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rizzlesregal13 · 3 months ago

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When Tight Muscles, Result In Loose Morals

***NSFW - MDNI***

Carla Dunkler x Fem Reader 💜 Slow-burn, smutty as hell one-shot!

This idea has been a brain worm for weeks! All because of the below Carla GIF! And because there is a significant lack of Carla smut out there!😏

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have a thing for Carla Dunkler.

And sure, it started innocent enough… she was your beautician, your once-a-month indulgence between PTA meetings, the endless conveyer belt of making lunch and dinner, and your daughter, Harper’s relentless extracurriculars.

Carla was loud, unapologetic, usually smirking at something that would make the average Mom gasp… but somehow, between juggling work and being a single parent you kept coming back.

It wasn’t just the massages, though God, the woman had hands. It was the way she made you feel seen, how she flirted without pressure, like she knew every woman in the room had a repressed wild streak, and she was always one inappropriate joke away from dragging it out.

But everything shifted that night.

Amy Carson’s “innocent” PTA takeover gathering, that ended up turning into a full-blown house party with wine flowing like water and the rules getting tossed out like those red plastic cups.

You should’ve left after the second glass of rosé.

Instead, you saw her.

Carla was in the centre of it all, leaning up against the wall, like she was holding court.

You recognised the two other Mom’s. Sarah Matthews was stood in front of Carla, followed by Rebecca Jones leaning in. Laughter turned to gasps. Jaws dropped. And you… you couldn’t stop starring.

You’d meant to look away, but couldn’t. Not when Carla’s hand was in Sarah’s hair. Not when her mouth moved to Rebecca’s neck. Then Carla pushed them together, having them make out in front of her.

And… like a punch to the gut… she looked up.

Right at you.

That damn smirk slid across her lips.

Your heart flipped, your breath caught, and like a goddamn coward, you bolted.

You haven’t seen her since. Until today. You’d thought about booking to see someone different, but you couldn’t bring yourself to.

Now you’re sitting in the waiting room of the health club, legs crossed tightly, trying to look normal. Like you didn’t fantasise about her more times than you’re proud of. Like your face isn’t burning just remembering the way she looked that night, owning the room, owning you with just a look.

“Well, well…”

Her voice wraps around you like velvet and tequila.

“Look who decided to crawl out of hiding.”

You glance up, and there she is, in her black tunic uniform and flip flops, hair in a sleek tight pony, like a goddess in disguise. Carla leans in the doorway, eyebrow cocked, amusement tugging at her mouth.

You stand, smoothing down your shirt. “Hi, Carla.”

She tilts her head, taking you in. “Been what… five weeks? Six? Thought maybe you’d finally traded me in for a nice, quiet Swedish masseuse.”

You laugh, awkward. “Never. You’re the only one who knows how to get the knots out… Just been busy,” you offer with a weak smile. “Harper’s schedule exploded. And—”

“And you’ve been avoiding me,” she finishes bluntly, stepping aside to let you pass.

You walk past her, pulse thumping in your ears, and mutter, “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

She chuckles. “Sure you haven’t.”

You follow her through the familiar hallway, dim lights, soft music, the scent of eucalyptus and orange blossom drifting by like colourless smoke. The therapy room is exactly how you remember, low-lit and intimate, the massage table waiting in the centre, like it knows…

You hover awkwardly near the edge. “Same routine?”

Carla nods, moving around the space with practiced ease. “Unless you want me to change things up.” Her gaze flicks up to meet yours, deliberately. “I can be flexible.”

Your breath catches. You know she’s flirting. She always flirts. It’s part of her charm. But this time, something lingers under the surface — something just that bit bolder.

You clear your throat. “No, um… same’s good.”

She smirks and steps toward the door. “You know the drill. Strip to your comfort level. Face down.”

The door closes behind her with a soft click.

You stand there a moment, heart racing. The heat that crept up your neck at that party is back with a vengeance, blooming across your chest now. You peel off your clothes slowly, down to your underwear, unclipping your bra and slide onto the table, chest down, trying to quiet your racing thoughts.

And then you hear the door open…

“You good?”

“Mmm” you mumble out, your face down in the cradle.

Carla moves with smooth liquid confidence around the bed. You feel her at your side, her presence electric even before she touches you.

Then come the towels… warm and weighty, tucked carefully across your back and thighs. Her fingers brush the waistband of your panties as she secures the towel. It’s casual. Professional. Maybe. But your breath hitches anyway.

Next it’s the oil. Warm, familiar, and soothing as she pours it onto your back… then her hands follow.

She starts slow, just like always. Her thumbs dig into your shoulders, working the tension from your muscles with practiced pressure. But the rhythm feels different today. Softer. Slower. Lingering.

Her palms slide over your ribs, down your sides. You feel her knuckles brush the swell of your breasts, and every nerve in your body lights up.

You close your eyes tighter, biting your lip.

You shouldn’t feel this. Not here. Not now.

But her hands keep going. Down to your lower back, her thumbs brushing dangerously close to the curve of your ass. You can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, involuntarily, like you’re answering a question she hasn’t even asked.

And she feels it. You know she does.

She leans down slightly, her breath brushing your ear. Her voice is husky, but laced with something thick and sweet.

“You sure you’re comfortable?”

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

“…I am now.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, just carries on, her hands roaming the flat of your back, heat seeping into your skin.

She finds the knot without hesitation, like she’s been waiting for it… like she knows where you hold the tension from all those never ending teams meetings, the failed dates, and the chaos of life you pretend doesn’t weigh you down.

Her thumbs press deep, just under your right shoulder blade, and with one slow push, it pops free.

The sound that escapes you isn’t something you meant to make… more moan than sigh, soft and cracked open with surprise.

Carla freezes for half a second.

“That feel good?” she murmurs, low, close.

You swallow. “Yeah,” you breathe, voice unsteady. “Really good.”

But good isn’t the word. Not even close.

Because you should be relaxing… that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? Letting go. Drifting off. Coming undone in a safe, soothing way. But your muscles aren’t melting. They’re coiling.

Her hands are moving, but not away. Deeper. Slower. Like she’s mapping you. Learning you.

And suddenly your mind is not here.

It’s at that party.

It’s rewriting it… only it’s not Sarah Matthews pressed up against Carla. It’s not Rebecca Jones being pulled in close.

It’s you.

You standing there with a glass of wine and flushed cheeks, as Carla walks across the room like she always knew you’d let her. It’s your hair she’s fisting, your lips she’s kissing, hungry and smug, the whole party fading around you.

“Jesus,” you whisper into the cradle without meaning to.

“Hmm?” Carla’s hands are on your lower back now, thumbs drawing slow circles, dangerously low.

“Nothing,” you mumble. But you know she heard the break in your voice.

Then she moves.

Her hands slide down to your legs… her touch starting just above your ankles, working upward with firm, methodical strokes.

Your calves twitch under her palms. Not from pain. From awareness.

She hits the back of your knee, the skin there extra sensitive. You jerk a little, a breath caught in your throat.

“Ticklish?” she teases softly, but there’s something else behind it.

You manage a laugh. Barely. “A little.”

But when her hands keep climbing, to the soft flesh of your thighs, there’s nothing funny about it.

Your breath hitches again as she works the muscle. A slow, rhythmic pressure that feels like she’s building something inside you, something you can’t hold much longer.

She’s so damn close. So high on your thigh you can feel the edge of her pinky brush your underwear.

You should be sore. That’s what a deep-tissue massage does. You should be aching where her hands are digging in. But you’re not.

God you’re buzzing.

Warm. Fuck, Wet.

You bury your face deeper into the cradle, as if that could hide the truth: the fact your body is begging for more.

This is crazy.

But you don’t move.

Because if she keeps going, if she dares to push just a little further… there’s nothing on earth that would make you stop her.

And you both know it.

Your lips press together in a tight line, eyes squeezed shut against the flicker of something that feels far more dangerous than arousal…. Need.

It’s pulsing low in your stomach, spreading out like heat beneath your skin, wrapping around your thighs, tightening your breath until every inch of you is tingling with it.

Carla’s fingers are so close. Her palms slide up your inner thighs again, slow, deliberate, her thumbs sweeping outward, then dragging back toward center. And each time, she comes a little nearer to the edge of your panties.

You’re wearing the light blue ones; the soft cotton kind you always reach for when comfort matters more than style. But now, now they feel like they’re betraying you. Because they’re clinging too tightly. Damp in a way you know she’d notice if she just looked.

And if she touched…

God.

You grip the edge of the massage table like it might anchor you.

Carla’s hands pause at the curve of your hips, her thumbs brushing slow circles just above the elastic. She makes no move to go lower. Not yet.

“Still comfortable?” she asks, her voice dipping into that too-casual tone that doesn’t fool you for a second.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Mhm.”

“Hmm.” The sound she makes is thoughtful, amused. “You’re awfully tense for someone who comes here to relax.”

“I’m… trying,” you manage, though your voice barely cooperates.

“Want me to stop?”

You hesitate — and it’s not lost on her.

Carla leans forward, her lips suddenly close to your ear, her breath warm and taunting.

“I’ll take that as a no.’”

Your mouth opens, closes.

Because no. You don’t want her to stop. You want her to go further. To slide her fingers beneath that blue cotton, to finally, finally touch where the need has settled so thick and heavy it’s making your pulse echo in your ears.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t move lower. Doesn’t press her luck.

Instead, she shifts her hands, trailing them back down your thighs, fingers spread wide, dragging her nails just lightly enough to make you shiver.

She’s teasing you. Purposefully.

And you can feel the smirk she’s not even trying to hide anymore.

You open your eyes, blinking hard into the cradle, your breath coming shallow. She’s giving you every chance to pull away, to draw a line…. To stop this.

But you don’t…. You won’t.

Because part of you wants her to keep circling it. To test you. To see what you’ll do when the teasing becomes unbearable…. Because Christ, it nearly is.

And from the way her touch lingers, the way her hands keep returning to the highest point of your thighs…just shy of scandalous… Carla knows.

She knows exactly what’s happening to you.

And she’s loving every second of it.

You feel her shift beside you… a rustle of towels, the soft slide of linen over skin… and then her voice again, low and smooth.

“Alright, babe. Roll onto your back for me.”

Your heart kicks at the word. It’s probably nothing, just Carla being Carla… but the way it lands in your chest feels far from casual.

You move slowly, turning over, and she helps with the towels, lifting and tenting them just enough to maintain that veil of modesty… even if the fabric’s barely clinging to purpose at this point.

Your chest is covered again, but only just. The towel settles across your sternum, warm and thin, doing very little to hide how hard your nipples have become under it.

You shift slightly, trying to settle, but instead of relaxing, your hips push subtly into the table, your thighs pressing together.

The pressure doesn’t help… or maybe it helps too much… but you can’t stop the motion. The slick fabric of your panties clings to you, damp and utterly unforgiving.

Carla catches it. Of course she does.

“You sure you’re okay?” Her voice softer now.

You open your eyes, meet hers for a beat too long, and offer a breathless, “All good.”

She watches you a second more, like she’s not buying it but isn’t ready to call you out…

Instead, she moves behind you, fingers returning to work. Carla’s hands slide to the back of your neck, kneading gently, then sweep forward over your shoulders. She brushes along the front, her fingertips grazing just below your collarbones…dangerously close to where the towel dips.

You let your eyes drift shut again, but only for a second.

“So,” she says, her tone casual, but it cuts through the haze like a scalpel, “about that party.”

Your eyes fly open. You don’t move. You can’t.

She doesn’t see your expression, your eyes are still facing the ceiling, her position behind you hiding the way your lashes flutter, the way your mouth tightens slightly as you bite down on the inside of your cheek.

Don’t react. Don’t flinch. Don’t let her know she’s under your skin more than she already does.

But she’s quiet for a moment, her hands still gliding along your exposed chest.

“You saw me, didn’t you?” she says, softer this time.

Her fingers, her nails trail lightly across your collarbones again, slower now, and it’s like every nerve in your chest is connected directly to her touch.

You breathe through it.

You want to lie. To laugh it off. But you can’t.

“…Yeah.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Just the soft melody of spa music and the wet drag of oil across your skin.

“I saw you, too.”

Her voice is closer to your ear now. She’s leaned in, her hands never stopping their slow, teasing path.

“You were watching me. Did you think I didn’t notice?”

You feel the heat creep up your neck again, your thighs pressing together without thought.

“I wasn’t trying to be obvious,” you mutter.

“Oh, babe,” Carla whispers, lips barely brushing your ear. “You were adorable.”

Your breath catches.

Her hands have shifted again… one splayed across the top of your chest, the other tracing just above the towel’s edge.

“You left so fast,” she continues. “I thought maybe you were jealous”.

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Because your entire body is on fire, and if she goes even a single inch lower…

“Or you were turned on,” she says, and it lands like a match to gasoline. Her voice calm, knowing. As if it’s always been obvious — like the towel barely covering your body, the flush in your cheeks, the way you pressed into the table, didn’t already scream it.

And she’s not wrong.

You were turned on then… back at the party, watching her mouth on Sarah and Rebecca like it was nothing, like it was just for fun.

But now?

Christ, now?

You feel it thrum through you, low, deep and all consuming.

Finally Carla’s fingers move, slow but deliberate, sliding beneath the towel. Her touch grazing the curve of your breast, soft and slick with oil. The pad of her thumb brushes your nipple and your back arches without permission, a small, breathless moan escaping before you can stop it.

It’s like she’s reached under your skin and flipped a switch.

You can’t lie here anymore. Can’t just let her tease you until you break in silence.

So you move.

You sit up, quickly, deliberately. The towels shift with you, but not well, one falling to your lap, the other slipping slightly off your shoulder. But you don’t fix them.

Carla steps around the side of the table, coming to stand in front of you.

You expect surprise. Some flicker of shock or second-guessing.

But she’s not surprised… not in the slightest.

Her expression is steady, the corner of her mouth curling, her blue eyes darkening with certainty.

God, she knows.

She’s known this whole time… how badly you’ve wanted her, how hard you’ve tried to pretend otherwise. Every shift of your hips, every held breath, every stuttered word since the moment you walked into the room — she’s felt it. And now?

Now she’s asking for it.

“Why did you run?” she asks, her voice low but sharp as a blade.

You look at her. Really look. Her cheeks flushed, eyes locked on yours like she’s reading every thought in your head.

You swallow hard. “I…”

But she’s already stepping closer. Just a breath away. Close enough that the heat of her skin is touching yours, even without contact.

“Have you been thinking about me?” she asks, softer now. “Is that why you haven’t been in?”

The truth hangs in the space between you, raw and real.

You nod, lips parting with the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I couldn’t stop.”

Her lips twitch into a knowing confident smirk. Not cruel, not mocking. Just… Carla.

“Good,” she murmurs, fingers reaching up to gently pull the towel from where it rested against your shoulder, letting it fall to the floor.

She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even pretend not to drink you in.

“Because I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

She steps in. Her hands slide to your thighs, then your hips, then up your waist, slow and reverent, until she’s cupping your face.

And when she kisses you — finally, finally — it’s not gentle.

It’s claiming.

Teeth. Tongue. Heat. Her hands pulling you flush against her body, your fingers digging into her arms as the last of your restraint melts away.

And this time, you’re not running.

Not a chance.

You don’t hesitate. No more second guessing. No more pretending this is just a massage, just a crush, just harmless.

You push away from the table, the last towel slipping completely from your hips, forgotten on the floor. Your skin is buzzing, flushed, every nerve wired and waiting for her.

Carla watches you move with that same smirk, like she knew you’d get here eventually. But even she’s caught off guard when you step right into her space and push her back… not roughly, but with enough force to show you’re done playing shy.

Her back hits the cabinets with a soft thud, and she gasps into your mouth as you kiss her, deep, hot, and hungry.

Her hands are in your hair immediately, tugging, guiding, as her tongue slips into your mouth in a way that makes your knees buckle.

This.

This is what you wanted that night at the party. This heat, this pull. Not watching from across the room… being in it, tasting her, touching her, feeling her melt against you.

She kisses you like she’s starving, like she’s been waiting just as long, like every teasing pass of her hands during the massage was foreplay for this.

Her mouth trails from your lips to your jawline, then lower, hot kisses painting down your neck. You tilt your head back without thinking, giving her access, your fingers trembling as they find the hem of her tunic top.

You slide your hands underneath, palms meeting bare, warm skin. Her stomach is soft, smooth, muscles twitching under your touch as you glide upward.

Carla groans against your throat as your hands find the curve of her waist, then her ribs, until you reach the swell of her breasts, covered only by a lacey black bra that’s more suggestion than support.

You press your body into hers, kissing the shell of her ear. “Take this off,” you whisper.

Carla doesn’t need to be told twice.

She pulls her top off in one clean motion, dropping it somewhere behind her, then reaches behind her back to unhook the bra. The straps fall from her shoulders, and then she’s there — bare, flushed, and every bit as turned on as you are.

You step back just enough to look at her.

Her chest rising and falling. Her lips swollen and red. Her nipples tight from the cool air and your hungry gaze.

“You gonna stand there and stare,” she murmurs, voice thick and teasing, “or are you gonna touch me?”

You step back in, cupping her breasts in both hands, your thumbs brushing over her nipples, loving the way she gasps… the way her body presses harder into yours, her hands flying to your waist, dragging you closer.

Her mouth finds yours again, deeper now, dirtier.

You rock your hips forward against her thigh and she feels it… the soaked heat between your legs rubbing onto the fabric of her trousers.

She moans into your mouth, fingers digging into your hips.

And just like that, whatever thin thread of restraint still existed?

Snaps.

Carla breaks the kiss like it costs her something. Her breath is ragged, pupils blown wide — but she pulls away anyway.

You barely manage to whimper her name before she’s halfway across the room. Her hand wraps around the lock on the therapy room door, and with one sharp click, she turns it.

It’s such a simple thing. But the sound? The deliberate nature of it?

It does something to you.

Heat pulses between your legs so fast and sharp it makes your thighs clench.

She turns back slowly… her gaze dark, dangerous, and you feel your whole body pull toward her without even moving.

Carla walks straight back, silent, determined, and when she reaches you, her hand wraps around your wrist and pulls.

You gasp as she spins you, your bare back now pressing to the cabinets where she’d just been. You barely have time to breathe before she’s lifting you, firm hands on your thighs as she guides you up and back, your ass meeting the edge of the counter.

You open your legs for her.

It’s not even a question. It’s instinct. A Hungry permission.

And her eyes drop instantly to the soaked patch between your thighs.

Dark blue. Spread wide and unashamed against the soft light blue cotton.

Carla’s gaze lifts back to yours, and you can feel what she sees; the wild heat in your expression, your bottom lip bitten raw, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run a mile.

You want her to see it.

You need her to.

Her fingers trail slowly up your thigh… teasing, featherlight, leaving goosebumps in their wake… before brushing over the damp fabric.

“Fuck,” you moan, hips jolting at the first real contact.

Carla groans low in her throat. “God, baby…”

She does it again. A firmer stroke this time, the pad of her finger pressing right against the soaked center.

“Carla—” your voice breaks, already gone.

But she leans in before you can finish, her mouth crushing yours, tongue claiming you completely, devouring the noise you make as her hand slips under the waistband of your panties.

There’s no teasing now. No more slow build.

Her fingers slide straight between your hot slick folds… and she swears into your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.”

Your head falls back against the cabinet as you gasp, thighs spreading wider, offering more, wanting to give her everything.

Her fingers dip deeper, gathering you, coating themselves in everything you’ve been holding back since that damn party — then she drags up, slow and deliberate, over your clit.

You jump, the contact feeling white-hot.

“F—fuck,” you breathe, your voice breaking around it.

She kisses down your neck, biting gently at the skin there as her fingers start to move in slow, torturous circles.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” Carla murmurs, voice rough against your ear. “Touching yourself, wishing it was me?”

You can’t lie.

“Yes” you whisper as your hips grind into her hand.

Her teeth scrape your collarbone. “You’re gonna come so hard for me, baby.”

And from the way her fingers slip lower, push inside you with maddening ease, curling just right — Fuck, you already know she’s right.

Your fingers grip the edge of the cabinet so tight your knuckles have gone white, like holding on to something solid will keep you from unraveling too fast… but it’s useless.

Carla’s working you open with her slender fingers, slow at first, then deeper, surer. Her palm presses just right, her thumb teasing your clit in smooth circles, and you’re already on the edge.

Your other hand claws down her back, nails dragging along bare skin, making her groan into your neck as she fucks you with her fingers like she owns every inch of you — because right now, she does.

“Fuck, Carla,” you gasp, the tension in your body snapping tight. “It feels so good. I’m—”

You’re so fucking horny for her. It’s been building for weeks — no, months — and now it’s rushing out of you in wet, slick sounds that fill the room every time her fingers drive back in.

And she’s loving it.

“Yeah?” she growls against your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me babe?”

She pushes your shoulder gently, and you let her guide you, leaning back on your elbows on top of the counter, breasts arching forward as her mouth finds your nipple.

She sucks it into her mouth, tongue swirling as she pinches the other between her fingers.

You cry out… your whole body jerking.

But her fingers never stop.

In and out, harder now, faster, and so wet you can hear it.

“Fuck, listen to yourself,” she murmurs, her voice vibrating against your chest, and it makes your thighs shake. “You’re dripping for me.”

You can’t stop the moan that rips from your throat, you’re too far gone, your whole body wound up and begging for release.

Carla pulls her mouth from your breast and leans up, pressing her lips hard and desperate against your neck, your pulse point, whilst her other hand clamps over your mouth just in time.

“Shh,” she breathes against your cheek. “You don’t want the other clients to hear you, do you?”

That hits you square in the chest — because fuck, she’s right.

You’re in the spa. Her workplace. There could be someone in the next room over, getting a facial or a hot stone massage while Carla has you bare and wide open, grinding against her hand like you’d die if she stopped.

That only makes it hotter.

You whimper beneath her palm, your hips lifting off the counter, legs shaking around her as she fucks you with those strong, perfect fingers.

And then it hits — fuck it’s all-consuming.

You come hard, biting down on your lip to keep from moaning so fucking loud, your body pulsing around her hand, wetness flooding her fingers, your whole world narrowed to the space between your legs and the woman wrecking you with nothing but her hands and that damn mouth.

Carla holds you through it, slowing only when your body starts to tremble, when it’s too sensitive to take anymore.

She kisses you, deep and messy, letting her hand slide out with a wet, obscene sound.

Then she smirks against your mouth. “Guess we’ll need a longer appointment next time.”

You’re still breathless, your body spent and your panties a lost cause, but you manage a smile.

She laughs… low, raspy, satisfied… as you slide off the counter, legs trembling and barely holding you up.

“You good?” she teases, still breathless, a little smug. “Need me to carry you out of here?”

But you don’t answer.

Because you’re not done.

You need to feel her. Need her shaking under you, moaning for you.

Carla’s still catching her breath, chest rising and falling, when you move toward her — something wild and unrelenting in your eyes. She sees it, and her smirk flickers into something hungrier.

You push her gently, but with purpose, guiding her backward until the back of her knees bump the edge of the massage table.

She sits, lips parted, legs naturally falling open as you step between them.

This time, you’re in control.

And she knows it.

Your fingers find the cotton tie at her waist of her wide leg trousers. You undo the knot slowly, looking up at her through your lashes as you do.

She’s watching you like she might combust on the spot.

You drop to your knees.

Carla swears under her breath, hips twitching forward, like just the sight of you kneeling for her is enough to undo the balance she had before.

You tug the trousers down, rough with need, and she lifts her hips immediately to help, so eager you could cry.

You throw them to the side, not caring where they land.

Your eyes move up her thighs… to…

She’s wearing a little black thong.

Of course she is.

Like hell would Carla Dunkler wear something comfy, something boring. No, it’s tiny, lacy, and cut high, hugging her hips and doing absolutely nothing to hide the slick sheen between her thighs.

You groan softly, your hands sliding up over her thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of that sinful little scrap of fabric.

“Jesus, Carla…” you whisper, your voice thick. “You’ve been teasing me in this?”

She leans back on her palms, blue eyes full of fire. “You like?”

You smirk, lips brushing the inside of her knee. “I’m about to.”

You hook your fingers under the band of her thong, dragging it down torturously slow, watching as her wetness pulls away, the fabric soaked through.

“Fuck,” you murmur. “You’re so wet.”

“You did just put on quite a show,” she breathes, her voice rough now, cracking at the edges.

And then your mouth is on her… hot, open, hungry… your tongue licking through her folds, tasting her, claiming her.

She gasps, loud and sharp, one hand flying into your hair.

You moan against her as her legs fall wider, hips rocking, already losing herself in you.

You’re not stopping.

Not until you’ve had her shaking, breathless, begging — just like she left you, and from the way she’s panting your name like a prayer, you’re damn close.

You drag the flat of your tongue from the base of her soaked slit up, slow and heavy, drinking her in. Carla’s hips jerk, a loud, breathy “fuck” tearing from her throat as you wrap your lips around her clit and suck, firm and deliberate.

Her fingers twist into your hair, nails scratching over your scalp, steadying herself through you as her thighs tighten around your shoulders.

She’s already dripping, already right there, but you want her wrecked.

Undone.

Ruined for anyone who isn’t you.

So you don’t hold back.

Your tongue flattens again, licking hard and fast in a steady rhythm, and then you change it…flicking your tongue over her clit, circling, teasing, until her thighs start to tremble.

You pull back just long enough to breathe, lips slick with her and swollen, voice low. “You taste so fucking good.”

Carla looks down at you like she might explode, chest heaving, her hand never leaving your hair. “Don’t you dare stop.”

You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to.”

You press in again, but this time, you shift.

You slide two fingers into her without warning … god she’s so hot, tight, wet — and her whole body arches off the table, her hand yanking at your hair in a mixture of surprise and need.

“Shit!” she cries out, voice cracking.

You curl your fingers, searching, finding that soft, spongy spot inside her that makes her hips grind down hard against your face, your tongue.

Her breath is ragged now, coming in short, stuttering gasps, and you know — you know — she’s close.

You glance up, and the sight of her… flushed, mouth open, her head tipped back as she rides your face like she was made for it, lights something wild in you.

So you give it to her.

Harder. Deeper.

Your tongue focuses on her clit again, lips locked around it, sucking and flicking, your teeth gently grazing, while your fingers fuck her fast, wet, filthy — obscene sounds filling the room as you take her apart… thrust by thrust.

Her thighs start to quake.

You feel it in your mouth, around your fingers. The tension, the build. She’s nearly there.

“Come for me,” you groan against her. “Come on, Carla. Let me feel you.”

That’s all it takes.

Her whole body seizes as she moans, her orgasm crashing through her like a wave, flooding your hand, your mouth.

You don’t stop. Not until she’s shaking, wrung out and twitching, her grip on your hair going slack as her body falls back onto the bed, breathless and fucked-out.

You finally pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, panting.

Carla’s chest is heaving, her blue eyes glazed, lips parted. “Holy fuck,” she whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin, rising slowly to your feet, body still humming from your own high and the one you just gave her.

You lean over her, pressing a kiss to her jaw, then her lips… letting her taste herself on your tongue.

“Then it’ll be one hell of a way to go.”

The room is quiet now. Heavy with the weight of what just happened, and the heady scent of sex, heat, and essential oils clinging to the air.

Carla’s still lying back on the massage table, legs sprawled, chest rising and falling as she catches her breath. Her dark hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips bruised from kissing.

You’re standing between her thighs, steadying yourself on the edge of the bed, your fingers still slick from her, your mouth still tingling from the way she came undone.

You both start to laugh at the same time… quiet, breathless, borderline hysterical.

“Jesus Christ,” Carla says, dragging a hand over her face, “I’m never gonna be able to use this table again without getting turned on.”

You lean down and kiss her bare shoulder, before taking her hand in yours and pulling her up right. “Good. You’ll think of me.”

She groans, running her hand down her face.

Eventually, you both start to shift, limbs heavy, sticky, satisfied. You reach for the towels on the floor, wiping yourself down and passing one to Carla, who’s still grinning like she’s won a game she didn’t know she’d been playing.

She slides off the table with a dramatic groan and wobble in her knees. “Okay, maybe we went a little hard.”

You smirk. “You’re welcome.”

Carla grabs a clean towel from the cabinet and starts spritzing the air with a citrus spray like her life depends on it. “This room reeks of sex.”

You laugh, adjusting your panties, now dry, and somehow, salvageable as you search for your bra. “Yeah, that eucalyptus diffuser’s not fooling anyone right now.”

“Not unless they think it’s part of some very sensual essential oil blend,” she says, still spraying the room like she’s trying to drown out a crime scene.

You’re both half-dressed, still flushed, when there’s a knock at the door.

A sharp, distinct knock.

You both freeze.

Carla whips her head toward you, eyes wide, mouth forming a silent fuck.

You grab your shirt, pulling it over your head in record time, and shove your feet into your shoes while Carla practically dives for her top, hopping on one foot as she wrestles with her trousers.

Another knock.

“Carla?” a voice calls through the door. You think it might be Renee, the spa coordinator. “You’ve got a 2:15!”

You shoot Carla a look. “It’s definitely not 2:15 yet.”

She checks the clock. “Shit, it’s 2:13. Two minutes is not enough time to get this room back to holy ground.”

You both scramble, Carla rubbing down the table with wipes and a fresh sheet, you grabbing the towel that still smells very much like sex and shoving it into the laundry bin like it’s contraband.

She sprays again. A lot.

“Carla?” Renee’s voice is closer now. “Everything okay in there?”

Carla clears her throat, loud enough to sound like she’s not out of breath. “Yep! Just finishing up with a client… I’ll be right out.”

You both freeze again, then look at each other… and laugh.

Because there’s no way this room doesn’t still smell like what you did.

“I should go,” you whisper, biting your lip and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

Carla looks at you… really looks… and then reaches for your hand, pulling you back in for one last, slow kiss.

“Come back next month,” she murmurs against your lips.

You grin. “You’re gonna pretend this was a one-off?”

Carla chuckles, smirking. “Nope. I’m gonna pretend it’s part of a new package deal.”

You kiss her once more, heart pounding for a whole new reason now, and walk to the door, turning the lock, just as Renee opens the door.

You smile at her, and walk past as if nothing out of the ordinary happened - that you hadn’t just been utterly ruined.

You hear Renee say something about the diffuser smelling strong today.

You smile to yourself as you walk out into the sun.

Yeah.

Strong, and totally worth it.

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celebrityfanfictionblog · 3 months ago

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The Trade Secretary's Indiscretion

Featuring Sir Liam Fox

In the sweltering July of 2017, Sir Liam Fox, then serving as Secretary of State for International Trade, found himself in the thick of a political season. Yet, his thoughts were far from trade agreements as he met Thomas Jones, a 31-year-old lobbyist whose towering 6'1" frame and stocky, athletic build reminded him of none other than his former best man and flat mate, Adam Werritty.

The rendezvous was set under the guise of discussing policy, but the real agenda was clear from the moment Thomas’s deep blue eyes met Liam's. After a brief, formal exchange at a public venue, they retreated to Liam's London flat, a place kept secret from his wife, Dr. Jesme Baird, intended for the solitude of a 'second home' funded by the taxpayer.

Once inside, the atmosphere shifted palpably. Clothes were shed with urgency, littering the floor like autumn leaves. Naked on the bed, their bodies contrasted sharply; Liam, at 5'8" with an average build, next to Thomas's more imposing figure.

Thomas took his time, his mouth exploring every inch of Liam’s body before settling on his lips. Their kiss was slow, deep, and languid, tongues mingling in a dance that mirrored the rhythm of their hips. Thomas's hands roamed, one cupping Liam's cheek while the other slid down to grasp his ass, kneading the flesh with a possessive grip.

They moved from kisses to more; Thomas’s mouth found Liam’s, engaging in a fervent exchange of oral pleasure until both were panting for more.

Fox, now lost in the throes of a taboo desire, felt the sweat bead down his back as Thomas Jones, his muscular frame a stark contrast to Liam's more modest build, maneuvered him onto all fours. The scent of arousal was thick between them, a heady mix of musk and cologne, as Thomas positioned himself at Liam's entrance, his hard length throbbing with need. He paused, taking in the sight of Liam's ass, the skin smooth and inviting. With a firm grip on Liam's hips, Thomas slapped one cheek, watching it jiggle slightly, asserting dominance in this clandestine affair.

Thomas paused, his cock pressing against Liam, teasing the entrance with gentle, circular motions. Liam moaned, his body trembling in anticipation. With a slow, deliberate thrust, Thomas entered him, and Liam felt every inch. The sensation was overwhelming, a combination of fullness and friction that made his toes curl.

"Fuck, you're tight," Thomas growled, his voice low and husky, as he began to move, each thrust causing Liam to moan, the sound echoing off the walls of the flat.

Thomas moved with a pace that was almost torturous in its slowness, each thrust drawn out to savor the feel of Liam's heat around him. Thomas's hand reached around, finding Liam’s cock, hard and leaking, and began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. For the next twenty minutes, Thomas took Liam with a fervor that left no room for gentleness. The rhythm was primal, animalistic. Thomas's balls slapped against Liam with each deep penetration, the sound obscene in the quiet of the room. Thomas's whispers were like velvet, "You feel so good, Liam," his breath hot against Liam’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

He pulled Liam back onto him, ensuring he felt every inch, every vein of Thomas's cock. Liam, overwhelmed by the sensations, pushed back, meeting Thomas thrust for thrust, their bodies slick with sweat and desire.

"Harder," Liam gasped, his voice a mix of command and plea. Thomas complied, his movements becoming more forceful, his other hand now reaching around to tweak Liam’s nipples, adding another layer of sensation.

The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room, punctuated by Liam's cries and Thomas's grunts.

Suddenly, Thomas flipped Liam over, wanting to see his face contorted in pleasure. He entered Liam again, missionary style, watching as Liam's eyes rolled back when Thomas hit that sweet spot inside him.

Liam’s legs were splayed wide, his feet hooked over Thomas's back, pulling him closer, deeper. The pace gradually intensified, but the sensuality never waned. Thomas’s hand found Liam’s cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts, his thumb spreading the beads of precum over the head. Liam was lost in the sensation, his body an instrument played by Thomas's expert touch.

Thomas leaned down, capturing Liam's lips in a bruising kiss, their tongues clashing as he fucked him with abandon. As Thomas rocked into him, his lips found Liam's neck, kissing, sucking, leaving marks that spoke of their secret. Liam's hands roamed Thomas's back, nails leaving red trails, urging him deeper. Their bodies moved in sync, a slow, sensual dance of push and pull, the sound of wet skin against skin a symphony in the quiet room. As Thomas neared his climax, Liam, caught in the throes of ecstasy, begged for more, his legs spread wide, inviting Thomas deeper.

As Liam's orgasm built, his prostate being relentlessly stimulated, he felt his balls tighten. His cock, with pre-cum dripping down its length, was a testament to his arousal. Thomas, sensing the urgency, intensified his thrusts, angling to hit that spot inside Liam that would send him over the edge.

With a loud cry, Liam called out, "Adam!" in the heat of passion, his body convulsing as he came, painting his chest and stomach with his seed, the sheets gripped tight in his fists.

The intense contractions of Liam's climax around Thomas's cock were too much. With one final, deep thrust, Thomas released, filling Liam with his own heat, his grunts a clear testament to his release, ensuring Liam knew he was being claimed in this moment of vulnerability.

"Take it all," he hissed, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his release.

As they lay there, the aftermath of their actions settling around them like dust, the reality of their choices began to seep in, mingling with the sweat and the scent of sex in the air of that secretive, taxpayer-funded flat.

This narrative is purely fictional, crafted for entertainment purposes, and does not reflect any real events, personalities, or their actions.

#Liam Fox #The Trade Secretary's Indiscretion #fan fiction #politician

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0nlyn3l · 3 months ago

Text

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐂𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐩𝐨𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

It was the year 2018, and the Cullen family, Bella and Renesmee included had been living in Atlanta for the past 2 years.

Of course they had moved around about, twice more since forks but by far, Atlanta was their favourite place.

There was also a new edition to the family: Rosalie had found her mate.

A south Asian history student at Yale university she had met in 2012 when the Cullen’s decided to ditch high school and try out college.

They bumped into eachother on the way to class and couldn’t help but both notice they had the same, rare eye colour; knowing immediately what they both were.

Now it was 2025 and Emmett was the odd one out.

The lonely one.

The third wheel.

Carlisle had Esme, Jasper had Alice, Rosalie had max, Edward had Bella.

Hell, even Renesmee had Jake.

Why was he so different.

As he stood in his engineering gear in the practical room at the college he had an internship at, he focused intently on his teacher, showing how to weld different metals.

His do I was cut off at the door behind him opening and quick footsteps making their presence known.

“Apologies Mr. Jones, my alarm didn’t ring this morning” a voice said, causing Emmett to snap his head behind him.

He was speechless.

In came a girl, not too short but not really tall either.

She had messy curls tied up in a bun and looked as if the uniform on her body was swallowing her whole.

She was tanned and had the deepest chocolate coloured eyes he had ever seen.

“It’s alright miss y/l/n, just find a space to stand and observe”

The girl pushing her bag on a hanger and shuffled clumsily to a spot to the left of the teacher.

For the rest of the lecture, Emmett couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

He observed the way she sniffled at the cold, the way she covered her yawn at obvious fatigue, and the way she blushed when the teacher introduced her to the rest of the class.

Now it was time for the students to pair off and work of a piece together.

The confident vampire wasted no time to approach the one of three girls in his class and offered to help her catch up.

“So how come you only started this course now?”

Emmett asked about 20 minutes into the project.

Y/n looked up at him with her eyebrows raised before replying.

“Well, I used to take English literature but decided to quit on the second day. Then I was studying medicine but that didn’t last long. So I started the theory civil engineering course and fell in love so the professor put me here at the physical engineering class” she stated wiping her oil stained forehead.

He gawked at her in awe.

She was the epitome of perfection, all his favourite things combined.

“Wanna go out?” He asked bluntly. In return, her eyes widened in confusion and she chuckled nervously.

“It’s a bit early don’t you think, I mean, I don’t even know your last name”

“Well, we all gotta start somewhere. Whatd’ya say sugar?” A smirk lingered on his lips and mischief reflected on his eyes.

Surely he was on some next level drug or he wasn’t mentally stable she thought to herself. But as she gazed as his wide eyes and rosy lips, she contemplated giving in.

Of course she didn’t have feelings for him, they had just met. But she couldn’t deny his good looks and muscular build.

“Why not, I’ll go out with you”

Emmett swore he could’ve felt his unbeating heart skip a beat and his imaginary blood flow to his cheeks.

“Woah, okay, tomorrow for lunch, I’ll pick you up?”

She gave a slight nod before walking out of the practical room.

Now finishing her look, she took her braids out of her bonnet, tying them in a low half up half down with two front pieces framing her face.

Checking her phone, she noticed a text from Emmett that he was right outside her door.

She quickly smoothed down her yellow sundress before making her way downstairs and straight out of the house.

However, when Emmett said he was outside her door, she didn’t think he was literally by the door, causing her to ungracefully bump into him and fall backwards.

Before her bum hit the floor, Emmett quickly grabbed into her, holding her upright.

“All okay ?” He chuckled in amusement at her clumsiness.

Emmett had driven her to a book shop-turned cafe for a light lunch and hot drinks.

He ordered food; didn’t eat, instead he nurtured his unnaturally sweetened hot chocolate in his cold hands staring at her as she described her family.

Y/n had ordered a ham and cheese toasty, quickly gone straight into her stomach.

“And my dad… well, he’s my dad” she chuckled awkwardly as she struggled to find an accurate adjective.

“Right so, stubborn older sister, angelic little brother, glamorous mother and monotone dad.. and I right?”

“Better than I could’ve put it”

The rest of the afternoon was spent with laugher, an arm around her shoulders and discussion of childhood.

Y/n had learned that Emmett was attacked by a bear as a kid. Surprisingly, he survived.

But now, as he walked her to her front door from his car, they found themselves holding hands before they came to a halt.

“This is me I guess” y/n smiled.

“You looked beautiful tonight y/n” Emmett stated as he took in her current appearance. The porch light turned her brown eyes, golden and gave her skin an ethereal glow. She looked like an angel.

“Thank you Emmett. I really enjoyed tonight”

That was emmett’s queue to lean in to kiss her.

However before his lips could touch hers, she placed her hand on his hard chest, pushing him back gently.

“Not yet Mr. Cullen. Take me on another date first”

And with that, he was left grinning like an idiot as she closed her red door in front of him.

#fanfic #twilight #twilight x reader #emmett cullen #emmett cullen x reader #poc!reader

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felassan · 5 months ago

Text

Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 6. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two, Post Three, Post Four, Post Five]

User: "after [Emmrich and Rook's] argument they don’t really bring it up again, is it pretty much the case that Rook being lost in the fade made them both realise what was important so that conversation wasn’t really needed? or did they have it off-screen?" // Sylvia Feketekuty: ""is it pretty much the case that Rook being lost in the fade made them both realise what was important so that conversation wasn’t really needed? or did they have it off-screen?" I think either one is valid. There's some time skips, so I figured if you imagined your Rook and Emmrich talking about the argument, it could've happened while, say, they're traveling to the Necropolis. Flow-wise it seemed best to rely on that passage of time to smooth that part over, and get to the point where we enter the talk by the coffin. Or perhaps they're so in-sync that, like you said, Rook and Emmrich feel they can just move on. (If you bring Emmrich to Isle of the Gods he's apologetic there, and Rook picks up on it, so maybe that was enough short as it was.) (To my mind it's not a huge thing to declare one way or another, but I'd prefer this one to be player's choice)" [source, two, three, four]

User: "had a question about emmrich's last name. i know there is a banter with harding that confirms it is a commoner name, but i was interested in what his surname breaks down into meaning? I assumed volk=folk perhaps, but is there any other meaning/significance? thank you!" // Sylvia: "You pretty much have it right with "volk" = people. I liked the idea that Volkarin would sound fancy to someone speaking English (well Harding's not speaking English per se, but you know), but have its roots in something that plain. So yeah basically I got a kick out of the thought that in Nevarra, Emmrich's last name is the equivalent of Smith, or Jones, or Wilson. (The "arin" part is just because I thought together it paired well with "volk")" [source, two]

User: "With Hezenkoss, as a romanced rook, it feels like she's a bit jealous and was stuck in a one sided crush with her "friend" Was this intended? Or was she just competitive and annoyed at his popularity with everyone?" // Sylvia: "I always pictured Hezenkoss as annoyed that as they grew up, Emmrich become popular and effortlessly well-liked, while she, with her sheer brilliance, was clearly resented by jealous fools. Fools!!! (I pictured Johanna needling Emmrich over his romance mostly her going 'now there's some nice sore-spots I can press' because she has correctly anticipated his insecurities.) "become popular" Arg I meant to write BECAME. Cripes." [source, two, three] // Sylvia: "TBC I also don't want to invalidate any head-canons! My general rule is that if it's not stated outright in game, it's up for interpretation, regardless of my thoughts. La mort de l'auteur, etc." [source]

User: "I recently made an appreciation post on reddit how relatable he is for me and how it helped me with my anxiety. There were also other users agreeing and sharing their love for the character." // Sylvia: "I read your post and the others, and I'm glad meeting Emmrich touched people like that. His story was a team effort, and everyone making him knew we needed to hit this theme right. (His actor Nick Boraine deserves especial praise for nailing those lines.) I have indeed experienced what Emmrich does, and from the thread and other fan interactions, it's not an uncommon thing. If I can offer something I read a long time ago: you have the right to think about death without being in a state of absolute fear. I don't know why, but that thought helped me focus when things were rough. Maybe because it was correct: we DO have that right. Even if life and our own psyches conspire against us, it's ours." [source, two, three] // User: "I felt seen in a way I never have when Emmrich said he is terrified of dying. I've had panic attacks about it since I was old enough to understand what death is. Thank you for making so many feel seen and helping people realize its not just *them.*" // Sylvia: "I'm really glad it helped, because the conclusion I've come to is this is more common than we think, it's just not something people talk about." [source]

Sylvia: "(Full credit to the great feedback I got from the other writers and editors early on [re: Emmrich], he wouldn't be as good without them.)" [source] // Sylvia: "All credit to the team, especially the writers and editors who gave feedback that made him so much better during those early days and beyond." [source]

Sylvia: ""who came up with Davrin's "hand-to-bone combat" line?? 🤣" Haha that was Davrin's writer, John Dombrow! I'll let him know you (and other people) got a chuckle out of it!" [source]

User, on Manfred: ""I'm so curious -what about the almonds caught his fancy, and why so many?" Some things are a mystery even to me when it comes to Manfred. (Whatever his reason, I thought as a vegetarian Emmrich would probably have a lot of nuts handy which was the germ of the idea.)" // Sylvia: "Some things are a mystery even to me when it comes to Manfred. (Whatever his reason, I thought as a vegetarian Emmrich would probably have a lot of nuts handy which was the germ of the idea.)" [source]

User: "When Rook romances Emmrich, through banter we can see that Emmrich is surprised that the other companions know about the relationship, and also h says to Johanna that it's a private matter. Is it because he wants to keep things private only, is it because he is worried that Rook may not be the one true love, or is he worried about the age gap, or all these reasons and/or others?" // Sylvia: "In this particular case, I think Emmrich just wanted to be discrete because he didn't want to assume it was a serious thing, and for people to think HE thought it was serious. (Though his line to Hezenkoss is snappish specifically because he knows she's needling him, haha.)" [source]

Sylvia: Down Among the Dead Men and Luck in the Gardens "mean a lot to me, being my first published stories in a book.)" [source]

User: "Are there any other areas of Thedas that you think young Altus mages would tour? Poor Dorian looked like a fish out of water in Ferelden." // Sylvia: "Completely talking off the cuff here, but Orlais and Antiva, certainly, and some of the "better" Free Marcher states seem like good candidates. (Poor Ferelden! Always forgotten by the north.)" [source]

User: "I know you said previously that emmrich doesn't really vibe with cats or dogs But like if rook already has a dog or something (that someone is like pet sitting for them while they're kicked out of their faction and traveling with varric) would that be a deal breaker" // Sylvia: "Nah that'd be fine, they're not his favorites but he'll put up with them for Rook." [source]

Sylvia: "I have indeed seen Cushing's version of Hound of the Baskervilles, for some reason that part where he whirls around and throws the knife is embedded into my brain. What a great Holmes he made." [source]

User: "1. Where did Emmrich live in Nevarar when he was a child? 2. When do you think his birthday is? 👀 3. How did Johanna know him?" // Sylvia: "1. He lived inside the bounds of Nevarra City itself. He's always been a city boy. 2. For some reason, he feels like a January/February birthday to me. 3. They met as young students in the Mourn Watch." [source]

User: "if Emmrich didn't think it was serious when he'd always wanted one true love -apparently-, why did he embark on this relationship, especially with so much passion?" // Sylvia: "I think he thought it wouldn't be so serious at first, but then things progressed. And people want conflicting things, sometimes." [source]

User: "I really love Strife being a love interest for Emmrich! What lead to him as the choice if he isn't romanced?" // Sylvia: "The writing team discussed who felt right, and I liked that Strife was from one of the factions because it gives the feeling of your followers interacting with the wider world. And I felt Strife would provide a nice contrast with the romance with Rook. Unlike them, he's more established in his place in the world, like Emmrich is. Just felt like a different dynamic." [source, two] // User: "Strife balances Emmrich well since they are both interested in study but have gone about it differently." // Sylvia: "Agreed! (I wish I had thought to put it like that.)" [source]

User: "how are pets and animals honoured in the Necropolis and by the Mourn Watchers? The same as any other being?" // Sylvia: "Beloved animals are absolutely permitted to be buried with families. Mild Necropolis exploration spoiler: inside the passage you unlock after finding all the wisps in the belfry area, there's actually some caskets for faithful hounds interred in the crypt." [source]

User: "My question is do the mourn watcher/nevarra in general raise their pets after they die to keep them around? like a dog skeleton with a whisp in it?" // Sylvia: "To be honest I hadn't thought out this one, but it's a very good question. I'm not sure how common that would be, or even if it's permitted to have pets running around the family crypt. (I definitely thing people would WANT to do it.) You know, I think I'm going to have to leave this one in the vague quantum foam of the future. I think I'd want to not only double check existing lore, but answer that in-game (or in a book or etc.) if we ever need to. (Hope that's not too much of a cop out. Sometimes I like to leave questions I'm not sure about alone, because until it's in an official game or story, it doesn't quite count.)" [source, two, three]

User: "how long has Manfred been under Emmrich's care?" // Sylvia: "That's a good question, yet another thing I left a little vague in case I needed to define it concretely in the future. And since I've left, the answer is very much in my head only. But I feel it's likely to have at least been a decade. (Hezenkoss acts like she knows about Manfred, I figure she could've met him during an earlier clash. But I don't think Manfred was around when she and Emmrich were young students.)" [source, two]

User: "if Emmrich had tattoos, on what theme would they be?" // Sylvia: "Something anatomical/surgical, patterned on the MW's mystic theories of the body and death, feels appropriate to me." [source]

Sylvia: "BioWare put out an infographic about choices a few weeks ago, and "lich" was winning out. 1) When Emmrich says how he feels will change did he just mean his senses or is it on an emotional level?" He's definitely talking about his senses in that scene. On an emotional level: unknown. (I imagine it WOULD change someone because it's such a big shift, but exactly what does it do, mystically, if anything, is something I'd like to leave alone since I didn't really cover that in the game, and it feels like it'd been bigger consideration if that makes sense.) I kind of want how the lich-romance proceeds to live in players' imaginations, purely so people can tailor it to their own story. I'm afraid any writer-declaration would narrow the possibilities instead of expanding them, if that makes sense." [source, two, three, four]

Sylvia: ""I've been waiting for Nevarra for years and it was everything i could have dreamed of and MORE!" I'm very glad to hear it. The rest of the Necropolis team and I were very excited to finally get to portray even a small portion of the ancient and hallowed graves of Nevarra." [source]

User: "If I remember correctly, we only really see Emmrich use necromantic magic in-game. Are there other types of magic (elemental, healing/spirit, etc) that you think he would gravitate toward?" // Sylvia: "Hrm. He does have a bit of healing magic, mechanically in combat. It coudl work, but somehow I don't think Emmrich would ever be a high-level healer. He could maybe get the basics but it's not his great gift. Something about the gravic magic of the force mage specialty feels appropriate though." [source]

Sylvia: "I'm so glad you liked meeting and getting to know our necromancer. (Huge props to our cinematic and audio team on that garden scene, it was incredible seeing it come in finished for the first time.)" [source]

Allegra Clark: "I just wanted to say that I miss you so much and I’m so excited for whatever comes next in your career. Josephine means so much to me and I’ve fallen utterly in love with Emmrich (how dare you, he’s perfect). Thank you for trusting me with your child over a decade ago ❤️" [source] // Sylvia: "Allegra! Thank you so much! I'm so excited you've been digging our gentleman necromancer. I hope you've been seeing people ping me about their love of Josephine. I heard someone very good did her voice.. Thank YOU for embodying her so quickly and completely!" [source, two]

User: "how was Emmrich doing when Rook was trapped in the Fade?" // Sylvia: "Probably very poorly! Poor man would've been incredibly anxious and working all hours towards a solution." [source]

User: "So i asked you before what music emmrich does like but um is there any music he hates I feel like he'd die if someone took him to a death metal concert XD" // Sylvia: "I think that's a good one to pick, lol. "It's all just noise!"" [source]

User: "Did Emmrich teach (or at least attempt to teach) Manfred how to read?" // Sylvia: "I think that was beyond his skillset, beforehand; Manfred could be taught to recognize objects, but the abstraction of reading was one step too much at that point." [source]

User: "Do Mourn Watchers undergo a Harrowing?" // Sylvia: "They do! You may've missed it but there's a MWer in the Necropolis who mentions MW Harrowings if you go by them. (The MW has had to suspend theirs because chaos in the Fade.) But that's a temporary suspension, probably resolved by the time the credits roll. In general: I figure that if you're a mage who underwent a harrowing in some other circle, that stands, but that the MW would also perform harrowings for students they took in early. Also: not a silly question! It doesn't really come up with the MW except that one ambient line, and it's very easy to miss." [source, two, three]

User: "Doing a 3rd MW playthrough after not playing one for a couple of months feels like coming home again" // Sylvia: "That's some commitment to the dead! The Mourn Watch approve." [source]

User: "if two mourn watchers were to share a piece of grave dowry between them, that's grounds for a serious relationship?" // Sylvia: "You mean like each one having the half of a necklace, or having the same bit of gold made into matching rings? Or swapping jewelry? Either way, what a nice idea. It could be!" [source]

Sylvia: "Emmrichwas very much the work of the team, including some very good feedback early on from the other writers and editors." [source]

Sylvia: "The team and I were also super excited to get to explore the Necropolis. It was an honour to open up the tombs to everyone." [source]

User: "Emmerich's particular respect for trans characters was extremely enticing to me." // Sylvia: "Thanks, I'm glad he resonated. (Some trans colleagues kindly spent the time to give me some feedback on the wording of the lines, which I think made them way better.)" [source]

User: "Emmrich is so amazing" // Sylvia: "Thank you again, that is incredible to hear. (And I want to mention, only possible with the team; they helped improve the story every step.)" [source]

Sylvia: Tevinter Nights "was a fun collection to work on" [source]

User: "Does lich Emmrich feel anything when Rook kisses him or touches him?" // Sylvia: "yeah, I don't think he's "numb" so to speak, he can sense a touch (with his new powers from beyond the graaaaaave 🪦💀🌹)" [source]

User: "about Emmrich so i know he's into flowers and botany but is he into plant meanings and symbolism" // Sylvia: "I think he is - Emmrich mentions some flowers that are "famed in verse and song", I think he'd enjoy reading up on the cultural importance and symbolism layered on to them." [source]

User: "Obv the game mechanics require Rook to make the choice but would a romanced Emmrich choose to become a Lich if the choice was in his hands? Would he abandon his dream for love?" // Sylvia: "I must refuse to answer on the grounds that it's too melancholy to contemplate. ;_;" [source]

User: "On the dinner date in the Necropolis I loved how Emmrich felt philosophical, it was so relatable, especially when he talked about the connection to something finer than we are. It was magical!" // Sylvia: "I'm really pleased that last part of the dinner date, resonated with you, I was trying really hard to get a certain feeling across." [source]

User: "What month do you think Emmrich was born in? I really wanna know what my guy's zodiac sign is" // Sylvia: "I don't know anything about zodiac stuff but weirdly, I do have a range, for some reason I always thought it'd be January or February." [source]

User: "1. How does Emmrich feel about children, both in general and possibly having them? 2. Would Emmrich be into gift-giving?" // Sylvia: "1. In general, he likes kids okay, and tries to be kind, but his students are mostly older so he doesn't really chat with many. Regarding having them, if circumstances aligned so that was the case, I think he'd be excited if maybe a little overwhelmed by the thought. 2. I think so! Not overbearing about it, but he would like to show some tokens of affection at appropriate times. (There's no way he's not delighted to get gifts.)" [source, two]

User: A more recent one but thanks to Sylvia Feketekuty it was the whole arc with Emmrich and his fear of dying because it's something I often experience myself and I don't think it's ever been addressed in a video game before and it was done so well in DA:TV too." // Sylvia: "Thank you so much! It means a lot to me too, to hear that it resonated with you." [source]

Sylvia: [Emmrich] "was the work of many other devs we're toasting here too, everyone working on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch went fully in." [source]

User: "I've wanted to thank you for all your work on DA. Emmrich, Manfred, and the Necropolis kept me going through some rough months. I was delighted to learn that you wrote Josephine too. I hope to see more of your work in the future. You're an amazing writer." // Sylvia: "Thank you, Kobra! And I'm very glad that meeting Emmrich and exploring the necropolis brought you some comfort." [source]

User: "One more question, if I may-- Is there any lore you can share about how pet remains are treated in Nevarra? I think I remember skeletal horses pulling a carriage in TN. (This might have something to do with me picking up my dead rabbit's cleaned skull from a taxidermist today and having Feels)." // Sylvia: "Beloved pets and other animal companions are very often interred along with their families. (You can actually see the burial place of some hounds in the corridor that opens up once you find all the wisps in the belfry. It was such an nice touch added by the level artist and level designer.)" [source]

User: "What would you say is the most important holiday in Nevarra? Or The Necropolis and how do they celebrate it?" // Sylvia: "I have nothing canonical written down or the like. But if I had to pick one, it would be the autumn ancestral pageants. There's the obvious connection with real life celebrations around death in in the fall, and the Mourn Watch and other mortalitasi would certainly come out for that." [source]

Sylvia: "

Sylvia: [Emmrich] "was the work of many other devs we're toasting here too, everyone working on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch went fully in." [source]

Sylvia: "

Sylvia: [Emmrich] "was the work of many other devs we're toasting here too, everyone working on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch went fully in." [source]

Sylvia: "Saw another misconception I wanted to clear up - I saw someone attribute Calpernia and Samson's quests in DAI to me. Not so! Those fine quests and characters were written by Jo Berry" [source] // Jo Berry: "And you took great care of them when I went on to other things 💙" [source] // Sylvia: "It was a pleasure!" [source]

User: "Are you happy with the theme Hans Zimmer and Lorne Balfe gave for him and the Mourn Watch? For me I love hearing it, cause it truly suits him!" // Sylvia: "I loved the theme! I worked with our music director Ron Dazo to explain the character to them, and I think they all nailed it. A solid character theme needs to be able be remixed for different purposes, and this action version is also one of my favorite tracks: [link]" [source]

User: "Not so much needing a massive explanation more curiosity after a friend and I have been conspiratorial for fun: do you think that Nevarra had their own religion before the Chantry became the most common religion in the country? That they worshipped a different deity or deities?" // Sylvia: "Took me a moment to double check, but Nevarra canonically had a history of animism in the distant past with the Planasene tribes. So probably yes, though we've left the nature of the animism fuzzy." [source]

[question about a 'Veiljumper triangle language'] // Sylvia: "Oh dang, I'm sorry I don't know at all. (The reason some MW-language inscriptions have a real meaning, and some are just gibberish, is that I suggested it'd be fun to do translatable words. But by the time I brought that up, some objects with that script had already been outsourced and completed.) It could be those triangles have no real-world translation, but this is a case where my guess is as good as yours." [source, two]

User: "is 'hot undead' a thing?" // Sylvia: "haha! I must leave that to the interpretations of the viewer"

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #dragon age: tevinter nights #strife #lgbtq+#“Please archive away” :D

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steviewashere · 1 year ago

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If Found, Return to Me

Rating: General CW: Implied Sex (Mild), Mild Panic Attacks Tags: Post Canon, Post Season 4, Established Relationship, Humor and Hijinks, Eddie Munson is a Little Shit, Steve Harrington is a Little Shit, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Panic Attacks, Dork Eddie Munson, Dork Steve Harrington, 3+1

Okay, the idea was going to be a 5+1, but I couldn't get past three ideas without feeling the crawl of burn-out, so I lowered it to three. But this is based on This Post from @apomaro-mellow

👕—————👕 1. He grips the hem of his shirt and tugs. Chin tucked into his neck so that he can read the text, which is bold and black and dark on the white background. ‘If found, return to Steve.’ Eddie groans. “Do we seriously have to wear these?” He whines.

Steve stands in front of him. Hands on his hips. One foot cocked. “Yes, Eddie,” he answers emphatically. Even a little annoyed. Which, sue Eddie for having to ask over and over, but it’s sort of embarrassing. Especially when his boyfriend is wearing a similar shirt that just reads: ‘I’m Steve’. Makes Eddie look sort of childish, if you were to ask him. “If I’m taking you out of town, to a place I’ve never been before for a convention—something I’d probably never even go to—you absolutely have to wear that shirt. Knowing you, you’ll see some action figure stand and I’ll be abandoned by the comic books.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Or, y’know, we can just link arms and walk around the convention center?” Steve only widens his eyes and raises an eyebrow. He groans again. “Okay, fine! We’ll wear these stupid t-shirts.” His head tilts back, eyes to the ceiling of their hotel. Huffs through his nose. “I don’t even know how you got these,” he grumbles, “I’d rather not know.”

Sure, Eddie’s prone to running off. He gets excited, okay? Especially when it’s something he knows a lot about, or something he’s been hunting down for literal years, or if it’s a thing he can surprise the people around him with. Thinking of the last time he wandered off and Steve had to practically scruff him, it’d been while he was purchasing a dice set for Dustin’s birthday. So maybe Steve has a point. And maybe it’s sort of a genius idea. Eddie just wants to be stubborn about this, it’d save him the humiliation.

Except, he’s still wearing the shirt (Steve in his matching one) when they finally get through the doors of the convention center. There’s people in costumes all around them: Spock and Kirk, Marty McFly, Indiana Jones, Predator, and a few kids with their dads all dressed like those ponies that Erica likes. Something in Eddie trills. And he’s already a few steps ahead of Steve before he knows it. Steve trails behind him, wonder and awe shining in his own eyes, trying to keep up with Eddie’s frantic nature.

But then they’re not even close to each other. They buy lunch a couple hours in. Steve gets a large lemonade and downs it like he’s never had something to drink before. And then Eddie’s being told, “Please wait here by the bathrooms. Don’t go do anything stupid.”

He’s leaning against the wall that reads: ‘Restrooms’. Arms intertwined over his chest. Legs crossed on one another. In the distance, his eyes lock onto a Dungeons & Dragons booth. There’s tall shelves stocked with every mini figure he could ever pray for. A few long tables that showcase various maps, dungeon master screens, and little trays for dice. However, there’s an odd rack in the booth. A hat stand. And on it, he spots the perfect thing for Steve. It’s probably expensive, Eddie debates with himself, but it’s Indiana Jones’ hat. His feet are moving before he registers the people walking past him.

And then he’s there. Holding a classic fedora hat between his hands. Turning it around in his hold. Thumbing at the material; marveling at how smooth and buttery soft the fabric is. He spots the price tag, ‘$8.00’. It’s not a terrible price. Isn’t damaged in any way. So he keeps it in his left hand, grabs a paladin mini figure in his right, and purchases both items. Bag in hand, he moves to leave the booth, but is stopped by a gentle hand tapping on his right shoulder.

He turns and is met with a girl. She’s level with his chest, eyes wide and calculating, hand retreating back to her side. “Hi—um—you don’t know me at all, but I found somebody named Steve looking for you,” she states, “I saw your shirt and figured you were the guy he was talking about.”

Eddie slumps. A part of him can’t believe the stupid shirt even worked. “Yeah, it’s probably me that he’s looking for,” he sighs. “Take me to him.”

She’s hard to follow in the crowd of people. Shorter than most and extremely quick. But she links his arm with hers and practically drags him back towards the bathrooms. And there he is, Steve Harrington with his hands on his hips, a furrow to his brow, mouth thin-lined. “Eddie,” Steve greets. He smiles, though it’s not all that sweet, but kind enough for this stranger that had to shepherd Eddie. The girl leaves them. And Steve steps closer to Eddie, crosses his arms over his chest, and then has the gall to snort. He raises a hand and plucks at Eddie’s t-shirt, directly on the word: ‘Found’. “Looks like my stupid t-shirt worked,” he snarks. The sass to this guy is unbelievable.

“Yeah, har har, laugh it up,” Eddie says dryly. “Maybe you don’t want the little gift I got for you.”

Steve perks up. Eyes glowing with curiosity. “What’d you get?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and smirks. Digs into his bag and flaunts the hat. “Saw it at a D&D booth, surprisingly. Probably would’ve been something we walked by, had I not…wandered.” He steps a little closer into Steve’s space, sets the hat on top of his head, and nods in approval. “Think that this purchase was a success. You look dashing, Mr. Jones.”

In a flurry of movement, Steve snatches the hat from off the top of his head. Gaping at it. “Eds,” he breathes, “this is so fucking cool.” He places it back where it was, pulling it tight to his hairline, and grins brightly. “Thank you, but also please don’t leave me alone here,” he says, “I got worried.”

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs sheepishly. “Just thought about how excited you’d be about the hat and couldn’t resist. Won’t happen again, promise.”

Steve chuckles. “I know it will, but that’s what the stupid shirts are for. Anyway…Can we go look at the Lego set-up that we passed by in hall E? I think I saw a spaceship and—“

“Lead the way, Indy.” He might have to buy his own shirts with how Steve bounds away from him.

——— 2. “If…Lost?!” Eddie exclaims. “Steve, what the fuck? Why—How—Where the hell are you getting these t-shirts?” He asks. They’re at Steve’s house, getting ready for a day trip in Chicago. And, sure, Eddie’s never been in his life. Doesn’t know the streets of Chicago like the back of his hand. Maybe Steve does know more about where they’re going, but that doesn’t change just how ridiculous this shirt is. How it glares at him in the bathroom mirror.

Steve sidles up next to him. His t-shirt the same as the one from the convention. He wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist. Rests his head on his shoulder. “I have my ways,” he states ominously. “And, again, I know you. Your sense of direction is practically non-existent. You can’t deny that, baby. The only reason you found Skull Rock is because you stumbled upon it.”

“I was on the run, couldn’t exactly look at a map,” he grumbles. “But do we have to—“

“Yes,” Steve sighs. “Now, can you come out to the car with me? I’m ready to go.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but does as he’s asked. Sits in the passenger seat. Shuffles through the radio stations. Teases Steve for his taste in tapes. But then they’re parking, getting out, walking around the city.

He follows Steve…for a while. Into a record shop. In the back of a diner, playing footsie under the table. Then he goes down a side street. Following a guy in a white t-shirt, hair high on his head, Adidas sneakers on his feet. However, the guy turns slightly. And…that’s not Steve. Eddie’s not sure how long he’s been following this stranger, or when he started, or from where he started from. Tries to rake through his brain to the last time he heard Steve talk about the street they were originally on, but there’s nothing. The words and names escape him.

He’s stranded in a city he’s never been to. Down a street he should’ve never come across. Wearing the most humiliating t-shirt known to mankind. Somewhere, again he’s not sure, behind him Steve is probably standing by some shop entrance, hands on his hips and a scowl perfectly framed on his face. And Eddie can’t help but panic. Standing with his back against the nearest wall. Breathing through his mouth like he’s about to beef it on the sidewalk. Eyes darting over and under and left and right. Trying to find semblance of normal, any little speckle of Steve. Something.

It’s not until he’s nearly sick to his stomach, churning and flipping and knotting, that a different stranger makes their presence known. They gently invade his space. Voice soft as they notice his panic. “Hey man, are you Eddie?” They ask. He nods way too quick, but sidelines the blur to his vision because talking to this stranger seems hopeful. Especially since they know his name. “Okay, cool,” the stranger mutters, “I ran into your…friend. Steve was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when I spotted him, said he couldn’t find you, but didn’t know where to look. So I volunteered to find you. And—well—judging by your shirt, I can gladly and safely reunite you guys. If you…If you wanna follow me.”

“Please,” Eddie murmurs, “I don’t know where I am.”

The trip back to Steve is arduous. Through crowds of people and past noisy cars. Bustling shops and the waft of various seasonings from a number of restaurants. But sure enough, Steve is on some precipice. His hair a mess and face pinched nervously. Then, he spots Eddie. Eyes lighting, clearing and glistening. A look of ‘I want to touch, but know I can’t.’

When he sidles up next to Steve after the stranger leaves, he carefully joins their hands. “I followed a complete stranger for probably thirty minutes,” Eddie admits, whispering. “His hair looked similar. And he was also wearing a white t-shirt. I got so scared, Steve.”

“Well, at least our stupid shirts worked again, right?” Steve asks, breathless and still verging breakdown.

Eddie squeezes their hands. “Can we go home, please? This is gonna sound crazy, but I think I prefer middle of nowhere Hawkins. At least I know where everything is.”

Steve nods rapidly. “I need to touch you in ways I can’t right now. Let’s go.” And then he tugs their hands, pulling them along sidewalks and through groups of people, down a couple side streets. It’s partially worth it, in the end. Definitely with the way Eddie’s skin is now decorated with Steve’s love, sticky and warm with it, too.

——— 3. The shirts end up following them to the Indiana State Fair.

Steve stops them at the front entrance, right after the ticket booth, and makes Eddie face him. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, voice low and near demanding. “If I turn my back for a second and you are gone, I will lose my absolute shit. Got it? Do not make me have to keep a rope tied to your belt loop.”

Eddie groans. “I get it, Steve. Can we at least try and enjoy ourselves?”

And they do for the most part. Steve plays at a few game stalls. Eddie carries the prizes. Their legs interlock underneath a picnic table, sharing greasy funnel cake and way too sour lemonade freezes. They watch a few performers, pet some fair animals, judge prized pigs like they know what they’re doing.

But then the ferris wheel comes up and Eddie sees an opportunity already forming. Like dots connecting or the stars aligning. He wants to drag Steve through the line and sit with him in one of the seats, wait for the wheel to stop at just the right height, and kiss him as the lights dim low and the darkness of the sky envelops them. Though, because he always misses a few steps in his plans, he doesn’t tell Steve that they’re going to the ferris wheel. Just starts walking. Shoving past other couples and accidentally sidelining a couple kids. He sneaks around large families. Maybe bribes a few people to let up on the ride’s queue.

Then, Eddie turns to his left. Where Steve is.

Or…Where Steve should have been.

“Shit,” Eddie spits. “Steve?” He calls over his shoulder. Frantically, he whips around in line. Eyes wide over people’s heads. Shoving them out of the way, albeit a little rough. Spreads the line into two little rows. But he comes up unsuccessful.

Until, right on cue, a stranger is tapping on his shoulder. Instead of letting them go into their whole spiel, he just sighs defeated, “Take me to him.”

There are no words exchanged. Not when Eddie follows behind, head bowed to the ground, dragging his feet like a petulant child. And then he stops where he sees Steve’s shoes, the bright blue Adidas sneakers he’d recognize anywhere.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Thought you were with me.”

Steve just sighs. Something kind of disappointed that shrivels Eddie slightly. “Where’d you even go?” Steve calmly asks.

Eddie finally looks to him, his eyes pleading. “The ferris wheel, but…But! In my defense, I thought you were with me. And I was going to get us a seat on the ride. Was gonna wait until it got up to the highest point and do something cheesy like kiss you…or blow you, whatever. But I—“

“Why didn’t you just ask me, Eds?” Steve laughs with his full body, deep from within his stomach. “We can do that, babe. All you gotta do is ask, y’know?”

“I didn’t think—“

“I know you didn’t,” Steve teases. “Seems like my stupid t-shirt idea worked again. That’s three times, you dork.” Eddie can only groan. He knows that he has a bad habit of wandering, doesn’t mean that the idea is any less annoying or dumb. “Come on, Eds. Stop throwing a fit. Let’s do your thing.”

“You sure?”

“Eddie, if you don’t kiss or blow me on that ferris wheel, I’m banning D&D at my place for a month. Let’s go.”

When they get off and start walking back to the car, Steve tugs on the back of Eddie’s jeans. He yelps, startled, but quickly shuts his mouth when he’s faced with a stern look. “You know what I just remembered?” Steve asks him. There’s mirth in his eyes. Eddie doesn’t trust this at all. “Earlier, when I was telling you about wandering, I mentioned maybe tethering you to a rope. I might have to do that. Since you can’t behave.”

Eddie heats from the inside out. A coil tightens in his stomach. “You couldn’t even if you tried,” he bites back.

Later, he finds out, Steve is exceptional with rope. What a fucking boy scout.

——— +1 The Mall of America didn’t earn its title for nothing. The place was huge, that much Eddie could discern. Which made perfect sense when buying the new and improved: ‘If found, return to…’ shirts. However, this time, it was Steve with ‘If Found’ t-shirt.

At first, Steve didn’t know how to feel about the new shirts. Simply because he didn’t seem to see a reason for why he’d get lost or wander or be found in any capacity. But given the surprise Eddie had for him, the reason definitely fit the bill.

What Steve didn’t know, that Eddie one hundred percent knew, was that a Lego store was opening up at the mall. Or, has been opened at the mall. It was the perfect time for a little road trip. A little Fall of 1992 trip to Minnesota. Driving by trees and such. Parking in the Mall of America’s lot. Figuring out what stores to hit first, what food they wanted to eat, where the bathrooms were located. Typical day out sort of things.

However, one moment Steve was with him and the next…Eddie was scouring the food court for his fiancé. Trying not to throw up the meager lunch he just had. Swallowing down panic after panic after panic that rose in his chest like tsunami waves. This place was too big for either of them to wander or get lost or have a mind of their own. Not with the way they impulsively purchases things, an awful habit they both exuded—today is the worst day to do just that.

Which leads him to tapping on the shoulder of a guy around his age. Who’s carrying two large yellow Lego bags. Just sitting back in one of the food court chairs, minding his own business. Until, he whips around to find Eddie startled and red faced. “Uh…Can I help you, man?” The stranger greets.

“Sorry, hi,” Eddie says. “I just—You look like somebody who can maybe help me. I’m looking for my…friend, his name is Steve. Uh—White, around my height, dirty blonde hair. He’s wearing a pair of near skin tight Levi jeans, light wash and a white t-shirt that matches mine. Except, his says ‘If found, return to Eddie’. I’m Eddie, by the way. Anyway—Uh, you probably just came from the Lego store, yeah?”

“Sure,” the guy says, completely unsure of this interaction. “Why do you need to know—“

“So you can like lead me there? I’ve never been there. And like he’s really obsessed with those damn sets and like that’s really cool or whatever, but I need to know where he is because we’re from out of town and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing in this mall or where to—“

“Alright, dude, calm down,” guy placates. “We’ll find your friend. Just…That store is pretty fucking busy. Really popular, you know? I’ll take you there, but with how panicked you are, it would be best if you waited by the entrance of the store. Is that…”

“That’s perfectly fine to me!” Eddie nearly shouts.

He follows on this person’s heels. Bobbing and weaving through crowds of other over-consumers. Maybe shoving a few of them out of the way just so he can stay with that guy. But eventually, they make it to the outside of the rather precarious Lego store. Its yellow storefront nauseating to Eddie. Almost—Genuinely frustrating him beyond belief. And he sees Steve. Standing near the back of the store. Staring up at one of the shelves, but he lets the stranger he found grab Steve for him. Because no way in hell is Eddie going to survive being swallowed up by the awfully large crowd swamping the store.

Steve emerges from the crowd, a bit offended and a lot upended. But then has the gall to appear sheepish when he’s led directly to Eddie. With a nod and a tight smile, Eddie waves the stranger off. Almost wants to run back and get his name, send him a thank you card from the Hallmark store he saw on their way there.

He turns to face Steve, though. Leans them into the wall. “Jesus, Steve,” Eddie groans. “Is this what you put up with?”

“Is what—“

“The fucking panic? The—The whirling around and checking in the weird obscure places? Tapping on stranger’s shoulders only to see if they have a single goddamn idea where anything is…ever? Like—“ He sighs. “I thought that I’d never find you, Steve! You could’a at least told me you were going to go somewhere on your own. Maybe give me an idea of where you’re going?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh, so now that’s important to you?” He petulantly mutters. “Can’t go off and have fun without being pestered—“

“I’m not pestering, Steve!” Eddie grits. “I’m being concerned! I’m—You scared me,” he admits quietly. “And you ruined my surprise.”

“Ruined?” Steve echoes, confused. “What do you…oh. Oh. I—“ Then, Steve looks down to the floor. Eyes ashamed and arms tight to his body. “I didn’t…I was just excited, I’m sorry. The store was on the directory when we first came in and I like—“ He chuckles a little bit, loosening up. “—I fucking memorized where to go. What path to take. Because I just really wanted to look in there. They’ve got—Eddie, they have this one set in there, it’s a freaking spaceship and it’s called the…The Galactic Meditator or something? I can’t—That doesn’t matter,” he rambles. Takes a deep breath and pushes himself tighter into Eddie’s space. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Eddie gives a single nod. Closes his eyes and staves off the rest of his panic and anger. He’d be a hypocrite if he lashed out right now. He knows that. And, honestly, seeing Steve geek out about toys…of all things…is kind of endearing. Maybe even doing something for Eddie.

He puts on his best smile, something genuine and pulled from within him. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “I—I should’ve known that you were going to come over here.”

“I mean, you did a little bit, right? Had to find somebody that led you here?”

“You got me,” Eddie breathes. “Y’know all my tricks.”

Steve hums beside him. “I’m actually sorry, though, that I ruined the surprise you had in mind. This is a pretty cool thing.”

Eddie smirks. “Steve Harrington admitting to a geek thing being cool…When did the tables turn?” He teases. “Seems like God has heard my prayers,” he jests. With a quick sneaky look around, he grabs Steve’s hand. Squeezes firmly and exhales the last bit of his panicked nerves. “Does my fiancé want to…Oh, I don’t know…Get a Lego set?”

The hand in his tightens with a harsh, unbelieving amount of strength. He almost winces. “Really?” Steve asks, perking up. If he had a tail, it would most definitely be wagging. “Can we actually? I really want that one that I found in there, the uh…Galactic whatever it was called. I’m bad at the names, which is weird because I’ve been building these sets for a while, but I always seem to get the names wrong and I—“ Eddie interrupts with a squeeze to his hand again, a smile bright and plastered to his face. “Sorry,” Steve sheepishly says, “Let’s go in there. I can show you and maybe…you can get one of your own?”

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against Steve’s cheek, leaving a very chaste but all the same kiss there.

The panic was worth it in the end. Because watching Steve in his element, nerd-ing over toys and how to best put them together, really makes Eddie’s chest warm. In a way that tells him he’d put up with wandering all his life, if only to get Steve to smile the way he does when proudly displaying his new spaceship.

👕—————👕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #3+1 #humor and hijinks #humor #or at least an attempt at humor #mild hurt/comfort

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pacific-rimbaud · 11 months ago

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I'm going to start describing the breast tissue and/or nipples of every male character my protagonists encounter no matter how wildly inappropriate the context.

By the time I arrived at the station Detective Jones was already seated at his desk, going over the riverbank murder case. He reached for his coffee, and I couldn't help but notice the smooth, mounded pecs shifting under his flimsy button-down as he moved. The air conditioning was on full blast, and a pair of large, pert nipples strained against the taut fabric. I ducked a hand discreetly under my skirt to adjust my tights.

#men writing women #the last three books I've started had this issue #do better

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themoonhops · 2 months ago

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Introducing: Onyx!

Hello all - I would like to announce the newest rabbit who will be featured on this blog. Her name is Onyx - full name Onyx Constance Jones (don't ask lol). I adopted her yesterday from a humane society pretty far from where I live, where she had been surrendered, then adopted and returned, and had been in the shelter for a total of about two months.

She is about a year old and is a mid sized mixed breed weighing just shy of seven pounds. Her original owners bought her from a feed store as a baby and then surrendered her as an adult. Her first adopters returned her due to her being too energetic/mischevious and not being good with their children. She was described to me at the humane society as being "very full of personality", extremely opinionated, and somewhat difficult in general.

In my first 24 hours with her, I have noticed that she seems to have little to no positive associations with human handling. She is curious about me but seems to believe that any attention I give her will result in her being picked up/grabbed, and appears to associate humans in general with loss of autonomy. Despite her wariness though she seems to be an extremely confident rabbit, and has shown next to no fearful or anxious behavior despite being in a very new place after an 8 hour car ride. Right off the bat I have also noticed that she is very hyper, highly intelligent, destructive, a great climber, and just a LOT of rabbit packed into a 7 pound body. I think she has a great chance of thriving here, since the rabbit room can provide her a lot of space and endless opportunities for destruction without worry of her getting into something she shouldn't. She is likely a rabbit who is going to benefit from a lot of enrichment to provide an outlet for her energy and intelligence.

Bonding with Dutch may take a long time or it may be a quick process - the first week or so is just going to be enclosure swapping and then we will attempt to move to actual bonding sessions. Dutch has shown some fearfulness and reactivity to other rabbits since Billy died, so we're going to take things extra slow and use a lot of caution to give them both the best chance of a smooth bonding process.

#bunblr #bunnies #adoptdontshop #house rabbit #rabbits #rescue rabbit #bunnies of tumblr #dutchbun #onyxbun

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atlasthegreatest · 8 months ago

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A Game of Hearts and Ruins / Lara Croft x Indiana Jones! Male Reader

Which, Lara Croft crosses paths with Y/n Jones, a charming archaeologist and long-time rival, while both pursue the same ancient artifact.

Word count: 4788

The midday sun blazed mercilessly over the dense jungles of Cambodia, where the ancient ruins of a forgotten temple slept beneath layers of tangled vines and centuries of dust. Lara Croft crouched low on the edge of a broken stone pillar, her eyes scanning the scene ahead. She’d heard rumors of rare artifacts hidden within these ruins—legendary relics of power that would be a thrilling addition to her private collection. However, she wasn’t alone in the pursuit.

The soft crunch of a boot on fallen leaves caught her ear. Without looking, she smirked, already knowing who it was.

“Late as usual, Croft,” came a smooth, confident voice behind her.

Lara rose to her feet, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “If I were late, Jones, you wouldn’t have needed to follow me here.”

Standing a few feet away was Dr. Y/n Jones—a fellow British adventurer and archaeologist with a devil-may-care grin, ruffled hair, and an insufferable twinkle in his eyes. He wore a worn leather jacket over a white shirt and khaki trousers, looking every inch the reckless explorer he was. His belt was loaded with tools, and a coiled whip hung from his hip, further adding to his roguish charm.

Y/n’s grin widened as he tucked his hands casually in his pockets. “Follow you? I was here first, love. Just wanted to see how long it’d take you to catch up.”

Lara tilted her head, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Jones.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “And you’ve always been terrible at admitting when you’ve met your match.”

Lara felt the spark between them, that familiar current of playful rivalry. This wasn’t the first time they’d crossed paths on an expedition—nor the first time their competition had made things complicated. They both thrived on adventure, danger, and the thrill of outwitting each other. It was a game they loved to play, though neither would ever admit just how much they enjoyed the other’s company.

“Still planning to raid the temple alone?” Y/n asked, sauntering closer. “Or do you want to call it a truce and split the prize?”

“Please,” Lara replied, crossing her arms. “I don’t need help. Besides, we both know you’d try to take the lion’s share.”

Y/n grinned. “Of course. It’s what I do best.”

Lara turned on her heel, making her way deeper into the ruins without another word. Y/n followed, as she knew he would. They were drawn together like magnets—constantly orbiting, occasionally colliding, but never fully able to walk away from each other.

Inside the temple, the air grew cooler, filled with the scent of damp stone and ancient decay. The maze of narrow corridors twisted in every direction, and both explorers moved in practiced silence, each determined to outpace the other.

Lara was quick, slipping through narrow gaps and climbing crumbled walls with the grace of a cat. Y/n stayed close, his every move fluid and calculated, as if he were waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

“Tell me something, Croft,” Y/n said as they entered a massive hall, its ceiling carved with faded murals of long-forgotten gods. “What’s your fascination with these relics? Is it the history, or just the thrill of stealing them before anyone else can?”

Lara shot him a sideways glance. “And what’s yours? Looking to get rich or just eager to impress me?”

Y/n chuckled. “Can’t it be both?”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. Y/n’s charm was infuriating, mostly because she found it oddly… endearing. But she wasn’t about to let that distract her. They reached the center of the hall, where a large pedestal stood. On it rested a golden amulet, glimmering in the dim light. Both of them stopped at the same moment, eyes locked on their prize.

“Shall we call it a tie?” Y/n suggested, his voice low and teasing.

“Not a chance.”

In a blur of movement, both lunged for the amulet at the same time. Lara’s fingers brushed the metal, but Y/n’s hand was already there, closing over hers.

“Not so fast,” he whispered, standing far too close.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, their faces inches apart. Lara could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, and the intensity in his eyes made her heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the chase.

“Careful, Jones,” she murmured. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I always do,” he replied, his voice a husky whisper.

For a moment, the tension between them shifted. What had started as playful competition now felt like something far more dangerous? It was as if all the stolen glances, the teasing words, and the shared adventures had been leading to this exact moment.

Then, with a sly grin, Lara twisted her hand free and snatched the amulet. “Better luck next time.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily stunned, then laughed—a deep, genuine sound that echoed through the ancient hall. “You’re impossible, Croft.”

“Thank you,” she said, slipping the amulet into her pouch.

Y/n shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know, one of these days, I’ll beat you to it.”

“I doubt that,” Lara shot back, her expression smug but playful.

They made their way out of the temple side by side, their footsteps light and their conversation even lighter. For all the rivalry between them, neither could deny the thrill they felt in each other’s presence—the way their hearts raced not just from the danger, but from the sheer joy of being together.

As they reached the jungle clearing where they’d first crossed paths, Y/n gave her a sidelong glance. “What do you say, Croft? Same time, same place next month?”

Lara smiled, a rare softness in her eyes. “We’ll see. If you can keep up.”

Y/n reached out and brushed a stray leaf from her shoulder, his touch lingering just a second too long. “I always do.”

And with that, they parted ways once again—two souls bound by adventure, rivalry, and something neither of them was quite ready to name. But as they disappeared into the wilderness, each knew the truth: the next time they met, it wouldn’t just be artifacts they were chasing.

————————

Several weeks later, the humid jungles of South America set the stage for their next encounter. Lara had tracked down rumors of a jade mask—an ancient relic tied to a pre-Columbian civilization, said to grant prophetic visions to its wearer. The mask was hidden somewhere deep within a forgotten temple, buried beneath layers of rock and a thick rainforest canopy.

As she approached the vine-choked entrance, a voice echoed through the foliage, smug and familiar.

“You know, Croft, you’re starting to make this too easy.”

Lara turned to find Y/n Jones leaning lazily against a tree, arms crossed, his whip coiled at his side. His grin was as infuriatingly charming as ever, and the sun caught the mischievous glint in his eyes. He had somehow beaten her to the site—again.

“Following me across continents now, Jones?” Lara asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I had an admirer.”

Y/n pushed off the tree and strolled closer, his expression full of playful arrogance. “Who says I was following? Maybe I just know you better than you think.”

Lara gave a scoff, though her lips curled into a slight smile. Their rivalry had become a dance—one they both enjoyed far more than they admitted.

“Then you must know I don’t intend to let you take that mask,” she said, brushing past him toward the temple entrance.

Y/n’s grin widened as he followed at her side. “Tell you what—how about we make things interesting this time? Whoever gets the mask first wins.”

“And what’s the prize?” Lara asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

Y/n leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. “Winner picks the next adventure. Loser buys the drinks.”

Lara let out a quiet chuckle, her heart skipping a beat despite herself. “Hope you’re ready to part with some cash.”

Y/n’s laugh followed her into the darkness of the temple, a deep, infectious sound that made her chest feel annoyingly warm.

Inside the temple, they fell into their usual rhythm—both racing against each other and the ticking clock of hidden traps. The ruins were riddled with dead ends, collapsing pathways and intricately designed puzzles meant to keep intruders at bay.

Lara slipped through tight spaces with feline grace, while Y/n used his whip to swing over bottomless pits and climb crumbling walls. They traded banter along the way, their words light but carrying the weight of something unspoken.

“You know, Croft, one day your luck is going to run out,” Y/n said, watching her disable a complex trap with practiced ease.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Lara replied, glancing back at him with a playful smirk. “Just skill—and better instincts than yours.”

Y/n chuckled, adjusting the strap of his bag. “We’ll see about that.”

They reached the heart of the temple at the same time—a grand chamber with towering statues and an altar at the center, upon which rested the jade mask. It gleamed under a shaft of sunlight that cut through the darkness, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Both adventurers slowed their pace, eyes locked on the artifact. For a moment, neither moved, as if testing the other’s resolve.

“Ladies first?” Y/n offered the smirk on his lips suggesting he was anything but sincere.

Lara scoffed. “Chivalry doesn’t suit you.”

And just like that, they were in motion—both of them darting toward the mask. Y/n’s whip lashed out, aiming to knock the artifact into his hand, but Lara anticipated the move and dodged. With a roll and a leap, she reached the altar first, fingers grazing the jade surface.

But Y/n was faster than she expected. His hand closed over hers—just like before—and they both froze, breathing hard from the sudden burst of adrenaline.

Lara looked up, meeting Y/n’s gaze. His face was inches from hers, and for a moment, all the teasing banter, all the playful rivalry, melted away. She felt the steady rhythm of his breath and smelled the faint scent of leather and earth on his jacket.

“You’re predictable, Jones,” she whispered, her voice softer than before.

“And you’re impossible,” he murmured in return, his hand still resting lightly over hers.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity—caught between the thrill of competition and the pull of something deeper. Neither was willing to admit it aloud, but in these stolen moments, the game they played felt less like a rivalry and more like something… inevitable.

Y/n’s lips quirked into a slow, teasing smile. “You always this competitive on dates, Croft?”

“This isn’t a date,” Lara replied, though the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

And then, before she could think twice, Lara made her move. She shifted her weight, used Y/n’s balance against him, and twisted free with the jade mask in hand.

“Better luck next time,” she said, throwing him a playful wink as she tucked the mask into her satchel.

Y/n stared after her, half-exasperated, half-impressed. “You’re going to be the death of me, Croft.”

“Maybe,” Lara called over her shoulder, already heading for the exit. “But you’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Y/n laughed, shaking his head as he followed her out of the temple. As they emerged into the bright sunlight, the jungle buzzing with life around them, he caught up to her once again.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Since I lost, I suppose the drinks are on me.”

Lara shot him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth curling into a rare, genuine smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Y/n grinned, something warm and knowing flickering in his eyes. “And next time?”

Lara gave a light shrug, though her heart was already racing at the thought of their next adventure. “Same stakes. Same rules.”

“Good,” Y/n murmured, his voice laced with promise. “Because I have a feeling our best adventures are still ahead.”

And with that, they disappeared into the jungle once more—two rivals bound by danger, drawn together by something far more powerful than either of them could resist.

——————-

Lara and Y/n didn’t part ways for long. Just a few weeks later, they found themselves standing in the shadows of the Atlas Mountains, on the outskirts of a Berber village. Their latest quarry was the Scarab of Anhur, an ancient amulet believed to bring victory in battle. A collector in Marrakesh had offered an obscene sum to acquire it, but neither Lara nor Y/n needed the money. For them, the scarab was just another excuse to outmaneuver each other—and perhaps, neither of them could stay away.

They stood together near the entrance of a remote tomb, surrounded by jagged cliffs and the endless stretch of desert sky. The sun was sinking low, casting long golden beams across the rocky landscape.

“So, what’s the plan this time?” Y/n asked with a grin as he adjusted his whip. “We race to the artifact, you leave me in a pit, and I show up at the bar later like nothing happened?”

Lara smirked, brushing dust off her cargo pants. “That does sound familiar.”

“You wound me, Croft.” Y/n placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I thought we were building trust.”

“Trust?” Lara echoed, raising an eyebrow. “This isn’t trust, Y/n—it’s foreplay.”

The words hung between them, thick with implication. Y/n’s smirk faltered for just a second, his eyes darkening with something that wasn’t entirely amusement.

“Careful,” he said, his voice quieter now, “or one of these days, you might get in over your head.”

Lara leaned closer, a dangerous glint in her eye. “I doubt it.”

They stood like that for a moment, caught in the web of tension and teasing that had been growing between them since their first encounter. There was no denying it now—their rivalry was more than just a game. It was a dangerous dance, one that neither of them knew how to stop.

Inside the tomb, the temperature dropped sharply, the cool air heavy with centuries of silence. The walls were adorned with faded carvings of ancient battles, and the narrow corridor stretched deep into the earth. They walked side by side, the sound of their boots echoing in the stillness.

“So, why do you do it?” Y/n asked after a while, breaking the silence. “Chasing after these things. The artifacts, the temples… What’s the endgame, Croft?”

Lara shrugged, her flashlight beam dancing over the walls. “It’s not about the end. It’s about the journey. The discovery.”

“And the thrill of beating me to the prize, I imagine?”Y/n teased, though his gaze softened as he looked at her.

Lara glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “That’s just a bonus.”

They reached a large chamber, the heart of the tomb. At the center, atop a pedestal carved with intricate hieroglyphs, lay the Scarab of Anhur. The golden amulet shimmered faintly, untouched for centuries.

Lara’s pulse quickened.

Y/n, ever-watchful, moved closer. “Shall we flip a coin this time, or are we sticking with ‘winner takes all’?”

Lara shot him a sly grin. “What fun would a coin toss be?”

Without another word, they both moved toward the pedestal—two shadows racing against each other through time.

Y/n was quick, but Lara was quicker. She reached the scarab just as Y/n lunged forward, and once again, their hands collided over the artifact. For a moment, they stood frozen, breathing hard, faces close enough to feel the warmth of the other’s skin.

“Déjà vu,” Y/n whispered, his voice low and rough.

Lara looked up, her eyes locking with his. This time, there was no witty remark, no teasing banter. Just the steady hum of adrenaline and something far more dangerous—something that had been building between them for too long.

And then, before she could stop herself, Lara leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was brief, but it was electric. The moment their lips met, the tension that had simmered between them for so long ignited into a blaze. Y/n responded without hesitation, his hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

When they finally pulled away, both were breathless, their hearts pounding in unison.

“Well,” Y/n said, his voice husky with surprise, “that was… unexpected.”

Lara’s lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile. “Maybe. But it’s been a long time coming.”

Y/n’s grin returned, softer this time. “No arguments here.”

The scarab glimmered between them, forgotten for the moment. The prize didn’t seem quite as important anymore—not compared to what they had just discovered.

Lara cleared her throat, stepping back but not breaking eye contact. “So… what now?”

Y/n shrugged, his grin turning lazy and affectionate. “We could fight over the scarab. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or,” Y/n said, slipping an arm around her waist, “we could call it a draw. Just this once.”

Lara chuckled, a rare sound that made Y/n’s heart skip a beat. “You’re getting soft, Beckett.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just realized that beating you isn’t the prize I want.”

Lara looked at him, the amusement in her gaze giving way to something deeper. For the first time, the lines between rivalry and affection blurred beyond recognition, and she found she didn’t mind.

“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand lightly. “Let’s get out of here before we both regret this.”

Y/n grinned, following her toward the exit. “Regret? Never.”

As they made their way back through the tomb, side by side, the weight of the scarab in Lara’s satchel felt lighter than it should have. For once, the artifact wasn’t the victory she cared about.

And maybe, just maybe, the adventure they’d found together was only just beginning.

Bonus chapter:

The bonfire crackled warmly in the moonlit desert night, casting flickering shadows over the sand. Lara sat cross-legged on a blanket, sipping whiskey from a battered flask, the glow of the fire soft against her bronzed skin. The day’s adventure—their narrow escape from collapsing ruins—had left them both exhausted but exhilarated. Across from her, Y/n Jones reclined against his rucksack, his leather jacket thrown carelessly aside, hair mussed, and a satisfied grin playing on his lips.

“This almost feels… domestic,” Y/n teased, raising a brow as he accepted the flask from Lara.

Lara gave him a smirk. “If your idea of domestic includes dodging spike traps, solving ancient riddles, and nearly being buried alive, then sure—domestic.”

Y/n chuckled, the sound low and easy, sending a warmth through her chest that had nothing to do with the fire. He tipped the flask to his lips and took a slow drink, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, but I’d say it’s the perfect evening. After all, I’ve got the stars, good company…” He shot her a playful look. “And the fact that I didn’t lose—entirely—today.”

Lara arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t win either, Jones.”

Y/n leaned closer, close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath, that familiar spark lighting between them once again. “Well, if it’s a draw, I say we call it a victory for both of us.”

“Ever the optimist,” Lara said, though there was no bite in her tone.

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a while, the night wrapping around them in a quiet embrace. The stars stretched endlessly overhead, and the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of the wind against the dunes.

For once, Lara wasn’t thinking about ancient artifacts or dangerous tombs. She wasn’t planning her next move or trying to stay one step ahead. For once, she was simply here—sharing the moment with someone who understood the same restless hunger for adventure, the same need to keep moving, always chasing something just out of reach.

“Do you ever think about it?” Y/n asked suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful.

Lara glanced at him. “Think about what?”

“Stopping,” he said, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars. “Walking away from all of this. The treasure hunts, the danger, the endless competition.”

Lara considered the question, surprised by how serious it sounded coming from him. She’d spent her entire life running toward the next adventure, always searching for the next discovery. But now, sitting here with Y/n, the idea didn’t seem as foreign—or as impossible—as it once had.

“And do what?” she asked softly.

Y/n shrugged, his smile lazy but genuine. “I don’t know. Open a bar in Marrakesh? Start a museum somewhere quiet?” He gave her a sidelong glance, his eyes warm and knowing. “Maybe find someone to share it with.”

Lara’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression cool. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

He grinned. “I’m full of surprises.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself. “And if you had to bet on it—how long do you think we’d last in that quiet life?”

Y/n laughed, the sound rich and full of mischief. “A week. Maybe two.”

“Generous,” Lara said with a chuckle.

Y/n leaned back on his elbows, watching her with a gaze that made her feel as though he could see past every wall she’d ever built. “But we’d have fun trying, wouldn’t we?”

Lara smiled—a real smile, not the half-smirks she usually gave. “Yeah, Jones. We would.”

They stayed by the fire long after the flames began to die, sharing stories from old adventures, moments they hadn’t told anyone else. Y/n told her about the time he’d gotten trapped in a Bolivian cave with only a compass and a bottle of rum to his name. Lara recounted a narrow escape from pirates off the coast of Madagascar.

Somewhere along the way, the space between them disappeared.

Lara didn’t remember exactly when Y/n shifted closer, or when she stopped pretending to mind. All she knew was that his hand brushed hers, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

The kiss that followed was slow, unhurried—different from the adrenaline-fueled kiss they’d shared in the tomb. This one was deliberate, a promise made under the open sky, without the pressure of stolen moments or looming danger.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/n rested his forehead against hers, his voice low and rough. “I hate to admit it, but I think I might be falling for you, Croft.”

Lara’s heart hammered in her chest, but she met his gaze without flinching. “Then you’d better keep up, Jones.”

Y/n grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

Morning came too soon, and with it, the pull of the next adventure. The fire had burned down to embers, and the cool dawn air nipped at their skin.

Lara rose first, brushing sand from her pants and adjusting her gear. Y/n followed, slinging his pack over his shoulder with an easy grin.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her as they made their way across the dunes, “where to next?”

Lara glanced at him, her eyes sparkling with that familiar glint of mischief. “There’s a legend about a lost temple in the Himalayas. Supposedly, it holds a relic that grants eternal youth.”

Y/n chuckled. “You think we’ll beat the odds and live forever?”

Lara gave him a playful smirk. “I wouldn’t bet against us.”

And with that, they set off into the rising sun—two explorers, two hearts bound by adventure and something far more precious than any treasure they could ever find.

Because for Lara Croft and Y/n Jones, the real prize wasn’t the artifacts or the glory. It was the journey. And as long as they had each other, the adventure would never end.

———————

A month later, the frigid winds of the Himalayas howled around them as they clung to a cliff face. Far below, jagged rocks peeked through a blanket of snow, promising a swift end to anyone careless enough to misstep. But the danger was nothing new to Lara Croft and Y/n Jones.

“Still think eternal youth is worth it?” Y/n called over the roar of the wind, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face.

Lara smirked, planting her ice axe into the frozen rock. “You afraid of a little cold, Jones?”

Y/n huffed. “No, just making sure you don’t lose your edge.” He swung his body forward, driving his own axe into the ice next to hers.

They had chased the myth of the Temple of Shambala through ancient maps, local rumors, and narrow escapes from rival treasure hunters. Now, only a few hundred feet separated them from the summit—and the legendary temple said to be hidden beneath the glacier.

Y/n reached the ledge first, pulling himself up with a grunt. He turned and offered Lara a hand. “Come on, Croft. I’d hate to have to rescue you at the last minute.”

Lara raised an eyebrow but took his hand, letting him help her up. “You’ll never let me forget it, will you?”

Y/n grinned, tugging her close for just a moment, their faces inches apart. “Not in a million years.”

The entrance to the temple was hidden beneath layers of thick ice, but Lara had spotted faint carvings—indications of a doorway. Together, they set to work, their ice axes clanging rhythmically against the frozen surface.

When the ancient stone door finally cracked open, a rush of warm, stagnant air escaped from within, a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside.

“After you,” Y/n said with a mock bow, sweeping his arm toward the dark passage.

Lara rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “So much for chivalry being dead.”

The temple was vast, its cavernous halls shimmering with ancient ice that glowed a ghostly blue. Enormous statues of forgotten gods lined the walls, their faces serene as they gazed down on the two explorers. The floor beneath their boots crunched with frost, and the air was heavy with centuries of silence.

“This place is unreal,” Y/n whispered, running a hand along one of the statues.

Lara nodded, captivated by the beauty of it all. But she knew better than to let awe distract her for long. “Keep your eyes open. If the legends are true, there’ll be traps.”

As they ventured deeper into the temple, they found more signs of its ancient purpose—symbols of renewal, carvings of stars and moons, and murals depicting pilgrims drinking from a golden chalice. At the heart of the temple, beneath a dome carved with constellations, they found what they had been seeking.

The Chalice of Shambala sat atop a pedestal, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

Y/n gave a low whistle. “That’s it?”

Lara approached it cautiously, her eyes scanning the room for any hidden mechanisms. “Be careful. If the myths are right, that thing grants eternal youth—but only if it deems you worthy.”

Y/n raised a skeptical brow. “And what happens if it doesn’t?”

“Let’s not find out,” Lara murmured.

They approached the chalice together, their hands brushing as they reached for it. Neither spoke, but the weight of what they had shared over the past few months hung between them.

Y/n broke the silence first. “You know, Croft… If this thing works, we could keep doing this forever. Adventure after adventure. Just you and me.”

Lara looked at him, her expression softening. “Forever, huh?”

“Think you could stand me that long?” Y/n asked, his grin playful but his gaze sincere.

Lara hesitated, her hand hovering over the chalice. For once, the temptation wasn’t the treasure—it was the thought of what came next. She realized she didn’t want a life without him, whether it lasted fifty years or five centuries.

With a small, mischievous smile, she pulled her hand away. “I think I’d rather grow old with you.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily stunned. Then his grin returned, warmer than the firelight on a desert night. “Well, Croft, that might just be the best treasure I’ve found yet.”

Lara rolled her eyes, though her heart swelled. “Come on, let’s get out of here before this place decides to kill us.”

Y/n grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers as they turned toward the exit. “Lead the way, Croft. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

And with that, they left the chalice untouched, their footsteps echoing through the ancient halls as they walked hand in hand toward the next great adventure—one filled not just with danger and discovery, but with each other.

Because in the end, they realized, it wasn’t the promise of eternal youth that mattered. It was the journey—and the person they chose to share it with.

#tomb raider #indiana jones!reader #male reader #lara croft #lara croft x reader

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fierceanduntamedemotions · 13 days ago

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The Better Man

Pairing: fem!Reader x oldman!Price, your ex's dad.

Sick of the dating apps and desperate for a real shot at lasting romance, you start chatting up older men in hopes of finding any sons that might be up to your standards. But maybe the man you were meant to end up with was never the boy—it was his father. Inspired by real events and real delusions.

Reader Pet Names: darling, dear, sweetheart, sweetie, my girl, baby Content & Warnings: 18+ MDNI!!! abortion and miscarriage mentioned, cheating, age gap (26f and 50m), slow burn romance, incesty-ish but not really, depressive episodes, breakups and divorce woes, smut (PinV, oral, daddy kink, breeding kink). Music Inspo: Here We Go (Uh Oh) [Remix] By Coco Jones (feat. Leon Thomas)

Part 1: The Set Up Part 2: It Takes Two

Part 3: Lessons of Lesser Men

Word Count: 2.5k

Father’s Day came, but it would always live in your mind as D-Day.

All the boys were there. The backyard filled with heat and grill smoke, the table lined with beer bottles sweating in the sun. There was music, laughter, the usual rhythm of family gatherings at John's. Their warmth, his tension, everyone pretending there wasn’t blood in the water.

But you could smell it on you.

After an hour or two, the questions started circling, quietly whispered behind sunglasses. A sideways glance. A question disguised as a joke.

You busied yourself in the kitchen to escape. Scrubbing pots that didn’t need scrubbing, organizing utensils that were already neat. Anything to give your hands something to do, anything to keep your mouth from opening and unleashing the storm.

You heard your name behind you, John’s voice, laced with affection and pride. “I told you to call me Dad,” he said low, nudging you with his elbow, eyes bright and crinkled at the edges with that warm, content glow he wore at family events. “It’ll be official soon enough anyway.”

A bullet to the brain would’ve been kinder. You smiled and nodded politely without showing your teeth. There's no way the smile reached your eyes, so you kept them down.

“You’re already part of this family. There’s never been a more handsome couple than you two,” he went on, totally oblivious to the sad sour of your spirit. “I knew from the second I met you Kyle would be a good fit.”

You nodded again, hands shaking as you fixated on wiping down a perfectly clean counter. Anything to distract from the feelings you were desperate to conceal. You held it together, like the multiple breaths you were holding.

“Come help me grab some more beer from the garage, darling,” he said, already heading out.

You followed silently, grateful for the change of topic. Maybe if you kept moving, the pain would stay behind as well.

But as soon as the door to the garage clicked shut behind you, he turned. The look in his eyes changed like a light flicking off. The warmth was gone. In its place, concern.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You shook your head, but he stepped closer. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to say it. You didn’t want to say his son had broken your heart. That you’d been living in a lie for weeks. That the life he once proudly imagined for you was already crumbling to dust before your eyes.

But his finger under your chin forced you to look up. And the moment your eyes met his, the dam cracked and the tears flowed.

The words wouldn’t come, but the sobs did. Your legs gave out, folding in on yourself to the ground. He caught you, held you steady, pulling you to his solid chest. His shirt smelled like smoke and sun bleached cotton. He didn’t speak. Just held you, hands smoothing down your hair, and let you cling to him as you fell apart. This was it, the middle of the end.

When you could breathe again, you coughed it out, “He cheated on me.”

John went still. All over. But to your surprise, he only pulled you tighter. His heartbeat pounded in your ears, subconsciously beckoning you to a less anxious state.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said softly. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “That’s… disappointing. To say the least.” With your head tucked under his chin, he nuzzled into your hair and inhaled deeply.

You sniffled, letting yourself sink further into him. The emotional weight was almost gone from your body, but leaving behind all that ache and break.

“Is he leaving you?” he asked after a moment.

You shrugged, “I gave him the opportunity, but he doubled down. Said he’d change. I don’t know if I believe him, though.” You took a massive shaky breath, “He didn’t even apologize. Didn’t even admit it was wrong.”

You could feel the heat building behind his silence and the tension in his jaw as he ground his teeth. You couldn’t tell if he was angrier about the cheating or the fact that Kyle hadn’t even owned it.

“I’m going to talk to him,” John said.

“No—” you pulled away to look at him, but he raised a hand. The same hand cupped your cheek and with his thumb he wiped a tear, silencing you.

“I’m going to talk to him,” he repeated. He helped you up and you did as told, too exhausted to argue. “Go upstairs, have some privacy in my room, and drink some water.”

It was the first thing that felt easy all month—disappearing up the stairs and into the bathroom with a box of tissues, leaving the events of the world to unfold by themselves outside the door.

And as you sipped water alone, your limbs heavy, your face wet, your heart hollow, you thought:

Kyle was John’s son first and foremost. And I was never really their daughter. Not now. Not ever.

You didn’t know what John was saying to Kyle or what he was going to do. You just let the sound of the running tap carry you like a tide out to sea. The back door slamming broke you from your disassociation and you turned the tap off, unsure of how much time had lapsed and water wasted.

Kyle’s voice, sharp and bitter, echoed through the halls. Accusing. Blaming. “I can’t believe you let her ruin Father’s Day,” he shouted loud enough for you to hear. John's reply came at a more appropriate volume and was thus inaudible to you. Then the thud of footsteps heading toward the front door. Kyle just…left.

You heard Simon’s voice downstairs, tinged with concern,“Should I go after—”

“Don’t.” John snapped his answer before the question was completed.

“He messed up,” John started. “And I wouldn’t be a good father if I didn’t do something about it.”

You pressed your fingertips to your temple, eyes burning all over again. You did this. All because you couldn't keep it together and broke down.

“He betrayed a member of this family,” John continued, voice steady and clear. “Now, I know I was never the most present father. Or the best husband. That’s why yer mums left, and I’ll take the blame for that; I missed too much and was gone too often. But I was never unfaithful to either of them. Because when you make someone your partner, your person—thats the job.”

The room below stayed quiet.

“I hoped I’d raised you boys to be better. To be more capable husbands. Men who show up. Who take care of their women, with integrity. Kyle may be my son and maybe I failed you both. But his actions…Unacceptable.”

His tone turned a shade softer. “Johnny,” he said, directly addressing the Scottsman. “If this muppet,” pointing at his eldest, Simon, “ever drops the ball on you, I’ll go to bat for you the same way. You’re both men. And it’s expected that you act that way. Be good to each other and for each other.”

Not long after, the two men bid John an awkward farewell and exited too. Leftovers packed into foil. Bottles cleared. A silent promise in every step not to make things harder than they already were. Simon would have hugged you on his way out, Johnny would have kissed your cheek. But you hid like a coward upstairs, but grateful that no one came looking for you.

But John did.

You were still in the bathroom, surrounded by tissues, eyes red and raw, your chest hollow.

He stepped into the doorway and didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, looking at you like he was taking stock of what was left of the girl who used to light up his backyard with laughter.

“Did you hear what I told the rest of the lads?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I meant it.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Instead, he ushered you downstairs to eat something, insisted you sit and put something in your body that wasn’t grief. You didn’t have the appetite, but you chewed. You swallowed. It was the closest thing to functional you’d felt in weeks.

When it was time to go, he drove you home.

You hesitated, not sure if you were ready to face him. “Kyle will be there?”

“I doubt he will,” John said, calm but firm. “And you don’t need to worry. That’s why I’m here. To keep things civil. To keep tempers and tears in check.”

In the car, he spoke again with a quiet sort of weariness. Like he was unspooling his heart one thread at a time, after being wound too tight. “He needs to man up,” he said. “Either be ready to spend the rest of his life making this up to you, or be man enough to end the relationship before he does more damage.”

You nodded. Tears clung to your waterline, reflecting the city as you passed it by.

“Part of me thinks he’s acting out because of me,” John continued. “Maybe with me and his mum not together anymore, it shook something loose in him.”

You listened to John rationalize and volunteer to assume some of the blame. He felt responsible for all of this. He wanted you two together so much. This was either inevitable or completely avoidable, but either way, beyond his control. But you’d never know if you didn’t try.

When you arrived, Kyle wasn’t home. John killed the engine and didn't move for a moment. Then turned to you. “Don’t wait up for him,” he said gently. “Might be a couple days.”

“I guess I’ll start packing,” you murmured. A new reality was setting in.

He reached over to pat you on the knee before taking your hand in his. “Don’t kick yourself out without a plan, alright? You’ve got time. You’ve got options. If you don’t have a place by the end of the month… come stay with me.”

That broke you a little. It hurt in a way that healed and you almost started crying all over again.

He hugged you goodbye as if it might be the last. Squeezing you tight as if it could fuse your broken pieces back together. Held you like he would keep you whole, even if you weren’t.

“I’m sorry, my sweet girl,” he whispered into your hair, fingers brushing back and forth. “You deserve better. He was lucky to have you. We all were. And none of this—none of it—is your fault.”

Tossed to you like a lifeline, you latched onto his words in hopes that one day they would lead you back to yourself. Every heartbreak taught you something. They were the lessons of lesser men—to prepare you so you’d recognize something better when you found it.

Kyle came back the next day.

Still no apology. Just the soft thud of keys on the counter and a sigh that sounded like empty and tired resignation. He looked at you and said nothing. Then later, awkwardly, he told you he couldn’t keep doing this. And that was it. He finally found the words you’d been waiting for. The ones that unknotted your throat and snapped the tether of false hope for good.

After that, he was… nicer.

He stopped punishing you for his own unhappiness. Stopped avoiding your gaze like he couldn’t stomach the sight of you. You insisted on trading nights on the couch. On weekends, you uncoupled like business partners, dividing what was once a shared life with the quiet efficiency of two people too tired to fight.

The air fryer went with him. The good baking sheets stayed with you. Pots to him. Pans to you. You typed up a list so neither of you had to talk about it again. Two weeks later, the apartment no longer felt like your home—just a container. A place to stack boxes. A place to survive until the calendar caught up with you.

Three years, reduced to labeled cardboard and bubble wrap. Your life in categories. Plates wrapped in old t-shirts. Keepsakes and photographs in shoeboxes. A drawer full of mismatched chargers and pens you couldn’t quite bring yourself to throw out. Every object was infused with memory, even the mundane ones.

Divorced, never married. The kind of breakup that doesn’t involve lawyers or paperwork, just the aching ritual of untangling toothbrushes and towels. A separation that leaves no public record, but all the wreckage.

You thought you were doing okay. Not great, but functioning. Until the knock at the door a week later. John. Unannounced—but not unwelcome. He stood there in his fitted t-shirt, holding a takeaway coffee in one hand and a small paper bag of treats in the other. Your mouth watered.

“Just checking in on you,” he said, stepping inside to the kitchen. “How’s the house hunting going?”

Unable to hide your exasperation from him, you sighed, “I’ve toured two places. Both got bought out from under me. The market’s brutal right now.”

He nodded, the quiet kind of agreement that only confirmed your frustrations.

“Besides that,” you added, “things are better now. Easier, I guess. Now that the Band-Aid’s been ripped off, we can stop hurting each other.”

John frowned at you. “Don’t say that,” he replied. “You never hurt him.”

You opened your mouth to deflect, but he cut you off before you could.

“He was unfair to you. And I understand why you don’t want to cause a fight while you’re under the same roof, but someone needs to say it plainly. You’re a victim in this. And just because he hurt himself in the process doesn’t absolve what he did to you.”

The words struck like a match in your chest, blinding and sharp at once.

You blinked fast, but he was already stepping closer, offering no room for argument. “It doesn’t mean you have to spend one more second trying to fix him. That’s his job now. His responsibility. Not yours. You don’t owe him anything anymore.”

“Thanks, John,” you murmured as you deflated. “I… I really needed to hear that.” You finally found the strength to take a sip of the coffee he brought you. The pastries were good too, the perfect comfort food.

You hadn’t told many people of your break up. Just your mom, and even that had gone sideways. She’d blamed you in the way only mothers who haven’t done their healing can. Said you should’ve tried harder, let him be the man. Said you must have emasculated him somehow. Said maybe if you hadn’t been so opinionated, so capable, so much, he wouldn’t have strayed.

What a crock of shit.

You told John that, but he didn’t laugh. Didn’t agree or disagree. Just reached for your hand and held it. Big, calloused fingers wrapping around yours. A gesture that said you’re not alone.

“I know your dad’s no longer with us,” he said softly. “But if there’s anything you need—anything at all. I want you to come to me. I’ll help you move, I’ll build furniture, I’ll hang shelves and pictures, all that.”

Your heart swelled three sizes that day. Dad's were like that, showing up with simple words and actions that went the extra mile. Quiet and consistent care.

“I meant what I said. You’ve always been part of this family. And I’m not letting go of you anytime soon.” He squeezed your fingers tighter in promise.

At least he wasn’t going to abandon you too.

#fierceanduntamedemotions #faue:fic #fanfiction #cod fanfic #price x reader #price x you #captain john price #captain johnathan price #captain price #john price #age gap romance #your ex-boyfriend's dad romance #call of duty #daddy issues #daddy k!nk #older man younger girl #non toxic #the better man

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formulafanfics13 · 21 days ago

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All Eyes on Me - Chapter 9

Masterlist || Latest Poll

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

Bahrain paddock.

The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the heat was already clinging to skin like static. Humid. Dry. Relentless.

The entrance to the paddock was already lined with camera rigs and early press teams buzzing around like flies around sugar. Everyone knew what today was. The Victoria's Secret Angels were arriving.

The SUVs rolled up in unison, matte black, windows tinted, guarded like a fucking state visit. The doors opened all at once. Out stepped Gigi. Then Barbara. Then Taylor, Lila and finally, Martha.

The world paused.

They were dressed identically but not at all the same: soft blush pink sets, cropped sports bras and matching high-waisted shorts, with tiny VS x F1 embroidered logos at the hipbones. All of it coordinated to look "athletic" while barely containing the kind of energy that sold lingerie in Times Square.

Each girl carried a branded white jacket over one shoulder. Hair slick. Lips glossy. Diamond earrings that sparkled beneath messy buns and high ponytails. It was full glam dressed as minimalism.

Gigi led the way with sunglasses on and a coffee in hand, looking like she ran the paddock. Barbara followed, deadpan, chewing gum and already scrolling her phone. Taylor moved quietly, shoulders pulled back, perfect posture, the kind of girl who broke hearts by accident. Lila blinked into the light like it offended her.

And Martha? She looked like she didn't even notice the cameras.

That was her power. Untouchable. Unbothered. A silk blade in a world full of blunt instruments.

David Birch stepped out beside them, suit pressed, smile smug. Julia Thorne was two steps behind, already muttering logistics into her phone. Karen Smith followed like a boot camp commander disguised in Dior. Paul didn't speak. He never did.

The full Victoria's Secret war machine was officially on site. And waiting for them at the paddock gate?

Stefano Domenicali. Hair gelled, tie crisp, nervous excitement rolling off him in waves.

"Ladies!" he called, stepping forward like he was greeting royalty. "Welcome to Bahrain. Welcome to the grid."

Gigi offered her hand first, cold, polite, perfect. "Gigi Hadid."

"I know," Stefano smiled, kissing the air next to her cheek.

Barbara just gave a nod. "Barbara Palvin."

"Absolute pleasure," he said, shaking her hand like she was made of something valuable.

Taylor smiled softly. "Taylor Hill. Thank you for having us."

"You're all legends," Stefano said sincerely.

Lila just blinked. "Hi. I don't know where I am."

Stefano laughed, delighted.

And then there was Martha. She held out her hand, nails painted, fingers cold. "Martha Jones."

There was a beat of silence. Like the world dipped in volume just for her.

Stefano took her hand, warm and firm. "I've been very excited to meet you," he said. "Everyone has."

She smiled, just barely. "I know."

He turned to David Birch. "Thank you. Truly. For agreeing to this. This is going to be huge."

David gave the kind of tight, PR-smoothed smile that said: We're here for the exposure, not the experience. Karen stepped forward, clipboard out, already talking schedules.

Stefano motioned for the group to follow. "Come with me. There's a quick briefing first. Then we'll send you off for the shoot."

They walked as a pack, heels on concrete, camera shutters already starting. Martha walked beside Gigi.

"They're all inside?" she asked, voice low.

Gigi nodded. "Drivers. Principals. All of them."

"And we're walking in looking like gym-sponsored goddesses?"

Gigi smirked. "That was the plan."

Martha adjusted her waistband, slow, casual. "Good," she said.

The FIA briefing room was polished and clinical. Rows of chairs. Water bottles. Folded nameplates. Every seat was filled. Drivers at the front. Team Principals lining the walls. Max. Charles. George. Pierre. Daniel. Lando. Lewis. All of them.

The second the girls walked in? The temperature in the room fucking changed.

George sat up so fast he knocked his pen off the table. Pierre audibly whispered "holy shit." Logan blinked like he'd just gone blind. Oscar didn't move at all. Just stared. Mouth slightly open. Daniel grinned.

The room stilled as Stefano gestured toward the centre of the space. "Let's do introductions before we send everyone off to hair, makeup, and content prep," he said, voice a little too cheerful.

The models lined up like angels with secrets. VS-branded pink gym sets—shiny under the LED lights, high-waisted shorts hugging hips, micro-length sports bras leaving stomachs bare and lashes long. Makeup perfect. Hair slicked. Skin radiant.

But it wasn't sex. It was power, dressed as innocence.

Julia Thorne stood at the side with the VS team, watching closely. Paul hovered. Karen whispered something to one of the assistants about Martha's water intake. David Birch kept smiling, so wide it almost cracked.

One by one, the men stood. Charles went first, of course, too eager, too polished. He shook Gigi's hand like he was meeting royalty. "A pleasure," he said, grinning.

Gigi's smile was razor-sharp. "I know."

Pierre followed, eyes flicking up and down Barbara like she was an exhibit he'd like to touch. "Barbara," he said. "You're even more..."

"Dangerous in person?" she offered.

He laughed too quickly. "Exactly."

Logan looked like he was malfunctioning. His handshake with Lila barely counted, clammy, quick, and so panicked he nearly dropped his water bottle. She smiled softly and said, "You're cute," and he almost died.

Oscar tried his best. "You're uh... all... very talented," he said, shaking Taylor's hand.

She giggled. "You can say hot. We know." He blushed so hard it reached his ears.

Max didn't stand. Just nodded. Didn't say anything. Didn't smile.

Gigi whispered to Barbara, "He's definitely one of those men who needs therapy but calls it 'weak.'"

Lando was all dimples and fast-talking charm when he met Lila. "You look great," he blurted before realising that wasn't professional. "I mean-uh-love the branding."

Lila giggled. "It's okay. I already told them I'm here to distract you."

Daniel was the most unhinged.

He fist-bumped Taylor, hugged Lila, air-kissed Barbara, told Gigi she smelled like "the end of his last relationship," and when he reached Martha, he actually paused.

"You're trouble," he said.

Martha raised one brow. "You have no idea."

He blinked. "Oh fuck."

George shook every hand like he was trying to hide how horny he was. He said "honoured to meet you" to Gigi twice. Gigi whispered "Relax, I'm not Jesus" into his ear.

Carlos was smoother, respectful, charming. Shook Barbara's hand with a compliment in Spanish and made her laugh. "I like him," she told Martha. "He looks like he'd hold your hair back and buy you dinner."

Esteban called the girls "icons" and complimented their discipline.

Yuki blurted "you're all so pretty" before anyone even said hello.

Alex stuttered when Lila touched his arm. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I-yep. Fine."

Liam gave the briefest handshake to Taylor, muttered something about "this is wild," then returned to the corner like he was waiting for it to end.

Zhou, Valtteri, Alonso, Lance, Nico, Kevin, Mike Krack, Fred Vasseur, and Andrea Stella were all polite. Professional. Most looked twice. A few looked away too fast. A few definitely adjusted themselves when they sat back down.

But two men? Two really looked.

Toto stood tall, imposing. Suit immaculate. Eyes cutting. He shook hands with each girl like he was checking pulse. Looked at posture. Balance. Skin. Expression. When he reached Martha, he paused. She looked him right in the eye.

He nodded, slow. "Thank you for being here," he said.

She nodded back. "I go where I'm told."

He blinked. Noted that. Then moved on.

Lewis was last. He didn't speak at first. Just looked. Martha held out her hand. His gaze dropped to her wrist, bruised. Concealed well. But not well enough.

He took her hand, gentle but firm. "Glad you're here," he said.

She tilted her head. "Are you?"

His eyes met hers. Quiet. Loaded. "Yes." Just that. And then it was over.

The girls regrouped near the exit. The VS team leaned in—whispers, schedules, retouches, airbrushing collars and reapplying gloss.

The facade stayed locked on. But all eyes were on them.

Polite. Gracious. Perfect. Every movement is designed. Every smile calculated.

And every single man in that room? Had just been knocked completely off his axis. Some were hard. Some were scared. Some were intrigued.

But a few, Toto, Lewis, were watching closely. Because something about those girls didn't just scream models. It whispered warning.

***

The sun had climbed high now. Hot. Blistering. The tarmac shimmered under the weight of it.

Stefano walked ahead in his crisp white shirt, a thin sheen of sweat already blooming under the collar. His pace was brisk, rehearsed. Excited. The kind of man who smelled legacy being born.

Behind him: Ten Team Principals. Twenty Drivers. Five Angels.

And the full fucking Victoria's Secret power team.

The pit lane had been transformed.

One car per team was set out like a goddamn museum exhibit: buffed, shining, branded to perfection. Bahrain sand swept aside. Each car had its own corner of the setup, cordoned off with minimalist barriers, surrounded by lighting boxes, rigged cameras, branded banners. Tripods. Reflectors. Boom mics. Wind machines. Smoke canisters.

It was the paddock turned runway. It was a press orgy waiting to happen.

The girls followed in formation. Still in the blush-pink VS gymwear, still immaculate, though their skin now shimmered under heat and highlighter. Every man walking behind them noticed.

Some tried not to. Some failed.

Pierre whistled softly to Charles. "We are not making it through this day alive."

Daniel popped his gum. "I'm gonna get hard on camera."

George looked like he'd already forgotten how to blink.

Toto was watching. Lewis too. Not the skin. Not the ass. The movement. The control. The stiffness under the gloss.

And just behind the cameras stood the VS command tower.

David Birch: arms crossed, lips tight, watching like he was sculpting a statue with his eyes. Karen: headset in, clipboard raised, expression ready to criticise everything. Paul: quiet, unreadable. Julia: whispering last-minute instructions to the director. Stefano smiled at them all like a man on the verge of orgasm.

The ten team principals stood in a neat line, flanked by the five Angels. Behind them, the twenty drivers grouped loosely around the cars. Martha in the centre. Of course. Gigi beside her, sunglasses now on, mouth set in a smirk. Barbara leaning slightly against the Ferrari, one leg tucked back, spine razor-straight. Taylor just off the Aston, expression cool, arms at her sides, eyes dead ahead. Lila practically floating beside the Red Bull, hands clasped behind her back like she didn't realise she was already trending.

David's voice cracked over the headset.

"Martha, chin down slightly." She adjusted. Barely.

"Barbara, breathe in. Just a bit." Barbara didn't flinch, but the inhale was obvious.

"Lila, sort your left hand. It's awkward. Curl the fingers."

Karen muttered beside him, "Do they teach girls how to stand anymore?"

Behind them, a photographer whispered, "This is fucking gold."

The lights snapped like lightning. Dozens of angles. Close-ups. Wide shots. Overhead drones. Flash. Flash. Flash.

And through it all?

The girls. Still. Controlled. Perfect.

The drivers tried to hold it together.

Lewis kept his gaze locked on the middle distance. Charles was definitely half-hard. Pierre wasn't even pretending not to stare. Oscar looked like he might pass out. Lando grinned the whole time like he was in a dream.

Toto leaned over to Andrea and whispered, "They've completely taken the room."

Andrea nodded. "The campaign's not going to boost viewership. They are."

Each girl rotated between her two assigned teams.

Martha moved to Mercedes first. Lewis. George. Toto.

She stood between them, arms folded just below her sports bra, sunglasses now perched on her head. George cleared his throat six times. Toto looked at her for two seconds too long before nodding once.

David's voice again. "MJ, angle your hip a little more. We want the logo." She turned.

Lewis still hadn't looked at her directly. But his jaw was tight. She knew he was watching.

Later, she slipped over to McLaren. Lando. Oscar. Andrea Stella.

Oscar blinked like a hostage. Lando whispered, "you smell like a fever dream." She smiled and didn't reply.

Gigi worked with Williams and Sauber.

Alex Albon asked if she needed water. Logan offered his whole soul. James Vowles gave her a full business-card introduction. Gigi winked and said, "We're all just bodies in motion, babe."

Later, at Sauber, Zhou tripped trying to hand her a bottle of electrolyte water. She caught it mid-fall.

"You're cute," she said. "You're flammable."

Barbara rotated between Ferrari and Haas.

Carlos kissed her hand. Twice. Charles said "bonjour" and then forgot what else he was going to say.

Fred Vasseur introduced himself, then immediately offered her a glass of champagne.

At Haas, Kevin didn't say a word. Nico said too much. Guenther just whispered to one of the producers, "If she gets into the car, we're fucked."

Taylor with Aston Martin and Alpine.

Fernando Alonso gave her a once-over that made Julia grab Paul's wrist.

Lance introduced himself like a nervous prom date.

Esteban told her she looked "like a dream in Pilates." Pierre photobombed three of her shots on purpose.

Flavio Briatore muttered, "She's the one with the weak eyes." Karen nearly stabbed him with a pen.

Lila with Red Bull and VCARB.

Max barely acknowledged her.

Christian Horner asked if she was "eating enough protein."

She stared at him for a beat and said, "My last meal was champagne and trauma."

Liam looked terrified. Yuki told her she was "the best thing that's happened to this sport since Kimi."

She told him he was sweet and gave him her gum. He nearly fainted.

Behind the cameras Karen's headset never stopped.

"Taylor, soften your mouth." "Barbara, twist your shoulders." "Lila, less Disney Princess, more Calvin Klein." "Martha, give me dead-eyed domination. Perfect. Hold it." "Gigi, flirt with the lens like it owes you money. Yes."

Stefano stood to the side, hand on his chest like this was a religious experience.

"This," he whispered to Julia, "is the future."

Julia didn't reply. Just watched Martha pose between two cars like she didn't have bruises on her ribs and a man waiting to control her. She was too perfect. It was almost suspicious.

"Alright," the campaign director called, clapping once. "Let's loosen it up! Get some candids. We want to feel the chemistry. Groupings, movement, actual interaction."

The crew started moving, fast. Lights re-angled. Cords snaked. Fans were repositioned to catch hair mid-flight. Cameramen stepped in tighter.

The models were ushered toward the center grid space. Martha caught the flash of a drone overhead. Her eyes didn't follow it. She was already trained to pretend the lens wasn't there.

"Let's pair everyone," someone called. "Get the drivers moving!"

A little chaos bloomed.

One by one, the girls were placed next to their assigned teams but this time, no more statuesque poses. They had to talk. Move. Interact.

"Right, just lean against the barrier like you're watching a race," the photographer instructed.

Alex did. Logan tried. Gigi perched beside them and smiled, effortless, legs crossed, back curved just right.

"You okay, rookie?" she asked Logan.

He nodded too fast. "Yes. I mean. I'm good. This is good."

She turned her head slightly. "You ever done a shoot like this?"

He blinked. "No, ma'am."

She laughed. "Don't 'ma'am' me. I'm not Karen."

He laughed nervously, and Alex smirked. "You're terrifying."

"I get that a lot," she replied smoothly.

"Logan, eyes on her!" the director called.

He already was.

"I want movement!" the stylist shouted. "Charles, turn into her slightly. Barbara, pretend he said something stupid."

"Pretend?" she said, deadpan.

Charles grinned. "Ouch."

Carlos just nodded. "She's fast. I like it."

"You're Spanish," Barbara said.

"Si."

"That explains the charm. And the audacity."

Charles laughed. "What do you think of the cars?"

"Loud. Overcompensating."

Carlos smirked. "You're going to fit in here."

"Just breathe in a little more," Karen snapped from the side.

Barbara obeyed without blinking. Shoulders back. Smile softer. Hands relaxed.

Charles whispered, "Do they let you sleep?"

"Define sleep," she replied.

Taylor stood perfectly between the two Alpine boys, resting her elbows on the guard rail.

Pierre leaned against it too. Close, but not touching. "You look very... chill."

"Is that code for high?"

Esteban choked on his own breath.

Taylor smiled. "Relax. I'm not."

"Good to know," Pierre said. "I've never met someone who can look like a perfume ad and still make me sweat."

"Maybe you need better cologne," she quipped.

The camera snapped. The light flared.

"Taylor, tilt your chin, babe," David called.

She did. Instantly. No complaint. No delay.

Esteban leaned over. "You're scary."

"I try."

George was chatty. "Okay, I have to ask. How do you do that face? The one where you look like you're judging the world but still hot."

"It's called modelling," Martha replied.

"Teach me?"

"Maybe after hair and makeup."

Lewis didn't say anything. Just watched. Watched the way she tilted her head. The exact timing of her breath. The way she didn't flinch when someone barked a direction.

"MJ, soften the mouth!"

She did.

"Now tilt. Yes, perfect."

She didn't ask questions. She just moved.

George said, "You're like... scary professional."

She looked at him. "You're like... surprised."

He laughed. "Touché."

Lewis finally spoke. "You okay?"

She smirked at him. "I'm breathing. That counts."

He didn't push. But he filed that answer away.

Stefano stood beaming.

"Do you see this?" he whispered to Julia.

"I see a billion-dollar payday," she muttered back.

David said nothing. Just watched Martha pose, move, adjust herself on command like she'd been engineered for it.

Karen called, "Barbara, stop holding your breath!"

Barbara exhaled without breaking her smile.

"Gigi, arch that back. Perfect. Now smile like you're thinking of something dirty."

Gigi smirked. Logan nearly dropped a prop.

"Taylor, left shoulder! Drop it. Yes."

"Lila, less innocent. More expensive."

"MJ, hold still."

Martha froze mid-pose.

Perfect. Inhuman. Still.

***

The sun was lower now. Golden. Sweaty. Gorgeous.

The shoot had wrapped with a final burst of flash, the director screaming "That's a wrap!" over the clicking of shutters and the flutter of silk gym shorts.

David Birch clapped his hands like a man who had just orchestrated a Renaissance painting in motion. "Incredible. Stunning. Absolutely perfect."

Stefano Domenicali stepped up beside him, smiling so wide it looked rehearsed. "Thank you all. Truly. We couldn't have done this without you."

The girls smiled. The drivers nodded. Everyone clapped like they weren't seconds away from collapsing.

"And now," Stefano said, with a twinkle in his eye, "we walk."

There was a moment of pause.

"You mean... the track?" Lila asked, mascara already flaking from the heat.

"Yes," Stefano said proudly. "Tradition. Grid walk. Loosen up. Talk. Integrate."

Karen looked like she was about to pass out. Julia popped a mint. Paul blinked once.

"Team Principals up front," Stefano added, clapping a hand on Toto's shoulder. "Let the drivers and the ladies mingle."

The girls exchanged glances.

Gigi whispered, "This is either going to be iconic or a slow-motion PR trainwreck."

Martha replied, "Both."

The team principals walked ahead.

Toto, Christian, Andrea, Fred, Zak, Guenther, Franz, Mike, Otmar, and James Vowles fell into a loose formation. Blazers fluttering, sweat beginning to collect at the backs of their collars.

The sound of laughter and footfalls trailed behind them—drivers and models chatting, flirting, decompressing.

But ahead? The mood was quieter. And heavier.

It was Andrea Stella who broke the silence first. "They're... impressive," he said slowly.

Fred Vasseur chuckled under his breath. "You mean terrifying?"

"No," Andrea said. "I mean it. They're... highly trained. Posed. Poised. It's like watching machines dressed in blush."

"Or weapons," James Vowles added. "Each one walks like she's about to change someone's life. Or end it."

"They're so small," Mike Krack muttered. Everyone turned. "Just... small," he repeated. "Too thin. Too perfect. The makeup. The way they move. I don't know. It's unnatural."

"They're models," Christian said dryly. "They're built for unnatural."

Toto stayed quiet.

Otmar frowned. "It doesn't feel... right."

"How so?" Zak asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"They were smiling. Laughing. Hitting every mark. But I didn't see one of them blink out of rhythm. Like they're always calculating. Like they're selling a fantasy so well even they've forgotten it's not real."

Fred nodded slowly. "It's all choreography. Even the casual stuff. Especially the casual stuff."

"They didn't flinch when told to move," Guenther added. "Didn't even pause. Just—boom. Adjustment. Pose. Smile."

"Trained compliance," Toto said quietly.

They all turned to him.

"I've seen it before," he continued. "In military prep. In the worst parts of elite sport. Total obedience that doesn't look like fear—just reflex."

"You think they're being pushed too hard?" Andrea asked.

"I think they've already been broken," Toto replied. "And now they're just playing the part."

A beat of silence. Then Christian cleared his throat. "We're getting distracted."

Zak gave a tired smirk. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"

Franz scoffed. "This campaign is a PR disaster waiting to happen. One scandal. One misquote. One driver caught with a hand somewhere it shouldn't be-"

"-and we all get dragged into hell with them," Mike finished.

"But we'll sell shirts," Fred said, dry as ever.

"Tickets," Guenther added.

"Views," James nodded.

"The paddock's already louder," Andrea murmured. "Just walking in there with them- it felt like something shifted."

Toto glanced over his shoulder. The models were walking behind them, laughing softly, chatting with the drivers, hair catching the light, smiles perfect, legs longer than the horizon.

And every man following them? Completely off-kilter. Some aroused. Some awkward. Some already obsessed.

"It's not a shift," Toto said under his breath. "It's a takeover."

Andrea Stella ran a hand down his tie and exhaled. "I've been trying to do the math in my head."

"On what?" Zak asked.

"The hours it would take to train them to perform like that," he said. "Every smile, every movement, every shift in posture was mechanical. But not stiff. They're not stiff. They're..."

Christian finished it for him. "Dangerously smooth."

"Geri was up all night Googling them," Christian added after a moment. "She said, and I quote, 'They're not models, they're corporations in mascara.'"

Fred gave a low chuckle.

"Did you know Martha walked one hundred and two shows last year?" Christian continued. "That's only counting New York, London, Paris, and Milan. That doesn't include magazine covers, campaign shoots, interviews. She's twenty-two."

Guenther raised an eyebrow. "Is that physically possible?"

"No," Andrea said. "Not without burning out."

"She's still walking," Mike muttered.

"She's floating," Toto corrected.

They walked a few more paces in silence. Then Toto added, tone lower now, thoughtful but edged, "Lewis spoke to me about her. Few weeks ago. Day the campaign was announced."

That got everyone's attention.

Christian blinked. "He knows her?"

Toto nodded. "They'd never met, but she followed him online after the campaign announcement. He said it made him uneasy."

"Why?" Fred asked.

"He said she didn't follow anyone. Not even her own agency. Just him. Out of nowhere. Said it felt like a signal."

"Flirtation?" Zak guessed.

"No," Toto said. "A signal."

The word lingered. "He told me she's in a relationship. An actor. Jacob Elordi."

Half the group nodded, recognition flashing.

"But," Toto continued, "Lewis said he's heard whispers from his fashion-world friends. People close to the girls. Kendall Jenner. Sofia Richie. Some others."

Andrea frowned. "What kind of whispers?"

Toto hesitated. Then: "That the relationship isn't good. Controlling. Maybe violent."

Silence. Flat. Sharp.

Fred let out a long breath. "Shit."

James spoke for the first time. "That... tracks. She didn't flinch once today. Not even when David barked at her like she was a puppet."

"She didn't blink," Mike added. "Not out of rhythm."

Christian's jaw clenched. "If she's in something like that, and we put her in the middle of this circus..."

"We're complicit," Zak finished.

Otmar muttered, "We were always complicit. We just didn't know the details."

Guenther looked back, a brief glance, at the group behind them. The girls and the drivers now spread loosely across the track. Smiling. Interacting. Performing.

"She's the centre of this whole thing," he said. "And she's the most tightly wrapped one of all."

Toto's voice was quieter. "Because she has the most to hide."

Christian shook his head. "And yet the world calls it 'discipline.'"

Fred said, almost softly, "They'll break her."

"No," Toto replied. "They already have. Now they're just trying to keep her marketable."

That silenced them again. The steps they took after that felt heavier. Like every metre of track was layered with things they weren't supposed to know.

Toto adjusted his sunglasses, squinting into the distance as the paddock shimmered under the late afternoon heat. Behind them, the girls' laughter echoed again—soft, sharp, intoxicating.

Andrea Stella cleared his throat. "You know what worries me the most?"

Fred smirked. "Besides the HR lawsuits we're three weeks away from?"

Andrea didn't smile. "It's the fact that they haven't cracked yet."

Christian tilted his head. "Cracked?"

"You can't keep humans on strings like that forever," Andrea said. "Especially not women like that. They're not fragile. They're flammable."

James nodded slowly. "And you've seen how close they are? One of them burns, they all burn."

Zak looked over his shoulder. "You think they'd take it public?"

"If it gets bad enough?" Fred muttered. "They won't need to. One headline, one photo out of context, one viral TikTok of Pierre saying the wrong thing and we're all watching our sponsorships evaporate."

Christian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The worst part? I know Geri's going to end up in a selfie with at least two of them and somehow in the background, someone will probably be snorting something off a champagne bottle."

"I'd bet on Lila," Fred offered.

"She'd offer the bottle," Guenther said dryly.

They chuckled, tired, knowing.

Mike Krack, still silent, finally spoke. "It's not just Martha," he said. "Did you see Taylor? Her hands were shaking when she was near Alonso."

Toto looked at him. "Fear?"

Mike shook his head. "Dissociation. Like she wasn't even in her body. Like she'd learned how to fake a smile so well, she couldn't stop doing it."

Christian's mouth tightened. "They're so fucking trained."

"Overtrained," Zak corrected.

Franz finally grunted. "They don't flinch. They don't fidget. They don't push back. That's not confidence. That's survival."

Andrea's voice dropped. "It's like they've been told not to exist unless they're useful."

Toto nodded once. "Because they have."

They kept walking.

A soft breeze hit. Useless against the sweat. Against the tension.

Otmar rubbed the back of his neck. "What do we do if something comes out? If one of them collapses mid-season? If something... happens with this boyfriend of Martha's?"

Everyone was quiet.

Toto's voice was low. Measured. "Then we protect her. Quietly. Thoroughly. We don't make a spectacle out of someone already being sold as one."

James nodded. "She can't afford a scandal."

"No," Toto agreed. "But she deserves a witness."

Fred blew out a long breath. "And the rest?"

"They deserve to be believed."

There was a long stretch of silence after that. No one had the words for it. Because they'd all agreed to this. Every man walking that track. They'd all signed off. All nodded. All said yes when the branding brief was slid across the table.

They'd said, "This will boost viewership." They'd said, "It's good for the sport." They'd said, "What's the worst that could happen?"

And now they were walking the circuit—surrounded by flawless bodies and broken eyes, pink logos stitched onto ribs sharp from fasting, voices trained to say thank you no matter what was being taken.

Behind them, a burst of laughter again. High-pitched. Gorgeous. Empty.

Christian shook his head. "They're killing themselves to be palatable."

Toto didn't disagree.

Andrea muttered, "And we're all watching them do it."

The team principals had moved ahead—thank fuck—but the chaos left behind? Completely feral.

The five Angels walked between them like curated elegance dropped into a frat house with 900 horsepower.

Martha, black sunglasses, jaw locked, unbothered. Gigi, smirking, hips swaying, drinking it all in. Barbara, cool, straight-faced, eyeing each man like she was grading them. Taylor, elegant, quiet, but eyes sharp, watching. Lila, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, slightly glazed but grinning like she was at Fashion Week, not a pit lane.

Daniel was the first to speak. "I'd like to file a formal complaint."

Taylor glanced at him. "Already?"

He gestured vaguely toward the group. "This is cruel and unusual punishment. Who allowed you five to just... exist?"

"We didn't ask for your approval," Barbara replied dryly.

"I didn't say I disapproved," Daniel muttered.

Charles had fallen in beside Gigi, trying to act like this was normal. Like he hadn't spent the last six years sending her Instagram stories to Pierre at 2AM. "You walked for Dior last season, yes?" he asked, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Five seasons in a row," she said, polite smile. "Why, do you own shares?"

He blushed.

Pierre leaned across Lila to whisper, "He's been watching your runway walk compilations like it's a religious experience."

"Blessed," Gigi said, brushing past him.

Lando kept pace beside Lila, who was adjusting her sports bra every three seconds and definitely not aware she was giving the paddock a mental breakdown. "You okay?" he asked, glancing at her.

She grinned. "It's hot."

"I'm aware."

"I feel like I'm walking on the surface of the sun. In a thong."

"That's actually a solid line," Lando said. "If we were both single and emotionally damaged, I'd probably fall in love with you for that."

"We are both emotionally damaged," she said.

He blinked.

"Oh fuck," he muttered.

George was trying so hard. He'd attached himself to Martha like a golden retriever to a bad bitch in stilettos. "So, uh, what's your training schedule like? For runway?"

She looked at him. "Four hours of fasted cardio, three fittings, two ampules of B12, and a smile."

"That sounds..."

"Fucked? Yeah. It is."

George nodded. "You're... really intense."

"I'm really tired," she replied. "Intensity's just what happens when your bones ache and you're not allowed to say it out loud."

He had no idea what to say to that.

But his ears turned pink.

Oscar was walking next to Taylor, who didn't say anything until he awkwardly offered her a bottle of water.

"You're sweet," she said, taking it.

He grinned. "You looked like you needed it."

"Do I look weak?"

"No! No just... thirsty?"

She raised a brow.

"Not-not like that," he stammered.

She smiled gently. "It's okay. I'm used to everyone thinking I'm breakable."

"You don't seem breakable at all," he said quietly.

Her smile faded just a little.

"Good."

Max hadn't said a word. Martha hadn't looked at him. They walked in parallel, saying nothing, existing in a mutual force field of don't fucking speak to me.

But every time her shorts rode up, every time her braid flicked over her shoulder, his eyes briefly flicked.

It wasn't lust. It was something else. Suspicion. Intrigue. Control. She didn't return the glance. She didn't have to.

Yuki was walking between Barbara and Gigi and was definitely about three seconds away from proposing to one or both of them. "You're both so cool," he said breathlessly.

Barbara looked at him. "Do you follow us on Instagram?"

"Yes."

Gigi smiled. "Then you've seen worse." He tripped over his own shoe.

Lewis hadn't attached himself to anyone. But his eyes?

They stayed on Martha. Not constantly. Not obviously. Just enough to track her. Every movement. Every pivot. Every time she adjusted her waistband or pulled her jacket up her arm.

At one point, she glanced at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met. No smile. No nod. Just one second of heat that felt like it was going to make the asphalt crack.

Behind them, cameras clicked. Stefano smiled like a man who had no idea what monster he'd let loose.

And the Angels? Still perfect. Still polite. Still polished. They asked about tyres. About the track. About the heat. They posed for selfies. They answered questions. They didn't flinch when hands brushed too close. Didn't stumble when a mic was shoved in their faces.

Because they weren't girls on a paddock walk. They were professionals, trained to make every breath look desirable.

And the drivers? Were all in various stages of entranced, terrified, and definitely hard.

The group had splintered slightly, small pockets forming , Charles still half-attached to Gigi's side, Yuki orbiting Barbara, Taylor and Oscar trading soft smiles, Lando still floating near Lila like he'd been bewitched by perfume.

Pierre drifted toward the centre, slowing his pace until he was walking beside Lila, who was fixing her braid with one hand and chewing gum like she was in a music video. He glanced sideways, casually—but his smile was loaded. "You all seem very... close," he said, voice smooth, relaxed. "Tight group. It's nice."

"We're trauma-bonded," Lila replied, tone sugary and light. "Like soldiers. But in pink."

Pierre chuckled. "No, I mean—you seem like a pack. Protective. Loyal."

"We are."

"Must make dating hard."

Lila raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

Pierre shrugged, hands in his pockets. "I mean, with all of you travelling together, working together. I imagine you see everything. Hear everything."

"We do."

"Must be difficult for any... romantic interests to get close."

She smiled. Beatific. Wide-eyed. "You want to know if we're all single."

He didn't even deny it. Instead, he grinned, cocked his head. "Curiosity is healthy."

"Well," Lila hummed, drawing the word out like a silk ribbon, "most of us are."

Pierre raised a brow. "Most?"

"Martha's the only one who's taken," she said simply, eyes flicking to the side where Martha was walking with George and Lewis, dead in the center of that magnetic pull.

Pierre followed her gaze. His jaw clenched just slightly. "Ah."

Lila chewed her gum slowly. "She's in a relationship. Has been for a while."

Pierre nodded once. "Good for her." There was a tone to it. Not mocking. Not disapproving. Just... tight.

Lila's voice dipped lower. Not loud, not sharp. Just a little whisper of smoke. "It's not a good relationship."

Pierre's eyes snapped back to hers. She didn't blink. Didn't elaborate. Just held his stare for a second longer than necessary, then looked forward again.

"I didn't say that," he replied.

"You didn't have to," she said, smiling again, light returning like a light switch flipped back on.

Behind them, Martha laughed at something George said. Lewis was still silent. Watching. Pierre swallowed the tension and masked it with another grin. Lila just kept walking. Pretty. Poised. Dangerous as fuck. The laughter had shifted to something less manic, more settled. The drivers had loosened up. The girls hadn't. They were still perfect. Still poised. Still gently terrifying.

Martha and Barbara had found each other mid-turn, falling into step with the kind of wordless ease that said this is my person. No makeup could fake that kind of loyalty.

They drifted into their own lane of conversation, moving slightly ahead of the boys, slightly behind the noise. Their own quiet little galaxy. "You okay?" Barbara asked, watching the corners of Martha's mouth.

"Fine."

"Liar."

Martha sighed, jaw clenched. "George hasn't stopped talking for thirty minutes."

"He's obsessed."

"Annoying."

Barbara smirked. "Same thing."

Martha smiled, just slightly. That's when she heard it, footsteps. Quick. Sharp. Expensive.

"MJ," a voice called from behind. Tight. Not angry. Worried. She stopped walking.

David Birch appeared beside her, breathless but composed, phone in one hand, a tight, polite-smile locked into place.

Julia and Karen trailed behind him, both looking like they were holding in three different PR heart attacks. "Hey," David said quietly. "Don't freak."

Martha raised one brow. "Never do."

David held out her phone.

"Six missed calls. All from Jacob."

Barbara exhaled. Low. Controlled.

"I told him you were still on the track walk," David added quickly. "That you'd left your phone with me for media shots. That we were filming. But he's... not taking it well."

Martha's eyes didn't flicker. Julia hovered, trying to look casual. Karen pretended to check something on her clipboard.

David lowered his voice even more. "If he doesn't hear from you soon, he's going to escalate. You know that."

Martha looked down at the phone. It lit up again.

JACOB 💀 CALLING...

Her face didn't move. She looked up at David, eyes flat, voice steady. "Turn it off."

David hesitated. "Marth-"

"I'll call him later."

"You sure?"

"He won't do anything I haven't survived already."

Barbara was silent beside her. But her body leaned just slightly closer. David swallowed. He wasn't angry. He was calculating. "We're in too deep," he murmured. "If he causes a scene, we're looking at headlines. Sponsors. Hell, Toto Wolff is three metres away and already looking at you like you've got blood in your smile."

Martha held his stare. "I said I'll handle it."

David finally nodded. He turned the phone off. Screen dark. No more buzzing. And then he walked back to Julia and Karen, muttering something about briefing Stefano before "this shit blows up mid-press run."

Martha and Barbara kept walking. Like nothing had happened. But behind them?

Lila raised a perfectly sculpted brow at Taylor. Taylor didn't even blink. Because they all knew what that was.

That wasn't rebellion. That was experience. That was knowing exactly what silence would cost—and choosing it anyway.

The track walk ended with a blur of waves, quick air kisses, and a final round of orchestrated candids as the sun dipped lower over the Bahrain skyline. Stefano was still smiling like the campaign had already saved the sport. The photographers were still shouting names. The drivers peeled away slowly—some towards media ops, others toward iced towels and PR debriefs.

But Martha walked slowly. Her back was straight. Her face unreadable.

David intercepted her just before she reached the Victoria's Secret van. He had her phone in one hand. The screen was dark again. "Here," he said, tone low. "I didn't switch it back on yet. But... you should call him."

She took it silently. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have.

"I mean it, MJ," David added. "I know you don't want to, but if he doesn't hear from you tonight..."

Martha nodded once. Clipped. Unemotional. "I'll call him."

David hesitated then looked over her shoulder. Toto Wolff was nearby, speaking with Andrea Stella, calm and composed. But the second he heard Martha, he glanced up. Subtle. Barely noticeable.

"I'll need somewhere quiet," she murmured, already scrolling to Jacob's name.

Before David could answer, Toto stepped in. "There's a side office in the Mercedes garage," he said casually. "Empty right now. It's quiet."

Martha looked at him. There was something behind his words. Not concern, not fully. But awareness. Something sharp.

David nodded quickly. "Yes. Good. Go. Take ten minutes. Sort it."

Then he nudged her—not hard, but enough to move her toward the garage like a PR handler moving a prized asset back into position. Martha walked. Phone in hand. Step steady. Face blank.

Toto watched her go. Then, almost imperceptibly, shifted his body, turning his back to the conversation he'd been having with Andrea. Taking a few casual steps toward the edge of the Mercedes garage. Not following. Just drifting. Like someone checking on equipment. Or listening.

Inside the garage, the light was low. Martha stepped into the side office. Cool air kissed her skin. The hum of distant machinery filled the silence. She sat down on the edge of a leather chair and turned her phone on. It buzzed instantly.

10 missed calls. 3 voicemails. 6 texts.

She didn't open the texts. Just hit the call button. It rang once. Twice. Then... "Finally." Jacob's voice hit like a slap.

Martha didn't flinch. "I was working."

"I don't give a fuck what you were doing. You don't ignore me."

"It was a media day. Track walk. Publicity. I told you it would be nonstop."

"You could've stepped away. You could've made a minute. But no—David has your phone. Julia says you're not reachable. You think that's acceptable?"

Outside the office, Toto stepped a little closer. Slow. Careful. Near the edge of the open garage space, pretending to check something on the monitor setup.

Inside?

"I don't answer to you when I'm on contract," Martha said, voice low, cold.

"You don't answer to me?" Jacob snapped. "You think this is a fucking game? You're parading around in a crop top in front of twenty men, cameras on you from every angle, and you think I'm just going to sit here and smile?"

"I think," she said, fingers tightening around the edge of the chair, "you can either respect what I do or keep screaming into a phone line I don't have to pick up."

There was silence. Heavy. Simmering.

Then Jacob spoke again, lower this time. More dangerous.

"You're going to regret treating me like this."

Martha's jaw clenched. "I've already regretted worse."

The line went dead. She stared at the screen for a moment. Then she turned the phone off. Slowly.

Toto had moved a little further now, still nearby. Still watching. Still listening.

And when Martha stepped back into the garage's main space? Their eyes met. No words passed between them. But she knew. He'd heard enough. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't scared that someone had.

She walked slowly toward where the girls were gathered near a media truck, just off to the side, sipping water and stretching like tired dancers after the curtain call.

Gigi looked up first. Her eyes flicked over Martha's face. Her expression didn't change. Taylor followed. Her lashes dipped once in a slow, knowing blink. Barbara clocked the way Martha's jaw was set too tight. Said nothing. Adjusted her waistband like she was waiting for instructions. Lila tilted her head, watching Martha with soft curiosity. Her gum popped once, sharp in the quiet.

Martha said nothing. Just dropped into the curve of the group like she'd never left.

No one asked. No one needed to. But the shift was instant. The air changed. The laughter stopped. The posture straightened. The unit realigned.

Barbara passed Martha a bottle of water. Gigi handed her a towel she hadn't asked for. Taylor shifted to stand between her and the cameras. Lila looped an arm loosely through hers, barely a touch.

Martha breathed. Once. That was all they needed.

David arrived a few minutes later, clipboard under one arm, phone finally off, face back to full PR mode.

He clapped once. "Ladies. Almost done. One final deliverable for the day."

Groans. Of course.

"It's content. YouTube exclusive. Fun, breezy. Team chemistry."

"We're not a team," Barbara muttered.

"You are today," David said, smirking. "Three hours. Video production tent. Julia's going with you."

Julia appeared like a migraine in high heels. "You'll be doing a Formula 1 trivia shoot," she said brightly. "Two cameras. Producer-led. It's light. It's fun. Think: 'Who knows more about tyres, Taylor Hill or Martha Jones?'"

"I've never watched a race in my life," Taylor replied flatly.

"That's what makes it funny."

Martha said nothing. Still drinking water. Still silent.

David pointed toward the white tent on the far side of the paddock. "Off you go. Makeup will retouch once you're inside. Let's give them something bubbly."

They didn't argue. They just moved.

And as they walked-still glowing, still poised, still painfully camera-ready. Julia leaned in behind them and whispered to David. "She's different."

David didn't ask who. They both knew.

Inside the content tent, the air-conditioning was arctic. Ring lights were already glowing. Two producers hovered near the camera monitors with clipboards and exaggerated smiles.

"Alright, Angels," one chirped. "We're going to play a little game..."

But Martha? Martha sat down in front of the camera. Shoulders back. Eyes cold. Smile perfect.

And no one, not the crew, not the producers, not the algorithm this video was built for, would ever know she'd spent the last hour deciding if picking up that phone meant losing herself all over again.

Because Martha was a professional. And right now? She had trivia to answer.

#f1 grid x reader #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 smau #f1 imagine #f1 fluff #f1 fic #f1 smut #formula 1

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