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ddejavvu · 8 months

Note

Hi!! So I saw your post for Anakin request and I thought of one. Remember that scene where Anakin and Obi wan go in a club? So I was thinking that scene with Reader and Anakin seeing Reader getting hit on and his being a little jelly. Reader gotta remind him that its him that she wants

Debilitating Desire - Anakin Skywalker x Reader (18+)

Summary: Anakin doesn't handle jealousy well. When a sleazy patron of a bar you're investigating decides he's got the right to touch you, and Anakin can't react because your relationship is a secret, he has to save his outburst for later. Unfortunately, he's only able to make it a few steps down the street before he decides he needs you, right here, right now.

Contents/Warnings: jedi!reader, fem!reader, smut (minors dni), p in v, rough sex, biting, overstimulation, semi-public sex (they're in an alleyway), jealousy, reader gets grabbed by the wrist by a creepy guy </3, lots and lots of messy kisses, anakin's a little possessive but is anyone surprised

WC: 5.2K / navigation / inbox / send me anakin requests!

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Scouting information from bartenders is next to impossible, but scouting it from their patrons is much easier. Loose-lipped drunks are your targets tonight, and you reconvene with Anakin to corroborate information after gathering intel.

"Okay, I've got a Twi'lek male," You start, and Anakin shakes his head.

"No, no, one of the men I talked to said he was Neimoidian."

"Someone else said Rodian," You groan, "Anakin, maybe we should be asking people who aren't drunk."

"Look around," The man before you scoffs, gesturing to the bar full of nothing but reeling, wobbly drunks, "No one here is sober but him."

"He doesn't have a translator on hand," You drawl, looking at the Ithorian bartender who purposefully 'forgets' his translator whenever someone tries questioning him, "And we don't either."

"We're not getting anywhere," Anakin concludes, a sour scowl on his face as he reaches for your waist to lead you out. "No one's sober, so let's just go, and-"

"I'm sober." A raspy, near-hoarse voice comes from a table nearby, and a hand catches your wrist. Your instinct is to reel back but you don't, even when Anakin's hand tries prying you away with its gloved grip on your waist.

It's a human speaking to you, as far as you can tell, and he's leaning back into the shadowy corner of the bar that he'd been occupying. You're not sure for how long, but if he knows anything about the incident you're trying to gather intel on, you'd like to hear it.

"How long have you been here, sir?" You question, tensing slightly when the man's hand stays firm around your wrist.

"Couple hours," He looks smug, knowing he's holding prized information from two Jedi, "Something you'd like to ask me?"

"You've been here for a couple hours and you're sober?" Anakin questions, pressing you harder into his side in his futile attempt to casually tear you away from the man, "I don't believe that."

"I can hold my liquor," The man boasts, voice far more harsh when addressing Anakin than yourself, "Among other things."

Anakin's had enough. He grabs your hand, stealing it away from the seedy man's grasp and scoffing something unintelligible at him. But you yank him back, a tense smile on your face as you tilt your head towards him urgently.

"I'd like to find out what he knows," You speak forcefully, leaving no room for argument even if Anakin is especially good at creating them.

He scowls at you with an intensity that would normally excite you, though you're not sure you're capable of any feeling other than creeped in the bar you're standing in now.

"You're welcome to go back to the transport if you'd like," You narrow your eyes at Anakin, and the man in the booth leans back smugly at the offer, "But I'm going to do my job."

"Yes, boy," The man disregards Anakin's hands clenching at his sides, "Go back to your ship. You're not needed."

"I'm fine here," Anakin snaps, and the second you sit down across from the man, his hands are on your shoulders as he stands behind you. He grips them tight but the gloved hand clenches just a little more into your skin, and the firm grip grounds you, keeping your voice steady when you speak.

"If you've been here for a couple of hours, you probably witnessed an unfortunate incident a little while ago, didn't you? A fight?"

"There's lots of fights here," The man hums, pretending to think on it, "Can you be more specific?"

"The victim had seven blaster wounds," Anakin seethes, hands only tightening in their grip on your shoulders, "You happen to hear seven blasts?"

"Eight." You mutter, pointing at a singed hole in the wall, "One missed."

"Ah, blaster fight," The man in front of you strokes a hand thoughtfully along his stubbled jaw, "Yeah, 'think I can remember something like that. Some incentive might help jog me a bit, though."

You're not sure whether he means money or sex, but you can't rule either out with the way he's staring. You'd have expected the modest Jedi robes you're wearing to deter any wandering eyes but evidently, some people can't be discouraged.

"We don't have any incentive to offer," You narrow your eyes at him, and Anakin takes over.

"Unless by incentive you mean your life. Tell us what you saw, or you'll envy the target of those blasts."

Your annoyance boils just beneath your skin at Anakin's threats, but you know he won't listen to your urgings to be more careful with his word choice. This man doesn't exactly seem like he'd file a formal complaint with the Jedi Council, but if word ever got around that Anakin was threatening unnecessary violence, you're sure it wouldn't go over well.

Despite Anakin's words having been nothing but a bluff, the man changes his tune when he notices the saber clipped to Anakin's belt, your own hidden beneath the edge of the table. He straightens in his seat, sighing in annoyance, "It was two Neimoidians. Dressed real fancy, stood out like sore thumbs in this place. They cornered some unlucky human over there," He points to the corner of the bar where the singe mark hangs over the cheap decor, "She tried to run, but a Rodian shot her down."

"One Rodian?" You ask, and the man nods.

"Hell of a shot." The man muses with a gnarled grin, and that only makes you more worried. Hell of a shot but he'd fired eight? Clearly they wanted this human - who you have good reason to believe was an undercover informant working against the Separatists - dead.

"The shooter and the Neimoidians were working together?" Anakin confirms, receiving another nod from the man opposite you.

"Thank you," You stand, and to your delight, Anakin's hands snake down your back, the strong, gloved one finding your waist again like a magnet.

"I'm here most nights," The man calls out before you can leave, and you turn to glance at him in disdain as he props his feet up onto the dingy table, "Love to see 'ya off duty, sweetheart."

"Go," Anakin spits against your ear, grip on your waist turning harsh. Your breath hitches and you let Anakin practically push you out of the bar and onto the streets, teeming with civilians until you duck into an alleyway three blocks down from the door.

You're immediately backed up against the wall of the building behind you, but you're too fired up to care as you glare at Anakin, "Don't start with me. Threatening him, Anakin? What if Obi-Wan found out?"

"Obi-Wan is going to be too busy tracking down those Neimoidians to care how we got it out of the guy," Anakin scoffs and the exasperated breath hits your face. His expression only darkens further at the mention of the older man, "That's not the point. Did you see the way he was looking at you?"

"That doesn't matter," You assure Anakin with a soft sigh, but from the distasteful curl of his lips into a hard sneer, it does matter. He's standing tall in front of you with ragged, angry breaths coming from his chest, brows furrowed and jaw clenched as he tries containing his upset. It's not aimed at you, of course, but it's a sight nevertheless. He's all sharp features and tense muscles, rage brewing inside of him that's sure to spill over if you don't turn down the heat in time.

"Men like that are creeps," You dismiss, but Anakin is much less eager to let the situation go, still pressing you against the wall of the dingy alleyway, "Women don't talk to him unless he pays them to, is it any surprise he was forward when I approached him for free?"

"But you gave him no indication-" Anakin gushes, poorly-contained rage grating at his rough voice, "I don't understand. I don't understand how I'm supposed to be yours, how you're supposed to be mine, if people like him think you're theirs for the taking."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks, he can't have me, Anakin." You assure him. You know it's hard for him, being secretive about your relationship. Anakin is highly devoted, to his work, to his training, but most of all to you, and to have to stuff that down whenever you're not alone grates on his nerves.

Your answer doesn't seem to persuade him, so you brace your hand against his rapidly rising and falling chest, "He can't have me because I'm yours, Anakin."

Whatever hateful haze has clouded over his eyes clears like fog as he blinks at your words, probably muscling down hot tears of frustration. He surges forwards to kiss you, and it's hard to be upset that you're pressed against a dirty wall when Anakin's mouth is on your own.

His kisses are fervent and desperate, lips relentlessly catching your own between them. They're sloppy as his hands find your waist like there's magnets in your blood, his palms oppositely charged.

"I want you," He pleads, voice rough and ragged, "I want you all the time. I wanted to take your hand in there. I wanted to take more than your hand," He pants, speaking against your lips that have grown dewy from his saliva. "I wanted to grab your jaw-" He mimics the action, gloved hand clenching at your chin, "And- and kiss you, and bend you right over his table and take you."

"Right in his face," Anakin grunts, and you feel his cock beginning to stiffen through the layers of his robes as he presses himself to you. "Right in his fucking face, angel, I wanted to have you."

"You have me now," You breathe, equally as lustful as you press sticky kiss after sticky kiss to Anakin's tense jawline, "Ani, you have me now, and you have me forever."

"Forever," He groans, and you can see his eyes dilate at the thought. He's perpetually breathless as he chooses to spend his oxygen by kissing you once more. It's all heavy pants and strings of drool, appropriate for the dark, damp alleyway you're hidden in; a dirty fuck for a dirty place.

"Anakin," You moan, your pussy pulsing as his tongue smooths over your top lip, "I need you, here-" Your words muffle as Anakin licks flat over your lips, practically drinking the words out of your mouth, "-here and now. I know it's dirty, but I- I need it. I need you. Please?"

"Say it again," He orders, kissing you so that you can't.

You have to speak while he's still dragging his thick, wet tongue over yours, "I need you."

"More," He presses, his nose now nudging at your cheek as he tilts his head, granting himself only deeper access to your warm mouth.

"I need you," You vow, words garbled as he never backs away from your mouth, "Anakin, I need you."

"You have me," He groans, reveling in the pleasure that your words bring him. His hips roll compulsively against yours, grating through the many layers of robes you're both clad in like he can't stop them if he tries. "And I have you. Angel, I've got you, come here."

He says it like you're trying to leave, like you're not smashed flat between him and a wall. But you try anyways, slinging your hand around his neck to drag him in closer.

Anakin was focused on undoing your belt, but when you pull him close with your arm wrapped behind his neck he pauses, eyes closing as he knocks his forehead against yours.

"Ani-"

"He touched you," Anakin remembers, reaching up to take your wrist in his hand. He holds it delicately, bringing it between your faces to kiss the soft skin against the inside, "He grabbed you. He touched you right here," He peppers more soft kisses against your wrist, "Did he hurt you?"

"No," You hum softly, lips still slick with Anakin's spit, "It was just creepy, that's all. It didn't hurt."

"I'm sorry. I love you," He tells the skin of your wrist, and your hand naturally fits against his cheek, your fingertips ghosting over his ear.

"I love you," You repeat him, and his eyes flit back to your own.

"I love you." He rushes in for another kiss, this one just as desperate as the last. His tongue probes freely through your mouth, he's always been good with it, and your cunt clenches around nothing as Anakin's hands slide back to your waist. This time he lets you sling both of your arms around his neck, shuddering into the kiss when your nails scrape up the baby hairs at the base of his neck.

"Fuck," He groans against your mouth, fingers tugging more desperately now on the belt that he's so accustomed to putting on and taking off. Finally he undoes the buckle, letting it slide down to your ankles. You feel dirty as you hear the clatter of your saber against the ground; you're getting stripped and fucked in a dingy alleyway. But It releases the waistband of your pants, and shame gives way to pleasure as Anakin pries eagerly at the clasp.

"Touch me," You beg, and he's one step ahead of you. His hand presses flat to your belly as he snakes it down your pants, his warm skin pressed flush to your slit as he cups your needy cunt. You feel slick gathered in your pussy, and you're sure if he slips two fingers inside, it'll gush over his digits.

"You're warm," He murmurs, and you're not sure whether he means the spit he's lapping from your mouth, or the way your cunt bleeds heat against his palm. Either way, you know he likes it as his hips buck into your own again, pressing his hand further against your pussy.

"Ani," You feel his bulge through the layers of clothing he's sporting, still dragging him impossibly further with your arms around his neck, practically smashing his face into yours. "Ani, I need you inside, please?"

"I'll take care of you," He promises, kissing sweetly across your jaw, and down to your neck, "Angel, I want you to touch me."

"Hm?" Your brain is dazed, comprehending little as Anakin rolls his palm against your clit.

"Use this hand," He reaches for the one that the man inside had grabbed, "Use this hand, angel, and touch me with it. Get me hard, use the hand he touched."

"Okay," You breathe, scrambling for his belt and letting him help you with the hand that's not down your pants. A part of you is worried someone will see the two of you, but halfway disrobed and shrouded in shadow, you're not recognizable as Jedi, nor are these streets ever free from filth; you blend right in.

When Anakin's belt is undone he lets it fall just like your own had, and you gratefully slip your hands beneath the tunic it had been holding down. You have easy access to his pants now, and slipping your hand inside like he's doing to you means you're met with a half-hard dick.

"You're leaking," You observe, as precum oozes from the head of his cock. You smear it around the tip with your thumb, and his hips jerk into your hand. It's an awkward angle that you're at, stroking his dick while he cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, but it's apparently not uncomfortable to him, because with each pump of your fingers around the length of his cock, it hardens in your grip.

"Oh- fuck, get it- get it messy," He pants, straining as he tries not to cum right then and there at the sight of his pre smeared over your hand.

It's hard not to get it messy. His sticky precum oozes from the head of his dick like a steady stream, beads and beads of the stuff smeared away by your hand to help lubricate the measured strokes you're pumping over his dick.

Your fingers are soon tacky with precum, and his dick makes obscene squelching noises as you run your fist down it. He's panting as his palm grinds hard against your clit, and your hips snap into his hands, moving your entire body forwards. It means your fist slides roughly, sharply straight down to the base of his cock, and he bites back a hiss at the slight pain you've inflicted upon him.

"Now," He breathes rough and ragged, "I need you now. Maker, I'm gonna fucking-" He cuts himself off with a grunt, the hand that's cupping your wet heat flipping and twisting to yank the waistband of your pants down. It catches you by surprise, and the tantalizingly small amount of friction you'd been able to gain while grinding against his palm is gone, leaving the cool air of Coruscant's dingy lower levels to shock you.

"Put it in," He orders, his head downturned, forehead pressed against your own, "Baby, put- get me inside of you, I need-to-be-inside-of-you- there y'go."

You use your fist to line up his cock with your needy entrance, his hips more than willing to close the distance to make it easier for you. You don't get a second to adjust to the heavenly feeling of his tip brushing against your folds before he's jackhammering into you, chest now pressed tightly to your own as he slams you once more against the wall.

You let out a garbled scream as you're instantly full, the pace Anakin sets absolutely merciless on your sloppy cunt. You're well wet enough to provide lubrication for his lengthy cock, but just because you're wet doesn't mean you're ready, and the sensation of him bypassing any cautious thrusts and heading right into jackrabbit territory is one that has you crying out.

"Scream," Anakin hisses, his teeth digging harshly into your plush bottom lip. He licks over the stinging bite mark seconds later, the wet muscle sweeping over your own, "Scream as loud as you can, angel. I want him to hear. Tell him," He pulls away from your mouth only to wrestle your face to the side, his gloved hand gripping tight at your jaw.

"Tell him," Anakin urges, kissing and licking sticky stripes up your neck, "Tell that miserable old creep who makes you scream. Tell him who you love, tell him who fucks you into the wall."

"A- Ani-" You try, but it's not good enough for the man still relentlessly pounding his hips against yours. His free hand is gripping the pliant flesh of your ass with a force that surely means your chub is spilling through his fingers, and he uses the grip to hike your leg up, giving him a better angle to destroy your drooling cunt from.

"Louder. Say it louder." Anakin demands, forcing your jaw open with his hand, "Tell him!"

It's terribly difficult to power through the rather attention-grabbing sensation of Anakin's rock-hard cock bullying your wet cunt. He's rougher than he needs to be, balls slapping hard against the flesh of your ass that he's got in his hold.

But you have to try, and with an embarrassingly loud, desperate pitch to your voice, you scream, "Anakin!"

The second his name comes spilling from your lips in a wanton cry he manhandles your face back towards him, jamming his lips over your own.

"Maker," He growls, "You're so fucking perfect. I tell you to scream my name and you do it," He revels in your obedience, tongue licking a hot, wet stripe over your mouth. He holds it open with his fingers pinched into your cheeks but he doesn't venture inside, merely flattening his tongue over your stinging, swollen lips to leave a drooly residue behind. Only once you've been marked does he delve his tongue between your lips, licking at your own like it's his last meal.

"You're so good for me," His words slur together in their intensity, voice thick and raw with obsession, "Nngh, you're so-" You reach down, barely able to coordinate enough brainpower to take his balls into your hand, massaging them as best you can while his hips piston in and out of you at record pace, "-you're so good to me, Angel. More, give me- more, I want more." He begs, the words spilling over your tongue. He grabs tighter at the flesh of your ass, surely bruising the skin and leaving you sore tomorrow.

"Ah! Anakin," You cry, the feeling of his tongue lapping at your own and swapping spit until there's pools of it around your teeth sending a pulse of electricity straight to your core that makes it throb. Anakin feels your cunt convulse, only pushing his tongue further into your mouth. He's a presence; every part of his body is touching every part of your body. He's all-consuming, he's an enigma, he's yours.

Anakin fucks you harder and faster than ever before. All of his strength training must have done wonders because you can't fathom how he's able to generate that much power this fast, but his hips ram into you while his gloved hand releases your ass to pinch at your clit. He abuses the sensitive bud, pinching and rolling it between his fingers to coax more convulsions out of your sticky cunt.

It works.

The pressure that Anakin presses around your clit lights a live wire of hot, heavy arousal that trails up your spine, heat flowing from where Anakin is still latched onto your shoulder right down to your throbbing core. All of a sudden it's too much, everything is too much, and you feel your orgasm hit you like a speeder, knocking the breath out of your lungs as white hot pleasure burns at your cunt. It's a sensation that splatters firework-worthy bliss from your head to your toes, and your thighs tremble as Anakin fucks you through what might be the most intense, violent orgasm of your life.

"Anakin!" You scream.

Everything he does is rough, from the way his teeth nip at your lips, to the way he's trying to suck your tongue down his throat, to the way his fingers bully your puffy clit, to the way the head of his cock pounds into you with enough force to bruise. It's rough, it's messy, it's aggressive, and it's wonderful. You've never felt such pure jealousy radiating off of Anakin before, and you think it's because you've never been able to indulge him so soon after his jealousy blooms. If he's wary of someone in the temple you have to wait until nightfall to fuck, and if the incident occurs any time before dinner he's more mellow when he finally has you. But now it's fresh, now the brand of raging jealousy is still sizzling against his brain, and he's pumping all of the residual heat straight into you.

"Kriff," He grunts, nearly biting the tip of your tongue as he tries latching onto your lower lip, "Cum. Fuck yeah, angel- angel cum for me, cum- aagh! Cum on my dick," He demands, and you couldn't deny his request if you tried. Your pussy clenches wildly around his cock, convulsing with the force of your orgasm and you claw at his back, regretful that you hadn't stripped off his shirt so that you could scratch up his skin.

All too soon the effects of Anakin's pacing and strength flip a switch, and you're twitching in overstimulation added to your bliss. There's a distinct stinging sensation that's now alongside - and possibly contributing to - your residual ecstasy. The ache is a product of Anakin's sharp thrusts, but his movements are getting sloppy, and all the while he spills obscenities in drool over your tongue.

"You're mine. Gonna fucking cum in you, gonna make you mine, gonna- aah!" He rambles, words and spit alike spilling hastily from his mouth and into your own as he struggles to keep himself steady. He's jackhammering into you so fast that you think he could knock you right through the wall if he tried. You're plastered against it, head thrown back and chest heaving as you try not to collapse under the intense amount of sensation you're receiving.

"Ani," You grip at his biceps, dragging one hand up his left arm and digging your nails into his scalp, "Ani- cum, please cum! Please," You whimper, not sure if you're begging because you need the delicious sensation of his release painting your insides, or because you might pass out if your cunt gets fucked by Anakin's stupidly big cock much more than it has been already, "Please cum!"

"You want me to cum?" He asks, a dreadful rasp to his voice as he ravages your mouth. He bites at your tongue, latches on with his teeth like a wild animal and digs them into the squirming muscle until your saliva runs hot, "You want me to cum in you, angel? You want me to fill you up- stuff you 'til you're leaking?"

"Yes," You moan, one hand still clutching his arm while the other tugs at the base of his curls, "Yes, fuck Anakin, please, I need you to give me your cum! I need your cum, please!"

"You need my cum," He revels, a growl lacing the edge of his voice that sends perpetual shivers down your spine, "You fucking need me. Wish that creep could see you now. Fucked stupid, begging for my cum. Beg for it again, baby. Beg for my cum."

"I need it!" You cry, desperate as you yank tighter at his hair, "Anakin, please, I need it!"

All of a sudden he's no longer invading your mouth, his own latching tightly to your shoulder as he sinks his teeth into you.

"Take it," He grunts gruffly against your skin as he latches onto it, dick finally twitching before spurting hot, thick globs of cum into your spent cunt. Nothing is more gratifying than the feeling of Anakin biting at your shoulder while his hips fuck his cum relentlessly into you, and you're sure you'll be sore all over tomorrow morning. He's letting out the filthiest, most obscene string of grunts against your shoulder as his teeth barely avoid breaking your skin, and though your limbs shake with overstimulation your body doesn't move because it's in his strong grip.

The feeling of him cumming inside of you is like a second orgasm of your own. It's not really a release for you, you haven't cum twice, but Anakin's warm cum flooding your core and squelching as he jerks his hips through his climax feels almost as satisfying as if you were the one cumming. His grunts and growls slowly fade as he comes down from his monumental orgasm, and when he unlocks his jaw from around your shoulder, he leaves behind a ring of teeth marks and a sheen of drool on your skin.

"Kriff," He pants, chest heaving and dick softening as he slumps against you. You're not ready for his added weight, but the little strength he has left is used to hold you upright, so you don't flatten beneath his frame.

"Are you okay?" He hums, lips moving lazily against your neck. They're still wet with spit, and you feel the stuff cooling on your skin.

"I'm okay," You decide, "But- but I don't think I can walk, Ani."

You feel him smile, hear him huff out a laugh even though his eyes are drooping, "I'm sorry. I- It's like I couldn't control myself," He admits, breath fanning warm and wet against your neck, "Not after seeing him grab you."

"I know," You stroke a gentle hand through his sweaty curls, happy to be close to him now that your veins aren't pumping lust through your entire system.

"If Obi-Wan asks," Anakin straightens up, his limbs surprisingly strong for how aggressively he'd fucked you, "You got shoved around by a nasty patron, okay? We'll say they caught you by surprise when you were trying to talk to the bartender."

"Okay." You nod, letting him do all of the work in retrieving your belts from the ground and securing yours around your waist. He hooks his own tightly, his saber thankfully unharmed from being dropped.

"Come here," He holds his arms out, but you barely move to help him scoop you up. He does the lifting on his own, letting you sling your spent arms around his neck and laze your head against his shoulder.

Anakin makes it out of the alleyway, but when he should turn left towards your speeder, he veers right.

"Anakin," You frown, lifting your head wearily to see him approaching the bar again, "Anakin, our speeder's the other way."

"I want you to talk to him," His voice is firm, not much of its honey-sweetness left that had been there after you'd fucked in the dingy alleyway, "I want you to stand there, while I hold you up, and I want you to inform him he'll be questioned by the Jedi Council about what he saw. I want you to lie to him while my cum drips down your legs, angel." He murmurs, his words impossibly filthy even for the setting you're in, "Can you do that?"

"He won't be examined by the Council," Your hazy brain struggles to keep up, "What do you mean?"

"Lie to him." Anakin repeats, eyes slightly darker than they usually are, "Make him afraid while your pussy leaks my cum."

"Okay," You nod willingly, letting Anakin brace your feet on the ground with one of your arms slung over his shoulder to lead you into the bar. Your legs are shaky, you look a mess, but you could be perceived as someone coming away from a nasty fight, so you hold your head high and try to control your thoughts.

"There," Anakin murmurs, spotting the old man where he's already watching you from the corner, "Do it, angel."

Anakin leads you over, stopping short in front of the man's table so that he can't touch you again. He looks pleased at your return, albeit confused as to why you're a mess.

"The Jedi Council wants to speak with you," You recite obediently as the man's eyes widen slightly in apprehension. You can already feel the slow trickle of Anakin's thick cum leaking down your thighs now that you're upright, and it almost distracts you from what you're saying. "They want to know your role in the fight, and what you observed if that's truly all you did. They suspect that you might be working against the Republic, and-"

"I'm not talking to the Jedi Council," The man's face curls into a sneer and his voice is gruff, but not pleasantly so, like Anakin's. He stands from his seat rather uncoordinatedly and bolts for the door, surely expecting you to chase after him. But you don't, you couldn't if you tried, and Anakin gathers you back into his arms.

"Good." He hums, resisting the urge to kiss your forehead for fear of outing your relations, 'You did good, angel. I'm proud of you."

"We'll have to sneak into the temple without interception," You plan as your head rests once more on Anakin's shoulder. He navigates the crowded bar perfectly with you in his arms, and this time he turns towards your speeder like he's supposed to. "Obi-Wan will be waiting for us, but you can tell him to gather the Council, that way we'll have time to clean up."

"Oh, no." Anakin's chuckle is dark as he lowers you into the seat of your speeder. He kisses at your forehead, strokes away a bead of sweat at your hairline, "No, angel. You'll speak to the Council the same way you spoke to that lowlife. With my cum dripping down your thighs."

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vanteguccir · 2 months

Text

Let's trade shoes | Matt Sturniolo

Matt Sturniolo x reader

Summary: Where Y/N feels pain in her feet from wearing high heels for hours, and Matt gives her his sneakers to wear.

Warning: None.

Requested?: Yes, by anon.

Author's note: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

From an outsider's perspective, the dynamics of the relationship between Y/N and Matt were incredible and unique. The two had their hearts overflowing with love, and they were not ashamed to show it.

Nick joked that the five love languages were few compared to all the ways they loved each other.

But it was safe to say that out of the five, the one that was most part of their daily lives was the language of acts of service, precisely because of their busy schedules and daily tasks.

Matt would do absolutely anything to make his girlfriend's day easier, from turning on the coffee maker in the morning while she took her sacred morning shower, to combing and drying her hair after she washed it. He is always watching her from afar, making little mental notes of new things she does, so he learns and fits them into his routine so that he can help her in the future.

And Y/N isn't far behind, knowing how heavy the routine of recording three times a week can be - sometimes more, when the triplets need to catch up on some podcasts or car videos -, she always comes forward to help his day get lighter, from starting the car in the garage on cold days so the engine is ready when Matt gets in it, to helping him shower after a tiring day, washing his hair with his favorite shampoo while watching him nap in the warm water of the bathtub.

It was Thursday, and Matt and Y/N were leaving yet another weekly date night.

Matt and Y/N had created a habit almost a year back that, every Thursday after the triplets recorded the car video that would be posted the next day, they would have a date night, with the aim of always dedicating quality time together and cultivate a healthy relationship.

Y/N mentally cursed herself for her choice of shoes that night, having opted for high heels.

Don't get me wrong, the girl loved wearing heels and always felt prettier in them; Besides Matt, who was completely in love with the way his girlfriend's legs looked in heels, he said that they looked longer and more appealing, leaving him drooling and staring more than usual.

But if there's one thing they both knew, it was that when Y/N wore high heels for long hours, she always ended up with pain in her feet.

And that was exactly what was happening at that moment, the girl had been wearing those heels on her feet for about three hours and her toes were starting to hurt, squeezed by the front strap, while her heel screamed with every step she took.

It didn't take Matt long to notice her face contorted in pain and how she squeezed his hand - which was intertwined with her own - with every step they took.

The two were walking through the streets of the restaurant where they had dinner, observing the various restaurants and bars open, full of people of all types and music of all tastes, while chatting a bit about their day. This meant they were far from the car, and it would be at least a 10-minute walk to get back to it.

Therefore, Matt abruptly stopped in his tracks as they approached a wooden bench, followed by Y/N, who watched him with a confused expression.

"What is it, baby?" She asked worriedly, traveling her eyes down the street briefly, trying to find what could have made her boyfriend stop so suddenly.

Matt knelt on the sidewalk and removed his sneakers from both his feet, keeping his socks on.

"What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?" The girl looked down at him, watching him with a frown.

"Sit here, baby. Please." Matt asked, standing up on his socks and pointing to the bench, taking Y/N's right hand and helping her sit down on the wooden surface. "Give me your foot." He kneeled on the ground, placing his sneakers near her feet and reaching his hands towards his girlfriend's right foot.

"What? Why?" She asked, eyes wide, feeling cimpletely lost, bending her body slightly forward so that she brought her face closer to his, a sound of pain escaping her lips from the movement.

"You're in pain, my love. Come on, give me your foot. I'll give you my sneakers." Matt explains, touching Y/N's right ankle and pulling lightly.

He raised his blue eyes, looking into his girl's eyes, staring at her so that she understood that he wasn't open for arguments.

Y/N sighed before resting her left hand on the cold and hard surface, lifting her right ankle so that her foot was off the ground. Matt unfastened the buckle on her high heel, leaving it on the sidewalk on his side before reaching for his right sneaker, fitting it onto Y/N's foot with ease.

He untied the shoelaces and tied them again so that they were firmer, knowing that they were bigger than Y/N's feet and could escape with her steps.

The girl kept her eyes on Matt the entire time, feeling her heart speed up more and more and her skin heat up, taking on a reddish tone. She didn't deserve him. He was so kind to her.

Matt carefully lowered the foot he was holding, waiting for her to steady it on the ground before taking her left ankle, doing the same process as before.

When Y/N had both feet inside Matt's white sneakers, the boy adjusted his posture, still crouched, so that he could fit his feet one at a time into the high heels, leaving them unbuckled due to the difference in size, knowing that if he closed it, he could ruin them.

Matt slowly stood up, regaining his balance on the pair of heels that he wasn't used to wearing before intertwining his left hand with Y/N's right, helping her stand up. He briefly adjusted the strap of the black sparkly purse on his left shoulder.

"I can't believe you're doing this." The girl commented as the two walked back to the car, a laugh escaping her throat as she shook her head, watching the wobbly steps her boyfriend took.

"I won't let my princess feel pain. And I didn't want to get dirt on my socks from this sidewalk. Our washing machine thanks us for that." Matt responded with a smile on his face, watching his girlfriend's reaction from the corner of his eye, keeping his focus on his steps in order not to fall.

"I love you, Matt." Y/N squeezed his hand lightly, massaging the soft skin with her thumb.

"I love you more, my love." The boy responded quickly, returning the squeeze.

He let go of his girlfriend's hand as they reached his car, opening the purse on his shoulder and looking for the key, before unlocking the doors, opening the passenger seat for his girlfriend.

Y/N smiled in gratitude, approaching Matt and sealing her lips over his cheek chilled by the cold of the night, stroking the soft skin with the tip of her nose before taking a step away, finally getting into the car.

She felt her heart warm with love while observing him walk around the front of the car with slow steps. She knew that there was nothing in the world he wouldn't do to make her happy and comfortable.

༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

My asks are always open. Feel free to send requests or anything at all 🩷💋

~ taglist:

@lustfulslxt @ladybunny44 @worldlxvlys @earth2starkey @remussbitch @freshloveforthefit @il0vebeingdelulu @sturniolowhore

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525 notes · View notes

supernovafics · 6 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 2.7k words

summary: in which a moment at a party that led to a drunken kiss and a heartfelt admission pushes you and your best friend away from each other. after nearly a week of silence, it’s still hard to find the right words to say to steve and to find the right way to mend what feels as if it has been permanently broken. until you’re drunk at a bar and he is the one to come and get you.

warnings: bestfriend!steve, explicit language, underage alcohol consumption, angst with a happy ending<33

author’s note: this was sitting in the drafts for a veryvery long time and i’ve finally decided to let it see the light of day🫶🏾 (full “folklore” album series masterlist here)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“i didn't know if you'd care if i came back, i have a lot of regrets about that.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The bar was comforting in a weird kind of way.

It was pretty dark and empty for the most part, which partly made sense since it was ten o’clock on a random Wednesday night. You didn’t mind the music softly playing and the stool you were sitting on actually felt comfortable, or maybe it was the alcohol making you believe that.

Somehow even with the number of drinks you’d had in the past hour, it still didn’t manage to effectively push your thoughts far away from Steve and what happened at Robin’s birthday party.

You couldn’t not think about the kiss with him, which you had abruptly and drunkenly initiated; it was a kiss that felt simultaneously wrong and right. And his words that followed the kiss played on what felt like an endless loop in your mind too.

“I’ve wanted this, I’ve wanted us, for practically forever. Ever since that moment our mom’s forced us to meet at that county fair thing when we were ten, I think I knew it was you.”

It was hard to think about what you did in response to that, but still the quick, “I’m sorry, I can’t,” you managed to stutter out before basically running away from him played on equal loop in your head.

The two of you hadn’t spoken since that Saturday night, with you returning back to your college that was two hours away from Hawkins early the next morning. And you were unsure if it was you leading this dance or if both of you were equally avoiding each other because the phone calls that would happen practically daily were reduced to nothing. It had barely been a week, but it was long enough for everything in your life to feel shifted; to feel a little emptier.

“You look like you need to talk to someone,” The bartender, a woman who you were certain couldn’t be older than thirty, said as she slid you the latest drink you’d ordered.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just…” You trailed off with a small sigh before taking a sip from the cold glass. “I did something stupid this past weekend and I regret it, but I also think it might have been the right thing to do.” You were unsure if you were referring to the kissing Steve part or the running away from him part. “I don’t know, I just wish that entire night hadn’t happened, actually.”

You knew that it wasn’t solely your inebriation that made your words seem as if they didn’t make any sense, because everything going through your head was so damn confusing even when you were completely sober. None of it, the emotions you were feeling or the situation itself, fully made sense to you and you forced yourself to not think about any of it by solely consuming yourself with your schoolwork for the last few days. And when doing that was no longer enough to silence your thoughts, you decided to come to this bar.

It was dumb and probably only making things worse, you knew that, but it also felt so much easier.

“Okay,” The woman said. “Can I have a lot more context?”

You were unsure why you had the immediate urge to tell her everything. Maybe it was the alcohol, or perhaps because it was just always so easy for anyone to pour their heart out to a stranger.

“My friend— my best friend, we’ve known each other since we were ten— me and him were at a party. It was actually our other friend’s birthday and she just turned eighteen, so of course, we had to make it a huge thing for her, and we did it at Steve’s house; my best friend, that’s his name. Anyway, it’s about two hours into the party and we’re all pretty drunk. Me and Steve are in his backyard sitting on one of his old patio chairs, and then I don’t know why, I blame it on my drunkenness and how close we were in that moment, but I kissed him. I pulled away almost immediately, but then he said that he has wanted this, wanted us, to happen for so long, and I didn’t know what to say to any of that. So, I just mumbled out a stupid “I’m sorry,” and then left.”

You had barely taken a breath as you spoke, spitting out what happened that night in one rushed go. Finally saying all of it out loud— recounting the story in pretty much its entirety— made you feel a little better. Everything was still a complete mess, but you felt like you could breathe the tiniest bit easier.

“Why did you leave?”

A part of you expected her to ask that question, and at this point, you should’ve had an answer to it that felt certain, but you didn’t.

“It just… It felt like the right thing to do, I think.”

The thought of anything more happening with Steve hadn’t ever crossed your mind, at least not consciously, and even now you still refused to think more about it. Because it wasn't just about Steve. You didn’t want anything more with anyone; you didn’t want feelings, a relationship, any of it.

It wasn’t that you hated love or the thought of it, it was more so that you had been burned because of it so many times that you refused to fall into it so easily again. Falling for boys that you thought actually liked you only to be proven wrong and left heartbroken.

“I get it,” The bartender ultimately said, her voice soft. “You guys have been friends for practically forever and if you started dating and then broke up it would probably change everything between you two.”

We would never break up.

The thought hit you so abruptly that it actually managed to surprise you.

The woman looked at you, confused. “Okay… So, then what’s the problem?”

“What?”

“You said that you and him would never break up, so what’s the problem?”

You hadn’t realized you said the thought out loud, and you couldn’t even feel embarrassed about accidentally saying it because all you could think about was how completely true it was. You and Steve would work so well together, you pretty much already did. You knew the ins and outs of each other; everything little that was annoying but also so endearing. It was what you loved about him— as a friend and as more.

But still, it was so fucking hard to admit that out loud, and you wanted to forget about the entire realization.

“I– I don’t know,” You finally answered before folding your arms against the countertop and then putting your head down. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that that action would be enough to will away the tears that you could now feel threatening to spill out.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“and i ended up here. pouring out my heart to a stranger.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Hey, you okay?”

The voice was soft and immediately comforting and oh so familiar. It was enough to put a smile on your face, but your head was starting to pound so you couldn’t bear to do anything but groan.

You lifted your head and mumbled out a soft, “Steve?”

You only vaguely remembered the bartender, whose name you eventually learned was Chelsea, asking for a phone number of someone that could pick you up. And although you should’ve given her your roommate’s number, you instead gave her Steve’s.

“I never thought I’d be the one picking you up from a bar,” Steve said as he sat down next to you. “I always thought it would be the other way around.”

“Y’know what they say about college, it changes people,” You told him with a nonchalant shrug. The two of you hadn’t talked in days, but it still felt like second nature to fall back into the joking cadence you had with him. “I’m a total badass now.”

Steve laughed a bit and looked at you amusingly. “Mhm, yeah, sure you are.”

You weren’t as drunk anymore but you were entering the early stages of a hangover that would be a bitch, and you already knew that there was no way you’d be going to your eleven o’clock Statistics class.

“I can’t believe you drove two hours to pick me up,” You said as you settled yourself in the passenger seat of Steve’s car after you paid your pricey tab and goodbyes were said to Chelsea.

Steve offered you a small smile. “What else are best friends for?”

You couldn’t help but look away from him as you mumbled out a soft, “I didn’t know we were still that.”

“We’ll always be that.”

There was so much certainty in his voice that it actually managed to soothe something inside of you. Only for a second, though, because then you were back in your head again.

The drive back to your dorm was quiet with only the soft sounds of the radio to fill the silence. It was a short ride, only about ten minutes, and the entire time you could only focus on your dull headache and what you wanted to say to Steve because you knew that you had to say something. Although you didn’t want to, that night needed to finally be talked about.

When he was parked in front of your building, you still didn’t know exactly what to say, but you decided to start with something. “Listen, about Robin’s party–”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it. Let’s just pretend it never happened,” Steve interrupted you. He pushed a hand through his hair and then met your gaze. “It was really dumb of me to say all of that stuff, and I partially blame it on all the drinks we had— definitely way too many. We’re just friends, I know that. And your life is here now, for the most part, and mine is back in Hawkins, so yeah…” He trailed off with a small shrug.

You suddenly felt nauseous and you knew it had nothing to do with the alcohol. He was saying everything that you fully thought you wanted to hear— what happened at the party should’ve never happened, you two were just friends— so why did it feel so wrong?

Things became quiet and Steve was looking at you expectantly, and you were unsure how long you’d been silent for.

“Um, yeah, exactly,” You finally said as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Before you opened the passenger door to leave his car, you reached over and pulled Steve in for a hug. “Drive safe.”

“Thanks,” He said as his arms circled around you.

For some reason, there was a huge part of you that wanted to say “I’m sorry” in that moment, but you didn’t entirely know why, so instead you said nothing and simply got out of his car.

You headed to the entrance of your dorm building and then turned around, giving Steve a final wave before he drove away.

It was then— as he headed down the street and after a few moments his car became completely out of your view— that you wished you’d been honest; with yourself and with him.

Because it was in that moment of you yearning for him to turn around mixed with you sincerely wanting to go after him that essentially sealed it for you.

Steve was different and he always would be.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“and maybe i don't quite know what to say, but i'm here in your doorway.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You felt slightly lucky that you only had two classes on Thursdays because when you woke up after sleeping through your Statistics class, you knew that you wouldn’t be going to your Psychology class that started at three. And the reasoning actually had nothing to do with your hangover.

Aside from the slight headache, you woke up with your mind feeling completely clear for the first time in a long time. You knew exactly what you wanted and what you wanted to do, and before that feeling could go away, or you could convince yourself to push it away, you were in your car an hour before your class was supposed to start and driving to Hawkins. You were pretty much running off of impulse and hope.

The weather was terrible and you hated driving in the rain, but it didn’t matter to you right then because you needed to see Steve.

You had two long hours of driving in terrible rain to figure out what exactly you wanted to say to him, yet you still couldn’t form a coherent set of sentences in your head. But, similar to the rain, that didn’t stop you from ringing his doorbell.

In hindsight, it probably would’ve been smart to bring an umbrella because it was still pouring and from the short walk from your car to his front door, your clothes managed to become effectively soaked, but it didn’t bother you.

“Hey,” He said when he opened the door, it was easy to tell that he was surprised to see you. “Did you drive all the way here?”

You quickly nodded at his question. “Yes.”

“You hate driving in rain.”

“Yeah, but I… I just really wanted to talk to you, and didn’t wanna do it over the phone.”

“Come inside,” Steve said, pushing the door open wider so that you could step in.

You almost followed him but then stopped. “No, wait… I kinda just wanna say this here.”

Steve looked at you confused, but ultimately nodded. “Okay.” He then stepped out of his house and closed the door behind him; his clothes immediately got wet. “It feels wrong that you’re the only one getting hit by the rain.”

You laughed a bit. “Thank you. That’s very considerate.”

Things got quiet for a second and you suddenly felt nervous, but you pushed that feeling to the side.

“I know you said that we don’t need to talk about the party and we should pretend that it never happened. And although that’s exactly what I’d been doing for the past few days, I don’t wanna do that anymore.” It actually didn’t feel too hard to let all of this out; verbalizing exactly what had been going on in your head. In a way, it felt like a relief. “I think I kissed you that night because deep down I know that it’s you too. And that it’s always been you… Which is actually so scary to think about because we’ve known each other for so long and you’re the one person in my life that has been the biggest constant. You’ve seen every part of my very horrific love life and I don’t want us to end up like any of the stupid relationships I had before, and I think that’s why I ran away that night, which I do really regret.” You pulled your eyes away from his for a second. “But, what we have is different, and I want to try. I want us to try.”

You let out a long breath. “Okay, that’s it.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a few moments, and it was then that you realized how loud the rain was, and somehow it was actually a bit calming to hear the sounds of the heavy drops hitting the ground.

You searched his eyes to see if you could decipher what he was thinking, but before you could get a clear read on anything, he was closing the small bit of distance between you both and reaching up to cup your face in his hands before leaning in to kiss you.

The abruptness of the action slightly startled you, but you were completely okay with this nonverbal response to you pouring your heart out. You were kissing him back almost immediately and suddenly the sound of the rain was gone and instead all you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The kiss felt perfectly new but also so insanely familiar; even though this was the first time this was happening sober. And so many things were running through your mind, but it was also effectively blank and you knew you wouldn’t be able to form a coherent sentence even if you tried.

Most of all, though, everything happening right then— the way your hands fisted themselves in his rain soaked t-shirt to pull him impossibly closer to you, and how his thumb stroked your cheek so tenderly— it all felt so certain and sure and right; there wasn’t an ounce of doubt lingering in the air around you both or lacing its way within the kiss.

When you pulled away to catch your breath and smiled up at him, a smile that Steve immediately matched with an elated grin of his own, it slightly killed you that all of this hadn't happened sooner.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“i just wanted you to know that this is me trying.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #stranger things fluff #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington

827 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 10 months

Text

decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1

genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader

word count: 6.9k

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this

auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda

Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?

It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.

The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.

Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.

He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”

The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.

Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.

No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver.

Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.

You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”

He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.

“Want to come sit?”

He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”

Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.

You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”

—

If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).

That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.

And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.

But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.

It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.

The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?

Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are).

“What.” His voice is gritty.

“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”

“We were tired.”

You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases.

“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”

He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.

“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.

They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.

“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”

They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.

“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.

“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”

And there it is.

You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”

They’re silent. And you know silence always means—

Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”

—Yes.

Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.

You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.

—

“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”

“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.

But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.

You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.

He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.

The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.

He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.

“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.

—

“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.

He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.

Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.

It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.

Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.

It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.

He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.

He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.

“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.

He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”

You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.

Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.

“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”

His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”

Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”

Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.

See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.

Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.

You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.

It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.

As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.

Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.

“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”

“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”

Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.”

Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”

“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.

Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.

“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”

“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.

“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”

You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”

Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”

They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.

They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.

Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.

“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max.

“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”

“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.

“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.

But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”

“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”

“You don’t—-”

“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest.

“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”

“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”

They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed.

And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.

“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving.

“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.

“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome.

“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.

“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”

He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.

In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.

Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.

“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”

Cheeks hollowed, you nod.

“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”

Your brows knit defiantly.

“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.

He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”

You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.

“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”

“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.

They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.

“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”

You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”

“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”

You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.

“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”

“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”

I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”

“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”

“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”

“Yeah? How, then?”

“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”

“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.

“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.

“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”

“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm.

“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”

They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.

“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”

“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”

“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”

You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I’ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.

This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—

—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—

—it feels just fucking like this.

“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.

“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.

Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.

“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.

You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”

“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”

“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”

“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.

“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”

They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck.

“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”

From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.

“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.

There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.

It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.

—

What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.

What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.

The season is heating up.

Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.

This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader

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familyvideostevie · 6 months

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a kind of hunger | chapter 1

joel miller x fem!reader

series masterlist

joel miller walks into your life just as it starts to fall apart. surely some hot nights with the bar's newest regular can't hurt, right?

length: 9.2k

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, fem!reader, unspecified age gap, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), doggy style, missionary, slightly painful sex, dirty talk, size kink if you squint, joel is a liiiiiiiitle mean if you squint, general feelings of loneliness and angst from r in her free time

a/n: huge thank you to @strangerfreaks without whom this would never have gotten off the ground. also to all the joel writers on this site, i love you, i am in awe of you. please allow me to give it a go myself <3

navigation | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀

The first time you sleep with Joel Miller you know it won't be the last.

But that's not where this story starts.

It starts in a bar. Nothing special about it, really. Staffed half by college kids who come and go, half by drifters who, for some reason, stopped drifting once they found this dimly lit, sticky-floored hole in the wall. Not quite a local institution but not forgettable, never totally empty. It's got pool tables and a jukebox but also clean bathrooms aside from the graffiti and two new-ish TVs showing whatever the first guy who gets there wants to watch.

Point is, you work there. One of those drifters who stopped drifting. The guy who owns it, some crotchety old fuck called Bill, rents you the apartment above the bar for a decent price considering it's loud until 2am on the weekends and midnight all the other days. Loud enough that even on nights you don't work it feels like you're there anyway. But you get used to it. It's called Frank's, which you don't totally understand, but you're not about to ask questions of the guy who has finally allowed you to slow down and take a breath who is also your boss and landlord.

You've worked there long enough to have learned the names and orders of all the regulars who've been coming in since long before you walked through the door and to have seen some new regulars enter the rotation. In truth, you've worked there long enough to basically be running the place. It's still the bar in your head, not your bar because getting attached will do you no good. This is how it always goes: you care too much but it never seems like anyone cares back. You cut and run before you can be disappointed and you’ve already been here longer than you’d expected to be because it’s something close to comfortable.

Almost no one messes with you despite being younger than most of the clientele and on the off chance some frat boy from the city decides to take a cheap shot you've got a small army of imposing customers on your side. Between them and your coworkers, it's almost like you're not alone.

Almost.

The hours you spend away from the bar are spent alone. You don't have many numbers in your phone and the ones you do you don't call. You go on drives in the shitty truck you bought off some guy when you moved here. You browse used bookstores and suffer the heat of the day on long walks and wonder if this is all there is. You think of what it might be like to feel something other than rootless.

One thing that helps is…sex. Being close to someone for even a little while, letting yourself be seen in a way that doesn’t require you to totally show your hand. You try not to make a habit of actually fucking your clientele. It can get messy quickly, guys coming in and expecting more than a good pour. Being offended when you don't give them a free round, don't make eyes at them over the oiled wood. It's easier to be alone, that much you've learned. It's easier and it's simpler and it means you've only got yourself to blame for the hurt you sometimes feel laying in bed, staring at the ceiling as some rock song thrums up through the floor.

And if you do fuck someone from the bar, you keep it simple. You do, however, try really hard not to sleep with regulars. And no staying over. A classic, unspoken rule of sleeping with strangers that you rarely verbalize but make sure to enforce every time. It keeps things neat. The last thing you need is mess. Who knows how long you'll stay in this town, in this little apartment and this shitty bar. You've got a lot of years left, a lot of years you should probably spend in classrooms or an office or falling in love with some nice guy with a nice family who can give you a nice life.

But you're here.

And then, one day, so is Joel.

Being a good bartender is memorization, paying attention, and keeping a level head. You know how to make pretty much any drink even though your regulars are mostly the simple beer or Jack and Coke kind of people. You swear you can tell when a glass is going to fall a second before it shatters, spot a punch before it can be thrown. So you notice when a man you've never seen before walks through the door.

You notice how the energy of the room changes, how multiple pairs of eyes follow him as he settles at the end of the half-full bar. Dark hair shot through with grey, green shirt rolled up over chorded forearms that he rests on the wood. It feels like you should know him but you don't. You've never seen him before.

You finish pouring beers for some giggly girls before making your way over to him. His eyes track you.

You wonder what he'll order. A shot, maybe, based on the tense line of his shoulders. Or a dark beer. Maybe something strong. You hope he won't be one of those guys you have to peel off the bar in a few hours. "Can I get you something?"

"Whiskey, rocks," he says. You can hear the Texas drawl even from so few words. Deep, low, measured. "Cheapest you got."

For some reason, it feels like he's returning and you're the new one. "Wanna start a tab?"

"I'll do cash at the end," he says. Ah, one of those. Guy getting away from his wife, maybe. Tough day at work. Doesn't want to leave tracks. You can relate to that.

"Joel fuckin’ Miller," one of your regulars says as you turn to grab a glass. He claps the man -- Joel -- on the shoulder. "Heard you were back up this way," he says. "Good to see you, man."

Joel simply inclines his head once like he's not thrilled to be recognized. The dismissal is clear. And, weirdest of all, it works. You've seen insults hurled between friends for less.

You set his drink down, the amber liquid sloshing around the ice.

"Thanks," he mutters. The dismissal is...less clear, but you've got other customers to tend to. And Joel doesn't seem particularly chatty.

Your eyes return to him for the next hour or so but he never waves you over for another round. Heat trails up and down your spine and you have to tell yourself that he's not watching you. That would be too optimistic, right? At one point you take a bathroom break and when you're back he's gone, wrinkled bills stacked under the glass. Enough for his drink and a decent tip.

Joel comes in three more times over the next month before you sleep with him. Each time he orders the same drink, leaves the same tip. He sits alone at the bar, occasionally saying hello when someone approaches but no one ever sits next to him. He's gruff but only ever polite to you, doesn't get impatient when it takes you a minute to get to him.

And he's really something to look at. The tick in his jaw, the veins in his neck. His skin is tanned, dotted with small scars that must come from a lifetime of hard work. He wears a watch and jeans that hug his ass in an almost indecent way, a way that has you watching him when he's not on a stool. Sometimes you catch him smirking to himself when there's some shit going on at the bar, gossip or people being loud for no reason. You wonder what his laugh sounds like and scold yourself for it. No harm in looking but there's the possibility of harm in thinking too much. You know better.

The third time he comes in is a bad night. It's busy for some reason and everyone is a fucking asshole. You weren't even supposed to work tonight but one of the seasonal kids had banged on your door begging you to come help, promising you all the tips for tonight if you did. You knew it would make you look good to Bill and despite yourself, you didn’t want to leave them hanging, so here you are, sweaty and pissed and smelling like beer, doing your best to empty the dishwasher in between drink orders and praying the keg doesn't need changing.

You don't even notice when Joel comes in, only spotting him once he's managed to scare some college kid from a seat at the bar. For some reason, his presence makes you a little calmer in the chaos.

"Be with you in a sec, Joel," you say to him when you're near. You don't call him by his name since he never actually introduced himself to you but it slips out in the rush. His nostrils flare but you don't have time to linger on it even as you feel the hot weight of his gaze.

"No rush."

You manage to get him what you know by now to be his usual only to be called over by your least favorite customer of the night as soon as he's thanked you.

"Honey," the asshole says. This fucker's name is Seth and he's a pain in your ass. "Gimme another, will you? Make it a heavy pour." This would be his fifth and he's already slurring his words.

"Don't think so," you tell him firmly. "I'm cutting you off for tonight, Seth." He's liable to start some shit or at the very least throw up on the floor and you don't want to deal with either. You don't have time to deal with either.

His bloodshot eyes narrow and he slams a fist on the bar. You manage not to flinch, though pretty much everyone else does. "That's not good fucking service, sweetcheeks," he leers.

"Good thing I don't give a fuck," you snap. "Get the fuck out of here before you do something you regret, sweetcheeks.” The venom in your tone seems to surprise him before sheer rage takes over. You've thrown out plenty of assholes in your time here but it's not always a smooth experience.

Seth leans forward over the bar, reaches for you -- to do what, you have no idea -- and you prepare yourself to yell for backup and then kick him out for good and maybe get a punch in as he goes. His fingers manage to hook in your shirtsleeve before a hand closes around his wrist.

Before Seth can scream he's got his outstretched arm behind his back, face twisted in pain. Behind him is --

Joel?

The bar is almost silent. You can hear a few whispers over the blood pumping in your ears.

"I'd get out of here if I were you," Joel hisses. He glances at you, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. Are you okay? he seems to be asking. You nod.

Seth whimpers. "Let me go," he says weakly.

"Just gonna show you the door." Joel all but drags him through the parting crowd.

"Jesus," someone says behind you. One of the seasonal kids. "You okay?"

"I'm taking my break." You leave the kid behind the bar to fend for himself and barrel into the back and through the side door into the alley where you always take your 15. It's one of those weird cold fall nights, just the wrong side of chilly to be here without a jacket but you left it in the bar office.

The milk carton you sit on has been turned over so you kick it back with a thud and slump down onto it. The light above the door flickers. "This shit is getting old," you say to no one. You kick aside cigarette butts that aren't yours and wonder how long you can do this. What would be next, anyway? You've got a laundry list of failed dreams and no one wondering if you're going to make something of yourself. Long nights at a bar you care about more than you should and rowdy customers and handsome men who barely say a word to you can't last forever, can it? Would anyone here even notice if you left?

The door flies open, startling you out of your thoughts.

Joel steps into the alley. Somehow he manages to yet again look like he was meant to be here and you're the one who is out of place. You blink at him and he stares back like he wasn't sure he'd find you here.

"Got lost?" you ask. "Pretty sure you know where the front door is."

He lets the metal door swing shut and crosses his arms. "Was lookin' for you."

That catches you by surprise. "Why?"

Joel shrugs, a small lift of his shoulders. His expression doesn't budge. "Sorry for makin' trouble."

Oh, right. Seth. You wave him off. "Just another night," you say. "I'd have handled it." You stand from the crate and lean against the brick wall. It's true. Seth isn't the first asshole you've handled.

"I bet you would've," Joel mutters. He takes one step closer. You're reminded all at once how good-looking he is, how you've wondered what his hands would feel like on your skin. There's no way he's ever thought of you, right? You're just some girl who pours him drinks, too young and too forgettable. He was just having a man moment, wanting to save the day or some shit like that.

"I don't have a cigarette or anything if you want to smoke," you say. This close he doesn't smell like tobacco but you don't know what else to say. "Sorry."

"So you just sit in alleys on your break for fun?"

"I like this alley," you say, suddenly a bit defensive. "It's a nice alley." You take a step towards him. He uncrosses his arms and his hands flex at his sides. You shiver. "No one bothers me out here."

Joel tilts his head to the side. "That so?" His eyes are dark under the dim light. When did he get so close? When did your face get so hot?

"Except guys who drink whiskey on the rocks, I guess," you say. It comes out much softer than you'd like, your voice cracking. The air doesn't have the same bite as it did seconds ago. Joel's expression hovers between something you recognize and something you don't, something you desperately want to figure out. "Good thing I don't mind." The adrenaline from the small altercation hasn't left and the swirl of emotions about your whole shitty life has you on edge, has you wanting to play with fire.

You're so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, feel the heat of him in the still night. Joel's eyes rake over your face, looking for something, something you try very hard to show him so that he might fucking do it, meet the want that is suddenly uncontrollable halfway, or at least tell you if he's not interested so you can --

Your name is a groan in his throat and then he's kissing you. His palm cups the back of your head as he presses you into the wall, his other hand firm on your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin through your shirt hard enough to bruise. He tastes like the whiskey you served him. You fist one hand in his collar and wind the other into his hair.

Joel controls the kiss but you give as good as you get. He licks into your mouth and you suck on his lower lip. His beard rubs against your face in a delicious burn and when you tug on his hair he makes a noise you must hear again. The brick behind you scrapes a bit but you hardly notice when he presses against you, slides a thigh between your legs and you feel him hard through his jeans.

"S'not right, you lookin' so good yellin' at that asshole," he grumbles into your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse. You cant your hips and he hisses.

"Speak for yourself," you manage. "Always got your eyes on me, don't you?" It feels like a risk to call him on it. Control of the situation is slipping from your grasp, this man who you never thought would actually touch you now holding you in his arms, his lips on your skin. He pulls back from your neck and smirks, eyes dark.

"'Spose I do."

You can work with that. You surge forward to kiss him again and this time he lets you call the shots while still meeting your bruising caresses with his own.

"Joel." You tug on his hair.

He makes that noise again.

It might be five minutes, it might be an hour. You have no idea. All you know is you can still feel his cock through the denim and you're so turned on you might combust in this alley. Or at the very least let him fuck you in it.

"I don't close tonight," you pant. One of Joel's hands has worked its way into your back pocket and the other has rucked up your shirt to rest on your bare back.

"What?" he growls.

"My shift. I'm off at 11." You tap his watch. He glances at it and sees it read 10:30. "Half hour. I live upstairs."

For a second you think he'll say no. Walk away with a nod of his head and out of your life forever. Wouldn't be the first, wouldn't be the last. You're already breaking one of your rules by even considering sleeping with him but there's just something about him. The way he looks at you, the way his hands feel on your skin. You want to know what he'll feel like inside you. Maybe you’re still in this town because you were waiting for him to walk through the door.

"Alright," he says. He clears his throat and releases you. You fuss with your hair and straighten your shirt and he adjusts himself in his jeans. "Half hour." His dark eyes narrow as he glances down the alley back towards the street.

"Take a walk around the block or something," you tell him, swallowing the urge to laugh at him so handsome and disheveled from your hands. Never in a million years would you have predicted that tonight would go this way. "My door is on the other side of the building. I'll let you up."

The urge to flatten the damage your hands did to his hair is so overwhelming for a second that you step away from him towards the door. His eyes follow you, expression unreadable. How many nights would it take for you to know what he's thinking? Careful, you think, or you'll be tempted to find out.

Joel watches you until you give him a little wave and slip back into the bar. The metal door clangs shut behind you and you lean against it, knees still wobbly. Is this actually happening? Are you really this overwhelmed by making out with some guy in an alley? You check the clock on the wall and curse. Your break ended ten minutes ago though since no one came looking for you it's probably no big deal. Being mostly in charge has its perks.

The bar is a little less crowded than when you left so you grab a rag and start wiping down the bar. Joel's seat is empty, his glass gone.

"Oh, hey," the seasonal kid says. "That guy, uh, Joel? He said to make sure you get this." He pulls out Joel's usual tip from his apron and holds it out to you.

Considering you're planning to go upstairs and fuck him until you can't walk, you don't feel like taking his tip tonight. "It's yours," you say. "Thanks for handling everything while I was out back." The kid blinks at you but knows better than to refuse, pocketing the cash and going back to loading the dishwasher.

You finish your shift. Your blood feels electric, your skin hot. Can anyone in this bar tell what happened in the alley? You haven't felt this way about a hookup in ages. Like you were wanted, not just convenient. It's just one night, right? Maybe he'll never come to the bar again, which makes your chest tighten for a second. Maybe you're about to ruin something you don't totally understand. But you haven't gotten this far in life by worrying about shit like that, so you clock out and wave goodbye and make your way to the other side of the building.

Joel isn't there. You unlock the door to the stairwell so you can at least wait for him inside when you hear footsteps, the crunch of gravel under boots. You fist your key between your knuckles just in case but before you can turn around you hear your name in that Texas drawl.

"Just me," he says. You don't know if Joel Miller is capable of looking nervous but this is probably close. He shifts from one foot to the other, hands in his pockets. A thrill runs up your spine. Are you really doing this? Are you really about to bring this man up to your apartment and hope to god he does whatever you want to you?

"Come on up." Yes. Yes, you are. You give him a smile and he follows you up to the landing.

"S'loud," he mutters once you shut the door. The bar's music wasn't that loud when you were in it and up here it's a dull hum, people's voices and laughter slipping through the cracks like a TV left on a little too high in the other room. These days it's background noise to you but you figure Joel lives in a house somewhere with lots of land and open windows and silence. He seems like the type to like silence.

Jacket on the hook, shoes clumsily thrown on the mat, keys in the dish. Your normal routine except there’s a man in your living room, too. He looks around the space, hands still in his pockets. You try not to be self-conscious about your place. It's small, sure, the bedroom visible through the currently open French doors in the small living room. Your kitchen is tiny, bathroom tinier, but it's all yours. "You get used to it," you say. "I hardly mind it anymore."

"Didn't say I did," he says. You both stand there for a few moments before Joel takes two big steps and crowds you against the door, one hand on your hip and the other next to your head. "Means they won't hear us." You swallow a gasp as he drags his nose along the curve of your jaw, breath hot on your skin. You were going to ask him if you could shower first since you undoubtedly smell like sweat and beer but clearly, he doesn't mind. His tongue darts out and he sucks on your pulse point, your own hands clutching desperately at his shirt. If he moves you're sure you'll melt into a puddle on the floor. "Means you can be as loud as you want," he growls. "That sound good?"

Any breath remaining in your body rushes out and you jerk your hips to make contact with the hardness in his jeans. "Yeah," you gasp. You can feel something like a smile against your neck. "That sounds good."

It's a dynamic you don't mind stepping into -- whatever this is. Every second of your life you feel like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everyone around you to get tired. Your eyes are always on the exit, always wondering where you'll go next, what you'll leave behind this time. Even when you're fucking strangers you're always wondering how you'll get them to leave. You’re better off alone. But right here, right now, with Joel's heavy scent of sawdust and whiskey and something earthy, something grounding, in your nostrils, his hands and his mouth on you, nothing else matters. Your brain shuts off and you're just here.

You grab Joel's jaw and guide his lips back to yours. He allows it and you moan deep in your throat as he tongues back into your mouth, your own trying to give as good as you're getting. He pops the button on your jeans and you help him with frantic hands, shoving them down your hips along with your underwear so he can ghost his fingers through your coarse curls. He pulls back from the kiss to watch as he drags two fingers through your folds. Your eyes lock and he smirks as your lids flutter.

"Soaked," is all he says. You tip your head forward and rest your forehead on his shoulder.

"Don't be smug."

He huffs. "I ain't trying to sound like an asshole, but --"

"Already failed." He nips at your earlobe.

"Gotta work you open a bit, sweetheart," he says. His fingers circle your clit once, ever so slowly. Your grip on his bicep tightens and you wonder if you'll leave bruises. You hope so. "Gonna be a tight fit."

"Heard -- fuck -- that before," you gasp. Joel really fucking knows what he's doing. "I -- bed?"

"Smart girl," he says. You're pretty sure you get wetter. He pulls his fingers free but keeps a hold on your hip like he knows your knees are jelly. "Sit on the edge."

You leave your jeans and underwear behind and make your way to the bed through the French doors, sitting heavily on the quilt, knees bent and leaning on your hands behind you. Before you can say another word, Joel lowers to his knees between yours. He pries them apart even further and runs his hands up and down your thighs.

For a few seconds, you can't find the words. This man, older than you and impossibly handsome, face lined with years he's lived and hands callused with work he's done, this man that you hardly know anything about but can't get out of your mind, is on his knees before you.

"You gonna be okay down there?" is what you come up with.

"You always talk this much?" he mutters, though his mouth tugs up at the corner. Joel's forearms wrap around your legs and he tugs. You fall flat on your back in surprise and your ass almost hangs off the bed. He draws one of your legs over his shoulder and kneads the flesh of your thigh, eyes dark and jaw twitching as he spreads you open and just looks. "Might have to help me up but I think I'll be just fine."

"Joel --"

The end of his name becomes a high-pitched moan when he leans in and buries his face in your cunt. He drags his tongue up and down through your folds, nose catching your clit in a way that makes you squirm. His beard scrapes against your skin deliciously, leaving a sting that you know you'll be able to see evidence of when he's done. He laps at you before finally taking your clit in his mouth and sucking like his life depends on it. It's only his hand on your outstretched thigh keeping you from suffocating him between your legs, though you're not sure he'd mind.

"Should be a crime," he says. You look down the length of your body at him. His chin is wet with you, eyes meeting yours when he feels your stare. "Cunt this pretty tastin' so good."

How do you reply to that?

He's back at it before you can even try. Joel gets messy with it, the sounds of his attention loud and filthy. He tells you how wet you are, how good you taste, and your eyes flutter shut again.

"How're we doing?"

"Don't stop," you manage. "Just, don't stop--"

He prods your entrance with one finger. "Reckon you can take it, hmm? You're so wet it'll be easy." There's a bite to his tone, a sense of amusement mixed with awe like he can hardly believe it either.

"Two," you gasp. "I can take two." You need two, in fact. His hands are one of the few parts of him you've been able to study and you know his fingers are long, much thicker than yours and you need them to fill you up, need them to stretch you out. You need something to clench around because right now you feel like you're on the edge of the pleasure building in your core and if you don't get a release soon you'll just…just…combust.

Joel hums but you feel a second finger nudge into you. He slides them in and curls them as he goes. Your back arches off the bed.

"Dunno," he coos. "Pretty tight, sweetheart." The slight meanness to his words is in complete contrast with the gentle, attentive way he handles you. Who knew he'd be such a fucking tease.

"Well get to work, then." He scissors the digits inside of you in reply and returns to sucking on your clit. You reach down and bury your hand in his silver-streaked hair, tugging a bit harder than you intend to. Joel just moans into your cunt, the vibration making it feel like your very pelvis is rattling as he continues to fuck you with his fingers.

Sweat beads on your brow as you try to hold on. He picks up the pace and presses into your walls with his fingertips like he's looking for something. His tongue wreaks havoc on the rest of you, sucking bruises into your inner thighs when he's not abusing your clit. If this is just the foreplay you don't know how you'll survive actually fucking him. And he hasn't even asked you to touch him, hasn't shown even a hint of expectation. He's doing this to get you ready but based on the blown state of his pupils he's enjoying it almost as much as you are.

"Getting close?" he asks, breath ragged. Your skin is starting to feel deliciously raw from his beard and the hook in your belly is pulling tighter and tighter.

"Yes -- fuck -- I'm close, Joel, keep --"

His hand moves faster than before and he latches back onto your clit. Your legs start to shake and you feel your orgasm coming, it's just right there, you just need him to --

His fingers find the spot he must have been looking for and your only warning is a sharp tug on his hair and then your back arches and you come all over his face. He fingers fucks you through it and you feel it as your walls clench around him, your mouth open in a high whine as your muscles finally relax and you flop back onto the bed. Joel keeps his face in your cunt, gently lapping at your release while avoiding your sensitive clit. You push his hair back from his face and try to get your breathing under control.

He manages to get up on his own with a grunt as you pant on the bed. "Okay?" he asks. "Lookin' a little tired." You show him your middle finger and he...laughs, lips shiny with your slick. So he can laugh.

"Are you going to keep your clothes on?" you ask him. His eyes travel slowly over your bare bottom half, the redness of your thighs from his beard and the way your shirt has rucked up to the wire of your bra.

"Nah." He sits heavily on the edge of the bed to take off his boots and socks. You want to ask him if you can undress him, slowly peel off his layers button by button and explore every inch of him but you won't be able to take it if he says no so you just watch. Already you know you'll be thinking about this night for a long fucking time. The way it seems like he cares about how you're feeling, how he wants to take his time with you, how he enjoys your pleasure. It's nice. It's...making you feel wanted.

His denim button-up is tossed on the floor and he stands, shirtless, to undo his belt. The forearms and small triangle at his throat that you've been treated with thus far when he sits at the bar in no way prepared you for the rest of him. Broad shoulders, thick, muscled arms from years of hard work. Graying chest hair that travels all the way down the slight softness of his belly and in a darker trail his jeans. Your mouth waters.

"You're starin'," he says softly before unzipping his fly and pushing his jeans and boxers down in one motion.

"Taste of your own medicine." The words come out with much less bite than you intended as his cock springs free.

Well, he wasn't lying. He is big. You knew he would be based on what you felt through his pants, but seeing it is something else.

You sit up and scoot to the end of the bed to be closer. Is he really going to fit? He's bigger than anyone you've fucked before, that's for sure. A ruddy color, a little darker than his tanned chest, the tip a little lighter and already leaking. A few veins run the length of him and the hair at the base of his shaft is clearly taken care of though a little wild and a shade of deep brown that hasn't grayed much yet. His balls hang heavy, one slightly bigger than the other. He twitches under your gaze. You look up at him and wait for him to call out your staring again but instead, he's just watching you, pupils blown.

"You are...so beautiful," you breathe. He makes a dismissive noise but a flush travels up his chest and to his face. It's true. There's something about him that makes you think you could look every second for the rest of your life and not get enough.

"Should be sayin' that to you." He strokes himself once and you lick your lips. "You got a condom? Should be one in my pocket if you don't." Does he always carry one? Or did he hope to get lucky with you, just like you've been thinking about him?

"Bedside table drawer." He goes for it and you remember too late that the drawer has...other things in it, too. His eyebrows raise and he eyes your small collection of toys but says nothing, though his cock twitches again. If you asked, would he use them on you? He seems like the type to be into that. But right now you need him inside you so badly you might combust.

"Can I?" He pauses before handing the foil square to you. You take him in hand and stroke him from root to tip. He makes a noise low in his throat and you lean in to trace the vein along the bottom of his shaft with your tongue. His hips twitch forward just a bit like he's trying to keep control and failing. You know the feeling. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the slightest bit salty. You kind of lose the plot for a second, thoughts of him fucking you fading with the desire to make him feel good like this, to blow him until he's moaning your name like you were moaning his.

Joel slides his fingers into your hair and you manage to take him about halfway before he tugs gently. "I'm not complainin'," he says, voice tight. "'Specially when you look so damn pretty like this. But I've been hard as a fuckin' rock for an hour and I ain't as young as I used to be, so..." He trails off.

You place a dainty kiss on his tip and pat his hip. "Another time," you say, realizing too late what you've implied, but Joel just smirks. You tear open the foil and slide the condom on as gingerly as you can but he still hisses your name like he's scolding you, that hand in your hair pulling once again just a little. You feel the arousal pooling in your gut, sticky between your thighs.

He tugs on the collar of your shirt. "Off," he says. You're quick to obey, whipping it to a corner of your apartment along with your bra. Joel just looks for a second before reaching a calloused hand to palm one breast, thumb sliding over your nipple. "Look at you," he says, breathy, with a squeeze. "Christ."

"You gonna fuck me, Joel Miller?" You blink up at him. He swallows visibly, throat bobbing before that smirk is back.

"Only ‘cause you asked so nicely."

You scramble back up the bed on your hands and knees, leaning down on your elbows and presenting him with your bare cunt. "Cause I'm such a lady."

"That so?" he murmurs. He drags his fingers through your folds slowly, brows furrowed. You fist your hands in the sheets. "You want it like this?" he asks. He palms your hip, traces the curve of your ass and presses his fingertips into your skin. You wiggle at him a little. Most guys you hook up with want it like this. You don't mind being fucked from behind, don't mind being able to close your eyes with your face shoved in the sheets and just feel. God knows with a dick his size you'll be feeling it regardless of the position you're in. But part of you does want to look at Joel, to watch him, his expression, his handsome, rugged face. Feel his arms around you, feel the warmth of his breath on your lips as he fucks you. See what his eyes look like when he comes. But this is enough.

"Do I need to say please?"

The head of his cock presses against your entrance in reply. You crane your neck to see as much of him as you can. He's focused on your ass with a light frown, hands resting on your hips.

"Gonna go slow," he grumbles. His gaze meets yours. "For my benefit as much as yours."

Words don't come. You're breathless and dripping, desperate for him to just get on with it.

"Joel, are you gonna just stand there --"

He slowly, torturously slowly, starts to slide into you. The stretch is immediate, has you face down in the sheets, eyes fluttering. Each inch of painful stretch fades quickly to throbbing pleasure, a fullness that has you keening.

You press your hips back into him but his fingers grip tighter, holding you in place. "What did I say?" he grits out.

"Feels so good, so big," you babble. There's nothing left in your brain, your body, but this. But Joel. You have to have all of him. "I can take it, I can take your cock, I --"

"Got quite the mouth on you, huh?" he says. He keeps pressing into you, filling you up inch by inch. "Okay?" he pants. "Look at me, tell me it feels good --"

You crane your neck again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes and look at him. His own are lidded, mouth open in an "o" like he can hardly believe it himself. A flush runs down his chest and if you didn't know better you'd say he's trembling.

"Yes, I -- god, Joel, keep going, please --"

"Doin' good, sweetheart," he coos. His hand strokes up and down your spine. "Almost there. Almost takin' all of me."

He bottoms out and you see stars. You feel lips on your back, the warm puffs of his breath on your skin as he waits for you. It's a fine line between pain and pleasure and you're walking the tightrope but the stretch is delicious. You can feel every inch of him. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears and you shift your hips a little, loving it when Joel moans.

"Alright," you manage. "Move, please." His fingertips are back on your hips and give you a squeeze before he starts to drag his cock out of you. The tip of him catches the spot inside of you that makes your back arch as he pulls out and then again when he thrusts in.

"All that work, my fingers and my tongue and you're still so fuckin' tight. Christ."

The only thing you manage to say is a litany of his name.

"Lemme hear it, baby," he grinds out. Baby. "Be so loud those fuckers downstairs hear you--"

You meet his thrusts as best you can and even though it feels so good, even though you're so full, it's not bringing you to the edge like you need. Your neck is starting to hurt from the way you're twisting to see him, your fingers gripping the sheets as hard as you can because you want to be touching him instead. But this is good, this works, maybe if you touch your clit, you'll --

You reach between your legs and Joel pulls out. You get off your elbows and turn around, almost gasping at the loss of him. "Is something wrong?"

He's frowning at you. "Should be askin' you that."

You don't know what to say. Your cunt throbs a little from being empty, the ache settling in now that he's not there to literally fuck it away. "What?"

"You stopped makin' those noises," he says softly. “The ones you were makin’ before.” You turn around and sit facing him, suddenly a little self-conscious. "Ain't gonna fuck you in a position you don't like."

"I --" You try to fight through the haze of your brain for words. "I liked it fine."

Joel waits. He just stands there at the edge of the bed and waits.

"Maybe..." you try again. "Would on my back be okay for you?"

His eyebrows raise like he can't believe you'd think otherwise. "That'll work for me," he says slowly. "Grab a pillow." You shift back on the bed as he kneels on it, positioning himself between your legs. You hand him one of your pillows and he taps your hip. "Up." You obey and he slides it under you so your lower half is lifted a bit before he presses one leg to the side, spreading you open. He slowly bends the other so that your thigh is pressed against your torso in a deep stretch without being painful. You feel bare, exposed in a way he somehow hasn't yet achieved.

Joel fixes his gaze on your face. "Let's try that." He strokes himself once and then leans over you, bracing himself on one hand near your head. He lines up to press his cock into you again. Faster than last time, you wince a little but you dig your fingertips into his back to tell him to keep going. He bottoms out and you immediately feel the difference, eyes fluttering shut. Before it was like he was plowing into you, like you were so full you could hardly handle it. But like this it's like he's melting into you, like there is no space between you anymore. You're full but it's not so harsh. You don’t know where you end and he begins.

"That better?" he croaks. You force yourself to look at him and find his face closer, closer than you thought he'd get, breath warm on your face. His forehead is beaded with sweat and his eyes search your face. This close you can see they’re grey, the lines at the corners deep with strain. Even like this, stuffed full of his cock, you could look at him all day.

"Move, Joel," you tell him. He takes that for a yes and starts at a punishing pace. You have no idea how he's kept it together this long, considering you've felt on the edge of another orgasm this entire time. You anchor your arms on his shoulders as his thrusts make you see stars.

"Ask for what you want, you hear me?" His balls smack loudly against you and he presses his lips to your ear. "You ask and I'll do my damn best."

You don't know what it is -- the overwhelming sensation of his cock dragging in and out at this angle, how close he is, his words -- but you feel tears at the corners of your eyes again. You nod frantically, hands grasping for purchase on his back.

"C'mon," Joel says. "Gotta use that mouth, sweetheart."

"Yes," you pant. "Yes, yes, Joel, yes --"

"Fuckin' perfect for me," he moans. His lips trail up your cheek, tongue catching your tears before he presses them to yours in a messy kiss that's more teeth and breath than anything else.

"Joel, Joel, Joel --"

"Gonna come for me? Gonna soak my cock like you did my face?"

Your orgasm comes like the snap of a rubber band. You hold him as tight as you can as it washes through you, the waves almost painful as he keeps fucking you fast and hard, your name a series of broken sounds from his mouth until his hips stutter and he groans deep in his chest. You try to keep your eyes on him as you come down from your high and are rewarded with the scrunch of his brow and the slight part of his lips as he comes. Beautiful, you think.

The room is all of sudden much quieter without the sounds of your fucking. It's just the dull sounds of Frank's through the floor and your combined panting as he pulls out of you and flops on the bed beside you. You wince this time, the soreness really settling in. Joel finds your hand and kisses the back of it in a move so unexpectedly tender you can't look at him, raw as you are already. The bed shifts and you figure he's throwing out the condom.

"You okay?" he says. You open your eyes and find him standing at the edge, looking at you. He's holding your robe from the bathroom. You stretch and let him look.

"Yeah," you reply. You give him a smile as you scoot to the edge and wrap yourself in it when he holds it out. "Thank you." Joel grunts.

You go to the bathroom yourself to pee and see the damage. Hair a mess, your mascara gathered around your eyes like you've been working hard. You've got hickies forming on your neck and chest, the skin rubbed a bit raw from his beard around your mouth. You love how you look right now.

You look like you got fucked well. And you did.

But now you want a shower and a snack and to go to bed.

You half expect Joel to be gone when you go back into the bedroom. You remember belatedly that you don't let hookups stay the night. Will he leave if you ask him to? If he's already left then you don't need to worry about it. A small part of you worries you won’t ask him to go.

Instead, he's sitting on the edge of your bed putting his boots on. His shirt is unbuttoned but other than that he's dressed. He looks up briefly. His own hair is going in a thousand different directions and if this wasn't a one-night stand you'd fix it for him, a hand pushing it back like you did when he was between your thighs. But things are different outside the heat of the moment.

"You want some water or anything?" you ask instead.

He shakes his head and finishes his boot, stands and buttons his shirt. "Nah," he says. "Should just head out."

You wonder belatedly if there's anyone at home missing him. Maybe he's got a wife. Maybe he's got a life that he's running away from and into your arms.

"Bar'll be closed by now, or as good as," you say. You spy his jacket by the door and bend to pick it up. "No one'll see you."

Joel's face does something funny that you don't quite know how to read. He takes his jacket from you and shrugs it on. "Alright," he says.

He looks awkward in a way you didn't know he could so you throw him a line. "Thanks," you say. For fucking me. For listening to me. For making me feel good. "It was fun. See you around?"

His expression softens. He steps close and gently holds your chin with his thumb and forefinger before kissing you once, firmly but chastely compared to what you were doing before.

"See you around," he says. And then he opens the door and disappears down the stairs.

You hear the outer door close and only then do you let out a breath. Your entire body feels like you just spent hours at the gym. But your mind? It's going a thousand miles an hour. You don't know what to think about first -- how Joel looked, how he spoke to you, how his hands felt. How he implored you to ask for what you wanted, how he made you feel good because it made him feel good. How you desperately, desperately want to see him again, to know him in every possible way. How you want him to walk back up the stairs and hold you until you fall asleep.

And that's not how you expected to feel. It's not how you should feel after a one-night stand with a guy you serve a few times a week at your place of employment. Like he saw right to the core of you, like he gave you something you didn't know you needed.

You need to get a hold of yourself. This is how it starts -- this is how you get hurt. You care. Well, you always care, but no one has to know that. You let someone care about you. Not that Joel does, but he could.

But isn't that the one thing you want most of all?

You sleep in the next day. There's not much that needs to be done at Frank's besides bookkeeping and inventory which doesn't take you long. When you finally make it downstairs, three Advil popped to ease the soreness of your entire body, you're surprised to find Bill himself sitting at the bar.

He looks just as you remember, hair a little longer and a little grayer. Shit kickers and jeans, a hunting jacket and trucker hat. You'll bet his actual truck is parked around back where no one from the road can see it.

"Uh, hi?" Bill hasn't come around for at least a year, which is making your stomach sink a little. The last time was when there was a fire because some dumbass tried to smoke inside and he wanted to make sure you weren't going to quit on him for having to throw water on the nasty curtains.

"Heard about Seth," he says. Always right to the point, this guy. He's drinking what looks to be Coke with a lemon. "Sit." You do as he says. So much for bookkeeping.

"Yep," you say. You have no idea where he heard it and know better than to ask. "No big deal."

"I want to retire."

What? "Do you...work here?" Bill appreciates honesty and he's the kind of asshole that respects you if you're an asshole back.

"No," he says. "But I own the fuckin' dump. And me and Frank want to retire."

"There's a Frank?"

"My partner, dumbass. Keep up."

You were already groggy and still muddled from last night but this is forcing you to bring everything into sharp focus. Bill wants to retire. Which means he wants to...

"So my options are to sell this dump or find someone to take it."

If he sells the bar you're shit out of luck. No way another owner would let you live upstairs the way you do for next to nothing and let you work here and run the show. This is...a lot to take in.

"Are you listening to me?" Bill says. You blink a few times.

"No," you admit. "Can you say that again?"

He sighs. "Do you want it?"

"The bar?" you ask incredulously.

"No, idiot, the dumpster out back. Yes, the bar." He raps his knuckles on the bar top. "You could keep everything the same. It's just paperwork, really. I'll just give it to you. God knows a young person like you could make it nicer, turn a better profit." He says it like it's an insult.

"Are you fucking serious?" This goes against most every rule you've had for yourself for the last who knows how long. Don't get attached, keep moving. No one really needs you so you can disappear whenever. You haven't gotten bored yet, haven't gotten restless, but you know it'll happen. There's no way you can do this forever. But owning a bar? That would make you stay. You'd have no out. You’d have to let yourself be seen, let yourself be needed. You’d have to commit. You’d have to not fuck it up.

"Why not?" he shrugs. "I know you said it was temporary back when you moved in, but you practically run it."

He's right. Everything is temporary for you. But would sticking around be so bad? Would trying to actually make a life for yourself, have a home base, a thing you care about be the end of the world? And then there's Joel...No. Not going there.

"I..."

"Either you take it or I shut it down." Bill gets off his stool and looks around. "No one cares enough about it to try to sell it."

"Then why me?"

"Do you care about it?" he asks. His piercing stare pins you to your stool, compels you to be honest with him where you're rarely honest with yourself.

"Yeah," you say. "I do."

"Then there's you're fuckin' answer. I know you do. You clean the shit out of this place and train the seasonal dipshits and learn the names of the fuckin’ drunks and live upstairs and make this a good place for good people to come. You think no one notices, but I notice. We all notice." It's possibly the most words Bill has ever said to you in a row.

"Can I...think about it?"

He shrugs. "Sure," he says. "Not too long, though. Gotta decide by the end of the year. Maybe earlier."

That gives you three months, give or take. To figure out what the fuck you're going to do.

With one conversation Bill has shattered your entire life here. Now there’s actually a timer on it, this little piece you’ve carved out and started to enjoy. Could you make it a real thing? Could you finally admit to yourself that this is what you want – to be wanted? To be needed? To have something that’s yours?

The bar door shuts and you realize Bill has left you alone with your thoughts. You shift in your stool and a wave of soreness rolls through you from your core.

You thunk your forehead on the bar. “Fuck me,” you say to the empty room.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction

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vintagecarat · 7 months

Text

Romance Analysis Unit

Summary: You like Spencer. Spencer likes you. Somehow, you’re the only ones on the team who can’t see it - and that calls for some BAU intervention.

A/N: Remember this? Yeah, I’m reposting it as one big fic rather than two little fics, because I’m impulsive when it comes to my writing and I can’t make permanent decisions. Please excuse any spelling and/or grammar mistakes.

Enjoy the fic, and have a fantastic day <3

Note(s): gn!reader & no pronouns used, mentions of alcohol, mention(s) of canon-typical violence, reader gets hurt (non-life threatening), mentions of blood, all the clichés rolled into one, possible cringe (I don’t usually write romance and I might’ve gone too cliché lol.)

Word Count: 4056

* * *

It had been one year, seven months and sixteen days since you’d joined the BAU.

And it had been one year, seven months and nine days since you’d realized that you had a crush on Spencer Reid.

It sounded so childish. A crush, as if you were back in elementary school and thinking that you were in love with the boy who sat two seats to the left of you. You’d liked people in the past, and you’d had partners in the past, but there was something about liking Spencer that was different.

It was almost as if you were facing your first love for the first time all over again.

You’d quickly decided that it was something that you wanted to keep to yourself. You weren’t too keen on becoming the center of a workplace romance, especially not as the newest recruit still eager to prove yourself.

During a particularly wild night out, however, your plan to keep your crush a secret went flying out of the nearest window, along with any shred of dignity you had remaining after drinking one too many shots.

Penelope had been the first one you’d told, which had definitely been a foolish move on your part, but you were too drunk in the moment to make any logical decisions. Emily and JJ had gone to the bar, leaving you and Penelope alone to guard the table in the corner. She’d brought up the topic, and you’d naturally followed the conversation.

You wished you could’ve taken a photo of her face the moment she processed the words that were coming out of your mouth.

Once Penelope knew, it was only a matter of time before Emily and JJ knew. Considering how loud Penelope had shrieked at them in excitement, the entire bar most likely knew.

“Place your bets, everyone,” Emily had shouted over the music, slamming a twenty-dollar bill onto the table, “How long until Garcia tells Morgan?”

It barely even took an hour. Emily ended up winning her own bet.

Derek practically cornered you in the bullpen the next time he saw you, failing miserably to hide a huge smirk as he showed you his phone and the, often unintelligible, texts from Penelope.

With the alcohol out of your system and the devastating hangover a painful memory, you wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow you whole. You severely regretted letting Emily talk you into those Raspberry Bombs.

From that moment on, you noticed that the team was messing with you. You didn’t have any proof, but you were sure of it.

You’d enter the conference room to find that the only seat remaining was next to Spencer. You’d find yourself paired up with Spencer more often during cases. You and Spencer would frequently be the last two members left in the bullpen at the end of the day.

It wasn’t as if you particularly minded. You and Spencer were best friends, you had been from the moment you stepped into the bullpen and made a comment about the book he had on his desk. You were used to being around him, but it was a lot harder to act as if everything was normal when you were on edge ninety-percent of the time. You were always wondering if he knew anything about the crush you had on him, or if someone else was about to blurt out the secret that you hoped to keep hidden. It was a lot easier when you were the only person you had to think about.

“Guys,” JJ called for everyone’s attention as she made her way through the bullpen, a case file in her hands, “We’ve got a case.”

“Bad?”

JJ simply grimaced.

You sighed, rising from your seat and heading to the conference room alongside the rest of the team, “Of course it is.”

It didn’t surprise you to see that the seat beside Spencer was the only one available. As you slid into it, you caught Emily smirking at you from across the table. You shook your head at her, though you couldn’t stop a tiny smile from ghosting your lips.

As you’d, regretfully, predicted, the case was a bad one. Not that there were ever any good ones.

You’d been called to a small town in Wyoming after a frantic call from the police department. Three victims had been found in the town’s frozen lake with anchors tied to their ankles to keep them below the surface. A fourth victim had gone missing, and there was no doubt that she would end up like the others if she wasn’t found, as much as nobody wanted to admit it.

It was late, almost 11:00 p.m., and you were no closer to solving the case than you had been when you’d first arrived. It was as if the unsub was always three steps ahead of you.

You’d spent a good portion of the afternoon scouring through decade old case files. The lead detective was convinced that it was related to a similar case that had happened in the 1990s. You hadn’t found any striking similarities between the two and you were beginning to wonder if there would be any at all. He was clutching at straws, desperately trying to close the case as quickly as possible. You couldn’t fault him for that.

Just as the words on the case file were beginning to blur into one large amalgamation, a gentle hand landed on your shoulder, “Hey,” JJ said, “We’re all heading to the hotel.”

“You go ahead,” you waved dismissively, stifling a yawn, “I’m going to finish looking over these files, and…”

“Hotch’s orders,” she cut you off, “You need a break. We all do.”

You looked to the doors of the precinct and saw the rest of the team ready to leave, muttering amongst themselves in a tired conversation. Aaron raised his eyebrows, almost expectantly, at you.

“Alright,” you didn’t bother trying to hide another yawn, “I’m coming.”

You stood up on unsteady legs and padded after JJ, moving as if your brain wasn’t in control of your body. You were so caught up in the details of the case that you hadn’t realized how tired you actually were, but the sudden rush of air that hit you as you exited the building made you even drowsier. You clumsily climbed into the SUV and let your head fall tiredly back against the seat.

“We’re here,” someone shook your shoulder, “Wake up.”

Your eyes snapped open. Spencer was standing beside you on the sidewalk, holding the car door open with a slight twinge of color on his cheeks.

“You coming?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry,” you climbed out of the car, “I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep.”

“I did. You fell asleep on me,” he said, “And you kicked me a couple of times, I think.”

You flushed a little, coughing sheepishly, “Sorry.”

The rest of the team were already waiting at the front desk when you entered the hotel. You and Spencer joined the others, and you made a point of ignoring the sly looks Derek and Emily were sending you.

Aaron finished his conversation with the receptionist and moved back over to the team, keycards in hand, “They don’t have enough rooms for all of us. It looks like we’re sharing.”

If Spencer noticed the subtle smirks and side glances the team sent in your direction, he never mentioned them.

He nudged your shoulder, “Are you okay with sharing?”

“Yeah, sure,” you smiled at him, taking the keycard Aaron was holding out to you, “I’m sleeping on the bed nearest the window this time.”

“That’s not fair,” Spencer followed you as you made your way to the elevator, “I like sleeping near the window.”

“Not happening. You slept near the window last time.”

As the elevator shot up to your designated floor, you noticed that your heart seemed to be thudding quicker than usual in your chest, and you felt a small wave of anxiousness wash over you. Sharing a room with Spencer wasn’t a new experience, but you hadn’t openly admitted your feelings to anyone during those times. You’d barely admitted them to yourself, and feelings were a lot easier to ignore when they weren’t out in the open.

“Even the elevators are fancy,” you muttered, casting a quick glance over the elevator’s plus interior, “For a small town, they sure do have nice hotels.”

Small talk. You hated small talk, but you found yourself unable to come up with anything to say other than the most mundane topic you could think of. It wasn’t you, and it was obvious.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Hm?”

“You hate small talk,” Spencer said, and you bit back a laugh at that, “And you’re pulling at your sleeves. You always pull your sleeves down to your fingers when you’re nervous.”

You looked down at your hands. You hadn’t even realized you’d been tugging at the sleeves of your jumper until Spencer mentioned it. You immediately dropped them.

“So,” he continued, “You’re clearly nervous about something. And it’s not the case, because cases never make you nervous.”

“Really?” you said, incredulous, “You’re analyzing me?”

The elevator reached your floor and the door's opener, “I’m not analyzing,” Spencer stepped out, “I’m simply making an astute observation.”

“Okay, well, stop astutely observing me,” you followed him, “I’d tell you if there was something wrong. You know I would.”

You weren’t necessarily lying. You’d always ended up telling Spencer about anything that was bothering you. You simply decided he didn’t need to know about this one particular thing.

Spencer looked back at you briefly, as if he didn’t believe a word coming out of your mouth, but he never said anything. Instead, he took the keycard from you and held it against the lock, waiting for the light to turn green before pushing the door open.

“Oh.”

“What?” you stepped around him, “Oh.”

You only had one bed.

You were going to kill Penelope.

“I’ll take the couch.”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

You and Spencer finished your sentences at the same time, and you turned to look at each other, almost incredulous.

“I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the couch either,” you argued, “You’re way too tall, it’ll kill your back,” you threw your bag onto the couch before he could complain, “There. Done.”

Spencer frowned and reluctantly put his own bag on the bed, “Fine. But we’re swapping tomorrow night,” he told you, “You’re not sleeping on the couch the entire time we’re here.”

“Deal,” your lips curled into a small smirk, “I told you I’d be sleeping near the window.”

From your space on the couch, you could see the glowing green alarm clock on the bedside table. A strange commodity for a hotel room. It almost looked alien.

2:32 a.m.

You couldn’t sleep, and not only because your sleep schedule was an absolute mess. Your side still burned and, if you gently put pressure on the area, you could still feel the deep wound through the layers of bandages.

Almost three days into the case, and you finally thought you’d had a solid lead. It had taken a lot of digging, but Penelope had eventually discovered the unsub’s hunting ground, an old speakeasy hidden so deep in the town that nobody had been able to trace it. You were the closest in victimology so you’d agreed to go undercover to catch him.

All you’d ended up with was a knife deep in your side as the unsub escaped you once again.

You’d been in the hospital for hours after that. The knife had gone so deep that it was close to catching something vital. The doctor’s told you that you were lucky to be alive. You’d spent most of the afternoon in that hospital bed, listening to the monotonous sound of beeping machines and. After a concerned lecture from Aaron (he’d told you not to follow the unsub, but you hadn’t exactly listened), you were bandaged up and sent on your way.

Spencer had told you to take the bed, almost forcing you into it at one point. But you’d seen the way he’d tried to discreetly stretch out his cramp throughout the day, and you were far too stubborn for your own good, so you refused his offer and tried to sleep on the couch for the night.

You huffed a little in pain, shifting uncomfortably. You couldn’t find a position that didn’t make your bandages rub against your wound. You began to feel a dampness slowly seeping through your clothes, and you cursed under your breath.

“No, no, no,” you muttered, pulling your shirt up and surveying your body. You could see where the blood had begun to soak through the bandages again, “Damn it.”

You pushed yourself off the couch and tip-toed across the room. You didn’t want to wake Spencer, especially not in your current state. You kept a hand pressed tightly to your side as you moved, not wanting to get blood on the hotel room’s carpet. The owners were lovely people, and you didn’t want to ruin their day with your mess. Every step made you wince and take a sharp breath as the pain stung you.

A muffled noise from the bed caught your attention, and you saw Spencer begin to stir. He gently said your name as he sat up, staring at you with bleary eyes, “What are you doing?” he looked you up and down, and then his eyes landed on the blood, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you told him, though you clearly weren’t, “I think the stitches came undone, or something. It’s fine,” you waved his worries away, “Go back to sleep.”

Spencer did the opposite. He clambered out of bed, lighting up the room so that you could both see each other. You noticed that, while he slept in a pair of pajamas, the buttons on them were slightly undone towards the top. You’d never noticed that before, and you weren’t too sure why you were noticing it at all.

“You’re not fine,” his eyes were focused on the blood as he stood up and took a step closer to you, “You’re bleeding.”

“Well done, Captain Obvious,” you joked, though you winced again as your little laugh made your side hurt, “I told you, it’s fine. I’ll redress it, and...” you stopped talking as you noticed the look in his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure what it was, but it made your heart thud a little bit faster.

“Let me see.”

“Spencer.”

“You can barely see if yourself, and it’s obviously hurting you,” his sentence was somewhat demanding, and yet there was a soft, concerning tone to his voice, “Let me see. Please.”

You sighed, and gingerly lifted your shirt high enough for him to see it, “It looks worse than it is.”

Spencer gently pulled away the loose bandages and inspected the open wound, his eyes never leaving your body, “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, “You’re not patching yourself back up.”

You didn’t have a chance to reply as he darted into the bathroom where you kept the supplies the hospital had given you. Your mouth was hanging open slightly. You’d never heard Spencer talk to you in a tone like this one.

“Here. Sit.” he emerged from the bathroom, patting the space beside him on the bed. His eyes kept darting between your eyes and your blood covered side, “You don’t want it getting worse.”

You hesitated for a moment, “Spencer…” you knew that there was no point arguing with him, and your wound hurt the longer it was left open, “Fine.”

You sat down beside him, your hands curling even tighter around the hem of your shirt as a stinging pain shot through you. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had helped you clean up a wound after you’d been injured in the field, but this time felt a little too different.

“Ow.”

“Sorry,” Spencer’s voice was a gentle whisper against your ear, “Sorry.”

Spencer’s touch was so gentle on your skin that it almost didn’t feel as though he was touching you at all. You wouldn’t have been sure if he was touching you at all if not for the way he wrapped the bandages around your so tight that they felt like a strangely comforting hug.

“There,” Spencer said, almost proudly, “Done.”

You glanced down at your side for a moment before dropping your shirt. It didn’t even seem to hurt anymore, and you noticed that he kept his hands on your hips, “Thanks, Spencer.”

You turned to look at him, and it suddenly felt as if time had come to a standstill. The tension in the air between the two of you was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. Your mind seemed to be racing as fast as your heart was.

And, suddenly, your lips were on his. Your brain barely had time to register your own actions, but your body immediately reacted. Your hands found the collar of his pajama shirt and you tugged on it slightly, as if you were trying to pull him closer to you.

The kiss was tender, and yet it was one that was so full of desire and affection. Warmth flooded your entire body as your stomach seemed to explode with swarms of nervous butterflies. A small part of your brain couldn’t believe that this moment was genuinely happening. You’d thought about this for far too long.

After a few seconds, you pulled away, and only after seeing the startled expression on Spencer’s face and the faint blush that crept up his neck did you realize what you’d done.

“Spencer…” your mouth opened and closed, but no words seemed to come out, “Spencer, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Your panicked ramblings were cut off as Spencer pressed another quick kiss to your lips.

“Shut up,” he smiled at you, and he pressed his index finger to your lips to silence you, “Just… Just shut up, for a minute.”

Spencer had never told you to shut up before. If it were in any other context, you’d be rather offended. In this context, however, you were happy to keep your mouth shut.

“You didn’t mean to, what? You didn’t mean to kiss me?”

“No. I mean… Yes, but also no, but…”

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

You pressed your lips together in a fine line, “Sorry.”

Spencer’s hands left your hips and he took your hands in his own. He squeezed them gently, and he softly drew little circles onto your palms with his thumbs, “You kissed me.”

You were more than ready for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Spencer seemed to notice your discomfort because his grip on your hands tightened, almost as if he was attempting to keep you from running.

“I’m glad you kissed me.”

You couldn’t have stopped the surprised squeak that escaped you even if you’d tried, “What?!”

Spencer chuckled a little at your reaction, and you could see that he was still blushing a slight shade of pink, “I’m glad you kissed me,” he repeated, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, too.”

“You… You…” your mouth was hanging open, and your eyes were wide. You must’ve looked like an absolute idiot, “You have…?”

“Of course, I did, or do, I suppose.”

This conversation was going in an entirely different direction to how you’d assumed it was. You’d never seen Spencer look or talk with so much affection before. It was as if, in that moment, you were the only two people that mattered.

Spencer said your name with so much love in his tone that it snapped you out of your shocked state, “I like you.”

For a single moment in time, it felt as if the world had stopped spinning. You simply stared, unable to do much of anything else. There was a sharp tug at your heart, and a cascade of butterflies filled your stomach.

“You… You do…?”

“Are you capable of putting a sentence together, or not?” Spencer laughed, and he interlaced his fingers with yours, “Yes, I do. A lot, actually,” he smiled at you, and there was a hint of teasing, “And it doesn’t exactly take a genius to work you out.”

You cracked a smile, and your shocked expression gave way to a relieved and delighted one, “I really like you, too.”

“Do you? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

You giggled, and you never giggled. You knew this crush was childish, but this was on another level entirely.

“Are you giggling?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Spencer grinned at you, and then his lips connected with yours.

The kiss seemed more affectionate than earlier, and a lot more passionate. Your hands wound around his neck, and his hands found a comfortable resting place on your waist. It was as if you were made to be kissing each other.

It could’ve been seconds, or it could’ve been minutes. You weren’t entirely sure how long it had been, but you eventually pulled away from each other, and you were both a little breathless from the intensity.

You let your forehead rest against Spencer’s, and you smiled, “I hate to ruin the mood and everything, but…” your eyes flitted back and forth to the couch, “Does this mean I don’t have to sleep on the couch, anymore?”

“Absolutely not,” Spencer pulled you a little closer, “You’re never sleeping on a couch ever again.”

“Good,” you smirked at him, and you practically dragged him down onto the bed beside you. You curled into him, letting yourself rest comfortably against his chest, “The bed has better company, anyway.”

Spencer kissed the top of your head, and he ran a gentle hand up and down your back, “Sure does.”

“Penelope Garcia! I’m going to kill you!”

You stormed through the halls of the BAU and entered her office, slamming the door open with such a bang that it made the room shudder.

Penelope grinned as she spun around in her chair to face you, “Ah, hello, my sweet angel,” she spoke with a beaming grin on her face, “Do you require my assistance?”

“You little…” you stepped a little closer, though it was hard to look threatening when your face was a deep shade of red, “You gave me and Spencer a room with a single bed?!”

“I did no such thing.”

“Penelope…”

“Ah, my dearest, it’s not me you need to talk to,” she leaned forwards in her chair, as if she had a secret to tell you, “I was the one who booked the rooms, yes, but I wasn’t the one who handed out the keys, was I?”

You hesitated as her words sunk in, and then your mouth dropped open in a mix of shock and humiliation, “You… You mean…”

Penelope grinned. She could practically see the gears turning in your head, and it made her laugh, “Oh, I mean exactly what you’re thinking, sweetie.”

“Hotch set us up?!”

You didn’t even bother to wait for her response. You turned your heel and marched out of her office, leaving Penelope laughing to herself in the background. There was going to be a rampage at the BAU.

“Aaron Hotchner! I’m going to kill you!”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader

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heavencanbeaprisontoo · 1 month

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Hello! May I request a headcanon for how Tommy Shelby would pine/crush over a reader maybe one who has rejected him in the past because she worked for him or because she wants to keep their relationship as friends/professional! (Since you’re writing you can make the scenario as to why she said no whatever you like) but truly i’d just love to see a headcanon on him falling in love and longing for someone who he can’t have so easily :)

Imagine Rejecting: Thomas Shelby

Tommy x fem!reader

Trope: Right person, wrong time. Warnings: Angst, pining, toxic romantic tendencies, infidelity.

You worked under him as Lizzie's replacement as his secretary, you saw his books and you knew the red on his suit collar wasn't always lipstick. You went with him almost everywhere, memorized his schedule, and completed small tasks that often caused him headaches. Long hours in the office stopped feeling so lonely. And that's where the trouble started.

When he found himself growing fond of you, he tried to fight it. He really did. But feelings grow over time and before he knew it, he started to see you as a partner. At first, he told himself that you reminded him of Grace. It was easier to tell himself that he was projecting her image onto you. However, there came a point where he couldn't lie to himself anymore.

His eyes would follow you as you left a room. His head would turn upon hearing your voice. The smell of your perfume was enough to give him pause at times. When he was at home, he would sometimes go into his office to call you from your desk in Birmingham. Just to have a conversation, even if it was to go over a detail for a meeting he "forgot."

Tommy confessed his feelings to you one late night at the Midland Hotel. You sat with him at the hotel bar, not a soul around except for the two of you and half a bottle of whiskey. Maybe is was the whiskey that did it, but he took your hand and said: "I've been trying to think of what to do about you. The things that you make me want to feel, make me want to do. It shouldn't be this way, but it is. I want you."

You slowly took your hand from him, and stood. The look in your eyes was enough to make him sober. Quietly, you gave your reply, "I'm going to call for two cars to take us home. I'll see you Monday morning, Mr. Shelby."

Thomas Shelby is not unused to rejection. It hasn't bothered him in years. With you, however, it's different. You aren't a political rival, a gang leader, or a position he's being blocked from obtaining. You are a person. A woman who has denied him access to your heart.

That is very, very different.

Not to mention a blow to his ego. Tommy knows he's attractive, and he knows that most of the women he interacts with are more than a little interested in him. Ladies from poor families see a man that can provide. Ladies from wealthy families see a man of danger that can make them feel alive. You didn't seem to fall into either category. You didn't seem to need him the way most people did.

He wouldn't discuss that night at the Midland with you for several months. When it finally did get addressed, you seemed surprised. Had you assumed he was drunk? It hardly mattered. You tried to turn him down, again "We can't, Tommy."

"Of course we can."

You scoffed, "We shouldn't. You have a wife and two children, and I am merely your employee."

Tommy got closer to you, his eyes caught between staring at your rosy painted lips and the look in your eyes. His fingertips gazed your wrist. It would be so easy to just kiss you. To take you into his arms and just hold you. Did you truly not want him? As he stared you down, the answer was found in the tears that welled in your eyes. No, you were just as sick in the heart as he was.

"Lizzie understands. Or marriage is a partnership, nothing more. We can be as we like, she wants nothing to do with it," Tommy takes your chin in between his thumb and index finger. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll leave you alone. Tell me that."

Tears stained by your dark mascara roll down your cheeks, a shudder runs through you. "Tommy," you sigh "that's precisely why I'll never give in. I can't live my life as your whore. It's almost as cruel as being your wife."

He let you go. You took two steps back, then left him there. As the door to his office slammed shut, Tommy almost chased after you. But, he didn't. Because you were right.

#peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #peaky blinders headcanon #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders x you #tommy shelby

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ash5monster01 · 4 months

Text

Learning to Love Part 9

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x FemReader!PlusSize

Warnings: 18+, langauge, angst, fluff, mentions of bullying, body image issues, fat shaming, fake relationship, eventual smut, minor enemies to lovers trope.

Summary: It's not uncommon for you to be shamed for your size, it is however uncommon to be told that no one would ever date you because of it. Rafe on the other hand is used to being called a jerk, that is until he is accused of seeing people for only what's on the surface. It's purely coicidental you two meet right after these accusations are thrown your way. So even though you two don't know each other, and probably never would've looked the others way before this, now you're both going to prove a point. It's simple really, prove others wrong and don't fall in love. Easier said than done.

word count: 2.3k

Part 8 ←→ Part 10

Masterlist

You’re not entirely sure where you are when consciousness reaches you. All you know is your head is pounding, there’s a hand around your waist, and your phone is louder than it has ever been. Blindly reaching for it you find the object vibrating against the night stand before grabbing it and pulling it to your ear.

“Hello?” you groan out, your voice sounding too loud even.

“Where are you? The bar is opening in twenty minutes and Randy has the day off. It’s a Sunday, I cannot work this shift without you” Mila’s words sober you up in an instant and you shoot up in the bed, the hand on your waist falling off.

“Shit, okay I’m on my way” you tell her before hanging up. That’s when you realize you’re naked. Bare as the day you were born and it has your head swiveling to spot the just as naked man beside you.

“Fuck” you whisper out and quickly rush to grab your things. Rafe doesn’t even flinch which proves he was just as drunk as you. Only bits and pieces of the night was still there but if you had to guess, you had sex with Rafe.

You stumble into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door before turning the shower on. You look like hangover and smell like sex, and were definitely going to be late for work. So you shower in record time, using majority of the tiny shampoo and conditioner the hotel provided. You accept your hair will be a mess when the comb provided barely pulls through your wet hair. It’s then you realize you have to pull your dress on from last night and embark on the walk of shame once again.

“Rafe, I have to go” you poke the boy after you’re dressed. He’s laid in bed but he doesn’t even react to your touch. Shoving him a few more times you plead. “I’m going to be late for work”

A low groan came from his mouth before rolling over and revealing his bare ass to you. You gasp out and turn away, accepting he wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon. So you grab your purse and order the uber you remember wanting last night. Once in the lobby you see your ride already waiting and rush to it before people can recognize you’re wearing what you had on the night before.

Sighing it’s not long until you pull up to the bar that is just about to open for lunch hours. Before any customers can arrive you rush in to find Mila working feverishly behind the bar to set up today’s workload. She barely realizes you’re there until you step behind the bar and go to enter the kitchen and find your office.

“Maybe we should start packing overnight bags for work parties” she teases and you rolls your eyes, in search of coffee and food.

“What’s the fun in that?” you tell her before slipping into the kitchen and ignoring the looks your employees gave you. Once locked in your office you find the spare set of work clothes packed away and quickly change. When you swing your door back open, Eddie the head chef is standing in front of it with coffee and a bagel.

“You might need this” he says and you take it with a smile, thanking him, even though you are now morbidly embarrassed for doing the walk of shame in front of people you had to lead.

“Gonna tell me about last night?” Mila asks once you’re back behind the bar, a quarter of the bagel already stuffed in your mouth.

“If I can remember it, sure” and she gasps at you and that’s when you’re hit with the memory of the elevator ride. Rafe’s hands on your hips and how he had squeezed your ass. Mila watches as realization crosses your face. “Oh God”

“Okay, now you have to tell me” she says and more floods back, him pulling you into the room. How he had undressed you and how good his hands and mouth had felt all over you. How you had pulled his pants down so eagerly. How he had his head inbetween your legs.

“Damnit, we had sex” and Mila doesn’t understand your disappointment before letting out a squeal and jumping up and down like a school girl.

“This is so great!” she squeaks, coming to squeeze your arms but then she catches the forlorn look painted on your face.

“Mila I barely remember it and on top of that what if he didn’t like it and I was too drunk to notice” you pout and she rolls her eyes before crossing her arms.

“Of course he liked it, I mean what did he say this morning” and you give her a sheepish look that has her gasping out loud.

“You snuck out on him!” she gives your arm a quick whack and you yelp before holding where she hit you.

“It wasn’t like that, you called freaking out and I couldn’t get him to wake up. I was already running late so I just called an uber and sent him a text explaining why” Mila was burying her face in her hands and groaning at her silly best friend. She didn’t care if she was late if it meant her best friend was finally comfortable enough to be with another man.

“That don’t matter, you snuck out after he slept with you. Now he thinks you regret it” Mila tells you and the realization dawns on you. You did sneak out like he was just some one night stand which is so not true.

“Fuck” you groan before leaning on the counter and dropping your head into your arms. You had been in love with Rafe this entire time and you always thought he’d be the one to screw it up. Not you.

“Listen, don’t lose all hope. I’ll see if Randy can come in and you just go and see him” Mila says as she pulls out her phone to already text Randy and beg him to come in on his day off. He would more than likely say yes, Mila had that kind of effect on people.

“I don’t know what to say to him. Hey glad we slept together, don’t take me sneaking out as I didn’t like it” you wished more than anything that you could tell her the truth right now. That it was never real, the relationship was fake and you were the one stupid enough to catch feelings and sleep with the guy. Any chance of keeping him for real was now long gone.

“No, just say you didn’t want to leave but had an emergency here. Once everything was covered you made sure to come back and see him” she says setting a reassuring hand on your back and you sigh.

“I don’t know why I just don’t think sometimes” you groan and she presses her lips together as she gives you a quick hug.

“It’s new to you, trusting someone like that. Just explain that to him” she says and you can only smile at your dearest friend, the one who has always been there for you. Loved you no matter your size.

“Thanks Mila” you tell her and she grins, squeezing you closer, and for once you realize that even if Rafe does break your heart at least you have the best friend in the world to help pick up the pieces.

It takes Randy only an hour to get to your shift and by then you’re in full panic mode. Rafe still hadn’t texted you back and to you that was a sign that he was mad. Whether it was about you sneaking out or the fact he slept with you, you weren’t sure. It was scary either way. Which is why you rush into his condo entrance in a rush.

“Miss Y/N, so glad to see you” the doorman Robert says to you. Rafe had made sure he knew who you were so you’d have no issues getting to his floor.

“Yeah you too Robert, hey do you know if Rafe is home?” you ask, a bit panicked, and knowing your eyes darting around the lobby made it look like something bad happened.

“I’m sorry hun but I haven’t seen him, figured he had a rough night at that party. That’s how it usually goes” he says and you somehow manage to crack a smile.

“That’s true, thanks Robert” you tell him and he nods as you rush back out of the condo complex and back to Mila’s car that she let you borrow. You know Rafe wasn’t still at the hotel, that wasn’t his style. So you set off in the direction of his work, knowing only he would find time to finish work on a Sunday.

Getting into Rafe’s building is much more difficult than the condo. Yet thankfully the woman at the front desk recognizes you and you assume only for being shocked to see you with Rafe in the first place. By the time you’re in the elevator you’re freaking out, unsure of what to say to him as you reach his now empty work floor. Heading towards his office you see his office has the door cracked open. Yet before you push it fully open, a familiar voice stops you.

“Can’t believe you’re still with that girl” you freeze against the door, heart thumping wildly. You lean forward to see those perfect long legs crossed and revealing too much thigh in the tight pencil skirt. If the voice wasn’t a dead giveaway, the blond hair sure as hell was. AJ.

“Come on AJ, she’s a sweet girl. You gotta know that by now” Rafe’s familiar voice envelopes you and your heart instantly slows. It’s in this moment you realize it wasn’t the alcohol that convinced you to trust him last night. You already did. He knew you, and you weren’t afraid anymore to let him see that.

“Well of course I do Rafe, that doesn’t change the fact she’s a big girl” yes you had judged AJ for her looks, because she was perfect. Yet with how nice she had been to you, you didn’t expect this.

“Well obviously AJ, she is a big girl but she’s got a big heart to match. It’s not always about the looks” Rafe’s defense has you calming down but it doesn’t change the fact you’re hearing a conversation you didn’t want to be apart of. Hearing how he didn’t find you attractive.

“But isn’t it? I mean you of all people would never date a big girl, hell based on the way you throw me around the bedroom I’m surprised you’re even still with her” and there’s the kicker, the pierce in your heart. Rafe was still sleeping with AJ. This whole time. Sneaking around with the perfect skinny blonde girl just to be able to deal spending time with you.

“Listen, I have never been attracted to big girls-” but you don’t want to hear anymore. You don’t want to hear about all the ways AJ was so much better than you and you had let Rafe sleep with you when all along he was sleeping with her. So as the silent tears stream down your face you rush away before you hear any of the vile things Rafe has to say. Thing was, you didn’t hear the best part.

“But I don’t know why! I mean AJ, she’s so beautiful. All of the time, and her laugh, it makes my heart flutter everytime. If I could make her laugh forever I would. I spent so long thinking there was this ideal standard of a girl to be with and up until now I realize that isn’t true. It’s not about looks. No one is truly beautiful until you love them for all the pieces that make them who they are. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love until now” Rafe is grinning by the time he’s done talking and AJ chuckles.

“Well would you look at that, Rafe’s gone all soft” and Rafe is rolling his eyes at one of his oldest friends. Someone he never truly loved like that either.

“I guess that’s just what happens when you meet the right one” Rafe tells her and AJ shrugs before sitting up.

“Well softie, don’t work too hard. It’s Sunday and I know that’s the tux you wore to the party last night. I’ll see you in the morning” AJ says as she uncrosses her legs and pushes the chair back. Rafe watches as she leaves the office and smiles with his mind still on you.

That’s when his phone finally buzzes to life on his desk, the charger connected to his computer finally providing power to text you back after this morning. He was a little hurt you weren’t there, but it was you. He knew you had good reason. Which is true when he is met with the text you had sent him this morning. Before he can respond though, another one comes through.

“What the fuck”

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eimids · 6 months

Text

No that we don’t talk

(Taylor’s version)

Leah x Reader and (Lucy x alexia x reader)

Based on this absolute BANGER of a song.

warnings: angst, asshole leah

Leah was once again going to a party with her teammates at arsenal. She’d been doing that a lot after cutting contact with you. You just saw the photos on her and some other teammates instagram. It hurt to see those. Maybe it was better that you just unfollowed her and her teammates.

Maybe she got anxious on the way home. Just like she used to when she was with you. But back then you were there to kiss away her worries. You were there to talk her through the long hours of night that pained her.

“I really shouldn’t have drank so much, now the media is going to have a field day tomorrow” She stressed in the car.

“You are an adult and allowed to drink. If the media posts something about you then let them. I love you and you are an amazing footballer, some stupid videos won’t change that”

But you didn’t bother to care anymore. Now that you didn’t talk.

You were at Barca and she was at Arsenal. You didn’t know why you thought it would ever work but still there was that piece of hope you held onto all those years. She would make you feel so special. First it was all platonic but during a drunken conversation she’d revealed to you that she liked you more than a friend.

“I really like you” Leah confessed to you as you were driving her back home from a bar.

“Like, I like like you. Not just as a friend” She continued quickly as she saw the confused look on your face.

“I think I like you too Lee” You simply answered.

Now she had grown her hair much longer. Even put a fringe on it. It looked good but for some reason you didn’t want her to change. You wanted her to stay just like you remember her. You wanted her to stay the same girl you fell in love with.

She looked like she was enjoying life. She looked like she wasn’t never bothered about your downfall. It made you angry. Why was she able to live and enjoy life normally and you were paying the price.

But you didn’t have a say anymore in her life. Now that you didn’t talk.

You even called your Alexia about the situation. She thought that it was for the best. She reminded you that whatever you did, Leah wouldn’t give the same back. She was never on the same page and didn’t give as much to the relationship. You were just her secret. For her eyes only.

“Lee baby I just want to be able to hold your hand in public, to kiss you without caring what others think”

“I know but it’s easier this way. Making us publicly would only make things more complicated” She tried to reason.

The more you gave of yourself, the less she cared. Now you had to pay the price of losing her. The price of letting yourself fall in love with her. The price of staying together although it drove you your falling point.

Now that you didn’t talk.

You to this day still don’t know what she told her friends about those long weekends she spent in Barcelona with you. You couldn’t pretend it’s platonic anymore so you just were suffering in the relationship. Leah had a strict rule about keeping the relationship a secret. You couldn’t tell quite literally anyone other than your parents and couple of friends.

“Yeah we haven’t seen in a while so I just visited her in Barca” Leah told her friends when they asked about her trip.

“Are you sure that there’s nothing else going on?” They would ask but Leah denied it.

Although you told couple of your friends, she didn’t tell anyone, like she was embarrassed of you. You were just her dear friend, nothing more nothing less. But in secret, she loved you more than anyone has ever before. She made you feel things you didn’t know you could feel. But only when it was just the two of you because you were just a friend.

You couldn’t be just a friend tho. Every time she introduced you as a friend, it was like a knife straight to your heart.

“Oh this is my best friend y/n” She would tell others as you gave a polite smile, heart breaking inside of your chest.

You called Lucia who listened when you cried to her. She told you to get it all of your chest. It hurt but your Lucy was always there for you. Being one of the only people who knew about the clandestine relationship. She reminded you of the way that Leah just faded away from yo more and more until there wasn’t a relationship anymore.

You couldn’t do it anymore. You were always the one to call her and make plans so when you didn’t, it was all over. There never was an official break up but things just froze between you. You didn’t want to be the only one who tried to keep the relationship alive.

“Leah I don’t know if I can do this anymore. We’ve being doing this for two years.” You sent her but got no answer.

Now that you didn’t talk.

You didn’t have to pretend you liked the country music she was always making you listen. Dragging you to conserts you didn’t really enjoy but went to just to spend time with her. You didn’t have to pretend it was in any way okay that she kept you as a secret. You didn’t have to accept the excuses she gave you for being a shitty girlfriend. You didn’t have to pretend that you were only her friend because now you weren’t anything to her.

Guess maybe you were better off.

The only way back to your dignity was to bring your next relationship into daylight. The two women who loved you more than Leah had ever were the lights of your life. They treated you better and weren’t scared of showing it. They were happy to show you off to the world for everyone to see.

“I’m in love with y/f/n” Lucy had one night yelled from a hotel window while Alexia was cuddling you

Guess this is how it was meant to be.

—

i feel bad for making leah an asshole

#leah williamson #woso x reader #wlw post #woso fanfics #lucy bronze #alexia putellas #woso community #angst #taylor swift #now that we don't talk #i <3 taylor swift

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padfootagain · 4 months

Text

Pink Helmet

Hello everyone ! Today, we’re answering a request for my 6k event made by @wolfmoonmusic : “First of all.... CAROLE CONGRATULATIONS!!!! THIS IS HUGE!! I am so happy for you!!!Second of all.... Super cute idea for the celebration. Here's my request.

Sirius Black + Modern AU + Kissing in the Rain.

Like they have an argument on the way back from a party (they aren't together yet) where Sirius flirts with everyone (because I mean it's SIrius) and reader gets up and due to the argument she asks him to stop the car and she gets out and the rest is up to you!

Thank you and congratulations once again!!”

Thank you so much for your request, this is indeed an adorable idea! I hope you like what I wrote for your request! I’ve changed it a bit, I hope you don’t mind, but I got carried away with my own setting involving his bike, and not a car, so…

Hope you all like this! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Sirius Black x reader

Warning: angst, and then lots of fluff. Honestly too much cuteness… even for me…

Summary: You get jealous on a night out with your friends, because Sirius is flirting with some random girl at the bar. Your anger is about to cause a chain reaction that will bring unsuspected consequences… for the better!

Word Count: 3312

Sirius Black’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Sirius has a headache.

He has a headache in this buzzing pub, a numb hand after holding onto his cold drink for too long and a broken heart because of his stupid crush on you.

Crush. Were it not so painful to think of you, Sirius would laugh at himself for believing in such an understatement.

Because the truth was that he was head-over-heels for you. Smitten with. Absolutely, irrevocably in love with you.

Had been for the past two years, as a matter of fact. Since that last year of school, when you had punched an asshole in the face, hence breaking two of his teeth, who had been insulting one of your friends. That was enough to turn Sirius on, big time, but the crush had turned into actual love a month later, when you spent an entire night listening to his twisted familial story. God, he still remembers every detail of that night to this day. The way you leaned closer to him, how you had wrapped your arms around his frame. All done in silence, without a word, just a presence he desperately needed. He reckons that it was the first time in a long, very long time when he didn’t feel utterly alone…

He drinks now the rest of his beer in one large gulp, because all of this is ridiculous. He’s painfully aware that a) you do not see anything but a friend in him, and b) that he will never be good enough for you.

So, might as well drown his sorrow in alcohol, at least for tonight. Besides, the woman before him is pretty, she’s not boring, she has a nice laugh and she seems kind enough.

Will it help him to forget you if he spends the night with her? No, must definitely not. But it will numb the pain for a while. It will make it easier for a few hours, and after loving you for two years, he’s grown accustomed to asking for no more than a temporary salvation.

Still, while he talks with the pretty girl in front of him, leaning against the bar, his eyes keep on drifting towards your frame. He knows perfectly well where you are, he always does. A superpower of his, or an unbreakable spell of yours, hard to decide if it is meant as a blessing or a curse…

You remained with Remus and Marlene for most of the night, but you’ve found your way to the dancefloor now, or rather the small space right before the stage, it is too narrow to be called a dancefloor. Still, you’re dancing now, and Sirius tries hard not to glance over at you, not to look at the way you’re moving your hips in rhythm with the drums, the way your hands fly upwards as if reaching for the ceiling, the way you throw your head back, the way he longs to kiss every inch of the throat you’re making particularly visible now in your movements…

Instead, he’s staring at this woman before him, and he has your name on the tip of his tongue, and it’s the thought of your presence near him that makes him blush and shift uncomfortably on his stool.

“So… huh… I’m going to be honest with you, Sirius,” the woman is leaning closer now, flirt written all over her graceful features, and Sirius can’t deny that he likes the sweetness of her perfume. “I’m really not looking for something serious, but I like you, and I think we could have some fun together, don’t you think so?”

He plays it cool, looks down for a second, summons his most seductive crooked smile, the one he knows drives everyone crazy. It’s easy to do it. He doesn’t know her… now that he thinks about it, he realizes he’s forgotten her name. He doesn’t care. He’ll spend the night with her, stay for breakfast or at least till she’s awake, so as not to be a douche, and then he’ll walk out of her apartment and out of her life.

It's easy. There are no consequences, no requirements, no strings attached. Your perfect opposite…

You. Sirius can feel a stare burning a hole in his head, and when he slightly turns to see who’s looking at him so intensely, he gets caught in your eyes. Even from across the room, he’s trapped in them, unable to look away, as always, whenever he looks at you. He just gravitates towards you, he can’t help it…

But when your eyes meet, you avert your gaze to the ground, fists clenched and jaw set, and Sirius can’t refrain a small frown. What got you so worked up? The thought of some scumbag being disrespectful towards you makes him blood instantly boil.

His frown deepens when he sees you making a bee-line towards the exit.

Something’s wrong… someone’s hurt you…

Sirius remembers there’s a woman before him only when she asks him what he’s doing. Indeed, he’s stood up from his stool and is grabbing some money in the back pocket of his jeans.

“I have to admit I wasn’t expecting you to be this up for it,” she jokes, but her smile falters when Sirius turns to her with an apologetic smile on his lips.

“No, I… I’m sorry, I really like you too. I really do. But… not tonight. I… I just saw a friend heading out, and she seemed upset, so…”

“She…”

The stranger nods, and Sirius doesn’t try to argue. There’s no need for any argument. She’s right, anyway…

Sirius pays for his drinks and hers, he can at least do that. Before she can argue though, he’s striding towards the door.

It’s October, and the nights are cold. And it’s raining tonight, heavily so, a curtain of freezing raindrops blurring his view of the street. While his feet slip upon skeleton leaves, he tightens his hold on his black leather jacket, pushing back his long hair while he tries to spot you in the large street…

There you are, a few feet away, looking for a cab.

He hurries to you, calling your name, but you turn away from him as he does so, and he frowns at the sight.

“Hey! Y/N! You’re alright?”

You nod, but keep your back to him.

“What are you doing? Everybody’s still inside. It’s not even eleven yet. Are you sick?”

“No, I just… I want to go home.”

“Oh… okay. I’ll get you home…”

“No, Sirius…”

“I have an extra helmet. The pink one you like.”

He bits his tongue before letting slip that he always carries your favourite helmet around, just in case, just for you… thank God he doesn’t say that out loud.

You look up at him, frame and face and hair drenched with the heavy rain, and you’re surprised when Sirius takes off his jacket and places it over you, holding it up above your head to protect you.

He’s wet all over too, with dark locks of hair now clinging to his neck and cheeks, his black t-shirt revealing more of his biceps and the ghosts of abs because of the rain. He’s shivering, and he doesn’t even notice it. He only sees that you’re cold, and that you’ll catch your death standing in this unforgiving rain.

He frowns hard when you angrily push him away though, his jacket falling between the two of you, still held in his idle hands but now acting like a barrier between your bodies instead of a protection.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, taken aback by the rage burning in your eyes.

Wrath… there’s no other word to describe the flash that passes through your gaze, and he doesn’t understand why you aim such a feeling at him. He’s barely spoken to you tonight, how could he have done something wrong?

“Nothing,” you answer in a better tone.

“Did I do something?”

Anger fades, it declines just as it mingles now with another emotion, one that he wishes he could forever banish from your face: pain.

“No, nothing,” you answer, and this time it isn’t a lie.

“Then, what’s wrong? Why are you angry at me?”

“I’m not…”

“Of course, you are. Come on, what’s wrong? You can tell me, I’ll fix it.”

But as you shake your head now, there are tears shining in your eyes, catching the light of the white streetlamps.

Your teeth chatter, and Sirius moves closer again, protecting you once more with his jacket. And it doesn’t really help, but it’s still sweet, and you look even more on the verge of crying now…

“What’s wrong?”

But you don’t say anything; instead you merely nod in the vague direction of his motorcycle, a few metres down the street.

“Please, take me home.”

He clenches his jaw, bits his tongue so he won’t insist. A curt nod is all he can summon, and he walks with you to his bike.

He hands you the pink helmet you adore, the one with the skull and the ‘pink is punk af’ logo on the side. But you don’t put it on. As he shrugs his jacket back on, he stares at you with a frown while you stare at the silly logo.

“Would you have given it to her?”

He catches your eyes as you look up, and he doesn’t understand why there are now tears mingling with rain on your cheeks.

“What?”

“To that girl, in the pub. Would you have taken her home like this too? Would you have given her my helmet?”

His frown only deepens.

“Why are you asking this?”

But you shake your head, hand him back his helmet.

His helmet. It was never yours in the first place, you need to remind yourself that…

“I’ll call for a cab.”

“I can take you home…”

“I don’t want you to.”

And it hurts to say it. It hurts even more to look at Sirius’s expression change, from confusion to pain.

“Stop that,” he complains. “Stop being mean. I haven’t done anything wrong, I’ve barely talked to you tonight, for goodness’ sake!”

“No, you’re right, you were too busy trying to get laid.”

There is such bitterness in your voice, Sirius doesn’t get where it comes from.

“And? What business is this of yours, anyway? You’re not my mother…”

“She’s pretty, I’ll give you that.”

“Why are you judging me, all of a sudden? I can sleep with whoever I fucking want to!”

“Oh, I know that, thank you! You’ve been doing a lot of that lately…”

“And whose fault is that?”

The answer slips before he can bite it back, and you’re a little taken aback by it. But Sirius drives your attention away. Your voices are still low, but both your tones cut like sharp stones, almost like knives, and every word strikes right where it hurts…

“Look, I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but you’re being ridiculous right now.”

“Me? Ridiculous?”

“Yes! It’s raining, I’m freezing my arse here, so just take the fucking helmet and let me take you home safe and sound, alright?”

“You should go back to miss pretty hair…”

“Stop acting like you’re jealous.”

“Well I…”

But you fall silent, clearly biting back your words, and again, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I’m not jealous,” you finally let out.

And it hurts to hear you say it. It’s stupid, it’s selfish, this longing Sirius has in his chest for you to feel like that, for you to be jealous, for you to care…

It’s your turn to be taken aback by his tone when he answers in a quiet voice, all traces of anger gone, only something fragile left in his words.

“I know you’re not. I know…”

He heaves a sigh, running a hand through his wet hair.

“Look, I don’t want us to fight. I just want to make sure you get home safely. So, let me take you home, alright?”

“How many drinks did you have tonight?”

“Only a beer. I can drive.”

You’re about to yield, when the door of the pub opens… on the stranger Sirius has been hitting on the whole night.

“Oh, you really do have a motorcycle!” she exclaims, a little drunk, staying in the doorframe to avoid the rain.

She looks pretty like this, framed with golden light, cheeks flushed with alcohol, long hair cascading on her shoulders…

Sirius barely has time to register what’s happening, you’re already walking away.

“Y/N!”

“Siri! I wanted to give you my number!”

He’s started to follow you, but he turns to the stranger before hurrying after you again.

“Look, you’re nice, but I don’t think it’s gonna work out between us. Sorry about tonight.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer, for her protest. He’s running after you now. How come you can be so damn fast on these slippery wet leaves…

“Y/N! Wait!”

“Leave me alone…”

“You were about to finally let me give you a ride…”

“Yes, and then I was reminded that you have other obligations tonight.”

“I don’t have any, I don’t want to spend the night with her.”

You turn on your heels at that, and Sirius almost bumps into you as you stop dead.

“Why not? Have fun!”

“Why are you being mean again?”

And it’s true, you are. Your tone is aggressive, unnecessarily so.

But it just hurts. It hurts to see him with other women when you’ve been longing for him for years…

“Because I’m mad at you!”

“Why? I only offered you a ride! I’m still freezing to death under this bloody rain for you!”

“I’ve never asked you to do that!”

“You don’t have to!”

“Why not? Why do you always help me, why are you always here, always kind, always ready to take care of me, but the next second you’re throwing yourself into someone else’s arms?!”

Tears are back to stain your cheeks, and Sirius suddenly grows very still. His entire body tenses up, his cheeks grow paler.

You can’t be meaning this…

“What?”

You realize he’s still holding this bloody, stupid helmet…

“You were going to give her my helmet.”

And it sounds so stupid, but it isn’t, really. You’re surprised when Sirius raises up his free hand to cup your cheek, guiding your eyes up to face him.

He blinks a few times, trying to read through you.

You can’t be meaning this…

“What do you mean?”

He takes a step closer. And his fingers are cold on your cheek, it’s raining too hard for him not to be unbearably cold, but it doesn’t matter. His breath draws white patterns in the air between you as he struggles to slow down his heartbeat.

“Are you jealous?”

The question is simple, the answer should be easy.

But you know he doesn’t feel the same, and he knows you don’t see him this way. And you reckon that he could have better, and he thinks he doesn’t deserve you…

“No.”

But your voice is weak, and everything screams ‘liar’ in your demeanour.

“You’re jealous.”

This time, it isn’t a question, it’s a statement. A realization, rather.

Sirius can barely breathe. Because he is jealous whenever a guy flirts with you. And that’s because he’s in love with you.

There, he said it, at long last, it’s out in the open. He’s fucking in love with you, and that’s why he wants to punch any guy who kisses you, why it feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest whenever you have a boyfriend and he sees you happy with someone else, why he…

“It doesn’t matter,” you chirp, your voice barely there at all by now.

“Why are you jealous?”

“I’m not.”

“You… you said we were just friends. You keep on saying that. Every time anyone says that we’re more, you keep on saying we’re just friends.”

But you frown up at him. He guesses that’s because you’ve noticed how breathless he is now.

“Because we are friends.”

“Yes, but… I thought you… you friendzoned me.”

“What?”

“You. You friendzoned me. You’ve never let me think that you could feel anything for me. Romantically speaking, I mean.”

He runs his hand through his hair again, trying to push the drenched locks away. It’s raining even harder, the sound is deafening. He barely feels the rain colliding with his cheeks at all…

“Why would I have? You… you were clearly never interested.”

“I’m interested.”

“What?”

“I’ve been interested for two years.”

“WHAT?!”

“Why do you think I keep this ridiculous helmet with me all the damn time?”

He almost stops himself when he opens his mouth to speak again. Because he’s a mess, and you could have better. So much better. Someone who’s not as fucked in the head as he is.

But you’re looking up at him with the same kind of hope that he feels whenever he thinks of you, and even if it can’t last, he wants to believe in this dream of his, even if it must fade in a minute…

“I like you. A lot.”

“You… you like me?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you keep on sleeping around, then?”

“Because I thought I didn’t stand a chance, and I can’t get over you. Also… I’m a mess. A hot mess, but still a mess.”

He tries to give you a crooked smile, but it lacks the confidence he usually wears. He’s too fragile for now, at that moment. And this smoothness he has mastered over the years is altogether gone. Instead, he’s shaking out of both coldness and nerves.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks, and his fear is genuine as it shines in his stormy eyes.

He waits for your answer, and it doesn’t come. Each second his heart is beating faster and faster, to the point where he wonders how it doesn’t simply explode. You open your mouth once, close it again.

And he’s cursing himself for his stupidity, for his vanity, for even imagining for a second that someone as wonderful as you could fall in love with a mess like him, for wasting it all, for fucking up the best friendship he has ever had…

Until the cold of the rain is replaced by the coolness of your palms on both of his cheeks. Until all the air is knocked out of his lungs when you press your soft lips against his. Until all he can do is kiss you back, rain now falling on his closed eyelids, getting caught in his lashes. The pink helmet slips from his hands, allowing him to wrap his arms around your frame, to pull you closer, so damn close, there is no space left between your bodies, only the layers of your wet clothes.

When you break away, you are both out of breath, and the rain is still falling just as hard, and none of you notice.

“I like you, too,” your admittance is a whisper, it makes Sirius grin anyway, brighter than you’ve ever seen.

He truly looks like the star he was named after now, beaming at you, holding your face with both hands.

He dives in for another kiss, and then another, and another, and it’s only when he feels your teeth chattering under his fingers between two kisses that he finally breaks your embrace.

He bends down to pick the helmet, hands it to you again.

“Please, put this damn thing on. I’m taking you home.”

“Will you stay?”

He can read in your eyes that you don’t mean tonight. You mean tomorrow morning. You mean the day after that. You mean forever.

He’s the one to put the helmet on your head, a tender smile on his lips, one that you’ve never seen before.

One that’s full of love.

“Don’t worry, love. I’m staying.”

************************************************

Taglist :

@reg-arcturus-black @hells-escapees @omgrachwrites

@wolfmoonmusic

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black imagine #the marauders #marauders #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #hp #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #writing #fanfic #fanfiction

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janaispunk · 5 months

Text

are you ever dreaming of me?

series masterlist • this is part IV

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

a/n: This got very dark very quickly, but it had to be done. It’s basically just one big love letter from me to Dave and his character. I know Dave’s behavior in the last chapter has been a little frustrating but I hope it’ll make more sense now (it’s still frustrating though ngl). I also know this is not as smut-heavy as the other chapters, which might come as a disappointment to some. Stay with me here, more filth is coming soon, I just had to get emotional for a second. <3 (also, please be nice because I lowkey hate this, actually)

word count: ~3.1k

summary: Dave’s side of the story.

warnings: ANGST, bits of fluff if you squint, age-gap, mentions of killing people, mentions of death, mentions of rough sex, power imbalance, able-bodied reader, somewhat unhealthy relationship dynamics, dubios morals (Dave is cheating on his wife… kinda), idiots in love, this whole serious is still very much 18+ only, mdni… did I mention angst? (As always, please tell if if I forgot something!)

dividers by @/saradika <3

find my full masterlist here!

Dave York isn’t a good man.

He isn’t a good man and he hasn’t been in a long time. He probably had been, once, when he first joined the military, when he still thought that he was doing the good thing, the right thing. Before he killed his first man. Now he’s living in shades of gray, where nothing is as simple as right or wrong.

He knows that what he’s doing is not right, but then again, the people that he’s killing aren’t good men either. He’s doing what he’s good at, what he has been trained to do for years. He doesn’t really know what else he’s good at. If there even is anything else.

He makes enough money to provide well for his daughters, the only thing in his life that he really cares about, the two girls that he loves more than anything. He loved their mother too, once, when they were both young. They were high school sweethearts, got married quickly simply because that was the thing that you did, only to realize later that adult life with each other wasn’t what either of them had imagined.

He’s never told Carol what exactly it is that he does, trying to protect her, which then led to her not understanding what was going on when he came home feeling cold and empty, a void inside of him that nothing could fill. They both grew distant from each other, not sharing any real connection anymore, just living aside one another. It works for him; their daughters are still the top priority for both of them, and they’re going to do everything in their power to give them the best possible childhood.

He suspects that Carol is seeing someone else, with the way she’s sometimes working late for no good reason, sliding out of the room to answer her phone at odd hours, the way he occasionally finds a position on their shared credit card bill that he doesn’t have an explanation for.

Dave knows that if he cared, he could easily find out every little detail about it. If he cared, he would probably be angry at how she’s not even making an effort to hide it. But the thing is - he just can’t bring himself to care. Has never done the same thing either, neither out of spite, nor because he had any desire for it.

Until he met her.

Sitting in a hotel bar, two seats over from him, when he’d just gotten a job done and figured that a quick drink might help him fall asleep easier. The whiskey’s burn in his throat didn’t ease the coldness that felt like it had permanently settled into his chest, not that he’d expected it to.

He had just decided to retreat to his room and get out of the city first thing in the morning when she sighed loudly and downed her own drink abruptly. He had noticed her when he walked in, the way he always clocked every person in any room he entered, and every possible exit route. He had absentmindedly noted that she was attractive, then dismissed the thought immediately. Probably here for a date, much younger than him, not paying him any mind. Not a threat, and therefore not important.

Not important at all, until he found himself turning to her and offering to buy her another drink before his mind had even caught up to his actions, learning that she had just been stood up for what would indeed have been a date, noticing the glint of interest in her gaze as she eyed him up and down, feeling a kind of longing that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Getting her to go up to his room with him had been easy. A mutual understanding of wanting each other, the desire to turn a shitty evening into something else, something that he doesn’t think either of them understood at the time.

Kissing her for the first time had been easy, too. Touching her, feeling her hot skin under his fingertips, her entire being so much softer, lighter than he was, felt easy. It felt right, like something that he hadn’t known he was missing right until that moment. He wanted to devour her, make her his, get her as close as he possibly could, before he inevitably had to give up this fleeting moment of something that suspiciously felt like happiness, and happiness never stayed within his reach for too long.

Sinking into her for the first time, hearing her gasp, her breath hot against his neck, felt even better. This was never gonna last, things this good never did. The way she clenched around him when he first slapped her ass and her whimper of “harder, please” turned him feral in a way that he hadn’t known before. How she gave up all control to him so willingly when his entire life had felt out of control for so long - it was addicting. He had known that he would come back for more again and again before he had even spilled himself into her for the first time.

He hadn’t planned for her to stay the night. Hadn’t planned for the way she kissed his lips in the morning, acting a little shy, like she was worried that he might send her away, but so clearly showing him that she wanted more of him, if that was what he wanted. And god damn, did he want to give her more, give her all that he had to offer, if only it wasn’t for the fact that any more of him would be enough to scare her away for good.

So, he didn’t give her more. Made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t looking for an emotional attachment, told her about his marriage, told her that they couldn’t be a thing. She was quick to hide her disappointment, but not quick enough for him not to notice. He half expected her to walk out then, that this wasn’t something she wanted, but instead she scribbled down her phone number, gave him a flirty smile and told him to call her “whenever”.

He knew he was being greedy, that he should have kept it a one time thing that he could keep a fond memory of, but of course he called her. Kept making stops in her town before flying back home, started spending weekends with her, the feeling of being around her too good to let go of.

He knows that it’s not right, that he’s probably taking advantage of her in some way. Of course he sees how badly she wants to please him, how she looks at him like he’s hung the moon for her. She has never denied him anything, no matter what kinds of depraved things he’s wanted to do with her. Hesitated, yes, but she has never said no. Never called red, never asked him to stop. Not when he first told her to call him “sir”, not when he spanked her for the first time, not when he’s edging her until she’s barely coherent, not when his fingers tightened around her throat for the first time. He could leave her a crying, shaking mess on the floor, and by the end of the night she’d still look up at him with those wide eyes and thank him.

It’s addictive and he can’t stop, always comes back for more when it feels like his whole life is spiraling out of his control again, when the darkness around him is threatening to swallow him whole. She’ll let him grab at her with rough hands, mold her body into any shape he wants, let him spit filth at her and let lose until he feels grounded again, until some of the darkness around him has dissipated.

Lately, work has been weighing on him even harder. Maybe he’s just getting older, maybe he has finally reached his limit, he’s not sure. With the whole week off, an incredibly rare occurrence, he knew who he wanted to spend it with. She had seemed stressed lately, like she needed a break too, so it was easy to convince himself that he was doing this for her. That it wasn’t just a selfish plan of his to spend more time with her.

Because somewhere along the way he has come to enjoy the time with her way too much. He enjoys lying in bed together, both of them catching their breaths, laughing about a stupid joke, the little tidbits from her life that she shares with him, the rare occasions when they’re walking around her neighborhood. The way she shyly grabbed his hand the first time, like she was scared that he would pull it away. The smile that she tried to but couldn’t hide when he didn’t.

This isn’t right and it’s not going to last, he’s well aware of that. As clear as he has been about his intentions, he still feels like he’s leading her on sometimes. But it feels too good to stop, to let go of one of the few comforts that he has in life.

The past few days with her have been heaven. He hadn’t anticipated how much he would enjoy spending so much uninterrupted time with her, how good it would feel to be around her the entire day, just watching her be herself and listening to her talking. And he has been talking as well, the feeling of speaking to someone without an ulterior motive, of someone listening to him just because they wanted to, more meaningful to him than he could put into words.

And all throughout, she had so willingly bent to his every wish, put all her trust into him, secure in the knowledge that in the end, he would take care of her.

So, Dave had let his guard down. Relaxed. Then the dream happened.

Last night, he had come home to find the girls slaughtered in their house, their small bodies soaked in blood. It’s a recurring nightmare, a fear that he can never entirely shake off, that haunts his subconscious every couple of weeks. He’s being thorough in his work, never leaving loose ends, keeping his private life concealed from the world that he moves in. The risk that anything could happen to them is as low as he can push it, but it’s not zero. Never zero, and it’s eating at him. Usually, he wakes up alone, gasping for breath, the sheets soaked with sweat. Him and Carol haven’t slept in the same bed for a long time.

Last night, it had been different. It had been different because she had been there beside him, shaking him awake and holding him in her arms until he calmed back down. It had also been different because she had been part of the dream. Just as dead, just as blood-soaked as his daughters.

She had been so sweet when he woke up, and it broke his heart. He wasn’t a good person. He was endangering everyone around him, he was endangering her by not being able to end this thing with her, and yet here she was, oblivious, comforting him.

He had always thought that eventually, he would be the one to break things off. But what if it was her? What if she figured out what a pathetic excuse of a man he was, that he couldn’t give her anything? Not a real relationship, and no future. He couldn’t let her in, couldn’t let her see who he was. What he did, what he was afraid of - and just how realistic those fears were.

He couldn’t even bear to picture the look on her face if he ever told her. The betrayal, the disgust, and eventually the fear. He couldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t. But how could he go on with this, knowing that every minute that he spends with her, he puts her in danger? Someone could find out. Someone could find her.

So does what he does best. Makes a plan. Suppresses his emotions until he’s sure of what to do. How to keep her safe. The logical part of his mind arrives at a solution pretty quickly: She’ll be safest if she stays away from him.

The emotional part of him, the part that he tries to keep shut down, doesn’t approve of this idea.

He has to tell her. Sooner rather than later, while the dream is still fresh in his memory, while he can still see her dead body when he closes his eyes.

Because he obviously knew about the dangers of being with him when he first laid eyes on her. When he kissed her for the first time, texted her for the first time, walked up to her apartment for the first time, when he booked this damn vacation because he’s unable to stay away from her. Unable to think straight when it comes to her. There’s a million reasons why he shouldn’t be with her and yet, he always finds a reason not to quit.

He tells himself that he’ll speak to her as soon as she gets up. Then once he’s done with his phone call. Maybe after they’ve had breakfast. At the end of the day, when they’re back in the room. He never does. He can’t.

The tension has become unbearable at that point. He knows that she’s confused, that she has questions that he doesn’t have answers for. His life feels out of control once again, so he tries gaining it back in the only way that he knows.

He half expected her to refuse him, but she seems just as relieved as he feels when he tells her to get down on her knees. Afterwards, he doesn’t feel better. Possibly hates himself even more.

He can tell that she’s off afterwards, and he’s battling himself to comfort her. This is not what he should be doing. None of this is what he should be doing.

Usually, she tucks herself into the space between his shoulder and his chest before he can even say a word. Not tonight. Tonight, she had her back turned to him before he had even switched off the lights, the “good night” that she normally breathes against his neck nothing more than a murmur from her side of the bed.

He stares at her backside in the darkness of the room, the way she seems to be curling in on herself, and he has no idea what to do. What they just did seemed like what she wanted, she had appeared eager, enthusiastic even, but maybe he read her wrong. Shit, he hadn’t even asked for her color once.

It’s quiet for a long time. He finally feels himself slowly drifting off to sleep, when her hears her sniffle. His eyes fly open again. It’s only minimal movements, but he can see her tremble ever so slightly. Fuck it, he thinks to himself as he reaches out towards her.

“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

You tense at his words, at the fact that he’s apparently awake. Has probably been the whole time. You try your hardest to make your voice sound normal, even though you know that it’s pointless.

“Nothing.”

It comes out even weaker than you had anticipated. You keep your back to him and feel him shuffling closer, his hand gently pulling at your shoulder to turn you towards him. “Baby. Talk to me.” His voice is soft in your ear and your heart is beating painfully in your chest. Baby. He has never called you Baby before. You feel a fresh wave of tears welling up in your eyes and shake your head but let him turn you around until you’re facing him.

His eyes search your face in the faint moonlight that’s filtering into the room and his hands cup your damp cheeks, his thumbs gently running over the skin under your eyes. The worry that’s so evident in his expression right now makes you want to break down. You’re exhausted, and confused, and you don’t understand the man in front of you and his contradictory behavior at all. So far you’ve been crying silently, but you can feel your bottom lip trembling as you try to suppress the sobs that are threatening to crawl up your throat.

“Did I- shit, was I too rough, did I hurt you? You didn’t say anything, but I never asked- I should’ve checked, I’m sorry, I-“

“You didn’t hurt me,” you whisper, cutting off his frantic rambling. He didn’t, not in the way that he’s referring to, anyway.

“Then what’s wrong?” he pleads, his hands still on your face, “Talk to me.” You inhale deeply. You really don’t want to have this conversation, but maybe it’s best like this. Rip the bandaid off, make it quick.

“Do you want to leave?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He stares at you for a beat, his eyes wide. “Do I- What?” You shrug, unable to bring yourself to ask a second time. One of his hands slides down to your shoulder, holding you there. He doesn’t speak, his eyes boring into you.

You can’t hold his gaze any longer, your eyes dropping down to his chest instead. “You’ve been… weird. Today. I thought- I don’t fucking know, that I had done something or that you’ve-“ a sob breaks free and interrupts you, “that you’ve had enough of me. That you don’t want to go on with… this.” You gesture helplessly between the two of you.

You’re certain that now you’ve said too much, that if he hadn’t had enough before, he definitely has now. You’re supposed to be fun, a distraction, not someone who’s clinging to him, but you’re feeling too exhausted, too raw to keep pretending like this thing between you doesn’t mean something. To you, at least.

“Fuck,” Dave mumbles, and you gaze up to see the anguish in his eyes before his arms envelop you and he presses you against his chest, speaking into your hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise.”

It’s quiet for a minute as you’re inhaling his scent, trying to calm yourself down, when something occurs to you. “You didn’t say no,” you whisper into his chest, “you said that I didn’t do anything, but… you didn’t say that you don’t want to leave.” Dave freezes for just a second, searching your face, then he sighs heavily. He sounds defeated, you think.

“No, I don’t want to leave.”

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series masterlist

#janas fics #the dress series #dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader #dave york fanfiction #dave york fic #the equalizer 2 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedrostories

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trigunwritings · 1 year

Note

Vash x Fem!Reader

Vash slowly realizing that he’s falling in love with her and might even wanna marry her one day. Just him enjoying every bit of time he spends with her.

When the thought first crosses his mind, its too early in the morning to ponder upon it—the sun has barely risen from its hiding spot behind the horizon, and the sky is aglow in pinks and oranges so beautiful that it’s hard to believe someone could die beneath it in the span of just a few hours. The land is barren for iles beyond where the sand kisses the sky, but it looks so peaceful at a mere glance. Strokes of golden dunes beneath the brief but peaceful dawn.

But the sky isn’t what’s holding Vash’s attention.

You must have gotten up early, possibly when the sky was dark and the stars still visible. You’re lightly dressed, but facing away from him and sipping lightly a drink which must have been warmed by the fire not too long ago given that the ashes are still smoldering. Coffee? Tea? Vash can’t tell, but it smells nice on the soft morning breeze.

He watches your silhouette against the horizon as the thought crosses his mind for a second time, but ultimately decides it’s better to pretend that he’s still sleeping.

When it happens again, the two of you are at a nameless bar in an equally nameless town—one of many across this stretch of the desert, if only because of the multiple reserves of ground water and compact soil that make it easier to grow small patches of crops. Not easy, but easier; there’s always a difference.

But it means the town is lively and the booze is all too easy to get ahold of. Vash never intended for the two of you to get tipsy, but you’re giggling at his stupid jokes all the same with a soft smile that never quite leaves your lips.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Vash feels his heart race for the entire evening, even when he finally retires to his rented bed, and tries not to think of you in the room next door and how nice it might be to sleep beside you.

He fails spectacularly and barely gets a moment of rest in the entire night.

It’s almost too easy to ignore his injury. Given that his body is more scars than smooth flesh, Vash can ignore a majority of the pain flashing and flaring across his thoughts. It was a small bullet, and it had just barely caught the side of his abdomen—missed anything important, but there was still so much blood to deal with.

He tries to assure you that he’s okay, but it doesn’t help; you fuss over him with hands grasping at his coat, tugging off his layers of clothes until fear is gripping harder around Vash’s heart than the pain of being shot. But before he can say anything, before he can even prepare himself for the inevitable disgust-laced pity sure to come over your eyes, your hands are already tearing apart strips of cloth from anything you can spare to destroy off your own body.

Don’t you notice? Don’t you see? The countless marks, the poorly-healed wounds and broken bones of a man who would barely keep his own mind and body together.

Still, the look across your tear-filled eyes is nothing short of desperate and miserable, voice muddled with sobs as you try to assure Vash that he’s going to be okay, even as your hands are stained with his blood soaking through all the layers of makeshift gauze.

And Vash—the one who is injured, the one who should arguably be the most concerned in the situation—can only feel one thing as he watches you cry for him.

The pain is dull and distant in comparison.

“I love you.”

Vash blinks, taken a bit by surprise when the words leaves your lips. It takes a few moments for him to fully comprehend what you’ve said, and a few moments more to react to it—his eyes widen and his heart starts to race just like that one drunken night together, only this time he can’t blame the alcohol.

You look so scared. Eyes flickering across the ground as if unable to meet his, your hands twisting together so tight that he’s almost worried that you’ll hurt yourself without meaning to.

But the words, they echo over and over themselves within his mind.

And this time, the response comes from him all too easily. It’s natural and instinctive, blooming forth like a flower as it drinks up the sunlight. No longer idle thoughts, no longer ignored, no longer denied.

“I love you too.”

And he wants to keep repeating it forever.

#trigun #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #trigun x reader #sfw #writing #Drabble #vash drabble #trimax #vash x reader #vash x you #vash trigun #trigun vash

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apompkwrites · 1 year

Text

the shroud experiments: testing || idia shroud

masterlist characters: idia & ortho (platonic) genre: angst contains: needles, mentions of blood, (name) being replaced/neglected, bordering on suicidal ideation(?), blot creatures :D summary: (name) shroud proceeds with their experiment. however, proper research is required before the experiment can commence. notes: i couldn't wait!!! so here's shroud's test! have had this idea for so long and now it's here!! just gotta wait for the results ;)) parts: [og post] | [the unwanted shroud (1)] | [the shroud experiments: pre-test (2)] | [the shroud experiments: testing (3)] | [the shroud experiments: results and findings (4)]

it used to hurt. the needles pricking at your skin, the armband squeezing just a bit too tight on your upper arm, and so on. but now, it felt wrong to not have those little bits of "pain" flood your system daily.

the little glass vials that held your blood sat perfectly in the case, preserved pristinely with your vitals floating above them in bright blue screens.

everything was ready. after hours and hours of preparation, it was ready. all of what you needed was here, waiting for you to finally go through with your experiment. all you needed to do was--

tend to the blot creatures that cried out and rattled the bars on their cells. of course, you couldn't neglect them. as much as you wanted to go through with the experiments, you needed to subdue their cries, lest a member of s.t.y.x, or seven forbid a member of the shroud family, come down to check on the commotion.

you couldn't let them find out about what you wanted to do.

and so, you took your routine walk through the halls, feeding the creatures portions of the food you had neglected to eat in favor of setting up the final preparations. your stomach growled every time you tossed the food into the cells, as if it were begging and pleading with you. but you couldn't care less.

in fact, it was best for your body to be empty. you wouldn't want anything to go wrong and halt your plans.

sometimes you felt like the creatures knew you better than the shroud family did.

they seemed to keep their gaze on you longer than they usually did, cooing and gurgling at you louder than normal. you still had trouble deciphering what exactly they were trying to tell you without them gesturing (or perhaps they were just flailing) but it felt as if right now, they were worried. as if they knew how bad this experiment could turn out and how it was out of your hands if it did.

you could only placate their worries with hollow lies and false promises.

"i'll be back in a bit, don't worry."

"calm down, nothing's gonna happen."

"everything will be fine."

maybe you said these in an attempt to reassure yourself as well. in the end, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

it was odd being on a floor other than the one you were banished to years ago. perhaps they were more lenient on security once they realized that you stayed down there willingly instead of resisting.

nevertheless, it made everything so much easier for you.

your footsteps made no noise, which was lucky for you considering how many echoes there were in these halls. the walls were still lined with photos of the shroud family. however, they all seemed incomplete. of course, you only realized that because you were there for those photos.

the ones that contained the entirety of the family only showed two children; idia and ortho. your body had been covered with pieces of tape and paper stuck against the glass of the picture frames.

it would have stung years ago if you had seen the changes in the photos. now it just felt right. you didn't dare look at the face of the child who murdered their younger brother.

when you began walking towards the bedrooms, you took more caution in passing them. you felt the most fear when passing the shroud parents' bedroom, their lights on and shining from just beneath the crack between the door and the floor. the next room was ortho's.

or, rather, his old room. no one touched it since the incident. that much was obvious considering the stickers you and he had stuck on the handle were still in perfect condition.

the one that followed was ortho's room again. this time, it was his shrine. the dreaded photo of a smiling boy with barely sharp teeth and bright blue flames seemed to mock you as it stared down. what was even eerier for you was the fact that you couldn't hear him like you could in the cells.

it took a bit for you to tear your eyes away from the door, letting them land on the room you had been hoping to get to the most: idia's. his lights were on, which wasn't exactly the best sign for your plan.

but, you couldn't risk turning back now. who knows what would happen if the security was stricter than it was right now?

you turned back towards ortho's second room and rushed inside, not taking a second to think about whether or not you were worthy of stepping into it. however, that thought didn't have a chance to resurface the moment you saw what was inside.

instead of what you expected, which was a room full of ortho's photos and favorite items, you saw a room full of technology and screens. you recognized what was on those screens, too.

vitals and blueprints.

"this..." the words came tumbling out of your mouth before you could even register them. "this is ortho's new room..."

the sudden realization dawned on you: they had completely overhauled your room to make it his. the reason his old bedroom had remained untouched was not that they could not stand the idea of stepping foot in there again. no, instead it was because he had been moved to your old room. it was made to house the new ortho you had caught wind of the rare times one of the shroud parents came to deliver you food.

the reason you wanted to sneak into idia's room was not in his room to begin with. it was all here.

how convenient.

sure, it probably wasn't the most up-to-date plans you desired, but you would take what you could get. without missing a beat, you rushed over to the screens and began to jot down what you could. the sketches were messy and illegible but that didn't matter. all you needed were the basic components and instructions to build it. you didn't care how it looked as long as it worked.

as long as it kept your soul alive.

your copies of the blueprints would not amount to the success that idia found in making a new ortho. you knew that. you never were that good in building technologically like idia was. no, instead, you found it easier to research a different topic.

the transfer of life.

ever since the incident, you threw yourself into researching this topic, spending countless days and nights experimenting on some of the smaller blot creatures that were on the verge of death. it wasn't until one or two years into these experiments that you succeeded in transferring life for the first time.

the blot creatures may very well hate you now, at least the ones that you managed to “resurrect”. but, with the findings that research had gotten you, you couldn’t care less. besides, the blot creatures would have no effect after your experiment was complete. granted, that would only be if the experiment went well.

if it didn’t… well, you would have to wait and see how the shrouds would handle that.

vitals recorded and stored in database.

“let’s hope this works…” you only had one shot at this. if the experiment failed, seven forbid, your soul would be somewhere that no one could reach it. although, that outcome isn’t the worst.

memory transfer takes five hours in total. start up takes six hours. idia shroud truly was a master at this. you could only hope that this version of the blueprints still holds up.

you clenched your jaw, the needles poking at your skin once more. this time, however, it hurt. it hurt more than the first time you had done this. was this a sign it was working or that something was going wrong? regardless, you could not spare a second.

you had to do it. With a simple press of the button on the blue screen, your mind went blank.

and it felt like your soul was being sucked out of your body.

“idia! someone was in the hallway!”

taglist: @brokenncrown @help-meplz @destinationdesignation @rainys-personal-garden @kalims @sxftiebee @luxaryllis @auld-a @the-dumber-scaramouche @ayra2452008 @tinywho-man @spadecentral @justeclem44 @bajifairyy @mulandi

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland angst #twst angst #twisted wonderland idia #twisted wonderland idia x reader #twst idia #twst idia x reader #idia x reader #twisted wonderland idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia shroud x reader #twst idia shroud #twst idia shroud x reader #idia shroud x reader #black sheep

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royjamierot · 9 months

Note

Roy/Jamie fic idea: Jamie is actually more deeply hurt about Roy duping him into going out for that beer. He’s actually in love with Roy and just went along to Keeley’s because he was pissed. Jamie starts to withdraw from Roy, who’s still being stubbornly dense. Roy realizes eventually and had to figure out how to get his best friend/the prick he might have feeling for in turn back

ahhh thank you!! i had so much fun writing this!! i really appreciate the request! sorry it took so long to get it out, i hope you enjoy it. this is a little different than what you asked but in my defense i kinda took it and ran

Jamie runs the night over in his head again. He thinks about the way Roy had asked him to come out with him. He replays how Roy had said he was proud of him.

It's been hours since it happened, but Jamie stands in his kitchen, thinking about how Roy said he was proud. It still makes something inside him twist. He wants to hear it again, and he knows it'll keep replaying even if it was just a fuckin' lead in to Roy telling Jamie he was getting back with Keeley. It was all a lead up to Roy saying that he knew Jamie had feelings for her, but they were starting something back up. Basically that he should stay out of the way.

Such bullshit.

Jamie takes a deep breath, puts his hands out on the table in front of him. He's back home, in his kitchen, and he meant to make something to eat but he's been standing still replaying the conversation over and over again.

There was that stupid thought in his mind, that the trip to the bar was a date. Everything they had done before, just the two of them, had always been followed by or preceded by training. This was the first time Roy invited him out, to a bar, to let him drink and everything. So something stupid and deep inside of him hoped and let himself think it was a date.

He had sat down, and Roy had sat down right next to him. The memory of it still lights him up. He wishes he could still feel Roy's side pressed against him. He's not sure he'll ever get that warmth again.

He had looked at Roy so fondly, and Roy looked back, and said he was proud. Jamie is sure he blushed. It was so good. It was everything he had ever wanted. He had gotten ahead of himself. In hindsight, he had gotten too excited and assumed things he wasn't told explicitly. That's his fault.

But he was so excited. There was a warmth on his cheeks and his lips that he wanted to share with the man next to him. Roy was being so kind, and he invited him out but-

Then Roy had said "I know you have a lot of feelings for Keeley-" and his stomach dropped right there. Everything he said after that mattered but also it didn't, because only then Jamie realized it wasn't a date to Roy.

It was like there was a sharp poke to the muscle around his heart, and there was a surge of pain and resistance.

Jamie doesn't know how it happened so fast, but suddenly he wanted to scream at Roy. He wanted to tell him he was the densest man Jamie knew, tell him that it's not Keeley Jamie has feelings for.

Jamie didn't say any of that.

It wouldn't have changed anything, probably would have made it all worse.

He hadn't screamed at Roy. He just pretended every feeling of anger eating him up then was about Keeley. It was easier that way. It was easier to fight and push and insult and make up over shared stupidity than it was to say something true.

Jamie snaps to reality when he accidentally tips a cup over when his shaking hand brushes it.

He sighs and picks the cup up and puts it in his sink.

His mind won't do anything besides run the night around over and over, hoping to find some proof it all didn't happen or-

Or that Roy feels the same way for Jamie.

Jamie's traitorous heart still hopes.

Even now, after relentlessly picking apart the night, Jamie hopes for something impossible.

He had let himself hope too much and he was let down. It's the hope that kills you, he thinks.

Another deep breath, another look around his kitchen. He eyes his freezer, says fuck it, and pulls out the pint of ice cream he bought specifically for Roy when he's over. Roy doesn't deserve it anymore and Jamie wants to wallow like he just got broken up with.

If you told Jamie a year ago that his self proclaimed cheat day consisted of one singular beer and a half eaten pint of rocky road, he would have called you insane. If you told him he was in his feelings about Roy Kent, he would be marginally less surprised. His feelings about Roy aren't exactly new. He's self aware enough to know that.

He plops himself down at the telly, turns on whatever show was first on his continue watching, and promptly passes out before he can even get a fifth bite of ice cream in. So much for a cheat day.

Jamie doesn't sleep easy or comfortably. He has a vague nightmare where a growly voice calls him stupid for ever hoping for something more. Jamie knows who the voice is, but even his subconscious isn't cruel enough to put Roy's face to the voice.

He wakes up to the sound of pounding on his door. He can't make sense of where he is for a moment, cause he's not in bed, but then he sees the cup of melted ice cream still in his lap (thankfully not spilled) and it all comes flooding back.

Fuck.

He pads his way over to the door, not bothering to check the time because he can see it's still pitch black outside and by the way Roy is banging on the door he's probably late. A little after four AM then.

He opens the door mid knock, and he's greeted with an angry, and then confused Roy Kent.

Before saying anything, Roy reaches up towards Jamie's face. Jamie snaps back.

"What the fuck mate?" He looks at Roy incredulously. He'd like to think he didn't flinch, but he knows he did.

Roy sort of stills with his hand in the air for a split second before touching his own face.

"You've got somethin'- What is that?" Roy rubs at the spot on the edge of his mouth.

"What- Oh." Jamie mirrors him, and sure enough there's ice cream dried on the corner of his mouth.

Roy's hand drops to his side and Jamie realizes with a flush to his face that Roy was going to rub it off himself before Jamie jumped back.

He tries to not let himself think about it. He can't.

Except, well, he can. It'd be so easy to think about Roy's hand on his face, it'd be so easy to wonder what Roy's thumb on his face would be like. He could think about all of these. But he won't think about all of this.

That's the difference. He won't.

"You look like shit." Says Roy with a skeptical look, and Jamie straightens his back and doesn't let himself back down from Roy's analytical eyes.

"Fuck you too, grandad. Maybe you need some glasses in your old age." Jamie snaps, and it's harsher than he meant it to be, but whatever. Serves him right.

Roy looks taken aback, almost confused again, and Jamie can't fucking stand it. It's too early for this. He can't look at Roy's face anymore.

"I'm gonna go get changed." Jamie says, and he closes the door on Roy before he can even say anything. He would usually invite him in but it's that kind of shit that made Jamie hope in the first place. They're friends, and that's exactly why Jamie needs to put this distance here.

Jamie bounds up the stairs and grabs a shirt and shorts that are a touch too tight, and Jamie still can't help but wonder what Roy will think of it.

He feels like he's gonna throw up. Roy doesn't want him like Jamie wants him to.

He's back down the stairs, and he fills up a water bottle. He frowns at the way he notices his hands are still shaking while he fills up the bottle.

He screws the lid on, and goes back to the front door. Another deep breath, and he's back outside. He doesn't look at Roy before shrugging his way past. He takes off in a jog that's just a little to fast to the point that he knows Roy can't keep up.

Jamie doesn't want to talk to him right now.

He runs too hard, stretches thoroughly, and ignores the screaming from his body when he works too hard just to make sure Roy can't criticize him for anything. Jamie pretends he doesn't notice Roy's eyes on him at any given time, or the way he squints like Jamie is a puzzle he can't find the missing pieces to.

It continues that way for a while. It's uncomfortably silent, and Jamie prays Roy can feel it. He wants Roy to feel a fraction of what Jamie feels.

Something ugly builds in Jamie in place of the silence. Something so angry and vindictive and jealous. He can't stand the way Roy doesn't say anything, doesn't apologize. If anything their little hissy fit was Roy's fault.

Then that anger gets dislodged a bit when Roy grunts out "good job" and Jamie feels his flush face despite himself.

Until he reminds himself that he's not supposed to react that way.

Then Jamie wants to cry again. How could he be so stupid to hope. It's the hope that kills you, he tells himself again.

He thinks he'll never hope again.

He'll move on.

Jamie is doing burpees now. Faster than he's ever done them. Jamie can feel Roy watching him, and he fights the bile building in his throat. Not well enough, of course. He pukes into a bush on the edge of the cluster of trees bordering this park. Nothing really comes up because he didn't eat this morning and the only thing he ate last night was ice cream.

A drink of water, and he's back to the burpees. He's going even faster than before. Everything fucking burns and he wants to go home, he wants to be alone.

"Oi! Tartt-" So much for Roy not talking to him. "You're working yourself harder than I do. Take a seat." He gestures to the bench next to him, but Jamie sits on the grass where he was standing.

Jamie sits and looks at everything besides Roy to the right of him. It's nice out. Jamie can imagine himself and Roy joking around if it was any other day. The thought makes him sick.

"Jamie-" And Jamie does not look at Roy then. He freezes at his first name, he freezes at the tone of his voice. It's so much softer than before.

"I'm sorry about last night. I was stupid and Keeley isn't an object and I had no right to claim her like I did and..." Roy talks slow, like it pains him to say it. "I wasn't just being nice, I don't want our feelings for her to get in they way of our friendship."

At that Jamie does look at him, for the first time since he showed up at Jamie's door. He looks so fucking sorry, and his eyes are wide in the way Jamie has only seen when he's worried about him. He says all this but he still doesn't fucking get why Jamie is upset. Roy tricked him! Jamie thought they were going out, and they weren't, it was all so Roy could say Keeley was his. That stupid adoration inside Jamie made him crave that ownership from Roy, but it was always impossible.

Jamie feels angry again, angry about 'our feelings for her' and 'friendship'. It's annoying how much Jamie feels about all of this. It takes over his body in a way he tries to hold back. It frightens him, the anger. He's scared of hurting people again. Scared of hurting Roy. He's not sure he'll ever escape the anger. It's a part of him he thinks. It eats at his insides and tries to undo every nice thing Jamie's ever done for Roy, every feeling of companionship.

Another wave of nausea overwhelms his senses and forces his eyes shut, trying to keep every cruel word from his mouth.

Despite it all he wants to hurt Roy the way he hurts and also deep inside that's the last thing he's ever wanted. He wants to call him an old twat. He craves to admit he's the best friend he's ever had and that he'd spend every morning and night with him.

And also he wants to say he's sorry too. Taking accountability and all that. He did rip Roy's shirt and insult him a lot.

His two sides fight internally, and he has to keep the nausea and the mean shit from escaping him. Roy is barely there to him anymore, it's just his own circling thoughts, his own whirlwind.

He takes a deep breath and looks at Roy. Who's still taking him apart with those annoyingly handsome worried eyes.

"Thanks." Is the only word that leaves Jamie. It's not an apology but it's not an insult either. Jamie grunts as he stands, and he thinks about throwing in a 'grandad' there too.

He doesn't.

Instead he turns, and starts walking. Walking away. It's a few moments before Roy is up and right behind him. Jamie can't stand it, he just needs to be away. If he's next to Roy for any longer his mind will keep going about his stupid anger and his even stupider love.

Because he knows that's what it is, love. Jamie doesn't fall often and when he does he falls hard.

What a fucking realization to have while walking away from the man you fell for.

He feels fingertips brush his hand, trying to grab it.

"Jamie-" Roy sounds confused. Jamie thinks he'll do something stupid if he turns around.

He runs. He takes off sprinting. He'd be using this sort of pace on the pitch. He runs and runs until he's out of the park, and then he runs some more until he's home.

That's the only solution he feels like he's ever known. He knows how to run. It's way easier than looking at Roy again and explaining the reason he's so upset is that he's actually in love with the twat.

He slams his front door behind him and realizes he left his water bottle at the park.

Whatever. Deep breath. He can buy another one.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Deep breath. It's not Roy. He ignores it.

It's like that for a bit. He's sort of catatonic besides the purposeful deep breaths he takes, like Dr. Fieldstone taught him. His mind races with the same thoughts that they were before, somewhat subdued since Roy isn't right next to him anymore.

He wonders what Roy thinks about his behavior. Obviously he thinks this morning was about Keeley. He's not even sure why Roy is so hung up on Jamie having feelings for Keeley. He hasn't had feelings for her in a while. Why does he think Jamie's in love with her?

He doesn't get it.

The rest of Jamie's day is half hearted. He watches TV. Makes a sandwich. Buys another pint of ice cream. Eats the whole thing. He finds now he can't really give a shit about what Roy told him to do, at least not while Roy isn't here.

He passes out in front of the TV again, this time the pint of ice cream is fully eaten. Even if his stomach is gonna hate him for it in the morning.

Another restless sleep.

Another early morning for Jamie, who's awoken to pounding on the door.

He stands up and places an empty ice cream pint on the kitchen counter.

Same thing as yesterday, he goes to the door and opens it, and hopefully convincingly glares at Roy.

"I'm sick." Jamie says before even thinking.

"No you're fucking not. Listen, I let you have your space yesterday especially after the shit with Keeley but you cannot run away from training and you can't-" Roy momentarily cuts himself off.

"You're my fucking friend Tartt, and my player, and this shouldn't get in the way of that. Grow up." Roy grunts instead, and furthers his statement with a point at Jamie's shoulder.

That ugly emotional thing is back in Jamie's chest, and he has felt too many fucking emotions the past few days. Grow up? He's grown the fuck up, he knows how he feels, it's not his fault Roy is oblivious to what's right in front of him. It's like he's rubbing in his feelings for Keeley every possible second he can. It makes Jamie sick to his stomach. He's never been good with jealousy.

"Any advice on how to do that, grandad?" He snaps back, and that stupid thing inside him starts mixing with guilt. He doesn't like being cruel. He doesn't know why he is.

Roy is glaring at him until his attention snaps to something behind him. Jamie turns to see what he's staring at, but as he does Roy brushes past his shoulder as he walks in.

"Fucking hell mate, didn't your mum ever teach ya' some manners?" Jamie half shouts at Roy and doesn't notice what he's walking towards.

"The fuck is this?" Roy is holding up the empty ice cream pint that Jamie had left open on the kitchen counter. Shit. Fuck. He had been fine with ignoring Roy's direction without him knowing but-

"What's it look like?" Jamie snaps, because he doesn't know how to deescalate. Because he doesn't want to. He wants Roy to yell at him because he wants a reason to hate him. There's a hope that Roy will do something that justifies the terrible emotions in Jamie's chest.

Jamie looks at Roy waiting for anything that will make him feel less guilty for the anger inside of him.

Instead, Roy sighs, and throws the empty pint in the trash. He walks over to Jamie, who squares up his shoulders and stands a little taller, prepared for yelling. Prepared for a fight. Just instinct, innit?

Roy stops a few feet in front of him, and Jamie eyes him cautiously. He's staring at Jamie like he's trying to communicate something telepathically. Jamie doesn't get whatever he's trying to say.

"Can we talk about this?" Roy asks.

"The ice cream?" Jamie asks incredulously.

"No, fucking- Us. Can we talk about us?" Roy groans. It's like a punch to the gut. Roy is fucking trying to talk to him about his emotions, about their relationship. All of this while Jamie is standing in front of him, praying he'll get frustrated and leave like most of the other people in Jamie's life. It'd be easier to move on that way, if Roy was an asshole.

Roy isn't like he used to be though, and neither is Jamie. They wouldn't be here, in Jamie's kitchen, talking about their relationship, if they were like they used to be. Jamie hasn't wished it before, but in this moment he wishes they were like they used to be.

But, well, he doesn't wish that at all, because he can tell Roy is so confused and Jamie doesn't know what to do.

What are they doing?

They stand in front of each other in an uncomfortable stretching silence. Jamie considers why they're here.

They're friends fighting over a girl. That's all they're supposed to be. Roy wants Jamie to get over it and explain why he's still upset, but if Jamie says anything about anything he'll end up saying something he regrets. Something too mean or something too true, it's all the same result. Losing Roy.

It's silent as Roy stares at Jamie, who's trying to piece together what to say without getting overwhelmed over basically nothing.

Deep breath.

"What is there to say? We both-" Jamie is cut off by a break in his own voice. "We both want what we can't have."

"Right, we both can't have her, so why are you so fucking mad still?" Roy says.

Jamie hasn't wanted Keeley in a while. All of this had been on the assumption from Roy that he still loved her which he doesn't. If only Roy could see that. He's sure it's obvious to everyone else around him.

"You have no fucking idea." Jamie says, and he knows he shouldn't but he sort of laughs at how oblivious Roy is.

"What?" Roy snaps, and Jamie wishes he could go back to two days ago when he was in love and still hoping Roy felt the same way. Right now he's in love and trying not to pick another fight with his favorite person in the world.

"Can you just go, mate, please?" Jamie groans.

"You're supposed to be training right now." Roy says. It's not even stern or commanding, it sounds like a plea. Jamie wants to punch him in the stomach, kiss him on the lips. He doesn't want Roy to leave, but he needs that to happen, otherwise he'll do something stupid.

Like punch him. Or kiss him.

Jamie tightens his jaw and stares Roy down, silently begging for the mercy of abandonment.

"I just don't understand. Keeley said you haven't tried to talk to her since we went to her house-" Roy has talked to Keeley about Jamie? " -and now you look like shit and you're running away and you won't talk to me and I don't understand what the fuck is wrong."

"I wish you didn't give a shit, that was easier." Jamie snaps and turns away, not even thinking about what he's saying.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Roy asks, and Jamie needs him to leave. Everything he's felt in the past 48 hours is building inside of him again. Every hurt feeling and shameful and soft enough.

His hands find purchase in the countertop he now holds himself against. He leans over his sink, facing the wall and pointedly not Roy. It's easier to speak when he's not staring directly at the thing making his life so much more complicated.

"Please just go-" He grunts, once again hoping for something he knows is impossible.

This conversation is short but with the way Jamie's mind is racing it feels like hours.

"I'm not going until you explain what the fuck is wrong." Roy sighs, and Jamie groans.

That unnameable beast inside of him rears its ugly head and forces Jamie to take what he wants even if it'll ruin all of this.

Something inside him snaps, and he does it.

Something stupid.

He turns and doesn't look at Roy before he kisses him. Because he's a stupid twat who knows this will further ruin whatever they already have. He'll get pushed off, and he'll die of embarrassment and transfer to a new club, fuck off to America if no one will take him.

Jamie kisses Roy softly, chastely, contrasting with the way he stormed over to Roy. There's the scratch of his beard, and his surprisingly soft lips, and Jamie wishes again. He wishes this wasn't happening like this.

It's over in a second and there's not a second before he's talking again.

Holding back tears, he says "It wasn't about Keeley. It was about you, you stupid twat."

Jamie is staring at the floor when he says it, before promptly turning on his heel and once again making a run for it. Everything inside of him is gone, washed away by the tide of mind numbing emptiness.

"I'm sorry." Jamie murmers back as he makes a start to dash up the stairs.

Jamie is already crushed by the weight of his own shame for doing that, for pushing himself on Roy. He had gotten better about his impulses, but he's still Jamie, a fact that disappoints himself almost daily. He'll never not be himself.

He's not three steps away before a hand catches his wrist and pulls him back.

A solid hand steadies him when he stumbles back, and another hand cups his face far more gently than he deserves.

Fucking hell.

Roy is kissing him. Roy is kissing him back, really kissing him, and Jamie is just standing here. Roy's hands hold Jamie's face, and his wrist, and he's kissing him.

The shock barely wears off in the few seconds before Jamie is kissing back. Holy shit. This is real.

He's at a loss for a way to describe the way he lights up. A candle could take his place and Jamie doesn't think it'd be any warmer or brighter than he feels.

The kiss is almost familiar, and sort of pushy and insistent. It's Roy fucking Kent.

It's not enough before Roy pulls back. Jamie holds back from chasing his lips.

Jamie inhales sharply and opens his eyes to see Roy in front of him looking so fond and so handsome.

"Jamie- I'm sorry. I like you too." He murmers.

That does a number on Jamie too.

What the fuck? Jamie thinks.

"What the fuck?" He also says it out loud. "But you like Keeley-"

"I was- um-" Roy suddenly looks squeamish and now he won't meet Jamie's eyes. "I was jealous of Keeley, I think. I saw you two talking and I thought I was jealous of you but-" He waves his hand between the two of them.

Jamie can't help the way he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach at the fact that Roy just admitted he was jealous of Keeley for just talking to Jamie.

"Oh. Oh." Jamie breathes out softly, scared that if he talks too loud it'll ruin the delicate admission.

"Yeah. I didn't realize until last night when I realized I had thought about you and fucking worried about you more than I had thought about Keeley in a while."

"You're so stupid." Jamie laughs to himself, pulling Roy into a hug just a touch too tight.

"Fuck off, what?" Roy says right next to Jamie's ear.

"I'm so down bad for you mate, you have no clue." Jamie smiles into Roy's neck.

There's a new overwhelming thing inside of him, warm and burning in a pleasant way. He wants to kiss him again.

So he does.

"We can talk about this later, can I kiss you?" Jamie asks, and Roy nods, and it's like nothing happened in the past day.

Jamie no longer has to fight those emotions inside himself and it's a breath of fresh air after having nearly drowned. Jamie knows the anger but this is new. The rainbow after the rain.

He could live in this moment forever.

#im so sorry if the pacing is weird #royjamie #fics #mine #jamie tartt #i love prompts I'll happily take more #asks

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burntheedges · 18 days

Text

too late

Dave York x f!reader | 18+ | 4.6k words | masterlist | ao3

summary: Dave hasn’t see her in years, but he knew she would find him again.

a/n: this is for @iamasaddie's writing challenge 2.0! ok so my prompt was dark fic and "You should've pulled the trigger when you had a chance.” I've been calling this "baby's first dark fic" for days because it is 😭 and it's probably not that dark. but it's what I could do 🤷🏻‍♀️ it's also my first Dave fic. thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta as always 💕, to @beardedjoel for reading over it and helping and being so encouraging 🧡, and to @goodwithcheese for giving me feedback and helping me make some changes 🧡

tags/warnings: darkish fic, assassins doing assassin things (including killing some guys, not described in detail), flirting, betrayal, seduction, one character drugs another without their knowledge (not for sex), guns, hidden intentions, smut: kissing, groping, manhandling, ripping underwear, pet names (baby, good girl), fingering (f!receiving), p-in-v sex (unprotected), creampie

...

Dave wasn’t someone who fidgeted, as a rule. He might seem to fidget, when necessary, as part of a cover or a ruse, but it was never unintentional. Every motion was planned, considered. Part of his work.

But when he fixed his cuff links just then, it wasn’t planned.

He’d looked up from his drink, turning away from the open bar to scan the room of wealthy socialites for his target. His eyes had cataloged the people he’d known would be there and skipped over them. He’d stepped away from the bar to set his drink on a high top table and, in a manner totally unlike himself, like some sort of amateur, he’d frozen. When his eyes had landed on her.

She’d been looking back at him.

She’d looked just as good as the last time he’d seen her, at least two years before (2 years, 3 months and 10 days, a voice whispered at the back of his mind). The dress she was wearing drew his eyes like a magnet and he’d remained frozen as he traced its lines before snapping his gaze back up to her face.

She’d smirked.

And then he’d blinked as a server had passed in front of her. She’d disappeared.

He’d cleared his throat and fumbled with his cuff links, off-kilter in a way that wasn’t like him. Wasn’t the way he did things.

Dave shook his head, trying to clear it. This wasn’t good. He needed to get back on track, or call it. And he didn’t want to call it.

“Boss?” He heard the quiet voice of one of his guys in his hidden earpiece and picked up his drink. “I said, target in the northwest corner of the ballroom.”

Dave turned slowly to his left as if he was looking for someone he knew and his eyes traveled over the target’s back.

She was standing right next to them. He resisted the urge to curse.

He hid the small movement of his lips behind his glass, and murmured, “foxtrot.” That was the code that would tell his men to pack it up and rendezvous in 48 hours at one of the safe houses. He could feel their surprise in the long pause before a response – they’d been prepping this job for weeks. But he couldn’t explain now.

“Understood.” The line went quiet and Dave started to casually make his way to the exit at the opposite end of the ballroom from where she still stood next to the target.

His exit went smoothly – this was easier than the job would have been, anyway – and he turned to head down the hall towards the entrance. The hall was starting to empty as people joined the party, but he could see a line of people waiting to come in at the entrance. He decided to take the side exit that would give him some cover as he made his way to the car his men had stashed in the parking deck two blocks away.

This turned out to be the wrong decision.

As he stepped onto the dark side street, he started to scan his surroundings as usual. Before he could do more than check the busy intersection with the main road to the left, he felt someone step up behind him and the unpleasant sensation of a gun in his back.

“Hello, Dave.”

…

2 years, 3 months, and 15 days earlier

There was someone else on the job.

Dave had seen the signs, but he wasn’t certain until now – someone else was after their target. He’d started to feel them like a shadow, a few steps behind his team as they planned and prepared. But tonight they’d gotten ahead of him.

One of his guys had gone for another routine check of the art gallery where the target would be hosting an event. They’d found the back door unlocked (sloppy, Dave muttered to himself). Whoever it was had left a clear path through the building for anyone who knew how to look, but had slipped out before Dave’s guy could so much as realize the problem.

Now they knew for certain. This new competitor might be an amateur, but they were after the same target.

Dave pressed his palms to his eyes, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Shit. Now they had to split their focus – the target, and whoever this asshole was that was mucking up the job. He didn’t have time for this.

In the end, though, it was easier to identify them than he’d even bothered to hope.

The gallery was hosting a different group 3 nights before the event, and so Dave and one of his guys were planning to go and do some recon while the place was crowded. It turned out the opposition had the same idea.

Dave was standing in front of some sort of art with a drink in his hand when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Someone was watching him.

He finished his drink and turned, as if he was looking for somewhere to put it down. As he scanned the room, he spotted them.

He spotted her.

She was standing with a small group, posture relaxed and open as she chatted with them. But he clocked her (and her thigh holster) immediately. Distantly he noted that she was incredibly attractive, though she was trying to hide it with her outfit and makeup.

Dave began to circle around the room towards the bar. He kept her in view as he got a new drink and began to move through the exhibits again. His path took him to her side of the room, until he stopped just close enough to hear her group’s conversation as he pretended to study the work in front of him.

“--you know how he feels about modern art.” Her voice did not betray any sort of tension – she was better at this than breaking and entering, at least.

He continued to eavesdrop, but the conversation wasn’t interesting. So he focused on her instead. As he moved slowly around her group, taking in the art, he realized he knew who she was – new on the scene, but he’d heard of her. He could tell she was aware of him, too. He wondered if she knew that he knew, if she was good enough to read him like he could read her.

She answered that question only a few moments later.

“Excuse me,” he heard her say as she turned away from the group towards the restrooms. When she was about 20 feet away, he turned to follow. Dave didn’t look at her as he walked.

But when he turned the corner into the long hallway with the bathrooms, she was gone.

“Looking for someone?” Dave didn’t give her the victory of startling, but it was close. She was standing behind him. He turned slowly and calmly to face her.

“Looking for the restroom,” he returned, voice mild.

She raised a single eyebrow at him and he pretended not to notice how attractive it was. “Oh, are we playing that game?” Her tone matched his.

“And what game is that?” Dave leaned against the wall next to him and crossed his arms.

She smirked and stepped closer to him. “The game, David York, where we pretend not to know exactly who we are. And why we’re here.” She was new at this, he could tell, even if she was affecting confidence. He leaned in and watched as her eyes drifted downward against her will. He didn’t smirk.

Ah, he thought, as a new path opened in front of him. He didn’t have to get rid of her, after all. And it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.

“Who’s pretending? I know your name, too. And I’ve known you were on this job for weeks.” He didn’t mention the fact that he hadn’t known she was his opponent until he recognized her in the gallery.

She was surprised but hid it well. “And you’re just talking to me now?”

Dave pushed off the wall and stepped towards her again, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Wanted to see what you can do, first. That was sloppy last night.”

He watched the corner of her mouth tick down, but she didn’t give into the frown. New at this, but not too new.

“I didn’t realize I was on a try out.” Her voice was stiff now. He didn’t smile.

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Why you approached me tonight?” He watched her avoid admitting it. “Well, you did well in there. You’ve got some promise.”

She was angry now, he could see it slipping through the cracks in her facade. But she wasn’t angry enough to walk away from this just yet.

“Promise?” She kept her voice mild, anyway. That was good.

Dave just looked at her for a moment. He could see the tension in her body as she kept herself from fidgeting. She still had a lot to learn.

“So, what? You want to work together?” He let his skepticism show in his voice and watched as her spine stiffened in response.

She crossed her arms. “Look, Dave. You need me.”

He let his eyebrows raise slowly. “Oh?”

She nodded. “I know you haven’t figured out the approach, yet. That’s my specialty.”

He mirrored her and crossed his arms. She was right, but he didn’t show it. “Don’t need it. Plenty of chances when he’ll be alone.”

She shook her head as if he’d disappointed her. “You and I both know that’s harder to plan for. I can get him from the party. Guarantee it, instead.”

Dave regarded her silently. She seemed confident, and he’d just watched her perform – she was right that she was good at that part, at least. Just new to the rest of it and unable to learn on her own.

He stepped closer again and pressed one palm into the wall by her head. She blinked. He knew this was what she was hoping to see from him. It didn’t hurt that the attraction he felt was genuine – easier to make it believable that way.

“And what’s in it for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. He could see that she was interested, too interested, but wouldn’t admit it so easily. “Not that.” Her voice was flat. He allowed himself to smirk, finally, and watched the effect it had on her. “But I can guarantee you success. Something you can’t do on your own.”

That, at least, was partially true, based on what he’d seen. “Then what’s in it for you?”

She stepped around him and turned to walk down the hall. “A share of the payout.” And the experience she still needed on the job, but that went unsaid by both of them.

He watched her walk away and reached into his pocket to find the scrap of paper she had just slipped inside. A phone number.

Dave already knew he was going to call, but it was better to make her wait.

…

Two nights later, you’d finally been introduced to his team in preparation for the job.

He’d made you wait. It didn’t surprise you. You knew he thought you couldn’t read him, but you could see his interest in you well enough. But he had to pretend he didn’t want you, didn’t want your help. You knew the game.

But now you were involved and less than 24 hours out from the job. You heard footsteps approaching your little corner of their workspace and turned to find him leaning against the table behind you.

“You ready?” He affected the same mild tone he’d used when you first met, but you could see through it now.

“Of course.” You’d relaxed a bit and you knew he could hear the slight annoyance in your tone.

Dave smiled. “Good.” He stepped closer and leaned against your desk right next to your chair. You looked up at him, leaning back as far as you could. “You’re not bad, for someone so new at this.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you for admitting it.”

He shook his head. “I knew that, from the night we met.” He tilted his head and lifted one hand to trace his fingertips down your jaw. “Might be interesting, having you around.”

You tried not to look affected, or at least not as interested as you were in that possibility. “For the job?”

He hummed and cupped your cheek. “And for after, maybe.”

You blinked. That was unexpected.

“After we see how this job goes, of course.”

You nodded slowly, surprised. You’d hoped for this outcome, when you approached him, but he’d seemed so aloof.

“You’re not just saying that because you’re attracted to me, I hope.” You tried for a teasing tone and his thumb stroked your cheek.

“I am attracted to you,” he confirmed, voice even and direct. It made you shiver. “And you’re attracted to me.”

Dave leaned down until his face was level with yours, only inches away. “But that’s not part of the job.” You blinked, staring at his mouth. “Why don’t you show me what you’re planning to do tomorrow. To get his attention.”

You frowned. “We already talked about it.”

Dave shook his head, standing up again. “I want you to show me, now.” You looked around and noticed everyone else had left. “That’s right, just you and me. Show me what you can do.”

He seemed serious. You stood and shook out your shoulders. You shifted your weight and fell into the persona you’d use the next night, the woman who would approach the target and lure him away.

As you took a step towards Dave, you saw his eyes widen a bit. Good.

“Well, I’ll make eye contact and flirt a little – make him approach me, not the other way around.” You raised one hand to trail your fingertips down his chest and you watched as he drew in a deep breath. “But I’ll let him talk to me and get me a drink, when he does.” You stepped closer and noticed Dave’s eyes dipped to your chest. “And when he flirts more, I’ll be impressed. When he compliments me, I’ll act shy, a little innocent.” You pressed both hands to his chest now and ran them upwards until you could link your fingers behind his neck. “He’ll lean in, and I’ll be flattered.” You leaned in to speak into Dave’s ear and watched his hands flex around the lip of the table he was leaning against. “In the end, all it will take is wide eyes while I place my hand on his arm or his chest.” You covered the remaining distance between you and pressed the length of your body against his. He was warm and firm – you could feel his strength. “And then he’ll feel like he’s in control when I leave with him.” You felt Dave’s hands come up to grip your waist and you bit back on a grin.

“And so he won’t be thinking of anything but me when I slip the drugs into his drink in the hotel room and let you in to finish the job.” You were whispering now and you could feel Dave’s cock hardening against your thigh.

You paused, and let your demeanor shift back to your own.

“Well?” You felt Dave’s hands tighten on your waist in his surprise at the normal tone of your voice. “What do you think?”

His arms slipped around your back and he pulled you closer before growling into your ear, “I think you’re ready.” And then he leaned back so that he could crush his lips to yours.

It was a searing kiss. It stole your breath, from the first moment – you felt it crash over you and vibrate down your spine.

You knew he wanted you. You wanted him, too, but you wanted in more, and this was your way in.

…

Dave watched without watching as she lured in the target at the party the next night. She was doing well, as she’d promised – with the shy looks and the lingering eye contact he could tell that the man was about two minutes away from giving in and crossing the room to talk to her.

He let his mind wander to the night before – he’d kissed her against the desk but hadn’t let it go any farther. She was gagging for it, he could tell, and he was going to use that to his advantage soon enough.

The target approached and fell for all of it. Right on time she stood up and began to walk towards the back hall. Dave made his way there slowly, following as they exited and walked the two blocks to the target’s hotel.

Everything went according to plan – the hotel, the drugs, the ambush. Dave killed the man in his bed and removed the evidence. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she pocketed the tech that was the real prize, smirking to himself before they all slipped out into the night with no one the wiser.

Dave was letting himself ride the high of a job well done when she followed him to his hotel room later that night, as he’d known she would. He softened his smirk into a smile before he turned around to find her right behind him at his door.

“Coming in?” he asked as he swung it open behind him.

“Are we done pretending you don’t want this?” She raised an eyebrow at him as she crossed the threshold, and he grinned.

“Yes, we are.”

…

Dave grabbed you by the waist and pushed you backwards into the door. You sucked in a sharp breath. “Wanted this,” he muttered into your neck before biting down, leaving a mark with his teeth. Your eyes widened. “You looked so good, baby, working the room.” He pressed hot kisses down your neck as he pulled the zipper down the back of your dress. It slid easily to the floor, leaving you in nothing but lace-trimmed underwear underneath. Dave growled. “And I know you wanted it too.”

He pulled you into a searing kiss and reached behind you to grab your ass, fingers twisting in the lace. You felt it tear in his hand before he ripped them off of you with a snarl. “Isn’t that right?”

Your legs almost gave out at the possessiveness in his voice. Yes, this – this was what you’d wanted since you first saw him. You’d known you would need to impress him and you could barely believe you’d succeeded.

“Dave–” you were breathing heavily and leaning against the door. His eyes swept over you and he grinned, wicked. “Touch me.”

“Oh, is that what you want?” His voice was dark and you shivered again. He was still fully clothed and it made you squirm with desire. “C’mere.”

He tugged you towards the bed and threw you down so hard you bounced. “I know you want it, baby. And I know just how to give it to you.” He crawled on top of you and captured your mouth in another kiss as his hand trailed down your stomach to tease along your slit. “Hmm, you didn’t get wet like this for him, did you?”

You shook your head. “No–” your hips stuttered as he nudged his fingers inside to tease at your entrance.

He rose up on his elbow to look down at you. “No,” he repeated. He smirked again as his fingers slipped inside. “Good girl.”

Dave worked you over quickly, drawing an orgasm out of you faster than you’d ever felt before. You were shaking as you felt it climb up your spine, shuddering as you fell over the edge, moaning as it swept you away.

When you blinked your eyes open, you found him smirking at you again. “You’re gorgeous when you come.”

The compliments, the way he’d spoken to you since you crossed his threshold – it was all starting to settle and warm something inside of you in a way that frightened you. You pulled him down into a kiss, ignoring it.

You reached down to tug at the button on his pants and felt him smile into your mouth. “Want something?” His tone was lighter, suddenly, and you wondered if this was what he was like when his walls were coming down.

“You know what I want, Dave.” You pushed at his pants until he assisted by tugging them down just far enough for his cock to spring forward, hard and big. You wrapped your hand around it.

He looked at you and smirked again. “Oh, good girl,” he leaned in to run his teeth down your neck and palmed your breast. Dave reached down and lifted your right leg, knee to your chest. “Such a pretty pussy,” he praised, and you sighed. “Let me see it.”

He urged you to hold your legs open, gripping behind your knees. It felt suddenly obscene, holding yourself open for his gaze as he kneeled before you fully clothed with his cock out. You felt yourself get wetter and knew he could tell.

He grasped his cock at the root and leaned forward to tease it through your folds. You looked down and moaned when you saw your own arousal glistening on the head of his cock.

“Well, baby, keep your eyes on me.” He notched the head of his cock at your entrance and started to push forward. You almost let go of your knees, reaching for him, but he stopped. “No, keep your hands there,” he scolded. When you got back into position he pushed forward again, all the way in until you were so full you felt your eyes roll back.

Dave grabbed your chin roughly. “Look at me.” His tone was commanding and you blinked until you could do as he said. “You keep your eyes on me.” It was an order. You nodded. He raised his eyebrows and shook your head by the chin.

“Um,” you cleared your throat and felt his cock throb within you. “Yes, sir.”

He smiled. “Good girl.”

It was harder than you could have imagined, not closing your eyes when he started to thrust. It felt delicious, the way his cock filled you up and touched every part of you. But you did it. You watched him, eyes darting over his face and down to where your hips met and back up.

He watched your face the whole time, never looking away.

“That’s good,” he praised, leaning forward to kiss you. “Hold on tight.”

He sat back and grabbed your thighs where you held them open for leverage. His next thrust was harder and faster and so was the next. You keened.

“Just like that, baby,” he breathed. “Take it.”

You nodded, eyes locked on his as you held your legs open for him to fuck you.

“Look at you.” He picked up the pace. “So desperate for it, hmm? So beautiful like this.”

You blinked, and his brow furrowed. “Eyes on me.” You nodded, mouth falling open as you heaved in heavy breaths.

Dave released his grip on your thigh and moved his right hand to your pussy. “Now,” his voice was deeper than ever, “you’re going to come on my cock. And then I’m going to come inside you.”

You nodded, eagerly. He smirked. “Good.”

He worked your clit with his fingers until your legs were shaking in your grasp. The unrelenting thrusts combined with the way he toyed with you pushed you over the edge before you even felt it coming. Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train, and your next breath was a sob.

“Good girl,” he snarled, hips thrusting harder. He replaced your hands with his own and pushed your knees into your chest. “Now, watch.” You did and you marveled at the sight of him as he reached his own peak and lost himself inside of you.

He collapsed on top of you afterwards and for a moment neither of you did anything but breathe.

Dave flopped to the side, pulling out in a way that made you gasp.

“You know,” his chest was heaving just as much as yours and it made you smile. “I’ve never worked with a partner.”

“Well.” You turned on your side and ran your hand over his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt. “I think you could use one.”

He hummed, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes later he got up to get you some water, but you didn’t notice when he slipped something into your drink.

…

Early in the morning, Dave slipped out of bed easily, knowing you would still be sleeping off the effects of the drug for a few more hours. He dressed quickly and looked down at you, watching you breathe. He didn’t feel any regret – it had all gone according to plan, after all. Teasing you and drawing you in until you couldn’t help but follow him here, couldn’t help but believe he wanted the same things you did.

And so he’d gotten what he wanted from you. It was time to go.

He slipped the small hard drive from the pocket of your coat and removed all evidence of himself from the room. He left without looking back.

…

You went after him.

Of course you did. You’d woken, groggy, unable to open your eyes and feeling like you’d been hit with a bag of bricks.

“Dave?” You’d groaned, voice scratchy. You’d reached for him, but his side of the bed had been empty and cold. You’d opened your eyes, finally, and found the room around you empty of everything but your clothes, which had been folded neatly on the desk.

It had taken only a moment for the truth to set in, and you’d felt it like a dagger to the heart – he’d drugged you. He’d used you, taken advantage of your lack of experience, let you see what you wanted to see in him, and then left you here, alone. Your eyes had darted to your jacket, but you’d known even before you’d checked. He’d taken the hard drive, too.

No one had heard your muffled screams as you buried your face in your pillow. And no one had noticed when something that had still been soft hardened within you.

You’d been angry. And then you’d turned it into something you could use.

You tracked him and his team. Took out two of them. Followed them to the marina, to the boat they were going to use to escape.

Just as you were about to step onto the dock, you froze and looked down.

The red dot of a sniper rifle scope appeared on your chest. You whipped your head back up and found him, at the far end of the dock, rifle pointed towards you. He stood on the open deck of the boat. You could hear the engine start.

You couldn’t move. You just watched as the boat started to pull into the bay. But you saw the moment he decided not to take the shot.

Dave lowered the rifle and looked at you. You couldn’t see his expression from so far away, but you knew he was looking. You looked back until you couldn’t see him anymore.

…

Present day

“Hello, Dave.”

Her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Fuck, he thought. He’d known that this was coming, but not when.

He’d heard talk of what she’d been doing since he left her on that dock. She gained a reputation. He knew she was skilled, and now so did everyone else in the business.

Dave didn’t regret it, but he sometimes wished he could. He opened his mouth, “You–”

“Shhh,” she hushed him, leaning closer. “It’s too late for that. You should've pulled the trigger when you had a chance.”

...

a/n: how did I do? *hides*

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