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sugucidal · 1 year ago

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# HOW TO SEDUCE YOUR NEIGHBOR 101 !!

CHAPTER ii. [9.1k words]

୨୧‬┊pairing: toji fushiguro x fem! reader

୨୧‬┊synopsis: the shopping trip you were forced to go on with Toji doesn't go exactly as planned.

୨୧‬┊warnings: taboo cw! + semi-smut + age difference (reader is in her 20's and toji is 34 ) + slow burn + one-sided pining + attempt at humor + slice of life + reader takes multiple L's + megumi is mentioned + reader gets objectified (not by toji) + toji is a serial hoe

୨୧‬┊a/n: make sure to check out my main post! ive included a pinterest board for everything described + a playlist ♡

MAIN POST | part i. > part ii. > part ii.

You didn't know if it was a blessing in disguise, or a curse. Perhaps a cruel joke the world was playing on you like it always did. Yet here you were again, your knee high fluffy socks skidding across the oakwood flooring of your room, scouring through your closet like a deranged cat looking for something to wear on today's decor run.

"Shoes, shoes…I'm missing shoes," digging through the furthest corner in the enclosed space of your closet, you spotted an unopened box on one of the shelves. It was a simple pair of heeled, white mary janes with a heart buckle. You got it 2 birthdays ago but never saw an opportunity to wear them, until now.

Your mother told you that Toji was picking you up at 10:30 am despite you telling her that you would go after lunch.

'He's a busy man. He said this is the only time he's free today.'

"Yeah, of course he is. Always busy doing God knows what." Sighing, you decided on your ensemble for this morning. It was rushed and unplanned, but it would have to do.

Looking at the time on your phone, you saw that it was 10:15. You've still got 15 more minutes left till Toji arrives to pick you up. Letting out a breath, you sat on your bed, shoe cladded toes tapping the floor as your knee bounced, restlessly waiting.

Going over to your floor length mirror, you checked over your choice of outfit once more. It wasn't too cold of a day, so you opted for a knitted long sleeved, off-the-shoulder, cream toned sweater dress that hugged your curves. With its hem stopping just right underneath your ass.

You were debating between thigh highs or leg warmers, but decided leg warmers looked better scrunched down on your ankles with the shoes you opted to wear. You didn’t do much with your hair last night since you were only at home, but since you were going out in public today, you felt like doing something with it. Something cute specifically, as you opened your vanity drawer deciding which accessory to wear today. Picking some silk ribbon you saw laying about, you braided it into your hair, sealing it with a rubber band and tying an extra ribbon into a bow to conceal it. And finally, you had your bag. Well, more like bear. The teddy bear backpack you had on matched well with the neutral color scheme. So, you went for it. Honestly, you reminded yourself of a doll. A doll with a pretty face, and a whole lot of problems.

Taking a deep breath, you puffed out your chest. Your confident expression stared back at you, but on the other side of that mirror you felt nothing but anxiety simmering the longer you stood there in silence.

"I might as well wait for Toji outside then." It was no use standing around in your room. The bed looked way too inviting as it only made you think of excuses not to go. You wouldn't let your bed get the best of you this time.

Walking down the stairs, you headed towards the entrance, petting your cat's furry head along the way. Upon opening the door, you were met with the sight of freshly layered snow. It was thin, barely half an inch thick, but it already had you feeling a little better with the anticipation of making a snowman with it once the days got colder. You remember there was a time when you used to do that with Toji.

God, you can't even reminisce about the past without Toji having some part in it.

You desperately needed to figure out how you were going to do this.

Last night was a bust. Not much progress was made besides the fact that Toji actually spoke to you for the first time in years. Not that he had much chance to do so sooner even if he wanted to, with you a couple hours away from home and all. But it was the bare minimum. Right now you needed a plan, and you needed to think of one fast.

Standing against the railing of your porch, you sorted through your thoughts. You're going to get picked up by Toji in less than 10 minutes. You'll ride in his car, pretend that everything's okay because it is, you'll buy whatever this party needs, and if it goes well you'll confront him on the ride back home. And that'll be the end of that.

Easy.

But when is anything ever easy when it comes to that man. Nothing. The answer has always been nothing.

This line of thought has you so deep into your own frustration that you don't even realize you've been ranting to your teddy bear backpack. Murmuring to it harshly, and rolling your eyes like you're gossiping with a friend about the latest dumb thing that happened on Twitter today.

And it's only when you see a black pickup truck from your peripheral vision pulling up, that you stare back at the bear in horror. Mind being snapped back to the present, and feeling embarrassed that you were seen like this. A man was causing you this much turmoil, that you've been complaining to a damn backpack about it.

Quickly putting your bag back on, you smoothed out your sweater dress. You really fucking hope he didn't see that.

Facing towards the driveway you paused. Your eyes widened, already in awe at the vehicle as you saw it more clearly up close.

The last car you saw Toji with was an old, red Toyota truck. It did it’s job, but definitely not without a couple repairs here and there every so often (that you may or may not have checked him out while he was doing so.) So seeing this new, shiny, black Chevy parked right outside the driveway was definitely an exciting upgrade. The wheels were lifted, making the body higher than its original design, and the windows were tinted midnight black, making it nearly impossible to see who was inside unless you stuck a cheek to the glass.

Overall it was big, and intimidating.

Just like him.

'Guess those freelancing jobs paid off then.’

*BEEP BEEP*

Jesus. You didn't even notice Toji had already parked. How long were you just staring at it for? If he started to honk at you, it must’ve been more than what society deemed normal.

Running up to the passenger side of the truck, albeit meekly, you stopped right in front of the door just as the tinted windows were being pulled down giving you a better view of the inside. There sat Toji on the other side, upper body turned and facing towards you with one hand still on the wheel.

Toji’s eyes almost popped out of his sockets at your appearance but it was quickly masked by a look of amusement.

"You busy daydreaming or what?"

Ignoring his remark, you placed your hands on the edge of the cold glass, peering up at him and around the interior.

“So, new truck huh?”

"Oh this? Yeah, got it not too long ago after receiving my payment for….from work."

You squinted your eyes in suspicion, noticing that he caught his words, but you weren't going to question it. No, you were going to let it go. You knew he wouldn’t tell you anything anyway, most likely just brushing it off as suddenly being hit with a stutter. He never spoke about his “overseas” jobs that he apparently racked up stacks of cash from, and despite him saying it was only freelancing work, you had a hunch it was something a lot shadier than that. You weren’t that dumb. Which is exactly why you weren’t going to ask.

Choosing to stay oblivious, you gave a compliment instead. "It's nice, Toji. Really."

You were about to open the door to get in and cut the small talk short (and because you’d rather bask in the in-system heating than out in the cold) but it wouldn’t budge. It was still locked. Why isn’t he unlocking the door?

Instead of unlocking the door for you like normal people do when picking up a person with their car, Toji isn't exactly someone you'd consider normal. Instead, Toji looked you up and down slowly as an awkward silence took over. You stood there rigid, allowing him to unashamedly undress you with his eyes. At least you think that's what he was doing. He’s being really bold today…does he seriously not plan to open this door?!

Your mind was running a mile per minute. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but you kind of liked the attention he was giving you right now. Especially since he hadn’t bothered to give you any last night. Not that you blame him. Looks like the effort you had put in, despite being rushed, was working, leaving him dumbstruck. You felt proud that you managed to have him speechless.

Unfortunately, your sudden boost in ego was quickly shut down.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Oh. Talk about anticlimactic.

"Huh? W-what do you mean?"

"I mean," He stood there, a single eyebrow raised, and vaguely gesturing to your form with his hand, "This."

Looking around to see if anyone else was witnessing this, you quirked your head in question. "What about it?"

"I know ya didn't just decide to go out looking like that when it's freezing out here. Go back upstairs and put some real clothes on." He looked at you sternly with a scowl etching onto the scarred side of his lip, arms crossing in front of his chest.

Was Toji actually scolding you right now? The nerve of this guy!

You hadn’t seen it right away, but after staring back at him in disbelief at what you were hearing, you noticed his own personal ensemble.

There’s no damn way…

Looking up and down at him as he had done to you just moments prior, you saw that he was wearing an unzipped puffer jacket with a hoodie underneath which was fine, you had no issues regarding that. The problem was what he was wearing below.

This man, who was condemning you on your sweater dress because it was apparently unfit for “freezing” temperatures, was wearing shorts and slides. At least he wore socks with it, if he hadn’t you think you may have actually gone back home and let him do the shopping himself.

You couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, but quickly shut up after seeing Toji wasn’t finding this as amusing as you were.

This was crazy.

Tilting your head to the side, you scrunch your nose in disbelief. “You’re telling me to put warmer clothes on, when you’ve got shorts and slides on?”

Toji was quick to counter. “It’s not the same, don’t compare it.”

“Yeah it is!”

“Look kid, I’m not gonna argue with ya. Either change your clothes, or stay home.”

That’s exactly what you want to do. But you know deep down you can’t, you already told yourself you had to sort things out with him. And the first step to that, is sorting this out.

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After a couple pleading looks and adamant convincing of, 'I'm not cold!' 'I swear I'm fine. It doesn't even feel like winter out here!'

Toji relented. Letting out a sigh, shaking his head as he told you, 'Fine, whatever. But don’t come cryin’ at my feet when your stubborn ass gets sick and your mom gets mad at you.'

Now here you were, seated on the heated, brand new black leather seats of his Chevy after he finally gave in and unlocked the door, letting you in. You spent the trip with your head resting against the palm of your hand somberly, as you watched the scenery of snowy trees and other cars pass by.

The awkwardness throughout the entire car ride was at an all-time high. Higher than what it'd started out with earlier. You were both quiet; your brain a little less. Toji's disappointment regarding your attire was a total blow to your ego. You were just trying to look cute.

Not like it was meant for him anyway.

Is what you wanted to try convincing yourself in order to feel better, but really, you knew it was a lie.

As for Toji, that thought you had earlier about him ogling you? It was right on the money.

But he had to quickly save face by instead acting like a concerned adult worrying about the wellbeing of his innocent, young neighbor. If he was being honest, he didn’t give two shits about what you chose to wear. As long as it was for his eyes only.

Yes, he knew he’d hurt your feelings for telling you to go change. He understood that he was being overbearing and unreasonable especially after you brought up his own attire, but you had to understand. He physically couldn’t accept seeing you wearing an outfit that barely covered your ass like that in public when he should be the only one to see you looking like that. Yes, he was sick for looking at you that way and he knew that which is exactly why he needed you to cover up. Both so that no other creepy assholes (except himself) could see you that way, and because he doesn’t think he could control his thoughts about you for the next couple hours you have alone together. It’s why he had to shift in his seat a couple times. Though, you didn’t notice that.

This game you were playing with him? This seducing thing? With little skirts and shit, yeah it was doing something to him.

Maybe you haven’t changed as much as he thought. As they say, old habits die hard.

After about 15 more minutes of unspoken thoughts, you finally arrived at the store.

Why did you agree to do this again? Oh yeah, you didn't.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you took a deep breath to try and regain your composure. Just focus on the task. Opening the door, you hopped down and out onto the recently snow-shoveled pavement with Toji following suit as he turned off the truck, taking the keys from the ignition and shutting the door behind him.

You could feel Toji’s burning gaze boring into your back as he walked behind you, keeping a slight distance between you and him but still enough that people could tell that you two came together. Entering into the store, you whipped out your phone, unlocking it and clicking on the notes app filled with a list of things you needed to get that your mom instructed you two to buy. You crossed your fingers hoping you could get all this done quickly and smoothly.

Obviously, life loves to humor you because things did not go smoothly.

Everything was going well at first, you scoured the aisles looking for streamers, fairy lights, pretty napkins, silver and white balloons, and whatever else was needed; putting it all into the basket that Toji was holding, still following you like a sort of puppy—or more like a guard dog with the menacing aura he carried around himself with every step he took.

Walking around you’d occasionally find something that caught your eye, tinkering around with the item for a couple seconds before putting it back down and walking over to the next intriguing thing—like a snow globe you found of a character you recognized filled with pink and white sparkly snow. You bet your ass you added that one to the basket. That hello kitty snow globe was a need, not a want. How something like that even found its way to a store like this was beyond you, but hey, you weren’t complaining.

You even found cute little hats while looking around and managed to get Toji to wear a pair of elf ears while you wore a Santa hat, telling him a silly joke about how he was Santa’s jolliest helper. That only earned you a huff, and roll of his eyes as he took off the ears and pulled the hat you wore down over your face, chuckling as he watched you make dramatics about how you were being suffocated despite being able to breathe perfectly fine.

Interacting like this with him gave you butterflies. You’d let him ruin your perfectly styled hair if it meant things were going back to the way they used to be between you both.

Everything was going fine.

You were actually having…fun. Which you hadn’t anticipated. You were so caught up about feeling like you were on thin ice with Toji, and though you still sort of felt that way, you felt ecstatic that things were beginning to feel normal. Like nothing even happened.

“Hmm, looks like the last thing on this list are more scented candles. Thought we already had some? Oh well.” You shrugged your shoulders. You think your own obsession with candles might have stemmed from your mom now that you think about it.

Toji leaned his body over your shoulder, looking down over your list himself at the check marked boxes except for one. You immediately stiffened up, not expecting him to get so close to you, and especially not for him to make body contact with you. You wish you didn’t have all these layers in the way. You internally shook the thought off before it could escalate. Now was not the time to be having these touched starved thoughts!

Pulling away from you, but still keeping close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, he put the basket down next to your feet. “Yeah, I saw a couple of those on the other aisle we passed by.”

“Oh good! One of us can get it. Stay here and I’ll quickly-“ Your suggestion didn’t even have a chance to reach the other end of Tojis ears before it got shut down.

“Nah, you stay here, and stay put while I grab it. And don’t go straying off you understand, kid?” Toji looked down at you, waiting for your answer. He’d rather not leave your side, especially since he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t get distracted by something and walk off like a lost mouse-but he tried to reason out in his head that it was only one item. He’d quickly get it and come back, and you’d still be there.

You weren’t going anywhere.

So why did he find it so hard to walk away from you? Must be some type of trauma he thinks.

Nodding your head, with a ‘Mhm! Promise. Not going anywhere. Nope, staying put.’ Toji searched your face to see if you were lying but decided you weren’t, and began jogging off towards another aisle in a different section of the store.

He couldn’t help but have a bad feeling about this as he looked over at all the scented candles, picking up the most expensive looking ones.

“S’not my money anyway..”

Maybe he should’ve just taken you along with him. It’s not like it would’ve caused the both of you any more hassle than going alone would. Shit. Something was gnawing at Toji to hurry the hell up and get back to you. As he briskly walked to the aisle where he had left you, he was met with something far worse than overpriced décor, and it had him seething.

There you were, face scrunched up, and looking highly uncomfortable as some random guy, around your age it seemed, was trying to flirt with you.

Keyword: Trying.

Toji didn’t know who this guy was but he knew damn well what was happening, and he wasn't going to let it slide. Not on his watch. That he wasn't even wearing.

You hadn't noticed Toji's arrival yet. Still preoccupied with keeping calm and trying to ignore this random man that thought it would be chivalrous of himself to make comments about your body. Saying things about how he doesn't know why your man let you out like that, and if you were his bitch he wouldn't let you out his sight.

It's a good thing Toji wasn't there to hear any of that.

What Toji did hear as he was silently coming up behind the both of you, that almost made him run up and deck the guy in the nuts was when he leaned his body down exaggeratedly to look at your ass and said, "DAMN. That's more ass than…. I've seen….in a while!"

This prick didn't even know where the hell he was going with that line, but Toji sure knew where that guy was gonna end up if he tried it again.

At this point, you were more than ready to kick this guy in the balls, but you didn't want to anger him. Who knows what this guy has got going on in his head? He's harassing you at a decor store for fucks sake!

Before you were thinking about making a run for it to the direction of where Toji had gone, deeming your situation helpless without him; it seemed like someone finally answered your prayers because the moment you looked back, there he was standing right behind the both of you.

'How did I not notice him?? He's wearing slides for god sake! I should've heard the 'plip' 'plaps'!'

"The fuck are you doing?"

The guy was still leaning down when Toji spoke up. He was about to cuss out whoever this other guy was for interrupting his daily "I objectify women for fun" hobby, until he looked up. There Toji stood, 6'2, built like he was made for war, in his shorts and slides, holding candles, and a look so threatening etched onto his face, you think this guy may have almost shit his pants. If the audible gulp meant anything.

"O-oh fuck. Look sir, I was just admiring your hard work, very beautiful daughter you have here. Didn't realize…Sorry." The way he ran away was almost pitiful. Almost. But none of you had any pity for trash.

'Well that was quick', Toji thought. He assumed he might've had to light up this candle he was holding and choke him with it but it seems that wouldn't be happening today.

That's one less crime the authorities could pinpoint on him.

Turning his attention towards you, he asked if you were alright.

"Sort of…not really. Being objectified isn't exactly the greatest feeling…" Toji noticed the way you hugged your hands around yourself, most likely trying to cover up. Suddenly feeling too exposed for comfort despite attempting to brush the interaction off.

Maybe you should've listened to Toji earlier and changed your clothes to something more fitting for winter weather. Screw looking cute.

Though, the regret didn't have a chance to get very far because suddenly you were being brought back to the present.

"Lift your arms up."

Huh? "Wh- why?" The next thing he did nearly had your heart leaping out of your chest. Taking off his puffer jacket, he nudged your arms to lift up so he could help put it through the holes of the sleeves. After checking to make sure it was on properly, he zipped it up a bit more than halfway and patted you down in an effort to make you look a little bit less like the emo version of the Michelin Man.

"You gonna be okay?" You were still a little surprised at the gesture, especially since it was coming from him of all people, but you answered, "..Yeah. Yeah, I'll be okay."

"Good. Lemme finish paying for all this crap and I'll drop you off at your place."

Leading the way towards the cashier, he placed his large palm over your lower back and kept it there until your goods were paid for, and you were out the door.

Situating yourself on the seats of Toji's car, you couldn't help but feel a smile creep up on you, desperately trying to bite it back. You're wearing his coat.

He put his coat on you.

You think you could die of happiness right now. But, you'll save that for later. That whole fiasco that happened at the store still had your mood all sour. You really didn't want to go home yet. And as Toji began to pull out of the parking lot, you spoke up.

"Toji? I don't really feel like going home yet.."

"Yeah? Aight. We'll stop somewhere, I know a place."

Nodding your head, you mumbled a 'thanks', grateful that he took the hint and didn't try to argue with you or ask any questions. Toji can be empathetic when he wants to be sometimes.

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Apparently, when Toji said he 'knew a place', you didn't expect it to be…this.

"Cinnabon? Really?"

"What? You don't like their cinnamon buns? We can go someplace else if you don't want em.”

You paused. Well, now that you were thinking about it…"Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I do like those."

“Besides,” Walking over to the counter to order, Toji got into line, “I remember ya telling me one time that you liked this place."

He still remembers something like that?

You didn’t answer. Instead you followed the nod of Toji’s head telling you to leave the ordering to him and to go find a table to sit at. Looking around, you saw that all the tables were already preoccupied. Damn. Walking back to Toji, you suggested ordering it to go and just finding some place else to sit at like that wooden bench you saw just outside the establishment, which he seemed to favor far more.

Leaving him to his vices, you exited the shop and went to sit outside on the storefront bench, patiently waiting for Toji to get back with your food. Looking around there was still a thin sheet of snow covering some areas of the pavement, most having melted throughout the day or driven over by now. Yet it seemed as though the temperature had no plans of rising as you breathed out a puff of steam, remaining at its crisp, nearly frosty condition. It felt peaceful.

The few minutes of alone time you had to yourself was the most silence your brain has allowed itself to be in within the 24 hours of Tojis reintroduction into your life.

The oversized puffer jacket you still had on made those hours feel shorter by reminding you of just how much "excitement" had managed to happen—you bet you looked silly as hell with it engulfing your frame, but you couldn't find it in you to care about that at this moment. Especially since it was serving its purpose of protecting you against the cold that you found yourself surrounded by as you sat there waiting.

Leaning back against the wood, you felt something hindering you from going all the way. Your teddy bear backpack. You forgot you even had it on as it was hidden underneath the coat Toji had quickly put on you. Yeah, you must've looked really stupid. Fighting back a grimace and ignoring the fact for your own peace of mind, you went to remove the coat. Leaving it piled behind you on the bench as you took off your bag, placing it onto your lap.

Reaching into your bag, you took out your trusty emergency makeup kit. Wouldn't hurt to do a quick touch up… Looking over in the direction of the sudden sound of a bell being rung, you peered over to your left to see that it was just someone stepping foot out the shop with a cup of what looked to be hot chocolate.

'Hopefully Toji get's back soon.'

Focusing back on the task at hand, you clicked open a compact inspecting the state of the way you looked with the mirror. The sight that greeted you brought out a breath of relief. Not a single thing out of place. But just in case, you patted on a little bit of powder for good measure, and reapplied your clear lipgloss so the cold air could struggle to nip at your lips.

After assessing what needed to be assessed, you put your pouch back into your bag and immediately piped up at the sound of the door chiming again. You couldn't help but do a small cheer as you saw that it was finally Toji approaching you, carrying a bag containing your icing drenched cinnamon bun, a hot drink of some sort, and a bottle of water.

Handing you your food and drink, you thanked him and immediately dug in once it was within your grasp. Taking a bite, a bit of steam emitted from the warm and gooey bun melting on your tongue, flooding your taste buds with a mix of sweet and nutty spice. Damn, you were a lot hungrier than you thought. But you suppose that's due to having skipped breakfast in the morning. Stuffing more into your mouth, your eyes met Toji's to see him already sitting beside you and looking down at you, snickering.

"Hwat?" The question came out muffled from your cheeks being stuffed like a squirrel.

He looked off to the side for a second, still snickering before he answered, "Nothin."

Swallowing your food down harshly, you pouted with your brows scrunched together and took notice that you were the only one eating.

"How come you didn't get yourself one?"

He deadpanned. "I don't want diabetes."

"Right…of course not…" Such a Toji answer, you thought.

It felt a little weird to be the only one eating, but he kept refusing everytime you asked if he was absolutely sure he didn’t at least want a bite. It was silent between you two except for the occasional slurp of your drink, and you think Toji noticed it too because suddenly he started conversing with you, catching up a little bit on how the both of you have been.

"So kid, how's the university life been treatin' ya?"

"Hm? Oh uhm, it's been alright I guess." You shrugged, fork still in hand.

"Just alright? Sounds pretty lackluster to me."

"It is." You sighed.

"You tellin' me you don't, what- party? Or done those weird cultist initiations you kids do at sororities."

"Yeah…no. I'm too busy actually studying most of the time. I've been to like 2-ish? parties, but that's about it. And sororities? You couldn't possibly pay me to join one of those.” You’ve heard one too many stories of premature deaths being caused by sororities. You didn’t particularly feel like gambling your chances. Plus, you weren’t really into the whole sisterhood-brotherhood thing, too weird.

As the conversation progressed between your frankly unexciting school life, Toji recalled some neighborhood fiasco that happened while you were away.

"...Then this kid's boyfriend starts beating up the guy that tried to take her purse."

"No way! This really happened in our neighborhood? Where like.. nothing ever happens?" To think that a crime had actually happened in the most safest, suburban of neighborhoods that you lived in for your whole life and you weren't there to witness it.

"I'm tellin' ya it was set up to make himself look good. A robbery in broad daylight? In this neighborhood? Bullshit."

"Why does all the exciting shit always happen when I'm not around?" You whined, sighing out your disappointment.

Closing the box to your nearly finished cinnamon bun and placing it beside you on the bench, you suddenly remembered something.

"By the way! My mom told me you have a son? How come you never mentioned him to me before?"

And just like that, Tojis brows immediately furrowed as if the question was one he hadn't expected to be asked, especially not coming from you. Leaning forward with a grunt, he rested an elbow on his knee, propping a palm under his chin as he proceeded to look at you with the most dramatically bored expression you’ve ever seen on someone's face- one that rivaled even yours.

It screamed, ‘let's get this shit over with.’

"You never asked. Besides, why you askin' about him now?"

You noticed the way his mood instantly changed after mentioning him but...it was probably nothing right?

Regardless, he didn't seem to be exactly… excited at the mention of his son, so you treated lightly with your next words. “Well, my mom is telling me that I should start looking for a good boy to date and she mentioned your son.”

He laughed out in disbelief. “Gumi? That boy? Ha, good luck with that. He wouldn’t know the first thing on how to treat a girl.”

He couldn’t treat you the way I could. Is what he wanted to say.

Awkwardly you answered, “Well… anyway, I don't think he even goes to my Uni…I think. So it wouldn't really be an option.”

Toji stayed silent.

The sudden uncomfortable silence that took over had you overthinking all over again.

What's wrong? Does he have a bad relationship with his son? Is that why he looks irritated? Should I ask? No. He might get more irritated. Shit. Okay, subject change.

Slamming your hands onto your thighs a little too hard in an attempt to calm your nerves, the sound seemed to catch Tojis attention. Snapping him out of whatever trance he was in, and back to his usual demeanor.

You rubbed your arms out of awkwardness. “Sooo, yeah. Sucks, I wasn't there to witness a fraudulent act of chivalry right in my own neighborhood."

Toji was thankful you moved on from the topic of his son, he didn’t want to think of that little squirt right now.

But then it got him wondering…

"You ever had a boyfriend before?"

The question surprised you a little. Okay maybe a lot. You didn't think he'd be even remotely interested in your love life.

"No… I've never had one." While there was no shame in not having had a significant other at your age, still you couldn't help but feel embarrassed admitting it to Toji.

Toji raised a brow in suspicion. "You sure you're staying clear of boys?"

This behavior he was exhibiting was starting to confuse the hell out of you. First he scolds you on your attire this morning, and now he's interrogating you on your love life? He was being way overprotective, almost acting as a parent, and it was seriously beginning to make you feel hopeless.

You nodded. "Yes, Toji. I'm not interested in college guys. They don't know what they're doing,"

That answer seemed to be good enough for Toji, but to both his and your utter surprise you continued, "But I've done other things."

Straightening his back up against the wooden bench in interest, Toji beckoned you to continue on. Truth be told, he didn't want to hear you talking about boys. Just the thought of you with some dumbass little boy made him irrationally bothered. But there was one thing itching at him to ask.

One thing he simply had to know.

"Oh yeah?"

"Just casual stuff. Nothing serious.."

Toji hummed. It was cute how you were beating around the bush about whatever 'things' you've done. He'll humor you this time around.

"We talkin' the 'clothes on' type of stuff?"

"Well…not exactly.."

Your lack of elaboration following your answer made Toji egg you on further.

"Don't start gettin' all shy on me now. Let me take a guess, this has somethin' to do with how you mentioned that college boy's don't know what they're doing, yeah?

And like clockwork, the words proceeded to flow past the tip of your tongue without a second thought.

"Remember how I also mentioned earlier that I've gone to only a few parties? Well at one of those parties, I got left alone by my friends in favor of hooking up with some guys they thought were hot."

"Sounds like some shitty friends."

You grunted. "Tell me about it. Anyways, here I am, sitting alone on this couch that's thankfully only mildly sticky from whatever wasted student had spilled their drink on top of it, and this guy sits right next to me. We talk, things happen, and we find an empty room."

Toji hums, signaling to you that he's still listening.

Immediately, irritation is apparent on your face by the way your eyes narrow as you recall the memory. "He puts his hands in my pants and this dumbass can't for the life of him find where my clit is and is just rubbing around. Then he has the nerve to ask if I came yet!? Bitch I'm not even moaning!"

Toji nods, intently listening to your rant. Biting back his amusement at your outburst.

"And the same fuckin thing happens again except with a different guy I had been seeing for less than a week. Except—get this, he asks me what a clit is. Like are you for real!?"

Taking a deep breath, you tried channeling your nerves. "So that's that. College boy's don't know where the clit is—hell, they don't even know of its existence."

Slumping your shoulders, you kicked at the tiny stones on the cement with your shoe.

"It's why I've never gone further than that."

If you were being honest, even if those guys did know their way around a woman's body, you don't think you could find it within yourself to stick around for it. You already knew what your mind was banging against your skull to say. Deep down, somewhere in the backrooms of your brain, you know it's because of Toji. It's always been him; the man you're still holding out for. Hoping he'd be the one to take your virginity.

Whatever. It was a pipe dream anyway. And you definitely weren't going to tell him that.

Speaking of telling him…

‘Why did you tell him all that!? Why did you have to run your mouth!!’

You stammered out an apology. The gravity of what you just up and confessed dawned on you, leaving you a cringing mess from within.

"I-I'm sorry…I don't even know why im telling you all this-"

Toji is quick to dismiss the apology. Truth be told, he was delighted to hear that you were still a virgin.

“Don't worry bout it’. It's nothing to be embarrassed of.

“I mean yeah…but still…”

Turning to face you, Toji placed his hand gingerly upon your thigh, giving it a light squeeze in what you assumed to be an attempt at reassurance or maybe it was comfort? You couldn't really tell, you just knew that the warmth of it felt nice.

“Listen, if I’m tellin’ you that being a virgin is nothin’ to be ashamed of, then its not. Look at it this way, you ain’t a teen mom, something not many can say nowadays.” He shrugged.

He kind of had a point. Though his comforting skills were kind of ass.

“Yeah..okay. Thanks for listening then.”

“No problem.”

You thought after your little rant the atmosphere would return to its awkward state as it seems that's how it had been every time you spoke with Toji—yet oddly enough, it felt like you had somehow managed to get closer to him by opening up about your struggles.

Suddenly feeling a spout of hunger befall you once more, you took the last remaining bite of your cinnamon bun, slowly licking off the icing that had gotten smeared onto your lips.

Toji eyed the action intently, internally shaking a head at himself.

‘This little minx..’ but before you could make eye contact he abruptly withdrew his hand, fishing a phone out his pocket and checking the time. Huh, you hadn't even noticed his hand had still been on you.

“It's already almost 4, think it's time to call it a day.”

With a sound of surprise, you rose up from your seat, closing the box once more as you watched Toji stand up from his own spot, already patting on his pockets for the car keys.

You hadn't even noticed that much time had gone by.

“Thanks again for the cinnamon buns and of course, for listening.”

Toji only hummed in acknowledgement.

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The ride home was spent surrounded by the sounds of muffled radio chatter, ever so slightly noticeable with the engine of the truck at a constant thrum. The sun surprisingly hadn't gone down yet as it typically would have on any other winter day and you made sure to thank your lucky stars for those few more minutes of sunlight.

On the other hand, you couldn't help but feel sad. You didn't want the day to end yet, especially not when progress had been made between the two of you. Then it hit you, progress had been made. While you didn't actually confront him about what had transpired on that faithless day, it was still worth celebrating.

Baby steps are still steps after all.

And the more you thought about it, it began to occur to you that today…today kinda felt like a date. In a messed up sense. To others this would've been a failure of a day, but to you? You were elated.

‘Maybe now's my chance to talk to him about what happened back then.’

Sitting up just a little bit straighter in your seat, you turned your head to face Toji, contemplating on the right words to say to him. Just when you were on the verge of starting your sentence, Toji’s phone suddenly began to ring, vibrating atop the center console.

Without bothering to check who was calling him, Toji answered the phone, putting it on speaker. Nothing to be worried about anyway, probably some scammer giving Toji his routine call.

“Yo, what’s up?”

Without a second to waste, a feminine voice practically cried from the other end.

“Tojiiii, baby it’s been so long, when are you coming over?? You know I miss you-”

Before this unknown lady could hope to finish her sentence, she was abruptly hung up on–courtesy of Tojis hand flying to take the call off speaker, fumbling for a good second only to ultimately end the call for good measure.

Clearing his throat, Toji continued to keep his eyes focused on the road ahead. Can't be having you both end up in a car crash right?

“Sorry about that, that was… just one of my old close friends.”

“Uh huh. Ya’ll must've been real close.”

Toji ignored the snark.

“Anyways, go ahead, what were you saying?”

“I…wasn’t saying anything.”

Thankfully the call was received just minutes short of arriving at your home. Pulling into the driveway, the truck on neutral, you waited a few seconds to see if Toji would say anything more. He didn’t.

Holding back a shaky sigh, you unbuckle your seatbelt and exited the vehicle, opening the passenger side to pick up the bags of decor that you went to buy in the first place.

“Wait, let me help ya out-” Toji last minutely interjected as he turned his body over in his seat to face you.

“No need. I already got it.” Picking up the last bag (thankfully they weren’t very heavy), you slammed the passenger door shut. You contemplated giving Toji a proper farewell bidding but with the way you were feeling right now? You didn’t want him to see the ache painted in your eyes. Instead, you continued walking down the shoveled path and up the steps to your house, fishing the keys out from your keychain and unlocking the door, closing it behind you.

Kicking your shoes off and slipping some slippers onto your feet, you laid the bags over the kitchen counter letting whoever discovered them first deal with the contents inside as you made your way up the stairs to your room, plopping onto your bed face first.

You nearly teared up at your own naivety.

Holy shit. ‘I’m so stupid.’ Was all you could think of as the booty call Toji had received replayed in your mind. This wasn’t any new information on Toji that you hadn’t already known about yet it hurt so bad.

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On the other hand, Toji couldn’t help but feel the same way. When he saw you safely get back into your home, he shifted gears to reverse, pulling out the driveway and driving back to his own place.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he pulled out his phone from the cup holder it fell into amidst his struggle to end the call earlier and proceeded to call them back.

One ring was all it took for them to answer, and one second was all it took for Toji to cut them off before they could say anything more.

“Don’t fuckin’ call me again, understand? Good. Now, fuck off.” Hanging up before she could respond or attempt to call back like an idiot, he blocked her.

Letting out a rather loud groan of irritation, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands in indignation, letting his head fall as he could feel a headache coming on.

“Fuck.”

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Laying on your bed disappointed, you curled up thinking about the events that transpired earlier. The whole trip felt like an actual date—up until that call anyway. It was probably the worst way the day could have ended. Your bad luck was unimaginable.

“I need to find myself a four leaf clover or something at this point…”

Honestly, you didn't want to get out of bed. You wanted to lay down and wilt like a flower that never gets any sunlight. Stuffing your face into your arm, it occured to you that you were still wearing Toji’s jacket.

“Maybe I should stop trying to go after someone who’ll never like me back…” You mumbled to yourself, sitting up and throwing the coat towards the nearest chair it could land on.

Were you really this delusional? You saw the way he was looking at you—you shook your head, trying not to overthink it.

‘I guess I had the wrong idea.’

Feeling defeated, you knew if you wanted to continue moping about this, you’d have to do it after a shower; lest you end up skipping your skincare routine leaving you with another thing to sulk about.

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You couldn’t sleep.

Restless, you tossed and turned trying to find that sweet spot that would have you suddenly waking up to the birds singing. Come the fuck on..! I just want to sleep, dammit!

Grunting, it seemed no matter where you tried to place yourself within the comfort of your sheets and plethora of pillows engulfing you, you just couldn’t seem to knock yourself out.

Only one option left.

Slipping a hand underneath the blanket, you let your fingers wander across your skin. Giving each of your tits a soft squeeze under your shirt as you slowly began to relax, sighing in content at a teasing roll of your bud, slowly hardening at your touch.

Growing tired of the teasing and beginning to feel heavy with need, you ran a finger down your panties, keeping it firmly pressed against your slit as you slowly raised your hips up and down in tandem with your middle finger, rubbing yourself over the cotton material. You could feel yourself getting hotter, wetter. A small, sticky patch of your own arousal seeping through the garment as you finally had enough, moving your panties to the side and making contact with your sickened clit. You wasted no time in parting your lips with your pinky and index, and letting both your middle and ring finger draw tight circles over your bundle of nerves. Immediately settling into a steady rhythm that was sure to have you quickly coming undone.

As your breathing picked up, so did the small whimpers escaping through your lips. You tried your best to stay as quiet as possible, but fuck was it hard when all you wanted to do was mewl out a certain someones name, imagining it was him playing with your pussy like this.

Toji.

Even just sounding his name out in your head had you bucking your hips against the friction you were creating. His large, warm hand stuffed down your panties, and cupping your pussy from behind while rubbing at the entire expanse of your puffy cunt messily. Fast. Drenching his palm in your juices. Wondering what it'd feel like to have his long, fat fingers plunge into you as your own currently probes at your clenching hole, dipping in slightly only to take it back out. It didn't feel—wouldn't feel nearly as good unless it were his.

You felt so close. Your fingers were starting to ache as you exerted them, moving it against your swollen clit quicker than before. It started to hurt, but the feeling of adrenaline rushing through you to finish made your brain block it out, replacing it with the endorphins of white hot pleasure that you anticipated to burst at any minute now.

You clamped your legs around your hand, curling into your side like a ball. You wanted to stop, it was too much. But you were so fucking close. Your shaky whines were no longer being held back, eyes squeezed shut and the side of your face pressed against your pillow muffling it as best you could to prevent it from being heard outside.

Just a little more…

Come on come on come on..! Your hand wouldn't stop unless your body reached its peak, only increasing in its pace. Holding your breath, the sound of your palpating heart was deafening as you continued letting out harsh pants.

You felt the familiar feeling of your lower abdomen tightening, coiling up and finally bursting like a dam. Your toes curled up as you threw your head back further into the pillow, unable to stop the sudden cry of Toji’s name that accidentally slipped out from your parched mouth at the pressure of your orgasm rushing over you like a tidal wave.

Before you could bask in your post orgasmic bliss, Toji bursts through your door. The fucking man himself. In the flesh..?

In a panic, you pull your stiff hand away from between your legs as if it were scalding hot oil, grasping the blanket up towards your chin to cover what you’d just been essentially caught doing.

“Heard you screamin’ my name out, sweetheart.”

You’d think any normal reaction to being intruded on by the person you were just fantasizing about would be to first ask some questions—yet there you laid calm as a cucumber, watching as he inched closer to you.

Toji smirked. “Don’t start gettin’ all shy on me now. Let me hear you scream my name again for me.”

You don’t know how he got to you so quickly but Toji was already slipping his hand under the covers towards your pussy, finding it slick and sticky from your high, smearing it all over as he ran his fingers up and down your sensitive slit.

Retracting his hand back from underneath, he relished in the way your arousal stuck to his fingers like a spider's web as he spread them out, glistening against the soft lighting of your suddenly oddly hazy looking room.

Fueled with newfound urgency, Toji threw the covers off of you, yanking your body up to stand on the floor as you both made your way towards your vanity, back hitting the edge of it as you steadied yourself against Toji's chest. It was all moving too quickly. Too fast. Before you could stop to process your surroundings properly, Toji’s large hand hastily groped your tits as his other fingers that were touching on your pussy earlier prodded at your mouth to open. Without a word, you wrapped your lips around them like a good girl, sucking—tasting yourself before he removed them in order to turn you around.

Just then, you realized you both were naked as Toji lifted one of your legs up onto the vanity, dragging his wet fingers over his cock as he moved to align it with your dripping hole. You couldn't form a thought. As if on autopilot. Only the unbridled, desperate need to have Toji in you remained.

No. Scratch that. You felt your own thoughts before you could form them, as if it weren’t your own. It definitely was though. You don’t think anyone could too how fucking badly you wanted this man. Now he was finally about to fuck you? You may as well have been the luckiest woman on planet earth.

And as you begin to feel the sensation of Toji's cock about to enter you—confirming that notion, the door to your room bursts open again.

Wait.

“Wake up.”

What?

“Wake up!”

Is that my fucking cat talking!?

“WAKE UP!”

Groggily opening your eyes, you're met with early winter sun seeping through your thin curtains, casting a hazy glow into your room. You hear birds singing.

“What the hell was that…” Stretching the sleep out of your limbs, you noticed your hand was still situated inside your panties.

You closed your eyes, trying to recall your dream. “So half of that was real?” Well, up until Toji bursted into your room, you suppose. And when your cat spoke up telling you to wake the fuck up.

Ugh.

Sitting up, you rubbed your eyes, leaning over the bedside to pull your diary sitting on your nightstand towards your lap. You had to write this shit down.

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After jotting down as much as you could recall from the dream without mixing it up with what you were actually getting up to in real life, you left the diary on the same vanity dream version Toji almost dicked you down on.

Throughout the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about Toji. Hell, your feelings for him increased tenfold just from that measly dream alone. You don't know if it's solely your dreams doing that made you feel like you suddenly had a genuine chance with him but fuck it.

You thought about the events of yesterday and recalled when he grasped your thigh. That couldn’t have just been nothing right? The way he eyed your lips too as you licked icing off them. He didn't think you noticed, but you did. Of course you did. It was on purpose after all.

And the icing on the cake? When you brought up his son, Megumi. You didn't want to assume anything but you could've sworn you sensed jealousy swimming in those green eyes of his. How ironic.

Shit, maybe you do have a chance with Toji after all. All he needs is a little push.

With all the evidence stacked up in your favor, you knew you had to devise a plan.

A plan on how to seduce your neighbor.

You giggled to yourself.

“Mama chose a thought daughter.”

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xoxochb · 3 months ago

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“baths are supposed to be relaxing.”

“alone.”

you sigh and smooth out your hair, all moved to drape over one of your shoulders. “I’ll have to start taking baths alone then.”

percy gasps and lifts his head from his bath toys to you. you shrug and take a shark, skimming it over the water slowly.

“it might benefit us both. I’ll get silence, you’ll get to play with your toys alone.”

“these aren’t toys… they’re… rubber ducks.”

“toys!” you laugh and let go of the shark. “and they’re not ducks they’re fish. and sharks.”

“rubber fish. rubber sharks. rubber ducks, they’re all the same thing, sweet girl.”

you shrug again, climbing onto percy’s lap. your arms curl around his shoulders while his own encircle your waist.

the heat of the water has your eyes drooping and mixed with your fiancé’s comforting touch and strong arms you may just fall asleep. and your pre-bath activity isn’t help your drowsiness either.

“does this mean we can stay in here longer?” percy’s hand rubs your back.

you sigh and drop your face to his shoulders while, inhaling the scent of his previously applied soaps. “no. we’ll shrivel up like prunes.”

“if you’re worried, I think you’ll still look sexy as ever with wrinkles.”

“I’m not worried but thanks.”

“what about me?”

you think for a moment. “turn off.”

“are you sure?”

“uhm. yes.”

percy pinches your waist and you giggle over hat you wanted to be a yelp.

“get your hands off me, weirdo.”

“oh, but, sweet girl, twenty mines ago I remember you begging me to—”

you swiftly lift your head and glare. “moment of weakness.”

“moment,” percy laughs. “is that what they’re calling a half an hour these days?”

“it’s not funny I’m ovulating.” you drop your head back to his neck to hide your pink blush.

his index traces your spine gently. “I hear excuses.”

“you hear a valid response. so fuck you, percy.”

“been there, done that. and it’s pretty fucking great.”

“okay.” you slip out of his arms and quickly exit the bathtub before he’s able to pull you back. “coming?”

“oh yeah!”

you ignore that innuendo and grab a towel, wrapping it around your damp frame. it’s not long before percy follows your actions, though his towel hangs dangerously low around his hips.

you almost want to loop your fingers around the edges and yank—

your thoughts are interrupted by the said boy. his arms wrap around your towel clad frame, tugging your cheek to his tanned chest. you melt into it easily, your sleepiness not yet worn off.

“I’m ready for bed,” you mumble against his skin.

percy pats your back lightly in response. “I know, I am too, sweet girl.”

“great.” you perk your head up to peer at him before you begin walking back into the bedroom.

and to bed you went, very swiftly.

#xoxochb #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo series #pjo fandom #pjo #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x you #riordanverse #riordan universe #riordanverse x reader

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hearts4hughes · 17 days ago

Text

RACES AND RIVALS

rafe cameron x enemy!reader | warnings: mdni, public sex / semi-public setting, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, rivals-to-lovers, outdoor setting (against a tree), mild exhibitionism / risk of getting caught

"rafe," you snap, tugging your helmet into place, "if you try to cut me off like last time, i will ram your bike so far up your ass they'll have to bury you with it."

he doesn't look at you. not right away. he's crouched beside his bike, tightening something on the back wheel, sleeves shoved up, forearms streaked with oil and dirt and every bad decision you've ever made. when he stands, he doesn't brush himself off. just turns, slow and cocky, like the heat doesn't touch him. "you threatening me, sweetheart?"

you flick the visor up, just so he can see your eyes when you smile. "i'm warning you." his mouth curves. too smug, too practiced. it's always like this with him-taunts passed like gum between teeth, sharp and familiar, laced with the kind of tension that makes other people uncomfortable.

normally, you race against him. today, you're on the same side. kooks vs. pogues means pack mentality. someone got jumped last weekend, tires slashed, blood spilled in the sand and now it's retaliation time. it's only two teams, one stretch of asphalt along the abandoned airfield, and no real rules.

you're fast. rafe's faster. but only by a hair, and you've made damn sure he knows it. you swing your leg over your bike and feel the engine hum beneath you. next to you, rafe straddles his like he was born for it. always so casual, commanding, like gravity bends a little differently around him.

he glances over. eyes narrow. “you sure you can handle this?” he revs his bike, eyes still boring into yours. you don’t answer right away. just lean across the distance between your bikes, close enough to catch the flicker of surprise in his face. close enough to smell smoke and cologne and the thrill of the stupid, dangerous game you’re about to play.

“you’re asking the wrong question.” you whisper, taking off your helmet. rafe blinks. you look straight out of a damn magazine. your hair is blowing in the wind, a little tousled from the helmet. he can’t help but look down at your body which is clad in racing gear that highlights your curves in all the best ways.

he raises a brow. “oh yeah?” you nod and before he can react, your lips are on his. the kiss is hard and fast. open-mouthed, dizzying, just long enough to knock the smirk clean off his face. you pull back before he can react—before he can think—and plop your helmet back on.

“the question,” you say, voice muffled now, engine roaring to life beneath you, “is whether you can.” the starter raises the flare. one second…two. his mouth is still parted when the light hits green and you’re already gone. a cloud of dust ghosts where you just were. he curses under his breath and throws his helmet on.

the wheels burn rubber. gravel spits. you don’t look back. the track isn’t pretty. it’s just a long, brutal stretch of cracked asphalt that cuts through the edge of the old airstrip, lined with busted fencing and overgrown brush. the wind claws at your jacket. every bump shakes your spine. and still, you grin. you can hear him behind you. not see—hear. the snarl of his engine, louder than the rest. he’s weaving through the pack like he’s chasing blood.

you dip lower, body tight to the frame, the world narrowing to speed and sweat and the threat of him gaining ground. somewhere in the chaos, jj screams something obscene as you cut him off. someone else eats dirt in your peripheral. none of it matters. you’re leading. he’s closing in.

then, suddenly, there he is. his front tire parallel to yours, that black visor reflecting your own face back at you. your knees nearly knock. he guns it for half a second, gets ahead, and you curse this time. not a chance. you push harder, full throttle, the wind tearing at your skin like punishment. your teeth are clenched. your knuckles are white. you slip past him on the turn, almost too close, and you swear you hear him laugh in his helmet like he likes it—like you just made this fun for him.

the finish line’s a blur up ahead. no flags. no cameras. just an old cone spray-painted red and a couple of kooks waving their arms like it’s the olympics. you and rafe cross at the same time. your brakes shriek, dust flies, and your boot hits the ground to steady the stop, chest heaving. your hands tremble from the adrenaline and the sting of the heat, but god, you feel good.

rafe pulls up beside you, yanks his helmet off, and just looks at you. his eyes are wild, his hair’s a mess, lips parted like he wants to say something but can’t decide between a threat or—“what the fuck was that?” he pants, voice wrecked.

you pull your helmet off slowly. your smile is pure venom. “i won,” you lie.

he scoffs, breathless, stepping off his bike. “you kissed me before a race,” he says, still winded. “you cheated.”

“oh, please,” you shoot back, swinging one leg off, your voice low and satisfied. “you loved it.” his eyes drop to your mouth again. they linger on your plump lips. yeah, you definitely won. “say it,” you murmur.

he takes a step closer, boots crunching in the gravel. “say what?”

you tilt your head. all innocent and utterly cruel. “that i threw you off.”

he laughs. the sound is sharp and disbelieving. “you ambushed me.”

you hum, taking a lazy step back toward the tree line, where the others can’t see. “still didn’t stop you from chasing me.” his gaze darkens, full of heat and something a little unhinged. he follows without needing to be asked. it’s quieter here—just the hum of engines in the distance, the buzz of cicadas and the leftover rush of the race still crawling under your skin. you lean back against a tree, hands behind your back, pretending not to notice the way he’s watching you like you’re the real finish line.

“you’re insane,” he says, stopping a few inches in front of you. “you know that?”

“mm.” you blink up at him. “and yet, here you are.” he looks down at your mouth again. then your throat. then back to your mouth. you barely get a breath in before he’s on you. the kiss isn’t sweet—it’s brutal. all tongue, teeth, and pent-up tension, like he’s been waiting all summer to lose to you just so he could do this. your back hits bark. his hands are everywhere—rough, greedy, pressing into your hips like he’s staking a claim.

you make a sound into his mouth—something smug and satisfied—and he groans, low and wrecked, like you’re driving him out of his mind. “fuck, you don’t shut up,” he mutters, lips dragging down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“don’t need to,” you whisper, fingers fisting in his shirt. “you like it.” he bites your shoulder in response. it’s just hard enough to leave a mark. you gasp. your leg lifts on instinct, hooking around his hip, dragging him flush against you.

he grinds into you, hard and slow. you both feel it. both know this has been coming for months. “tell me to stop,” he says, mouth hot against your ear.

you pull his hair. “try and i’ll kill you.” his hand slips under your waistband. skin on skin. you’re already soaked. he groans like it physically hits him. he wasn’t expecting that. he thought this would be a quick fix to the tension and not a full unraveling. his forehead drops to yours, breath shallow, fingers curling between your thighs like he wants to memorize the shape of you.

“fuck, baby…” he mutters, like it slipped out before he could catch it. like he didn’t mean to sound that wrecked.

you smile, smug and breathless. “told you i’d win.” he doesn’t answer. just kisses you again. his lips move deeper this time, slower, more teeth than tongue. your hips roll into his hand and his fingers slide in like they’ve been there before, like your body already knows him. your back arches off the tree, legs shaking just a little.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips dragging down your throat. “that from the race, or from me?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper.

he curls his fingers. you bite back a moan. “that wasn’t a no.” he works you open with maddening patience, each movement deliberate, meant to ruin you. the leather of your jacket scratches against bark. your helmet hangs loose in the crook of your arm. the wind rushes past, hot and heavy, and you’re still trying to breathe through it when he pulls his hand away and undoes his belt like he’s got nothing left to prove.

but he always has something to prove. he turns you quick, hands rough on your hips, pressing you to the tree. your cheek scrapes the bark. your pants are around your thighs before you can say yes, but you don’t need to. your body already has. the wetness, the heat, the way you push your ass back into him like you’re daring him to move. he slides in with a groan punched through his teeth. no teasing, just the kind of stretch that shuts your brain off. your hands grip the trunk. your eyes slam shut.

“jesus,” he rasps. “you feel like fucking heaven.” you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. but he moves again—harder this time—and your control shatters. “say it,” he breathes, fucking into you like he wants you sore tomorrow. “say you wanted this.”

you want to deny it. stay cocky. stay in control. but your body gives you away before your mouth does. the way you rock back into him. the way your thighs tremble. the way you pant, “faster,” like it’s a prayer or something devout. a laugh escapes his lips. then gives you exactly what you ask for.

it’s a fast, filthy, teeth-clenched rhythm. one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other sneaking up your shirt, under your bra, tugging and teasing until your whole body is strung out tight. “you gonna come?” he mutters, mouth at your shoulder, kissing and biting and biting again. “you gonna come for me right here where anyone could see?”

“shut up-” you try to snarl, but your voice breaks into a moan when he hits that spot. your climax crashes through you like the race all over again—violent, all-consuming. your body jerks against him and he groans, low and feral, thrusts stuttering before he spills into you, hips still rolling through the aftershocks like he’s trying to make it last.

you both go still. your pants echo through the trees. the sun is still high in the sky, shining down upon you and rafe. beads of sweat fall down your forehead. the wind shifts. someone whoops from the direction of the road. you freeze. he just grins against your skin.

“guess i’m not the only one who finishes first.”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty

#nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron imagine

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mostlyghoestly · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, I saw you were asking for ideas for a Motorheads fic. Maybe an enemies to lovers with Ray or something like that would be great. I hope you consider it 🙏

Burnout | Ray Young

Requested by: Anonymous

The garage reeked of gasoline, burnt rubber, and testosterone-soaked ego — in other words, it was exactly the kind of place you hated. Or, more specifically, it was exactly the kind of place Ray haunted like a smug, leather-clad ghost.

“Didn’t think you had the guts to show up after last week,” Ray drawled, leaning against his cherry-red ‘69 Chevelle like he owned the pavement it sat on. His hair was damp from the humid night air, curling against his temple, those grey-green eyes carrying that same infuriating glint they always did when he spotted you.

You scowled, shouldering your helmet bag and refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flinch. “Didn’t realize you were the one handing out permission slips now, Ray.”

The smirk that tugged at his lips made their stomach flip — and not in a way they’d ever admit out loud. Ray always looked like he was seconds away from saying something that would make you wanna slap him or kiss him, and you had spent too long pretending neither option crossed their mind. “You’re gonna eat asphalt tonight,” he promised, tapping the side of his car as he passed by. “Hope you brought something faster than that sad excuse for a Charger.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of their bag. Ray had been a thorn in their side since they rolled into town six months ago, gunning for a spot in the underground street racing scene. From the first night — when your Charger had smoked him by a hair and he’d followed it up with a half-smile and a comment about beginner’s luck — they’d been locked in a relentless back and forth.

“You talk a big game for someone who’s lost to me twice,” You shot back.

“That was charity.”

“And this is me not giving a damn.” You shouldered past him, catching the faint scent of his cologne — something sharp, woodsy, and unfairly good. It lingered too long, like it always did.

The lineup for the night’s race was scrawled across the whiteboard by the cashier’s booth, and Y/N felt a satisfied jolt when they saw it.

Final heat: Ray vs. Y/N.

Of course. A low whistle sounded behind you. “Guess it’s our lucky night.”

“Your luck’s about to run out,” You muttered.

The first couple heats flew by in a blur of noise and color — a growl of engines, the acrid bite of tire smoke curling into the humid night. The crowd was thick, rowdy, and drunk on adrenaline and cheap beer. You hung back, watching, focusing, cataloging every curve of the asphalt and the shine of oil spots in the lamplight. It wasn’t just about speed out here. It was about knowing when to push, when to hold, and when to gamble everything on one sharp turn.

Ray, of course, treated every race like a game of chicken. The man was reckless in a way you could never decide if you loathed or secretly admired.

By the time their turn came, the crowd was buzzing, wordless tension stretching like a rubber band. Ray met you by the starting line, helmet tucked under one arm. His eyes lingered a little too long, gaze dropping from your face to your racing suit, then back up, like he was trying to memorize the way the dim garage lights hit your face.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asked, voice low, almost sincere.

You arched a brow. “Getting cold feet, asshole?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a second, the bravado cracked. There was something raw in his expression, something that made your pulse stutter.

“Never,” he murmured.

The starter raised his arm. Engines revved — a throaty chorus of defiance. The world narrowed to the strip ahead, the pulse in your ears, and the buzz in your chest that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with the man at your side.

Then the flag dropped.

The Charger shot forward, tires shrieking as it gripped the asphalt. Your fingers clenched the wheel, every nerve ending alight. Ray’s Chevelle stayed neck and neck, the two cars weaving dangerously close. The crowd blurred to nothing, the night air a hot, sticky pressure against their skin. You took the first turn hard, drifting close enough to graze a cone. Ray was right there, matching them, reckless bastard, his car hugging the curve like it had a death wish.

“Come on,” You whispered to no one. Straightaway. Half a second ahead. Then the Chevelle surged forward, nosing ahead by a fender. You cursed under your breath, jaw clenched. You gunned it, engine roaring, adrenaline spiking as you caught him again, side by side, metal nearly kissing metal.

For a wild, unhinged moment, your eyes met through your side windows — Ray’s mouth open in a shout, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, and that goddamn spark in his eyes like this was the only thing in the world worth living for.

Your stomach flipped. You pushed it, sliding into the final curve harder than they should’ve. The Charger fishtailed, barely correcting in time. Ray took the inside, cutting dangerously close — and for a split second, you swore you saw his gaze flick over, not with smugness, but with something sharp and worried.

Then the finish line. A blur of light, color, roaring sound. You didn’t even wait for the flag to drop. You knew. Ray had won. By a fraction. Afterward, the crowd swarmed them, cheering and jeering, someone shoving a drink into Ray’s hand. You stayed back, pulse still racing, trying to swallow the bitter taste of second place.

Ray found them anyway. “Hell of a run,” he said, coming up beside them, damp hair curling at the ends, face flushed with exertion. He nudged your shoulder with his. “Couldn’t let you win again.”

“Yeah, well,” You muttered. “Was feeling generous.”

Ray huffed a laugh. “Right.” A beat of silence stretched between them, weirdly charged.

“You ever gonna stop hating me?” Ray asked, voice lower now, losing some of its cocky edge.

You snorted. “Depends. You ever gonna stop acting like an arrogant dick?” He grinned, but it was softer now, the kind of grin that made Y/N’s stomach knot in frustrating, complicated ways.

“Not a chance,” he said. Then, quieter, “But maybe I’ve been a dick because you drive me a little crazy.” You blinked, thrown off-balance.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” they muttered, but it came out weaker than intended. Ray took a slow step closer. “Too late for that.” There was heat in the air, and not just from the cars. The kind of heat born from too many close calls, too many nights spent circling each other like twin storms. A history of fights that were just excuses to get close, races that felt more like foreplay. You swallowed hard. “Are we still enemies?”

His grin turned wicked. “We can be. If you’re into that.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. In fact, when Ray leaned in, something reckless in you tilted forward to meet him. The kiss was inevitable — messy, heated, teeth grazing, hands grabbing at racing suits and greasy shirts like they’d been dying to tear each other apart for months. The taste of adrenaline and cheap beer on Ray’s tongue, the scrape of his fingers against the back of your neck.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Ray pressed his forehead to yours. “Next race,” he murmured, “I’m still gonna beat you.”

“Over my dead body,” You shot back.

Ray grinned. “Deal.” And somehow, it felt less like enemies and more like the start of something dangerously good.

#motorheads #motorheads x reader #motorhead x reader #motorheads imagines #motorhead #curtis young x reader #ray young x reader #logan maddox x reader #zac torres x reader #caitlyn torres x reader

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pizzaapeteer · 9 months ago

Text

Sucking isn’t always bad

Been thinking about Mechanic Mattheo, in which reader needs a little road help and in return offers a little roadhead. Warnings: NSFW 18+, fem! reader, throatfucking, semi-public, swearing, hair pulling, degrading, i literally no shit all about cars 🙃 around 3k.

A/n: also, I am sleep deprived so apologizes if this has some minor mistakes, and Ty to my pookies @thatdammchickennugget @amongemeraldclouds 🤍

Sweltering heat blisters down on your skin, messing with your vision and increasing your frustration. You wipe your forehead, looking down at the hood of your car in confusion. You never should've trusted that dealer. The car was a piece of junk and now, thanks to them, you were stranded on the side of the road.

Dust kicks up, swirling on the desert road around the thick rubber of slowing tires, a car pulling over to a stop in front of yours. The ignition is killed, and a pair of dirt covered boots hit the ground, your head craning over your shoulder to see who's stopped. Prayers run through your mind in hopes of someone kind and actually useful, and they're answered a little too well. The air stills with an itching sensation that spikes your adrenaline as you gawk at the handsome specimen exiting his car.

Jean-cladded burly thighs roll into view, revealing his intimidatingly tall frame that grows in his quick stretch. He's covered in an overlay of tattoos that decorate the sun-kissed canvas of his muscular arms. They constrict in his approach, moving to take a drag from the cigarette that hangs loose in his mouth, and you wonder how one can smoke those in the heats thick let alone wear black.

He walks with a relaxed stride, waving a friendly hand, his dark curls tousling by the movement. "Looking a little stuck there. Want a hand?"

Eyes that hold a deep brown search your face, determining the kind of person you are. He flickers them intensely down over your summer fit, drifting them back up, chuckling lightly at the black smudge of grease smeared across your forehead.

Mattheo had been enjoying the sweet tunes of his radio, strumming a hand against the heat of the steering wheel on his drive back into town. The smoke from his cigarette coolly inhaled into his lungs, his eyes flickering over the lane when they narrowed, zoning in on your bonnet popped up.

His eyes had taken your appearance in, wetting his lips in thought about whether he should pull over. Helping a gorgeous damsel was one of his favorite things and it seemed to be an often occurrence on the edge of town. Being a mechanic, he found people were pretty thoughtful in their payments, and the more he had gazed at you, the more the idea grew in seeing how you might help his pockets out.

A hopeful and wishful grin bears on your face at his offer and his casual approach relaxes your posture. You lean against the edge of the hood, trying to appear nonchalant. "Oh please! You wouldn’t mind? I’ve been staring at this hunk of junk for the last 10 minutes, completely lost in what’s wrong."

His eyes soften, giving you a charming smile of his own, taking a step closer to inspect the inside of your car. Inhaling in the final smoke of his cigarette, he drops it, crushing it under the toe of his shoe. He hums in thought, a deep vibration that vertebrates like a car itself. His gaze flickers over to you momentarily before he begins to work, his eyes analyzing all areas searching for the fault.

Wiping your forehead, you fan your face huffing out a breathless laugh, "Sure is hot, huh?" you grin, making light conversation while he works. He hums in agreement, another low tone that makes your core ache. Your eyes drape admiringly over his biceps, that flex in his movements, watching the way his fingers fidget around the machine.

Protruding veins probe at his skin under each flex and the dryness in your mouth thickens, overcome by a new sensation of heat. He straightens up, looking over at you, licking his lips subconsciously. "Could you grab something from my backseat? It’s a wrench." His words hold humour and a slightly degrading teasing tone, having noticed your puzzled look while you stand prettily doing nothing.

Nodding eagerly, keen to be of assistance to this oh-so-fucking sexy god of a man, you move with a run in your step towards his black car. You peer over the backseat through the window and spot the metal wrench, bending down to grab it.

He calls out again. "And my water, if you don’t mind?" He turns to make sure you heard and watches delightfully, with greedy eyes at the sight before him.

Thighs that shine with sweat under the blazing sun, reflecting like an ethereal being. His eyes nearly pop out of his sockets at the way your ass hugs against the tight jean shorts, half of it falling out of the material. He rests his weight on the hood of the car, stretching his legs out as he takes his time in appreciating the ravishing view in front of him. The curve of your back bending so sensually as you reach further in to grab his water. Such a good little helper.

Fuck. He’s already thinking about how he’d like to help himself to something from you right now, a salvation that could only release him from the thirst his body was craving. He stifled a groan, knowing this was not the time to get hard. He watches, still amazed at the cute stupidity that you could have just opened the door, questioning the delectable actions before him.

He graciously accepts the water from you, riveting in your adorable dazzling grin in the retrieval of it, and he downs half the bottle generously. “Thanks. I’m Mattheo by the way.” He lifts his fingers off the bottle in a playful wave, wanting to make sure you remember his name before he sends you on your merry way. Hopefully, with a little trade that leaves him just as satisfied with the hard work he’s putting in.

Flashing a sweet grin back, you repeat the name over in your head, Mattheo. It fits him perfectly and you can’t help but get lost in the daydream as you watch the way he pours a little water over his head. The liquid seeps into his locks, darkening them. It helps to battle the intense heat that was becoming unbearing; the coolness refocusing his sinful thoughts aside to finish the job. His fingers grab the wrench from you with a boyish grin and he shakes his hair, wiping his hands on his cloth, cleaning them throughly before running his fingers through his hair.

Happy to have been of service, you gaze hypnotically as the water drips, sliding with slowness along the base of his Adam's apple, dipping beneath the covered barrier of his shirt. You know he can probably sense your gaze, but you don’t really care, you’re already thinking of ways to repay him. At the small clearing of his throat, you realize you never told him your own name. "Nice to meet you, I go by y/n." Smiling sweetly at his manners, you ask, "You do this often?"

His head turns as he leans in, tightening a part, smiling at your pretty name. "Likewise." A deep, flirtatious laugh ripples from him and he raises a brow charmingly. "What? Help out pretty girls?"

Easily flattered, a giggle unlike yourself slips out and you cringe inwardly, before leaning an elbow on the edge of your rental car, trying to reattempt some coolness. "Uh I mean fixing cars…. you seem to know a bit about them."

He finds your flustered expression a level of adorableness that makes his head imagine what you'd look like whining and begging for him and it’s clear his cock agrees as his pants stiffen. He bites his lips and closes the hood with a firm shut. "I’m a mechanic. But I’ve always known my way under a hood." He flashes a cheeky smile, watching to see how perceptive you can be at his innuendo.

The reddening of your cheeks flush to match the crimson of the paint job, making his eyes gleam before he continues talking, becoming appreciative. "You got a nice car here despite the small adjustment, should continue to run smoothly."

He walks past, brushing against you in his fascinated inspection of the vehicle. He opens the side door, looking at the vintage interior, exhaling a low whistle. "Damn, this is some quality leather." Even the view from behind is divine, toned back muscles roll back as he stretches his hands out, pressing his hands into the texture, rubbing his fingers along the groves of the seat.

Lost in the way Mattheo admires the interior, you bite your lip, figuring out a way to keep him around a little longer. "You should lay on it. It's the most comfortable thing. I’ve taken many naps in it during my time away."

Finding your offer only kind and sweet, Mattheo doesn’t hesitate in stretching himself along the length of your backseat. His arms find comfort tucked under his head, and he closes his eyes, imagining taking a nap out away from the blizzard heat. He releases a content hum. His blissful relaxation is stalled with the fact you’re still looking at him from outside the car, and he opens his eyes.

Your face tells him it all and he understands there's no need to hide the clear arousal protruding tight into his jeans with how your lips are pursed, practically salivating at the vision. His lips curl into a tantalizing grin and you raise a brow, reading his look all too well.

"Thanks for helping me out there. I'm so useless at cars, I totally suck with them." The exaggerated helplessness of your tone doesn't go unmissed by him watching you stepping forward in between his widened legs. "But I’m real good at sucking at other things."

His eyes glimmer with understanding, making him sit up with rapid speed and pull you down onto him. There’s no room for shyness when he connects your lips onto his, teeth clashing amid the hungry kiss. Mattheo works skilfully, he’s agile and through the same way he is with a car and it’s clear he knows his way around a woman.

The confidence radiating off him doesn’t take you by surprise when his hands don't hesitate in tracing your body. Sturdy hands grope the outlines of your curves like they’ve caressed you a thousand times, sparks of heat left behind every touch. He shuffles, multitasking in his efforts to keep you busy while unbuckling his jeans, his pants practically bursting, having thought about this for the last twenty minutes.

His needy hands roam curving inwards, grabbing eagerly at your overspilling tits. He squeezes aggressively, the soft, supple flesh glistening with a sheen of sweat, releasing a low groan into your mouth. He’s enjoying the way your breathing heightens the feel of your chest rising against his palm and he continues grasping the back of your neck and guiding you down to where he needs you.

"Good at sucking, you say? Don’t mind if you give me a tester first, yeah?" An amused smirk pulls brushing your lips and his hands push the crown of your head down with determined force, his hips lift sliding out of his trousers.

You don’t hesitate in taking initiative, tugging hastily at his tight boxers, pulling your lip between your teeth in anticipation at the holy sight being revealed. The depths of your eyes lighten, glossing over him with a shine that matches the leaking pre cum dripping from the head of his cock. Eagerly your hand reaches, pumping the length of it, listening to the low husk of his breath, encouraging you in wanting to make him feel good.

"Oh, fuck.." Mattheos' hips jut at the feeling of your luscious lips wrapping around the head of his tip, it's flushed as pink as his cheeks are under the heat of the car. His hands tangle deep into your strands, gripping at the roots to angle your head further down.

"Y-yeah -ah- that’s it. Come on a little deeper." Your feet slide on the gravel road, knees buckling out and fall onto the edge of the car, the indents pressing into your skin leaving behind a marking in your pleasurable help towards him. His cock guides inching further inwards, suffocating snuggly down your throat. You groan gagging on the thickness of his cock at the sudden brute force his hips exceed, your nails digging intently into his thighs.

"Oh yeah, Atta girl, that’s it." His praises make your legs melt like jelly and you squeeze them together, the sweat making them stick. You whine pathetically, happy to be pleasing him. Developing a rhythmic motion, your lips slide along his length, sucking with an eagerness that causes a multitude of deep groans. His hands push, enforcing your pace to speed up, listening to the sweet sound of the way your lips slurp around him.

He wipes your lips, collecting your drool and pulls you off momentarily, shoving his fingers inside your gasping mouth. "You’re making such a mess, can’t send the rental back dirty," he tuts with a delectable grin, watching with satisfaction as his fingers disappear down your throat, creating more spit. "Atta girl."

Your mouth reacts to the depth of his fingers, gagging around them, feeling tears well in your eyes, and he retracts them, giving you a moment to breathe. "Good to know you’re not dehydrated."

An impish smile graces his lips as he watches the way you continue onwards, grunting at the feeling of your hands gliding around his soaking cock. His length glistening drenched in a mix of pre-cum and your spit. Kissing hungrily along it, your tongue flattens, slurping up the taste of him. Your movements are relentless and rapid, pumping him with a tight grasp, ignoring the way the sun burns down on you and leaves dried tear stains on your face.

"God fuck- you’re so eager to be helpful, aren’t you?" His cock twitches and his hips jut again, "You're just fucking lovin this...come on sweetheart, put your mouth back where it belongs." He helps guide your lips back on him, watching lustfully as his cock disappears around your wet lips.

His cock twitches, throbbing under the sensations of your wet lips. "look so pretty with your cheeks full." His lidded eyes flutter trying to watch you take him, lost in the control of admiring how easily you’ve made him fall apart. The tight suction of your hollowed cheeks slurping makes his hips jut, "f-fuck fuck.." He groans, grasping the back of the headrest chair, thrusting his hips up to continue staying in the warmth of pleasure.

Watching with ravenous eyes at the way Mattheo’s body thrashes, becoming more restless has you choking a moan that vibrates around his cock. The desperation was becoming unbearable, and the craving was insatiable, bopping with clear determination to make this undeniably hot man fall apart.

His chest heaves, his shirt feeling the dampness of the heat soaking in and he’s struggling to keep his eyes locked on your movements. He’s had his fair share of beautiful women at his feet and you fit in among his top 10 for sure. But the way your eyes linger aimlessly on him, watching with intrigue and eagerness at every expression he makes, has him gripping your hair harder. Hissing out a groan, he stays panting, mumbling filthy praises, his hips jutting further. He’s close, he can feel it and his eyes finally roll back, slamming his dick deep into the depth of your throat.

Your gags only spur his orgasm to come faster, feeling the constriction of your throat close, squeezing him and he pulls back with a desperate need. Grabbing himself, he pumps himself, decorating your face like a pretty picture drenching his cum across it. Watching how you take it unsparingly like you were anticipating it desperately, your tongue sticking out to taste any extra drips.

His eyes flutter lazily, taking a deep breath to calm his adrenaline, his teeth sinking into his swollen bottom lip, exerting redness from the tension he had caused it. He adjusts himself, searching his jean pockets for his version of aftercare - his spare clean hand cloth he carries with him, leaning forwards to cup your chin and wipe your face of his excess.

You hum catching your breath, appreciating the thoughtfulness, licking the spilled cum within your tongue's reach. Offering a thanks to him, you allow him to tend to you. Rarely did a man show any sort of kindness after such a vulgar act, and it just makes you want to repeat the action again. But Mattheo is already sorting himself out, concealing his pretty cock behind the covers of his boxers.

You straighten up offering him a hand, out of the backseat, which he accepts, it swallows yours within the size of his. The firmness of his hold almost creates the opposite effect, and your feet slip on the dirt. He’s quick to catch you resting a study hand on the roof of the car and a tight grip around your waist.

He throws you another cheeky look amused, "Already so eager for seconds, sweetheart you’re gonna give me a heart attack in this heat."

Bashfully, you laugh finding your footing on the desert road and you bite your lip at the idea of another round, "I mean…maybe there's also something wrong with my trunk?"

His eyes light up huskily, sliding his hand further down your body giving your ass a solid squeeze, "Defiantly nothing wrong with your trunk sweetheart, but if you're feelin a little empty, I know a place to get you filled?"

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen. ©️pizzaapeteer 2024.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x fem reader #mechanic mattheo #mattheo riddle x you #slytherin boys #slytherin boys imagine #slytherin boys smut

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tfatwsbarnes · 1 month ago

Text

apartment 5c | bob reynolds

summary: one of bob’s roommates — johnny storm — brings home an unlikely guest

pairing: bob reynolds x stripper fem!reader

word count: 3.9k

content: au where pb&jj live together, reader is a stripper but not brought to the apartment for that purpose! the job itself is mentioned briefly. mentions of being homeless and violence. bob is #1 at being awkward around ppl he finds attractive, reader teases bob and of course, bob is immediately down bad

a/n: not proofread. i like confident women with bob. also all my bob fics 🤝 saying goodnight bob

Bob liked routine.

He liked to wake up at the same time, every morning, put his favourite slippers on that he had neatly positioned next to his bed and sit in the kitchen for at least an hour eating cereal out of one of the last clean bowls in the apartment since the three other men living there — Joaquin Torres, Peter Parker and Johnny Storm — hadn’t the faintest idea what a Scrub Daddy and some dish soap could do to their dirty dishes.

He would eventually clean them; but he’d let three days pass before the pink rubber gloves were yanked to his elbows and covered in soap suds.

Eventually, the three day time limit had reached its end and Bob stood at the kitchen sink, clad in hot pink gloves, scrubbing the remnants of a protein oatmeal off of the bottom of a bowl. His lips pulled into a thin line as he wrestled with the stubborn food, Bob silently cursed his roommates for their minimal skills in the dishwashing department — even rinsing the bowl out would suffice.

Regardless, Bob refused to live in squalor, and desperately needed a bowl for his cereal for the hour he would spend livening himself up for another day spent concealed in the confides of Apartment 5C. Away from people, away from the threat of something going massively wrong if he was met with an ounce of stress in the hustle and bustle of New York City.

Once the dishes were — reluctantly — cleaned, Bob perched himself on his favourite stool at the quartz island, his eyes trained on the orange tinged skyline from their fifth floor apartment. He sat with his cereal stewed in milk for ten minutes, the first spoonful almost passed the threshold of his lips when Joaquin Torres burst through the serene bliss Bob had been experiencing.

Joaquin practically bounded round to meet Bob, his arm slouched over his shoulder as he jostled his roommate around a little.

“I think we are living in an alternate universe, Bob.” Joaquin whispered.

Bob looked to his friend, “What?”

“You remember the woman, Johnny took home last night, right?”

How could Bob forget?

It was in Johnny Storm’s repertoire to bring new faces through the front door of Apartment 5C, flirtatiously tugged into his bedroom with a handful of kisses on the journey for a night tangled in the sheets. His best friend, Peter Parker, the Friendly Neighbourhood Spiderman — vigilante for medium — subtly turning the volume of the TV up and rustling his bag of popcorn obnoxiously to cover the banging of Storm’s headboard against the wall.

The night prior had Storm’s two of the three roommates scratching at their heads when his new face for the night had him dragging a hot pink duffle bag and a cabin suitcase across the threshold. The matter of fact was, Johnny’s one night stands never brought any baggage aside from a purse and an abashed smile if eye contact was made from prying eyes in the living room.

And you? The woman he brought in?

You were potentially the most gorgeous woman Bob had ever laid eyes on. Naturally, it didn’t go amiss that all of Storm’s one night stands were pretty, but you took the cake. You had met Bob’s curious gaze with a genuine smile that had his jaw slacken and his throat constrict; his mouth feeling like it had been stuffed with cotton. A shy wave was sent his way, and Bob almost whimpered.

Thankfully, your attention had been diverted to the poor decoration clash between the four roommates before you had disappeared into Johnny’s room with your sweet toned voice lathering the apartment up like it had been dipped in honey.

Bob, quick to clear his head, nodded, “Yeah.”

“J-Storm is sleeping on the couch.” Joaquin widened his eyes for the theatrical aspect of his storytelling, “I don’t think they—you know—fucked. Isn’t that super out of character for Johnny?”

A little. But who were they to judge.

As Bob mulled over his answer to Joaquin’s theory of an alternate universe where Johnny Storm didn’t sleep with the women he brought into their apartment, Peter Parker strolled in with his knuckles rubbing at his eyes and a large yawn elicited from the depths of his soul.

He flicked a web at the remaining, speckled banana in the fruit basket and peeled away as Bob answered.

“Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable after they made it back?” Bob reasoned, “And it would be kind of cruel to send her home at two in the morning.”

Joaquin scratched his brow bone, “Or—hear me out—the ladies man is actually attempting to lock this one down.” He looked valiant in his theory, “Chivalry isn’t dead, bro.”

Peter chimed in.

“Who are you talking about?”

In the time that Joaquin responded Storm, Bob had said Johnny.

Peter — knowing Johnny Storm best — shook his head whilst he took a bite out of the banana, “That’s one of his closest friends. They’re not hooking up.”

Bob and Joaquin snapped their heads to Parker who hadn’t noticed their stares until momentarily after the fact. Solely focussed on peeling the fibrous phloem bundles, Peter let his eyes drift to see the two men in unison with their perplexity.

“Then…Why did he bring her home?” Bob blinked, “In—Into his room?”

“Oh.” Peter threw the last of the banana into his mouth and chewed whilst he spoke nonchalantly, “She needed a place to stay for a bit. He’s set his room up for her and he’s taking the couch.”

Joaquin guffawed, “When was this going to be a group discussion? Peanut Butter and Jelly Squared? Imagine I walked out with my junk hanging out, bro.”

“Right.” Peter screwed his face up, “Because, you’re casually doing that anyway.”

Bob wrung his hands, “Does she feel safe enough to live with three guys? I—I mean, we are safe. Obviously.”

“Obviously, Bob.” Peter and Joaquin said in unison.

“Right.”

Bob looked back to his cereal swimming in milk, a peculiar relief settled in his bones that you were solely Johnny’s closest friend, and not someone he had taken in for a tangle in the sheets. Not that he’d ever act upon his immediate attraction to you.

Suddenly, his head already swarmed with the possibilities of having to interact with you. It wasn’t second nature to someone like him to excel in sudden human interaction with a stranger he just met — let alone a cute one. He could see it unfolding, in the hallway, side-stepping in the same direction, his face burnt with mortification.

His roommates would goad him for months.

Peter coughed, “Shit. I should probably take my mask off of the coat hanger at the door.” He stood as Joaquin nodded with a response of his wise decision to conceal his identity of the true face behind the mask of Spiderman. Peter saluted, “See ya, fellas.”

Peter left with a slight stumble over the corner of the thrifted rug, leaving Joaquin and Bob to their own devices in the kitchen. Bob picked at the threads of his navy sweater, his ears perked to hear your laughter from behind the thin wall — and what a symphony it sounded like.

“At least it’s a change from the headboard.” Joaquin noted with a laugh as he turned on his heel, “One more bang against that wall, and they would be fucking in the living room.” He yawned, “Training with Cap. See you tonight.”

Bob mumbled a farewell when Joaquin passed him with a firm pat to his shoulder. He remained seated, thumbs twiddled as he second-guessed taking his breakfast to the safe haven of his bedroom at the very end of the hallway, to minimise excruciating small-talk. Suddenly, he cursed his rare win on drawing the longest straw out of the four roommates to see who would get the room with the biggest floor space and best view.

As soon as the thought flew into his mind, the padding of bare feet against the linoleum blew his idea out of the water.

“Good morning.” You beamed as you rounded the island in the kitchen to get to the fridge. Bob almost malfunctioned. You had entered in an oversized tee that had succumbed to your own personal DIY — the collar cut so it slipped down one shoulder to expose bare skin. When Bob didn’t return any words, you shut the fridge and turned, “Oh. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.”

Bob — albeit hesitant — shook your hand as you spoke your name. He returned, “Bob.”

You sat down on the stool next to Bob, a glass of orange juice in hand and quick to explain that you were explicitly Johnny Storm’s friend and nothing more. Bob nodded awkwardly, you had thrown his morning routine for a loop. Pretty with a nice smile, immediate with pleasantries when Bob was so used to being skimmed over. And, as you settled in by reading the newspaper that had been amongst the junk mail for Apartment 5C; Bob didn’t miss the blossoming bruise painted across your left eyelid.

He wondered how you managed to score such a hefty contusion.

Unbothered by Bob — who had been practically vibrating next to you — you picked the corner of the newspaper, uninterested in the contents until you came across the Daily Horoscopes segment. You hummed in delight, straightening as you flicked out the newspaper for dramatic effect.

“What’s your Star Sign?”

“I’m sorry?” Bob mumbled.

“You know. The twelve symbols in Astrology? Your Zodiac?” You folded the paper in half to show Bob, shoulders touched as you leant in without worry for consequences.

Bob narrowed his eyes at the page, distracted by how good you smelt, “Oh. I—I think I am a Cancer.”

“Water!” You chimed in gleefully. Extending the gap between you both again, you began to read out Bob’s upcoming months as a Cancer, finishing the last sentence with a teasing hum, “The next twelve months could find you embracing new beginnings, with a chapter that sees you expanding exponentially.” You slapped the newspaper shut, “Now, I don’t plan on staying for twelve months — but your matching sign was mine.”

You were definitely Johnny Storm’s friend.

As if on cue, Storm sauntered into the kitchen, eyeing you sat next to his roommate who was tomato red from the neck upward. Amused, Johnny chuckled and shook his head; a warning look sent in your direction which you returned innocently.

“Is she bothering you, Bob?” He questioned, head in the fridge to locate his leftover pizza from two days ago. His voice muffled slightly, “Just let me know if she is.”

Bob was quick to jump to your defence.

“No. No, not at all.”

You spared him a wink, “See? I’m on my best behaviour, Stormtrooper.”

Johnny pulled at the cold pizza, cheek full of dough as he shook the slice at you, “She’s acting like this because she thinks you’re cute, Bob. Give me a safe word, I mean it.”

Bob couldn’t have prayed more for the ground to swallow him up whole. He hadn’t expected such a forward conversation to disrupt the usual 8AM blissful peace. The situation was chaotic, you and Johnny continuing your back and forth banter as Bob was still stuck on Johnny’s admission that you found him along the lines of cute?

If he read between the lines — which Bob tended to lean towards doing — that meant you saw him as the equivalent to a calendar with every month brandishing an image of a baby animal with wide eyes. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He’d take his wins where he could.

Not expecting any inclusion going forward, Bob stabbed at his soggy cereal was near the lines of dissolving into the milk. He wasn’t one for food waste, especially in todays climate, so he grimaced and powered through a spoonful at a time.

You and Johnny had began bickering over your inability to not scare off the introverts of society, switched to another topic that went over Bob’s head. It was unusual to have this many people in the kitchen at the specific time he would eat his cereal and watch the New York skyline from the broken window that lead out onto the fire escape; so Bob went elsewhere in his mind.

Nobody would think to include him.

“So, what do you think, Bob?” You cut through his own thoughts, concise in your intention to usher him into the conversation. He blinked at you, a bright smile on your face that met your eyes as you awaited his response.

Bob croaked, “I—I wasn’t listening.”

“Would you like to bar hop tonight?” You didn’t know him in the slightest.

“Oh…No. Thanks.” He offered a meek smile with his rejection, “Going out to drink isn’t really my thing. My roommates can tell you that.”

You almost frowned, “OK. We can stay in, if you would prefer that?”

Bob didn’t like being put under pressure. But, God, you were so unbelievably pretty. Surface level criteria, but he would love to get to know you more. Without the prying eyes of one out of the three roommates waiting on his answer.

Bob Reynolds had a terrible time at undoing the personality trait of a people pleaser. And, the way you were doe-eyed at him, he almost said yes to an out of character night swarmed in intoxicated New Yorkers who would stand on is toes and spill sticky drink on his favourite sweater.

No. This time; he would stand his ground.

“Cucumber.” Bob blurted out. He stared at Johnny Storm who furrowed his brow. Come on, Storm! “C—Cucumber.”

A look of concern crossed your features, “Did I break him?”

Johnny finally clocked onto Bob’s sudden obsession with the word cucumber when his roommate desperately flitted his brown eyes between him and one of his closest friends. Ah. Right. The safe word — Cucumber — that hadn’t been announced. Initially, Johnny had said it as a joke, but by the way Bob’s ears burned neon red along with the pulsating vein in his forehead; he had taken his offer in a literal sense.

Not wanting to fluster poor Bob further, Johnny gave a curt nod and guided you out of the kitchen by your shoulders, and leaving Bob to cool off from the prolonged encounter and eventually clean off the bowl of disintegrated cereal.

It had been hours since the 8AM kitchen debacle and Parker, Johnny, Joaquin and you had exited Apartment 5C in your best nightlife attire to hit a couple of bars. This had left Bob to his own devices, and clear from enticing out that side of him when under an incredible swell of anxiety. He was happy. Deep into a book for most of the night, the TV on the Bake Off show for ambient noise; he almost missed the jingle of keys and snickers behind the door to the apartment.

Four bodies stumbled in, Peter was able to flick a web, unbeknownst to you, to save himself and you from toppling into Joaquin and Johnny who had met the same fate of carpet burn on their elbows from hitting the ground.

Bob perked his head up over the back of the sofa to watch the commotion unfold — not missing the way his stomach sunk as you patted Parker’s chest as thanks for saving you.

He should’ve been a people pleaser.

First to beeline for the living room, you slumped next to Bob on the couch with a hazed look on your face. Makeup still intact, it was evident the bruise on your eye was no easy feat to cover as it shone through the glitter on your lid. Radiating warmth, you let out a deep exhaled of content with your head lolled onto the headrest as the three of Bob’s permanent roommates filtered in — Peter balancing four grease splotched pizza boxes on his head to prove a point to Joaquin.

“I get it, the balance of a. . . Spider.” Joaquin flashed his teeth in a knowing grin as Peter threw him a petulant look.

“Just sit down and give us the pizza.” Johnny clicked his fingers at the space on the rug next to him and Peter obliged, quick to throw the first box open and steal a slice. Johnny shoved Parker’s shoulder before taking the second slice of Pepperoni, “That was the biggest slice, Parker.”

Peter smacked his lips, “Mhm. And it tastes great too.”

“We all know Peter likes the big ones.” Joaquin added, his forearms up in a makeshift shield as Peter threw a hard punch his way for the unnecessary innuendo.

You sunk into the cushions, your hands splayed across your stomach that moved when you laughed at their antics. You were the first to acknowledge Bob, “Do you have to listen to this every single night when you’re trying to wind down, Bob?

Bob felt himself get hot.

“Oh, sometimes.” He cleared his throat to hide the fact his voice was a few octaves higher, “I’ve learned to tune them out.”

You laughed — Bob grinned.

“You’ll have to teach me. I swear my ears are ringing from them talking over each other rather than the club music.” You extended a hand out to take a slice of pizza from Joaquin, “Thanks, Jackie.” You took a bite and turned your attention back to Bob, “Did you have a nice night?”

He nodded, “Yeah. I watched some Bake Off.”

“Bake Off? I love that show. I was heartbroken when Mary Berry left.” You swallowed, “She was the best part of that show, you know that right?”

“A real treasure.” Johnny cut into the conversation with a teasing drawl.

“Shut up. I’m talking to Bob.”

Johnny held his hands up in surrender. Satisfied that your best friend was stepping behind the lines again, you shifted in your spot to fully face Bob; one leg tucked under your backside. You ran a thumb across the corner of your lips to remove the excess of pizza sauce, your lashes batted when you noticed that Bob flicked his attention down to your lips and back up to your face.

Oh. You had him.

There was a split in the atmosphere, thickened with a new tension that Torres, Parker and Storm had no business being in. It was suffocating, the waves of attraction palpable between both you and Bob — despite Bob missing that note entirely. Johnny slowed his chewing on the fourth slice of pizza he had managed to devour, his eyes going between you and Bob as you sat grinning like Cheshire cats at one and other whilst continuing your in depth conversation about the Saint: Mary Berry.

Napkin to his lips, he wiped the grease off and smacked Peter on his chest with the back of his hand. Unaware, Peter groaned and shoved at his friend’s shoulder whilst he tried to fight for the last slice of pizza in the box. Johnny was quick to grab the male’s bicep and haul him up.

“Hey—” Peter went to argue his case when Joaquin caught his attention with his finger pressed to his lips. “What…? Oh.”

The three men casually whistled their way out of the living room, the door cracked open three inches wide so they could eavesdrop from their respected rooms — Johnny in the bathroom whilst he waited for you two to clear his makeshift bed on the couch.

Bob sent an apologetic look your way, neither of you missing the theatrics of his roommates. Unfazed with an award-winning grin, you bent at the waist to fiddle with the strap of the heel that had been chafing a raw blister above your ankle.

“Do you need a hand?” Bob blurted in an almost plea like manner.

Unsure of what sort of brain-rotting trance he was under where his ability to remain stoic — albeit minimal — in circumstances such as this. If he was a dog, he’d ought to be howling.

Exhaling with relief from the loosened strap you tended to the other one, “I’ve got it, thank you.” You straightened your back once the heel was off of your foot, “I’m a pro at a heel removal. Although, rookie error on my behalf for not taking blister plasters with me.”

Bob thought to the drawer crammed to the brim with medicinal items, such as plasters, alcohol wipes and a few stragglers of pain-relief pills that had been accidentally popped into the drawer and left to rot. Quick to jump to his feet, he held a shaken finger up to you which translated to: Please don’t move. Before he slid to the exact drawer in his head and rummaged to the back of it for the blister plaster pack Parker had purchased for his chafed nipples.

Apparently being Spiderman had its cons.

Returned to the living room with plasters in hand, Bob blacked out the programmed shyness, and knelt at your feet to tend to your minor wounds.

“Oh—! You do not have to do that.” You exclaimed with a gentle swat to make Bob get up from his spot on the floor. When he waved you off, you knelt back on the palms of your hands and watched him carefully. Quick to strike up another conversation, “So, Bob. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m—I’m unemployed, you could say.” Bob swallowed the embarrassment he felt. He wasn’t sure of your character past the one conversation prior to the one you were sharing now, but he prayed that his confession of being jobless — in a regular civilian way — didn’t make your nose turn up in judgement. He smoothed the plaster against your skin and was quick to add, “How about you?"

You sighed. Oh no. You thought he was a bum.

“I was a stripper—Thank you for doing that.” You admitted quietly to Bob who remained unchanged to your confession as he stood and returned to his seat on the couch. You picked at the threads of your skirt, “I love to dance. My boss wanted me to do more than just dance when he saw me being requested more.”

Bob nodded along.

“I slept where I worked. So, when I said no, he fired me and made me homeless in one sitting.” You gestured to the purpled bruise spread across your eye, “And he gave me this shiner for good measure. A real charmer.”

“I’m sorry. For how he treated you.” Bob was genuine and that fed through in the tenderness of his words.

You smiled, “Not because I’m a stripper?”

“What—? No. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He affirmed, “I—In fact, I would love to see you dance.” Bob immediately paled at his choice of words. Mouth dried, in an attempt to save face, he stammered, “I didn’t mean—What I meant was—”

He was fighting a losing battle.

But, he couldn’t mistake the subtle shine in your eyes of — was it? — fondness. You let out a gentle laugh, your hands pressed to the cushioned base of the sofa, your body leant forward into Bob where you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth; which had Bob almost chasing you for more when you pulled back.

Expressing further affection, your thumb swept the gloss smeared on Bob where you had kissed him before running your palm to his unkempt hair and brushing the stray hairs away from his face.

You stood from your spot next to him.

“I like you.” You tapped your finger to your glossed lips, “I think I’ll keep you.”

“Safe word, Bob!” A muffled call from Johnny in the bathroom, “Remember the safe word!”

You rolled your eyes, “Goodnight, Bob.”

#🔖 koolie writes #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x fem!reader #thunderbolts fic #new avengers fic #bob reynolds #thunderbolts #marvel fic #i’ll write anything but my we can’t be friends fic

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deadsetobsessions · 2 years ago

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There’s a child wandering the streets of Crime Alley. Unfortunately, this is nothing new for the area, riddled with crime and homelessness as it is. However, Red Hood and Nightwing are vigilantes and helping lost looking children is firmly in their job description. Plus, Crime Alley is Red Hood’s. He protects what’s his. With a single shared look, the brothers swung down to the child clad in just a white dress and some thin flats completely unsuitable for Gotham’s worsening weather. Hell it’s be unsuitable for the general poor weather.

“Hey, kiddo.”

The girl’s head swung to lock gazes with the duo, eyes blinking blue- and green? Red Hood allowed his brother- he worked so hard to beat down the pit madness in order for Nightwing to even remain near- to take the lead.

“Oh. There you are.” She said, turning to face them fully. The kid’s face filled with relief.

Nightwing blinked.

“You were looking for us?” His soft voice saved for children firmed into something more serious, more concerned.

“Mmhm. I was looking for Red Hood, but you’re a good bonus.”

“And why were you looking for me, kid?” Red Hood interjects. He knows Dickolas is clocking the same things he is: the kid’s white whispy hair, pale face, and… Lazarus green eyes? It’s more solid now, that she’s looking at Jason.

Dick straightened, eyes going heavy as he looks at this wisp of a girl. He’s fiercely protective of Jason and they’re both equally wary of the League of Assassins. Still, the two of them couldn’t help but let their guard down a bit because this was still a child they’re talking to.

“Because… um. Did you know you’ve died?”

Hood stiffened, hand going towards his guns. Granted, they’re rubber bullets, but the kid clocks that immediately. She threw her hands up in the universal gesture of “I’m unarmed and mean no harm.”

“I- well, to put it frankly, you kind of… stink?”

“What.”

“Ugh, I’m totally messing this up!”

“Why don’t you start again?” Dick said, shifting into a subtler fighting stance. He kept his voice light, but Jason saw the way his hands inched towards the scrims sticks. Distantly, Jason thought it was hilarious that this tiny kid could evoke that kind of response. Looking into Lazarus green eyes though, he couldn’t find the humor anywhere. The worst thing, though, is that the pit quieted. The rage the bubbled incessantly underneath his skin calmed. Jason did not like feeling bereft of the rage, not when he didn’t know why it was gone. He had just gained control of it, minimally, and to have that control be unnecessary left the vigilantes off kilter.

“Right, okay, sorry. Um, did you, uh, die and wake up surrounded by glowing green stuff?”

Before Jason could reply ‘yes, and why the hell do you know that?’, the kid continued with, “Because me too!”

She did jazz hands as Jason’s and Dick’s brains short circuited. Jason thought he even heard a little “yay!”

“What.” Jason sputtered out. His stomach and heart clenched as he thought about how young the kid looked. Fuck.

“Yeah. So, anyways-”

“Don’t speed past that like you didn’t say what you just said!” Dick interrupted, hand tugging at his hair in distress. His body language slipped from battle ready to extremely distressed. “You died?”

“You were- you were dipped in the Lazarus pits?!” Jason felt the need to address that specific point.

“I mean, it’s not that important? The important thing is- wait, what’s a Lazarus pit?”

Jason froze again. She didn’t know what they were?

“It’s… the glowing green stuff.” Dick answered her.

“Oh. Is that what you were dipped in?” She tilted her head at Jason. He nodded, wariness climbing. “Oh. Well, I mean, that’s not we call it. But the stuff you were dipped in, it’s rank. Contaminated.”

Jason thinks back to the burning, drowning green. The agony he felt as it slipped into his mouth and nose and his very being.

“It was bubbling.” He said. The girl grimaced. Jason had no idea why he was being so honest with this kid.

“Gross. Anyways, I can, like, help you with that?”

“With what?” Dick asked, eyes darting from the girl to Jason.

The girl groaned. “Okay, so I guess you guys are kind of new. Uh, the contaminated green stuff,” she points at Jason’s chest. “That’s making you angry, right? Leaving you in the backseat of your head as your body breaks whatever got you angry to begin with and you have no control over it?”

“…The pit madness.” Jason mumbled, feeling numb. “Yeah.”

“…Right. I can help you clear that out,” she pauses, fidgeting. “If… If you help me talk to Batman? It’s kind of… urgent.”

“Batman?”

“Why?”

“Uh. There’s kind of… a whole mad scientist thing going on and like… experimentation and dissections… you know?” The kid waved her arms around, distressed.

Dick and Jason unfortunately did know.

“Cave?” Jason grumbled.

“Cave.”

“Okay, we’ll bring you to the cave. Then you tell us everything.”

“Really?”

She looked up at them hopefully, and Jason could see the moment Dickolas melted. Not that Jason could say anything, since he was already taking off his jacket and bundling the kid in it.

“Um.”

“Who the hell let you walk around Gotham like that?” He scowled down at her, not that she could see it with the red helmet in the way. Dick looked at him carefully, eyes roving over the oddly relaxed state his little wing was in.

The kid shrugged. Jason sighs.

“What’s your name?” Dick asked. Scooping her up, the blue and black clad raised his free arm to grapple away. Jason follows him, heading towards the motorcycles they’ve got parked nearby.

“Dani. With an I.”

“Nice to meet you, Dani. I’m Nightwing. This is my… this is Red Hood.”

“Okay. Cool.”

#danny phantom #danielle phantom #danielle fenton #red hood #jason Todd #dick grayson #nightwing #dani going: you stink but I can help with that #dani trying to save her siblings from the GIW by bribing/blackmailing the vats #like they wouldn’t just take a look at this literal child and jump a cliff to help #dani: I need help #also dani: let me insult a crime lord #the plan worked though #this has been sitting in my drafts for too long #dani is both traumatized and a sassy little shit #dani ‘haven’t learned social cues’ Fenton #to be fair it’s not like vlad cared for social niceties #vlad the creep #dani dresses like she wants to get mugged on purpose

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dreamydrifts · 4 months ago

Text

zitti e buoni: charles leclerc

| pairing: charles leclerc x reader

| genre: f1driver!charles, f1journalist!reader

| stefy's note: i've written and rewritten this fic since last year, from october. and this time i had some help from @ellieisque (with feeding my charles delulu scenarios) so this is for both important girlies in my life @violletsareblue and @ellieisque , so enjoy girlies ;)

| warnings: swearing, manipulation (by the media), toxic behaviour (by the media), hardships of journalism, mentions of make out, minors dni

| face claim: sabrina carpenter

| word count: 6.2k

[ BACK TO MASTERLIST ]

The vivid memory of your boss giving you the opportunity to cover the Monza Grand Prix by yourself, still lingers in yout mind. Being here is what you waited for since you looked at races with your father. He made you see the sport from a different perspective, which you then realized you could use for pursuing journalism.

Checking and memorizing the stats followed by writing freelance articles late into the night for several years must have payed off because they were the reason you were given your first major Formula One assignment. The same day, the boss called you in his office handing you this opportunity with a warning. "Don't mess this up."

And you didn't plan onto. That's what you had planned. No distractions. No drooling over drivers. You'll be focused only on work.

"The Italian Grand Prix at Monza is considered a whirlwild of scarlet-clad, Tifosi along with the roaning engines and the intoxicating scent of burnt rubber." Opening the notebook, you started writing after clutching the paddock pass tightly as you looked curiously arounf the paddock.

Coming from a small but ambitious media outlet most of the time meant no exclusive interviews with the drivers, but the usual a meeting room. You couldn't complain a lot as the meeting room was quite spacious but the amount of questions you could ask were limited. Limited to none.

The spacious meeting room you were promised in the official Formula One email was nothing compared to reality. The meeting room consistend of a small square table and a chair right in front of it. As soon as you entered it, the image of hundreds of phones openly recording the famous Ferrari driver, Charles Leclerc talking about his expectations about the race.

Checking the time once again you realize that you were given the wrong or the supposedly wrong meeting hour. From the ten or fifteen minutes you thought you had none left, making you late to the interview all together. As soon as you entered the room, all the eyes were on you for a split second. All judging you for being late. But it wasn't your fault after all.

The pre-race conferrence is packed with reporters from major networks, but you manage to squeeze into the third row. With your phone raised to record Charles Leclerc's answer, you could feel his dark eyes scanning the room as he discusses the strategy. His voice is calm, but there's something beneath it. An intensity. A quiet confidence that sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, disaster strikes.

Your phone slips from your sweary grip clattering onto the floor interrupting the press conference. The sound is deafening in the momentary lull between questions. Fuck. What a way to catch his attention. Heat floods your cheeks as you bend to grab it, but before you can, a hand - sleeve rolled to the elbow, a silver watch glinting - plucks it up effortlessly.

Charles Leclerc himself.

He straightens, holding your phone out with a faint smirk. Your fingers brush as you finally take it back, and then subtle - barely there - he winks at you before returning back to the table. To the other journalists's questions. The room erupts into judging eyes, but your pulse still hammers in your ears.

For the rest of the press conference, you were nothing but focused. Your mind replays the moment over and over again. The warmth of his hand. The playful glint in his eyes. Was it just politeness, or did he actually notice you? Did THE Charles Leclerc notice you?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"The air in the Monza paddock crawled with the anticipation as qualifying began. The Tifosi packed the grandstands, their scarlet flags waving in unison as their chants of "Forza Ferrari" echoing through the trees of the old royal park." You continued writing in your notebook as the atmosphere was totally different that you have expected. It was nothing like you had imagined.

You stood at the edge of the Ferrari garage, your press pass dangling from your neck, your fingers gripping the notebook as you watched the screen intently. Ferrari had been strong all weekend, but so had McLaren. Charles' first runs in Q1 and Q2 were clean, his lap times consistently near the top. But Q3 - the fonal shoutout for pole - was where the real drama unfolded.

On his first flying lap, Charles was purple in Sector 1, his razor-sharp Ferrari through Curva Grande. But then, a slight lock-up into the second chicane cost him a tenth. He crossed the line P2, just behind Lando Norris.

Then the radio icon of Charles pops up into the screen seeing what the engineer had told him on the radio: "One more lap, Charles. Push for everything."

Come on Charles. Come on.

You held your breath as he began his final attempt. The car was a blur of red, howling down the main straight, the RPMs screaming as he breaked impossibly late into Turn 1, but then -

A sharp of oversteer exiting Ascari.

Fuck. Not again. So close.

The rear stepped out, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looked like he might lose it. But Charles caught it his reflexes almost supernatural. The mistake did cost him precious time.

When the checkerer flag fell, the standings flashed on the screens:

1. Lando Norris (McLaren)

2. Oscar Piastri (McLaren)

3. George Russel (Mercedes)

4. Charles Leclerc (Ferrari)

A groan rippled through the Ferrari garage. So close.

The media immediately swarmed the drivers after the session. You positioned yourself near the back of the scrum, listening as Charles faced the press.

"Charles, P4 - how do you feel about that?" A reporter asked.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, his expression calm but his jaw tight. "Not ideal, but not a disaster. The McLarens are quick here, but our pace is strong. Starting on the second row means we'll have options for the start."

Another journalist cut in. "That monent in Ascari - did that cost you pole?"

Charles exhaled, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he schooled it back into professionalism. "Maybe. But that's qualifying. One small mistake, and it's over. Tomorrow is what matters."

Then his eyes scanned the crowd - and landed on you.

You haven't raised your hand, but something about your quiet focus must have caught his attention. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for you to speak.

Heart pounding, you seize the moment. "Charles, you were talking about a wider line through Parabolica all session conpared to last year. Was that a deliberate change to manage tire wear for the race?"

A beat of silence. Then his lips curled into a small, appreciative smile. "Exactly right." He said, his voice warmer now. "We're expecting high degradation, so we adjusted the line to keep the tires alive. Smart observation."

The other reporters glance at you, some with curiosity, some with annoyance. Charles however held your gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the next question.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"Race day dawned under a blistering Italian sun, the air thick with the scent of fuel and Tifosi anticipation. The sea of red in the grandstands rippled like a living thing, their chants of "Forza Ferrari" shaking the old royal park." You wrote down in the small notebook you always kept with you. You stood once again at the edge of Ferrari garage, your paddock pass sticking to your shirt in humidity, as you cletched the notebook.

"Plan A", you could hear coming through the Ferrari garage. "One-stop. Hard tire start. We go long."

A gamble.

When the lights went out, Charles launch was electric. He rocketed past Russel into Turn 1, his Ferrari's nose edging alongside Piastri's McLaren through the Rettifilo chicane. The crowed roared as the scarlet car emerged P3 by Curva Grande.

While Norris pulled away out front, Charles bibed his time. His hard tires, durable but slower early on, needed laps to settle. He held his position, his lap times metronomic - 1:24.5, 1:24.3, 1:24.4 - never pushing too soon. Never letting Piastri breathe.

Lap eighteen. Norris pitted first, swapping for mediums. McLaren expected Ferrari to cover them. They didn't.

"Stay out, Charles. Extend the stint." The icon of his radio pops up again. They were really going for it.

He obeyed, his pace now scintillating - 1:23.9, 1:23.7 - as his hard tired, now in their sweet spot, devoured the track. By lap twenty two he'd built a twenty two second gap to Norris.

Then Ferrari struck. "Box now. Box now. Soft tires."

A flawless two second stop. Charles rejoined ahead of Norris, whose fresher mediums couldn't match his soft-tire grip. The Tifosi erupted.

Now P2 Charles hunted down Piastri. The young McLaren driver defended hard, but on lap forty two, Chsrles feinted left into Curva Grande before jinking right, darting past through the Roggia chicane with a move so bold Mclaren's front wing nearly clipped his rear.

The italian commentator could be heard speaking through the barely heard speakers "He's through! Charles Leclerc is leading the Italian Grand Prix!"

The final laps were a masterclass in tire management. His softs were fading, Piastri closing at half a second per lap, but Charles was working his magic. He took every curb perfectly, his voice calm on the radio. "Tell me the gaps."

"1.2 seconds. Two laps to go."

The main straight on the final lap was a wall of sound. Piastri's McLaren loomed into his mirrors, DRS wide open - but Charles crossed the line 0.8 seconds clear, his fists already pumping into the cockpit.

As the Monegasque anthem, followed by the Italian anthem blared, Charles stood atop the Monza podium, champagne soaking his fireproofs, the Tifosi singing in exstasy. In the garage, engineers hugged; in the stands grown men wept.

And in the media pen, your hands shook as you scribbled your notes.

This is why you loved racing.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Monza podium celebrations had been electric - Charles drenched in champagne, the Tifosi roaring as he held the Italian frag high. Now, in the press conference room, the atmosphere was more subdued but still buzzing with energy.

You sat at the back, your small media outlet's logo barely visible on your pass compared to the Sky Sports and ESPN badges surrounding you. Most of the questions so far had been predictable: "Charles, how does it feel to win at Monza?", "Can you walk us through the overtake on lap forty two?", "Do you think Ferrari can keep this momentum?".

Charles answered them all with the usual polished charm, but you noticed the way his fingers tapped the microphone - just slightly - when questions got repetitive.

Then, the moderator pointed to you.

"Question from Y/N Y/L/N, Trackside Media." A flew journalists glanced back, eyebrows raised at the unfamiliar outlet. Charles gaze flicked to you, and for a split second, you could swear that his lips twitched into recognition - the girl who dropped her phone.

You cleared your throat. "Charles, you took a different line through Ascari on your final push lap compared to your earlier attempts. Was that a pre-planned adjustment or something you felt in the moment?"

Another beat of silence, just like before.

Then, Charles smiled - not the polite press smile, but something sharper, more intrigued. He leaned forward. "It wasn't planned. The car was understeering a bit early on, but after the last pit stop, the tires came alive. I felt i coild brake earlier, carry more speed through double apex. So i went for it."

He held your gaze just a second longer than necessary before adding. "Glad someone noticed."

A murmur rippled through the room. Your cheeks burned, but you grinned as you scribbled down the answer.

As the conference ends you pack your gear, satisfied with the footage you could have gotten and had got already - until a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"You dropped this earlier."

You turn. Charles stands there, holding out your press pass - the one that must have fallen during your fumble. Up close, he's even more striking, sweat still glistening on his brow, his race suit unzipped to reveal the scarled Ferrari fireproofs.

"Oh - thank you." You stammer.

Charles studies you for a beat, then tilts his head. "You're not with the usual press."

"No. Small independent outlet." You admit, bracing for dissmissal.

But Charles grins. "You seemed....different. Not asking the same questions everyone else does." A pause. "Would you be interested in a proper interview?"

Was he really asking you this? Was this a joke? Your breath catches. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. How about my place? Less...chaotic."

The invitation hangs between the two of you, electric. Before you can overthink it, you nod. "I'd love to."

You couldn't believe it. You just scored an exclusive interview with THE Charles Leclerc. And not only that?but at his house also.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Charle's Monaco penthouse was nothing like the sterile press rooms you were used to. The elevator opened directly into a sun-drenched living space, all warm wood accents and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Mediterranean like a painting. A vintage Ferrari poster hung beside modern abstract art, and a well-loved piano sat in the corner, sheet music splayed open - his new song.

He greeted you barefoot, in dark jeans and a sofr gray sweater pushed up to his elbows, a half drunk espresso abandoned on the kitchen counter. "You're early." He noted.

"Professional habit." You answered him, suddenly hyper-aware of your own outfit. A silk blouse and tailored slacks, dressed to impress bout now feeling overly formal.

"Relax." He murmured, as if he was reading your mind. "This isn't Sky Sports." He led you the living room, where a low leather couch faced the sea. Instead of the expected table-and-chairs interview setup, he'd arranged two microphones on a coffee table, a single camera on a tripod angled to capture the view behind the two of you.

"No press team?" You asked, while you sat your bag down.

"I sent them home." He handed you a glass of sparkling water lime wedges floating atop the ice. "Figured if we're doing this, we do it right."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"You've said before that racing is as much mental as it is physical. What does a bad day in your head look like? The kind no camera catches." You ask the question before checking once again your notebook to see if you read it correctly.

Charles exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "It's...like static. You know every move you're making is wrong, but you can't stop it. Your hands feel heavy on the wheel. Your foot hesitates on the pedals. And the worst part?" He met your gaze. "You know it's happening, and you're powerless to fix it."

Your pen hovered over the notebook. This wasn't the polished answer he gave Sky Sports.

"You grew up watching Schumacher dominate in Ferrari red. What did you feel the first time you sat in a real Ferrari cockpit?" You continued asking the questions you had prepared.

A slow smile spread across his face. "I cried." At your raised brow, he laughed. "Not in the garage - I waited until I was alone. But it was...overwelming. That childhood dream? Suddenly it was real. And the weight of it hit me all at once."

"What a mistake you made early in your career that still keeps you up at night?" You knew this would be a deep question for him as it can turn back to the races he lost in his career.

"Baku. 2021." The answer came instanty his voice tight. "I was leading , got greedy and crashed in qualifying. Threw away a sure win. Now? I never push quite as hard on thag corner, even when i know i can." A rueful shrug. "Fear stays with you."

"You're one of the best qualifiers on the grid. What's actualky going through your mind during a pole lap?" You wanted to ask this questions for years, it was a question both you and yout father were curious about.

"Nothing." Your surprise made him grin. "That's the secret. When it's perfect, your brain shuts off. You're not thinking - you're just doing. It's the closest thing to flying i'll ever feel."

"Ferrari's strategy calls have been...controversial. How do you stay calm when you hear something you dissagree with over the radio?"

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You don't. You rage - but only after the race. In the moment? You trust. Even when every instinct screams not to." A bitter chuckle. "Doesn't mean i don't yell into my helmet sometimes."

You laugh for a moment along with him. "What's something about Formula One that frightens you?"

Silence. Then, quietly. "Being forgotten." He looked away, out at the harbor. "Not the crashes. Not the pressure. The idea that one day, no matter what i do., the sport will move on without me."

"You're known for being hard on yourself. What's one thing you're proud of, no asterisks?"

"Monaco. 2024." His voice softened. "Not the race - the qualifying. That lap was mine. No luck. No favors. Just...perfection."

"If you could erase one rumour about yourself, what would it be?"

"That i'm cold." His jaw tightened. "People think i don't care because i don't show it like others do. But the fire's there. It just burns quieter."

"What's a piece of advice you'd give your sixteen-year-old self?" You looked once again at the notebook checking to see if you were on time with the questions.

"Enjoy it." A sad smile. "I was so focused on the next step, I forgot to live the dream."

Last one. "What's something no one knows about Charles Leclerc?"

He held your gaze, suddenly serious. "I hate being alone. The silence after the race? It's the hardest part."

As the final question faded, you realized that your notes were abandoned. This wasn't an interview anymore - it was a confession. The Charles Leclerc the world saw - the focused, composed race winner, was just the surface.

The man in front of you? He was human. Flawed. Fearful. Real.

"That's it." You whispered shutting off the camera.

Charles slumped back into thr couch a hand running through his hair. "That was..."

"Honest."

Your eyes met. Somethibg unspoken passed between the two of you - an understanding.

Then with a shaky laugh, Charles gestured to the camera. "Please tell me that thing was off for the last part."

Your lips curved. "Wouldn't you like to know?" You say as you sat back next to him in the couch after shutting off the camera.

Impulsively then Charles says, as he catches your wrist where you hold the memory disk of the camera. "We should do this again. But without the cameras."

You froze. "Are you...asking me out?"

Charles blinked, as if startled by his own words. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile. "Yeah. I think i am."

A beat. The camera was off. No PR, no audience - just you and him.

"Good." You whispered. "Because i'd say yes."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The moment TrackSide Media uploaded the interview, the internet lost its collective mind.

Your phone erupted in a symphony of pings before you even had time to process what was happening. Twitter, Instagram, Reddit - every platform had already dissected the final thirty seconds of footage where Charles Leclerc, Ferrari's golden boy, had looked directly into the camera and said. "We should do this again. Without the cameras."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

| INSTAGRAM POST - SEP 3rd

F1Gossip

Liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 969,670 others

F1Gossip Charles Leclerc just publicly asked out a journalist. I REPEAT: WE ARE NOT SURVIVING THIS

View all 15,786 comments

user1 Lecler's PR team currently drafting a statement: Charles was merely being hospitable while Charles himself is texting Y/N 'so dinner tomorrow'?

user2 if this woman doesn't say yes, i will personally fly to Monaco and accept on her behalf

user3 who is she? some nobody trying to get some clout?

user4 charles could do so much better

user5 she's actually kind of cute though

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You stomach twisted as you scrolled. You expected some reaction, but not this. Not memes of your stunned face, not think pieces analyzing Charles body language, not hate messages flooding your DMs.

Your editor's text was the final nail in the coffin

| Mark Y/N. The video's at 500K views in two hours. The board wants a follow up. Are you actually dating him?

You threw your phone onto the bed like it had burned you.

For the next forty-eight-hours, you existed in a state of suspended disbelief. Charles had texted you immediately after the interview dropped, "Ignore the noise - They'll move on by next week." but the noise was deafening. Every major sport outlet had picked up the story. Even Sky Sports had a segment titled "Leclerc's Love Life: What this means for Ferrari's Season."

Your inbox was a warzone. Interview requests. Podcasts invites. A People Magazine editor asking if she'd do a Getting Ready For My Date with Charles" spread.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were half-convinced you should cancel. It was too much. Too public. Too dangerous.

Then your phone buzzed.

| Char❤️ Still on for tonight? I promise i won't let Autosport crash our date

Against all logic, you smiled.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The cobblestone path twisted away from the glittering harbor, the air thick with the scent of salt and frying garlic. Charles led you by the hand, his fingers warm and calloused against yours, his other hand shoved casually in the pocket of his dark jeans. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric stretched sloghtly across his shoulders, and a silver chain glinted at his throat in the dim glow of the streetlights.

No sunglasses. No pretense. Just him.

"You're taking me to a back alley?" You teased, your heels clicking against the uneven stones. "Should i be worried?"

Charles glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing at his lips. "Only if you're scared of the best socca in Monaco."

He stopped in front of an unassuming blue door, the paint peeling slightly at the edges. A handwritten sign above it read "Chez Manthieu" in faded script.

"This is your idea of a date?" To say the least that you were skeptical about his ideas of date and how he saw them, but in the same time intrigued.

"Better than some overpriced terrace where they serve three scallops and call it dinner." He pushed the door open, the warm hum of conversation and clicking silverware spilling out into the night.

Inside the restaurant was all cozy-checkered tablecloths, chalkboard menus, and the rich aroma of simmering tomato sauce and fresh bread. An older man with a flour-doused apron looked up from behind the counter, his face splitting into a grin. "Charles! Enfin!"

Charles laughed, releasing your hand to embrace the man in a quick, back-slapping hug. "Mathieu, this is Y/N."

Mathieu's eyes twinkled as he took you in. "Ah, so this is why you called ahead."

Charles rolled his eyes, but his ears pinked slightly. "Ignore him. He thinks he's funny."

Mathieu led you to a small corner table, half-hidden by a shelf of wine bottles. "I'll bring you the usual.", he said already walking away.

"The usual?" You raised your eyebrow at him. The usual would mean that he must have come here often enough.

Charles leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing yours under the table. "I come here when i don't want to be Charles Leclerc."

And just like that, you understood.

The socca arrived still sizzling from the oven, its golden surface blistered and crisp at the edges. Charles watched as you broke off a piece with your fingers, the stream curling between them.

"Careful." He murmured, catching your wrist before you could burn yourself. His thumb brushed against the delicate skin of your inner wrist - just ince - before releasing you. "It's hotter than it looks."

You blew on the chickpea pancake before taking a bite, the flavours exploding - wood-fired crust, sea salt, rosemary. Your eyes fluttered shut. "Oh my god."

Charles lips curved as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Told you."

Mathieu appeared with two mismatched wine glasses and a carafe of something deep ruby. "The '98 Bandol," he said pouring without asking. "Charles's favorite when he's celebrating."

You asked, accepting the glass. "And what are we celebrating."

Charles knee bumped yours under the table. "You not running screaming when i took you to a back alley."

Not long after bringing the appetizer, Mathieu comes back with two delicious plates, a tender octopus confit, handmade ravioli oozing sage butter. Charles plate looked at appetizing as yours, it's like he knew that the two of you would share them.

"I used to keep a notebook for every driver's helmet design," You admitted, swirling your wine. "Had this whole rating system. Schumacher's 2000 design? Perfect ten. Villeuve's 1997? A travesty."

Charles nearly chocked. "You rated helmets?"

"Still do." You tilted your head, studying him. "Yours is a solid eight."

"Eight?" He pressed his hand on his chest in mock outrage. "The prancing horse? The Monegasque colors? The -"

"Too busy," you interrupted, stealing a bite of his raviolli. "Sometimes less is more, Leclerc."

He caught your wrist as you pulled back, his thumb tracing the pulse point. "Next season's design," he said quietly. "You'll help me with it."

It wasn't a question.

The tiramisu arrived, dusted with cocoa powder still trembling from the impact. Charles pushed it towards you. "You first."

The first spoonful was pure bliss - espresso-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone so light it dissolved on yout tongue. You moaned without thinking.

Charles fork clattered against his plate. When you looked up, his eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth, "You're killing me." he muttered.

You dragged your spoon through the dessert slowly deliberately. "Problem?"

"Yeah." His voice dropped an octave. "Big fucking problem."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The warm Mediterranean night wrapped around them like silk as the two of you left the restaurant, Charles fingers laced loosely with yours. The harbor lights danced on the black water, painting liquid gold across the waves.

"This way." Charles murmured, tugging you gently down a narrow alleyway away from the main streets. The cobblestones glowed under the antique iron lamps, their footsteps echoing between centuries-old buildings.

"Taking the scenic route?" You teased, your shoulder brushing his arm.

Charles smirked, his thumb tracing absent circles on the back of your hand. "Avoiding paparazzi. And...maybe showing you my favorite view."

The alley opened suddenly into a hidden terrace overlooking the entire bay. The city spilled down the cliffs like scattered diamonds, the yachts bobbing like toys in the distance. Charles leaned against the stone railing, pulling you gently in front of him, his chest warm against your breath.

"I come here when the world gets too loud." He admitted, his breath stirring your hair at the temple. His arms circled your waist, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted. You didn't.

You leaned back into him, watching the moonlight carve silver paths across the water. "It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as-" He cut himself off with a quiet laugh, his nose brushing your ear. "That sounded better in my head."

You turned into his arms, your faces suddenly inches apart. "Smooth, Leclerc."

"I'm a driver, not a poet." His gaze dropped on your lips. "Though right now i'm thinking of several very creative-"

You silenced him with a finger on his mouth. "Show me the way home, hotshot."

Charles caught your finger between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before releasing it with a grin. "Your funeral."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The hotel hallway was too bright, too quiet after the intimacy of the night. You fumbled with the keycard, paintfully aware of Charles leaning against the wall beside the door, watching you with dark eyes.

"So," You said, the word hanging between the two of you.

"So," he echoed, pushing off the wall to stand before you. The dim lighting caught the stubble along his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow.

The keycard slipped from your fingers

Charles caught it before it hit the floor, his other hand coming to rest against the door beside your head. "Nervous."

"No," you lied, your breath coming faster as he stepped closer. His cologne wrapped around you - salt and something woodsy, with the faintest hint of wine.

"Liar." His nose brushed against yours, your lips a breath apart. "Tell me to leave."

Your hands found his waist, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt. "Make me."

Charles made a low sound in his throat before closing the distance.

The first kiss was soft - testing, questioning. The second wasn't.

His hands cradled your jaw as he backed you against the door, his body pressing yours into the wood. You gasped as his teeth caught your lower lip, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders. The keycard dug into your palm where it was trapped between the two of you, forgotten.

"Charles-"

"Tell me to stop," he murmured againsy your mouth, though his hands were already sliding down to grip your thighs.

You arched into him instead, your nails scraping through his hair. "Never."

The elevator dinged down the hall.

Charles pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. "Fuck," he whispered, his thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip.

You stole one last kiss before twisting the keycard from his grip. "Goodnight, Charles."

You slipped inside before any of you could change your mind, leaning against the closed door as your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. Outside, you heard Charles exhale sharply before his footsteps retreated down the hall.

Your phone buzzed into you clutch

| Char❤️ Karting. Tomorrow. Wear something you can lose.

You bit your still-tingling lips as you typed the reply. "Only if you're ready to lose too."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The private karting track nestled in the hills above Monaco smelled of scorched runber and adrenaline. You stepped out of Charles black Ferrari 812 in the golden afternoon light, squinting at the row of gleaming karts line up like racehorses at the starting gate.

"You own this place?" Your fingers tightened around the strap of your duffel bag as you took in the grandstand, the timing towers, the Ferrari-red barriers lining every corner.

Charles emerged from the driver's side, his aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes but not only his smirk. "Not own. Let's say...the manager owes me favors." He tossed you a helmet - custom-painted in matte black with a single prancing horse on the side. "You'll need this."

The helmet was lighter thank you expected. "This is carbon fiber.

"And you're avoiding the question." He stepped closer to you, his shadow falling across you. "Scared?"

You met his gaze evenly. "I grew up racing motorcross in the Australian outback. Your little go-karts don't scare me, Leclerc."

Charles grin turned funeral. "We'll see about that."

The engines screamed to life beneath them, a chorus of mechanical wasps buzzing in the pit lane. Charles had changed into a tight black racing suit, the fabric staining across his shoulders as he adjusted his gloves.

"Rules," he shouted over the noise. "First go ten laps. No bumping. No crying when you lose."

You yanked your hair into a hasty ponytail before sliding your helmet on. "Winner gets bragging rights and picks dinner."

Charles eyes darkened before his visor. "Deal."

The starting lights flashed red...red...green.

Your kart rocketed forward, the acceleration slamming your back into the seat. The wheel vibrated violently in your hands as you took the first corner flat-out, your knee brushing the concrete barrier. Charles pulled alongside at the hairpin, their wheels inches apart as you dove into the turn.

"Inside line." His voice crackled through you helmet comms.

"Eat my dust!" You braked late, forcing him wide.

By lap three, sweat trickled down your spine. Charles was relentless, drafting you on the straights, his front wheels kissing your rear bumper through the chicanes. Every time you glanced in your mirrors, there he was, his driving mirror-perfect and infuriatingly patient.

On lap seven, he made his move.

You took the sweeping right-hander too wide, just half a meter, and Charles pounced like a shark scenting blood. His kart slipped up the inside, the wheels interlocking for heart-stopping second before he pulled ahead.

"Merde!" You slammed your fist on the wheel.

Charles laugh echoed through your headset. "Told you i'd destroy you."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You yanked off your helmet, your hair sticking on your neck in damp curls. "You cheated."

Charles was already unbuckling his racing suit, the top half tied around his waist, leaving only a sweat-darkened white t-shirt clinging to his chest. "How exactly?"

"You-" You gestured wildly. "You distracted me!"

"By being better?" He stepped closer, the scent of gasoline and warm wrapping around you. "Admit it. You liked watching me win."

Your pulse pounded in your ears. "I liked watching you sweat."

Charles gaze dropped in your mouth. "I'm sweating now."

The pit crew suddenly found something very interesting to do on the other side of the garage.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The locker room was all white tile and stream, the air thick with the scent of citrus body wash. You stood under the scalding spray, willing your racing heartbeat to slow.

The curtain rattled.

"Occupied!"

"Relax, it's me." Charles' voice, closer than expected.

You whipped around to find him leaning against the sinkoutside your stall, his reflection blurred in the fogged mirror. His shirt was off now, his torso a masterpiece of leaned muscle.

"You lost," he reminded you, tapping the tile wall with one knuckle. "Winner picks dinner, remember?"

Water suiced down your back as you glared through the mist?. "And?"

Charles smile was pure sin. "I'm starving."

The curtain yanked open.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Charles killed the Ferrari's engine, leaving on the crash of waves against the cliffs below. The leather seats creaked as he turned to you, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel.

"Come with me." His voice was oddly strained.

He led you to the edge of the lookout, where the wind whipped at your clothes. The sun hung low over the Mediterranean, painting his profile in molten gold. When he dropped to one knee, your breath caught-

"Wait!" Charles fumbled with his pocket, producing a small black box. "Before you panic - not that kind of question."

Inside lay a silver key, it's teeth grinting.

"I practiced this," he admitted, running a hand through his windswept hair. "Pierre made me do it twelve times last night. Still fucking it up."

You laughed for a moment before regaining your posture as you then focused on him.

"I don't share," Charles continued, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Not my toothbrush, not my Playstation, certainly not my home. But i want you there. Waking up to your hair in my face, your terrible coffee mugs..." His voice cracked "So will you? Be mine officially?"

The key warmed in your palm. Somewhere below, a speedboat carved white lines into the blue.

"Only if you swear Pierre won't be best man at our wedding." you whispered.

Charles laughter echoed off the cliffs as he kissed you, his hands cradlling your face like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world. "Good because I already told Ferrari you're coming to Silverstone."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Ferrari garage froze when you stepped inside to be supporting your now boyfriend at the practice sessions.

Mechanics paused mid-wrench. Engineers' tablets dimmed. Carlos Sainz eyebrows dissapeared under his helmet.

"Putain," someone muttered.

You clutched your "Guest of Charles Leclerc" pass like a fineline. The scent of burnt carbon fiber and warm electronics wrapped around you as you edged past the gleaming car parts.

Then - chaos.

Charles emerged from the driver's room, his fireproofs unzipped to the waist, revealing a sweat-darkened Ferrari t-shirt. His eyes lit up.

"You came." He closed the distance in three strides, ignoring the team's stares to press a kiss to your temple - just as a photographer raised his lens.

Flashbulbs erupted.

Charles, of course, was oblivious - too busy shoving ice cream cones into your hands between sessions.

"You're insufferable," you hissed as the cameras clicked outside the motorhome.

He licked a stray drop of chocolate off your wrist. "You love it."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

| INSTAGRAM POST - JUL 4th

F1Gossip

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 689,233 others

F1Gossip Charles Leclerc brings mystery woman into Ferrari garage (PS: it's that journalist)

View all 14,987 comments

user1 Ferrari strategists when they realize Charles new performance coach is actually his girlfriend

user2 she's so pretty

user3 she's such a clout chaser. charles could do so much better

user4 THE SAME JOURNALIST

user5 he's so down bad for her

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The media scrum surged as Charles entered, still damn with champagne. He ignored Sky Sports microphone, making a beeline for-

"Question for TrackSide Media," he announced, grinning at your stunned expression.

Reporters swarmed.

"How does it feel," Charles continued "to be my good luck charm?"

The room lost it. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

Your cheeks burned. "I think you did the driving, Leclerc."

"Nah." He tugged you closer, his lips brushing your ear as cameras exploded. "This one was all you."

The clip hit 10M views before the two of you even left the circuit.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You pressed Charles against the bedroom door, your fingers tangled in his still-damp hair. "My good luck charm?"

"Oui." He nipped at your jaw. "Got a problem with that?"

You bit his earlobe, hard. "Only if you ever call me that in public again."

Charles laughed, flipping both of you so your back hit the door. "No promises."

His mouth found yours, tasting the champagne and victory. Somewhere outside, the team cheered for their golden boy's victory.

#Spotify #charles leclerc #charles lecrelc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x female oc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc scenarios #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc f1 #charles leclerc ferrari

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bucketgetter535 · 3 months ago

Text

No Margin for Error: Chapter Eight

CW: Drinking (ish)

WC: 7k

Notes: 29383828 hours of studying later and here we are. Please leave thoughts/reactions I live for them

They left Colorado on a private flight as the sun was barely stretching over the mountains, soft morning light spilling through the clouds like it didn’t know what kind of weight the next few weeks would carry.

Azzi didn’t sleep much on the plane. Paige did. Or pretended to. Hood up, headphones in, her long legs stretched out with that practiced ease only athletes carried — like she knew her body was a machine and she knew when to shut it down. Azzi didn’t bother pretending. Her mind was too loud.

By the time they touched down in the Netherlands, Paige had reassembled herself.

It was kind of incredible, honestly. Less than twelve hours ago, Azzi had her hands tangled in Paige’s sweatshirt and her name caught in Paige’s throat, all softness and low gasps in the dark. And now here Paige was — hair tied up, sunglasses on, gear bag slung over her shoulder like she was walking into war — completely locked in. A full reset. Like she’d flipped a switch somewhere over the Atlantic and become Ferrari’s golden girl again.

Part of Azzi admired it. The other part… well. The other part watched too closely, wondering if maybe Paige flipped that switch a little too easily sometimes.

They didn’t talk much once they got to the paddock. They didn’t really need to. It was Thursday — track walk, media, data briefings, and updates from the engineers. Azzi dove into her own schedule without hesitation, greeting a few familiar faces, nodding at the camera crew hovering around the hospitality building.

Ferrari’s garage was already humming with activity by the time she stepped in. Mechanics hunched over laptops, engineers wheeling tires into place. She could smell brake dust and rubber. It felt good — sharp and focused — even if the air was heavier than Colorado’s. More humid. The track at Zandvoort was tight and technical, the banks more old-school than she preferred, but she didn’t mind the challenge. She never had.

Mateo found her near the back of the garage, arms folded, eyes scanning the rear wing on the new spec. His ever-present clipboard in hand.

“Welcome back, Champion,” he greeted, voice dry but fond. “How’s the altitude detox?”

Azzi gave him a look, one brow raised. “We were in the mountains, not Mars.”

“Still,” he shrugged, scribbling something onto a tablet. “Glad you survived.”

He said it casually, but his eyes flicked up just a beat slower than usual. The not-so-subtle question was there, right beneath the surface: How was your break? Who were you with?

Azzi didn’t bite. She just lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and turned back to the car. “Didn’t forget how to drive, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mateo smirked. “Wouldn’t dare suggest it.”

They walked through the changes together — revised floor, some rear suspension tweaks, and updates to the diffuser they’d been testing in the sim. Small gains, mostly. They weren’t expecting to dominate this weekend, not with Red Bull’s pace at this circuit. Zandvoort had always been their guy’s playground. The orange-clad home crowd would make sure of that.

Ferrari’s real target was Monza. That much was clear from the way everything was framed — “data for next week,” “building confidence in the new package,” “testing race pace over quali speed.”

Fine. Azzi could play the long game. She always had.

She was mid-way through some telemetry comparisons with Mateo when she caught the tail end of movement across the garage — just enough to draw her attention.

Paige.

Standing in the opposite corner, talking to Luka, her posture easy but attentive, one hand gesturing slightly while the other held her drink bottle. The headphones she always wore before debriefs sat loose around her neck, and the red of her Ferrari polo hugged her biceps in that stupid, unfair way that made Azzi glance too long.

There was a faint sheen of heat in the air — maybe from the track, maybe from jet lag — but Azzi felt it anyway. A flicker low in her spine.

She looked good. That was the problem.

Azzi looked away before her stare could become obvious.

Mateo was still talking, oblivious. “We’ll get the baseline this afternoon, and I’ll push the long-run setup to the sim files tonight.”

Azzi nodded, lips pressed together.

And then — because of course — she caught movement again.

Dirk.

Dirk van der Meer — with his annoyingly symmetrical face and stupidly strong jawline and that half-foreign, half-familiar charm that always made the media swoon. He was lingering just outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, talking to someone from Alpine but looking way too comfortable doing it. He spotted her, of course. He always did. Gave her that little two-fingered salute like he thought he was clever.

She didn’t return it.

Instead, she turned back to the car and focused on what actually mattered — the downforce data, the tires they’d be testing in practice, the mounting pressure of being Ferrari’s two-time champion while still having to chase Red Bull every other weekend.

But it still gnawed at her.

Dirk. Paige — with her jaw set like she hadn’t just spent a week letting Azzi drag her back to bed every morning.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. Paige wasn’t her girlfriend. Dirk wasn’t Paige’s boyfriend. None of it meant anything. They were all just doing their jobs.

But Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling crawling under her skin — the tightness in her chest, the flare of something ugly and sharp every time Dirk smiled at Paige like that, every time she caught him looking over with that faint, knowing smirk.

They hadn’t even been back a full day and the game face was already back on. Paige was composed, professional, unreadable. Azzi couldn’t decide if it was impressive or just… a little sad.

And maybe that was the thing that bothered her most.

Because under all of it — the jealousy, the tension, the stupid tightness in her jaw — was the knowledge that if Paige looked at her right now, Azzi wouldn’t be able to hide a damn thing.

–

Friday at Zandvoort was unremarkable, which, in Formula One, was almost worse than a disaster.

Practice One and Two came and went in a blur of engine notes, tire graining, and the occasional puff of beachside sand swirling into the corners. The Ferrari was… fine. Balanced enough to keep the rear from sliding, but not punchy. Not aggressive. Not what they’d need to really fight at the front.

It was clear from the first stint that this wasn’t their weekend. At least not yet.

Azzi felt it in every corner — the way she had to fight for grip, the way the rear end drifted just slightly out of sync with her hands. She didn’t complain. Mateo knew. Everyone did. This wasn’t a race car built for Zandvoort. It was a placeholder — a test bed. All eyes were already on Monza.

Which meant this weekend was about staying clean. Stay sharp. Collect data. Don’t crash. She could do that. She had done that, season after season. But it didn’t mean she liked it.

Paige, naturally, said nothing. Not to her, anyway. They’d exchanged a few clipped words in the garage between runs — tire temps, brake feedback, pressure settings. All technical. All safe. Nothing that touched anything real.

Azzi didn’t know if it was the car or the heat or the jet lag, but something felt off in the garage. Disconnected.

Even when Paige was only a few meters away, helmet under one arm, hair damp with sweat at her temples — she still felt too far.

And Azzi didn’t like that.

She didn’t say anything, of course. Not with the team crowding around, not with engineers sticking mics into their faces and media staff ushering them toward interviews. So she kept her head down. She signed the papers. She gave the sound bites. And when it was finally over — when the day had burned itself out and the sun dipped low behind the dunes — Dr. Liao’s assistant found them in the paddock.

Just a routine check. A post-break wellness evaluation. For both of them.

Which was fine. Boring, even. Azzi had nothing to report. She’d gotten sleep, eaten well, even managed a few hikes in Colorado that didn’t leave her knees screaming. Her vitals were perfect. No issues, no fatigue. Dr. Liao nodded, pleased, and made a note on her tablet.

And then it was Paige’s turn.

Dr. Liao was gentle, but thorough. There was history to consider — Paige’s crash before the summer break had almost been enough to warrant concussion protocol (It should have. Paige just ignored the doctors). She’d been cleared for this race, obviously. Otherwise she wouldn’t be in the car. But Liao still asked the questions.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Paige said, without hesitation.

“Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?”

“No.”

“Sleep disruptions?”

“No.”

“Memory issues?”

“No.”

Dr. Liao studied her for a second. Paige’s expression didn’t move.

Azzi did her best not to roll her eyes.

Because Paige was lying. Not about everything — but enough. Enough for Azzi to know she was brushing symptoms under the rug. She’d seen the way Paige blinked harder under the bright lights in the garage. The way she’d rubbed the bridge of her nose after second practice. The tightness in her jaw when she thought no one was looking.

Azzi knew Paige. Knew how good she was at convincing people she was fine even when she wasn’t.

And it pissed her off. Just a little.

But she stayed quiet.

Eventually, Dr. Liao cleared her, if only with a subtle note to monitor and check again after Quali. And just like that, the session was over.

They walked out into the narrow hallway between medical and hospitality, neither of them saying much. The sun was setting fast now, slanting gold through the paddock windows.

Azzi was halfway through reaching for her phone when Paige said quietly, “Can we get food?”

Azzi blinked, a little surprised. Paige didn’t look at her — not directly. Just kept walking, slowly, voice a notch lower than usual.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even really a suggestion. More like a reach.

Azzi studied her for a beat. Paige was tired — she could see it now, beneath the bravado and the sunglasses and the pressed polo. Her shoulders were still tense from the car, and her eyes had that faint glaze that came from staring at telemetry for hours.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. There’s a restaurant in the hotel.”

“Okay,” Paige said, and something about the way her voice dropped again — quiet, like relief — made Azzi’s chest go warm and tight at the same time.

They didn’t talk as they made their way to the car. They didn’t need to.

But something had shifted — small, subtle. Like a gear had finally clicked back into place.

Azzi didn’t know what Paige would say over dinner. If she’d finally open up. If she’d deflect and pretend like always.

But for the first time all day, she didn’t feel like she was driving alone.

–

They ended up not bothering with the restaurant.

Paige had looked at the elevator buttons like they were a puzzle she didn’t have the energy to solve, and Azzi didn’t feel like pretending to enjoy lukewarm hotel pasta while surrounded by stiff-backed diners and wandering photographers.

Instead, they took the quiet route: room service menus tossed onto the bed, shoes kicked off in opposite corners, and phones left somewhere between the floor and the windowsill.

Azzi’s room was on the twelfth floor. Not penthouse, but close. High enough to see the curve of the sea on clear days. Tonight it was dark, low clouds rolling in over the dunes. The sky looked heavy.

Their food came in less than twenty minutes, wheeled in by a teenager who looked like he was trying not to trip over his own feet at the sight of two Ferrari drivers sharing a hotel room. Paige tipped him before Azzi could move. She didn’t say anything about it.

Dinner was unremarkable — a grilled chicken sandwich for Paige, a salad bowl for Azzi that she only ate half of. Neither of them was particularly hungry. Not really. It was just a thing to do with their hands. Something to fill the space.

Azzi didn’t ask until Paige had finished most of her sandwich. Her head was leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent, hotel slippers on. The sleeves of her polo were rolled just slightly up her arms. It looked natural. Comfortable.

Azzi set her fork down.

“So,” she said, quiet, careful. “Headaches are better, huh?”

Paige blinked. Her jaw shifted like she was debating whether to lie again.

“They’re not gone,” she said finally. “But yeah. A lot better.”

Azzi watched her. “And the light stuff?”

Paige hesitated. “Still happens sometimes.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. That one lingers.”

She wasn’t saying it just to say it. She’d had a concussion once — Suzuka, her first year in F1. A tire wall, a misjudged braking point, and three days of brutal nausea and floating vision. She hadn’t admitted it at the time, of course. But she’d remembered the way it felt. The way it stayed.

Paige didn’t say much else. She just pushed her plate a few inches away and leaned back again, letting her phone rest flat on her stomach.

Azzi didn’t push. She could tell Paige was spent — not in the physical way, but that mental burnt-out silence she slipped into when her brain had been on fire all day and needed something stupid to cool it off.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, Paige was on TikTok. Earbuds in. One in, one out. Azzi didn’t even notice at first, until Paige snorted — an actual laugh, low and surprised — and nudged her foot.

Azzi looked over.

“What?”

Paige turned the phone toward her, grinning faintly. “Someone made an edit.”

Azzi squinted at the screen. It was an F1 fancam — clips of the two of them stitched together to some overdramatic song about tension and unsaid feelings. Garage glances. Post-race hugs. Press conference smirks. All edited in glossy, high-contrast color correction and captioned in shaky all-caps.

Azzi leaned closer, chewing the inside of her cheek as she read.

Paige tapped the caption. “Read it.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but obliged, deadpan: “they hate each other so bad that it’s sexy as hell.”

Paige broke into a full laugh then — not loud, but real. Her head tilted back against the headboard, and she smiled like it wasn’t something she had to think about.

Azzi didn’t laugh, but she smiled too.

She didn’t know what this was — them, like this. Quiet. Not fighting. Not faking. Just… here.

It wasn’t complicated. But maybe it was something.

She didn’t need a caption to tell her that.

–

Race day at Zandvoort was uneventful, which, in Formula One terms, was nearly a gift.

No crashes. No surprise rain. No pit stop disasters or last-lap tire blowouts. Just a clean, controlled 72 laps around a twisty Dutch circuit with more orange smoke than actual drama.

Paige finished fourth. Azzi, fifth.

It wasn’t great. But it wasn’t bad either.

The team radios had been calm, almost boring. Fred had come over the line once — just once — with an even-toned directive: Hold positions. No fighting.

Paige had been ahead by a few seconds at that point. Azzi could’ve pushed. Would’ve, maybe, on a different weekend. But her tires weren’t fresh and her car wasn’t magic and she knew when to live to fight another day. So she sat behind her teammate and took the points.

22 total for Ferrari. Solid haul.

But now? Now they were back in the paddock, the post-race haze still clinging to their skin and hair like sweat and champagne residue, and the meeting room smelled like engine oil and air conditioning.

Azzi sat in the middle of a long glass table, hair still damp from her driver’s room shower, Mateo on one side of her, Fred on the other. Across the table sat Paige, elbow on the armrest, eyes half-lidded like she was bored already. Luka leaned in to speak to her every so often, murmuring something Azzi couldn’t hear.

Fred cleared his throat.

“Monza,” he said, which was the only word necessary to command the room’s attention. “We’ve got the car. And we’ve got the drivers.”

The weight of that hung for a second.

Azzi knew what it meant. So did Paige. They’d been in this position before, only not quite like this. Not with the standings as tight as they were. Not with Ferrari actually expecting them to win, not hoping.

Paige had scored more points in the Netherlands. Which meant that now — after months of clawing her way up — she was one single championship point behind Azzi.

One.

Azzi should’ve felt threatened, probably. But she didn’t. Not really. If anything, she felt… awake. Like the season was finally breathing down their necks for real.

Fred continued. “You know how important Monza is. You know what it means to this team. This car was built for the straights — we’ve been saying it all year. You two kept it clean today, and that’s good. But Monza’s not about clean. It’s about finishing first.”

He paused. “And second.”

Azzi felt the burn of it — that Ferrari expectation. It wasn’t new. But it was heavy in a way that always seemed heavier here, in red, under the weight of a tifosi-filled grandstand and every Italian sponsor who fancied themselves a team principal for the weekend.

“There are going to be eyes on us,” Fred said. “From inside and out. We need results.”

Mateo nodded beside her, sliding his tablet around to show some figures — wind tunnel improvements, tweaks to the rear wing, the new engine mapping that would open them up on the DRS straights. Azzi took it in, quiet but sharp-eyed.

Paige didn’t ask questions, but Azzi could see her tapping a pattern against her thigh — a tiny rhythm she only did when she was deep in her own head.

Fred looked at them both now.

“You two have gotten good at toeing the line,” he said. “But Monza’s not about points anymore. Not about strategy. Not this year.”

He looked at Paige. “If you’re ahead, finish ahead.”

Then to Azzi. “If you’re ahead, stay ahead.”

Azzi just nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

When the meeting wrapped, the engineers peeled off first, muttering to each other about sim time and cooling ducts. Fred stood, gave them a final nod, and left without ceremony — the kind of exit that told you he expected them to deliver without needing a damn pep talk.

It was just the two of them now. Azzi and Paige. Left behind in a room that had gone quiet too fast.

Paige pushed her chair back and stood, arms crossed, still looking every bit like the girl who’d just driven an entire race without breaking a sweat.

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

“Fourth place,” she said.

Paige smirked. “You’re welcome for the points.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I could’ve taken you.”

“Yeah?” Paige tilted her head. “Guess we’ll never know.”

The thing was — Azzi knew she was right.

But Monza was coming. Home turf. Flat-out speed. And only one point between them now.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

–

The air in Monza buzzed different.

Not louder. Not even heavier. Just… sharper. Finer. Like the entire track had been scrubbed down to the grain and polished in Ferrari red, every sound bouncing twice off the barriers and settling in the bones. This wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was the Grand Prix.

Home race. Temple of Speed. The place where miracles happened and legends were made or broken at the apex of Parabolica.

Azzi knew the pressure before she even landed. Knew it in the pit of her stomach, the way she always knew things she didn’t need to be told. The whispers. The media tension. The sponsors with private suites and fake smiles. The team principals who circled like hawks around each garage.

She handled it. She always did.

So did Paige.

That was the thing — whatever they’d done in the break, whatever they’d said or hadn’t said, they were back to being what they’d always been on track. Razor-edged and separate. Focused. Locked in. Like nothing else existed the second the helmet went on.

And the helmets — God, the helmets. Ferrari had let them pick the colors this weekend, in honor of the near-all-white car that paid tribute to the Scuderia’s earliest years. A throwback. An homage. Whatever you wanted to call it.

Azzi’s helmet was soft pink with white accents, clean and subtle, sharp where it needed to be. She hadn’t told anyone why she’d chosen pink. She didn’t need to.

Paige’s was lilac — almost silver under the Monza sun. Not loud. Just… unexpected. Understated. Cool. Very Paige.

Together, in their white fireproofs and red accents, they looked like two halves of something calculated.

Qualifying day brought with it a heat that shimmered off the asphalt like a dare. Azzi stood at the edge of the garage, engine rumble in her chest, helmet under one arm, watching the clouds hover behind the paddock. They weren’t going to interfere. They were just there to spectate, like everyone else.

The Ferrari was fast.

Shockingly fast.

They’d expected improvements — Monza was the race the car had been built for — but this? This was something else. This was a weapon on wheels. The straight-line speed alone was enough to punch a hole in the air and never look back.

Azzi felt it in Free Practice. So did Paige. The lap times were low. The tire wear was minimal. They weren’t fighting the track — they were floating over it, slicing through turns 6 and 7 like they had grip written into their blood.

But qualifying was a different beast.

First run went well. Clean. Azzi went fastest initially, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Paige hadn’t even gone out yet. Luka always held her back for traffic. Mateo glanced at Azzi after her run and gave her the familiar, unreadable engineer nod. The one that said, “Good, but don’t get comfortable.”

Second run, Q2, they were within two-tenths of each other. Azzi was smoother through turn 10. Paige was faster on the straight. They both knew it, even if no one said anything.

Then came Q3.

The big show.

Azzi went out first, nailed every sector, and took provisional pole.

The lap had felt like silk. Perfect entry into Turn One. No wobble through turns 4 or 5. The rear stuck like glue into turn 7 and opened up like a dream into the straight. It was the kind of lap that made you believe in the car, in the team, in yourself.

She parked it in the pit box and took off her gloves, eyes flicking to the screen.

Purple, purple, purple.

For now.

Then Paige went out.

Azzi didn’t need the timing monitor to know it was a good lap. She could feel it — from the sound of the throttle, the way the garage fell silent, every mechanic and engineer listening with the kind of reverence they usually saved for podiums.

Then the board lit up.

Purple, purple, purple.

Final sector: fastest of anyone. By two-hundredths.

Pole position: Paige Bueckers.

Azzi let out a breath. Didn’t even realize she’d been holding it.

On the other side of the garage, Paige pulled in, visor still down, engine ticking as it cooled. Luka came over the radio and said something only she could hear, but whatever it was made her laugh — quick and short and low.

She climbed out of the car like she’d just walked off a street corner. Calm. Loose. The purple helmet under one arm like it belonged there.

Azzi watched her from the monitor wall. Just for a second.

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Pole was pole. It could’ve been either of them. But the way Paige looked right now — like she expected it — made something churn low in her stomach.

Confidence was dangerous.

Paige had it in spades.

And tomorrow, they’d both have clean air.

Front row, Ferrari one-two.

Monza.

Game on.

–

The Monza crowd was electric, and the Ferraris lit the fuse.

It had started clean. Paige on pole. Azzi beside her. Front row. Home race. Red everywhere. Real red — the kind that lived in flags and banners, not just sponsorship decals. The kind of red that vibrated when the engines started and roared like a religion when the lights went out.

The first corner was textbook. Azzi tucked in right behind Paige, both Ferraris making it through the chicane without drama, the McLarens too far back to threaten. From there, it was clear: this wasn’t going to be a race for position. This was a race for pride. For the championship lead. For each other.

Lap after lap, they pushed. Hard. The kind of hard that made your hands sweat inside your gloves. That made your neck ache in the third stint. That made the team radios go quieter, not louder, because the engineers knew they couldn’t really manage them right now. They could only monitor.

“Paige’s pace looks like a one-stop,” Mateo said into Azzi’s ear around lap twelve. “She’s starting to lift through turn 10.”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. She was adjusting a brake bias setting with one hand and flicking her DRS closed with the other. Her eyes were locked on the faint shimmer of red in the distance — Paige, just outside the DRS window. She had been there for five laps. No closer. No farther.

“Copy,” Azzi said eventually. “Tell me when she boxes. I’ll follow.”

A beat. Then Mateo, dry: “You two should probably just get married.”

Azzi snorted. “I’ll propose if I pass her in pit lane.”

They went with the one-stop.

It wasn’t strategic genius — just a necessity. The car was quick on mediums, and track position mattered here more than almost anywhere. The McLarens were falling behind. Ten seconds. Then fifteen. This race was theirs alone.

Azzi finally got close again on lap twenty-four, just before the stops. Paige had been backing her up subtly, taking the corners wider, slowing entry speed to ruin her air. But Azzi knew the tricks. She’d done the same to Paige in Austria.

She ducked around the outside in turn 7 and nearly made it stick. The rear of the car twitched just slightly, the gravel taunting her, and Paige closed the door — not aggressively, just enough to remind Azzi who had track position.

They pitted one lap apart. Paige first. Azzi right after.

The outlaps were chaos — warm tires, heavy fuel still, and just enough wind picking up at Turn Three to make the front wing feel loose.

Azzi came out behind again. Just behind.

And then the race became something else.

It was the kind of fight they hadn’t had in months. Since Miami, before the break. Before hotel rooms and private flights and secrets. Before TikToks made them go viral for sharing water bottles and brushing shoulders in the garage. Before the way Azzi looked at Paige had changed from rivalry to… whatever this was.

They raced clean, but hard. There were no team orders. None would’ve been followed anyway.

Paige left space. Azzi took it. Azzi attacked through turn four and Paige held her off in turn ten. Then Paige defended into Turn One and Azzi nearly dove on her. Inches apart, no contact. Pure trust. Or something close to it.

They swapped positions twice more — once through sheer ERS timing, and once because Azzi went purple in sector two and Mateo told her to “stop playing nice.”

But Paige was holding something back. Always, always holding something back. She’d been nursing her tires for twenty laps and it showed in the final five. Her car came alive again just as Azzi’s started to slip.

The last lap came fast. Too fast.

Azzi was in DRS range but only just. She caught the rear wing coming out of the second Lesmo and knew that if she didn’t go for it in turn 11, she wasn’t going to get the chance again.

She lined it up. Wide entry. Early throttle.

But Paige had launched earlier. Perfect exit. Enough to keep her ahead.

Azzi crossed the finish line three-tenths behind her.

Three-tenths.

Close enough to taste the carbon dust from Paige’s rear wing. Close enough to count the track marbles dotting her diffuser. But not close enough.

Still, the fans loved it.

The whole straight erupted in applause. For Ferrari. For both of them.

And Azzi, hands on the wheel, staring at the cool-down screen in front of her, finally exhaled. The kind of breath you didn’t know you were holding until the checkered flag waved.

Mateo came over the radio.

“2nd. Amazing drive, Az. You gave her hell.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She just let the silence fill the cockpit.

Then: “She’s the leader now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mateo said. “We’ll think about that next week.”

Azzi nodded once, not that anyone could see it. “Alright. Next week.”

–

The post-race media was exhausting. It always was at Monza. Flashbulbs, press pens, microphones shoved in every direction. Paige handled it like she always did — calm, smiling, hands on hips in her race suit with the light purple helmet at her feet. She didn’t gloat. Didn’t need to.

Azzi kept it tight. Professional. Said all the right things.

“We raced hard. That’s what people want to see.”

“Yes, I think we can bounce back.”

“I’m proud of the team. The car was incredible.”

And then finally, they were done.

The sun was starting to dip behind the paddock towers when Luka found them in the debrief room and tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “There’s a party tonight,” he said. “Private one. Team only. Some important sponsors are coming. You two are expected.”

Paige looked up from her water bottle. “Expected?”

“Celebration,” Luka said, shrugging. “It’s Monza. We won.”

Azzi met Paige’s eyes across the table.

It wasn’t about the race anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

A party, then.

Jew a few points between them.

One week off.

And a long season left to go.

–

The Monza night was warm, the kind that clung to your skin even after the sun had gone down. Somewhere beyond the Ferrari hospitality suite, fans still lined the fences, hoping for one last glimpse of the red suits, the miracle lap, the miracle finish. But inside the party, it was just team now — team and sponsors, catered food and strong drinks, and a playlist that hadn’t been updated since the 2010s.

Azzi stood near the long bar, sleeves of her Ferrari sweatshirt shoved halfway up her forearms, a pair of black shorts stopping just above her mid thigh. Her hair was still a little damp from the shower she’d taken post-race, and there was something about the hum of the celebration that didn’t quite touch her.

Paige was close. As she always was lately.

Not in a clingy way. Not in a way that screamed anything specific. Just… close enough that Azzi noticed when she stepped away to grab another drink, and close enough that she noticed when Paige came back without one.

Paige didn’t party with coworkers. That was something Azzi was learning. Oh, she could party — she’d seen it firsthand in Colorado. Paige had game when she wanted it. But this? With engineers in polos and sponsors in button-downs and camera phones sneaking in between fake toasts? Paige wasn’t at home here.

So she stayed close.

They made their rounds — smiled for a few pictures, shook hands with people who pretended to know what “tire deg” meant, accepted compliments from VIPs who asked the same questions in slightly different accents. Azzi took a few sips of a spritz she didn’t really want. Paige nursed a bottle of water like she was keeping score.

Their PR director eventually approached, all efficient smiles and phone in hand. “Can I borrow you both for just a minute?” she said, motioning toward a side area where a few higher-ups had gathered.

Azzi knew what that meant.

She didn’t expect Dirk van Asshole to be standing there when they arrived.

But of course he was. Hair pushed back like a 90s teen idol, linen shirt unbuttoned to an offensive degree, watch too big and too gold. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something that definitely wasn’t water. He smiled too easily, like he thought they were all in on a joke that didn’t exist.

“Azzi,” he said, stepping in with the kind of friendliness that made her want to physically recoil. “What a race.”

“Thanks,” she said, too flat to hide it.

“And Paige,” he added, like he was just remembering her name. “What a finish. I mean — we all thought Azzi had it in the bag.”

Paige’s smile didn’t move. “Guess not.”

Dirk laughed, too loud. “Well. She’s still the people’s champion, yeah? Always a favorite.”

Azzi felt Paige glance her way. One of those side glances that wasn’t really a glance at all. More like a signal.

Get me out of here.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. She blinked slowly, dropped her gaze to the floor like she was trying to focus, then lifted a hand to her forehead.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Headache. I think… I think I need to sit down.”

Dirk’s eyes widened — just enough to confirm the trick worked. “Totally fine. You’ve had a long day. I’ll grab you some water.”

“No need,” Paige said quickly, hand already grazing Azzi’s elbow. “I’ll take her to the bathroom. She just needs air.”

Dirk blinked. “I could—”

“You couldn’t,” Paige muttered under her breath, just loud enough that Azzi caught it.

They left the circle with enough polite nods to make it believable, slipping through a small hallway toward the guest bathrooms.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Paige leaned against the marble counter, exhaled hard, and said, “I’m so done with that man.”

Azzi laughed softly. “No, he sucks.”

“He talks like he’s in a reality show,” Paige muttered, tugging her sleeves over her hands. “And not a good one. One of those ones where everyone ends up engaged after four episodes.”

“He’s not even a sponsor or a driver,” Azzi added. “He’s just, like… related to someone important.”

“So was Napoleon.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.”

They didn’t get much further. The door creaked open and in stumbled a girl who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a mini dress that looked stolen from an influencer’s closet and a pair of heels that were definitely not made for standing. She squinted at them, half-recognizing, then muttered something about champagne and disappeared into a stall.

Paige raised her brows.

Azzi nodded once.

Time to go.

They slipped out of the bathroom like nothing had happened, back through the suite with practiced smiles and quiet waves. The party was still going strong, but they walked out unbothered, not making a scene. Just two drivers leaving a team function, still in uniform, still technically on the clock.

They were halfway down the corridor back to the elevators when Azzi’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, thumbed open her notifications, and froze.

“What?” Paige asked.

Azzi turned the screen so Paige could see.

A photo.

A little grainy, but clear enough. Paige, slightly turned toward Azzi at the bar. Azzi leaning in to say something. Both smiling. Both unguarded. The caption was dumb — something about chemistry and Ferrari fire — but the tweet had gone viral in under ten minutes. Thousands of likes. Hundreds of retweets.

Paige blinked. “Already?”

“We didn’t even make it to the elevator.”

They stared at it for a second longer.

Then Azzi hit the side button, locking her phone.

Paige didn’t say anything else, but she smiled. Real this time.

And Azzi, without realizing, smiled back.

–

It was almost midnight when they finally made it back to Azzi’s room. Her hair was up now, loosely twisted into a bun that had started falling apart the second they left the party. She’d kicked off her sneakers near the hotel door, and now her sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, oversized and a little too warm for the air conditioning she’d turned up as high as it could go.

The TV was on, volume low — something stupid in Italian she wasn’t even pretending to follow. Paige was stretched out on the bed, half under the covers and still in her Ferrari shorts. Her legs were bare and tanned and pulled up at the knee, phone balanced on her stomach, one earbud in, the other dangling.

Azzi flopped down beside her, not quite on top of her, but close. Her legs slid under Paige’s, her bare foot brushing the side of Paige’s calf as she tugged a blanket over them. The room smelled like clean skin and leftover hair product. Not unpleasant. Just lived-in.

She unlocked her phone without thinking. Scrolled to TikTok.

And immediately choked on a laugh.

“Oh my God.”

Paige glanced over with one eye still on her own screen. “What.”

“We have ship edits.”

That got her attention.

Paige lifted her head slightly, frowning, until Azzi turned her phone toward her. Onscreen, the now-viral party photo zoomed slowly toward them with the dramatic flair only TikTok could summon. Some soft indie track played in the background — something with too much reverb and lyrics about fate and stars and “the way she looks at her.” Then came the slow dissolve into clips from the paddock, podium glances, moments where they brushed shoulders walking to the media pen.

The caption read:

“She looks at her like she’s the checkered flag.”

With a string of red heart emojis and a #F1Lesbians tag thrown in for good measure.

Azzi blinked. “I—okay, the effort is wild.”

“There’s music,” Paige said, dry as hell.

Azzi laughed, scrolling to another. This one had a heavier beat, more edits cut to radio calls — Mateo’s voice shouting “Paige is right behind you!” followed by a slow-mo of them walking through the tunnel in Miami. A pause, then a hard cut to the photo from tonight again. It was the final frame.

Azzi snorted. “That one’s a little dramatic.”

“They’re all dramatic,” Paige said, leaning her chin lightly on Azzi’s shoulder now. “We drive cars in circles. This is what people do to make it seem deep.”

Azzi kept scrolling, letting the edits autoplay. They were everywhere. Some were sweet. Others full-on romantic. A few were just reaction videos — fans freaking out, screaming into cameras, holding up their phones with wide eyes. One girl was fully crying. Actual tears. The caption just read: “I KNEW THEY WERE ENDGAME.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Endgame?”

Paige shrugged. “Bold of them to assume I make it to the end.”

Azzi tilted her head toward her. “You planning to DNF this storyline or…?”

Paige made a low sound in her throat. “I don’t know. I think I might be in a multi-season arc.”

Azzi smirked, but the words made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way.

They kept watching, switching between TikTok and Twitter now. The comments were a trip. Half were cute — people talking about how they always knew, how the looks in their eyes were “different.” Others were strange. Intense. Too much. A few men had decided to throw in their opinions, which, unsurprisingly, made the vibe go downhill fast.

“Why are there always men in the lesbian edits?” Azzi muttered, flicking past a comment that started with “this is why girls are single these days…”

Paige didn’t respond right away.

Her hand, warm and absent-minded, was tracing circles near Azzi’s knee under the blanket. Nothing too serious. Just… casual. Thoughtless, but not cold. Familiar. Her other hand came up to tug lightly at a piece of Azzi’s hair that had fallen from her bun.

Azzi paused.

Paige wasn’t like this all the time. Not even most of the time. But when she was — when she let her guard drop for even half a night — it felt like gravity shifted. Like Paige wasn’t just near her, but orbiting her. A little too close. A little too much.

But it didn’t feel bad.

Just confusing. In that warm, electric way that made Azzi forget what she was even watching.

“Don’t let Fred see these,” Paige murmured suddenly.

Azzi laughed. “Because?”

Paige sat up a little, propping her head on her fist. Her face was blank, but her eyes weren’t.

“Because he’ll ask if we’re ‘managing our brand well enough,’” she said, but her tone was light — like a joke.

Only it wasn’t really a joke.

Azzi didn’t say anything for a second. She just watched Paige, her face half-lit by the blue glow of the screen, the corner of her mouth turned in that almost-smile that meant she was pretending something wasn’t bothering her.

Azzi broke the silence. “He’d survive.”

Paige didn’t look up. “Would he, though?”

Azzi closed the app.

“Okay. Then we don’t let Fred see them.”

Paige met her eyes finally. Something in her gaze softened — not exactly gratitude, but something close to it. Relief maybe. Or something she wasn’t ready to name.

Azzi pulled the blanket tighter around both of them, settled back into the pillows. Paige adjusted too, falling in line like she always did, head dropping next to hers, arm brushing hers, breath slowing down with the quiet.

The room was still now. The edits were gone. The fans, the tweets, the noise — all of it faded into the low hum of hotel air and the gentle weight of Paige’s arm resting against her own.

Azzi stared at the ceiling for a long time before turning off the lamp.

Whatever they were — whatever people wanted to call it — she didn’t know. But she knew this: Paige had stayed.

And that mattered more than anything the internet could say.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

195 notes · View notes

fanaticsnail · 2 years ago

Text

I Can't Do This Without You

Masterlist Here, Pollen Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,900+

Warnings: Pollen!Buggy x f! reader, swearing, smut, mdni, p n v, chase, thrill, fluff, semi-public, mutual pining, has plot - I swear, whimpering, pleading, groaning, use of pet names: baby, sugar, sugarplum, hun, captain, Buggy is a switch.

You groaned as the exhaustion overtook you, lulling your head backwards and releasing a deep sigh from the chasms of your throat. Feeling the fabric of the partially dampened tea-towel grind uncomfortably against your water-swollen fingertips had you release a hiss from your clenched teeth.

It was your turn to remain awake, plagued by the domestic duties that came with serving alongside the Buggy pirates. Although your allocations were rotational, you loathed being the only pirate awake during the cryptid hours aboard the vessel. Everything was silenced, aside from the rambunctious snores produced in the crew-quarters: roars, snores and heavy-laden breathing calling you to both run to and away from them as your eyelids grew heavy.

The echo of: “Nobody can do this like you can,” relayed on loop, the soft breath of your captain dancing atop your neck from behind. He knew exactly what his verbal praise did to you, the confident and arrogant asshole that he was. You adored your captain, loved serving him with your peers and sailing the East Blue with him guiding you through the currants and riding through the waves.

The only issue that you had serving your captain was this one, small, unspoken thing that had him sweetly pouring your name from his painted lips in a sticky-sweet drawl. His molasses-tone purring for you, coaxing you into doing his bidding by just the utterance of your name. It had your knees aching, spine tingling and heartstrings caught in the firm vice of his gloved fist. Perhaps he truly had no idea what he was doing to you. The way the small rasp in his voice pulled against his tonsils, the sweetness in his cadence truly revealed who he was to you alone.

You shook your head, plunging your hands back into the suds and muck of the dishwater. The texture of undiscarded food scraps brushing your fingertips caused your lips to pull back, revealing your pearled teeth in a disgusted snarl. Savages: the lot of them. A shudder crept up your back as you pulled the plug from the basin and ran the cool water from the tap. You anchored the nozzle of the tap over the basin, aiming for the bile-like gunk stuck to the steel container and coaxing them down the sink.

Heavy footfalls of buckled boots broke you away from your disgust, alert and ready to meet with whomever tore you from your thoughts. You rinsed your rubber gloves before removing them, casting them aside to the corner of the sink beside the amassment of freshly cleansed dishes, and turned to greet your crewman. You were shocked to see it was not just a simple comrade sneaking in to collect a glass of water, but your captain clad in nothing but his tight leather pants and unbuckled boots. His long blue hair lay carelessly from his head, waterfalling from the crown of his head down his shoulders and tickling his chiseled abdomen. Whispers of the partially curled hair, untamed and unbridled without his striped red and white bandana, stuck to his forehead in stringy clusters.

“H-Hey, Love,” his voice rasped. His eyes were panicked, wide behind the lengthy blue eyelashes. The small stuttered quiver in his ungloved hands had your brow furrowing into a dip in the middle of your face. Although not unaccustomed to pet-names from him; the tone in his voice held you captive and unwavering.

“Captain?” you asked after him, watching as your voice caused his head to twitch to the side and eyes clamp tightly shut, “Captain? Are you okay? You look poorly.” You removed your apron and hastily cast it down to the side as you approached him. As quickly as you approached, he stuttered his feet backwards and fisted the doorframe within his firm grip.

Immediately halting your steps, your heart beat harder within your chest. Panicked. Your Captain was panicked and frantic. He steadied himself, cowering away from your and physically holding himself to the frame as if it was the last thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Captain-?” you began, only for your words to be halted by your captain speaking through gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched so tightly closed, you were afraid he’d break his pearly teeth.

“-J-Just-....hnngh-... I n-need you to do something-... f-for me,” his voice faltered as the last syllable left his painted lips. His brows furrowed, eyes clamped tightly shut; his blue triangular patterns adorning his cheeks bled into the creases he created with the tightness. Sweat was pooling from his brow, down his temple to his stubbled chin.

“Captain!” you called after him, prompting him to shake his head from side to side violently to halt you from approaching him further.

“This was a m-mistake. I c-can’t-... fuck-... I-,” He pulled himself closer to the doorframe; his hips falling flush against the wall from behind. Your eyes searched his closed lids, following the trail of sweat down his chin to the bob of his Adams apple and down the scruff of his tufts of blue chest-hair.

“Captain,” you spoke in a warning tone. He shook his head from side to side once more, frantic and wild behind his clenched shut eyes. You took a tentative step towards him, his eyes snapping open at the small creak of your foot atop the floorboards.

“Baby,” he whimpered through a pained groan. His pupils were blown wide and frantic. His saliva drew the red tint away from its designated position against his lips and down his chin. There was something rabid in the air. To what extent, you truly had no idea.

“What do you need, sir?” Your professional response was to fall back into your ship-savvy training. You stood alert, your hands laced behind your back and awaiting orders from your pirate captain. He winced at your cadence, his voice unleashing a feral groan from his throat. It was deep, desperate and needy - heavy in the growl that laid against its raspy undertone.

“Baby, I need you to take my head. Take my head, and run.”

At that final command, he tossed his head at you and you began your sprint towards the upper deck of the Big-Top. You held your captain’s head within the hook of your elbow, cradling him into your chest as your feet picked up a sprint.

“Where am I going, sir?” you asked him, looking down at the painted clown you had chosen as your captain.

“Away f-from my body,” he winced. You noticed the tone in his voice, picking up his immediate distress and almost halting your steps to go back to collect his torso-.

“-DON’T!” He barked at you. You stiffened, picking up the pace once again as you fled away from the kitchen’s scullery and to the woven ropes beside the top mast.

Why did he have to collect that substance? Why did he have to find a way to siphon it into his latest ‘Buggy Ball’? Why did he have to spill it over his gloved wrist, immediately inhaling it and sneezing through the chalky pollen?

Because Captain Buggy D Clown was, among all other things, a fucking idiot.

He cursed at himself, feeling the tightness in the crotch of his leather pants as he braced his body against the doorframe, hoping you had ran far enough away from him to not cage you against the wall and rut into you like an ill-tempered, ill-mannered staffordshire bull terrier.

It was no secret that he gave you preferential treatment among the crew. He attempted to balance this out by giving you the poor jobs he wouldn’t dream of designating to the others because “nobody does it like you can.” He mentally slapped himself in the face at thinking of that, as he was cradled so protectively against the side of your chest. He wanted you, he wanted you. He wanted you.

But not like this.

He continued to verbally berate himself as your feet carried you further atop the deck and up the ropes. Your feet looped effortlessly against the woven ladder, hoisting both yourself and him to the crows nest and cowering into the side: hidden and out of sight. The stars illuminated your skin, the rise and fall of your pants holding him in a hypnotic stance as he watched your breasts swell with oxygen. Desire fell from his lips in a feral growl, prompting you to look down and search his face with panic written all over it.

Even in his afflicted state, he could truly see how desperately you cared for him. The way your hands reached to collect his chin and coax his pollen-blown pupils to meet with your own held him bewitched by your compassion.

“Captain?” You asked after him, breaking him from his trance momentarily as he panted out incoherent curses and ramblings, “Buggy. You need to tell me what’s going on. How can I fix this? What can I do?”

“You gotta stay away from my body, Hun,” he winced, left eye closing as his right attempted to hold firm to your gaze, “h-he-...f-fuck-... He w-wants-.....hha-ah-... He wants you, Sugar.”

You stay stationary, holding firm and perplexed as your captain continues swearing, cursing and groaning into the wee hours of the morning. You had no idea what had come over him, his affliction pulling at your heart as you watched more sweat produce at his temple.

“Why do I need to keep away from your body, Captain?” you asked him, placing his head down beside your own and lying down against the floorboards of the crows nest. He panted, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he winced through his next words.

“I fucking told you already, Baby. He wants you.” You cocked your head to the side as you watched your captain huff and suck his bottom lip in and out of his lips. His pants and groans caused caution to tug at your mind as you continued to study him.

His pained face almost looked as a lover would writhe beneath their other half. Lustful and insatiable being the balance of his growling and pleading expression, his brows knitting together in concentration as he continued to pant like an animal. Surely your captain would not behave as irrationally as a teenager in search of their next crevice to gyrate against.

Until it dawned on you.

That was exactly what you were dealing with.

“Captain?” you cautiously asked down at him, “Did you-... D-Did you toy with that flower? The one you said you wouldn’t touch?” After several clenched inhales and exhales, Buggy managed to hiss out a simple word that would change your reaction from concerned to appalled.

“Yes.”

You immediately began to grumble and chastise the captain, who whimpered away like a puppy caught behaving in a manner undesired by their owners. After a few minutes of berating and chastising, you halted your words as you witnessed the tremble in the bottom lip of your captain. You shook your head and huffed out a simple angry puff of breath.

“You were warned that it was a powerful aphrodisiac, yes?” you snarled at him, top lip pulling upwards to reveal your canines.

“Yes,” He managed to hiss out once again.

“And you chose to fuck with it anyway? Knowing there is no known antidote, yes?” You reprimanded him again, prompting a small winced whimper from your captain as he cried another simple: “Yes.”

You groaned, feeling the frustration and pain of a thousand subordinates taking directions from an idiot captain, and turned on your side, collecting the clown’s whimpering head into your hands and hoisting him over to you.

“Buggy,” your voice held the reprimanding tone of a superior as you cautioned a warning at your captain, “You are an idiot.”

“I know, Baby,” he managed to wince out through clenched teeth, “b-but I-...hnngh-... I c-couldn’t n-not. It was-... shit–t-... It was right there.”

You sucked in a long and exasperated breath through your nose, filling your chest with the rage of a begrudging superior and began to collect enough rage within you to bring down your frustration onto him-... Only to halt as your eyes met his.

He was a wreck. His pupils blown, his lips quivering and his teeth chattering behind his whimpering mouth. He was awaiting your beration: dreading it, but prepared for it. He wanted you to be angry with him. He wanted you to be upset that he did something stupid. He wanted you to be-... you. He wanted you.

“Why did you seek me out, Captain?” you asked him while removing your overcoat and placing it to the side.

“I-I-... I don’t kn-know,” he whimpered, his eyes wide and beginning to brim with desperate tears.

“Oh? You don’t know?” you asked him, kicking off your boots beneath you and unbuckling your belt, “You didn’t think I’d desire to relieve you of this predicament?” You unbuttoned your blouse, springing forth your breasts into the air and shimmying the cotton material from your shoulders, “You are my Captain.”

“What-... W-What are you doing?” he panted at you. His jaw was slackened, unblinking eyes never once pulling away from you as you continued to undress yourself. You rolled your eyes at him as you continued shimmying yourself from your clothes; presenting your nudity beneath the dusted starlight. Your captain’s blush darkened beneath his painted face, eyes bulging as his jaw began involuntarily salivating.

“Captain,” you huffed out, rolling back onto your side and meeting his gaze with your reprimanding gaze. Your eyes softened as they met with his, your eyebrows arching upwards at the center and a small smile drew itself to your lips. “You sought me out in the middle of the night,” you smirked, reaching for his cheek but halting before touching him.

You witnessed his pained and conflicting expression, his grimace straining against his cheeks as his eyes continued to yearn for you. You apprehensively sighed, placing your palm down in front of the clown-captain and bore your eyes into his own. Always encouraging, supporting and cheering for him in your expression.

“I joined your crew to serve you, Buggy,” you confessed to him, “You. You, sir.” You scooted your body closer to him, opting to not make the initial contact with him and holding firm to your position perpendicular to him. He grimaced, wincing in pain but his eyes were full and blown with lust and yearning.

“D-Don’t, Love,” his tone held the undertones of warning, his teeth pulling back and painfully gritting together in his jaw, “don’t say that. Y-You’re too g-good for the crew-... sssff-... too good f-for me-e.”

You scoffed at him, inching ever closer to him and almost brushing your nose against his beautiful, rotund circle of a nose.

“I chose to serve you, Captain,” you bore down your intense gaze into his own, “In whatever capacity you deem me worthy.” He groaned, his face involuntarily seeking out your own as you continued your confession, “What is it you always say? Nobody can do this like I can?”

His jaw fell slack, his eyes completely tint-less as they became eclipsed by desire. The cool teal of his irises were all but lost beneath his gaze. You smiled at him, turning over to lay on your back: eyes looking upwards at the stars as you unleashed a small sigh into the air.

“What a-are you doing?” he stuttered, slowly inching his decapitated head towards your face. Your eyes held a softness, the smile on your face as hypnotic as the day he first laid eyes on you.

“Oh, Captain,” you cooed at him, refusing to look at his face as you continued to stare upwards into the cloudless sky, “I’m just waiting for your body to catch up to where your head is.”

Buggy’s thoughts, swirling as the cesspool of a thousand bogs, was rattled by your words. Had he wanted you? Yes. He yearned for you, he pined for you. He had always imagined how beautiful you looked, split over his cock as he inched you downwards to take in his impressive length. He had always imagined you mewling and pleading for him to have you cum against his painted lips, coaxing the eruption of bliss from your core with his tongue as you rode his face. He had fisted his cock in solitude thinking of you, only you, as he spilt himself over his thumb and into a long forgotten sock while he whispered your name as gentle as a prayer between his lips.

He wanted you. He wanted you so badly. But he wanted you to want him. He didn’t want you to just be his crewman in servitude to their captain. He wanted you to need him exactly as much as he needed you. Even while his senses became overpowered by the aphrodisiac, he wanted you to want him in return.

“Captain?” your voice called to him, your apprehensive and almost shy tone breaking him from his thoughts. He nodded, knowing you could see him from the corner of your eyes. Even in his afflicted state, he attempted to keep his desperate eyes hyper focussed on your face as he noticed you gulp back a dry mouthful of saliva. “Do-... Do you think you could-... Talk to me a little?”

“What d-you m-mean, Sugarplum?” he winced, feeling the proximity of his body rapidly approaching towards the two of you in the crows nest. You huffed out your embarrassment, already naked in body beside him but yet to bare your soul.

“Buggy,” you warned him, your eyes now becoming haunted with your own quiet longing and desperation, “You know what your voice does to me, sir. I-... If we’re going to do this, I need you to talk to me.”

He was long gone from the part of feigning innocence to the matter. He was fully aware you were interested in his flirtations: reciprocating them in turn, but always shying away first to his crude and unwithheld shamelessness.

“You want me-... to get you in the mood? F-For me to… fuck you senseless?” He asked, his brow again releasing a new bead of frustrated and lustful sweat down his temple to his lip. He noticed the visible quiver in your body at the word ‘fuck’, prompting his body to quicken its haste at climbing the ropes from below. His pants were long discarded, his boots pooling at the floor beneath them as he continued to climb as a wild and ferocious beast up the ropes.

“O-Oh,” his whimpered question fled his lips more as a statement, a growl anchoring the end of his expression downwards as he watched your body continue to respond to him. Without warning, his head rocked into your shoulder, placing his lips on every inch of your skin he could find and wiggling his way upwards to trail long and desperate kisses to your jaw and neck.

“Oh, baby,” he began, licking and kissing at the pulse of your neck, “I have thought of nothing but y-you… -hnghh, fuck-...” he confessed as his feet fell; his cock brushing slightly against the rope and providing the smallest amount of stimuli against the throbbing shaft, “I-I wanted you, hun. I wanted you s-so badly. I wanted t-to know what you looked like caged in my arms as I fucked you beneath me-,” his feet began to pick up the pace, sprinting up the ropes to draw his throbbing closer to you.

“Hun, I don’t th-think you’re aware of how much I want you,” He licked a long stripe up your collar bone, his teeth grazing your skin as he whimpered against you, “baby, I-I-... I c-couldn’t-...” His words halted in his throat, truly not desiring to release his confession into the air for fear of never reclaiming the words back.

“What, Cap?” you gasped, finally turning to him with your eyes half-lidded and glazed with lust, “what couldn’t you do? Tell me. Tell me, please?” He growled, launching his decapitated head towards you and placing trails of creeping open-mouthed kisses against your cheek, nose and jaw - never claiming your lips beneath his for fear of breaking the spell and having you sprint from him.

“I-I-...” he whined, feeling his feet beginning to tingle in his approach. He was so close to you, so close to your glistening opening: ready and waiting for him to dive into your supple flesh and chase his release, “-I only think of you. I-I-... I can’t-... I can’t cum without thinking of you. I need you. I only think of you, the way you’d fuck. Baby, the way you’d taste.”

You gasped, finally claiming his cheek within your palm and watching the tearful expression of the clown within your hands and chasing his fleeting gaze with your eyes.

“Captain?” you cooed down at him, desperately trying to conceal your enthusiasm and excitement with your tone, “Captain, do-... do you picture me? When you touch yourself? When you-... when you masterbate?” Before the clown could halt his pathetic words from falling from his lips, his mind began to spiral as he continued his unholy confession.

“Baby, I-I tried to cum s-so badly without you. I was right there. I even found your old wanted poster and thought of making you scream as I stretched you out. I-I tried to cum while thinking of you. I kept chasing it, hun. I-I-... I can’t do it without you. I was right there twelve times before I went to find you in the kitchens. I t-tried. It’s-... I can’t do this without you,” he desperately cried, his eyes open and honest as he spilt nothing but truths from his lips. Your heart broke for him, and the shame of his confession began to glisten your aching entrance and swollen clit with his pathetic whines and calls for you.

At that, you felt the dangerous presence of his body begging to be reunified. The thrill held you quivering in anticipation, desperate to help your captain in whichever manner he deemed appropriate to chase his relief. You closed your eyes tightly shut, feeling his body fall downwards onto you and cage you beneath it.

“Baby, s-say something,” Buggy’s voice whispered at your jaw, his lips collecting the skin beneath it, “I-I can’t control myself f-for much longer. Baby I n-need to know this is o-okay.” His plea had your eyes snap open, meeting his teal gaze as he desperately sought out your own.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, feeling the inches of heat grazing against your thigh in his shaft’s approach towards your shamefully aroused entrance.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered into you. You felt the graze of his swollen tip prodding against your oozing entrance, flicking its shined tip against your clit as he rejoined his head firmly atop his shoulders, “I never wanted it to be like this.” He reached down, grasping his abused shaft and almost screaming as he did. His senses were overwhelmed, so desperate for stimuli but conflicted because he wanted so desperately to be good for you.

“It’s okay, Captain,” you reassured him, turning away from his face to shy from his feral expression. You held your eyes closed in shame at how truly intoxicated this made you. You were both blessing the horrible pollen for having him finally make a move, while guilty at the fact that this was the only reason you were feeling his knob rake slowly between your silken abdominal lips.

“L-Look at me,” he whispered down at you, “p-please, baby. Please look at me.” As you slowly turned to face him, he achingly withheld the urge to slam his cock fully within your entrance and pushing to the hilt of his shaft in one swift movement. He was physically shaking with the inability to control himself further than allowing this one moment to pass between you.

As your eyes slowly and coyly met, he glanced deep and unblinkingly into your eyes as he slowly inched the tip of his cock into you. You watched that subtle quiver in his eyes; the way his lip trembled at the friction as his leaking tip arched its way beyond the first point of contact. He muffled a scream, finally feeling relief at the contact of your walls sucking his cock within them. He fought back another urge to break away his eye contact and have his eyes roll back into his skull in bliss of the feeling - opting to continue staring deeply into your eyes as he slicked another few inches within your walls.

Your breath hitched, staring deeply into his eyes as your lips parted at how truly beautiful you found him. He clenched his teeth together, angling his hips forward and slowly pressing down into you while wincing back his pleasured cries of bliss. He wanted so desperately for this to feel as good for you as it did for him, but the way the pollen enhanced his every sense had his limbs on fire. As he inched his cock down to the base of his shaft, he sucked his cheeks into his teeth alongside his tongue and bit down exceptionally hard to keep his cum from spilling over immediately.

As you became accustomed to his width, you couldn’t help but sigh out a small mewl of pleasure at being filled by your captain into his ear. At that small hitched pitch of your voice, he began to rock his entire length within you as he groaned out a desperate cry of satisfaction.

Don’t you dare cum, you idiot. You’ve finally got what you wanted. You wanted this. Don’t you dare fuck it up. Don’t you dare cum-.

“-You c-can cum, Captain,” you whispered into his ear, placing a small kiss on the corner of his jaw, “You’ve waited so long, Bugs. I’m so proud of you. You can cum, baby. Cum for me.”

His breath hitched in his throat, his cock immediately responding to your guidance by snapping the tension within his stomach. His balls were pressed so tightly within his abdomen, almost swallowed within his stomach by how tight and desperate everything became. At that small whisper of praise from you, his orgasm crashed over him like a bolt of calculated lightning seeking him out as a conductor to direct the currant. Ribbons and ropes of hot and desperate strings of sticky cum shot from his tip to coat your walls with their lustful lubrication.

“O-Oh fuck. Fuck! F-FucK!-.. Nghh-... I’m cumming. I-I’m cumming! F-Fuck, baby. I-I’m-.. Hhah-...” He cried into your shoulder, his lips and teeth collecting your neck beneath his mouth and clenching down onto your flesh. You hissed at the contact, feeling the waves of pleasure he was experiencing coat your walls as you soothed over his shoulders with a gentle, but firm touch.

His slow thrusts came to a halt, completely sheathed within you as he rode through his high. The collection of arousal pooling at your thighs and coated his groin was surprising to the both of you at the culmination of the fluids. As his eyes drew downwards to the contact between your bodies, he gasped at how beautifully your body had taken him in. He was in awe that you would allow him to join with your body in this way, but guilty in the fact that he was the only one to claim pleasure from this encounter.

He quirked his head to the side, remaining fully sheathed within you and began rocking his hips a little. You gasped, feeling his lingering firmness within your core and brush with the underlayer of your clit while the top brushed with his pubic hair. He laughed with an almost sickening amount of glee.

“Would you look at that?” He managed to stutter out between the snapping of hips. He leant down towards you, hovering his lips just above your own, “I’m still hard.” He hummed thoughtfully, looking first to where your bodies were connected before darting his eyes back up to yours.

Looking up at him with partially shocked eyes, you felt the lubrication of his prior release grinding against his cock sheathed within your core. His soft and deep gyrations had an involuntary cry fall from your parted lips at the friction. Buggy’s eyes smiled as his lips broke into a crooked smile.

“Ohh,” he cooed down at you, “Ooh, you thought we were done, didn’t you?” He reached down to collect your thighs, hooking them over his hips and joining them at the ankles, “oh, sweetheart. You thought you could get away with ordering your captain to cum in you without consequence?”

He shifted his cock deeper within you, raking his hands at your thighs upwards to collect your ass beneath his wide fingers. You bit your bottom lip to halt a sound from leaving your lips, prompting Buggy’s teal eyes to look down at you and frown. He snapped his hips harder against you, slow and deliberate thrusts dragging at your walls with his cock and prying another muffled moan of desire from you.

He frowned further, drawing his face closer into you and almost brushing his lips with yours.

“Don’t you dare stop those pretty sounds from comin’ out,” he commanded you, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with desire. His throbbing cock was twitching within your fluttering walls, his groans of pleasure serenading you with his raspy tone gracing your ears, “Oh, Baby. Let me hear you. C’mon, now.”

You screamed at your eyes to remain fixed on the man above you; his own half-lidded expression being mirrored in your irises as your lips almost brushed. He continued slowly anchoring his hips in and out of your glistening entrance with your walls fluttering around him. You gasped as he wove his arms beneath you and hoisted you upwards. He rocked back to sit atop his calves, pulling you with him to sit atop his lap and braced himself fully flush with you.

With his arms hooked beneath you, he found the backs of your shoulders and braced you against his torso, breaking away his eye contact as his lips sucked on your neck. He gyrated his hips up into you, keeping you completely still and caged atop his lap as he rocked you. The new angle had your jaw slack and gasping silent cries and mewls of pleasure down into his ear.

“You were so chatty, baby,” he grunted against your neck, trailing his lips against your neck to your jaw, “Where did that go, huh?”

At that final taunt, you wove your hands into the back of his scalp and forced his neck back to look up at you. He gasped out a sighed groan, jaw clenching at your manhandling of his sensitive body. Grinning up at you with a grimaced lop-sided smile, he again taunted you: “Too embarrassed by me? Don’t want to have the infamous Clown-Captain make you cum?”

He picked up the pace, almost disregarding your hands within his hair as his thrusts became more desperate and unbridled. His playful eyes never broke away from your face, only leaving to glace at your breasts bouncing at eye level and shamelessly ogling them before finding your eyes once more. His hips began to stutter more, almost rhythmically in tune with your body as he felt your walls suck him in with their flutters.

“Not embarrassed, Cap,” you managed to gasp out, grinding down onto his cock. He squirmed beneath you, matching your circling and gyrating rhythm as he bucked up into you. “I’m just enjoying your voice.” You tugged back his hair tighter, his lips releasing a hissed sigh as you brought your lips down to suck on his neck. He continued rolling his hips upwards, allowing you to chase your release by circling and gyrating against him.

“P-Please,” He called in a voice above a whisper, “Please cum on my cock. I need you to cum on my cock, baby. I want you to use me like a toy. Your toy.” You whimpered against his neck, feeling the tightness in your abdomen increase to the center of your stomach. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he continued rocking you atop his lap.

“No,” He shook his head out of your grasp and bore his teal eyes into your own. He uncircled his arms from beneath your shoulders to his right wrapping around your stomach while the other cradled your jaw, “No I want to see it. I want to see you cum. I want to see the lights dance in your eyes as I rock you on my lap. I want to see your pleasure as you chase it, sliding your slick cunt over my cock. Please, please baby. Please cum for me.”

As his eyes locked on yours, you felt the twirl within the pit of your stomach finally release the band of pleasure within you. Every inch of your body burst with the tingles of your orgasm: the tips of your toes shivering within the vibrations of warmth and static up to your legs, thighs, abdomen, torso, neck and face. You were suffocated by the cry you released of his name pouring from your lips as you raked your hips over his lap, whimpering and moaning for him as you rode your high into blissful overstimulation.

Buggy had no idea when he began cumming, but he could feel you sucking every inch of his second release deep within you by the sturdy thumps of your glistening walls squeezing each drop from his quivering shaft. He cried for you, the sting of overstimulation balanced with ensuring you had truly finished allowing the waves of bliss to wash over you. He felt tethered to you, the only thing anchoring him down to this world as he serenaded your praises with the angels.

He released your jaw, circling his hand to the back of your head and pulling you down to touch your forehead with his. Your movements stilled, the only sounds resonating were the crashes of waves against the hull and the distant roars, snores and heavy-laden breathing of your crew sleeping and remaining blissfully unaware of what just occurred within the crows nest. Sighs and breaths between you passed as you greeted one another with warm, coy smiles.

“Did you learn your lesson, Captain?” you asked him with a small, sleepy giggle.

“I think so, Hun,” he replied with the same tone, the creases of his eyes holding both his charm and his playfulness within it, “‘You’ll always look after me when I do something stupid’ was the lesson, right?” You pursed your lips at him, no longer having the energy to fight with him and opting to place a small chaste kiss atop his round nose. He winced at the caress, but opted not to pull away once he saw your sleep-deprived expression.

“I’m just playing, Love,” he sighed into your face, still ghosting his lips over your own without fully committing to the kiss.

“I know, Cap,” you mumbled sleepily, pressing a soft and deep caress of your lips against his. He groaned against your lips as they finally met, holding firm against you as you angled your head to deepen the kiss. Breaking the dance of your lips intertwining, you leant back and smiled warmly at him, “But I will always look after you when you do something stupid.”

“Oh good,” he sighed in relief, a broad and brilliant smile drawing itself against his lips as he hardened his resolve, “Because all I've learnt is nobody can do this like you can.”

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