#my thoughts are a little jumbled but I’m tired:’) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leclsrc · 11 months

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like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?”

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad.

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed.

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly.

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning.

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job.

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly.

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window.

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.”

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before.

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say.

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08.

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile.

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing, a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but).

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little.

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation.

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip.

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly.

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile.

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs.

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours.

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate.

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together.

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing.

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his.

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity.

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor.

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.”

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks.

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

“The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

#f1 #leclsrc3000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x reader

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ncroissant · 2 months

Text

chilchuck tims x younger! bimbo! reader

summary: chilchuck's first impressions and favourite things about younger reader + what he's like when he's angry and how he comforts reader after a punishment

content warning: no use of yn/name, slight mention of open-wound, dacryphilia, dom/sub dynamics, implied younger reader (age not mentioned, but 18+), slight angst/comfort, fluff, slightly suggestive, mention of cock once

wc: 1.6k

author's notes: i personally love chilchuck and when i found out he was 29 with 3 kids...oh my goodness. i love dilfs bro. this was just a whole jumble of head cannons that i have for him so, sorry for the lack of flow. you can see how i got lazy at the end... not proofread obviously !! minors please DNI !!

he always thought of you as a thoughtless, little girl. your head in the clouds, not a single thought in that pretty skull of yours.

letting him drag you around by your hand as you looked around dungeon floors like a tourist. wrapping an arm around your waist from behind every time you tripped on your two left feet. carrying you on his back when you were too tired to walk in your cute little loafers. covering your bare legs with his sweater to cover the pink panties that peaked out of your mini skirt.

too mini, he thought.

as much as he wouldn’t like to admit, he liked having you around. you were falin’s best friend, therefore laois’ best friend, therefore a plus one to their dungeon party.

you were like a little kid that he couldn’t predict or understand. he thought girls like you were the worst. couldn’t do anything for themselves and expected the rest of the party to pick up their slack.

but then he saw how sweet you were, always smiling with pretty glossy lips. you’d also braid marcille’s hair in the morning, listen to laois’ rants about monsters and try your best to prep ingredients with senshi (and chilchuck’s) guidance.

but he especially liked how needy you’d get with him too. you’d tug his sleeve and bat your lashes at him with such a cute, little pout when you wanted something.

“chilchuck pleaseeeeeee,” you’d whine, such a pitiful look on your face when you latched onto his arm, placing your chin on his shoulder with your lip puffed out.

“what’s going on here?” marcille giggled, raising her brows at your affection with the grumpy lock-picker.

you let of his arm to his dismay, stomping over to marcille. “he won’t give me any of that candy we bought from the dungeon market earlier!” you exclaim, throwing your usual fit. “says i’ll get sick if i eat too much,” you huff, crossing your arms.

“hey now, simmer down,” he’d wrap his arm around your shoulder, giving you a warning squeeze. “you’re getting too worked up over nothing again. you know i’m right, hm?” he’d rub your arm soothingly, as you slowly calmed down, the frown not leaving your face.

“b-but i just wanna try a lil’ bit of it…won’t eat too much, promise.” your puppy eyes almost got to him. your eyes were glossy, tears threatening to fall at his rejection. he knew if he said no, he’d feel like the scum of the earth.

“don’t start with that now,” he said sternly as you quickly wiped your tears at his words.

“chilchuck, don’t be so mean to her. she’s just excited,” senshi chuckled, passing you a handkerchief to dry your tears.

he looked down at you (not very much because you two were practically the same height), inspecting the look on your face. he knew it was wrong, but he loved to see you get teary-eyed because of him. you were just so pretty. he always gave into what you wanted eventually, but loved teasing you to get a few tears out.

“you can have some after dinner,” he mumbled, turning his head away from you.

you looked up at him, before jumping into his arms, your own wrapped around his neck. “eee! thank you, chilchuck!” you squealed as he wrapped his arms around your waist to stabilize you.

“settle down, alright? you better behave before then, you hear me?” he grumbled, as you pulled away from his face, still entangled on him.

“mhm, i will! be on my best behaviour,” you giggled, stuffing your face in his neck again, hugging him tightly.

“good,” he blushed ever so lightly, caressing your hair with his free hand.

he loved how obedient you were too. always so eager to please him. he didn’t know if it was because he was so much older than you, but you always listened so well for him in comparison to the others in the party.

whenever you were acting up, the party would bring you over to chilchuck and he would give you a hard talking to. he was especially mean when he was mad.

as much as you loved to brat out, you never wanted to make chilchuck mad. your most hated punishment was his silent treatment. it wouldn’t just be not talking to you, it would be acting like you didn’t even exist.

you were playing around with marcille’s staff and accidentally destroyed one of the columns in the floor you were in, alerting monsters of your location. unfortunately, this caused a 20 minute running montage, but also one of the biggest arguments between you and chilchuck.

“what the hell were you thinking?” he wasn’t yelling, but the calmness of his voice was scarier.

“‘m sorry…” you mumbled, knowing you messed up. you were earnestly playing around, you didn’t know you would hit anything.

he never scolded you in front of the party, but sometimes his voice could get loud enough for the party to hear.

“you know better than to use other people’s things without permission, let alone touch it. i taught you better than that, no?” his lips were pursed into a straight line, arms crossed as he leaned against the brick behind him.

“yes, you did,” you frowned, looking down at your fidgeting fingers.

as remorseful as you looked, he wouldn’t budge as easily as he usually would. “one week.” he started, fear bubbling in your tummy.

“nothing from me for a week.” he propped himself off the wall, ready to walk off.

you shot your head up, shaking your head rapidly, “no please. ‘m so sorry, please don’t,” you reached from his arm but he already pulled away.

he shook his head in disappointment at your feeble attempt, “you know the drill, angel. or would you sleep with marcille for the week as well?” he threatened, making your heart drop.

you brought your hands back to yourself, sniffling at how mean he was being. "mkay, i won't make a fuss."

as hard as it was for you to be ignored, it was harder for chilchuck to ignore you. you weren't even plotting anything.

you'd just sit there eating your sorbet, and he'd look at you like you were the most precious girl in the world. before you could sneak a glance at him, he's back to being stone cold.

you'd wear a skirt too short and he'd have the urge to walk behind you or scold you for wearing it when there were other guys in your party.

you'd trip over an uneven stone, flat on your face, knees scrapped. you'd fight the urge to just start crying, but you remembered chilchuck's words about crybabies.

"whiny little girls are only good for sucking cock. nothing else. so don't go around crying unless you want me to make you stop."

chilchuck saw the nosedive you took into the cement and flinched at the impact. he expected you to cry, but watch you stand up, brush the dust off your skirt and limp behind laois, senshi and marcille who didn't notice your fall.

later that night, you were snuggled under the blankets beside chilchuck, facing away from him. you were used to biting your tongue when you wanted to thoughtlessly talk about your day or fight the urge to just curl up in his arms.

you still had to carry out your punishment, the week wasn't over yet.

"hey angel, you okay?" the week wasn't over, but he'd disregard a punishment to check up on you.

you turned over, your knees stinging from the tiniest movement. you still thought your punishment was in effect, so you didn't respond verbally. you winced, nodding quickly.

"you can talk, it's okay." he cooed softly, placing a hand on your head. your knees throbbed, tears stinging your eyes.

"okay," you hummed quietly, hands still to yourself. he knew you were unsure about him ending the punishment so early, but he wasn't pulling any tricks this time around.

"saw you fall earlier, did you tell marcille to heal your scrapes?" he caressed your hair, coiling the strands around his finger.

"no, didn't wanna bother her," you shook your head, nuzzling yourself into his palm. "it's not that serious, 'm okay."

he frowned at your words. anything in relation to you was always serious. your health and well-being were the top seriousness for him. "lemme see then," he ushered you out of your sleeping bag, pulling you into his lap.

your back was pressed against his chest as he inspected your knees. they were pink, open wounded and prone to infection. "honey, this looks like it hurts." he rubbed your thigh in attempts to comfort you.

"it's okay, i wasn't watching where i was going. it was my fault," you sighed, leaning into the warmth you were deprived of previously.

"will you let me clean you up?" he tilted his head to get a better look of his pretty girl curled up into his lap. his heart swelled at how perfect you looked.

you nodded hesitantly, knowing it would hurt, but you trusted chilchuck and knew he would handle you gently.

he held your hand when the alcohol swab touched your wound, making you whimper and squeal in pain. you tried to stay quiet to avoid the rest of them from waking up, so chilchuck pulled you into his neck to cry.

he'd give you a cute little bandaid with a hearts on it (ones you insisted him on buying) and gave you a kiss on the forehead.

"such a good girl, you did so well for me. i'm so proud, angel," he showered you face in kisses as your heart swelled at the affection. "you're gonna do better from now on, right angel?" he gave you a look, as you nod enthusiastically.

"mhm, promise. don't wanna disappoint you," you leaned into his chest, still holding his hand. "thank you for looking out for me," you kissed his knuckles, holding his hand close to your chest.

"always will," he smiled, hugging you.

#delicious in dungeon #laois dungeon meshi #chilchuck #chilchuck x reader #marcille #dunmeshi #dungeon meshi #senshi #chilchuck tims #chilchuck tims x reader #x reader #bimbo reader #ncrescent

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tkpuke · 2 months

Text

Sweet Tranquility

Pairing -Lee!Lucifer x Gender Neutral Reader

Word count - 1,293

In which Lucifer seems to be falling back into the unhealthy obsession of creating rubber ducks, which takes a toll on his sleep schedule and your relationship. You’re the only one who knows him best, so you pull out a trick that gets him to calm down and feel loved all at the same time.

This is a tickle fic. Do not read if that’s not your thing.

The clock was nearing 2 AM, rain being heard pitter-pattering on the window. It was another restless night for you, tossing and turning in your sleep to find that perfect comfy position that’ll knock you out. In the middle of your tossing and turning, you mindlessly search for Lucifer, something to hold and cuddle into since you begin to shiver a bit.

A few seconds go by, and you open your eyes to see he was yet again, not in bed. You sigh, but more in annoyance, knowing this is the third night in a row where he hasn’t been in bed, leaving you all alone. In the morning you’ve tried asking him what he’s been doing awake so late, and he eases your worries by saying he had only gone to use the bathroom. You never went out to go see for yourself, wanting to believe him. However, this night you had a gut feeling you should go search for him. Because unless he has a weird bathroom schedule he didn’t tell you about, you’re starting to call bullshit on him going off to use it every night around 2 AM, and he doesn’t even come back until an hour or two go by.

You treaded quietly down the hall, seeing if you could hear where exactly he was at. Your ears picked up on slight noise coming from the living room, and when you got a little closer you saw light shining from there. As you peeked your head in, that’s when you saw Lucifer sitting down near the coffee table, focusing on painting a rubber duck. Beside him seemed to be twenty more jumbled together, all in different colorful outfits and top hats.

“Lucy?” You called out, causing him to jump slightly from not expecting you to be awake. He immediately starts stuttering, searching for an explanation. “Oh! Y/N- I uhh- haha was just uhm..” His eyes dart around the room, fixing onto the huge grandfather clock that touches up the living room just perfectly, cluttering all the ducks under the rug as if you haven’t spotted them already.

“..I was on my way to the bathroom, per usual! As I noticed this beautiful babe of a clock we have here.” He rubs his chin in thought, looking over his shoulder at you. “Did you know we always had this?” Lucifer nervously laughs, the stutter making its appearance again when you gave him eyes of worry. “In the- er uh- house we’ve been practically living in for many years…”

All you did in response was take his hand into yours, the other finding its way to caress his cheek and then he broke.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Y/N. I promised it wouldn’t get this bad again, and I… well- I’m just so-“ you bring him into a hug to shush him, rubbing his back comfortingly. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about this right now. Let’s just go back to bed, okay?”

Lucifer nodded as you two walked back, hands interlocked. Getting into bed at the same time, moving around into a comfy position and settling with facing each other as your heads slightly bump together. Silence fills the room, almost passing out right then and there until you hear some shuffling.

You try to ignore it, assuming Lucifer wasn’t comfortable enough and was moving a little bit. Although the shuffling continued, making you sit up and look down at him. “Is everything alright?”

“I can’t sleep.” He says with a huff, staring up at the ceiling defeatedly.

This wasn’t your first rodeo where Lucifer couldn’t have sleep fall upon him. He always struggled becoming tired at the appropriate time, so it led you to come up with some ideas to help him.

“Do you want me to make you a hot drink?” You first suggested, something that always helps you knockout yourself. Lucifer shook his head, letting out a sigh. “No, that won’t do.”

“A massage, maybe?”

“Those never work.”

“How about watching a little bit of Tv?”

“We’ll accidentally stay up all night if we do that.”

You sit back on the bed headrest, forgetting how difficult he could be. It was like taking care of a child rather than your significant other.

That was until a lightbulb suddenly shined in your mind, a smile slowly forming, one he couldn’t see from how dark the room is, the city lights barely shining through the curtains to make some sort of visibility.

“Actually, I think I know what might do the trick.” The sound of your voice sounded more mischievous than comforting, which caused Lucifer to look over but let out a yelp of surprise from you straddling his waist in a quick second.

“What are you doing— H-HEHEY!” His question got cut off with a strangled giggle, your hands finding their way up to his underarms, going straight for the kill so soon.

As funny as it sounds, tickling was one of what seems like the only methods that helped tired out Lucifer. You can’t remember how exactly you stumbled upon this discovery, but what you do know is how he never complains because he secretly enjoys the thrill of it all. You tried getting him to admit it at one point, but you didn’t get far.

“Nohoho, wait! Wait!” Lucifer snapped his arms down but at the same time trying to grab at your wrists, but he didn’t pull them away. You both knew he had the strength to do so, but you’ll never comment on why he never does. The reason was clear as day.

No matter how many ‘please!’s or ‘stop!’s he throws at you, it all meant the opposite. “Y’know, times like these it makes it hard to believe you’re the ruler of Hell.” You teased, digging in his underarms a little deeper to pull out that snort he does. You weren’t left disappointed, him snorting as his hair becomes more unraveled with each shake of his head.

“I’ll shohow you once I’m FREHEHEE!” A squeal escapes him the minute you latch onto his thighs, the spot you go to when he gets snippy. Fingers find their way to his inner thighs, squeezing in a fast pace. “Lets see if you have enough energy once we’re finished, yeah?” You scoffed, almost nearly getting bucked off but you still had a firm grip on his thighs.

Thighs would be rank one for one of his most ticklish spots, his underarms being a close second. It takes only a few seconds for his laughter to become hoarse and silent, which has already happened, causing you to go slow and skitter your nails around his neck. You smiled at the sight of his cheeks becoming a more vibrant shade of red than it usually is, being a giggly mess and trying to trap your fingers under his chin.

“Ohohokay, I’ll sleheheep! I’m tired! I swehear!” He desperately pleas. His breathless state was convincing enough, but if there’s one thing you learned from all the times Lucifer tickled you, it was to be a little shit.

“Hmm, are you sure?” You left pokes all around his stomach, watching each poke earning you quiet giggles. He moves his hands away from your wrists up to your hands, and you let him. “Yehes, now leave me alohone.” You planted a kiss on his cheek, finally moving off of him. “Never.”

You tucked yourself back in bed, looking over to realize he is still giggling. “You do know I stopped, right?”

“Shut the hell up.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “It worked though. You can barely keep your eyes open now.”

Lucifer moved to lay on his side, a hand caressing your cheek. “It did, thank you.”

“I love you.”

#hazbin hotel tickle #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel tickle fics #tickle fic #tickle community #lee!lucifer #ler!reader #lee!lucificer x ler!reader #lucificer x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer tickle #I WRITE SO SLOWWWW IM SORRY #but I hope you guys like it teehee I luv that little man

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mvltisstuff · 6 months

Note

hi omg thought of this while rewatching s2 ep3 with the earthquake but okay so there’s the little montage of everyone being happy and eddie running to christopher - but what if there’s something similar for buck? instead of him being with abby he’s dating reader and reader has a lowkey job (maybe librarian at an elementary school?) so when he gets home the first thing he does is yell for reader and then holds them and they both shed a few happy tears just talking about how happy they are that the other is okay.

you’re honestly the bestest and i am saying this in advance that this is gonna be fabulous, as always. PLEASE AND THANK YOU!! <333

something in the orange - e.b

summary: request

evan buckley x reader

gif

a/n: the end of this ask was literally so sweet, i appreciate this so so much and i’m so happy you enjoy my works, that’s why i do them <33

buck was so sick and tired of watching everyone else have someone to run to. he hated having to see everyone in each others arms, watching a warm embrace ensue in front of him, just wanting it to be him instead. it was years on end of him watching kids with their parents, husbands with their wives, friends with their own friends. he always had the quick breakfast with a lay in bed, but he never had the long run of love that was supposed to come with it.

he thought his parents would be able to supply that love for him, but he must’ve been mistaken. they had no issue jumping out on every little thing in his life, nonetheless missing out on it. there was only so much love maddie could give, and he needed every drop of it. he thought maybe, someone mature like abby would come with the cherishing attitude to stay, but it left as fast as she did.

the earthquake had given a huge jumble to bucks brain, being able to save a bunch of people, but just wanted to go home at the same time. it felt selfish, and he hated himself for it, but how could he wish for anything else but just to be with y/n at home? he’s seen calamity and chaos the entire day, a constant strain of it into his shift. he’s seen death, broken bones, sobs, blood, anything that one doesn’t want to see. it took incredible pursuing to make bobby let buck take a break, but he could see he needed it.

he held his phone shakily in his hand, squinting over y/n’s name on the screen being darkened by the sunlight. he was nervous to even press the call button, not knowing if she’d be the one to pick it up, or an emergency responder who had her phone.

“hi, baby,” her sweet voice rang through the phone, leading him to sigh out and he couldn’t contain the light smile that formed on his lips. “are you ok?”

“i’m fine, i just wanted to hear your voice, make sure you’re ok.”

“we’re alright over here, there’s still kids here that need to get picked up, but they’re going pretty well with the evacuations.”

“i’m sorry i didn’t get over there, i got sent in the opposite direction.” y/n was working at the school on the other side of the city. buck was, of course, sent to work on the east side. he wanted to be able to save her, even if she wasn’t in trouble. he wanted to touch her so he knew she was breathing and alright, but he’d have to wait.

“don’t apologize, you’re doing amazing, buck,” she reassures him, letting his mind relax for a moment as she speaks to him. “go do your job, i’ll see you tonight, i promise.”

“i just want to see you.”

“i know, but you can in a few hours. do it for me, ok?”

“i love you, so much.”

“i love you, too, buck.”

the moment his fingers connected with the cold metal of the door, he instantly twisted it open to reveal the dim, yellowish lighting in his home. he felt like the introduction to his apartment felt like the ground stopped shaking. he was so excited to be able to rest, lay in his bed with y/n in his arms.

the thick soles of his shoes thumped against the ground as he threw his bags onto the floor. his shoulders instantly slumped and his feet automatically led to the stairs.

“hey,” y/n spoke, drying her hair with a towel to the side as it rested on her shoulder.

“hi.” he replied, slowly blinking his eyes.

“baby, you’re exhausted.” y/n steps forward down a few steps, standing a few inches taller than buck for once. her hands run over his shoulder blades, wandering over his skin and magically lifting the tension and stress from the earthquake.

“i know,” he says. “i just wanted you so bad today. there wasn’t a minute where you weren’t on my mind.”

“i’m here for good, buck. i’m not going anywhere, and i want you to get some rest.” she grabs his hand, pulling him up the steps and leading him to sit on the bed. he strips down to his boxers, leaving him shirtless as he puts on a warm hoodie that y/n handed him. he stops by the bathroom, washing his face as y/n prepares the bed for the two of them.

“i got you ice water, i left it on the nightstand.” y/n smiles softly up at him as he walks back in. “i turned the AC up, since you like it cold and i turned on the mattress heater.”

“you treat me too well, honey.”

“you did amazing work today, you deserve the treatment of a saint. come lay with me, please?”

“don’t have to ask twice.”

he crawls back into the bed as y/n dims the lights and turns their TV on. the white lights brighten their faces as he leans into her chest. his cheek rests right against the middle of her breasts, over her heart.

her arm is wrapped warmly around under his arm, the other hand rubbing his short hair. one of his legs lay between hers, his hands running against her sides. he breathes softly matching the rhythm of her, letting the noises of her gentle words and quiet noises from the TV lull him to sleep, allowing his deserving body to rest against the person he calls home.

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aqricus · 1 year

Text

SHAMELESS ! feat. bachira meguru

V SAYS . . . “bachira is greedy, especially when it comes to you, and he doesn’t care who knows about it.”

+ WC . . . 4.7k

+ sfw material. suggestive. character aged up 21+. fem reader. bachira is a little off his rocker. heavy(ish) makeout session. bachira likes lipstick prints. just take it, i’m too tired for real editing.

@m-ikage i can no longer be saved.

if there’s one thing you’ve come to learn about bachira, it’s that he’s selfish.

ever since your paths briefly intersected years ago when he was nothing more than a daredevil candidate for the national team with a tenacious streak and wild eyes housing an adrenaline-starved monster, he’s been self-centered. you’ve watched him from the sidelines, even if he wasn’t always aware, eyes analytical and inquisitive as you witnessed him storm the field with enough brazen confidence to shave four years off your life. it was evident from the jump that he preferred hoarding the ball, relying on his own abilities and viewing other players as experiments for his own personal gain rather than as teammates. you didn’t need to be perceptive to notice that the intense hunger for victory and superiority that flowed through his veins was palpable.

but, above all else, he’s selfish when it comes to your attention.

having been the first person to earnestly return his confession without regard to his idiosyncratic personality, he clung to you, craving to be showered in affection and reassurance that you do, indeed, still share his feelings. meeting and befriending like-minded individuals among blue lock was beneficial to healing his social detachment, but having a romantic partner was entirely different. the warmth that seeped beneath the old scar of loneliness was brand new to him. it was silken and ticklish, caressing the tips of his ears with heat every time you touched him, each word of praise or sentiment from you swaddling his brain in a honeyed varnish that left him tugging obnoxiously on your sleeve or whatever limb is closest just to ask you another question.

it’s intoxicating, leaving him desiring more and more of your touch, of your attention, of your time. he’s borderline obsessive, perhaps, in the passing—envious, bachira might also claim—opinion of certain teammates of his, but when you’ve always indulged his touchy-feely behavior, could you truly blame him?

even now, it's the same.

loose granules of cinder crunch beneath the sole of your sandal as you shift your weight from one leg to the other. the jumbled chatter and buzzing conversation swirling among bachira's team as they mingle a little ways away has dulled to nothing more than white noise as you focus your attention on rooting through the mess of miscellaneous items stashed in the bag slung over your shoulder. it's light, the straps not pressing too heavily into your shoulder. light . . . very light. almost too light, you notice with a furrow in your brow.

"something the matter?"

you glance up at the sound of a familiar voice to witness bachira separating himself from the sea of color-block jerseys with a slight, inquisitive tilt of his head and an easy upturn of his lips. you return his smile and shake your head. “no, i’m fine. i just thought my bag seemed a little lighter than i remember. it’s probably nothing.”

he hums and extends his hand without breaking eye contact, seeking your own as if out of habit. “you sure?” his fingers lace through yours. the pads are calloused from countless hours spent honing his chiseled physique and bear a slight chill against your skin. he lifts your hand and sandwiches it between his own as if attempting to shield it from the cool breeze wafting through the scenery. “mm, could just be nerves, y’know.” he muses. his round eyes spark with energy as he squeezes your hand between his own, energy practically rolling off him in waves and prickling along the light dusting of hair blanketing his arms. “i hear the team we’re gonna play is pretty tough!”

“yeah—”

“isn’t it exciting?” he exclaims abruptly, and your eyes soften.

whereas most people would be wracked with nerves when preparing to face a team rumored to be one of the most formidable on the field, bachira has always welcomed such challenges, rivaling them all with a ferocious tenacity and a drive to succeed. and, after spending all that time meditating in complete stillness and sharpening his mind’s focus before boarding the bus, it’s only natural that he’d be buzzing with such energy and enthusiasm. “i spent hours watching footage of their plays, so i know them like the back of my hand now. one of them is super good at dribbling, but i’m still better.” he boasts with a proud grin. “man, i can’t wait to crush them on their own turf! hey,” he leans forward until the tip of his nose is just shy of bumping into your own, gaze trained on yours in a moment of sobriety. his golden irises glimmer as he inquires, “you’re staying for the whole match again, right? you’ll be waiting for me?”

“of course,” your laughter is quiet, but his eyes sparkle, anyways. “i wouldn’t be anywhere else. i even brought—” your sentence is cut into silence when you’re struck by a moment of clarity, and your eyes widen as you finally recall the item absent from your bag. “my camera!” your hands wrench away from his with a gasp, and he makes a small sound of surprise at the sudden absence of warmth that engulfs his hands. the bite of your fingernails into his triceps when you grip at his upper arms is blunted by the polyester material of his jersey. but he doesn’t seem to mind, eyes instead darting feverishly over your own to analyze how dire the situation truly is. “i was gonna take pictures!” you lament to your boyfriend, a whine pitching your voice. “i was gonna be right up front, too! i wanted to print them out and put them in that scrapbook i bought. oh, my—how quickly do you think i can run?”

“pictures . . ?” bachira echoes, but his tone is remarkably less perturbed than yours and so low it can barely be classified as a murmur, as if the idea of you being his own personal photographer was too outlandish to process. ignorant to the way the cogs in his brain are rotating on overtime, you release your death grip on his arms with a groan and whirl around to face the cluttered rows of parked cars stretching nearly as far as the eye can perceive. but, bachira doesn’t seem even remotely interested in assisting you, all of his attention transfixed on the small wrinkle of frustration creasing your brow and the way the artificial light glistens off the fresh film of sparkly gloss overlaying your lips when you pensively press them into a line.

you’re unaware of the way his attention is trained on your side profile despite the intensity of his gaze, pupils constricted with a razor-sharp acuity that most would consider to be borderline predatory. his expression is completely neutral as his gaze sears holes into your temple, which would most certainly make the situation that much more unnerving and disconcerting—if you were paying enough attention to notice, that is. it’s as if his mind has stalled, suspended in limbo as he processes your words. “you . . . were gonna take pictures of me? and print them out? like, with ink and stuff? and put ‘em in a book?”

“why wouldn’t i?” you shift your attention back to him with little care for the off-putting way he’s surveying you, more aghast that he could even be so oblivious to how photogenic he appears whenever he’s focused on the game than anything else. granted, this would be your first time capturing snapshots of his time on the field with an actual camera instead of your phone; however, you both know that this definitely wouldn’t be his first time being photographed on the field. after bearing witness to the incessant clicking of shutters and obsessive fawning from the team’s fan base more times than you can count, you can say that with full certainty.

you hook your thumb beneath the strap of your bag and slide it higher up on your shoulder. “i take pictures of you all the time on my phone, as do your fans.” you explain casually, eliciting the pucker of his lips into a tiny ‘o.’ “i can promise you that there are at least a hundred people out there right now with personal photos they took of you taped to their wall. they . . . wait, you knew that, right?” you blink.

of course, he knew about his fans. after having numerous photos of himself and body parts shoved in his face, all vying for the opportunity to have his name scribbled across them in scarlet ink until his wrist ached, it’s impossible not to be aware of the spike in popularity that accompanies being a member of such a distinguished team. however, to have you, someone perched upon a golden pedestal of admiration and reverence in his mind, find such delight in his abilities that you wish to immortalize them is far different, and it makes his heart swell with pride. you really do like him, it seems.

the suggestion of such a sentimental gesture only nourishes the pre-existing, vivid gleam of excitement alight in his eyes. plumes of fiery adoration seep through the depths of his gaze, bleeding all the way to his irises and trickling down his sternum to cause warmth to pool in his chest. this time, when he smiles, it’s unrestrained, and he does little to mask the faint flush of rose that scales the tips of his ears.

the thrum of his heartbeat now slightly more noticeable to him, he reaches for you. your attention shifts back to him at the feeling of his fingers curling around your upper arm. “is something wrong?” he wants to coo at the innocuous twinkle in your eye—so attentive yet unassuming, so blissfully ignorant to the underlying touch of mischief to the toothy grin curving his lips as he shuffles a step closer.

sometimes, you tend to forget that bachira is romantically stunted from having dedicated himself to advancing his physical prowess, this exposure to a brand new situation causing his emotions to fester and swell without a proper outlet before finally manifesting in his own . . . interesting ways. even now, instead of attempting to vocalize his appreciation, his fingertips tingle with the urge to pinch your cheeks, to ensnare you in his arms and smush you against his chest until you have to fight for breath, to just engulf you until you feel him as intensely as he does you. he’s an ardent lover—always been, but that’s part of why you adore him so.

“baby,” it’s the teasing, crooning lilt in his voice that you recognize as his hands start to drift toward your waist, a warning you’ve learned to identify that’s usually succeeded by some type of embrace or grip you end up having to struggle to escape. it lures you deeper, closer into range, his hold on you barely more than a whisper over your skin until the distance between you is short enough for it to snap shut around you, ensnaring you with an iron strength he has no business having.

he bears a playful glint in his eye and a ticklish touch to match, but you know better. “no, you don’t,” you laugh, palm pressing flat against his stomach to edge him back a step. “meguru, i need my camera.” you lean closer to place a chaste peck against his cheek, which, admittedly, was your first mistake. “you need to be with the rest of your teammates right now.”

your second mistake is lingering to offer him a warm smile. while bachira is sweet to you, you should know by now that he has no problem playing dirty. he tilts his head, teeth vanishing into a closed-lipped smile. “mhm!” however, as soon as you relax, he’s quick to take advantage of it. one of his hands clamps down on your hip before you can turn away, keeping you pinned in place. “but, only if you give me my kiss for good luck.” you’re not surprised at his attempt to bargain with you; although, with how firm his hold is on you, it’s less of a compromise and more of a demand. “it’s tradition.” he reminds you cheekily.

while that much is true, you both know that you would be more than willing to indulge him and uphold your little pre-game ritual, which means that, considering the way he’s taking extra precautions by holding you still, whatever is coming next most certainly entails more than one kiss.

still, you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, knowing that utilizing all of the time allotted for warming up his muscles is quite valuable to him—your third mistake. “that’s correct,” you agree. “but, i’m wearing lip gloss, and you’re about to head inside, so we have to be careful.” with that, you clasp your hands behind your back and tilt your chin to plant a brief kiss on his almost comically puckered lips.

but, it’s not enough for him. the retraction of your head is calm, a sharp contrast to the desperation in his touch as the hand resting on your hip abruptly flickers up to cup your jaw and halt your withdrawal. “me—” your gasp of surprise is interrupted by the sealing of his lips over yours once more. the motion is uncalculated and uncoordinated, more spawned from a yearning for close proximity than anything else, but you don’t particularly mind. the press of his lips to yours is firm, the tip of his nose smushed against yours in an endearing display of inelegance that causes the corners of your lips to quirk upward into a small smile. his fingertips are alight with a lively heat that dances over your skin as they adjust into a more comfortable position, and you giggle against his lips at the ticklish caress of his thumb over the hollow of your cheek.

the moment you slip from his hold and start to turn away from him, regret begins to settle in, and you find yourself wishing to return to the warmth of his body when the crisp evening air rushes to engulf the ghost of his touch. regardless, you need to hurry up. unfortunately—or fortunately, whichever you may decide—you only make it a few steps before you feel the familiar weight of his hand on your shoulder once more, spinning you back to face him.

the silent inquiry twinkling in your eyes is met with a spark of something ravenous, insatiable, puddles of vibrant gold sharpened to an acute point that pierces directly to your core. despite the secluded area of the parking lot and the clear inattentiveness of his teammates, you feel exposed—vulnerable—as if bachira’s gaze alone is intense enough to feel as if you’re being riddled with countless stares from every angle, each watchful eye stripping you down to your bare skin. it’d be unsettling if you were any less involved with him; but, as you relax in his hold, you’d figure you’re well-accustomed.

“meguru,” you chuckle, “i have to go.”

but, he wants more. one more kiss—no, two more, or perhaps three more if fortune deems him worthy. bachira knows you like the back of his hand—knows how to talk to you, where to touch you, and how to kiss you to sap your knees of their strength and leave you pliant enough to refashion your will to align with his. “one more, promise.” his voice is sticky-sweet, but his vow is empty, devoid of even a modicum of truth. it always is when it comes to your affection. just spend five more minutes with him in bed, give him one more kiss before you bid him farewell and head off to work, just let him hold you for one more minute—lies, all of them.

although, when you recognize his attempts to pour a year’s worth of reverence and adoration into such a simple gesture, you can’t quite find it in yourself to protest. so, you allow it, acquiescently tipping your head to connect your lips in a single kiss. but, just as you anticipated, he has no intention of releasing you just yet. every small, unhurried shuffle you take backward, he takes one forward, closing the distance you try to gradually squeeze between you. his presence is inexorable, curling around you and encompassing you entirely until there’s nowhere you can look—nowhere you can reach—that isn’t already occupied by him. he trails after you as if his body is operating on autopilot and all brain activity has idled, unabashedly—obsessively—pursuing you with the intent of stealing a kiss with every footstep if manageable.

you can feel your resolve weakening with every brush of his lips, heart fluttering and limbs growing cumbersome as you try to focus on placing one foot behind the other. you know you’re a goner, as does he. any long-term resistance is futile. but, it isn’t until the tip of his tongue sweeps mischievously over your bottom lip that you cease motion altogether. your muscles tense, and your eyes widen as you sharply break the kiss, voice a tad breathless when you anxiously object, “wait—”

but, even if he hears you, bachira doesn’t seem to care. you’ve always been more cautious about monitoring the affection you two show each other in public, constantly worried about intimate photographs being snapped and stamped along countless tabloids and magazines with both of your names smeared across the headlines like a stain. you enjoy the privacy you’re afforded, something he can understand. but, he also reasons that it isn’t quite a good enough reason to keep his hands off you. he’s positive his extroverted nature plays a major role in his thought process, but in his mind, it’s quite straightforward—you two are together, and he will not allow anyone to influence that.

it doesn’t matter how envious certain fans may become or how much his manager may gripe about such a “distraction,” every external force and nagging complaint dwindles to white noise with the press of your body against his. you’re all his—his pretty girl, his sweetheart, his girlfriend, and he knows that there exist those who would cheat and steal to experience a fleeting slice of the treatment you lavish bachira with on a daily basis. why wouldn’t he want to show you off?

with that, he tilts his head forward one final time, enveloping your lips in a kiss far deeper and far more torrid than any of the previous ones. you tense, a small murmur of surprise slipping from your throat, when you feel the slick tip of his tongue delve between your lips, coaxing them further open to allow him unrestrained access to every nook and cranny. his kisses are always energetic, overwhelming in the best way that leaves your knees wobbly and your brain buzzing from oxygen deprivation—this one is no different.

it’s as if you have to switch off conscious control of the rest of your body in order to focus well enough to maintain the fervent movement of his lips against yours. you know that if you fall behind, he’ll be quick to seize the advantage, and that is something you cannot afford right this moment. bachira is shameless with his affection, and only god knows how he’ll utilize any inch of surrender you offer.

you blindly scramble for purchase to balance yourself and manage to curl your fingers into the material of his jersey. the tight pull of the fabric into your fist is met with the feeling of his lips twitching into a grin against your own. contrary to his typical touchy-feely behavior, this time he doesn’t make any move to steady you, and your ears burn at the thought of him actually deriving amusement from your dependence on him after previously demonstrating such resistance. bachira is nothing if not impish—you knew this; yet here you are, hopelessly entangled in another one of his countless ploys contrived to submerge you in the same desire that courses through his veins on a nearly daily basis. he made sure you’d be fighting an uphill battle the moment you allowed him to lay his hands on you; and now, that’s crystal clear to you.

although, you aren’t sure whether the heat coalescing in the pit of your stomach is one of indignation or carnality.

“bachira!”

your heartbeat spikes.

someone’s acknowledged him. someone sees you.

all you can muster is a spark of strength, but it’s enough to break the kiss and retract your head. your stomach flutters at the sight of a strand of saliva webbing between your and bachira’s lips, and you hastily smear the back of your hand across your mouth to disconnect it. oh, god, please let it at least be someone meguru knows. the heat brewing beneath your clothes is almost stifling, the new twinge of desire at the apex of your thighs even more so, and you promptly swivel your head toward an empty area of the parking lot. it’s safe to say that you’re still reeling from your boyfriend’s bold ministrations, so you’re certain that one glance at your face will incriminate you. you exhale slowly. i can’t be seen like this.

you’re embarrassed to have been noticed, to say the least; but, bachira clearly is not. he reacts without any sense of urgency. his eyes twinkle as he observes you, watching you lean closer to rest your cheek against whatever part of him you can reach first. she’s warm, he notices as he lifts a hand to cradle the back of your head, his pinky grazing the nape of your neck. how sweet. his giggle is quiet, an unnervingly sharp contrast to his prior actions. you’re so cute; it makes him want to eat you up—to swallow you whole and keep you all for himself. tempting. instead, he tucks you against his chest and nonchalantly turns his head toward one of his teammates who has detached from the main group and is now standing a few yards away with his hands planted on his hips.

he doesn’t appear ruffled in the least at having caught bachira’s tongue shoved down your throat—more exasperated than anything else. “hurry up,” he advises, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at where the rest of his team is still mingling. “we’re leaving in a few minutes.”

“yeah, ‘m coming!” bachira calls back, as ebullient and carefree as ever.

his teammate starts to turn back, only to glance over his shoulder at the last minute. “and, wipe your face, too. the paparazzi will eat you alive.” he gripes.

wipe his face? you quizzically lift your head from its place nestled against him, only for your eyes to pop wide with horror at the sight. “meguru!” you gasp. his lips are framed with visible fragments of glitter from your lip gloss, saliva having trickled down to the point of his chin in rivulets of tacky translucence and kaleidoscopic shards. his jersey is a bit wrinkled from where you’d been clutching it, and you clumsily run your hand over the creases to try to smooth them out. “oh, my god, i totally forgot about the lip gloss. i—” you reach into your bag for a clean tissue or napkin—anything, really—and fish out a wadded napkin that seems otherwise untouched. “here, use this to wipe it off.”

“and let it all go to waste?” bachira lifts his chin a bit and touches his fingertips to his bottom lip with a cheeky grin, and your heart almost stops when he angles his face toward the more populated area of the parking lot. “don’t wanna. the color brings out my eyes.”

“what are you talking about? it’s clear—” your teeth close on the tip of your tongue, tension already beginning to stack in your chest. this isn’t new behavior by any means; he’s always had a strange fondness for having your lip prints stamped across his skin, whether it’s his cheeks, throat, or chest. and, it’s not that you don’t like it, no—it’s just that there cannot be a worse moment for him to decide to keep them.

“meg,” you reach for his face to squish his cheeks between your palms and turn his head back toward you, and his lips pucker at the fire in your eyes. “your fans will literally crucify me if you walk out there with lip gloss all over you. they’re insane.”

“ah,” you can tell he isn’t enthusiastic about having to adhere, but he accepts the napkin from you, nonetheless. “fine. but,” his toothy smile returns. “you gotta make it up to me when we get home, m’kay?”

“what do you mean?” your eyebrows furrow, perplexed. “you mean more kisses? i mean, of course, you can have more—”

but, you fall silent when he shakes his head. “nope. ‘s not all i want.” you don’t get the chance to ask for clarification before he’s inclining his head until his face stills mere inches from yours. your eyes flicker down to the space between you when he raises a hand to tap his forefinger against his cupid’s bow. you can’t bring yourself to avert your eyes, his gaze pinning yours in place. “i told you, i liked how it looked.” your stomach flips at his words. “sent a real good message, too.”

“but, you’re making me wipe it off.” he reminds you, as if the blame lies with you instead of his fans. you do like seeing your lip gloss on his skin; it proves that he’s yours. you just don’t want to have to deal with the consequences if photographs spread; because, while he’s not an actor or musician, he still has his own share of unsavory, possessive fans. “so, you gotta make it up to me by givin’ me some more after i win. one for each goal i score—and i get to leave it on.”

your brain idles for a split second. “that’s . . . what you want?”

“mhm,” he nods. “a favor for a favor. so,” he leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours. “we have a deal?”

you’re quiet for a moment, mulling over his words, before dissolving into soft laughter. to make a trade such as this, bachira truly is odd. but, you tilt your chin up to place a chaste peck to the tip of his nose. it’s cute. “we have a deal.” you agree with a smile. “now,” you press your palms against his abdomen to ease him back a few steps. “i’m getting my camera. your team is waiting for you.” this time, he doesn’t object and lets you go, but you can still feel his eyes fixated on your back as you begin your trek through the rows of vehicles.

“actually . . . i changed my mind.”

you turn back at the sound of his voice to spot a roguish grin playing on his lips.

“the color. i want red, instead.”

#blue lock x you #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x reader #bachira meguru #bachira x reader #bachira x y/n #blue lock bachira #meguru bachira #blue lock #bachira x you

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vixezn · 1 year

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Hi! Could you do a Wally x tired Reader. :}

You bet! Sleepy [Y/n], coming right up!

💤 - The first thing Wally noticed when he came to the neighborhood picnic was your eyebags underneath your eyes. Did you get enough sleep last night?

💤 - When asked, you replied with a simple, “just sleepy!” and he kept it in mind!

💤 - When he sat down, he went near you! A good neighbor knows when to keep their friend’s surroundings in check!

💤 - During the picnic, he noticed you kept yawning! Even though he thought it was adorable, he also noticed how your speaking was getting a little.. lazy? He didn’t know how to describe it, you just seemed overall sluggish!

💤 - After a while, you rested your head against his shoulder as a support! Your eyes were closed, were you asleep?

💤 - You seemed to read his mind, “I’m not sleeping, just resting my body.” You sounded tired, and a simple “mhm!” came from Wally.

💤 - On the inside, Wally was freaking out! Were you comfortable? Is he blushing? Did you notice that he sat stiffly? Does he push you off? Pick you up?

💤 - The other neighbors noticed Wally’s situation and giggled. They knew Wally had an interest in you! He sent a look to Barnaby, the gaze meaning, “Help me! What do I do?!”

💤 - In return, Barnaby gave back a knowing glance and continued his conversation with Sally, telling her a joke.

💤 - His thoughts got more jumbled as you shifted and rested your head in his lap! What does he do now?! Where does he put his hands? On your head?

💤 - In hesitance, he slowly put his hands on your head, just.. there. Barnaby stifled a chuckle as he saw Wally’s face turn red.

💤 - Poppy was his saving grace, “[Y/n]? Dear, are you asleep? Should you head home?” No response came from you!

💤 - Wally looked down at you and saw your even breathing, closed eyes, and slightly open mouth. Oh gosh, you really were asleep!

💤 - Poppy shifted her gaze towards Wally, “Could you bring her to your house? She hasn’t finished moving in, and her poor house doesn’t have a bed!” As a response, Wally nodded!

💤 - He picked you up bridal style and carried you over to his house. Thankfully, it wasn’t far, considering that you were at least a foot taller than him!

💤 - After that incident, it left a good first impression on Wally! The picnic was supposed to be a welcome part for you, and you fell asleep during it!

💤 - Every once in a while after that, Wally notices that sometimes you don’t get a good nights sleep, and you show it throughout the day!

💤 - So, he has energizers such as tea and coffee on hand, in case you need to stay up during the day to maintain your awful sleep schedule!

💤 - Sometimes, he still gets a blush on his face when you fall asleep on him! He can’t help it!

💤 - He also noticed that you are absolutely adorable when you’re drowsy! Your movements are slower than usual, and you make little yawns once in a while!

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ilovewriting06 · 1 year

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could you write a story where the reader(human) and kol are friends and reader asks kol what it’s like to be bitten, and asks if he could bite her?? maybe a little steamy?? totally ok if you don’t want to-

Being friends with a vampire, an Original at that, was interested to say the least. You learned things you didn’t want to know or didn’t even know existed and questions would circle your mind constantly, which leads to my current question, “Kol?” He glances at me from the corner of his eye still watching tv and hums. I sigh before deciding to get his attention, “Would you mind if I date Klaus? I mean me and him have hooked up a couple times and he is fantastic in be-,” I was cut off my Kol yelling, “YOU DID WHAT? WHEN? WHERE THE HELL WAS I?”

I laughed as I cupped his face to calm him down, “I was joking Kol, relax.” He calms down a little bit before turning to me, “So? You and him have never actually…” I scrunch up my nose, “Ewww, God no, he’s like the annoying older brother that pops out of nowhere and decides to stab everybody.” Kol laughs before asking, “Did you need me for something?”

I nodded blushing a little as he cocks his head to the side like a dog before asking, “What could possibly be embarrassing to ask me darling? We talk about your periods and such what could be worse?”

I give him a look before taking a deep breath and jumbling out a string of words, “Will you bite me?”

He looked at me, blinked a few times and then asked, “What? I think I heard you wrong.”

I shake my head before sighing, “No, I’m being serious.”

“Why on earth do you want me to bite you love?”

I honestly don’t know, maybe hoping it will lead to something else, “I dunno I just want to know what it feels like.”

He nods before sitting back on the couch in thought, “I don’t know Y/N/N, it hurts and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Welll, distract me from the pain.”

He looks at me with furrowed eyebrows, “And how do you suppose I do that?”

I looked at him hoping I wouldn’t have to say it and I felt my heart start hammering against my ribcage and he perks up a little his ears turning a shade of red, “Oh, oh, you mean like that.” It wasn’t a question but I nodded in hopes he would say yes but knowing he probably didn’t feel the same way. I looked down disappointed, “You know what, just forget about it. Forget I ever said anything.”

He cups my face before turning my head up to look at him, “No darling, I’ll do it, I’m just surprised is all.”

I sit up on my knees with a smile on my face, “Really!?” He chuckles, “Yes, however I will say, I have never seen someone this excited to get bitten by a vampire before.”

I blushed and shrugged my shoulders as he stood and offered me his hand. I stood up holding his hand and followed him to his bedroom. As he sat in the bed he held my hands in both of his while I stood in between his legs before he asked, “Are you sure you want to do this? Because if we do, we can’t go back to the way it was.”

I squeezed his hands with a small smile on my face, “I don’t want it to go back to the way it is, I want more.” He smiled, “Good, I was getting rather tired of pretending I was happy with just friendship.” I laughed before choking on it as he pulled me in for a heated kiss. I instantly submitted to him and let him control the kids as he pulls me onto his lap. Once in his lap I weave my hands through his hair and moan into his mouth when his tongue enters mine. He pulls away when I’m in need of air before standing up while holding me and then gently placing me on the bed.

I look up at him through my lashes while biting my lip causing him to groan, “I have a love hate relationship with your habit of biting your lip.” I chuckle noting that it turns him on as he takes off his shirt and pants before crawling onto the bed and looking in my eyes. I smile and sit up when he grabs the hem off my shirt so that he can take it off.

Once our clothes were discarded he ran his hands down my sides as if I were some china doll that was easily broken, “God, you are so beautiful.”

I blush and then moan as he starts kissing my neck, instantly finding my sweet spot. He smirked before pulling back and lining himself up with my entrance before looking at me for confirmation one more time. I nod my head and almost immediately moan in pain and pleasure of the stretch of my walls. I’m not a virgin but I haven’t had sex with anyone in three month and he was way bigger than anyone I’ve ever been with.

As he thrusts in and out of my he places sweet kisses up and down my neck before seemingly looking for my pulse point. Within minutes I’m ready to cum and in response Kol starts sucking a deep mark into my neck.

I furrow my eyebrows confused as to why he hasn’t bitten me when I scream in complete ecstasy as his fangs pierce my skin. Did it hurt? Yes. Did I like it? Hell yes. It hurt like hell but it also pushed me over the edge throwing me into the most intense orgasm I have ever had. As I come down from my high Kol licks the bite to soothe it before pulling back and licking the blood off of his lips. When he meets my eyes he looks at me with concern until I smile and pant, “Dear. God. We have got to do that again.” He laughs as he pulls out and I grip his arm as he laid beside me. “Kol, you didn’t finish.” He laughed before nodding, “Yeah, I did. The same time you did but you didn’t notice with all the new sensations.”

I chuckle before wrapping my arm around his torso and laying my head in his shoulder before concern makes it’s way into my brain and I look up at him in question , “So, what does this make us?”

He looks down at me before answering, “I was hoping you would be my girlfriend. If you would like that.”

I smile before pulling him into a kiss, “I would love to be your girlfriend.”

#vampire diaries #the originals #kol mikaelson #kol mikaelson x reader #request #smut

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helloheyhihowdyheya · 1 year

Text

One Step at a Time

Peter Parker x gn!reader

Masterlist

And thank you for (over) 250 followers! Wow <3

Summary: You're not having a good day, but you do have Peter.

Word Count: ~1.8k

Warnings: Mentions of reader being upset, tired, crying. Comfort. Peter being a dork. Bad jokes. Angst. Fluff.

A/n: Inspired by my own life and @reidslovely's post here (thank you <3). Thank you for reading. Would love to hear what you think!

- -

Like a breeze drifting through a cracked window, Peter slipped into your shared apartment after patrolling. The golden hour laid against his back as he found you curled up in bed. As soon as he saw your body buried under the blankets and heard your ragged exhales, he took off his mask and came to your side.

Though his muscles ached, he kneeled beside the bed. The red of the suit he still wore shined in the early evening light, encasing the hand he gingerly reached under the blankets. His fingers wrapped around yours, offering a lifeline – a chance to pull your head above the water.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispered, rubbing a thumb along the back of your hand.

The memories of today that you’d unsuccessfully tried to ignore came trickling back – until they grew into a suffocating flood threatening to break the dam. Your mind wavered, feeling exhausted and unable to do what you wanted. The same thing that seemed to happen every day.

Mornings started out okay, hopeful even that you could make it through. But then something would throw you off, make doubt and anxiety creep up your throat and paralyze you. The pillow sank further as you pressed your head into it, hoping it would quiet your brain just a little. Eventually, as Peter squeezed your hand, you found your voice.

“Work called me to ask if I could work overtime all week… and I just feel like they’re pulling me in a million different ways without letting me get a chance to breathe. But my coworker seems like she’s doing fine with it, so maybe I’m just not good at the job,” you sniffled from under the blanket, mumbling your words.

“And then I tried to make lunch, but I burned it and made a huge mess that I still haven’t cleaned up – I’m sorry – and I went out to get myself a drink from our usual cafe to cheer me up, but someone bumped into me, so it all spilled on my new shirt.”

You took in a sharp breath, squeezing your eyes shut. “I wanted today to be productive, to feel good about how much I accomplished. But all I’ve managed to do was make a mess of the apartment and waste the day away.”

Peter had let you talk, even though his jaw ticked as he kept himself from telling you to stop being hard on yourself. He let you get it all out before whispering, “Hey. Look at me, it’s okay. Come on, it’s just you and me.” His other hand slowly pulled the blanket from you, revealing your red eyes and tear-stained skin.

You found it hard to listen to his words, let alone do what he said, when your thoughts refused to slow down – instead, they multiplied, overlapping and jumbling into a mess that only make your hiccuping breaths worse. You stared downward, blinking away hot tears, when Peter’s hands found your jaw. His calloused fingers cupped around your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he brought your head up to look at him.

Through your watery vision, you let yourself fall into the deep color of his eyes, embracing the warmth and love they held. Your lip wavered as you tried stopping the next wave of tears from cresting past your lashes, your teeth digging into the inside of your cheek.

“Come here.” Peter pulled you into a hug, letting you wrap around his body while he rubbed up and down your back. Your fingers dug into the material of his suit, tried to squeeze it so hard that it would take you from your thoughts – pull you from this body that never seemed to be on your side.

Pulling back, Peter wiped the tears from your cheeks before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry today hasn’t been good to you, and I would kick its ass for treating you like this if I could,” he said, earning a sad sort of laugh out of you.

“But you’re not some weak person incapable of handling things. I’m serious,” he said when you looked away, knowing that you were internally resisting his words. Pressing his forehead against yours, he continued. “First, your job is ridiculous for expecting you to give up your life for them. And second, you don’t need to accomplish a million things, or even one thing, to feel good about yourself. I know I’ve said it before, but your productivity does not define your self-worth, okay? I’m proud of you for making it through the day – I know it’s not always easy. But let’s start over and try again.”

Peter held you, making sure you heard his words loud and clear – forcing you to care about yourself as much as he did. Making his voice louder than the critical one inside your head. “I love you. Now, have you had anything to eat since lunch?” he asked, his voice so kind, like each word could somehow hold you together until you felt better.

You shook your head, sniffling once again. “I love you too.”

“Okay, I can quick grab some dinner and bring it back. What are you feeling?” He started to sit back on his heels, moving away just slightly.

Your hands held onto him harder, wordlessly pleading with him to stay. “Could you just order it for delivery?” you whispered, eyes fixated on the threads of the blanket.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll pull up a list of restaurants on my phone.” He came up on the bed, sitting against the headboard and pulling you into his chest. A few minutes passed as you scrolled through, willing yourself to find anything to eat.

Passing a burger place, Peter said, “I stopped a robber from stealing from that place last week. He didn’t appreciate my ‘Hamburglar’ jokes very much.”

You couldn’t stop from letting out a small laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “Do you really make conversation with the criminals you stop?”

He shrugged, a toothy smile spreading across his face. “Gotta make friends in this business somehow.”

Shaking your head, you just turned back to the list and picked out a place. “I’ll be right back,” Peter told you as he got up to grab his wallet, leaving you in the bed.

The urge to crawl under the blanket again called to you in the cold absence of Peter, the wave of it nearly pushing you back into that mindset. But you held on, squeezing one of your hands with the other as you breathed through it.

You had this. You were capable, even when everything in the world tried to make you forget that. With a final wipe of your eyes, you slowly climbed from the bed and into the living room, one step at a time. Though your body tried telling you to go back and disappear, you kept going.

The sun still shined, the spring weather wafting into the apartment as you opened the window. It danced past you, placing warm kisses along your skin.

You felt Peter walk up behind you, now dressed in sweats, wrapping his arms around your middle. Together, you watched the city breathe below. The skyline laid against a background of orange and yellow hues that you’d missed. A sunset you would’ve gone without had you stayed closed off under the blankets.

“Well I can’t fight the day if it’s going to look this beautiful,” Peter muttered as you laid your head back against his solid body.

“What’s the point of having a superhero boyfriend if he can’t fight the universe for you?” You rested your arms on top of his, holding tight as you let out a dramatic sigh.

His hair brushed along you as he shook his head, a small smile on his face. Beside your ear, he whispered, “To do this.” His hand held onto you, picking you up like you weighed nothing as you let out a shriek.

He sat down on the couch, keeping you between his legs and your back to his chest. “I guess that is a perk,” you said, laughter shaking through your body. “Though… the remote is all the way over there.” You pointed over to the other side of the couch, just out of arm's reach.

“Also a good reason for a superhero boyfriend.” Peter shot his hand out toward it, webs snagging the remote.

He turned the TV on as you leaned back to look into his eyes, loving the bright glint they held. “Okay, you’ve proven yourself worthy. I’ll keep dating you.”

Even his dramatic sigh couldn’t hide his amusement, his complete adoration for you. “How generous of you. So glad I could be of service.”

The rumble of his laughter shook through you, leading a trail of warmth through your body. With your comfort movie playing on the TV, the two of you sat there. His chest rose and fell along with yours, breaths like watery swells crashing against one another.

You only moved when the food arrived, Peter running down to grab it (but not before fixing you with a hard stare when you offered to grab it yourself.)

Walking in with arms full a minute later, he called your name in a sing-songy voice. From behind his back, he pulled out more than just dinner. A bouquet full of colorful flowers sat in one hand while a drink from the cafe near your apartment sat in the other – the one you’d spilled earlier.

In an instant, soft tears began to sting at the corners of your eyes as you looked at him and his nervous smile. “Thought this could help,” he said, handing you the drink and food. “You deserve it.”

“Peter…” you whispered as he started toward the kitchen. But you grabbed onto his arm, pulling him back onto the couch.

He flopped next to you, hair wild as he looked between you and the flowers. “But…” Though the look you gave him made him quickly give up. Peter couldn’t help being weak against any request you made.

The flowers were lovely, of course, but in the wave of emotion that filled your heart, you just wanted Peter right by your side. Setting everything else aside, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you against him. Only the two of you existed in the moment, everything else disappearing. The movie continued on in the background, but you stayed there, with him.

In his embrace, you could feel the weight of his earlier words – his urge to be kind to yourself. You would certainly try, as you took small steps through life. And no, not every day was going to be easy. But they were easier with Peter.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x gn!reader #spider-man #spider-man x reader #spiderman #spiderman x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #Tom holland #tom holland spiderman

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autistic--mothman · 1 month

Text

This is gonna be my post where I continuously edit whilst I am rereading TGCF

Volume 1 Moments

Chapter 1

“I’m a civil god,” Ling Wen said. “If you’re looking for someone to kick you down under, you’ll need to find a martial god to do it. The harder they kick, the more merits they’ll give.”

Xie Lian chuckled. “You worded it like a pipa player with half her face covered, and within the fox, the flower looks three times more beautiful.

He couldn’t help but ask, “Ling Wen, they don’t look like they’re here to help me work, more like they’re here for my good-for-nothing head. I hope they’re not here because of your trickery.”

The two answered in unison, “I’m willing.” Looking at those two grim and dispirited faces, Xie Lian thought inwardly, You guys actually mean “I want to kill myself,” right?

Chapter 2

Xie Lian replied. “Fu Yao, why are you rolling your eyes again?”

Throughout the entire thing, Fu Yao was rolling his eyes so hard that Xie Lian almost wanted to ask if his eyes were tired.

“Too ugly!” Fu Yao exclaimed. Xie Lian choked for a moment, then chided, “Fu Yao, you can’t talk about girls like that.” If he had to be honest, what Fu Yao said was true. That girl’s face was incomparably flat, looking exactly like someone had leveled it with a slap. It would almost be an insult to say her features were plain; if they must be described, then only “crooked nose and slanted eyes” could be used.

Chapter 3

Fu Yao, you’re not speaking as an immortal should,” Xie Lian said. “And can you fix that eye-rolling habit of yours? Why don't you set a small target for yourself first and roll only five times a day or something like that?”

Chapter 4

Her Jumbled words certainly did sound a little odd. With a bent nose and slanted eyes and an appearance so ugly it was silly, her bloodied, tear-streaked face was almost funny to behold.

#tgcf #hua cheng #xie lian #hualian #heaven official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #天官赐福

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cheeriecherrymain · 11 months

Note

Could you do one for a reader that has severe anxiety maybe him helping her through a panic attack just reassuring and comforting the heck out of her ((: I’m not sure if you have already done one like that

Taking prompts and running away with them in my mouth is my brand, it seems.

---

Viktor x Reader

---

-You’ve had what someone might call a terrible day.

-First, you’d missed your alarm, and on the day of a big presentation, no less. That’s fine, you’d naively thought, as you rushed through your morning routine while opting to skip breakfast, you can still make it if you hurry, and you can grab lunch afterwards.

-It wasn’t the best start, but you figured it could only look up from there.

-But, like clockwork, everything you’d done since then had only seemed to go wrong. You’d dropped your notebook in the courtyard outside your office as you nearly ran towards the building, which sent your papers to the ground in a jumbled, disorganized mess.

-It’s fine, you told yourself, kneeling down to hastily collect them back into their folder. Right onto an upside-down bottlecap, the metal edge of which pierces through your flesh with a sharp snap, and a burn. You fall sideways onto your hip, the brunt of your weight falling haphazardly onto your palm.

-...right into the rest of the bottle on the concrete.

-Sharp little fragments press into your sensitive skin, some of them so small that you can hardly see them, and the blood now welling forth is no help. Tears well in your eyes from the stinging pain, and also from frustration. Your boss was going to kill you if you got blood on his important documents, and you were definitely going to get reamed for showing up late.

-You wipe your eyes on your sleeve, though, and steel your demeanor. It’s fine, you tell yourself.

-And then a gust of wind whips past you, when you’re just inches away from your papers. Picking them up into a miniature cyclone, tossing them off in every direction. You watch hopelessly as some of them are even twirled down the street and around the corner, hoping, praying, that they’re not anything important.

-Luck, of course, is not on your side today.

-You grab what you can from the ground, sticking everything together into one filthy heap, and run into your workplace, worse for wear. You garner a couple glances, most of the disdainful, but some of them pitying - side eyes from coworkers and superiors, undoubtedly wondering what the hell kind of gall you have, showing up to work in such disarray.

-Your boss, like you’d expected, is not happy that you’re late. You were one of the only staff members he’d retained when management had shifted over to him, and as such one of the only people who actually knew what he needed and how things worked.

-You’d never speak ill of him, not with how he single handedly controlled your paycheck, but that didn’t stop you from thinking he was an idiot.

-He offers you no such courtesy.

-He scolds you in a way that some might see as jokingly, but you can tell by the way that he taps his foot on the tiled floor that he’s serious. Even moreso when you pull out the papers you’d managed to collect, only to realize that oh, those two sheets that had disappeared with the wind?

-Yeah, those were the most important out of the entire stack.

-You want to cry, when your boss’ voice raises, reprimanding you further than you’d ever been before. You worked hard, and you kept the entire operation running, and yet everyone around the place spoke to you like you were nothing.

-You’re tired, you’re stressed, you feel honestly a little sick, and your hand and knee hurt. You want to go home, and curl up with your cat, and you never ever want to have to set foot in this stupid office ever again!

-And by the end of it, you don’t have to.

—

-You show up to your boyfriend’s lab about an hour later.

-He’s busy and focused, as you’d expected, and part of you feels bad for disturbing him. His work is infinitely more important than yours ever was, and you feel like an awful partner for showing up without any warning - and as an emotional wreck, no less.

-Taking away from time he could be spending doing something else, something better, and god, maybe you should just turn around and leave before he-

- “Oh, hey! Is it lunch already?”

-You freeze in the doorway, partially turned and ready to sneak back out. You’re not sure how you sometimes forget that he has a partner, whom he works with, who also shares the lab with him, who you are also friends with.

-Viktor glances up when Jayce exclaims, made curious by an unscheduled visitor. You watch as his expression goes from guarded, to surprised, to tender and happy, once he realizes that it’s you.

-You.

-Standing there in your work attire, carrying a cardboard box with one side covered in blood. Knee and shin also covered in blood, tights torn. Tear stained face.

-His expression falls.

- “What happened, milý?” he asks, so softly that you can barely hear him.

-All at once, your facade breaks. Your emotions come washing in at full force, and the gravity of the situation dawns on you. You’re unable to control the sobs as they come, harder and harder, wracking your body as you violently choke them out.

-You try to explain what had happened, try to talk around your tears and hiccups and coughs, but you’re certain the only thing that comes out is nonsense. Squeaky, stuffy warbles that make you feel pathetic.

-Viktor is at your side in an instant, wrapping his arms tightly around your body. You cling to him in return, fisting the fabric of his sweater so tightly you feel as though it may rip. But he doesn’t care about that. Doesn’t care that you’re probably getting snot on his shirt, doesn’t care that he can barely understand what you’re trying to say.

-He holds you for what feels like hours, squishing you hard and barely leaving room for you to breathe. He was no stranger to your episodes of panic, often finding himself as the one who coaxes you through them, when you decide to let someone else see.

-But never has he seen you in a state such as this. Looking so addled and utterly hopeless.

-Not to mention, bloody.

-But he knows you need support right now. Knows you need someone to lean on, who will hold you steady and help you breathe - and he does. He holds you until you’re finally able to catch your breath, when your tears slow by a vast margin, and your sobs are reduced to the occasional sniffle. Until you stop trembling.

-Until you sigh in relief.

-He lets you pull away first, never wanting to be the one who steps away if you might still need him. Your eyes are bloodshot, and the tender skin surrounding them is puffy with irritation.

- “I’m sorry,” you croak, wiping your face on your sleeve. He stops you as soon as you start, though, and instead pulls a soft square of fabric from his vest pocket.

- “There is nothing to apologize for,” he assures you, gently dabbing away the residual wetness on your face. You lean into his touch for a couple moments, letting your eyes fall shut to the warm press of his palm on your cheek.

-He leads you to the dingy, lumpy couch kept in the lab, and immediately draws you down to rest. It’s not comfortable by any means, but it’s better than having to stand - and it gives him a chance to give you a once-over, noticing the slight falter in your gait.

-Ah, right.

-The blood.

- “I know you explained it before,” he says, gesturing for your injured hand, “But would you mind telling me what happened again?”

-This time, his question is only met with a dejected sigh, and you proceed to go over the events of your absolute garbage morning. From waking up late, to losing your work, to hurting yourself, to getting chewed out and fired. As if you’d had any kind of control over the situation!

-Viktor listens carefully, frowning as you go over the details of your ex-boss’ scolding. He carefully picks bits of glass out of your hand with tweezers, as slowly as he’s able to, nodding along as you retell your story.

-By the end of it, you’ve flopped hard against the back of the couch, almost petulant in your actions, and he can hardly blame you. After the kind of morning you’ve had, you’ve more than earned your frustration, and he’s honestly a little bit surprised that you hadn’t cried longer.

-Perhaps, he thinks, you know in the back of your mind what he has for months now. Your job was a toxic place, one he’d nearly been begging you to leave for over half a year, hating the way you were always exhausted and burnt out from the expectations and too-little pay.

- “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he finally decides, removing the last grain of glass from your hand. The blood is mostly cleaned up by now, wiped away with a terrible little alcohol pad. “But we’ll want to keep an eye out for signs of infection. I know the streets up here are cleaner than the undercity, but some random bottle could have god-knows-what on it.”

-You sigh.

-He gestures for your leg, pulling it into his lap to assess the damage on your knee.

- “This one, I’m not so sure about,” he mumbles. “You said you knelt on a bottle cap? It looks deep…I think I can see fat…”

-You pout.

-He glances up at you. “What is it?”

- “You’re awfully calm about all this,” you grumble, poking idly at the skin on your hand. “I just lost my job, Vee. I have no idea where I’m going to look for another one - how am I going to pay my rent? Or afford food? I’m already in the cheapest housing nearby, how-”

-He swipes an alcohol pad over the wound on your leg, watching as more blood immediately starts welling back up.

- “That place was hell on you,” he retorts. “You’re exhausted, and overworked, and underappreciated, and underpaid. You deserve better.”

-You open your mouth to reply.

- “Don’t argue,” he interrupts. “You deserve better. Better work, a better place to live. Somewhere you and Pip have space for making those art projects you love, where you can make those meals that you’re always waxing poetic about.”

- “Did you miss the part about money?”

- “Just move in with me already.”

-...

-The two of you sit in silence for a couple moments, and Viktor clears his throat, turning his attention back to your leg. But you don’t miss the pink beginning to dust across the tops of his cheeks.

- “We’ve been together for a while now,” he says, quietly. “And I’ve been wanting to ask you for a couple months, but it’s never felt like the right time. You had that big project coming up, and you needed to attend to it with all your mind. But now…I don’t know. Perhaps things are lining up? Your lease ends this month, and you need a place to stay…so why not…?”

-You stare at him for what feels like an eternity.

-Barely wincing as he cleans out the gash on your knee.

-Move in with him? Really? It takes you a little by surprise, but…it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. What it would be like to share a living space, and have dinner together, and come home to each other, and wake up next to him on a regular basis. And you know Pip would love to have her second favourite person around all the time, and she’d have so many new clothes to get her fur on.

-You stare at him a little more.

-And then finally, “Okay.”

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #viktor headcanons #though it's more of a bullet point story

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livelaughlovekny · 9 months

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He comforts you

Notes: Modern AU , Gender neutral reader, 2nd person POV a/n: Not really sure how I feel about comfort fics but writing comforting/affirmative(?) words makes me feel better. Hope that this helps anyone out there!

“Hey.” A pause. “ Are you free?” He could hear what you didn’t say. He immediately responded. “Yeah, the playground?” He was already getting himself dressed and picking up his keys. “Yeah.” You hang up. When he arrived at the neighbourhood playground, he saw you on the swings, staring at the ground. You had that expression on your face you always have when you are thinking about what happened and trying to figure out what was wrong. He takes the swing next to you and looks at you carefully, trying not to scare or overwhelm you. “Hey. Want to talk about it?”

You swung your feet a little, moving back and forth. “I don’t know.” He waited. He knew that you would speak, you just needed a moment to get yourself ready. “I don’t know. I- I just- I don’t know.” Your head was swamped with thoughts, unable to focus on swinging, you stopped. “I just- I don’t know. I- I’m so sorry, I can’t explain myself and there’s just like stuff I- I don’t know, I have so much but like if I can’t I-” You struggled to form a coherent sentence; your thoughts were starting to overwhelm you. There was too much happening too fast.

Muichirou nodded his head. “Take your time. You can start small. Do you want me to guide you a little?” You nodded your head, desperate to get your thoughts straight. “How did it start?” Silently, you recounted what happened in your head and struggled to get the words out. You didn’t know how to explain yourself. He looked at you calmly. “I won’t judge, take it slow. You can always add on later. I will listen.” Right, yes, you don’t have to get everything out at once. You take a deep breath. “I was supposed to be doing homework but I wasn’t. I was texting my friends. My mother started telling me how she needs me to tell her when I want to use my laptop and phone for leisure activities. She said I only had a total of two hours a day.” Your words got stuck in your throat.

Humming softly to acknowledge your words, Muichirou asked, “I see, how did that make you feel? Just your feelings, you don’t have to provide an explanation if you can’t at the moment.” Collecting yourself, you answered, “Annoyed. Very annoyed and frustrated.” You pause before continuing, “I- I don’t remember why. Everything feels so jumbled up together and like all mushed up. I can’t remember anything.” Your anxiety started to return and you were starting to detach from reality, struggling to stay afloat in your ocean of thoughts. He reached over and tentatively placed his hand on yours. “Come back, you don’t have to be alone with your thoughts. Take it slow. Let’s try another question. Which part of getting your laptop and phone restricted annoy you the most?”

Getting pulled back into the real world and for a short moment, out of your thoughts, you blinked slowly, trying to calm down. “I think it’s because I’m getting too reliant on them. Especially my laptop. I need to listen to music to do most things. I need a nice distraction but not too much and I need to be able to control it. I think. It’s so hard to complete my work and tasks on time. I can’t focus. It’s just so hard. I need to like, switch between work and rest. I feel so mad at myself but I can’t help it and it’s just so tiring.” You had so much more to say but you couldn’t get it out.

Muichirou stared at you calmly. “I get what you mean. It is tough to concentrate on stuff for long periods of time. You haven’t been feeling well for a long time, correct?” You nodded your head, feeling the need to elaborate on that too but couldn’t. “Don’t worry, you can tell me how you feel later. I understand that you find it very hard to focus on things and that’s alright, it’s not easy constantly feeling like you have to fix and prove yourself and get things done on time. It’s also okay to not know what caused you to be anxious.” And then, it was like something within you snapped.

Tears started sliding down your cheek. Noticing your tears, Muichirou got up and hugged you. You start sobbing harder. “It’s just that I feel so angry! And I’m just mad at myself for being mad! It’s honestly my fault but I can’t help it and I feel so awful and!” Your words spilled out and stumbled against each other; you sounded incoherent yet he understood what you wanted to convey. Gently pressing his palm against your back, he slid it down and up to sooth you. “I’m here. I’m not going to leave.”

“I may not be able to take away your pain but I hope I will be able to help you overcome it. It’s not easy carrying all that pain yourself, you have been very brave. I’m proud of you.”

a/n: didnt manage to work on my requests these few days due to school stress but its been worked on a little!! :0 might make this a series/collection where the situations are a little more details perhaps?

#kny #demonslayer #kny fanfic #kny x reader #muichiro x reader #muichiro x y/n #demon slayer #kny muichiro #fluff #drabble #comfort #sweet #cute #comforting

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skyisepic · 7 months

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A BASIL OMORI RANT BECAUSE I’M SICK AND TIRED OF THE FREQUENT MISCHARACTERIZATION!!

TW for mentions of suicide, murder, death, and other general gorey topics + spoilers for the plot of the game OMORI!

I’d argue that the scene pictured above is one of the most well-known scenes within the Omori fandom. Basil is a very popular character, and with this comes a lot of mischaracterization in serious scenes like this. Something I’ve seen a lot, mainly on the TikTok side of the fandom, is people misinterpreting Basil’s intentions in this scene. They say that his attacks were not meant to harm Sunny, but rather “Something.” This is very far from the truth - Basil not only wanted to harm Sunny, he wanted to KILL Sunny.

(Note: Sorry if my thoughts are a little jumbled! I’m just copy and pasting a script I wrote)

Basil believed that the only way to get rid of Something was through death. In his eyes, it was the only escape. That is the reason he commits suicide in the neutral endings — he is trying to free himself of his guilt, which of course manifests in the form of his Something hallucinations.

During the pre-battle dialogue, we see Basil insisting that he will “save” Sunny. He wants to save Sunny of Something in the same way he will save himself — through death. Basil was going to kill himself that day no matter what, but realized upon seeing Sunny come into his room when he was about to commit that he could "save" Sunny as well the same way he'd promised to. It would pretty much end up being a double suicide — Basil planned to kill himself immediately after killing Sunny.

Basil immediately begins attacking Sunny once the battle begins. He is directly targeting Sunny, hence his battle dialogue being "BASIL reaches inside SUNNY." Again, he is directly targeting SUNNY. During the battle, we see him ask Sunny to stop struggling because he wants to make his job easier for the both of them. While yes, he likely attacked Sunny's eye because he saw Something in it, the purpose of this attack was still to be fatal.

Quickly debunking two arguments I've seen about the last paragraph:

"Taking Sunny's eye out was an accident!" This one isn't character-based or anything, it's just based on common sense. You don't ACCIDENTALLY gouge out someone's eye. Duh.

"Basil didn't realize he was hurting Sunny! He was just trying to attack Something!" Again, common sense. Basil saw Something BEHIND Sunny. Sunny's Something is referred to as "Something behind you" by Basil. All of Sunny's wounds were sustained on his face. If Basil was targeting something BEHIND Sunny, again, what would be the reason for quite literally gouging out his eye?

"Basil didn't realize he'd be saving Sunny of the guilt by killing him, though. He actually saw Something as a real thing. He was targeting SOMETHING in the fight, not Sunny." Yes, it is true that Basil saw Something as a real thing and not just a manifestation of his guilt. However, he also puts blame on Something for everything that happened with him, Sunny, and Mari. He knows this thing is here because of what happened with Mari and will never go away because he cannot undo what he's done. It will continue to torment him and Sunny until they can find a way to free themselves of the guilt, and because fessing up about what he did is completely out of the question for Basil, the only other option is death.

This wasn’t meant to be rude or say that other people are 100% wrong, sorry if it came across that way! I’m just sharing my thoughts on how I believe Basil was meant to be interpreted. Please feel free to argue against or correct me, I am by no means a psychologist or good at character analysis. Please be respectful, though!

#omori #basil omori #omori basil #character analysis #im still bad at tagging #ill probably add some screenshots i used for this in a reblog or wtv #sky’s epic thoughts

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unwillingadventurer · 6 months

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After watching Tales from the TARDIS, we wrote one for Susan and Ian because feels.

...

Under a glittering light, Ian arrived in the unfamiliar space, shielding his face from the vivid white orbs that danced around him. He was sure he’d been tucked up in bed, waiting to fall into slumber. Perhaps this was a dream, he mused, as his tired eyes adjusted to his surroundings. He thought for a moment he was with John in the supermarket at the self-service checkout, touching a screen with images and words but then instead he felt something familiar, familiar from an age ago, a console full of tangible buttons and levers, all sparkling and blinking, full of life. He ran his fingers over one of the banks, feeling every raised bump and surface, hearing the little hums and blips of working machinery. It was the TARDIS, it had to be, some version of it anyway. Maybe not his, but some version.

“Ian?”

Ian’s eyes were still disorientated but he heard the voice as clear as day, that soft voice, that soft familiar voice he hadn’t heard in the longest time. It couldn’t be her, could it?

“Ian, is that you?”

Focusing on the space in front of him, Ian let his old eyes focus and within moments the voice became a shape and then colours, before finally forming into a tangible person. Within minutes, he wasn’t looking at a simple shape, but instead gazing in wonder at the face of Susan—Susan Foreman or whatever her real name may have been. She was no longer that young woman they left behind, but an older lady with lines and years of wisdom in the eyes.

“Susan, is it really you?”

“Oh, Mr. Chesterton!” Susan couldn’t resist saying it another time, calling him that though he’d clearly not been a teacher in quite some time. He looked old like she did, older in fact despite she being older than he was.

She flung her arms around him taking Ian by surprise.

“Mr. Chesterton, my real Mr. Chesterton,” she said.

Ian felt the warmth of her embrace and smiled, not knowing what to feel, what to say, what to do.

“Oh Ian, it’s been so long.”

Ian broke the embrace and held her at arms-length to take another look at her. “You look wonderful, Susan, but how did we get here?”

“I don’t know, really, I was just about to take a walk and then here I am, ta-da.”

“Yes, I thought I was dreaming but looking at you, perhaps I am.”

They both laughed and Ian was relieved to hear that Susan’s giggle remained the same as it had all those years ago. She looked older but there was still a young spirit in the woman.

Sensing Ian was frail and unsteady, Susan led him to a wooden chair. “Here, sit down, you must be tired.”

“I am a bit but mostly bewildered. I can’t stop looking at everything.” His eyes darted back and forth around the ship. “Here, I don’t suppose I’m stuck here again, am I?” He chuckled lightly.

“Oh I shouldn’t think so, this looks like an upgrade to me. I expect grandfather’s got everything working properly by now.”

Ian looked down. “Have you seen him, you know, since?”

Susan’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s a long story but yes, I have, it’s very complicated Ian.”

“It always is.” He smiled and took her hand.

“Is…?” Susan bit her lip for a moment, wondering whether to ask the next question. “Is Barbara?”

“Barbara’s gone,” Ian simply replied, feeling his lip quiver at the mere mention of her name.

Susan grabbed Ian’s hand and wept onto it, feeling the tears fall fast. “Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know for definite. She was so wonderful. I’ve always missed her terribly.”

“I miss her every day.”

“When did she pass?”

“A good few years ago now. I’m ready to join her if I’m honest.”

“Oh, you mustn’t say that, Ian! You’re so fit and healthy!”

“Not in my mind, Susan, I fear it’s all becoming a jumble. I may have lived too long.”

“But you’re just a spring chicken compared to grandfather.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt I am, but I’m ready to be with Barbara again. I’ve had a happy life. I can’t imagine living as long and going on forever like the Doctor. No, I’m afraid I’m so ordinarily human. I want a conclusion, an end of some kind. Too many goodbyes if you live long enough. Oh, don’t look sad, Susan, we got to see each other again.”

“Yes, and I’m so awfully glad I did. I’ve had my sadness too.”

“Goodness, of course Susan. Whatever happened to that chap you married? Daniel? David?”

“David, yes, he’s gone now too. And I’ve lost others.” She gulped. “I can’t talk about that right now, can’t find the words.” She smiled. “Suppose I ended up more like Grandfather than I realised.”

They both laughed.

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” Ian said. “Barbara being that Aztec Goddess.”

“Oh, she was wonderful. All those yellow and orange feathers, she looked beautiful.”

“And your grandfather ‘accidentally’ setting us down in his favourite time period.”

“Yes, the Reign of Terror, who could forget?”

“We never forgot, Barbara and I, all those times and places, friendships and foes, all those skies, all those people we met and people we lost. Sometimes it seems a fantastical story.”

“I tell them sometimes to people I know,” Susan said.

“Me too. Well John and the grandchildren at least. Then I suppose when I’m gone, the stories will carry on.”

“What story would you tell if you could right now?”

“Maybe the acid seas of Marinus where I was nearly sentenced to death or the Sense-Sphere where I was poisoned or when I was tied to that hill and nearly devoured by ants.”

“You were close to death a few times, weren’t you?” Susan giggled. “Though I don’t remember any ants.”

“No, that’s right, you missed the little ants and the giant ones too. You also missed me being knighted by King Richard, my crowning achievement…literally.”

“So, I’m speaking to Sir Ian now?”

“Sir Ian of Jaffa. These days it’s Ian of Jaffa Cakes with my belly,” he said, patting his stomach.

“I bet grandfather was really jealous. He claims to hate titles and all that but he’d be the first to accept such an accolade.”

“Yes, he was quite something. I wonder if he’s got something to do with this. Plotting somewhere, trying to get us to reveal something.”

“He was a handful. He got us in trouble many times like on Skaro when he made us go to that city for the mercury.”

“Wily old devil, self-sabotage. Still the eggs and bacon were a treat, little salty but then so was the Doctor.” He laughed. There was a reflective pause. “Still, I miss him.”

Susan wiped away a tear. “I miss him too. And Barbara. And you Ian, I’ve missed you so much. I don’t think I ever really told you and Barbara how much your guidance meant to me, how it shaped my life. I was so young, I didn’t belong in the 1960’s, I felt strange, unearthly. But you cared enough about me to find out.”

“We followed you home. We told our son about it. He thinks we’re stalkers. Barbara was very put out with that assessment.” He laughed.

“I didn’t mind. I just knew you were looking out for me. I’ve had to grow up so much since you left. Starting a life on the future Earth wasn’t easy, it was so dead and decaying. Everything felt hopeless.”

“With your touch, Susan, I’m sure everything grew again, even people’s spirits.”

“You and Barbara inspired me, never give up.”

“The unwilling adventurers.”

There was a sudden loud noise, almost like a firework popping, and then a bright white light emanated through the space. Ian squinted, holding his hand once again in front of his eyes. Susan could see a lot clearer than Ian and saw the figure before he did, realising that the form was that of Barbara, hovering like a ghost in the doorway.

“Barbara?” she said.

“Barbara?” Ian mouthed silently, realising it was his wife standing there, flesh and blood and bone and alive. She was younger, in her forties maybe, and she was smiling at them both.

“Hello you two,” she said. “You’ve started without me.”

“Bar—”

Ian nearly fell to his knees but Susan grabbed his arms. “Ian, Barbara’s from another point in history. It’s Barbara from when you were married.”

Tears fell onto Ian’s cheeks as Barbara placed a kiss upon his head. “You’re old, my darling.”

“And you’re…young.”

“I’m Barbara, and you’re Ian, and the three of us are back together. Oh, Susan, I’ve missed you. Come on, we have so much to talk about.”

#classic who #fic #susan foreman #ian chesterton

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frozenjokes · 3 months

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Chapter 1/2

Jimmy is a Listener on the Third Life server, but he has no idea what that is. Scar and Martyn seem to know, but while hiding away from everyone as he is battered by intense ‘hallucinations’, he’s only been able to glean out of context half-conversations between them.

He’s getting sick of it.

Hopefully Scar has the answers he’s looking for.

snippet below

***

“Speaking of wheelchairs, I was hoping you’d be able to turn mine on. You won’t have to lug it over here, it’ll come to me on its own, but when I eventually get out of bed, I think I’m going to need it. It’s right down the hall, charging. Power button’s on the left armrest. Not the levers, the armrest, I’ve been told many a time. Glows red, can’t miss it. Unless you’re me. When it's on, a lot of things glow red, it’s not my fault.

Jimmy chuckled. “Of course, Scar.” He left to do just that, struggling just a little bit to find the button, but mostly because it was on the right side, not the left, and also near the bottom, probably so Scar wouldn’t press it accidentally. Once the (honestly, quite terrifying) wheelchair was turned on, it skittered past Jimmy on its many legs right into Scar’s bedroom.

“Thank you!” Scar called, and Jimmy nodded somewhat sheepishly as he followed the chair in, but stayed in the doorway, “Now, I’m really very tired, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask you to leave. Not very hospitable, I know, but I pinky promise I’ll make it up to you later, yeah?”

“Oh! That’s fine, Scar, no worries, but I did have a quick question?”

“Sure.”

“What’s a Watcher?”

Time seemed to freeze for a moment, not even the voices having a thing to say, but Scar relaxed quickly, though not without a glint of annoyance in his eyes.

“Did Martyn visit you?” The voices answered first.

No!

Martyn didn’t and Ren didn’t either!

Martyn hasn’t told anyone! No one should know!

Jimmy flinched and Scar froze, somehow so much stiller than he was before. It was real. If there was still any doubt, there wasn’t anymore. You couldn’t fake cold terror like the look on Scar’s face.

“Where did you hear that.” It wasn’t a question.

“I- uh-” Jimmy felt suddenly stupid. The first person he was about to tell he’d been hallucinating his entire life, and suddenly he was confronted with the potential reality that everything he’s ever heard has been Real. The idea made him sick. “I hear things. I’ve heard them my whole life but I- I never thought they were real! I thought I was just crazy or something, I don’t know-” Once he started, Jimmy found he couldn’t stop, and given the shocked look on Scar’s face, it didn’t look like he was going to interrupt.

“This has been- I don’t even know if it’s all real. Maybe I still am sick or crazy or both but I- I mean- what am I supposed to do with that? Accept it? I’ve never been able to! And if it’s real then that’s just- that's worse, I think! Oh my gosh. Are you and Martyn like me? What happened? I keep hearing things and it’s all jumbled and out of context and I just can’t take it anymore! I want to just leave, but I have to know! Is it real?” Jimmy stopped for a moment to catch his breath, but struggled to keep it, “Is it all real?”

Scar’s lips were so pursed, Jimmy couldn’t even see them. His eyes were drawn wide and frightened, looking exactly like a deer in the headlights.

“That.” Scar said after a short eternity, looking down, “Is not a quick question.”

#hermitcraft #third life #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #jimmy solidarity #solidaritygaming #evo watchers #watcher scar #watcher scar au #listener jimmy

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aylacavebear · 2 months

Text

Stockroom Antics - Chapter 23

Maria had changed jobs numerous times over the last five years, more to keep herself safe than anything else. Her mother had told her she was a fairy but she thought it was just her mom being weird. Honestly, though, she had no other way of explaining what had happened to her that stormy day before she'd gone into a coma for two weeks.

Please don't take my work. I'll post warnings for each chapter. Will probably be 18+ I haven't decided yet!

Word Count: 2295

Pairing eventually Dean Winchester x OC

Warnings: Angst, Self-deprecating thoughts, Insecurities, Depression. (Please, if you suffer from these things, seek someone trustworthy to talk to. You really aren't alone.)

A/N: This one's written a little differently than my last one. Let me know what you think. It's the first time I've tried this type of writing. Chapters will alternate viewpoints as well. I also looked into an actual area so this one could feel more realistic. This one is taking on a life of it's own in a turn I hadn't anticipated, so adding a new tag.

----------------------------------------- Stockroom Antics Chapter 23

You looked around the bunker for at least half an hour before finally checking the garage. The Impala was gone, and you figured that meant they’d left and taken Bubbles with them—or that was what you were hoping for. After grabbing your cell off your nightstand, you called Dean but were surprised when Sam answered.

“Hello?” Sam asked, sounding confused.

“It’s Maria. I’m uh, I’m at the bunker. Where are you guys? Is Bubbles okay? Is she with you?” you asked him, leaning against the library table.

“Who is it?” you heard Dean practically growl in the background, making you roll your eyes with annoyance.

“It’s Maria. She’s at the bunker,” Sam told him, then began answering your questions, “Bubbles is with us. We’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Is she alone?” you heard Dean in the background again. He sounded pissed, and you figured it was somehow because of you. Then you heard the screeching of tires.

“Yeah, I’m alone,” you answered Dean’s question, sitting down in the chair closest to you.

“I’m gonna put you on speaker,” Sam told you and did just that.

“What happened? Are you okay? Did that witch do anything to you?” Dean asked you quickly. To you, he sounded as though he was pissed.

“Slow down. All she did was talk to me. I’m fine,” you said, trying to control your emotions. The things Rowena and Crowley had said were still jumbled in your mind. Plus, there were the things the brothers had said. And all of it was conflicting at the moment.

“What did she want?” Sam asked in a much softer tone.

At least Sam seemed not to be mad at you, “She just wanted to talk,” you answered.

“What did she want to talk about?” Sam asked, and you felt the burn of tears in your eyes.

You took several slow, deep breaths, forcing the tears to go away. You really didn’t want to cry while on the phone with either of them, “She said she could do the spell to awaken my powers.”

“What did she want from you?” Dean asked, and he still sounded angry. Why did you feel like it was your fault every time he sounded angry?

“Just a vile of my blood,” you answered as if it was no big thing. You hadn’t understood at the time just how dangerous that really was.

“Please tell me you didn’t agree to that,” Sam said, almost sounding worried.

“No. I told her I wanted to think it over first,” you replied, slightly annoyed. Part of you felt like they were treating you like a child like you couldn’t think for yourself and would just agree to anything without thinking first.

“Look, Sweetheart. We’re not trying to tell you what to do, but that is the last woman you want to give your blood to,” Dean said to you.

Something about his tone got on your last nerve. You did well, though. You didn’t completely go off on him, but you did give him a mild piece of your mind.

“I just called to tell you I was back and I’m fine and to find out where you all went. I’m gonna get something to eat and head to bed. Since it seems that you require to know my whereabouts now,” you said flatly, then hung up the phone.

At least you were alone in the bunker, and you yelled in utter frustration. Then, you went to the gym, locating the punching bag. You desperately needed to hit something, and at the moment, you wanted to hit Dean. So, you just pictured his face on the punching bag, letting it all out, hit after hit after hit. You’d never had something to hit before when you were angry, and this was helping far more than you ever thought it would. Then, though, as your body began to get exhausted, the tears slowly streamed down your cheeks.

Out of habit, you ran to your room. It was a long-embedded thing from childhood; if you were emotional, you did it alone in your room. For a while, you were curled in a ball, lying down crying, then sitting up and hugging your legs, your face buried in your knees, crying more. Everything hit you again.

You’d always been independent, taking care of yourself whenever you could. You hated feeling like a burden to anyone or that someone else had to take care of you. Now you felt like more than that, being at the bunker with the brothers. Then there were the things Rowena and Crowley had said about them. Everything felt so confusing, and you weren’t sure what or who to believe about any of it. Would the brothers really do anything for each other and let someone die to save one of them?

The tears wouldn’t stop. Sometimes, they were slow; other times, they were hard, making your whole body shake as you sobbed. Now, there was this entire soulmate ordeal, and it was supposedly one of the three men you’d recently met. You still were having a hard time believing it was even possible that there was someone out there for you. Any normal person would have found you to be some kind of freak. At least, that was what you figured.

No matter what Astaria or her partner had said, you were still having a hard time thinking about it. The things they had both said about soulmates and how happy the two of them seemed to be only made you cry more. You had figured you’d never have something like that, and attempting even to consider it now only hurt more.

When you felt Bubbles nudge your arm as well as the bed dip, you didn’t even look up. You knew who was there. You didn’t want to see anyone or have anyone see you, even telling them to go away, but at this point, there wasn’t anything you could do about that. You figured they wouldn’t, although you partially couldn’t understand why. You were a mess. Even the touch of his hand on your arm through your flannel made you feel like crying again. It was soft, gentle, welcoming, and all you wanted to do was crawl into his arms and bawl your eyes out.

After the two of them left, Bubbles stayed with you. Since your anger was gone at this point, you were a little more receptive than usual. Bubbles again nudged your hand, and you looked at her with sadness in your eyes.

“If you like Dean so much better, you could just go hang out with him,” you mumbled sadly to her.

The look of compassion in Bubbles’ eyes made you want to cry again.

Don’t cry.

You furrowed your brow in confusion, hearing those words in your mind. The voice was comforting, and you felt concern as well.

You’re not alone.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, feeling fresh tears.

Bubbles seemed to smile a little up at you. Trusting someone is scary. They’re nice, safe. Rowena is evil. Don’t trust her.

You shifted your position, crossing your legs, as you attempted to fully comprehend what was happening at this moment. This was the most she’d ever communicated with you. More questions flooded your mind, and you had difficulty figuring out where to start.

She tilted her head at you, like she was debating something. Talk to Astaria again. She can help you understand. Your soulmate is important. You need to let him get close to you.

You rolled your eyes, “I don’t even know where to start to believe that’s possible,” you grumbled.

It looked like she rolled her eyes at you, and you couldn’t help the small giggle, which was when Dean and Sam returned to your room. Your smile instantly faded when you saw the sandwich Dean had brought you. The slight burn of fresh tears stung your eyes again, and you couldn’t look up at him.

When Sam spoke though, you looked at him, still fighting the tears. All you could see was what looked like pity, like they saw you as a wounded animal or something, and it hurt. You gingerly reached out and put the hex bag in your flannel pocket after Sam set it down. It was something that somehow made you feel safer.

Not pity, concern. They are worried about you.

The words in your mind made you want to cry again, but you couldn’t, not with the two of them in your room. There were things so engrained in you, like not crying in front of anyone, that you just couldn’t do it. The gentle way Dean told you to eat something also hurt in a way, although your brain took it wrong. So, when the two did leave your room, you waved your hand, closing it behind them.

Bubbles went over to the plate and pulled it closer to you. Eat. It will help you feel better. They care about you.

“I’m a burden,” you mumbled, and she sighed, but you picked up the sandwich. Even if you wouldn’t admit it, you were hungry. It was surprisingly tasty.

When you finished eating, Bubbles took care of your plate. Now, having a full stomach, though, and after having cried as much as you did, you felt beyond exhausted. You didn’t want to talk to Astaria. Hell, you didn’t want to talk to anyone. You curled up under your blankets and hugged your pillow. Sleep found you quicker than usual that night.

You were in the forest again, although closer to the little community than last time. Bubbles was hovering near your shoulder. A depressed sigh left your lips. You still weren’t sure how this was even going to help. Bubbles began flying further down the path but stopped and turned around when you hadn’t followed her. “Come on. She’s waiting,” the dragon spoke. “You can talk now?” you asked her, puzzled. “Sort of. It’s thoughts in other dimensions. But here it is words. Since our bond is stronger, you can hear me,” she explained. “Can others hear you, too?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in mild confusion. “Only your bloodline,” she answered plainly. You rolled your eyes and followed her as she flew to the community. Astaria was at the same table you sat with her at last time. Bubbles landed on the table between the two of you as you sat down across from Astaria. “Well, now. This is a surprise,” Astaria said. “What do you mean?” you asked her, more confused now than you were with Bubbles. She sighed, “I can tell you didn’t exhaust yourself. Your familiar brought you here. That means that you are having some deep-seated issues, and your familiar needs some help.” You had to think about that, although you were still confused, “I still don’t get it. She likes Dean more than me, though,” you mumbled. “Wait, is she talking to Dean?” Astaria asked you quickly. You looked down at the table. Bubbles had just been looking between the two of you the entire time. “He knew her name before I did,” you said quietly, feeling the sadness again.

That was when she lost it laughing, and you looked up at her. You didn’t find any part of this funny. At first, you wanted to yell at her. Anger was always easier for you. Then the sadness came, and you looked away from her. “I’m sorry,” she said between fits of laughter. Then, she gently scratched Bubbles on the head, looking down at her, “You got a stubborn one, didn’t you,” she chuckled again. You sighed and finally looked at Astaria again, “Can someone please clue me in whatever is going on?” you asked, attempting to keep your emotions in check. Having her call you stubborn only reminded you of the piece of paper which Bubbles had written that word on and handed to you earlier that day. Astaria caught her breath and looked up at you, “Lemme guess. You still don’t want to take a chance on that soulmate thing I told you about last time? Plus, you've just pulled away from everyone due to your life getting turned upside down.” There was a compassionate sincerity in her tone that brought fresh tears to your eyes, and you quickly wiped them away, attempting to compose yourself. On your last visit you’d shared a lot of your life with Astaria. Plus, you remember her telling you that she had gone through this before, helping others who were like you, non-believers. “You know, if you keep living your life through fear, you’ll be miserable for a really long time,” she said softly, reaching out and gently squeezing your hand. “But… what if it’s Crowley?” you whispered, not trusting your voice and fighting back tears. You did notice how Astaria was holding back her laughter, “If it was Crowley, I’m pretty sure your little familiar here wouldn’t be chatting it up with Dean,” she said, giving you a wink.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, still confused. With everything that had happened, your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, and your emotions weren’t any better. All your nerves felt exposed and you felt stuck with the conflicting information and emotions. “You’re gonna have to make a choice, Maria. You can either keep going the way you are, or you can decide to take a chance and stop being afraid of all those what-if’s,” Astaria told you plainly but bluntly. She sighed, “For now, though, you should probably sleep. Your mind and body desperately need it.”

With that, the dream ended, but you slept, as did Bubbles. She was curled up against your chest above the blankets.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 24

Tag List: @djs8891 @deans-spinster-witch

Link to the series Master List

A/N: If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, leave me a comment, and I'll make sure to tag you

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