.”

“‘Course.” I say, following him over to the door. “I always like talking to you.”

Farleigh laughs, disbelieving. “Sure.”

“No, really.” I say, winding a hand into his shirt. Gently, I pull him down until we are face to face. I watch his eyes search mine, still just as helpless and needy as before. I let my gaze drop to his lips so he knows what’s coming. 

I tilt my head to close the gap between us, and he meets me halfway, our lips meeting in a warm embrace. Using the hand I have wound into his shirt, I pull him flush to me, and his hands settle on the small of my back. His hands are warm, and he kisses like he’s hungry for it, like he’s been waiting. And I know he has. 

Just when things are getting really hot and heavy, and his hands have started to wander, I pull back, gently sinking my teeth into his bottom lip. 

He groans, low and whiny in the back of his throat. “Fuck.”

I slide out of his hold, and step back into my room. “Goodnight Farleigh.”

He grins, and opens the door. “‘Night Eves.”

I watch him slip out into the hall, and wait until the door’s fully shut behind him to giggle, and flop back down on my bed. 

< previous part | next part >

#farleigh start x oc #farleigh start x reader #saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh x reader #saltburn x reader

[l0vergirlwrites]

no pressure ; matthew murdock

warnings: mentions of sex, anxiety, few swear words, suggestiveness, comfort!matt

matthew & you as a couple was sill fairly new.

he hasn’t been in a serious relationship since electra, & you have never been in one either. so, you both had a lot to catch up & learn. besides learning each other’s love languages, favourite foods, hygiene habits, etc, you both still struggle with communication at times—especially when it comes to going to the next level in your relationship: intimacy.

for matthew, he’s had his fair share of intimate nights with partners, but you—you have never gone that far yet. & by knowing matthew’s history, you felt embarrassed & discouraged in telling him your inexperience with intimacy.

you tried avoiding the conversation for as long as you could, just telling matthew that you wanted to “take things slow & easy” for a while. & it did work… but only for five months.

it all started when matthew pulled you into a kiss after some lawyer ball the firm was invited to attend. the whole group, consisting of foggy, karen, matthew, & yourself had dressed up in your best attire to enjoy an evening of cocktails, expensive appetizers, & networking connections.

the whole night was a success, but matthew couldn’t help but feel his mind race at the thought of the way you felt tonight.

your perfume

your dress

your touch

he wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t help but feel like he needed to show you how you made him feel… in other ways.

so when you both arrived to his apartment after deciding you’d spend the night at his, matthew tapped your chin & held your cheek, pulling you into a long kiss. your clutch fell out of your hand & thumped onto the ground as your hands held onto the lapels of his suit jacket.

“you,” kiss “were” kiss “amazing tonight” matthew mumbled as he continued to kiss your lips, eventually leading you to smile, teeth clashing against his own for a moment.

“shouldn’t i be saying that to you, mr. murdock? those other lawyers thought you were the shit” your compliment made matthew laugh into your neck as he peppered kisses along your skin, his hands running down towards your thighs as you leaned against his wall.

“say mr. murdock again & see where that’ll get you, won’t ya?” he teased, only to kiss your lips again when you repeated it, turning your giggles into heavy breaths.

soon enough, you were making out on the couch—hands holding whatever they could. yours were in matthew’s messy hair while his were on your ass, firmly holding you in place as you straddled his slack covered lap.

each kiss, each breath, each touch—you could feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of bliss, & you knew matthew was feeling it too. it wasn’t until a kiss on your neck made you bite back a small moan, & make you grow quiet & stiff in matthew’s grip.

he could smell your arousal building throughout the last while on the couch, but the tension bubbling on your skin made him pull away from your neck & raise his hands to your waist. “what’s wrong? did i-i do something? do you want to stop?” he asked carefully, his concern dripped with nothing but love.

but you thought the worst of it.

staying still in his lap, you felt your mouth grow dry. “n-no it wasn’t you, i just uh… fuck. i don’t know how to say it” you rushed, running your hands over your warm face in embarrassment.

with an end outing rub on your waist, matthew tutted. “sweetheart, you can tell me. i’m a big boy, i can handle it” he assured, sensing you peeking through your fingers before they dropped to your lap.

silence over took you for a moment as you fidgeted your fingers, hearing matthew let out a nervous breath.

“i’ve never had sex” you blurted, awkwardness rising in your chest at saying your fear out loud. “& i’m scared you won’t want me… it’s stupid i know—“

“it is stupid” matthew cut you off, shaking his head a little when he took one of your nervous hands into his.

“how could i not want you because of that?” matthew genuinely asked, not sure of where this idea of yours came from.

he knew it possibly stemmed from insecurity, but he needed you to say it.

shrugging your shoulders, you felt yourself caving into your body. “i never dated anyone…never hooked up… never had a boyfriend… no one has ever wanted me until now” you trailed on, your lips in the shape of a frown at hearing your loneliness be spoken about out loud.

matthew’s lips also frowned at the sound of your heartbeat slowing in a sad tempo, so he pulled you closer to his chest in a hug. you hid your face in his neck, eyes shut & breathing slow as you tried to relax. his hands worked their way along your back until one hand cradled the back of your head.

“i don’t care that you’ve never had sex before. that isn’t a deal breaker for me. never has been, never will be. okay? i’ll always want you y/n…” he told you firmly, trying his hardest to make you understand that you could trust him, be vulnerable to him without shame.

he felt your nod your head before a sigh slipped your lips. “i-i want you to be my first, i really do. i just don’t know when i’ll be fully ready” you confessed, hoping that he wouldn’t be questioning if he did something wrong.

“& that’s okay. i can wait for you, y/n. wanna treat you good when you want it, yeah?” he kissed your head once he felt the tension in your shoulders subside & you held onto him tighter.

“thank you” you pressed a kiss to his neck, your nose soon rubbing over the spot tenderly.

“no,” he paused, bringing your face to be in front of his. “thank you”

with your anxiousness dissipating in the air, you kissed the palm of matthew’s hand. “lemme treat you to a shower hmm? with the fancy body wash?” he suggested, just wanting to be close to you in a way that you both have done on multiple occasions—it was his way of showing you that things were good.

leaning into his touch, you couldn’t help but smile & feel warm. you felt lucky that he was so understanding.

“yeah, i’d like that”

#celebrities #charlie cox fanfiction #charlie cox #mcu daredevil #charlie cox imagines #mcu fanfiction #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock mcu #matt murdock blurb #matthew murdock oneshot #charlie cox fanfic #netflix daredevil #mcu x you

[radskull-69]

ੈ✩‧₊˚make a wish ੈ✩‧₊˚

mafia fell sans x reader

“So… did ya make that wish?” A deep voice cut through the quiet air, save for the crickets and the muffled music behind you both. The party still going on held by the don himself despite it bleeding into the late hours, for whatever reason you weren’t told.

“Pardon?” You looked over to the owner of the voice, a monster you’ve grown closer to despite yourself. Sans. He wasn’t looking at you though. Rather, at the stars with a look you couldn’t place. But eventually those sharp red eye lights turned their attention to you, and that look on his face didn’t waver

“Ya wish, ya know? You humans have this thing where ya wish on a shooting star or somethin’. Or are you too good for that?” Towards the end of his sentence he shot you his infamous teasing grin and nudged you slightly, almost making you fall off the cement bench dramatically and into the wet grass under you both.

you lightly slapped his arm next to you and ignored his chuckles, huffing through your nose as you regained your composure. Smoothing out the fancy attire you were forced to wear with a roll of your eyes.

“It’s hard to focus on the stars when there’s an annoying skeleton by my side, did you wish on it though? Since your staring so tensely at the sky I doubt you’d miss anything.”

you nodded your head up to the sky in question, you were always wondering what was going through that thick skull of his. Maybe knowing what he’d wish for would help you understand how he ticks, but he’s a secretive man like that so you doubt it. You don’t even know his favourite food..

“My wish? Heh, what would I wish for? I’ve got everythin’ I want riiiight here~” with a all too sly grin he stretched his large arm over your shoulder and before you couldn’t retort he pulled you flush into his side, his cologne that reminded you of smokes and roses filling your nose immediately.

“But I wouldn’t mind a cocktail right about now…” he muttered under his breath as he looked away in annoyance, making your souring mood lighten at his dismay. With a chuckle you couldn’t hold back you decided just this once you’d let him hold you, but maybe that’s just the drinks from earlier talking for you.

“I think you had more than enough to drink for one night Mr Serif, you’re already making a fool of yourself. More than usual I mean.” You leaned your head back a bit to look at the stars shining as bright as they could, your hands in your lap as you sighed slightly

the situation would’ve been romantic, sitting in a fancy garden filled with flowers, statues and hedges as you both looked up at the stars. A party you both abandoned going on behind you despite your lack of absence.

but you had to remind yourself to not forget yourself, you doubt anything good would come of it if you mingled with sans. Anymore than you already have you mean.

“Oh fuck off, i can handle my drinks. But ya didn’t answer my question.” The feeling of hard bone fingers gently grabbed your chin, tilting your head away from the sky to look at him instead. A grin tugging further on his face as he looked down at you.

“Whaddya wish for sweetheart? I’m a curious skeleton, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll make it come true.” You felt yourself go tense as he leaned down further to reach your level, impossibly close it made your heart stutter more than your speech. But you didn’t lean back, either because of his grip on your chin or because you didn’t want to your not sure.

“I-I want…” you could barely get the words out, looking down at those sharp teeth you’ve seen hundreds of times before. The gold canine of his glinting in the dim lights of the night, you pulled your gaze away from them to look him in the eye lights.

”go one sweetheart, I’m all yer’s..” sans started to close his eyes(?) as he leaned further, his breath washing over your lips. But he paused, waiting to hear your wish as his hand let go of your chin, it instead slip down your collar bones and arms to grip at your hand in your lap. Rubbing his finger over the back of it.

“I want..” you sucked in a breath, feeling his teeth nudge against your lips. Your face felt like it was hotter then grillby on a bad day, and in a flustered panic you shout something that was far from the truth.

“I wish for the moon!” You shouted, your face red and your body stiff as a board. You could barely process what you said.

…

sans blinked his eyes open, looking at you for a moment before leaning back up. Towering over you once again, a incredulous slapped across his face

“Tha moon..?” He slowly looked away from you to stared at the moon, before back at you with his head titled. It was funny as it was cute.

“You’ll get your kiss when you get me that, you said you could. And you wouldn’t break a promise, would you sans?” You put on the best smug smile you could, pushing down the butterflies on your stomach as you one upped him for once.

“Oh cmon now that ain’t fair, that’s a lot of work for a lazy bones like me. How’d I even get up there!?” He slipped his hand out of yours and chuffed, getting out a cigar from his pants with a scowl. But you could tell he wasn’t as angry as he tried to look.

“What? It’s my wish, so I expect you to respect it. I’m not to blame if you can’t make it true.” You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned back against the bench.

“Fuck you and your wish.” You wouldn’t ever say it but it almost looked as if he was pouting, trying again and again to light his cigar as he held it between his sharp teeth. But his lighter refused to work, making him grow more agitated.

With a chuckle and some thought you grabbed sans collar with your when and pulled him over to you, barley anymore than an inch between you. Grabbing the lighter from his now limo hold, looking at him with lidded eyes as you lit his cigar first try.

“Go make a new wish and cry about it.” You felt proud of yourself for how cool you looked saying that, once his cigar was lit you leaned back to your spot and tossed him his lighter.

Sans stayed where he was for a bit, frozen before his skull exploded in his signature colour. Sitting up suddenly and swearing profusely as he took quick puffs, blowing red smoke into the air around you. His eyes glaring at the ground as he blush illuminated you in a red glow

“Fuckin’ tease… next time I see a shooting star I’ll wish for ya ass to be handed to you.

you couldn’t hold back the laugh that spilled from your lips at his angry and flustered state, a rare sight only you got to see and it was one you made sure to remember for days to come.

#sans #Undertale #sans x reader #mafiafell #mafiafellsans #underfell #inspired by dangerously yours #rad writes

[kingofthering]

VR46 Marc AU + scene at Luca's wedding

When they’re all done with the last hot dish, the music starts getting louder around them and Marc assumes they’re getting a break before dessert is served. He uses it to get up, taking his half-full glass with him.

When he wanders off a little, he finds a balcony overlooking the gardens below, a lonely figure already leaning against the railing.

It doesn’t take long for Marc to identify the person it belongs to, the operation made fairly easy by the curls and the outfit. 

(Marc still doesn’t understand how Valentino was allowed to change into something so casual for the party after looking so put together for the ceremony but if he’s being real, it’s very Valentino, he shouldn’t be so surprised.) 

“Can I?” Marc asks as he leans his forearms on the railing close to Valentino. 

His face doesn’t scream “no fuck off I want to be left alone” but existing in the same space as Valentino so casually is still something Marc is getting himself used to.

Valentino nods. “It’s fine. I assume my family is being exhausting, no?”

Marc chuckles, his head going down and his eyes looking at the flowers below instead of Valentino’s face. What Marc hadn’t expected was for members of Valentino’s family (most of them people he had never met before him) to come to him during the cocktail hour and tell him that it was nice to see him here.

The most unexpected person of them all had been Valentino’s mom. “I never interfere in Valentino’s personal relationships but I’ve always told him it was silly that the two of you had grown apart so much, it’s been nice to see you two get closer since you signed for his team,” Stefania had said, rendering Marc fully mute. Then she had put her hand on his arm, added “But don’t tell him I told you that or he’s going to accuse me of meddling and we don’t want that” before smiling at him with a knowing look and leaving him standing there, alone and confused as fuck.

Valentino’s father didn’t come to Marc but that was to be expected. Marc was fine with being ignored in that regard.

“You know, I was kind of coming in expecting death threats, so,” Marc laughs, finally looking at Valentino again. “I can handle everyone being extra Italian, it’s fine.”

#rpf #vr46 marc au #this was my least favorite option but I continued writing the scene to get something okay #still not fully satisfied but whatever #4693 #(still just a tiny bit annoyed that I moved luca's wedding by one year but it was for the plot) #yes it’s very cliché but it’s their actual convo after I’m interested in

[sweetandgentlecreature]

Colder Weather

Author’s Note: Hey, y’all! This week has been crazy. Between work and getting the kiddo started off at the new daycare, I’ve barely had time to hop on here. My TBR is crammed full for this weekend though, and I can’t wait to read all the new works that have come out! This is Part 5 of Somethin’ Sweet, loosely based on the song Colder Weather by the Zac Brown Band. I’m in the process of moving all of the parts to AO3, so keep an eye out for me there as well. Thanks for reading!! 

Summary: Sy learns the truth.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Female OC 

Warnings:  Depictions of anxiety and PTSD triggers, talks of past relationships, adult language, and lots of angst. I am an adult, and due to the nature of this content, all works created by me will be rated for those 18 years and older. Minors, DNI.

Playlist

Sy was out of his comfort zone. He felt so out of place here, sitting alone, a thousand miles away from home. The lights were low; the music was loud. His shirt felt a little too tight, even after he’d loosened the button up top. It seemed to fit just fine when he’d put it on a couple of hours ago, but here, now, he was smothering. At least she didn’t make him wear a tie. Or worse, his dress blues. Fuck that.

 Most people were drunk by now, stumbling around the dance floor and singing off-key while he nursed the same beer he’d had since cocktail hour. He would’ve loved to let loose, to throw back a couple more and let his two left feet lead him out to the dance floor. In another life, maybe he would have. Heavy bass thumped loudly from the speakers as sweaty bodies bumped and grinded to the beat. He was equal parts surprised and impressed by the sheer mass of rap lyrics his girlfriend knew. He didn’t even know she listened to rap. 

They’d met her parents earlier that day, when they’d gone out to use their kitchen. Merrin had done as much prep work on the cake as she could beforehand, but that also meant that they had to drive the 16-hour trek north rather than fly. They seemed like nice enough people. Her father had a firm handshake when he welcomed them inside. For such a petite woman, her mother’s bear-hug nearly knocked the wind out of him. He could see her in their faces; her father’s eyes, her mothers nose and lips. That smile, though…that was all her own. The walls were lined with photos, framed milestones from every era of her life. Pigtails and wide eyes of childhood; shiny braces on the smiles of adolescence; awkwardly posed prom photos and graduation announcements; anything he wanted to know, anything he wanted to see displayed proudly on the walls of her childhood home. He liked seeing the little glimpses into her life before him, and made him curious about their future. Would their children have her eyes? Maybe they’d get that dimple in their chin, just like he has. 

Merrin seemed very close with her father. Watching them together made his heart ache, just a bit. He wished he’d had that kind of relationship with his father. It felt childish to be jealous of that, considering his circumstances. Clayton Sr. had gone to serve overseas when Sy was just a kid. He’ll never forget the look on the officer’s face when he answered the door that day. He’ll never unhear the cries of anguish from his mama, crumpled to her knees on the front porch as they delivered the awful news. Sy didn’t cry that day, or any day since. He was the man of the house now. He had to be strong for her. Sitting here now, he ran a hand down his face and sat back heavily against his chair. He knew what he had to do, if he wanted that kind of bond with his own kids someday. Some things would have to change. 

The tempo changed, as did the mood on the dance floor. Some people left for the bar to get a refill, some paired off to sway to the music. Sy groaned softly as he stretched his legs, when a delicate hand was placed on his shoulder. A soft, familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Care to show an old lady to the dance floor, Captain?” When he met her eyes, he couldn’t help but smile. 

“Pardon me, ma’am, but I don’t see an old lady anywhere. I’d be more than happy to dance with you, if you’ll have me.” Pushing himself to stand, he offered his hand to Merrin’s mother and let her lead him out to the floor. He let her guide him into proper form, taking his hand and placing it politely on her waist and letting the other fall into his open palm as they swayed. He was mindful not to step on her toes, and though she could feel the tension in his shoulder, she didn’t seem to mind his fumbling. She squeezed him gently, reassuring, and beamed up at him. 

“You’re light on your feet. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” she teased. Sy chuckled and shook his head, the tips of his ears burning bashfully.

“Thank ya, ma’am. My mama taught me ta’-”

“Oh, please Clayton. Call me Lisa.”

He laughed again and relented. Mama Syverson would never stand for that, but be it as she was many, many miles from here, he felt safe enough to comply. “Right,” he grinned. “Thank ya, Lisa.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they swayed together. Glimmers of light danced from the disco ball and painted the room in fleeting beams. Lisa’s gaze shifted to settle just past him as she spoke again, drawing his along with it. 

“She seems good. We’ve been so worried about her since she left home.”

At the bar, Merrin was up next. She’d stopped off to grab them each a beer and hadn’t noticed them yet. Sweeping those beautiful mahogany locks over her shoulder, she leaned across the bar to place her order over the noise of the crowd. The dress she’d picked was perfect, a satin little number with delicate straps and a split up one thigh. It hugged every delicious curve perfectly, and she nearly knocked him on his ass when she’d first come out of the bathroom with it on. It took him a moment to pull his attention back to the woman who stood before him, and he nodded as she spoke. 

“Yeah, things are good. She keeps busy with the shop. You should see the line that waits for her to open every mornin’.”

Lisa’s expression changed. Apparently, they weren’t on the same page. Was there more to be concerned about, besides her youngest child moving clear across the country? What was he missing?

“That’s…that’s good,” she said softly, then took a breath. “She hasn’t told you, has she?”

Told him what? Sy’s mind raced as he tried to gauge his girlfriend’s mother’s tone. Had Merrin been keeping something from him? Standing dumbly in front of Lisa, he waited for her to continue. They stopped moving altogether as she braced his shoulders. 

“Oh, honey…I thought you knew. The reason Mer left the Springs was because of Travis. She’d been living down at Fort Carson with him when he got shipped out. They’d never been apart, not for a second, ever since high school. She’d call home every week just to read me the newest letter she’d gotten in the mail.”

Sy’s heart beat out of his chest as he urged her on. He swallowed thickly, but his mouth was too dry to soothe the sting from the bile that built up in the back of his throat. Lisa’s eyes shifted down to her feet for a moment, then back up again. 

“Travis, he…he didn’t make it home. Mer was heartbroken. The day after the funeral, she packed up and left. Couldn’t stand to be here anymore. Reminded her too much of what could’ve been.” She squeezed his arms to get his attention again, but his mind was miles away. “You can’t do that to her, Clayton. We were shocked to hear about you. We thought she’d learned that lesson. You seem like a great guy, truly, but there’s still time. You have to let her go. If something happens to you, she won’t be able to recover.”

He could barely hear the rapid beating of his heart over the loud ringing in his ears. The room was closing in, and he couldn’t breathe. His hands trembled as they fell to his sides. He nearly ran right into her when he turned on his heels to book it out the door. Merrin stumbled a bit and spilled some beer down the side of her dress at the brief moment of impact. Confused, she watched him disappear, then turned to look at her mom for answers. “What happened?” 

Lisa fiddled with the corsage on her wrist to avoid looking her daughter in the eye. She didn’t even have to say it, before Merrin gasped. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Merrin, but he deserved to know. You should have told him.”

Lisa had struck a nerve. Merrin’s nostrils flared as she shoved the amber bottles into her mothers open hands. “I didn’t have to tell him shit, mom, and neither did you!”  She took her exit quickly, the loud clicks of her heels against the dance floor echoing in the lull between songs. Merrin ripped the door open and headed outside to the parking lot. A lingering drizzle of rain left misty drops in her curls as she rounded the corner of the venue to find him propped up against the brick wall. He fumbled with the lighter as he struggled to light the smoke pressed between his trembling lips. It fell to the ground unlit when he looked up again. 

“Why? Why didn’t ya tell me?” 

This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. She’d thought that maybe they’d have a few drinks, dance a little, then maybe fool around a bit back at the hotel. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell him how good he looked in that button down. Now, he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Merrin sighed, ran a hand through her hair and collected her thoughts. 

“I tried. I tried to tell you, Clay, and I just didn’t know how to–”

“You knew exactly what you were doin’ with me. You tried to push me away.” 

He wasn’t fighting fair. 

“Yeah…I did, and look where that got me.” 

She felt like a wounded animal, backed into a corner, trapped and lashing out. She hadn’t realized just how fresh the wounds still were. It felt like a lifetime ago when she’d gotten the call. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the crash of her favorite mug hitting the floor. He didn’t have any family. She was his emergency contact. Sy could see the pain in her eyes and watched as all traces of warmth drained from them. 

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I tried to push you away, but you wouldn’t stay away. You didn’t want to hear it, so I didn’t tell you what really happened. It was none of your business, and it wasn’t her place to tell you. So…What happens now? You’ve got your out. Are you gonna take it?”

Had he been looking for an out? Sy wasn’t sure. Thinking back on their time together, he realized that she was right. She had been trying to tell him all along. It was hidden in the little things, the small details, the fine print, but it was there. “You’re not my boyfriend, Sy,” the night of the fair. “Don’t you dare tell me that life isn’t fair. I know life isn’t fair,” she’d lamented that day in the airport. “This is cruel.” 

This is cruel. Asking her to do it all over again. To wait for him, to worry about him. To put her life on hold so that he could go out there and risk his own. It broke his heart to think back on it now. Maybe her mother was right. She’d be better off without him anyway. 

“We should go,” was all he said, as he headed for the car. Merrin glanced back at the reception hall, then out to where he’d disappeared into the dark. He had the keys. She’d done enough damage for one night. No need to make it worse. Swallowing thickly, her hands trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move. 

“Go ahead. I’m…I’m gonna stay.” She’d catch a ride back with a friend. Right now, they needed space, and she needed another drink. 

Sy let his gaze linger only for a moment before he tore it away again. If he wanted a sign, this one was as clear as day. Clearing his throat, he gave a solemn nod, opened the door, and stepped inside. Merrin watched as he pulled out of the lot. She’d gotten her answer too, as tears of sorrow welled in her eyes and blurred her vision. She stood there until the glow of the taillights disappeared from sight. 

__

He was gone by the time she made it back to the hotel that night. Not a trace of him was left, as if he’d been nothing but a ghost that breezed through her mind and left her haunted. The kind lady at the front desk let her know that he’d called a cab and headed for the airport. “I hope everything’s alright. Seemed pretty urgent.” Merrin didn’t blame him. She’d gotten what she’d asked for. They’d let each other go. 

She’d decided to stay an extra night, but not in the same bed they’d shared only hours before. Instead, she headed for her brother’s place. They’d be leaving for their honeymoon the next day. He looked at her with pity in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mer. You know mom. Couldn’t keep her mouth shut to save her life.” 

She wanted to be angry with her mom. Though it really wasn’t her place to tell him about Travis, Merrin knew that she’d done it out of a mama-bear reflex to protect her daughter. Lisa had seen first hand how she’d handled the loss of her first love. Things got dark, and the only way to pull herself together again was to get some distance from this place. It was Travis who’d wanted to go to Houson, to get away from the snow and the cold. She did it for him. It was Merrin’s fault for not telling the truth sooner, and now she was right back to where she’d started. Alone.

When Merrin got in late the next day, she’d come home to find a box waiting for her on the front porch. She didn’t have to open it to know what was inside. Clothes neatly folded, toiletries and cosmetics she’d left behind. She wasn’t surprised to see that he hadn’t left a note. There was nothing left to say. She dumped the box into the corner of her room and left it there to collect dust. Everything inside could’ve been replaced. He was just too kind to get rid of it for her. 

Time passed slowly. Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of going to work and coming home to sit and stare at the same four walls, only to do it over again the next day. Merrin could handle silence. It was what she wasn’t doing that drove her crazy. She wasn’t driving out to his place for pizza and beer on Thursday nights. She wasn’t dancing in his kitchen as they washed dishes together. She wasn’t calling him up to see how he was doing, just to hear his voice, though she’d almost done it more than once. She wasn’t in his life anymore, and she had no one to blame but herself. That’s what hurt the most. 

The early morning rush was over. Merrin used the downtime to clean up a bit and replenish the bake case for the afternoon crowd. She was in the back, pleating the crust on top of a beautiful peach pie. The last of the season, when autumn would give way to winter and she’d be left with nothing but apples. Finishing off the last of the crimp around the edge, she slid the pie onto the rack and dusted off her hands on the back of her jeans, when the bell rang. 

Merrin froze. Deep down, she already knew who it was. It couldn’t be…could it? Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself to go out and face the music. Brushing through the swinging doors, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes stung with the threat of tears to fall, and a slow, soft smile spread across her face. Hearing his voice again felt like heaven.

“Hello, Darlin’.”

__

Taglist: @geralts-yenn @peyton-warren @kingliam2019 @uunotheangel @deandoesthingstome @drewharrisonwriter @foxyjwls007 @melissareadsstuff @totalwool @summersong69 @caramariehurst @niallhorwen @warriormirkwood @mairablue @omgkatinka @evansabove1981

@liveoncoffeeandflowersss @enchantedbytomandhenry @just-chirpin

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill one shot #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill smut #captain syverson #syverson #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson fluff #captain syverson fic #captain syverson smut #syverson smut #syverson fluff #syverson fanfiction

[ohtobeleah]

Hi Leah! For strictly scandalous can you please do…..Drunkenly hitting on Bob at the bar with everyone. Like it’s making him such a wreck. But he knows he can’t do anything because his morals physically won’t let him.

“Hangman—please, you gotta take your sister home before I crack and end up taking her home myself!” Bob was practically ripping his own hair out in sexual frustration.

“Yeah, okay—“ Bob remembers Jake sighing in defeat, his night had been cut short by your drunken antics. Downing the rest of his beer before he stood. Making a direct path your way through the crowded bar—pushing people side to side before he was slumping you over his shoulder. “Come on you horny bitch, let’s get you outta here before Robert here ruins his tighty whities”

“But it’s not midnight yet!” You huffed over your brother's shoulder as he carried you out of the bar. It was New Year’s Eve. You’d all been out celebrating yet another year that the entire squadron had lived through together. A team united in blood sweat and compassion.

“Yeah well for you it’s midnight enough—“

That’s what led Bob to this moment, he’s got his tighty whities around his ankles. His jeans too, he couldn’t waist a second kicking them off as he slouched back on his couch—vigorously jerking himself off to the thoughts of everything you’d said to him in what he could only assume was a drunken haze. Come the first of January, which would be in approximately four minutes—you’d forget ever having tried to get Bob to take you home. But the memory would serve Bob well for now as he pumped himself to the thought of you.

“I think I’d really like it if you and I got outta here a little earlier—“ You had whispered in his ear earlier that night after only two vanilla and rhubarb cocktails. He could smell the spirits lacing your breath and knew instantly he couldn’t. Not when you were inebriated. “You know, I have a thing for this weapons system officer who always stops by my shop before and after his flights.” The comments started early on and were on all accounts quite vanilla. But they still had Bob in a flurry—stroking himself senseless as he let himself moan your name and think about everything he’d do to you if he’d just given in and taken you back to his.

“Like what you see?” Bob had been staring at you all night, the dress you’d been wearing was beautiful and classy but he wanted nothing more than to rip it off your body. His first tightened a little more as he slowly his rhythm down a tad. Not wanting to get to his destination too quickly. “Wanna see a little more?” You’d started to lift your dress a little higher so Bob could see more of your thigh. He’d panicked and gripped your wrist, stopping you from exposing yourself. The giggle you’d let escape told him you knew what you were doing. Taunting him. “You’re looking awfully flushed there Robert—wanna go down to the beach and cool off?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, stop this—now.” Bob was trying his darndest. His mother had raised a true southern gentleman. He never swore he never drank. And he certainly never taken a girl he liked home to fuck her brains out before he’d taken her out on a real date no matter how much she was trying to make him crack. You were testing his limits though. “You’re doing things to me—“ Bob remembers whispering through gritted teeth as he felt his jeans getting too tight for comfort. The way your teeth sunk into your bottom teeth made his chest hurt. They were heart palpitations surely. “I’m going insane here, please—“

“Would it drive you crazy to know I’ve been fucking myself to the thought of you almost every night since I was transferred here?” It did in fact drive him crazy, but what made Bob lose his goddamn mind was when he’d lost sight of you for all of five seconds before you were taking his hand and placing a balled up bunch of black lace in his hand. “Here, hold these will you? I don’t need them anymore.” Pumping himself as he sighed in relief, Bob remembered that you’d given him your panties. He’d pocketed them in a hurry—so nervous someone had seen what you had done as he looked around, losing you in the process.

“Ohhh god yess—Y/n, baby—please.” Bob's chest rumbled as he continued working himself over in the dark of his living room. Wishing his hand was you. He’d thought about how you might feel, if you’d take control or let Bob do the work. Either way he wouldn’t mind, just as long as he got to call you his.

“Touch me?” You had asked as you sat beside Bob at one of the booths. He’d thought maybe some food would do you good. Confiscating your last drink in favor of something hot and carb loaded. “Please Bob, wanna feel your hands on me.” Spreading your legs under the table, you helped guide Bob's hand between your legs. His finger softly trailed up your thigh—landing dangerously close to your core. “Go on, touch me baby.” That was the moment you had him, Bob was about to crack, take you home and fuck you senseless but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that knowing how much you’d regret it in the morning. This was all alcohol—it had to be. “I’m so wet just thinking about how you’d feel inside me.”

“You don’t know how bad I want you.” Bob growled against your lips before he pressed his lips against yours. Remembering the sensation that ignited the moment you two connected. Like electricity coursing through his veins. “But I can’t—you regret it.”

“The only thing I regret is not dragging you off to the bathroom and sucking you off right now.” Nope, nope that was it—Bob was on his feet making a Beeline for your brother the second you’d said that because he knew that you weren’t joking. You had those fuck me eyes everyone’s told him you gave him on a regular basis that he’d never noticed before.

Now here he was, jerking himself off because Rober Floyd couldn’t make a move. His phone rang beside him. Your face lit up the dark living room. Before he could even register what he was doing. Bob was answering on speaker.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I wanted you to hear me say your name when I cum.” You were quick to explain as you moaned through the speaker. Bob pumped his fist against his slicked up cock as fast as he could. Too hard to think about the consequences they may come tomorrow. “Bob—! Oh Bob baby I’m so fucking close!” Holding your vibrator to your throbbing pussy. Legs splayed out as you bucked your hips against the intense vibrations. “Shit!! I’m gonna need you to tell me I can come for you Bob, please—please tell me I can come for you.” Was this phone sex? Was that what was happening right now? Or was Bob having a wet dream because he couldn’t tell. Either way? He wanted to play along.

“Oh you can cum for me any time, pretty girl.” Bob's drawl was way too prominent, a little more confident in the comfort of the darkness in his own living room. “God you sound so good moaning my name, shit—!” He was seconds away from release, trying to hold back his orgasm as Bob heard you yelp on the other side of the line.

“Ohhhh Bob I’m coming I’m coming I’m coming—!! Ahhhh fuck!”

“Oh I’m with you baby ahhhh—ohhhh ohhh yess!!” In respective houses, you came together. Bob all over his stomach as you laid there pulsing around your vibratory in a horny daze. Silence had never felt so loud as you collected your thoughts, Bob too.

“Hey Bob?”

“Yeah—?”

“Come over?”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

#strictlyscandalous // Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd

#robert 'bob' floyd #strictly scandalous // topgun #bob floyd x y/n #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd smut

[heartbreak-sandwich]

Billy Hargrove x Fem!OC

Summary: JJ Feron returns home for the holidays and attends a posh cocktail hour graciously organized by Mr. and Mrs. Harrington to honor her father's law firm. A surprise guest lights a fire in her, and things quickly take a mischievous turn. Unwrap the magic of this holiday season in the next 2.9k words ✨ CW: SMUT, unprotected sex, light spanking, light hair pulling, mirror scene, tons and tons of eye contact. A huge thank you to my beta reader and editor @lifesshort-imshorter for helping bring this piece to life!!!

DAY ONE OF HOHOHOE WEEK Prompt: Childhood Bedroom

“What the fuck is a ‘cocktail hour,’ anyway? The last place I want to be on my first day back in Hawkins is at some stuffy lawyer party with my parents and their insufferable colleagues.” JJ griped to Nancy on the phone as she donned her outfit for the evening’s party when a soft rapping at her bedroom door caught her attention. “Nance, I’ve got to go. I’ll text you.” JJ ended her call, tossing the phone onto her bed before the door cracked open slightly.

“Oh, that dress looks great on you!” Eileen Windrow-Feron had always maintained that image was everything, and the family image was something JJ had rebelled against since the moment she could speak. But that night, she agreed to wear the dress her mother picked out for her and to keep as quiet as she could so as not to taint the memory of the Harringtons’ first, and hopefully annual, cocktail hour in the honor of Feron, Hutchinson, Russell & Cobb.

The firm was a family heirloom of sorts, still running on what Linden Feron referred to as a “humble sum” of old money. JJ had no interest in the business, law, or any of her father’s pompous cohorts who were sure to attend, including Steve Harrington’s parents, though her mother was always gushing about what gracious hosts they were to welcome the family firm into their home. Those monologues always made JJ gag.

“I feel like my legs are shrink wrapped together,” JJ complained as she swiped her mother’s hands away from fixing the dress’s neckline.

“Jacqueline June, don’t be so negative. This is a very important night for your father,” Eileen scolded as she returned to busying herself with primping the dress to perfection.

“I get it; I really do. You’ve only said it about a hundred times,” JJ sighed.

“Well, a hundred and one won’t hurt,” Eileen quipped back. “There. Look at you.” Eileen 

smiled proudly at her daughter in a black, knee-length, satin dress with spaghetti straps and a square neckline, her auburn curls pinned half up, and her frown painted a deep berry color. It took all of JJ’s strength not to roll her eyes while Eileen’s bright smile shone on her.

“When do we leave?” She turned away from her mother’s gaze, feeling awkward and vulnerable.

“Fifteen minutes. Be downstairs and ready.” JJ nodded in response as Eileen let herself out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

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

“Hey Jay, long time, no see.” Steve Harrington stood in the foyer of his parents’ home in a forest green button-down with his famous hair coiffed to perfection. He was broader than before, but still just as JJ had always remembered him.

“Hey, Steve,” she replied as he enveloped her in a friendly hug. “When did you get in?”

“Just last night – late,” Steve grumbled. “But there’s no rest for the aristocratic,” he joked, running a hand through his chocolate brown locks. JJ smiled, the dimple in her left cheek coming out of hiding. She and Steve shared a lot of the same disdainful feelings for the crowd that surrounded them, though he was always described as easier to get along with by the older adults in their circle. He was a great friend, and a trustworthy confidante, and JJ had never been more glad to see him than in that particular moment.

“Thank God you’re here. I don’t know if I could stomach this alone,” she confessed quietly through gritted teeth.

“Well, you’ll be disappointed to know I’m on dish duty tonight and starting early to sneak out to a date.” Steve frowned, his eyes apologetic.

“No way,” JJ whined.

“‘Fraid so.” Steve nodded solemnly before pulling on JJ’s arm. “But look, look, look.” He spun her around and gestured across the living room to the fireplace where a group of men were standing, whiskey glasses in hand. “Do you see him?”

“See who?” JJ craned her neck every which way to get a glimpse of who Steve was talking about.

“Navy blue suit, smoking next to the ashtray on the mantle.” Was that – no. It couldn’t be.

“Is that Billy Hargrove?” JJ’s verdant eyes rounded in shock.

“In the flesh,” Steve confirmed.

“How? Why?” JJ couldn’t believe she was seeing Billy mingling with the high society of Hawkins at the most pretentious event of the year.

“He’s an intern for Cobb. I guess he’s smarter than I ever gave him credit for. Graduating from law school next year. I couldn’t believe it either.”

“Just when you think there are no surprises left,” JJ mumbled, staring hard at Billy’s distracted ocean eyes as he went through the motions and smiled, laughing politely at the undoubtedly dry jokes the old men told around his circle. “I need a drink.”

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

JJ sighed deeply as she poured herself a new glass of chardonnay at the bar. Time wasn’t passing fast enough. She let her mind wander far away as she sipped, staring at the wall in front of her when a velvet voice snapped her back to reality.

“JJ Feron. I guess I should’ve known you’d be here.” She swiveled to meet Billy’s cerulean eyes. Seeing him up close was like a dream, though she’d never be caught dead saying it out loud. Billy punches-anything-that-looks-at-him-too-long Hargrove has always been a panty-dropper, but JJ never fell for his tricks, refusing to be another notch in his belt despite being historically curious to know why others were so eager to let Billy use them like that.

“Billy,” she replied curtly. “Fancy seeing you here. Shocking, honestly. How’s the internship going?” JJ’s glib, tight-lipped smile let Billy know she didn’t really care and wasn’t keen on his choice of profession, but he answered politely anyway.

“I’m learning a lot,” he replied, nodding and eyeing his boss across the room. “Mr. Cobb has been kind to me.”

“Kind?” JJ snorted. Andrew Cobb was anything but kind. She seemed to recall the firm brushing not just a few domestic violence incidents under the rug, but also generously covering his rehab expenses more than once as “undefined healthcare benefits.”

“That’s the best way I can describe it.” Billy smirked at JJ’s obvious disdain for Mr. Cobb, knowing she was right, but not being able to tell her in front of everyone that he was just doing his best to get ahead while he could.

“Of course you’re one of them now,” JJ chided, taking another healthy gulp of chardonnay.

“Woah, woah, hey.” Billy’s voice was low, husky, and deliberate as he leaned in closer, towering over her small frame. His eyes pierced hers like daggers – a war of sapphires and emeralds – as he made himself crystal clear. “Don’t you ever put me and those bastards in the same category, you understand?” JJ’s concentration was broken, and Billy’s sincerity gave her chills.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

“I’m not one of those yuppy, scumbag corporate attorneys helping the rich guys keep up their image or kissing insurance company ass. As soon as I’m licensed, I’ll be a guardian ad litem for kids in the system, a legal advocate who can represent their best interest while the court decides their future. They need someone like me.” Billy’s expression was entirely serious, and JJ couldn’t help but feel some admiration for what he was doing. He was passionate, driven, and she knew he would succeed. Billy Hargrove never half-assed anything as long as she’d known him.

“I never would have guessed,” JJ almost whispered, holding out her glass for him to cheers. Billy’s face softened back into a half smile as he clinked his glass to hers, both of them taking a sip as Mr. Cobb appeared beside them, Billy’s meticulous mask sliding back into place to greet him.

“Jacqueline,” he crooned as JJ almost spat out her drink at her government name being used in front of one of her classmates. Only her mother was allowed to call her that. “You clean up so well.” Billy stared down at his shoes to hide his smirk at that comment because if he knew one thing, it was that you don’t slide backhanded compliments across JJ Feron’s table.

“Andy,” JJ gushed, her tone deliberately patronizing. “How’s New Wife Number Three? Getting along with Old Wife Number Two? Are they both here?” JJ looked around exaggeratedly, pretending to try and find them. Mr. Cobb’s face flushed crimson, and he said nothing more before making a quick exit back into the living room.

“Harsh,” Billy chuckled, sipping his whiskey.

“If you only knew.” JJ tried not to let her smile show, though she couldn’t help but be a bit proud of herself every time she told off someone who really deserved it. “Don’t look now.” JJ braced herself as Eileen rushed toward them, her brows tightly knitted together and fists balled up at her sides.

“Jacqueline June Feron,” she hissed. JJ sighed and let her eyes close, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What,” she whined.

“You know exactly what.” Her mother was furious. “If you can’t behave, then make yourself scarce. Go help Steve in the kitchen. Now.” The order was clear, and there was no negotiation to be had. JJ raised her drink halfway to Billy and retreated to the kitchen to help Steve wash the guests’ dishes. At least in the sanctuary of the dish pit, she wouldn’t be subjected to any more prying eyes or passive aggressive remarks.

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

“Please, Jay. Please. I’ll owe you one,” Steve begged, puppydog eyes fully engaged. JJ rolled her eyes and let him plead even though she knew from the start she’d agree. She just liked to hear his desperation.

“Fine, Steve, but you owe me for sure.” Steve beamed, shaking the suds off his hands into the sink and grabbing the nearest dish towel to dry off on.

“You’re my favorite, Jay,” he declared, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before rushing out of the kitchen, not to be seen for the rest of the night. It was just like Steve to make an early escape attempt for a date, but JJ didn’t mind. The silence was soothing, and anywhere was better than being out there on the floor with those assholes. She lost herself in the mundane routine of rinse, scrub, rinse, repeat and didn’t notice another body infiltrate her safe haven until she heard him.

“Harrington ditch you?” JJ could hear the grin in Billy’s voice.

“No,” she defended. “I told him it was okay to skip out early. You’d understand; he has a date.”

“A date, huh? Boy, do I feel sorry for that poor sucker of a lady,” he quipped. JJ couldn’t help but chuckle. A comfortable silence wafted among them as JJ continued her chore. “Care if I help?”

“Please don’t feel obligated. You should go enjoy the rest of the party.” She tried to keep her tone level, but it came out with a thin layer of venomous icing on top.

“Right. Move over.” Billy appeared alongside JJ and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt one at a time, and something about the way his strong, veined hands worked over the cuffs so effortlessly and methodically made her heart palpate in her chest.

She worked next to him for the better part of an hour, exchanging small talk and telling stories about college. They laughed like old friends, and JJ decided during that time that maybe Billy wasn’t as much of a dick as she had always assumed.

“Billy Hargrove on the straight and narrow, huh? I guess anything is possible,” JJ teased through a dimpled smile.

“Hey, now,” Billy retorted. “Don’t go spreading that rumor around town. I’ve still got a little fire in me. I just have to pick and choose the right opportunities to let it out.” JJ met his gaze, and his eyes glinted like the edge of a switchblade, a devilish smirk forming in the corner of his mouth. Her insides turned to putty, and in that moment, she conceded to becoming another notch in the belt of the devil – she just couldn’t help herself.

“How do you know which opportunities are the right ones?” Instinctively, she took a step closer to him so their legs were touching. Billy looked down at the contact and then back up into her eyes, a smile blooming on his plush lips.

Pinning her with his stare, he let his fingertips brush over the exposed skin of her shoulder, brushing back a lock of her hair that had fallen out of place. “Well,” he drawled. JJ’s breath hitched at the feeling of his smooth hand tracing over her goosebumps, nowhere near where she really wanted it to be. “I guess I just feel it out.”

“So how do you feel about this opportunity?” JJ toyed with Billy’s tie between her fingers, pressing her body into him, her eye contact unwavering.

“I’d say I feel pretty damn good. What do you say we get out of here?” He leaned closer, the scent of whiskey, smoke, and spicy aftershave lulling her into a trance as she answered.

“Why get out of here when we can go up?” JJ pointed to the staircase in the hallway, and Billy’s eyes widened.

“Here? During the party?” JJ giggled at his hesitation.

“Come on, I thought you said you were still big, bad Billy Hargrove,” she teased. “Steve’s gone for the night, and his bedroom is at the end of the hall. If we hurry, no one will see us leave.” Billy grinned at her tenacity. This girl was everything he always thought she was, and maybe even more.

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

“Fuck – yes, just like that.” JJ threw her head back in bliss, palms pressed flat against the full-length mirror. Despite being in Steve’s childhood bedroom where the walls were decorated with old polaroids from his high school days and a Back to the Future movie poster, she had never felt so alive. Each nerve ending in her body was consumed by Billy’s every touch.

The lights were off, but the glow of the streetlight through the window was enough to ensure she could still watch Billy pound her from behind just the way she had secretly fantasized about for the last decade. She felt his fingertips curl around her hip bone, making small crescent-shaped imprints in her skin as his other hand tightened around the makeshift ponytail he held her disheveled hair in.

“Look at me,” Billy growled. JJ’s eyes snapped up obediently to meet his in the mirror. Even in the dark, she could tell his pupils were blown with lust, the deep blue pools no longer visible around them. Sweat glistened over his chest as his thrusts quickened and stuttered, and JJ could feel the rubber band in her core tightening, dreadfully close to snapping as she tried to stifle the moans wracking from her throat. It was just too good.

Billy’s hand left her hip and trailed up to her lips, signaling for her to open her mouth, which she obeyed. The pads of his first two fingers glided along her velvety soft tongue, gathering saliva before he brought them down to her aching clit, sliding slick circles in a perfect rhythm, eliciting a cry of pleasure she couldn’t contain in the slightest.

“Billy, please, don’t stop!” The frame of the mirror rattled shamelessly against the wall as Billy fucked into her harder and faster, everything about their encounter turning delectably wreckless when Billy realized there was no way the crowd downstairs didn’t hear what was happening.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” His grip on her hair tightened again, pulling her gaze back up to meet his eyes right where he wanted her.

“I’m – mmm, fuck. I’m gonna cum for you, Billy. Right – right now.” JJ let out a chorus of long, low moans as her eyes rolled back and her knees gave out, held up solely by the fierce grip Billy had in her hair and the electrifying circles he was still lavishing on her clit. After nearly drowning under each tidal wave of her climax, she was totally breathless and barely able to stand.

A hand came down hard on her asscheek with a crack. Seconds later, JJ let out a pathetic whimper at the sudden emptiness as Billy pulled out and slammed her back to his chest. Standing her up and clasping a hand around her throat, he kept contact in the mirror as he growled into her ear, “Good girl.”

Thick, white ropes painted the mirror in front of them as he kissed and sucked at her neck while gravelly moans thundered from deep within his chest. JJ felt high on the adrenaline of what they had just done, her grin shining through the shadows as Billy planted a soft kiss to the side of her face, still looking into her eyes with a devious edge to his expression.

“Welcome home, Jacqueline,” Billy purred. JJ scoffed, rolling her eyes, but she didn’t protest this time. Something about him saying her name like that actually felt good.“We’d better get cleaned up and work out our story. Someone’s bound to ask after all that…percussion.” Billy chuckled as he handed JJ her dress, and the two of them straightened up, fixing each other’s flyaway hairs and creased fabric before descending back to the land of the mundane.

💕Tag List: @imyourdaninow @justsimonrileythings @b1tchy3lf @jozstankovich @darleenjade @peachyaliien @dananahenderson @strangerthing93 @yoyokiss97 @californiaboytoybilly

#Billy Hargrove #Billy Hargrove smut #Billy Hargrove x fem!oc #Billy Hargrove x oc #oc JJ Feron #Fergrove <3 #Steve Harrington #Nancy Wheeler #hohohoe23 #day one - prompt: childhood bedroom #writing events #holiday writing event #smut tho for real #12/18/23

[kinnporsche]

hello again! yes, i am indeed posting yet another kinn & porsche fic rec. these fuckers are living in my head rent-free, truly. you guys know the drill by now—like the others, this list is ordered according to length (from longest to shortest), and each fic is by a different author (to share my love and appreciation)! all fics that are not yet complete have been marked with (wip). lastly, make sure to read the tags, and show the authors some love, because we are simply beyond blessed to have such an abundance of talented writers in this fandom! [part 7/?]

— what a tangled web we weave by fortunehasgivenup – explicit / 80.7k words

After the betrayal of his first husband, King Anakinn Theerapanyakul vows to never love again. Once a week, he takes a new husband, a young man who will not live to see another dawn.

Porsche Kittisawat has spent the years since the death of his parents living under the shaky generosity of his uncle, running errands in Thee’s brothel. Anything to protect Chay, his younger brother.

When a nobleman comes to find a young man to adopt and marry off to the king in place of his own son, Thee chooses Chay.

Faced with an outcome that he refuses to contemplate, Porsche steps in and takes Chay’s place. He only has one request for the king—to be allowed to tell his brother one last bedtime story.

(Or: An AU based on the story of Scheherazade.)

— his kingdom to keep by bleakyblues – explicit / 51.8k words (wip)

And for each piece he keeps, there is a piece he has to sell. Because when you deal with the Devil, you only barter with your soul.

(Or: What happens after Porsche is handed over the ring and the power that goes with it.)

— after ever after by thelaziestmotherfucker – mature / 43.6k words (wip)

“Porsche,” she whispered one night as he laid down with his head in her lap. His eyes were so puffy they felt like they were swollen shut. His nose was runny and his lips felt dry. He couldn’t cry anymore that night. He looked up into her loving eyes as she said, “you must never tell anyone of your gift.”

Porsche’s body tensed up at the command. He knew why she asked it, but little could she fathom that Porsche would be left forever isolated with this secret. He would only be able to hope that no one found out.

She passed away in her bed two days later. Porsche had only just turned thirteen.

— how i know you by nuwildcat – explicit / 31.2k words

The looming shadow of the Dragon Throne has long been on Porsche’s mind. The empire has swept closer and closer to his lands, snatching up smaller kingdoms and grinding them under its boots, all at the hand of one man:

Prince Kinn.

Now that army is on Porsche’s doorstep, and he has a choice to make. He can’t fight off the army, but he can protect his country if he consents to become Kinn’s.

For his kingdom, for his people, Porsche will sacrifice anything, but the real question is, what does he have to gain?

— trials & tribulations by rainbowcolored7 – explicit / 26.3k words

In which Kinn is a renowned lawyer for TK & Associates, as well as a certified bastard, and Porsche is his new assistant who isn’t sure whether he’ll scald him with hot coffee or fuck him before he decides to quit.

— a perpetual unscattering by concernedlily – explicit / 31.4k words

“Where did you say he came from?”

“Pissing in bottles behind a cocktail bar,” Kinn said. “But Pa gave him to me, so I’m stuck with him.” To a visibly furious Porsche he said, “You don’t know the minor family? Never come across any of them before?”

“How would I know the fucking minor family?” Porsche snapped.

— she’s god and i’ve found her by yeetlegay – explicit / 8.4k words

“I—” Porsche’s voice cracks. Her eyes, now that they’re open, can’t seem to look away from Kinn, wandering from her face to her torso, the shirt half-unbuttoned to expose her breasts, suit jacket tossed somewhere on the floor nearby. Her gaze is molten, greedy, when she meets Kinn’s eyes again. “What would you give me?” she asks.

Kinn isn’t prepared for that, or for the effect it has on her, the instinct it unlocks. She moves without thinking. Tugs Porsche’s hips down to meet hers. Brings her mouth close enough to feel her breath, to taste the soft gasp she lets out.

Kinn whispers the word, lips not quite brushing hers. “Anything.”

— running from the daylight by ahdriking – explicit / 7.9k words

“It will be fine,” Kinn snaps, suddenly sitting upright. “I have perfect control.”

Porsche snorts. “No alpha has perfect control. Not in rut.”

Kinn looks at him sharply. “You think me a beast?” He snarls. “That I’ll hump the nearest thing that moves, like some kind of animal?”

“I don’t know,” Porsche shoots back. “But seeing as the nearest moving thing is me, you can understand my concern.”

(Or: Stuck in the forest, handcuffed together, Kinn goes into rut.)

— and seek to mend by vesna (mrsronweasley) – explicit / 7.3k words

Porsche is thinking about something that’s been niggling at him for a while, and he thinks, yes. He can probably bring it up now. “I was just thinking,” he starts, wondering how Kinn will react. “Just wondering…”

“Yeah?” Kinn doesn’t stop running his hand up and down Porsche’s back in slow, soothing motions.

Porsche clears his throat, then says, as nonchalantly as he can manage, “Have you ever been fucked?”

— if you leave it ‘til later, you lose by mslunita – explicit / 6.9k words

Kinn’s night at the sex club he frequents is ruined when a rich newcomer takes everyone’s attention. The bartender is pretty hot, but there’s no way he’d go home with Kinn... right?

(Or: Porsche is a bartender at a sex club and Kinn wants him.)

— haunt me when you’re not around by butterflylungs – explicit / 6.3k words

He turns his head back around and he comes to a sudden stop, so fast he almost trips face first into the gun pointed at him. Fear explodes in his chest before Porsche shoves it down, because he can’t afford to be scared. Because Kinn, standing in front of him right now, would smell the fear and jump on it.

“Got you,” Kinn says, finger on the trigger.

— i see nobody, nobody but you by kurtstiel – explicit / 6.3k words

“What’s the matter?” Porsche breathes. “Are you afraid Vegas would be a better kisser than you? Fuck me better than you?”

Kinn goes completely still. He draws back slowly; a cold, detached kind of anger on his face, like he’s transcended rage completely. The part of Porsche that should be frightened has been replaced by the overwhelming, empty ache between his legs.

Porsche gazes at him, knowing he’s about to get exactly what he wants. “You don’t have any kind of claim on me. I don’t belong to you.”

(Or: Kinn catches Porsche arriving home on Vegas’ motorcycle in Episode 5.)

— our little remedy by mirrorofprinces – explicit / 5.8k words

Porsche hesitates.

Kinn snorts, grabbing a fresh towel off the rack behind him. “You let me shoot an apple off your head, but this is too scary? Get over here. I’ll do it myself.”

— home is not a place by thewayside – explicit / 4.2k words

Somewhere between Kinn arriving at Porsche’s and everything going to hell, they have each other.

(Or: Set during Episode 12 after Kinn & Porsche go back to the alleyway behind Hum Bar where they first met.)

— you’ve got to beg to be proud by starstrung – explicit / 2.4k words

Kinn and Porsche have a rule. Their work may take them to dangerous places. They might have to make hard decisions, be threatening, be charming, or a deadly mixture of the two.

They always come home to each other.

#kinnporschesource #kinnporsche: the series #kinnporsche #kinn x porsche #fic rec #leila.txt #text #leave some kudos!

[haywire-hetfield]

HAII, do you take fic req?? if you do, could you please write dave x kirk having rough sex with kirk top.. LIKE, KSKSKSKSHSKSJ YOU KNOWW?? dave bottom and kirk top is just GAHHDBDK (it can be hatesex too🤭)

Sure thing!

Warnings: Drunk sex, top Kirk, bottom Dave, rough sex, rimming, dirty talk, degradation, painful sex, spanking, barebacking, creampie, coming untouched, multiple orgasms

Words: 3,240

Dave rolled his eyes as yet another cocktail was sat down in front of him. He didn’t have to look over to know who had sent him the drink. Kirk fucking Hammett of all people had sent him four drinks now, all of them a pale pink with a lime slice on the rim of the glass. The first couple times he’d looked down the bar, he’d found the other man smiling at him with a mouthful of crooked teeth. 

Kirk had grown into himself a bit more since the last time Dave had seen him. His hair had grown out a bit more and looked better taken care of, curls looking shinier and healthier. Dave tried not to think about how handsome Kirk looked these days. 

Dave distracted himself by sipping at the sweet, slightly sour drink and tried to ignore how lightheaded he was. He’d had a lot to drink already and it seemed Kirk thought so too. A moment after he’d started drinking the cocktail he’d been presented with, Kirk was approaching him. It seemed he was taking a more direct approach now, growing tired of Dave sitting there and doing his best to pretend he didn’t see him. 

“You look really beautiful tonight,” Kirk told him once he was close enough to be heard. He was still grinning and Dave just stared back at him. He wasn’t sure why Kirk was talking to him, why he was sending him drinks. Well. He had a few ideas. “I have a room a few blocks from here,” Kirk pointed out and there it was, all the confirmation Dave needed to know exactly what this was. 

“Good for you,” Dave replied and Kirk looked rather dejected. He didn’t want to be an easy date, he wasn’t some wide-eyed groupie who would fall over themselves just for a chance to sleep with Kirk. Still, it had been a while since he’d slept with someone and Kirk was attractive enough. The drinks in Dave’s system helped him lean towards that bad decision. “Lead the way,” He told him, doing his best to not sound too excited about it. Kirk beamed like he’d been proposed to, though, and it rubbed Dave the wrong way. 

On the way to his hotel, Kirk had offered his hand to Dave to hold which Dave had simply ignored. He didn’t want sweet or gentle with Kirk and he was going to make sure Kirk knew that. He didn’t need Kirk getting the wrong idea about what they were. They were just two people going back to a hotel to have meaningless sex to relieve some tension, nothing more than that. 

Kirk had looked hurt when Dave shot him down, although he seemed to recover from it quickly. He’d methodically replaced that look of hurt with a smile and continued rambling to Dave about how it was so lucky that they’d run into each other tonight. He’d grinned even brighter when Dave stumbled, having to reach out to grab Kirk’s arm for stability. 

“I’ve got you,” Kirk cooed at him, hooking one arm around Dave’s waist to keep him steady. He wanted to protest and push Kirk away, but he decided against it. There was a very real chance he might not make it up to the hotel room if he didn’t accept a little help. 

That certainly wasn’t a headline he wanted to see. Megadeth’s Dave Mustaine Found Face-Down On Street With Metallica’s Kirk Hammett. 

The rest of the walk was made easier by holding onto Kirk. The other man opened the hotel door for him and helped him into the elevator, and it seemed like they waited for hours for the elevator to open for them. And the ride up left Dave feeling a bit nauseous, but he held it together.

“This one’s ours,” Kirk told him once they finally reached a door at the end of a long hallway. Kirk fumbled with his key for a moment, but eventually opened the door for Dave and let him step inside first. The door had barely shut behind them before Kirk was pressing into Dave’s personal space, turning him around to face him. His back collided with the wall, letting out a solid thud as Kirk kissed him. 

The kiss didn’t start carefully, not at all how Dave had expected. Kirk’s tongue slipped past his lips almost as soon as they’d met and Dave decided to let him. His hands found Kirk’s face, jagged fingernails digging into his skin painfully and relishing in the hiss Kirk let out against him at the feeling. Kirk pressed him harder into the wall, letting his teeth sink into his lower lip. 

“Fuck,” Dave groaned when he pushed Kirk’s face away from his own. He softened the grip his nails had on Kirk, admiring the small idents he’d left on his skin. He wondered how Kirk would look with those marks bleeding instead. “I want you to fuck me like you hate me, can you do that?” He asked. 

“I can,” Kirk assured him with a quick nod, pressing his hips into Dave’s. Like this, Dave could feel how hard he was. “You know the stoplight system, right?” It was Dave’s turn to nod now. “Good. Use it. I’m not going to stop unless you do,” Dave had a feeling he wasn’t going to regret going back home with Kirk tonight, maybe this had been a better idea than he’d originally thought. 

****

Dave had found himself face-down on the shitty hotel mattress, his clothes tossed haphazardly around the floor. His head was still spinning, although it was eased by lying down. Two pillows rested beneath his hips, keeping his body perched up the way Kirk had wanted him. He felt exposed and vulnerable like this, in a way he never would allow himself to be if he were sober.

“You’re doing a good job,” Kirk told him and he could hear the smile in his voice. He chose to ignore it, instead focusing on Kirk’s warm hand as it rubbed down his lower back. It was nice, something he could get used to

Both of Kirk’s hands slipped down to spread him open. If he’d felt exposed before, that was amplified now. He’d never experienced anything quite like it, but he stayed quiet. He figured Kirk was just going to finger him, that was the natural progression of things. Dave’s body tensed when something warm and wet stroked over his hole suddenly. It caught him off guard and made him release a confused sound, squirming away from the feeling.

“Stay still,” Kirk chastised and slapped his ass roughly. “You know your word if you want to stop,” He reminded him.

It was true, Dave did know how to make things stop if he was uncomfortable. Kirk was sweet too, he knew it wouldn’t be a problem if he wanted to stop. For a moment, Kirk waited as if to give Dave time to tell him to stop. When he realized Dave wasn’t going to, he dipped back down to resume what he was doing and Dave tried to stay more still this time around. It was easier now that he was expecting it.

The feeling was new for him. Most of the time, he slept with women who never even touched his ass, let alone done this to him. Whenever he slept with guys, he tended to top and even if he didn’t, no guy had ever eaten him out. Hell, some hadn’t even fingered him.

It was a strange sensation to try and get used to, the wet warmth and gentle stroking motions foreign to him. He supposed it was kind of nice, though. His body relaxed the more that Kirk licked him open, starting with slow and long licks upwards before switching to circling his hole.

“Fuck. That feels weird,” Dave breathed out and Kirk chuckled against him, making him moan quietly. The vibrations there were a whole new level of weird. Dave’s breathing hitched in his throat when he felt Kirk’s tongue stiffen up, pressing against him until it pushed inside. It wiggled around a bit and Dave buried a moan against the blankets beneath his face. 

He couldn’t explain why it felt so good, but it did. It was sensitive and dirty, and he felt wrong for liking it. Wrong for letting Kirk do this to him. Still, his own fingers curled into the blankets when two of Kirk’s slick fingers pressed into him alongside his tongue. It was overwhelming and Dave didn’t even know how he was managing to multitask in that way. It was too much, though. 

“Fuck me,” Dave told him, pulling his face away from the bed enough so his words could be easily understood. Kirk moved his head away from him, though his fingers continued opening him up. 

“I can’t fuck you yet,” Kirk’s voice was breathless, but gentle behind him. Concern seemed to be seeping into his tone. “I’ll hurt you. I need to stretch you,” His fingers crooked and rubbed against Dave’s prostate, distracting him for a moment before he kept pushing it. 

“Fuck me, Hammett. Or I’ll go find someone else who will,” Dave snapped back at him, shoving his hips into Kirk’s hand. This earned another rough slap against his ass, harder than the first one had been. It made Dave curse and squirm, his skin stinging. He was sensitive and knew there would likely be a red mark where Kirk’s fingers had been. Kirk pulled both hands away from Dave and began lubing himself up. 

“Stupid slut,” He muttered out, stroking his cock. “When this hurts, you better not complain. You wanted this,” He reminded him and Dave rolled his eyes. “Get on your back,” Kirk encouraged as he pulled the pillows out from beneath Dave’s hips and tossed them to the ground. 

“Hurry up,” Dave goaded, climbing into the position Kirk had told him to. He wanted Kirk to snap and fuck him the way he really wanted it, the way he really needed it. Kirk wasn’t gentle as he settled in between Dave’s thighs, shoving his legs up enough. 

“Bossy fucking whore,” Kirk’s words were tense and they irritated Dave. “This is where you belong, you know? Under somebody else and being quiet for once,” Something inside of Dave snapped and he shoved roughly at Kirk’s chest before the other had the chance to get inside him. Dave moved quickly, although a bit uncoordinated due to the alcohol, trying to switch their positions. 

If Kirk wanted to act that way, he wasn’t going to let him fuck him on his back. He wanted to ride him instead, assert that bit of dominance over Kirk. Kirk was unprepared to be shoved like that, losing his balance. He was surprisingly strong as he wrestled Dave around on the bed. Dave was worried for a minute that Kirk might actually overpower him, but then, there was suddenly nothing beneath his body. 

Neither could catch up with what was happening quickly enough as they toppled over the edge of the bed. Dave landed first, ending up on his back on the carpeted floor. Kirk hit him not even a second later, both of them letting out matching pained noises as they collided with the floor and each other. 

Kirk didn’t seem to be too dissuaded by this, recovering for a moment before shoving Dave’s legs apart and beginning to push inside of him. Dave groaned at the feeling and let his hands travel up to grab at Kirk’s shoulders. He didn’t try to fight him this time, feeling like Kirk had won this. They’d fought for the position and Kirk had come out on top, it felt less like just giving it up to Kirk now. 

He couldn’t get a full breath in now either. The fall had knocked the wind out of him and Kirk didn’t bother pausing to let Dave adjust, he’d just begun moving. Each thrust got sharper than the last, leaving Dave breathless. It was exactly what he’d wanted all along, though. 

“Being so good for me now, aren’t you?” Kirk laughed as Dave’s head tipped back against the floor, a quiet moan leaving his throat. His body was thrumming with pleasure, feeling as though each individual nerve was alive and throbbing in his skin. “Knew you just needed someone to put you in your place,” Dave’s nails dug into Kirk’s shoulders at the words, wanting to retaliate and being unable to with his words. 

No words seemed to be able to form. He wasn’t sure if his brain was short-circuiting and couldn’t come up with any or if his body just couldn’t physically voice them. He’d always struggled to speak when he was being made to feel good and this was no exception. He was certain sex had never felt this good before and maybe it’d never feel this good again, the thought of Kirk ruining him for anyone else made him whine pleasantly. 

“Keep scratching, baby. We both know you don’t actually want me to stop,” Kirk said, smiling down at him now. Dave had no idea how he was managing to continue talking, especially so coherently. His words were becoming a bit strained as he continued fucking Dave, though. One of Dave’s hands slid into Kirk’s hair, tugging mercilessly at the curls. “I know you love being treated like the worthless little cocksleeve you are,” Kirk told him, hissing quietly at the hand in his hair yanking close to the scalp. 

Kirk shoved Dave’s legs closer to his chest, giving himself better access. The pace was even more rough now and Dave knew he’d have carpet burns all over his back once Kirk was done with him. He didn’t mind it, though. It made it hotter if he was being honest with himself, knowing there would be a reminder of what they did. 

“Fuck,” Kirk cursed suddenly and buried himself all the way inside, filling Dave up. It took him a moment to register the warmth filling him, head foggy from the alcohol and everything happening around him. The fact he was given no warning meant it took him by surprise too. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Dave asked once he finally found his voice, although it shook as he spoke. Not quite as bitchy as he’d intended it to be. 

“Don’t worry, baby. We’re not done yet,” Kirk just laughed at him and Dave didn’t even have a moment to catch up to what was happening before Kirk pulled out of him suddenly. He felt himself growing dizzier as his body was maneuvered around harshly, being forced onto his hands and knees. “You’re getting so pliant for me,” Kirk murmured and Dave barely caught onto the words. 

He was trembling slightly as he held himself up, trying to reorient himself. Teeth scraped over his back, close to the shoulder and directly over where a raw spot was forming from being forced against the carpet so much. 

“That’s right, baby. Scream for me,” Kirk encouraged him and Dave hadn’t even realized he’d screamed from the sensation until Kirk pointed it out. He was almost certain a neighbor would call the cops on them, thinking he was getting murdered in Kirk’s bedroom. By now, it felt like he was getting murdered. Kirk pressed against Dave and he could feel that the dark haired man was hard once again. 

Dave’s hands scrambled at his thighs, nails scratching along Kirk’s skin and trying to push him off. A bit of his fight had found him, but it was quickly remedied. Kirk grabbed both of Dave’s hands, jerking them away from his body and forcing him off balance. Dave groaned as he fell forward roughly against the carpeted floor and he knew he’d be sore all over by tomorrow. 

One of Kirk’s hands held both of Dave’s wrists, keeping his arms pinned uncomfortably behind his back. He felt so defenseless in that moment, feeling as though he couldn’t get away from Kirk even if he wanted to. His cock throbbed painfully between his legs, he was so close to coming and he hadn’t been touched. 

“Lift your head,” Kirk said behind Dave and the redhead complied, weakly lifting his head and lowering it back down after Kirk had pressed a pillow beneath it. Dave figured he’d be grateful for it, it’d help avoid any friction burns against his face. Those were too obvious and too painful if he was being honest. “Good boy. I’m going to fucking ruin you,” Kirk told him and Dave wanted to laugh. He already was doing that. 

Kirk pressed back inside of him, stretching his sore hole again. There was no pause between him shoving inside and beginning to move, not going easy on the older man. Dave sobbed with every other thrust, losing track of the time. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, feeling as though it had been hours. It was everything he had been looking for and somehow even more. 

Kirk was saying something behind him, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. He figured they didn’t matter too much, Kirk was probably dirty talking him some more. Dave barely registered when he finally came, totally untouched and throbbing painfully between his legs. That was the last thing he remembered that night. 

****

Dave’s head was pounding when he woke up the next morning. The curtains were luckily drawn so not a ton of light came in through the window, but the hallway light was on and the bedroom door was open so he could see. His body felt like he’d been run over the night before, burning when he moved. For a few long minutes, he just laid there and gave himself some time to wake up. 

He noted that he was in the bed rather than on the floor and he couldn’t remember if he’d moved there himself or if Kirk had moved him. It took him a minute to realize that bandages had been placed over his back, presumably where he’d suffered the worst of the rug burns. They still hurt, but they were protected at the very least. He knew Kirk must have put them there, he certainly wouldn’t have been able to reach. 

His eyes adjusted to the room and he looked at the bedside table, finding an unopened bottle of water and a box of large bandages sitting there. Kirk was nowhere to be found in the room, but there was a note attached to the box of bandages. Dave inched closer, each movement painful, and tried his best to read the neat handwriting. 

Dave,  Sorry I had to leave early. The water bottle and bandages are for you. There’s breakfast in the fridge, please help yourself to anything you want. I should be back by four. -Kirk :)

Dave checked the clock, reading that it was about half an hour until four. He climbed out of bed, wincing at the sore feeling that seemed to plague every part of his body. It hurt to pull his clothes on and his head was beginning to ache from the alcohol the previous night. He grabbed the water bottle off of the table, but left the box of bandages and the note where it was. It was only about ten minutes until four when Dave walked out of the hotel room.

#kirkstaine #kirk hammett x dave mustaine #dave mustaine x kirk hammett #smut #nsft #rpf #kirk hammett smut #kirk hammett nsft #dave mustaine smut #dave mustaine nsft #dave mustaine #kirk hammett #metallica #megadeth #metallica smut #metallica nsft #megadeth smut #megadeth nsft #asks #fanfiction #fanfic

[houseofbabygirls]

Be my mistake

 Bradley knows he loves you, so why does he keep messing things up?

Bradley Bradshaw x GN!reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Cheating, swearing, mentions of smut, alcohol mention, angst like so much angst. No real happy ending.

A/n: This is my first time writing on here! I’ve been so nervous to post but I love to write so I just said fuck it. I hope you enjoy! Also this inspired by “Be my mistake” by The 1975 so I reccomend listening to that as you read.

No one could hate Bradley more than he hated himself, he was a master at fucking good things up for himself. He knew he had a good life, with a beautiful fiance, a house, a dog, and a really good job. He had to make for himself but he couldn’t just stop there, he had to have more. 

It was mostly an accident, he had seen the cute blonde from across the bar and when they locked eyes he knew he was a dead man. He fell straight into her bleach blonde, big titted trap. She laughed too hard at his jokes and she drank cocktails that tasted like straight sugar but Bradley didn’t care, she was into him and that’s all it took. 

They chatted for a while, Bradley knew that his bride-to-be was mingling somewhere, but was most likely too busy with Phoenix and Bob to notice his wandering hands and lust filled eyes. He felt the faint burn of guilt in his chest as he talked to this girl, Lily was her name. 

If you asked him why he did what he did, it was because he was mad. You got in a nasty fight over something stupid and had kicked him out of the house. Telling him to come back when he actually cared. He was mad that he fucked up something good. He hated himself for it and he wished he could fix it, but he was a simple man. He saw this sweet young thing, who made him feel desirable again and he snatched it up.

He hated how you looked at him, even when you were mad at him you held his eyes with such a gentle gaze. He felt like he was on probation, you didn’t break up, you were simply in a fight. He caught your eye once more and that softened gaze almost made him stay, almost. 

But when he saw that cute girl standing by the door, biting her soft lip, he caved and said goodbye quickly. He didn’t even look back as he followed this girl he barely knew out of the bar. He got in his Bronco and drove her to the beach, watching the sunset as he betrayed your trust the first time.

It was supposed to have been one and done. But when the blonde had her hand wrapped around his cock asking for his number he couldn't do anything but wordlessly give her his phone. That was the beginning of his fall from grace. He met her at least 3 times a week from then on. He liked this girl, but that was it. She wasn’t like you, she didn’t mean as much as you did. She was a means to an end, while you were his future. But even though you had made up Bradley couldn’t stop from fucking up. He still found a way to damn himself.

Like now, it had been over a month since he started seeing Lily, they always met in a hotel room, somewhere far enough away to not cause suspicion. She would come in and smile, that cute little smile that made him take the bait in the first place and suddenly he didn’t feel so guilty anymore. Her supple skin and soft kisses made him lose that battle every time. He never thought of you until everything was quiet and he couldn’t escape it.

He looked at the sleeping girl next to him and sighed, she was cute, that was for sure. But she wasn’t you. She didn’t have the birthmark on her back that looked like a constellation, or the same sweet scented body wash that you used everyday after he told you it drove him crazy. She just wasn’t you, and everything she did reminded him of that. After the first time they hooked up, he asked her to turn the light off, because as long as he couldn’t see her face then maybe he could pretend it was you. 

But then she’d say something cute like “I love those jeans on you, they make you look so sexy.” and he would just kiss her harshly before he accidentally told her that you had bought him those jeans, not for any special occasion but because you just thought of him and wanted to do something nice. Because that’s what you were, you were the nicest person Bradley had ever met. So why was he so stupid. 

He tried to think of anything else than your sweet smile and the way you laughed. He moved closer to Lily and put his face in her hair, it was something he did to calm himself but when he breathed in he didn’t get the satisfaction that he so desperately wanted. All he could smell in her hair was the lotion that you used on your feet.

 It was a silly thing, you were self conscious about your feet. Always telling Bradley that you didn’t want to rub cracked feet on him in the middle of the night. He usually would just laugh and kiss you, telling you that he loved you and your cracked feet anyway. 

He smiled sadly at the thought, and he turned away from the girl in front of him. He was starting to feel sick, he couldn’t get the picture of you out of his head. He tossed and turned all night, waiting till he fell asleep from exhaustion.

Even though Bradley started all this he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by this new girl. She would come to his hotel room unannounced, She’d make herself at home while drinking his alcohol and eating his food. He wished that she would just wait till he called her up. He didn’t need a new partner, he just needed a release. Something to cure that burning pit of loneliness that buried itself within his chest.  

He hated how she would come in, acting like she was important. Making jokes about his infidelity like it wasn’t something that could ruin his life.  She be riding him, letting out those obnoxious whiny moans while saying, “I bet your old bitch couldn’t fuck you half as well as me.” 

Which was a lie, sure she was tighter than all hell and had great tits to look at. But she didn’t have the same way that you did. She was bland and frankly annoying, so much so that he always took to fucking her so hard she couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to hear anything about you coming out of her mouth, you were his. You didn’t exist in this world, you were above it. You were better. 

In the next week he had gotten back on good terms with you, he had come home and apologized. He made sure to make it up to you. And with you being the person that you are, you had forgiven him. He felt guilty when he kissed you, knowing that the night before his lips had been on someone else's. But for now he was just happy to have you back in his arms  

He knew that he really should’ve broken it off with Lily, he wasn’t in the doghouse anymore. He had no reason to see her, but yet he still called her. He didn’t know what kind of sadist he had to be to do this to himself but he couldn’t stop. He liked her, he liked how he felt when he was with her. Because unlike you she only cared about making him feel good. He felt above everyone when she praised him. It was sick, because he needed that praise. He needed to feel that but in the end she just couldn’t compare. He had struck gold with you, you made him a good person. 

Of course he liked sleeping with this girl, he wouldn’t have kept in contact had he not but she didn’t bring him to his knees like you did. You made him crumble with one grin, one simple touch and he was putty in your hands. You made him weak. He was allowed to be vulnerable with you, he trusted you. He would give his life for you and yet he couldn’t help but find every way to ruin what he built.

He needed you, he couldn’t live without you and yet somewhere deep down that was a sick lie. If he really needed you then he wouldn’t be betraying you like this. He wouldn’t be killing what once was so lively. He’d be fully committed to you and not making this mistake. Not choosing to lie to you when all you’ve done is look out for him, but Bradley knew this would never last, he always found a way to ruin his life with his Bradshaw charm. 

He always knew that you were too good, just like he always knew that she would be his mistake.

#bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun rooster #top gun maverick #miles teller #miles teller imagine #bradley bradshaw angst

[immortal-imagines]

Sabotage - Part 2

Summary: The start of a new uni year brings new classmates, new lessons and a new professor.

Parts: 1, 2, 3 (to be continued)

(professor!Joel x Reader)

Warnings: mentions of smut, alcohol, swearing

Word Count: 941

A/N: A slightly shorter chapter, but I promise, good things are coming!

If you were going to truly fuck with this asshole, you needed to take it seriously. He’d made your first lecture hell. You were going to do one better. It was two weeks into term and you were biding your time. The weekend rolled around and it was time to set step one of your plan into motion.  

Kelsey was having the time of her life with the boy next door. When she finally came home and joined you on the sofa, after a night presumably at his, she looked exhausted. Her hair was tangled, make up smudged, stinking of a cocktail of beer, vodka and sex.

She flopped down next to you, pulling your blanket over her lap. You wrinkled your nose.

“Have you showered?”

“No, why do I smell?” She held her arm up and took a quick sniff, answering her own question. “Gross.”

“You know you haven’t been to a single lecture?”

Kelsey shrugged. “I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. Plus, you can catch me up, right?” She winked.

“Sure. There’s an assignment due next week.”

Kelsey pulled herself up. “Shit, on what?”

“The Great Gatsby. Professor wants an essay explaining the plot because he’s never read it.”

“You’re joking?”

“Nope.”

You sat in silence for a second, before you broke it with, “Want to go shopping?”

Kelsey groaned. “Normally it’d be a yes, but right now a tiny army are battling in my head and I’m running on beer and 2 hours of sleep.”

-

You’d saved up a bit of money over the summer, doing odd jobs here and there, so had some cash to spare. And some new clothes were step one of your plan.

The first shop you went to was teeming with summer dresses. You picked out a couple of red options, to replace the coffee-stained one, plus some blue and a little purple slip that you were sure was probably pyjamas or lingerie. It brushed your thigh, just short enough to fuck with an asshole, but still be kind of appropriate for uni.

You decided that was your choice for Monday morning. Start the week off right.

Professor Miller was already setting up when you walked in. No one else had arrived yet, which was intentional on your part. You wanted to be noticed. You wanted to tease.

“Morning, professor,” you said, as you passed him.

He grunted, not looking up from his papers.

You didn’t take your usual spot at the back corner. You sat in the middle, in plain sight. You took your essay from your bag and walked to his desk. The paper made a satisfying swoosh as you slid it under his nose. He looked at your then. That same dark look from day one in his eyes. His lips parted and you caught his eyes look you up and down. It was so quick that if you’d blinked you’d have missed it. When you leant over his desk, you revealed just the right amount of cleavage. He pressed his mouth into a line.

“My essay,” you said. As you walked back to your desk, you felt his eyes follow you.

Other students filed in, adding their essays to yours. Professor Miller didn’t look at you again.

He didn’t look at your for the rest of the lecture. It must’ve been hard, seeing as you were right in front of him. His eyes flickered onto you once, but just as soon as he’d looked, he turned back to the board behind him. You decided that this wasn’t good enough. While everyone was focused on a written task, you raised your hand.

Professor Miller’s eyes blackened as he acknowledged your hand. “What?”

“Sorry professor, can I use the bathroom?”

He grunted, which you took as a yes.

You stood, making sure you held his eye as you walked past him to the door. He looked pissed. Good.

In the bathroom, a wicked thought crossed your mind. You used the courage and anger that had built up since that first lecture and took off your black lace thong. You tucked it down into your bra so it was hidden. When you went to hand in your written task, you slipped the thong between the papers and put it in a plastic wallet. Sure, it was risky, but if it worked, the payoff would be perfect. Thank god for plastic wallets. You added it to the pile with everyone else’s and were dismissed for lunch.

A small doubt began to play in your mind as you sat down to eat your lunch. What if you’d got the wrong idea? What if you got kicked off the course? He was an asshole. He could report you, then what? Why did you have to be so stubborn and confrontational?

These thoughts only worsened when you stepped back into class to see Professor Miller, a look of pure rage, hands balled into fists, knuckles white, sat behind his desk. He glared at you when you walked in and continued to until you sat down. If he didn’t stop, other people would start to notice.

Thankfully, he didn’t acknowledge you for the rest of the afternoon. But that feeling of doubt stayed in your mind. You felt like you were going to throw up, but you couldn’t ask to leave. You didn’t want to draw any more attention to yourself. He’d looked pissed. What if he’d reported you already?

Class ended and all you wanted to do was run home. But Professor Miller had other ideas. As you headed for the door, you felt a large hand on your shoulder.

“My office, now.”

#Joel Miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller imagine #professor!joel #prof!joel #pedro #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro imagine #pedro pascal smut #joel miller smut

[13uswntimagines]

It Takes 200 to Tango (Emily X Dancer!Reader)

Request: R is a back up dancer for a singer like Taylor Swift or Lady Gaga, and is dating Emily. They end up going to a club and doing the tango or something. The team is shocked emily can dance.

Author's note: So this one is a very very old request. Special thanks to @literaryhedgehog. We hope you enjoy. Hit us up with comments or requests.

You sighed at the table, taking a long sip from your beer. You wanted be with Emily on your weekend off, but that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted to be here. 

There had been a time when you were comfortable at a club, maybe when you and Emily were younger. When the two of you were still in college and you didn’t spend hours rehearsing. When you had more than a weekend together every 6 weeks. 

Your eyes followed her as she approached the bartender, ordering for her and several of her teammates. 

Being here was better than her being there without you. Even if you had to deal with bad music and people who didn’t know a jazz square from a chassé. 

“So you’re telling me Emily used to dance?” Kelley asked you, raising her eyebrow at you. 

You hummed, dragging your eyes away from your girl to meet hers, taking another gulp. “Yeah, she was a ballerina. She hasn’t told you?” 

Megan's head tilted at the information. “No. Is that why her posture is so impeccable?” 

Your shoulders lifted and fell. Emily’s posture had always been good. 

“Is that how you two met? Dance class or something?” Alex asked, wiggling her brows. “Did you teach her how to tango?”

“No. We met after she launched a soccer ball into my face,” A small smile played at your lips. “And I didn’t teach Sonnet to tango. She taught me,” 

“Taught you what, babe?” Emily asked, sliding into the spot next to you at your table, cocktail glass in hand. 

“The tango,” You answered, shifting so your arm was wrapped around her shoulders. “Taylor is still jealous I won’t dance it with her,” 

“Taylor… as in Swift?” Alex’s eyebrow arched. 

“Yeah,” you shrugged off handedly. “I’ve been one of her dancers since Red. She’s obsessed with all things romantic. Dances included.” 

“Valid. I still swoon every time I see the dancing in the Love Story music video.” Megan sighed. “That and the dance at Netherfield in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice movie have ruined my expectations for love.” 

You smirked. “That’s nothing compared to the Eras tour choreography. She’s letting me dance with a girl too,” 

Emily turned slightly to frown at you, setting her drink down sloppily on the table so a few drops slipped over the side of the glass.

You smirked. You always thought it was adorable when Emily was jealous. “But I wouldn’t let her put me in the tango she’s doing for I knew you were trouble,” 

“You told Taylor no?” Kelley asked incredulously. 

“Not exactly,” You said, leaning forward. “She knows that there are some things I don’t share,” 

“And the tango is one of them?” Kelley’s frown deepened. 

“Yep. My tango belongs only to Emily,” you said, moving your arm around her shoulder to trail your fingers over her skin. 

“That’s like weirdly romantic,” Lindsey chimed in, sipping her own drink. “Still, I won’t believe it till I see it,” 

“Yeah, Em is clumsy as fuck,” Kelley agreed. 

“Okay rude,” Emily protested. “I scored the winning goal game against Colombia,” 

“You whiffed so hard you did a backwards roll the last time we faced them,” Alex said looking at her nails in mock absentmindedness. “If you want us to believe you’re really that good a dancer, you’ll have to prove it.” 

“Yeah kid, put your money where your mouth is,” Kelley agreed, sharing a look with her girlfriend. “I say like… 50 is fair,” 

“200,” Emily shot back immediately. “That’s half of Y/n’s rate,” 

“Whoa, I’m not involved,” You said, shaking your head. You had learned long ago not to get involved in the shenanigans of the USWNT. The last time you had, you had ended up with blue hair and a fine from Lady Gaga’s tour manager. 

Emily shot a look at you. “You love me right?” 

You gulped, nodding. 

She leaned forward, so her grinning face was inches from yours. “Then you’re involved.” 

“I’ll pay the full 400 if you can actually dance,” Kelley shrugged, sipping her beer. “Wouldn’t want Y/n to feel cheated,” 

“200 is fine,” you said, rolling your eyes as you got to your feet, anticipating where this conversation was going, “I’m sure when we win, Emily will pay me back more than enough for making me dance - on my only day off - once we get home. Won't she?”

Emily smiled at you as she stood. “I’m sure I can make it worth your while.” She didn’t look away from you as she told Kelley what song to request from the DJ. 

Her fingers linked with yours as she guided you to the floor. 

You had never really been a fan of dancing in clubs. It was too chaotic. Too… unstructured for you to actually enjoy it. Too many people who would try to cut in like they knew anything. 

“Don’t worry, once we start, they’ll probably form a hole for us,” Emily hummed as if reading your mind. “Everyone likes to watch when people actually know what they’re doing, and you like it when people watch.” 

“That’s part of the fun of tour,” You agreed, closing your eyes as the song that was playing was slowly mixed into the song that belonged to you and Emily. 

You let the opening chords wash over you. You let the notes calm your racing heart as Adele began to sing. 

Skyfall was familiar, and you found it easy to slip into the leading role. 

Your leg slotted between hers, and you pulled her back into you. “Let’s see if you remember anything of value,” 

Your lips grazed Emily’s ear, and the shiver if sent down her spine didn’t go unnoticed. She liked the confidence that the music gave you. 

“Bold of you to assume I’d forget.” 

Your hips swayed together through the opening verse, slow, but steadily building. The warm up for what was to come. On the line before the chorus you slowly dipped Emily back, pulling her up so when the chorus hit, you both spun carried by her momentum. Her leg hitched around your hip, allowing you to lift her, even while her back toes dragged behind you in a familiar sequence. 

She twirled through and around your arms like it was second nature, and you guessed by this point in your relationship, it was. You didn’t have to think about how far to dip her as you spun, or worry about where her feet were. 

You just knew. 

It was the part of dancing that you loved. The moment where nothing else mattered besides you and your partner. The part where you didn’t have to think. 

It let your mind wander to more pleasant places. Like how Emily’s skin felt sliding against yours. How her fingers dragged against you more than they needed to as you spun her. How she completely let go and trusted you to support her weight as she leaned on one leg, the other out as high as it would go.  

It was clear she was teasing you as much as she was teasing her friends. 

You had danced with some incredibly talented people in your line of work, but that was work. Emily may not have the same level of training, but to dance with her was to dance with passion. You lifted Emily up into the air, and as the final note of the song held slowly let her slide down, eyes locked with hers. 

You couldn’t help but lean in and place a soft kiss on her lips, ignoring the clapping that surrounded you. 

“You know, you already messed up my plan for the evening. I was serious about that payment,” You said, pulling away and breathing heavily. 

She smirked, her finger catching your collar as she pulled away. “Don't worry, I’ll put my money where my mouth is.”

A low groan left your lips as she guided you back to the table where her friends were staring at you with wide eyes. 

“Pay up bitches,” 

This night was going to be very long if you had your way. 

#uswnt x reader #uswnt imagines #uswnt imagine #emily sonnett x reader #emily sonnett imagine #literalhedgehog