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oofthwoods · 3 months

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DEBUTANTE! ── ˙ ̟ the echo !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: derived from the french language, meaning “a first performance or showing.” the original word debutante referred to a new actress making her first appearance on the stage. or, the one where dreams come true in bahrain.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: just a little bonus, but i picture jasper as kingsley ben-adir (secret invasion, barbie). if this is the first work of mine you're checking, reader is a driver for porsche and the daughter of rubens barrichello!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 5.5k

NO ONE ASKED HER A QUESTION IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

Naturally, there were many questions about her. How did the drivers feel about a woman joining their ranks on the track? What were their thoughts on the growing number of female fans who were tuning in to watch Formula One, possibly due to the popularity of the documentary Drive to Survive or the historic moment of having the first female driver in decades?

She wasn't sure if this was better or worse than she anticipated. She vividly recalled her first press conference last year when she was still driving for ART Grand Prix. They asked her ridiculous questions like whether it was professional to wear skirts in the paddock (yes), who the most attractive driver was (herself, obviously), and even if her father was disappointed that she reached a milestone in motorsport before her older brother (Dudu, who raced with their father in Brazilian Stock Series. And no, he had already made it clear he was proud of both of them).

In the first few minutes, she assumed it was because she was a rookie. But then Oscar Piastri answered a fair share of questions while looking at her as if he didn't understand why people were treating her like an invisible presence. She would shrug her shoulders and the australian reluctantly answered reporters' inquiries.

She was sandwiched between Lewis, who seemed impatient as time dragged on without any questions directed towards her, and Max Verstappen, who quickly responded to his own questions and showed his eagerness to leave. Two rookies, two world champions, but only three drivers deemed important enough for interviews.

The world-renowned champion's frustration peaked when asked about his recent vacation activities.

"Is this a joke?" he asked. "Do you really want to know what I did on my vacation more than asking her interesting questions?" He gestured towards the girl beside him.

"It's alright, Lewis-"

"With all due respect, Hamilton," one of the reporters interjected with a sarcastic smirk on his face. "I can't imagine what kind of questions we could ask Miss Barrichello besides her makeup preferences or favorite clothing brands."

"How about the fact that I won four championships in a row as a rookie?" She responded with a fake sweet smile plastered on her face. She could accept to be ignored, but she refused to be underestimated. "Or maybe any questions about Porsche joining the grid this year?"

"I don't think winning a championship by such a small margin of points is anything to be praised." The reporter retorted. His expression implied that he wasn't expecting the young girl to comfort him, but he couldn't hold back.

"Really? So we should just say that the battle between Max and Lewis in 2021-" she indicated towards them "-was nothing worth celebrating? Such an uneventful year for this sport."

Verstappen leaned forward, observing the interaction between the girl and the reporter. This press conference just became much more interesting.

"Strong words from someone who has never stepped foot in a race car." He chimed in, agreeing with the youngest person in the room.

"That's not what I meant." The reporter stuttered, noticing the security chief slowly approaching him. The middle-aged man was one of many security guards in the paddock that had known the driver since she was a child, and she knew that one look in his direction and the man would be escorted out.

"Of course, of course," she replied sarcastically. "You mean it's not worth celebrating because a woman won, right? Please, if you're going to insult me, at least try to make it believable. Or better yet, don't speak if you have no idea what you're talking about"

The tension in the room was palpable as another reporter spoke up, "But Y/n, let's be real here. The races were mostly dominated by your teammate, Frederik Vesti or runner-up Felipe Drugovich. Your victories were purely tactical."

She leaned back in her chair with a smug smile playing on her lips. "Is that so? Yet somehow I managed to come out on top every time."

Verstappen nodded in agreement, "She's definitely got a point there."

The press room fell into an intense quiet, causing y/n to regret her decision to do this interview. She knew that this type of situation would become more common as her fame grew in the coming year. She also understood that Lewis would be praised for defending her while she would face criticism for simply standing up for herself against a man who was only doing his job.

The silence was broken by a female journalist in the back, hidden behind the larger, more muscular bodies of her male counterparts. But y/n could never mistake that blonde hair for anyone else. Mariana Becker was a veteran sports reporter, an icon in Brazilian journalism, and a role model for any woman breaking into a male-dominated field.

“I wish I had raised my hand earlier; I didn't realize it would take so long for someone to ask you a question,” she chuckled. "I don't think anyone will object to two questions, right?" The woman looked around the room, and the other interviewers avoided making eye contact with the veteran.

"So, y/n, you've been asked countless times about being a woman in a male-dominated world and the difficulties you face because of it. However, with such a successful junior career full of records, I honestly don't see the need to ask that question again. Instead, I'd like to focus on the positive aspects. What does it mean to you knowing that a new generation of girls can look up to you as an inspiration and be motivated to pursue their dreams?"

The girl's face lit up with gratefulness for the refreshing question and relief that she wouldn't have to answer the same question she had already answered countless times before.

"It's incredibly inspiring for me as well. Growing up in this environment, surrounded by racing cars, I was also discouraged from pursuing this career. But I can only imagine how much more difficult it must have been for young girls who were ridiculed just for dreaming of driving a go-kart. To know that I can play a role in encouraging them to follow their dreams without fear of judgment is truly exciting."

Lewis subtly raised his thumb in a gesture of approval while she chuckled.

"Excellent," said the reporter with a smile. "One more question, how did your father react when you told him you were entering the world of Formula 1?"

"He cried," y/n answered quickly, eliciting laughter from those in the room. "He's quite the crybaby, so I waited until we were together to share the news of my contract with Porsche. At first, he cried tears of joy, then fear, and eventually a mixture of both. That's when he realized that all three of his children were following in his footsteps as race car drivers and that he'd have to pay for everything he put his own father through."

The reporter chuckled along with y/n. Mari had interviewed Rubens back when he was in Formula 1, and remembers clearly how emotional the man always was. The conference went on like this for another half an hour, with y/n answering everything from her expectations for the upcoming season to her favorite tracks and how she dealt with pressure.

The balaclava, damp with sweat, clung tightly to her face as she stood at attention. Her race engineer, a tall black man with a buzzcut and a calm expression, waited patiently beside her. She smoothed down the folds of her crisp, red-and-black uniform, adorned with her country's flag on the sleeve.

"How was the conference?" Jasper asked.

The girl muttered something that Jasper couldn't make out. "That bad? Did they bring up the issue with wearing skirts in the paddock again?"

"They didn't ask anything at first, but then one guy made a comment about me winning the championship by a narrow margin of points not being worthy of praise. Except it wasn't even a narrow margin; Felipe finished about sixty points behind me., and Fred was more than a hundred points behind, despite driving the same car as me" She complained.

Jasper winced. The relationship between the engineer and the driver had been amazing during pre-season tests with the man acting like a friend and a mentor, and they had found a groove to envy.

"You'll need to come up with a strategy for dealing with these reporters," Jasper advised.

"I already have one."

"Really?" He glanced at the clock on the track and realized that time was running out. He handed her the helmet with both hands. She grinned and smoothly put it on. The colors of her country's flag stood out against the black and red of the car, making it impossible to miss.

"Yes. WWJD."

"What does that stand for?"

"What Would Jenson Do. Originally, it was "What Would Kimi Do," but I quickly realized that Kimi would just tell everyone to go fuck themselves, and I can't exactly do that yet."

The garage was a whirlwind of activity, with mechanics frantically making last-minute adjustments and drivers strapping into their cars. The scent of gasoline and burning rubber wafted through the air, adding to the excitement and tension that crackled in the atmosphere.

Everywhere she looked, there were people moving with purpose, each one focused on their individual tasks to ensure a successful first qualifying session of the season. The roar of engines being revved and tools clanging against metal filled her ears, drowning out any other sound. It was a chaotic but exhilarating scene as the countdown to the race began.

"Why not "What Would Rubens Do"?" He asked.

She chuckled. "My dad is too nice. In his only fight in his entire Formula 1 career, he told the mechanic who wanted to fight him to get someone else because he was too small."

Jasper's phone buzzed insistently, jolting him out of his thoughts and reminding him that only five minutes remained until the start of Q1. After the last few adjustments from the mechanics, y/n managed to squeeze into her car and secure her seatbelt. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might leap out of her chest, a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through her body as she prepared for the intense competition ahead.

Jasper rested his arms on the halo. "Don't forget what we discussed earlier," he reminded her. "In Q1, six cars will be eliminated, followed by six more in Q2. This means that the top ten fastest cars will battle for pole position. Based on our data, we are definitely faster than Alpha Tauri, Alfa Romeo, Haas, and Williams - a total of eight cars."

The girl nodded eagerly, her eyes glued to the man as he continued. "At the very least, you and Mick should be able to make it into Q2. We're not sure how Alpine and McLaren are doing, but they don't seem to be as quick as us." He gestured towards the track outside where the other teams were busy with their own preparations. "But we can't let our guard down. Anything can happen during quali." The tension was palpable as they both waited for their turn on the track.

"So, we're trying for Q3 then?" She inquired, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and determination.

"Officially, I was instructed to tell you that Q2 is sufficient, but we can't know our full potential until we're on the track."

A sly grin appeared on her face, hidden behind her helmet. She pushed down her visor, ready to give it her all. "Well, I say let's aim for Q3 then. I want to see what this car can really do."

A gentle laugh escaped Jasper's lips, his eyes shining with admiration. "That's the spirit, echo. Show them what you're made of."

With one final nod, y/n shifted her focus, tuning out the noise and commotion of the pit lane. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, using all her senses to ground herself in the present moment. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline filled her nostrils as she visualized the track ahead. The deafening roar of the engine drowned out all other sounds, sending shivers down her spine.

Jasper's voice crackled through the radio in her ear, sounding like a distant robot. "Radio check," he said, his tone serious and business-like.

She adjusted gloves as she responded, "I hear you loud and clear." Her hands were tightly gripped on the steering wheel as she followed Logan Sargeant's Williams out of the pit lane. It was a tight squeeze with the Porsche garage being the newest addition to the grid. She bit her lip, hoping that their placement in the pit lane wouldn't cause any trouble in the future.

"Great. Warm up your tires and then do a flying lap. We want to get a better idea of our potential and avoid any possible disruptions from a Red Flag," Jasper instructed.

"Roger that," she replied, trying to keep her breathing steady as cars started to move around her. She prayed that the onboard camera wouldn't catch her trembling hands as she prepared for her first real lap on the track.

The engine roared to life as she pressed down on the accelerator, gripping the steering wheel with determination. The car surged forward, its tires screeching against the asphalt, leaving a trail of smoke behind. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, heightening her senses as she focused on the task at hand.

The wind whipped through, carrying with it a symphony of sounds—engines revving, tires squealing, and the distant cheers of the crowd. Her heart pounded in sync with the rhythm of the track, each beat pulsating through her chest.

As the cars whizzed by, she made a conscious effort to stay out of their way while completing her out lap. It was her first Grand Prix, and she wasn't about to receive an impeding penalty. She could feel the engine roaring to life and her car responding with precision, its tires getting ready to set a time that would hopefully secure her from elimination in the initial round.

Jasper's voice crackled through the radio once again. "Alright, you're good to go. Try your best," he encouraged, his voice filled with unwavering support.

"Copy." She smirked.

The pre-tests and free practice had prepared her for what was to come, but nothing could have truly prepared her for the exhilaration of sitting behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car. The engine purred like a fierce beast, ready to unleash its power at any moment. The sleek body of the car hugged the track, cutting through the air with precision and grace.

As she approached the first turn, she braked hard, shifting her weight to navigate the corner with precision. The G-forces pressed against her body, threatening to tear her away from reality. But she held firm, refusing to let anything distract her from the objective ahead.

She feathered the throttle, feeling the car respond to her slightest movements. The tires gripped the track, providing a sense of stability as she accelerated out of the turn, leaving her the other car trailing behind. Y/n's focus was unwavering, her eyes fixated on the next set of corners, mentally calculating her approach.

The flying lap was over in an instant, and the sound of the cheering crowd filled her ears as she crossed the finish line and set her initial time.

"Way to go, girl!" Jasper's voice crackled through the radio. "You've got P8, I repeat, P8. We're safely into Q2, but stay on track just in case. Prepare for another quick lap."

"How did Mick do?" she asked eagerly.

"P10, 0.78 seconds behind you," Jasper's voice was filled with pride as he responded. Despite his efforts to maintain professionalism, they were both rookies in the Formula 1 world, even if in different roles. "I got a great feeling about us, Barrichello. This could be the beginning of something legendary."

The minutes seemed to stretch into hours as she waited for the race to begin and she started to feel claustrophobic inside her cramped driver's room.

Finally, unable to bear the suffocating atmosphere any longer, she stepped outside into the bustling garage. The sight of her team, clad in matching uniforms and working tirelessly on their cars, brought a small smile to her face. As she made her way through the maze of mechanics and equipment, she was greeted with reassuring smiles and words of encouragement.

This was not just her first race, but also the team's inaugural race. In a way, they were all rookies, feeling the pressure and nerves just as she was.

Standing outside, it was clear that several eyes were on her. Some, like the veteran Ferrari mechanics who had known her since she was a little girl, flashed comforting smiles and gave her thumbs up, wishing her the best of luck. Others raised their eyebrows with skepticism, as if they believed her presence on the grid was some sort of elaborate prank that hadn't been revealed yet.

Amidst a sea of red and black uniforms, the bright green outfit of the two-time world champion stood out prominently. Fernando paid no mind to the curious glances from his mechanics as he made his way confidently towards the girl.

"You're not allowed in here, Alonso." She teased, playfully crossing her arms in a gesture that made her seem much older than she was.

"Is that how it is now? You qualify in the Top 10 in your first race and all of a sudden I'm just Alonso, not Nando?" He responded with a chuckle. Clutching his heart dramatically, he leaned back as if struck by sudden agony. "What happened to all our pizza days? They meant nothing to you?"

The character she was playing no longer felt right to her, and the words she spoke didn't align with the expression on her face. She fought to suppress a smile as she continued, "That person you knew, Alonso? She is gone now."

As the man approached, she couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity wash over her. His dark hair and intense brown eyes were etched into her memory, but it was his infectious smile that brought back a flood of childhood memories.

Fernando rested his hands on her shoulders and held onto his helmet, which puzzled her. With only a few minutes left before the race began, he could have easily stored it in his own garage rather than carrying it around. But she pushed those thoughts aside as his gaze softened and he spoke.

"You were the size of a flea when I met you," he said with a chuckle. She smiled at the memory of their first encounter. She had been just six years old at the time, tagging along with her father to one of his races. She remembered being mesmerized by the speed and energy of the cars on the track, but also feeling a little intimidated by the loud noises and bustling crowds.

But then she saw him – Alonso – standing tall and proud in his racesuit. He had noticed her watching him from behind the fence and had flashed her a tight smile. Somehow, from that one interaction, she had become a fan. From then on, whenever she visited the track with her father, she would always seek out Fernando.

Initially, the Spaniard couldn't comprehend why the young girl found him so intriguing. He knew he was talented and quick on the race track, but children were not his forte. Alonso would often try to distance himself from the girl, offering only friendly waves and smiles. However, when she presented him with a drawing of himself on the podium with a trophy (which he still keeps today), everything changed.

"You used to avoid me like the plague," she recalled.

"That's not entirely true," Fernando denied, but quickly changed his tune when the girl raised an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe I wasn't too fond of being followed around by a little girl. Can you blame me? If anything happened to you, I would have to deal with your father, Michael, Kimi, and all the mechanics that you had wrapped around your finger."

He became somewhat of figure between an older brother and a father figure to her, always ready with words of encouragement and advice.

Now here they were, both grown up and about to race against each other for the very first time.

"I can't believe we're finally racing against each other," she said with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

"It's about time," Fernando replied with a smirk. "I've been waiting for this moment since you beat me in go-karts."

A smile tugged at her lips as she recalled the moment. During one of his trips with her family to cheer her on during her junior career, they decided to have some fun and race go-karts. She had managed to beat him by mere thousandths of a second, and she made sure to remind him of it constantly afterwards.

"What's on the agenda for today, Mija?" He asked, looking around at the girl's garage.

"Hah, like I would share that with you. I love you, Nando, but now we're competitors." She narrowed her eyes playfully. "You're just trying to take advantage because we're close."

"You got me." He chuckled, knowing it wasn't entirely true.

She sighed and crossed her arms with a hesitant expression. "Rule number one is to not crash into Mick. Number two is to avoid crashing into anyone else. Our team isn't expecting a stellar performance, so if we can maintain our starting positions, both cars will score points. That's our main goal."

"Oh, come on. Don't you want to try overtaking someone?" he prodded.

Y/N laughed. "Why? You want to see me in your rearview mirror?"

"Of course I do," he admitted. "Competing for a win with you would be incredible."

He pushed his helmet towards the girl, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Confused, she tilted her head in question. “I appreciate the gift, but I think you’ll need it today.”

Fernando laughed, memories flooding back to him. “Remember when your dad retired and you started coming to races with me?”

The memories flooded back, of her father's days in the high-stakes world of Formula 1. Though he had since retired, Fernando still managed to convince Rubens to allow her to travel with him to races closer to her home, and sometimes even to the grand prix in his homeland.

She quickly caught on to his request and playfully darted away from him before snagging the helmet. It had become a tradition since she was ten years old, and Fernando had unofficially taken on the role of her godfather. She used to do this same routine with her own father, so it felt natural to continue with the spaniard. He stood there, slightly perplexed, wondering if he had said or done something wrong. But just moments later, the young girl returned with her own helmet in hand.

"Wouldn't it be fair for you to do the same for me this time?" she asked playfully.

The two exchanged helmets and planted a kiss on the part of the helmet that would soon cover each other's foreheads.

"Stay safe, Nando"

"You too. Give us hell"

"It's an easy overtake for Barrichello in the Porsche, and she takes the position from Lance Stroll in the Aston Martin!" David Croft's voice rings across the circuit, and the crowd roars, the flags from her country and Germany flying around.

"Great job!" The voice of her race engineer appears in her ear, breaking through her intense concentration. "Russell is 1.2 ahead, close the gap to be able to use DRS when it is enabled."

"Copy" she nods, instinctively, her eyes never leaving the track ahead. She knows what she needs to do, and she pushes her car to its limits, weaving through the curves and straights with precision and skill.

As she closes the gap between her and the british driver, she can feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She's in her element, in the midst of the intense competition that she lives for.

"0.7. Go for it, elbows out" Jasper said again.

The cheers of the pit crew resounded in her ears as she used the extra boost to overtake the Mercedes. It was a challenge to defend against George's attempts at whiplash and reclaim her position, but once they were off the main straight, she managed to create a considerable gap between them.

The rest of the race flew by in a blur. The girl lost track of her position, constantly overtaking some cars only to be overtaken shortly after. However, Jasper's encouraging words kept her going.

Jasper's voice crackled through the radio as she approached the final stretch of the race. "Virtual safety car, slow down," he instructed.

She quickly checked her rearview mirror, looking for her teammate. "Is it ours?" she asked.

"No, it's Leclerc in the Ferrari," Jasper replied, "which puts us in fifth place."

She could see Hamilton was more than five seconds behind, and the yellow flag meant that Alonso was slowing down ahead of her.

"As soon as the VSC is lifted, you'll have a clear shot to overtake," Jasper added.

Who would have thought that she would be right on Fernando's heels after all?

After a few laps of caution due to the previous incident, the green flags were waved and she wasted no time in accelerating towards the Aston Martin driven by the Spaniard. She steadily closed the gap between them until she was right behind him. However, just as she was about to make a move to pass him, he outmaneuvered Carlos Sainz's Ferrari.

In a swift and calculated maneuver, she positioned her car on the inside of Sainz, who seemed too focused on reclaiming his position to check his mirrors. Taking advantage of his momentary lapse of attention, she quickly overtook him.

Jasper's voice was filled with excitement as he shouted, "That's it, echo! What a fantastic move!" She could almost hear the smile in his tone. "Alonso is already ten seconds ahead, so concentrate on defending now."

The final laps seemed like a blur, the girl steadily increasing the gap between her and the Ferrari with each lap.

"It's a flawless performance from Porsche, with both cars scoring points on this historic day. Mick Schumacher equals his best career finish with an incredible P6, and Y/N Barrichello takes fourth place, becoming the first woman to score in a Formula 1 race since Lella Lombardi and achieving the highest position for a woman in history!"

The sound of the bustling cheers from the Porsche garage fills her ears as she struggled to park the car with trembling hands. “Unbelievable! P4, y/n, P4! We scored 21 points and Mick got the fastest lap. What a start,” Jasper exclaims over the radio.

She stepped out of the car on shaky legs and is immediately greeted by Carlos, who had parked his car behind hers. “Where did you come from?” he asked with a chuckle. “I was trying to overtake Fernando, and suddenly you were right beside me.”

She took off her helmet and balaclava, her hair damp with sweat and sticking to her forehead and neck. She culdn't help but laugh. "Next time, check your mirrors," She teases her good-naturedly.

A hand rested on her shoulder, and she was suddenly enveloped in a warm embrace. The sweat that coated both of them didn't matter, nor did the fact that she still needed to weigh herself. She squeezed Mick even tighter and they both seemed too overjoyed to let go.

He took a step back but kept his arms around her. "Fourth place in your first race! I told you not to worry," the German exclaimed proudly.

"And look who's talking with the fastest lap!" She laughed in agreement. "We did it, Mick. We fucking did it."

A bottle of water suddenly appeared in her line of sight, and she turned to thank the person who handed it to her. To her surprise, it was Lewis with a smile on his face.

"If you had just overtaken one more person, you would have joined the club," he joked, pointing to Kevin Magnussem, who appeared to be deep in conversation with his teammate. "It was quite a race for the two of you."

"Honestly, I wasn't expecting to end up anywhere higher than where I started, so P4 is already a great achievement," she replied with a laugh as she took the cold bottle from him. The girl then turned to Lewis again and asked about his own race.

"P7. Mick managed to pass me on the last lap," he responded, glancing over at the young driver who chuckled in response.

The adrenaline was still pumping through her veins as y/n made her way to the weighing machines. She couldn't believe it, a P4 finish on her debut race. It seemed like a dream come true.

She stepped onto the scales, trying to calm her racing heart. The number flashed on the screen, and she let out a sigh of relief. "Phew, just made it," she muttered to herself.

Grabbing a towel to wipe off the sweat from her face, she quickly discarded her race suit at her hips, and made her way to her garage in her white fireproofs.

To an outsider, it might have seemed like the team had just won a world championship, not a P6 and P4. People were clapping her on the back and embracing Mick, and she struggled to decipher the various voices exclaiming with joy.

Jasper appeared in front of her with a bottle of champagne in hand. "Congratulations y/n, you did amazing out there!" he exclaimed before popping open the bottle and spraying champagne everywhere.

She laughed as some of the bubbly liquid hit her skin. "Thanks Jasper! I couldn't have done it without your perfect strategy. Great call with the tyres"

He grinned at her before turning serious. "But seriously y/n, you did a great job out there. We're all so proud of you." The rest of the team joined them in cheers and congratulations.

Before they could continue their conversation, Adrian, the team principle, arrived at their garage looking ecstatic. "Great job everyone! A double-points finish for our debut race, this is just the beginning." He raised his glass of champagne before taking a sip.

Y/n looked around and couldn't help but feel proud of her team. They had come a long way since their first tests together. And now here they were, competing in one of the most prestigious racing championships in the world.

Adrian turned to her with a smile. "Y/n, I must say you exceeded all expectations today. You have proven yourself as a valuable addition to our team." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Keep up the good work."

She couldn't help but blush at his words and nod gratefully. This was everything she had ever dreamed of - to be part of a successful racing team and make her mark in the sport.

As the celebrations continued, y/n couldn't help but think about how far she had come. From fighting for sponsorships to competing against some of the best drivers in the world, it felt like a dream come true.

But amidst all the excitement and joy, there was still one thing weighing on her mind - her family. She missed them terribly and wished they could be here to witness her success.

Just then, her phone buzzed.

"Muito orgulhoso de você filhota. Eu sabia que você ia arrasar! Me liga quando acabar tudo aí" — PAPAI. (so so proud of you, baby. i knew you would rock it! call me once you're done with everything there.)

Soon after, her older brother's name appeard on her phone as well. A quick congrats was followed by a video. Tapping on it, she couldn't contain the tears as she watched her father by the TV, holding tightly their flag and exploding in joy as the checkered flag was waved and his daughter finished in fourth.

He erupted with happiness, leaping and embracing her siblings and close friends who had gathered to witness her debut. He would excitedly point towards the television, shouting with pride, "There she is! My little girl!"

A big smile crept onto her face as she quickly replied back with an update on how things were, and a promise to video call her family as soon as she was cleared from the media.

"Time for the boring stuff now. Ready for the interviews?" Mick pulled her out of her thoughts. He had his phone on his hand, and she imagined he was also communicating with his family. "I can go first, if you want."

She took a deep breath, and smiled. "It's okay, i'll go. There's nothing they can say that could ruin my day. Not anymore."

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed <3) :: @studioreader, @fanficweasley, @stinkyjax, @namgification, @judespoision, @cha-hot, @disneyprincemuke, @itsjustkhaos, @trouble-sistar, @ihateyougunthersteiner, @treehouse-mouse, @cherry-piee, @fangirl125reader, @cassie0sstuff

2K notes · View notes

lecsainz · 9 months

Text

main thing

request: charles + a famous actress who is about 2 years older than charles and has a daughter from another relationship, but the biological father is not in the picture (or he is an idiot)

pairings: charles leclerc x actress!reader

authors note: man, it took me almost two days to write this, ugh! hate getting that writer's block in the middle of something I start. I was like, "come on brain, why you gotta do me like that?" but nah, it wouldn't cooperate. so frustrating!

✩. . . masterlist !

PART TWO

Age Gap Romance Takes a Dark Turn, Leaving Y/N Struggling with Broken Heart and Baby Daughter

By TMZ Entertainment News

Hollywood's buzzing with the latest shocking breakup, and this time it involves rising starlet Y/N Y/L/N and her much older ex-boyfriend, a prominent music mogul. As the dust settles, insiders reveal that the split was anything but amicable, leaving the 28-year-old actress devastated and facing heartache alone with their baby daughter, Sophie.

Sources close to the couple paint a picture of a once fairy-tale romance that crumbled under the weight of immense pressures and a significant age gap. Y/N and her ex, whose name we won't disclose for legal reasons, initially captured the public's attention with their whirlwind love affair.

Despite the initial bliss, the relationship quickly took a tumultuous turn, with the insider sharing, "It was a rollercoaster from the beginning. The age difference played a big role in their clashes, but Y/N was deeply in love and believed they could make it work."

However, cracks in their love story started to show, and rumors of disagreements and heated arguments circulated throughout Tinseltown. Our sources indicate that the final straw came when the music mogul reportedly abandoned Y/N and their infant daughter, Sophie, leaving her shattered and blindsided.

"It was like he flipped a switch," another insider revealed. "He just walked away, leaving Y/N and Sophie to pick up the pieces. It was a shock to everyone, even those closest to them."

The breakup was described as "dramatic and emotional," with Y/N left grappling with the aftermath of his sudden departure while caring for her baby daughter. Friends of the actress confirm that she's going through an incredibly tough time, trying to navigate single motherhood while nursing a broken heart.

"It's heartbreaking to see Y/N going through this," said one close friend. "She's a strong woman, but this has taken a toll on her. Sophie is her world, and she's solely focused on being the best mom she can be for her daughter."

As for the music mogul's actions, sources claim that he has shown little remorse for the way things ended. "He's been dismissive and unapologetic," one industry insider revealed. "It's like he's moved on without a second thought, leaving Y/N to pick up the pieces."

For now, Y/N is surrounding herself with a support system of friends and family, relying on their love and encouragement during this challenging time. Hollywood is buzzing with the news of the breakup, and fans around the world are sending messages of love and strength to the young actress.

As this Hollywood drama unfolds, the world will be watching to see how Y/N navigates her way through heartbreak and single motherhood. We'll continue to bring you the latest updates on this gripping story, so stay tuned for more.

ynupdates

liked by charlesleclerc , selenagomez , and 28.879 others

ynupdates sun, sand, and summer vibes with yourinstagram and the girls! beach day in monaco is lit! no room for negativity here – just good times, laughter, and making memories with our faves y/n and selenagomez! and of course, little sophie is the cutest beach babe ever!

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selenagomez ❤️❤️❤️

f1addiction CHARLES WHAT YOU DOING HERE??

ynmoves my girl looks so happy 😁

ylngomez i LOVE this friendship

lecslerccc charles that’s is a move?

saaaainz he just liked is nothing to worry 😭

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jazzcathaven · 11 months

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When Tina Turner left her first husband - who was also her boss, captor, and brutal tormentor - she snuck out of their Dallas hotel room with a single thought in her mind: "The way out is through the door." From there she fled across the midnight freeway, semi-trucks careening past her, with 36 cents and a Mobil gas card in her pocket. As soon as she decided to walk out that door, she owned nothing else. When she filed for divorce, she made an unusual request. She didn't want anything: not the song rights, not the cars, not the houses, not the money. All she wanted was the stage name he gave her - Tina - and her married name - Turner. This was the name by which the world had come to know her, and keeping it was her only chance to salvage her career.

Things could have gone a lot of ways from there. She could have labored in obscurity for decades, maybe making records on small labels to be prized by vinyl connoisseurs in Portland. She could have stayed in Vegas, where she first went to get her chops back up, and worked as a nostalgia act. And, of course, given what she had been through, she might have ... not made it.

What happened instead is that Tina Turner became the biggest global rock star of the 80s. I'm old enough to barely remember this, but if you aren't, it was like this: The Rolling Stones would headline a stadium one day, and the next day it would be Tina Turner. A middle-aged Black woman - she became a rock star at 42! - sitting atop the 1980s like it was her throne. She managed this because of whatever rare stuff she was made of (this is a woman whose label gave her two weeks to record her solo debut, Private Dancer, which went five times platinum); because she decided to speak publicly about her abusive marriage and forge her own identity, and in doing so give hope and courage to countless women; and also because - in a perhaps unlikely twist for a girl from Nutbush, Tennessee - she had her practice of Soka Gakkai Nichiren Buddhism, to which she credited her survival. She remained devout until the end. Tina's second marriage - to her, her only marriage - was to Edwin Bach, a Swiss music executive 16 years her junior. Of him, she said, "Erwin, who is a force of nature in his own right, has never been the least bit intimidated by my career, my talents, or my fame.

"In 2016, after a barrage of health problems, Tina's kidneys began to fail. A Swiss citizen by then, she had started preparing for assisted suicide when her husband stepped in. According to Tina, he said, "He didn't want another woman, or another life." He gave her one of his kidneys, buying her the remainder of her time on this earth and perhaps closing a cycle which took her from a man who inflicted injury upon her to a man willing to inflict injury upon himself to save her from harm.

Born into a share-cropping family as Anna Mae Bullock in 1939, she died Tina Turner in a palatial Swiss estate: the queen of rock 'n roll; a storm of a performer with a wildcat-fierce voice; a dancer of visceral, spine-tingling potency and ability; a beauty for the ages; a survivor of terrible abuse and an advocate for others in similar situations; an author and actress; a devout Buddhist; a wife and mother; a human being of rare talent and perseverance who, through her transcendent brilliance, became a legend.

Credit: Will Stenberg

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 5 months

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Like A Good Neighbor... | Cillian Murphy x fem!Reader

Summary| She grew up next-door to Cillian Murphy and he was her first sexual awakening. When her dad hosts a promiscuous book club meeting, she decides she's waited long enough.

Warnings| Mentions of Lolita and plays heavily on Lolita-core and daddy-kinks. Large age-gap, dubious consent, p in v sex, stalking, smut. Please read with caution!

It Probably Matters- Interpol 🎶

Born Too Late- The Poni-Tails 🎵

The Perfect Girl- Mareux 🎶

word count: 3082k

Minors do not interact! Does not reflect Cillian Murphy as an actual person- this is pure imagination and projection. Don’t interact if you find mentions of “Lolita” upsetting.

She could see through the parted curtains in his kitchen window that he was home. He was at the sink washing dishes with a towel thrown over one shoulder. His tight black shirt showed the curve of muscles in his upper arms as he scrubbed the pan. She was the girl-next-door type, helplessly petite and needy. She was nineteen and finally getting the stereotypical sex-drive that teenagers were criticized for. She was always horny now, and it felt like an unwavering flaw or weakness that placed her at odds wherever she went.

Her daddy issues obviously didn’t help the matter… or maybe it was because she was a scorpio.

She lived alone with her delusional father, who was an Irish author and playwright. He taught literature at the local university and loved expensive liquor. She was going to university for free because her father worked there, but she also stayed at home, trapped in her sexually repressed childhood bedroom. She stayed out of her father’s way when he was home but whenever he hosted “book-club” at their house, she found herself sneaking down the stairs to chat (flirt) with her father’s friends. The “book-club” was for the men in the neighborhood, to give them a social circle of their own, keep them from joining scary alt-right reddit pages by establishing connections with the men around them, something like that she imagined.

Cillian Murphy was part of this “book-club” that met once a month in her father’s house. He was a middle-aged actor with an A-list repertoire, and yet, he still socialized with the regular neighborhood men, as if he wasn’t acting out some of the books they read each month.

He was also a bachelor and hideously attractive. She met him when she was much younger, still in highschool and convinced that she would be an actress but discovered quickly that she was more of an artist. He’d given her short acting lessons, reading recommendations, and advice whenever she asked. He was like a second father, a better father than her actual father ever could be. He was the first person she masturbated about. She learned at an early age that she could spy on him from her bedroom window. She watched him read at night on his sofa, she watched him take home other women and fuck them on the couch when he was too horny to take them to bed, and she’d watched him masturbate to porn he projected on his small flatscreen tv. His taste in porn was pretty vanilla and it bored her, but she liked watching him touch himself, indulge himself. It was a serious turn-on.

And the cherry on top was the book they’d read for that month: Lo-fucking-lita.

She imagined that he got off to reading about a girl and an older man, that he fisted himself after he read at night, and that he thought of her when he did it. She was his Lo-fucking-lita. She had purposefully avoided the meeting that night, staying upstairs in her bedroom while the men discussed “literature” (Lolita). She wanted them to worry that she would come downstairs any minute while they were discussing such a nasty, disturbing topic. She wanted them to speak haltingly and glance up at her bedroom, she wanted Cillian to think about her and how dirty it was that they had read such a book, all the while she was upstairs. She took a long shower and washed her hair with fragrant shampoo. She moisturized her legs and dabbed her neck with perfume. She changed into her pajamas (underwear, a big t-shirt she’d swiped from Cillian’s house during a neighborhood get-together and she’d ruined her dress with salsa). She let her hair air-dry and rolled on her socks. She heard the men begin to leave, somewhat intoxicated, and watched as Cillian cleaned up his dishes left in his sink.

When he went back into his bedroom, she flew into action. She put on her slippers and sneaked down the staircase to the first floor. Her father was in the recliner, asleep, so she crept past and closed the side door behind her as she left. She walked the few feet separating the two houses and knocked lightly on Cillian’s door. She knocked again. And eventually, Cillian emerged from his bedroom in boxers and the same tight black shirt. He raised his eyebrow as he opened the door and let her in.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, worried. He glanced over at her house.

“Nothing, I just need some advice and my dad’s asleep.” She rolled her eyes and he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah. Come in.” He waved her inside and locked the door behind them. She dragged a finger along the fabric of the couch, searching its surface for evidence of what she’d seen from her bedroom window.

“This place has changed so much since I was a kid.” She observed (lying of course).

“Yeh, I’ve tried to update everything, some remodeling.” He nodded. “So, what kind of advice do you need?” He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter beside her.

“Mmhm. Fatherly advice.” She shrugged.

“Oh, so is this about a boy then?” He laughed and rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t know how much help I can be. Boy’s your age are so much different than how I was.” He shook his head and rested it against his palm.

“I know, that’s the problem.”

“Mhm?”

“I don’t know. It’s embarrassing.” She laughed and crossed her arms across her breasts. He looked down at her shirt and pointed.

“Hey, isn’t that my shirt?”

“Mmhm no, it's mine.” She lied and pulled down the front hem to inspect the words “Yoko Ono” on the front.

“I swear I have one just like that.” He walked off to his bedroom and she followed, a skip in her step. He opened his dresser and rummaged through the stack of neatly folded shirts. His clothes smelled like fabric softener and men’s deodorant. He didn’t find it and she gasped.

“Oh my god, you’re right. I just remembered that you lent this to me when I was here years ago and spilled salsa or something on my dress!” She slapped a hand across her forehead and he nodded slowly.

“Wow, that was so long ago. I’d completely forgotten.”

“Here, you can have it back.” She said slowly and watched his eyes widen as she slipped it over her head and handed it to him. Her bare breasts shook from the movement and she smiled. “What?” She asked innocently. He looked away but it was too late, he’d already taken her in, his eyes lingering on her full breasts, waist, and wide hips.

“What are you doing?” He hissed as if someone could hear and turned away from her.

“Returning your shirt.” She answered nonchalantly and fixed her wedgie, letting the material snap back against her butt.

“You can’t do that, Y/N. It isn’t appropriate.” His face reddened as he clutched the shirt in his fist.

“You don’t like this?” She pouted.

“Of course not. You’re young enough to be my daughter, I-” He spoke quickly.

“I think you like it, Cillian.” She interrupted him and trailed a finger down his clothed back.

“Why?” He sputtered innocently.

“Because… you’re still holding my shirt.” She pointed to the shirt still in his hands.

“Christ!” He covered his eyes and tossed the shirt onto the bed. She crawled onto the duvet, her knees sinking into the plush material.

“If I put on the shirt, will you still give me the advice I needed?” She sat down on her knees and licked her lips. He sighed and nodded into his hands.

“Yeh, yeh I guess so. Just put the shirt on.”

When she had the shirt back on, she leaned up against the headboard. “Ok, you’re good.”

He opened his eyes and exhaled loudly. “Alright, what is it?” His eyes were wildly dark and hungry but he used his acting talent to hide it. She saw right through his performance, namely because his erection grew inside his boxers.

“It's more of a question than advice, really,” she started.

“Ok.” He nodded, exhaling again.

“What did you think of Lolita?” She shifted back into a sitting pose in front of him. “I wasn’t able to stop by during the meeting, so, I want to know.”

“Fuck, Y/N. Why do I have the feeling that this isn’t what you’re really asking me?” He shook his head.

“No, you’re right. What I really want to know, I guess, is did you masturbate while you read it? Did it turn you on when you thought about her? Did you touch yourself and think of fucking a younger girl like her,.... Or like me?” She rose onto her knees and breathed against his wide lips. “Would you be Humbert Humbert mhm?” She reached down and played gently with his erection. He withheld his moan, closing his eyes to show how they rolled to the back of his head.

“Y/N, you can’t ask me things like that.” He protested, but didn’t push her away.

“I’m sorry. Let me rephrase: Have you ever thought about fucking me?” She traced her tongue around his lips, her hands prodding his erection.

“No.” He whispered unconfidently and she smiled.

“What’s this then?” She reached down into his boxers and took out his penis, running her hands along the length. He said nothing, fighting his internal desire to stay and come as she stroked him.

“We-we can’t.” He opened his eyes abruptly and stepped away, still very much hard.

“Yes, we can.” She reached for him and he reluctantly stepped forward again. “I’ve been thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about you, Cillian. I get so wet when I think of you and my pussy throbs, I have to touch myself.” She whined softly.

He looked down at her lips and breathed shakily.

“I think that you think about me too, don’t you?” She rose slowly on her knees and kissed him softly, her lips barely resting on his. She reached down to the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head.

“Touch me, please.” She whimpered and he looked down at her shirt, his hands shaking as they snaked up her chest.

“If your father found out…”

“I’m 19. I can make my own decisions.” She kissed him and sucked on his top lip. He moaned against her.

“Fuck…” He grunted and gave in, abandoning his pitiful battle to deny her. He tugged off her shirt and pushed her back on the bed.

“Do you want me to say that I’m a virgin? Does it turn you on to think that I’m a virgin?” She smiled and licked her lips seductively.

“No, don’t say that, Y/N.” He pushed her farther onto the bed and climbed on top of her.

“Well what do you want me to say, old man?” She laughed and wiggled beneath his weight.

“Tell me that you want me.” His voice came out as a growl, as he held her down on the bed, his hands stretched out against her’s over her head.

“Ooooo,” she purred against his lips, “I want you sooo bad, Cillian! Is that what you want?” She licked his lips childishly and rubbed the inside of her thigh up his leg.

“Fuck, don’t do this, love. I don’t like it when you tease me.” He exhaled against her cheek, his nose running over her soft, plump cheekbones. His erection pressed against the seam of his boxers and he rubbed his crotch against her panties. He could feel how wet she was through the two layers of fabric.

“I’m sorry, Cilian.” She pouted, her breasts bounced briefly against her open ribcage and he lowered his mouth to swirl his tongue around her nipple. She hummed in pleasure, squeezing her thighs around Cillian to keep him between her. He chuckled.

“See, I don’t need you to tell me that you want me, I can already tell, but what I want is for you to beg me, practically fuck me by yourself because you so desperately need to feel me inside you.” He kneeled above her and placed his hand on her navel, his thumb teasing the fabric of her waistband. She blushed and wiggled again, her clit throbbing. His thigh was positioned right up against her sex, he looked down and chuckled.

“I can feel your heartbeat through your cunt, darling.” His hand slid further down into her panties, brushing against the hair at her entrance. “It’s beating so fast, darling. Are you scared?” He pouted and cupped her cunt in his hand, gently. “Are you scared of me fucking you?” He rubbed her clit in small circles, his erection grew harder and she bit her lip.

“No, I want you to make me feel good.” She raised her chin defiantly and he smiled.

“Good girl.” He leaned over her and whispered in her ear, “call me daddy.”

“Mhmm, please daddy.” She started to shake with need as he rubbed her clit. She sat up and forced him down on the bed, straddling him on her knees. He ran his hands up her warm thighs as she moved her hips back and forth against his erection.

“Have you thought about me as much as I’ve thought about you?” She asked him between kisses.

“God, yes.” He groaned back and moved his hands up to the soft flesh of her stomach beneath her ribcage.

“I’ve been so fucking horny, daddy.” She moaned dramatically and smiled when he closed his eyes and groaned, thrusting up into her underwear. “I see you when you fuck those women on your couch. I know they aren’t pleasing you like I could, daddy. I touch myself when you fuck them, it gets me so wet thinking of you inside me. I want to make you cum, daddy.” She slithered down his chest and licked the outside of his boxer shorts. He watched her, his pupils shot.

“You have, eh?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh huh.” She mewed and pulled down the waistband of his underwear, exposing his large dick. She spat on it, a long string of drool dripping from her mouth. “I think you’re gonna be too big for me, daddy.” She licked the tip of his cock and he threw his head back, his mouth agape.

“Fucking hell. Look at what you’re doing to me and I haven’t even felt your fucking pussy yet.” He groaned and grabbed a fistfull of her hair, twirling it around his knuckles. She smiled and took him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around his shaft before pushing him down her throat. He moaned breathlessly and panted. She cupped his balls and hummed against his cock, drooling all over him. He pulled on her hair and his panting got quicker as he closed his eyes.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck… ah FUCK!” He cried as she went faster and squeezed at the base of his cock. “You’re such a good fucking girl. Come here.” He ordered and opened his arms to take her. She released him from her mouth and sat on his lap, facing him.

“Sit on it.” He whispered and twirled a strand of her hair between his fingers. She gasped quietly as his other hand pulled her underwear to the side and directed her to sit on his erect cock. She raised herself up slightly before going back down on him. He slid roughly into her, his girth a little too large.

“Fuck, daddy!” She cried and her hands steadied herself on his navel.

“I know, I know, baby. You’re just so tight, yeh?” He pouted and moaned as she wiggled on him. “Take you time, darling. I love being inside you.” He whispered and kissed her roughly, surrounding her in his arms. He pulled her closer to his chest and pushed himself up further inside her and she squealed. She cried out as he started to move in and out of her.

“Ahh yeah! Oh, please fuck me!” She moaned against his shoulder.

“Fuck, I love it when you plead me like that. You’re so fucking desperate.” He groaned and sped up, hitting the base of her uterus each time. Her walls swallowed him and squeezed him. It felt so good she couldn’t speak, she could only cry out with each hard thrust. He held her on his lap and he flipped them over and hovered above her. He pulled out and pulled down her panties impatiently and tossed them to the foot of his bed. He took one of her legs and put it over his freckled shoulder.

“You’re going to take me like a good girl, understand?” He stayed inside her but didn’t move as he looked down at her red face. She nodded eagerly.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl.” He smiled and started thrusting deeply and quickly but with experienced skill. He looked up as he chased his orgasm, his brows furrowed as he moaned. She gripped his throat gently, encouraging him to fuck her faster.

“Are you going to come, daddy?” She cried and he nodded.

“Yeah, fuck yeah. I’m gonna fill you up. You and your little pussy.” He panted and looked down as his cock went in and out harshly against her cunt. He removed the leg from his shoulder and took a pillow from the bed.

“Lift up your ass.” He ordered and she did as he asked, moaning against the pressure of his stiff cock. He put the pillow under her ass and pulled her hips right against his. He barely pulled out as he fucked her fast and hard. His balls slapped her loudly and she covered her mouth to keep from screaming.

“That’s it, that’s it. Fuck yes!” He yelled as his movements spasmed. She felt him cum inside her, his hot cum spilling between his cock and her walls. She cried out as she organsmed and shook with each wave of lingering pleasure. Cillian slowly took out his cock and looked down at the cum spilling out of her.

“That was so good, daddy.” She smiled breathlessly and he chucked.

“You were so good, love. You were such a good girl for me. So grown up.” He teased her and kissed her, his hands finding the handles of her hips. “You’re such a fucking pillow princess.” He laughed and went back to kissing her.

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian x reader #cillian x y/n #smut #cillian fluff #cillian fanfic #afab reader #peaky blinders

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sunnysideaeggs · 7 months

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I finally found out why the Laena/Daemon match made me so uncomfortable 😵‍💫

Are you really going to tell me that a little girl went from this:

To this:

In three years? 🧐🧐🧐

It makes me so upset that hotd makers really casted another actress for Laena making a 16 yo effectively look ‘elder’ and ‘grown up’ and ‘seeking’ Daemon. They’re actively feeding stereotypes about girls of color growing up faster, wanting men’s attention earlier or being ‘more developed’ than their white counterparts. Alicent and Rhaenyra, two characters who are in universe older than Laena, kept their actress after the time lapse.

Laena Velaryon’s age and appearance seems to fluctuate however it’s more convenient for Targaryen men. She’s just a cute kid when Viserys is searching for a wife, making Alicent the ‘more sensible’ choice. She’s a beautiful young woman when Daemon needs to get away from Rhaenyra for a bit. She’s a middle aged woman who’s getting boring when he needs to come back.

Also, why did they change the actress (again!) after the time lapse? Only 12 years passed, at most. And teen!Laena is 16.

Are you really going to tell me she looks 28? Don’t get me wrong, Nanna Blondell is beautiful, but she, as she should, looks her age (37). Laena didn’t need another actress for just an episode, showcase her youth and the tragedy of being a placeholder in Daemon’s life (who, btw, didn’t age a day. I’m starting to think he keeps himself youthful by feeding on little girls.)

Alas, it really bothers me. As a young woman of color, it always pisses me off whenever people find excuses to sexualize woc and especially prey on young girls. It’s even worse when big entertainment companies feed into it.

#sunny cooks 🍳🍷#laena velaryon #hotd discourse #anti daemon targaryen #anti viserys i targaryen #didn’t talk much about him but like; some sprinkles #anti hotd

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benedictscanvas · 11 months

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gentle hands, ankle clasps - roy kent x reader

pairing: roy kent x fem!actress!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: mindless fluff, language, allusions to smut but nothing remotely explicit (that should be blanket warning for every fic i write, it's never smut but the characters are almost always slightly horny maybe i'm projecting)

request: hey can i request a roy fic with the reader being an actress of some sort and being like bubbly compared to him - anon

a/n: back with roy again, being a comforting little shit. another chapter of be still, my foolish heart coming tomorrow, but thought i'd treat myself to a request in between! if you have sent a request, thank you!! they're all fucking incredible and please rest assured, i will be getting to them over the next week or so <3

---

Roy’s arm, firm around your waist, is practically the only thing keeping you upright. Why your stylist had insisted on these heels, and the height of them, you had no idea. Yes, you were a strong capable woman who could handle whatever life threw at you - apparently not counting these shoes.

“Think they’ll find it cute or nauseating if I carry you inside?” he whispers in your ear, temple pressed firm against yours. You tip your nose into his cheek affectionately.

“I’d find it nauseatingly sweet if you did,” you murmur, blocking out the shouts and flashes from ahead of you, “But the headlines would all be about my inability to walk in heels. I can’t give them the satisfaction.”

Roy nods, and pulls you in even tighter to him by the waist, glowering at the cameras again. You rest your hand on his chest in a tried and tested pose, one leg in front of the other, hip jutting out. Your bright smile was a much talked about contrast to Roy’s own expression, but the pictures were still ones you treasured.

You caught Keeley out of the corner of your eye, her and Jamie posing for photos of their own. Normally, you might have ran over to greet them but since you currently couldn't run, you just waved, mouthing a 'thank you!' to them for coming. Keeley offered you a shocked look at how good your outfit was, while Jamie just saluted. You could feel Roy’s arm moving and knew what he was about to do, so you grasped it lightly in your own.

“No middle fingers at my premiere,” you hiss at him, under the guise of the same bright smile. You feel his chuckle in his chest under your palm and you relent, bringing his hand up to your lips to press a kiss to each knuckle before you let it go, “Thank you.”

He grunts and you nod your appreciation to the camera people before moving on, allowing Roy to propel you forward as you fight to keep your balance. However uncomfortable you were, at least you knew you looked damn good. When you’d done a twirl for Roy before the two of you left earlier, he’d just stood there silently. He stared at you for fucking ages. You think he’s still frustrated that you stopped him when he started toying with the zipper because you weren’t willing to be fashionably late.

“Think you can cope?” Roy asks, pulling you out of your thoughts as he gestures to the next lot of paparazzi who are this time clamouring for some solo shots of you. You kiss Roy’s cheek and nod at him, pushing him gently out of the way with a laugh as you assume your previous pose but with a hand on your hip instead.

There’s a woman waving a microphone at you and you squint at her, then eagerly hike up your dress as realisation dawns.

“Hannah! How are you?” you greet warmly, kissing both cheeks and taking hold of her hand, “It’s so good to see a friendly face.” “These things are quite overwhelming,” she agrees, holding up her microphone in a way that you’re used to. No, you and Hannah weren’t friends, but you were friendly and that counted just as much in this world, “But you’re going to have to get them used to them, honey! Your third big movie this year, how do you find the time?”

“Oh, I made a deal with the devil long ago, Hannah,” you laugh, annoyed with yourself that its not your real laugh. Maybe tonight really was a little overwhelming, “No, in all seriousness, I’m just honoured to have gotten the chance to work on not one but three incredible projects in such a short period of time. I’ve been lucky.”

Your eyes find Roy’s. He’s stood just a few metres away, ready to dart in and take you away if you give him the signal. He’s a godsend and he’s perfected his routine of saving you and he gets away with it because he’s Roy Kent. It works wonders for you.

“Speaking of being lucky,” Hannah attempts a segue that you’re not sure even she’s sold on, “What’s up next for you? Another Hollywood blockbuster or some quiet time with that fella of yours?”

Hannah speaks in a very friendly way, so why do you have the sudden urge to go all Kent on her and tell her to kindly fuck off. You do a shaky exhale with your mouth far enough away from the microphone as you scratch your temple with one finger. The signal.

“Ah, you know, I think it’s time that I-”

“Right, that’s enough,” Roy steps up, signature couldn’t give a fuck walk on display as his arm winds around your waist again and it feels like you can breathe once more, “Fuck off now, please. Thank you.”

And he gets you out of there. Steers you past the next batch of photographers entirely with a few middle fingers despite your earlier insistence. You’re too grateful to care, smiling at those you pass with ease since Roy is making it clear that you’re not stopping to talk. You see a few more Richmond faces as he opens the door to the cinema they’re screening the film in, some of which you actually wouldn’t mind speaking to, but you figure you’ll see them inside.

Once you’re in the door and Roy has shut it behind you, the first thing you do is let out a huge huff of breath, a release. He tilts his head at you knowingly.

“I love it when you’re simultaneously rude and polite, you know?” you say, trying to break a bit of tension, “Fucking hot.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, and you wonder if that’s why he’s started add pleases and thank yous to his insults. He takes your hand in his and leads you slowly over to a sofa in the entrance hall, “You good?”

“Am now,” you answer honestly as you flop into a seat, watching Roy crouch down in front of you, hands on your knees through your dress, “I don’t know why it’s difficult tonight. Hannah’s a delight, normally.”

“Hannah’s a fucking nosy delight,” Roy barks out, “Your feet hurt, you’ve been rushing around all week, all those interviews. Talking to people. You’re exhausted. It’s fucking allowed.”

“I like talking to people,” you say, voice small.

“No, you’re good at it. There’s a difference. If you describe your perfect night to me, does it involve any of these people prying into your fucking business? Does it involve people at all?”

He’s very good at suddenly coming out with something that allows for a slight shift in your worldview. And he’s right. You know how to talk to people, you’re good at it, making connections and finding common ground. But your happiest is at home. Maybe a Richmond match, if they win. A day at the zoo, even.

“You’re so secretly insightful, god,” you groan, plastering a hand to your forehead as you sink further into your seat, “You’re right. Shit. I’ve just been doing so much of it.”

“Yeah. Just need a break. I’ve been telling you that shit.”

He has. Incessantly. You’d almost argued with him about it the day before, but you stopped yourself when you remembered he was trying to be kind, even if you were struggling with the constant reminders to take care of yourself. You’d promised, after the premiere, you’d recharge. If you’d listened to him, you would have recharged before, and maybe you could’ve handled a longer conversation with Hannah that the film’s promoters would have liked.

“Can we just agree from now on that you’re always right? It’s like living with a wizard. You’re my Gandalf.”

He chuckles, rubbing his hands up your thighs and back down again, strong, soothing motions. You’re not sure he even knows he’s doing it, providing steady comfort without even thinking about it.

“Fuck no. I’m wrong all the fucking time,” he says, “Let’s agree that we’re both always wrong.”

You giggle, shaking your head as you take his hands in yours, stopping his movements. You lean forward to press your forehead against your clasped hands.

“Love you. Thank you for tonight,” you say into his hands, feeling him kiss the crown of your head, then look up at him to add, “And for every other night. You know my perfect evening does involve one person, right?”

He looks suitably pleased. Sometimes he gets this look on his face that’s almost a smile, eyebrows lifted and sparkling eyes, lips slightly parted. It always makes you want to kiss him, so you do, keeping both your hands over both of his until one of his ends up holding your face closer to him. He breaks away first, keeps it light and sweet, like he knows exactly what you need at all times.

“I know you’re about to make a joke about-”

“Jamie, yeah, I was going to say Jamie,” you admit, flicking your gaze between both his eyes, “But I meant you, idiot. Always mean you, even if I don’t say it.”

“Fucking sap,” he mutters, leaning in to steal another kiss, even slower than the last. Even deeper. You want to pull him on top of you and lean back into this couch and spend the evening like this but there’s definitely other people walking around here. It’s like you’d forgotten.

“Love you too,” he breathes when he pulls away, “And I’m fucking proud of you. For this film, for tonight, for all of it. But if you don’t let me and Phoebe fucking pamper you tomorrow, we’re going to have a fucking problem.”

You gasp, eyes wide.

“She wants to do a spa day?”

“As soon as I told her how stressed you’d been, of course she did. Says her mum got her a new face mask she thinks you’ll like,” he shakes his head, then stops you as you’re about to say something, “And before you ask - no, she doesn’t want to be fucking pampered herself. Keeps going on about ‘providing a service’ the weird little shit.”

You feel a teary laugh bubbling up in your throat. Phoebe made you feel so loved. Roy made you feel so loved. You hoped you could ‘provide the same service’ for them.

“I will be the most relaxed woman on the planet tomorrow,” you promise, running a hand down the side of his face, thumb lingering on the scruff, “Can feel myself floating towards that title right now.”

‘Good. One more thing,” he leans away from you, head ducking down and a terrified part of thinks he’s about to stick his head underneath your dress, but instead you feel the clasps of your shoes coming undone around your ankles. You peer your head to watch him gently free you of your heels, one by one, thumb pressing into the soles of your feet and rubbing all the way down once. You shivered.

“Now let’s go and watch a fucking good film, yeah?”

God, you don’t know how you’re going to keep your hands off this man when you’re about to be sat in a dark room for the next two hours. Your dress pools on the floor when you stand up now that you don’t have your heels, but Roy quickly picks up the fabric so you don’t walk on it. You turn your head to sneak another quick kiss as the two of you begin walking towards the theatre, your heels dangling from Roy’s other hand.

“If you don’t end up marrying me, Roy Kent, I’m going to be really fucking angry with you.”

You watch the grin light up his face as he holds the door open for you to go and find your seats.

“Noted.”

#roy kent x reader #roy kent #ted lasso #ted lasso x reader #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent imagine #roy kent x you #roy kent fluff

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ginnsbaker · 11 months

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (4/?)

Chapter summary: The night at the club - from your perspective. And we find out whether you came to the opening of Wanda's cafe or not

Chapter word count: 6.3k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader (heavy on this chapter)

Tags: fluff if you squint (did I just say fluff?)

AO3 | Masterlist

Next Chapter: Five

Four

The night at the club - from your perspective

The club Clint chooses for Natasha’s send-off is a drug deal away from being sleazy, despite its popularity. It’s significantly larger too, than the typical nightclubs you’ve been to in the past; there's a mezzanine for VIP members and celebrity guests; three bars are stationed at the corners of the main room, selling beverages based on a price bracket–with the most expensive ones near the steps leading to the VIP area. In here, you find all kinds of party-goers–from preppy high school kids with their daddy’s money and fake IDs to aging business men looking to score a high-end escort or a B-list actress in need of a sponsor for their lavish lifestyle.

And then there’s you–newly single, unemployed, nearing your 30s and rooming with your best friend. Just with how you’re dressed–a white, velvet sleeveless cowl neck top and skinny jeans–you wonder what other people think of you, what backstory they’ve concocted in their heads. Whatever it is, it couldn’t be worse than your actual reality.

“How did you find this place?” you ask Clint after he returns with shots of tequila to start the night with.

He glances between you and then Natasha, who finishes her shot in a single gulp the second she snatches it from Clint’s fingers.

“Did you not see how big this place is from outside? It’s hard to miss the biggest nightclub in New York, Y/N.” His breath fans over your face, and all it takes is one whiff to know he’s already had some pre-party drinks in his system.

“I prefer the dive bars we used to frequent.” you say, grimacing as the tequila burns down your throat. It immediately warms the middle of your chest, leaving you thirstier than before.

Clint raises his eyebrows at you incredulously. “We’re not here to talk and catch-up. We’re here to get trashed because our girl right here,” he playfully puts an arm around Natasha so she’s snug against his side. “Is returning to the front lines.”

“Damn right!” Natasha yells, raising her empty shot glass to no one in particular. She’s deadly as she looks for what she’s capable of–which you know very little about–and yet, astoundingly lightweight when it comes to holding her liquor. It wouldn’t take three more rounds to render her thoroughly incapacitated.

Clint looks so smug, and it doesn’t take a second more for you to realize that he gave Natasha a double. You weakly jab his side with your elbow and then proceed to swipe his credit card from his back pocket, making sure he at least pays for everything tonight.

“Come on,” you say, reaching for Natasha’s hand. “We can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach or you won’t last until midnight.”

Natasha shakes her head with a pout. “Gotta last much, much, much later than that.”

“For sure. But first, let’s–”

“Where are you taking my sister?” A voice behind you asks in a demanding but playful manner. You feel it being said right in your ear, causing goosebumps all over the back of your neck.

Whipping your head around, you find Yelena smiling at you as she staggers a step back to avoid you accidentally kissing her cheek in the process.

There’s tension from the last time you saw each other, and it becomes instantly obvious that it hasn’t gone away the moment you take in her plunge cocktail dress and the rose-colored smirk she has on. You don’t really mean to, but it’s easy to make the conclusion that anyone would easily find her the most attractive person in the room.

“Little sis,” Natasha exclaims in barely contained excitement, hastily enveloping Yelena in a bear hug. “You came!”

“Hey,” you breathe out, failing to stop your gaze from straying below her collarbone and landing on her proud cleavage.

“Hey, stranger.” she greets you back, and you catch the mischievous smile on her lips despite having half of her face squashed against Natasha’s shoulder. Yup. She’s definitely noticed.

“See you around, kid. I’ll take care of this one.” Clint says, already pulling Natasha away before she can suffocate Yelena further.

Helplessly, you watch Clint and Natasha disappear into the crowd, anxiety crippling your ability to decide what you’re going to do or where you’re going next.

Yelena lightly taps you on the shoulder to get your attention–which, for all intents and purposes–is already hers to begin with. You just don’t want to be too obvious about it.

“My sweater.” she simply says with an unreadable expression when you turn to address her.

“Sorry?”

“You still have it?”

And then it comes back to you. Your ruined shirt, borrowing’s Yelena sweater, Yelena joking about her first sexual experience, that happened to be with you–

You can always blame the tequila for the way your cheeks flush at the memories.

Biting your lip, you say, “The truth is I forgot to mail it. With everything that’s happened–”

“It’s okay. Nat just recently told me the stuff you went through the past few months,” Yelena cuts in, and the softness in her gaze gives you a sense of calm. “Do you, maybe, want to drink about it? First round’s on me.” she reluctantly offers.

“Nah,” you dismiss her intentions to pay, as you hold up Clint’s Visa. “All our rounds on this.”

Yelena orders a frozen margarita, while you opt for a more basic choice of gin and tonic. You find yourselves sitting closely together, sharing a couch with random strangers in the most relatively secluded part of the club.

“So, what exactly did Natasha tell you?” you ask, letting your index finger dance along the rim of your glass.

Yelena takes a sip of her drink and considers how she should relay what she knows.

In the end, she goes for the unfiltered narrative, given that there’s really no way of making it sound less severe than it is. “That your wife cheated on you with her student.”

You offer her a wan smile and clink your drinks togethers. “Cheers.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be betrayed like that by the person you–I assume–trust the most.” Yelena says after some time. She’s not used to being the one to give consolation, especially with you. Growing up, you were a steady, ever-reliable presence in her life; her place of solitude throughout the pains of her youth. It’s pathetic how she’s wishing she had gone through the same ordeal if it meant she could give you the comfort and understanding you needed.

“Me too. I don’t even remember how I was able to survive what came right after taking your sister’s call that day. Did Nat mention that I almost killed the kid? He’s only a little younger than you are.” you say.

“Yeah. It’s fucked up. But it doesn't compare to what she did.” Yelena tells you with a pained expression. “You’re okay now, though. Right?”

“I’m,” You search for the right word that perfectly describes your monotonous routine and lack of a meaningful purpose. But you figure that there’s no need for Yelena–or anyone for that matter–to worry about you. Life’s easier to live without the concern of disappointing people who care about you. “I’m better than I was yesterday.”

Yelena nods empathically, and places a hand on your knee. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Your smile is small, but genuine. Clearing your throat, she quickly puts her hand back over her lap.

“Y/N?” Yelena starts.

“Yes?”

Yelena, for all her boldness and tenacity, has to put down her glass lest it accidentally slips from her shaking hands.

“There’s something I want to say, and you can’t talk unless I say so. Understood?” she says as calmly as she can manage.

“Am I free to react?” A smile plucks at the corner of your mouth, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Yelena has grown into a woman so different from when she was just Natasha’s little sister. She carries an air of sophistication, and from what you can tell, sasses her way out of difficult situations and knows what and how to get what she wants. Which is why it’s refreshing to see her display glimpses of the shy girl who spent her summers burning through classic literature in the public library.

A husky laugh escapes Yelena’s throat. “As long as it’s a good reaction.” she says.

You playfully roll your eyes at her.

“But seriously, hear me out,” Yelena breathes steadily through her nose. “First of all, I want to apologize about what happened when you were at my apartment.

“I didn’t know why I brought up losing my virginity to you, and it was terribly awkward–for me especially because the look on your face was…” Yelena trails off, pointedly avoiding your curious eyes. “It’s like you were recalling a bad memory–a memory that’s dear to me. And to be honest, it hurt me a bit.”

“Yelena–”

Yelena shushes you with a finger. “Let me finish. I was hurt, but I understood that I crossed a line that day. I was flirting with you the whole time knowing you were married. In a way, I was no better than–well, your ex-wife.”

Yelena pauses to look at you. She can’t read your expression, but at least you haven’t run away yet. Which is more than a good sign for her to continue.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. I could dismiss it as friendly between old friends, but could we even call ourselves that? We were never just friends. We had something that wasn’t official, and then I ran off to the UK before we had a chance to talk about that thing that wasn’t official, and then when I got back, I found out you’re already with someone else.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… that was a shitty move on my part and I’m sorry. But I’d be lying if I said I didn't mean to do any of that. ‘Cause I did want to stir the pot just to see if there’s still something there.”

You wait for her to continue, but eventually Yelena vaguely signals that she’d done speaking.

You cover your mouth with your hand, thumb scratching lightly at your chin as you thoroughly digest her confession.

“Y/N?” Yelena asks when she feels you’re being silent for too long, fear lacing her voice. “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” you quickly reply. “I accept your apology. And I do appreciate your candor–for not skirting around that incident like I probably would’ve, for…well, forever.”

Yelena is overwhelmed with relief.

“You were never great at confrontations.” she muses, and your minds both wander to the letter you wrote for her that she had missed, already having boarded the plane when you decided to drop by and hand-deliver it yourself.

“I’m working on it. I know I can’t keep putting things at the back of my head until I eventually forget them and then it’s too late.”

“Or maybe you just think it’s too late, and you use that as an excuse to not even try.” Yelena counters. It’s a fair point and somehow applicable to your shared history together.

“You know what? I’m just gonna shoot my shot here while I’m feeling brave,” Yelena says, keeping her eyes trained on her almost empty drink.

“Go to dinner with me next Friday.”

Before you can stop it, Wanda’s languid face in the mornings registers in your brain fleetingly. And then you blink once and the image of her is gone, replaced by Yelena’s hopeful stare.

“Dinner, as in…” you try to clarify, just in case you’re misreading it.

“As in I’m asking you out,” Yelena confirms, and proudly smiles at how your ears redden at this point. “Or if you’re not ready, say so. I’m a big girl. I can take it. Then I’ll ask you again in a few months.”

“I-I don’t know. Can I sleep on it?” you say, suddenly embarrassed.

“Take all the time you need. I just thought you should know that I’m an option.”

Your expression turns grim once you question the fact that someone like Yelena wants you.

She senses your internal conflict and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“How could you want me? I’m damaged goods. You know that, right?”

“Y/N,” Yelena chides, and she looks positively horrified. “Don’t you ever think you’re half the person you are just because somebody was stupid enough not to know your worth.”

You shrug your shoulders. There’s no point in arguing. Regardless of what other people think, it’s what you see in the mirror these days.

“Okay.” you mumble in reply and casually chug your drink to the last drop.

Yelena’s not convinced, but recognizes that it’s not the right place nor the right time to show you you’re more than just damaged goods.

“Okay.” she says, then looks over to where people seem to be under the spell of eternal bliss.

“Wanna dance with me at least? You know–as friends,” Yelena says, and then a second later adds, “For now.”

You don’t answer and merely allow yourself to be pulled towards writhing bodies moving to the beat of the music, like puppets on strings.

You don’t remember the last time you’ve thoroughly enjoyed dancing with someone.

(That’s a lie though, because you do; if twirling your wife and enthusiastically swaying to her poor singing in the kitchen counts.)

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of green eyes darts to you and your dance partner, before they shut in reprieve.

A surprisingly sober Natasha appears next to you as you’re getting the next round of drinks. You fan yourself uselessly with your hand after breaking out a sweat on the dancefloor.

“Hey! Where have you been?” you say.

“Bruce was here. But that’s not important.” Natasha says.

“Are you guys–” you begin to ask about it, but Natasha brazenly cuts you off.

“Don’t even think about it.” she says, her tone unusually stern, and you whip your head so fast in her direction your vision spins a little.

“Think about what?” you say.

“Flirting with my sister.”

“I wasn’t,” you say and Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “I swear.”

Natasha surveys you a while longer with an unreadable expression, and just as you start feeling uncomfortable, she backs off with a small nod.

It only bothers you more. “I-Is that something I’m not allowed to do?” you cautiously ask.

Natasha scratches at her nape. “Technically, you’re single now and you can flirt with whoever you want. But maybe not my sister, okay? I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“What are you implying?”

“Look, Y/N, I’m just trying to give you the big sister talk, and I hope you understand why I need to. Especially since Yelena told me not long ago about the R-rated version of your history together.”

Your mouth falls open in shock, already circling around the details of what Yelena might have shared with your best friend. “She what?”

“I wanted to smack you in the face when she told me that you were…” Natasha grimaces, trying not to imagine you in bed with her sister. “... her first.”

“God, Nat. I–” Your tongue feels heavy, and you wish you weren’t half-sober for this. “She–we–”

“Relax, Y/N. It’s not like I found out about it yesterday. I’ve known ever since she came back to New York.”

“I think I’d prefer if you’d still smack me in the face right now. But please consider how tiny I am compared to your usual sparring partners.”

Natasha lets out an airy laugh that gives you a bit of relief. “To be honest, I think I’ve always known that there was something going on between you and her. I was just too stubborn to admit it because I care about you both so much.”

“I care about you too. And Yelena.”

“I believe you,” Natasha says. “But Yelena thinks you hung the moon and stars and all that shit, and you’re–you’re kind of a mess, Y/N. No offense.”

“Do you want me to stay away from her?” you ask.

“Not really. But as her older sister, I need to remind you to think about it carefully if ever it becomes more than platonic.” she says. “I’m leaving in a few hours, so I need you to promise me not to be reckless. That's all I’m asking.”

Natasha gives and gives and gives, and rarely ever asks for anything.

And you suppose you owe it to her in some way.

“Promise.”

A couple of more shots (and an incident of restraining Natasha from punching the lights out of a guy who randomly grabbed your ass) later, you’re stumbling out of the club, reeking of smoke, sweat and alcohol.

Your phone dies just before you could confirm a ride, and you blearily stare at it like you’re expecting it to suddenly come alive again by some miracle. Yelena has left earlier, mentioning an early meeting at work, and you can’t find Natasha since Bruce’s surprise appearance. An option is to walk to your apartment, but you can’t seem to move any part of your body with the intense throbbing in your head.

You deliberate your fate for the night, until you feel an odd sensation of being watched.

Your eyes flit across the street and there she is.

Wanda Maximoff.

You get home safely with the help of your ex-wife. Once you reach your room, you don’t bother to brush your teeth or wash your face. You just mechanically strip down to your underwear before diving under the covers.

In your sleep, you dream about Wanda.

Dream Wanda resembles College Wanda, with her dirty blonde hair that falls in waves past her shoulders. She’s cradling your head on her lap, while you look up at her lovingly.

“Wands,” you whisper. “I miss you.”

She scrunches her nose as she smiles down at you. “I’m right here, baby.”

“You’re not.”

“Where did I go then?”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Look for me, then. I only want to be found by you.”

“I’m not sure I want to.” you confess to Dream Wanda, and her brows stitch together into a frown. Then you feel something wet and cold drip on your cheeks. Your eyes flutter open but instead of seeing Wanda, you see Vision’s face covered in blood.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream. In reality, you’re alone in Natasha’s apartment, thrashing in your bed and mumbling incoherently.

The next morning, you don’t recall any of it, but you feel its echoes in your heart anyway.

You wake up to a text from Natasha, telling her that she’s already at the airport. The message came in at 1:30AM, and was followed by another text six hours later, saying that she has landed safely and that you won’t be hearing from her again in the next ten days at the minimum. A third message came in a second after that, and it simply read, “Look out for my sister. Don’t forget what you promised.” You text back a short “Take care, Nat.”, before tossing your phone somewhere on your unmade bed.

Trudging towards the kitchen, you think about Yelena.

There was a time when the blonde used to occupy your thoughts day and night, notwithstanding the thousands of miles you were apart.

But all that changed the day you met Wanda, and she never crossed your mind again except when she’d come up in conversations, and until that time you accidentally almost ran her over in Soho.

You languidly stir together the milk and cereal in your bowl. It would be a lie to say that seeing Yelena, especially in that dress, didn’t do things to you that a married woman would normally stamp out before they could spread like wildfire. Except, you’re no longer a married woman. And Yelena let you look as much as you wanted–even encouraged it.

It’s liberating more than anything, not because you’re free from the confines of marriage, but because you didn’t feel guilty having looked.

Is it time?

You’ve always thought of Yelena as your ‘right person, wrong time’.

Is it the right time?

The weekend passes in a blur of series marathons and Chinese takeouts. Wanda doesn’t text or call, neither does Yelena. You thought you had sufficient time to reconsider Wanda’s invitation, but Monday eventually comes around, bringing about an unexplainable anxiety you can’t curb and can only attribute to intuition. Even if you don’t tell Wanda the reason you won’t come, binge-watching another show instead of doing something meaningful for someone is at a level of pathetic you’re not willing to stoop towards.

Besides, you said you’d come. Being steadfast in your word is both your strength and your undoing. And so, your intent to follow through with your promise brings you to a corner gardening store, after scouring the internet for ‘grand opening gift ideas’.

None of them suggested this. Though you knew Wanda enough to know better than those online articles.

“And this pretty thing? What does it stand for?” you ask, pointing at flowers of a variety of colors resembling a pompon.

“That’s a Chrysanthemum–or just ‘mums’. Very easy to keep them alive. In Chinese culture, it represents longevity and good luck. But it also simply symbolizes friendship and happiness.” the store keeper says.

“Perfect,” you say, focusing on ‘longevity and good luck’. “I’ll get… Five of those in a pot.”

“What color would you like, dear?”

Without thinking, you pick Wanda’s favorite color. “The red ones. All of them.”

The store keeper claps her hands together. “Excellent choice. Just give me a second to prepare them for you.”

A pleased smile works its way to your lips. “Thanks a lot.”

Mums in a pot. That's a good gift right? Not too thoughtful nor impersonal. It would look good displayed anywhere in her shop should Wanda decide to keep it there. Or she can place it at her new home near a window, as it probably needs six hours of sunlight a day.

Perhaps you should also write instructions for Wanda on how to care for these mums. And will she need some fertilizers too?

You’re busy putting together a mental list when the store keeper comes out with the final product.

“Here you go,” she says and hands you over Wanda’s gift in a paper bag. “It’s $95.86.”

You pull out a hundred dollar bill from your wallet. “Keep the change.”

She does a little bow of gratitude and says, “Thank you, dear. She’s going to love it.”

“She?” you sputter, bewildered.

“The recipient’s a lady, I assume. Is it not?”

“It…is.” you hesitantly confirm.

“Good luck, ma’m.” she says with innocent cheer, unmindful of your sudden skepticism.

As you leave the shop feeling less sure of your gift choice, your phone’s ringing tone goes off in your pants. With urgency, you take your phone out of your pocket and find an unknown number calling.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” A husky voice greets you over the receiver.

“Yelena?”

“Hey. I, uh, got your number from Nat,” she says, hearing her heavy sighs in between sentences. “Is this a bad time?”

“No. Is something wrong?” you ask, swinging the paper bag back and forth as you meander about the busy alley on your way back home.

“I’m in the middle of a news article that’s due for tomorrow, and I heard that your former boss is Scott Lang?”

“You heard right.”

“I need your banking knowledge to go over some facts in my draft,” she says. “And maybe, get a quick interview with Mr. Lang?”

For a while, you don’t know how to answer. You haven’t been in touch with Scott or any of your colleagues since moving back, and it seems kind of rude to call him up out of the blue for a favor.

“Please?” you hear Yelena beg softly. You knew Yelena. Like Natasha, she almost never asks for help, not unless it’s a matter of life, death or career.

“Okay,” you finally say. “Where should we meet?”

“I’ll meet you at Nat’s in an hour? It’s where you’ve been staying, right?”

You agree on the time and place, and hurry to catch a bus instead of your original plan to walk the thirty minutes back to the apartment.

It oddly feels good to be part of a Monday’s morning rush once again.

You end up spending the whole day helping Yelena and trailing after her to visit various places and meet financial executives just to put together a 1,500-word news article on The Wall Street Journal.

“You saved me today,” Yelena tells you while you escort her to the lobby. “Let me make it up to you on Friday?”

It’s tempting, especially after discovering that you both make a great team. You actually had fun running errands with her.

But you promised Natasha.

“I’ll text you.” you answer with a small smile.

Once Yelena gets inside her ride, it hits you right away where you’re supposed to be. You check your watch and the time displayed sends you in a panic.

It’s almost ten. Wanda’s café is only open until nine. You quickly grab your gift for Wanda and hail a cab for Queens.

Your cab screeches to a halt right in front of Second Chances. You make sure to tip big for forcing your driver to beat the speed limit several times on the way.

You get off the cab, and take in your first impression of Wanda’s café. The facade of the coffee shop is simple: the signage looks obviously hand-drawn, while the black awning underneath it gives it a Parisian vibe; a string of yellow led lights hang above the glass door and the full-length window next to it.

It has Wanda written all over it. And you can’t help the teary smile that creeps its way to your lips. Carrying the potted Chrysanthemum securely under your arm, you walk to the entrance that holds a ‘Sorry, We’re Closed’ sign. The stainless shutter is lowered down just barely, and it’s pitch black inside except for a beam of light coming from the back room.

You raise your fist, about to knock, when suddenly you catch a figure from the corner of your eyes.

It’s Wanda, and she’s asleep with her arms as her pillow, hunched over the bar table facing the window. Curiously, you move over to stand right across her and push your palm against the translucent barrier.

She waited for you to show. Your heart betrays you as it thumps wildly in your chest.

For a moment you just stand there watching. There are still days when you randomly get angry at Wanda all over again. Some days, you bargain and simultaneously undergo depression. And you cycle over these stages in random orders but haven't–not even once–felt like you’re ready to accept all of it.

Somewhere in the stillness, an ambulance siren could be heard wailing in the distance. Wanda is slow to come to, and even as you realize she’s waking up, you stay frozen in your position.

“Y/N?” you read your name being spoken from her lips. Wanda looks confused in her sleepy state, still deciding if you’re actually there. You beam at her and mouth a ‘hi’ in return.

Wanda lights up right before your eyes. She hurries to unlock the door to her shop.

“Sorry I’m late.” you say.

Wanda’s smile only widens, and then she says, “Better late than never.”

You choose to sit at one of the tiny dining tables for two near the open kitchen. There are congratulatory flowers arranged neatly by the counter, making you a bit self-conscious about bringing something similar on a smaller, more insignificant scale.

“How long have you been waiting?” you ask as you survey the interior of the cafe..

“Not long.” Wanda assures you, and then proudly hands you over the menu. Her writing is almost instantly recognizable.

“Pick anything you want. On the house.” she says, tying back her apron.

There aren’t many items on the list, but you’re familiar with each of them from Wanda having made them for you over the years.

“I’ll have a Spanish latte,” you say, eyes still scanning the menu. “Do you have any cookies left?”

“Sorry, they are all sold out.”

“Wanda, that’s awesome!” You exclaim, placing the menu back on the table.

Wanda endearingly chuckles at your excitement. You’re still a customer, and it’s very unusual for one to cheer when the item they want is unavailable.

“Have you eaten? I can whip something up.” Wanda says, peeking inside the fridge.

You haven’t eaten since lunch, but you don’t want Wanda to go through the trouble of preparing something off the menu. “It’s fine.”

“I’m kinda hungry myself,” Wanda chews on her bottom lip. “Does garlic pasta sound good?”

As if on cue, your stomach rumbles and Wanda tries to suppress a smirk.

“Sounds amazing.” you mumble, somewhat flustered by the sound you just made. The thought of a warm pasta for dinner, however, is already making you drool.

Wanda grins, buzzing with childlike enthusiasm. “Coming right up!”

Right before she gets to it, Wanda puts on some music and gives you her phone. “Play anything you want.” she says. A classical piano piece starts playing in the background, and it actually matches the mood and the vibe of the room, so you choose to stay on the current playlist.

Wanda already has some minced garlic and left over pasta from earlier, so it’s just a matter of reheating and then mixing the ingredients. In less than ten minutes, she’s bringing out two plates of Aglio e Olio and your order of a hot Spanish latte.

You haven’t realized how starving you are until the aroma of Wanda’s dish reaches your nose.

“What’s that?” Wanda points to the paper bag sitting beside you after she settles in her seat across you.

“Oh!” you say. “I almost forgot. This is for you. Happy, uh, grand opening day?”

Wanda takes the bag, unintentionally brushing your fingers in the process. Her skin is warm from cooking and smells like the condiments she used to prepare your food.

You quietly eat your food, unable to keep yourself from moaning out your satisfaction. After months of living on takeouts, it’s a very welcome change.

Wanda, on the other hand, peers inside the paper bag, and her smile grows and grows until it reaches her watery eyes.

“These are gorgeous, Y/N,” Wanda comments, taking the pot out of its hiding. “I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Wanda stands up and walks towards the window near the entrance, the plant and a glass of water in tow. She places the mums in the corner where it will be least bothered by customers, but should receive the most sunlight at the same time. She then proceeds to water it, careful to cover the whole soil and sprinkle some on its delicate petals.

A smile graces your lips as you watch her tend to the mums.

It’s hard not to wonder if maybe this could work. Maybe healing can be possible while being friends.

“How much do I owe you?” you ask, after you finish your food. You subtly eye Wanda’s plate, which she’s barely touched.

“Like I said, on the house.” she answers.

You purse your lips in disapproval but don’t insist; the tip jar is right beside the register and you can slip some twenties later when Wanda’s not looking.

“So, any feedback? Is the latte too sweet?” Wanda asks with a devoted curiosity of a businesswoman. “For the pasta I added an extra ounce of minced garlic from the original recipe, but I’m not sure if it made the flavor too strong. And this table–don’t you think it’s too small? Cause they don’t look standard-sized to me, and I keep telling them–”

“Wanda, slow down,” you gently cut in, bringing the coffee mug to your lips for a taste test. It’s sweet but not achingly so. There’s still a hint of bitterness in the aftertaste, and the richness of the condensed milk counters it, resulting in a very comforting pick-me-up.

“It’s good. I’d say, better than the ones I always got when I was still working.”

“You’re not working anymore?”

You bite your lip at that, not really meaning for that information to slip out of you.

“I took a sabbatical,” you explain, refusing to call yourself jobless in front of your ex-wife, who somehow contrived to achieve greater heights following a divorce and a narrowly missed small town sex scandal.

You quickly try to change the subject. “Anyway, don’t worry about the furniture. As long as they’re comfy.”

“Half of your ass is barely hanging onto your seat, you know?” Wanda points out with a giggle.

There’s no denying the tinge of jealousy you feel over the fact that Wanda seems to have her shit together more than she cares to admit. But that’s overruled by the natural joy of seeing someone you care about (because you do, you really still do) thrive, no matter how much they hurt you in the past.

“Are you saying my ass is fat?” you ask, pretending to be offended.

She laughs harder, resulting in tiny hiccups that never fails to trigger you into a fit as well.

“Honestly though, it barely fits mine as well. But that's all I can afford for now.” Wanda says as she keeps twirling the pasta around her fork without any intention of actually eating.

“You shouldn’t play with your food.” you chide, still smiling.

“Do you want some of mine?”

You shake your head no. “Not when you just implied I have a fat ass.”

Wanda snorts, her laughter building up again at your poker face.

When she recovers this time, you sheepishly smile and take some from her plate and transfer it to yours.

“I haven’t thanked you for coming.” Wanda mutters in a hoarse voice. You wordlessly fill her empty glass with water.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure until this morning if I was going to.” you say.

Certain muscles on Wanda’s face visibly tighten at that.

“Why is that?” Wanda whispers, staring at her unwanted food, losing again the appetite she lied about in the first place.

You mull about it for a moment. There’s no point in denying that you feel things for Wanda. Abstract feelings that you can’t name, but feel regardless. And it’s still unclear whether they are beneficial or not to you moving forward. Just that, being in communication with Wanda again puts you at ease; brings back a sense of normalcy that you so crave. It could be because you can’t remember a time she wasn’t a part of your life, can’t remember who you were before her. Going cold-turkey only led to some impulsive decisions (not to mention, a cheap and random sex with a stranger who was spoken for).

“Because I want to do what’s right for me, this time. And I’m not sure if this is.”

“This?”

“Being in each other’s lives.” you coolly state, crossing your arms and leaning back on your chair.

Wanda blinks a couple of times when wetness gathers around her eyes. You drop your head and sigh. It goes without saying that these meetings with Wanda are always volatile. But constantly crying around someone is obviously not an indication of a healthy bond.

“I’m afraid you’re the only one who can answer your own question, Y/N.” Wanda swipes at the corner of her eyes.

You hollowly laugh. “I was kinda expecting you’d convince me that this is a good idea.”

“The fact that I invited you here and never stopped trying to contact you says alot without me having to say it.” Wanda reasons evenly.

“And me doing exactly the opposite, must also say a lot. Is that it?” you retort.

Wanda squints at your hard tone. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well, it’s what I’m hearing.”

An impasse is reached, and Wanda wishes nothing more than to retract her statements and start all over again.

“Why do I keep fucking this up?” you’re scarcely able to hear Wanda talk, more directly to herself than you.

You release a ragged breath and speak out, “You’re not fucking up anything, Wanda. There’s nothing to fuck up in the first place because we’re not supposed to expect anything from each other anymore, remember?”

Wands nods in understanding. “It just feels like I keep saying the wrong thing.”

You consider her words for a moment. “Maybe it’s because I keep waiting for you to.”

Wanda looks up at you with wide, limpid eyes. “So I am walking on eggshells.”

“You don’t have to though. You can’t always worry about what will set me off. Let me worry about that.”

“I’m scared, Y/N,” Wanda whispers. “I’m scared I’ll say one wrong thing and I won’t hear from you again for a long time. I mean, I just… I just found you. Inadvertently, if I may add.”

“I-I get where you’re coming from, and I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” you say. “But I can’t promise that I won’t disappear when something happens.”

Wanda hums and you lick your lips.

“I have thought about it.” you say, in spite of the delicate timing.

She looks skeptical. “Thought about…?”

“Us,” you motion between yourself and her. “Being friends.”

“Oh,” Wanda tries not to sound disappointed. The problem is she wants too much too soon. And she needs to work on that or else she ruins her chance with you. “And?”

You’re nothing but truthful when you say, “And I miss the comfort of having you as a friend.”

“Me too,” Wanda whispers thickly as you both share a meaningful look.

Maybe someday, she can have everything she has lost.

Just not all at once.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #wanda maximoff #marvel #natasha romanoff #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #angst

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i-magines · 1 year

Text

Wildest Dreams: Chapter 4

Pedro Pascal x fem!Reader

synopsis: You’re an assistant director in an indie movie set and fate makes sure you keep crossing paths with a certain Chilean actor.

disclaimer: This is my first Pedro Pascal’s fictional work + the first fanfic I write in English, as it isn’t my first language. Unfortunately, I do not own Pedro and this is all a product of my imagination.

rating: M (keep scrolling if your under 18 please)

warnings: age gap, mature content, fem!reader, eventual drinking and drugs, a little smut but nothing crazy (yet), a bit slow burn but not really.

a/n: i’m really happy with all the comments i got on the past chapters!!! just don’t know how to answer them with this account and not my personal one :/ should they fuck already or nah? let me know

word count: 1,851

After your last encounter, Pedro was being extremely weird around you. If you could even say that, since it was very clear that he was also avoiding you. This has been going on for about 2 weeks now and it made you feel super insecure. You didn’t get why he was behaving like this. Did he regret the little moment you had in the tub? Did you do something that made him change his mind? You felt confused and, being honest, a little abandoned.

In the mornings, you went straight to the set and, at the end of it, you ran back to your cabin. You felt very lonely without his company and even though you had a crush on him, your friendship was what you’ve been missing the most. The stories, the laughs, the looks between scenes. When you had to interact because of work, he avoided your eyes and was very quiet around you. For the past couple of weeks, you didn’t do much other than hang out with Flo on the only day off you had — and even that was odd, because Pedro left a few minutes after you got to Flo’s cabin. All of this was consuming you and making you feel terrible.

You were off duty when the producer called you. They were working on positioning the lights and rehearsing, but the extra actress who was supposed to be in the scene didn’t show up. Being a budget movie being shot in the middle of nowhere in Germany, the producers had to figure it out with what they had in hand. Trying to keep the situation only between the producing and directing teams, as the scene called for a more intimate approach, they asked you to be her stunt. You knew what scene it was and you got chills thinking about it, as you walked towards the cabin they were in.

Waiting for you were the director, the cinematographer, Flo and Pedro. The only form of illumination in the room were candles strategically positioned for the shooting. The director approached you. Not much time for the ceremony, Flo put your hair down and applied some makeup on your face.

“I’m gonna need you to strip down, girl friend”, she let you know, a bit embarrassed.

You already knew about that, so you had already prepared your mind to do it. You took your clothes off, keeping on only some nude panties. Flo added some makeup on your body as well, and left the room.

“Okay, let’s roll then.”

You and Pedro laid down on the bed together. He was still wearing his clothes, only some shirt buttons opened. He was on top of you, but didn’t dare to look at your eyes. It felt like forever for them to make sure about lights and angles.

“As you know, this scene isn’t about love”, the director started. “It’s about fucking. That’s all I have to say. Action!”

You both didn’t move.

“I said, action!” He shouted.

Your body felt tense underneath his and it all felt kind of mechanical, as he put his hands on your face and started to come closer to you. Well, this is how acting is supposed to be, you thought, as you put your hands on his hair, trying to make sure you were following the director's briefing. He suddenly stopped.

“Sorry, Dave”, he said, completely ignoring you under him. “I don’t think I’m feeling it with her, she is too young, and I feel like this whole scene doesn’t add up to the movie itself.”

“Excuse me?” The director looked confused and slightly offended.

“I’m not doing it”, Pedro simply said. Dave looked infuriated. “I know I have a veto power on the contract and I’m using it.”

“That’s why I don’t work with Hollywood stars like yourself”, he said after breathing in and out very slowly. “I just wanna point out what incredible ironic is your problem with her age, giving that I’ve lost track of how many times it got to me that you two have been suspiciously close with each other.”

You saw in Pedro’s eyes the same anger as the day you went clubbing. The producer came back into the room, after hearing the voices a little louder going on inside.

“I think it’s better if we all calm down”, she said. “Look, this scene has been controversial since day one, even the studio heads thought so. Let’s leave on hold now and we can have a meeting later this week—”

“No, Donna”, Dave interrupted her. “I’m doing it with or without him.”

“Just to make myself clear, neither is she doing anything”, Pedro said pointing towards you with his head. “I’m vetoing her as well. Go get dressed, Y/N. Now.”

You did as he told.

“This situation is ridiculous at this point”, Donna looked nervous and tired. The two of them had been fighting for days over every single thing on the set. “I will take this matter to the studio, no shooting tomorrow. Everybody out of my sight."

You left the room first and you had to practically run, because it was pouring rain. After all that, you weren’t even sure you still had a job anymore and you just felt so fragile. You heard steps behind you, but you didn’t stop. Pedro called your name. He got to you once you had to stop to unlock your cabin door.

“Can we talk, baby girl?” His words made you slowly turn to face him. You both already wet from the rain.

“Don’t you fucking dare to baby girl me, you fucking asshole”, you didn’t raise your voice, but he could see the hurt in your words.

“Y/N, I couldn’t do it— this whole situation”, he tried to defend himself.

“Fuck you Pedro. Fuck you a million times”, you were a bit louder now. “Did it cross you pretty little mind that I need this fucking job? That I need people to fucking like me? Get off your ass and look around, man.”

“You are no actress, especially for a scene like that”, he said, raising his voice too.

“Why do you care? You don’t even recognize my existence anymore”, you felt like crying.

“That’s how much I care!” He ran his hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea how hard it has been for me since I met you? Being around you and saying no to every single one of my instincts demanding me to fucking make you mine? Since day one, Y/N. Since I saw you in that goddamn bathtub.”

“Who the hell asked you to do that?” You stared at his brown eyes.

“You didn’t even want people to know we were friends”, he did his best to not sound like he was blaming you. “I never know what to do around you and you don’t make my life easier with all those fucking mixed signs.”

“I fucking told you!” You come off louder than you meant. You take a tone down as you repeat yourself, “I fucking told you.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Can we go inside, please?”

You did as he asked and got you both towels. He sat on the corner of your bed.

“Look, sweetheart”, he began. You were still standing up, looking at him. “This whole thing… The age gap, it just— it won’t work out in the long run. After what happened, I truly felt bad with myself, as if I was taking advantage of you.”

“Wow, hold on a minute”, you shake your head. “Sure you are like, over 20 years older than me, I get that. But who the fuck was talking ‘bout forever? And most importantly, Pedro, I thought we fucking were friends! Why didn’t we talk about it?”

“I’m sorry—"

“I’m not done”, you interrupted him. “I’m no kid. I’m a fully grown woman who knows what she wants and I expected that after our last conversation you already knew what that was.”

You came closer to him.

“You are not manipulating me, Pedro”, you said as you got on your knees in front of him. “I want this, I want you. I fucking need you so badly.”

Your words gave him chills. You both knew that what you were craving would have a lot of implications for both of you.

“Are you sure?” He asked, his eyes sparking. “Are you sober?”

"Unfortunately, I am”, you promised. “Please, don’t make me beg.”

You didn’t have to.

Pedro finally pulled you closer for a warm, passionate kiss. He held your neck with one hand, using the other one to pet your cheek. You made sure to reciprocate the intensity, getting your tongues to touch, making the kiss deeper. Your stomach felt like it was upside down, butterflies all over the place.

"Fuck, sweetheart", he growled in the middle of the kiss, you got goosebumps all over your body. He got you up and made you sit on his lap, so his hands could run more freely through your body. "You're so fucking beautiful, you know that?"

The thought of Pedro thinking you were beautiful made you blush. He had mentioned it a couple times before, when you're hanging out together, but in a more subtle way. You let your hands wander through his neck and arms, finally being able to touch him as you’ve been wanting since you two met. A moan escaped your lips and that was the sign Pedro was waiting to push you down to the bed, getting on top of you. You loved the feeling of this warm body on yours and you could feel the heat from between your legs increasing.

All you could think about is how you wanted him all over you, touching every single possible part of your body. His smell felt inebriating, as if he was the only thing you senses could process at this moment. Time stopped making any sense and you both pulled away after a while, gasping for air. He let his body fall down next to yours and you laid on your side, turned to face each other.

"You're a good kisser", he says, switching his look from your lips to your eyes.

"You're not bad yourself", you both giggled. He let his hand rest on your waist, putting you a little closer, saying nothing for a while. "What are you thinking about?"

"Just— I guess I’m worried about you”, he said, avoiding looking in your eyes now. “Keep thinking about what Dave said, people gossiping about us.”

“Usually I do my best to not listen to what people say,” you started. “But I guess I’ve been afraid of running the career I barely started.”

“I get that and I’m sorry I can’t protect you from it, sweetheart.”, he touched your cheek with his thumb. “We’ll just keep it between ourselves.”

CHAPTER 5 AVALIABLE NOW

TAGLIST: @kyuupidwrites @omg-its-typical-aesthetics-fan @vivibabiez @ivyohmy @sebastianstansimp @tubble-wubble @28cnn @3zae-zae3 @technicallysassyfox @bellatrixyoass @mandolover86 @eliffluisa @jbcalway (does anybody know why i can’t tag some people?)

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro x reader #pedro pascal smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction

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