cause-im-mirrorball

[cause-im-mirrorball]

i want to be his controversially younger girlfriend..

Flirt

Summary: Older!Dean doesn't look at you the way you want him to, but you still like to flirt with him. What happens when you finally push him too far.

Warnings: Smut, Age Gap, Older!Dean x Younger!Reader (but it's sweet). Reader has tattoos??

~~~

You enjoyed flirting with the Winchesters.

Sam understood your game quickly. Maybe it was because he was younger than his brother, he realized almost immediately that your age plus your looks put older guys on edge.

Whenever you'd meet up on the road, a hunt putting you in the same town, he'd watch as you'd flirt with the bartender, the motel owner, the witness. You'd look back at him, a knowing smile on his face as he watched you get exactly what you wanted.

Everything but Dean. The one man who Sam knew you wanted more than anyone. Dean handled you with kid gloves, constantly on edge around you, making sure you were safe with your perceived vulnerabilities. The rest of the year you were a badass hunter who could take anything on by yourself, but the second Dean was around he couldn't see you as anything but a little kid, one who should be as far from a hunt as possible.

Sam understood your flirting, understood that with others it was just a means to an end, with him it was a joke, and with Dean... well he knew with Dean it couldn't be more genuine. But you just wished Dean could see that, or could even realize you were flirting in the first place.

The moment you'd shown up to the motel, a six pack under your arm, a grin on your face, you knew this occasion would be a lost cause. You'd gotten a black eye one week earlier, a ragaru with a crowbar leaving you with a purple bruise all the way to your temple, and while it was significantly less swollen now, it was still obvious. The second Dean had caught sight of you'd he'd sighed, starting on a lecture about keeping safe while you'd looked to Sam with desperate eyes, seeking an escape.

"Did ya kill it? The ragaru?" Sam cut his brother off.

"Easy." You replied with a wink.

"That's our girl!" Sam pulled you in to a hug, you hadn't seen each other for months and he'd missed your jokes.

You handed him a bottle, along with your bottle opener, and he clicked it open easily before handing the opener back. You outstretched another bottle to Dean who looked down at you with a frosty expression, "Are you even old enough to drink?"

"How old do you think I am exactly?" You pouted out your bottom lip, looking up at him with big eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Dean took the bottle and turned away to open it himself.

You looked over at Sam with a worth a try expression. He shook his head at you, a smile forming across his face at your halfhearted efforts.

"I was in the area, Sam texted, I came running."

"As you always do." Sam laughed.

"Only for you, honey." You sat down on one of the beds, kicking off your shoes in one movement as you tapped the space next to you for Sam to join. He did, taking a seat as you looked back at Dean, a firm expression on his face.

He took a sip from the bottle before speaking again, "So what's your plan? You got somewhere to stay?"

"Nah, Sam's gonna let me share his bed, aren't ya Sammy?"

Sam looked over at you with a grin.

"No chance-" Dean spoke before his brother was able to.

"Oh, you want me to yourself?" You bit the end of you finger, a fiery expression in your eyes.

"I'll get you a room." He placed the bottle down on the side table and left without another word.

You sighed, exasperated, laying down on the bed and staring up at the damp ceiling.

Sam laughed at the sight, "You shouldn't tease him like that."

"I'm not teasing! If he asked, I'd share a bed with him any day- or any night-"

"I'm gonna stop you there- That's my brother you're talking about."

You looked up at him, your façade gone, "Well then, how've you been?"

"Dean's been driving me crazy- he's been driving himself crazy! You need to move into the bunker already! I know I ask every time but I don't think either of us will cope by ourselves for much longer."

"What, so he can keep me locked away never to hunt again? No chance! He barely wanted me on this one did you see his face?"

"He only does it because he cares about you-"

"-He does it because he thinks I'm a kid." You sighed again, sitting back up and taking a swig of Sam's beer. He let you without a second thought.

"And you? How have you been? Keeping out of trouble I hope?"

"God you sound like a dad!" You rolled your eyes, but watched as a pained wince flashed over his face, "Sorry. I've been good, and yes, keeping out of trouble, apart from this!" You pointed back to your black eye.

"It hurting still?" He squinted slightly to get a better look at it.

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before." You touched it lightly, the swelling gone, just a bruised mark left. You looked back at him, remembering your news, "Hey! I almost forgot, I got a new tattoo!"

Sam grinned. Your tattoos weren't obvious, most of them hidden away under layers of clothes, but you'd shown him a few on a drunk night some months ago, and you'd always appreciated how much interest he'd taken in them. Not because they were hot, or because they were in scandalous places, but just because he was genuinely interested.

"Show me then!" He laughed.

You hopped up, hiking up the back of your shirt and tugging your jeans down only slightly to reveal the small of your back, looking back at him over your shoulder to catch his expression.

"Looks sick," he looked between your face and the tattoo, "but I don't get having a tattoo you can't see yourself?"

You let go of your shirt and turned back to him, "Thought I'd give Dean something to look at when he finally decides to bend me over and-"

"Stop right there!" Both of you stared at each other for a moment before breaking out in laughter. The door opened again and Dean stepped in holding a key between his fingers. You both burst out laughing again as you looked over at him.

He looked confused for a second, and then just sighed, holding up the key with an outstretched hand, "You're next door."

You looked over at Sam again with an amused expression, taking beer out of the six pack and picking up your shoes from the floor. You left, grabbing the key from Dean on the way out, looking back at him before he closed the door, "Thanks."

--

The next day you were up and out as quickly as you could be, not wanting to keep them waiting, or give Dean any excuse to leave you behind. You were already standing by the Impala, still brushing your teeth, as the two men finally left the motel.

Dean eyed you over quickly, enjoying watching you relaxed, toothbrush hanging out of your mouth as you gave them a lopsided smile. He liked seeing you like this, almost domestic, not that he'd ever admit that to himself let alone to you.

You hocked the toothpaste out of your mouth onto the floor behind you and wiped you mouth with the back of your hand. Sam lent down to give you a side hug as Dean walked past you and found his place in the driver's seat. You followed his lead, climbing into the back.

You and Dean sat in silence as Sam spoke, he started by explaining the case, everything you'd missed before arriving yesterday, what they'd been doing, who'd they'd spoken to. You nodded along, hunting mode fully taking over as you sat serious in the back seat. Then he laid out the plan for the day.

"I'm telling you, she wasn't being completely honest with us, she knows more than she's letting on. I only need five, maybe ten minutes with her and I think she'd be willing to talk to me."

"But there's a cop outside her door?" You pitched up.

"Exactly right." He turned back to you and smiled, "You and Dean just need to distract him for long enough that I can get in there and talk to her, and then we're set."

You looked at Dean, who was watching you closely in the rearview, "Sounds good to me."

You pulled up around the corner of the house and all hopped out, stretching your legs. Sam said his goodbyes, walking round the opposite way to avoid any suspicion. You looked at Dean closely, "What do ya say? I go in, little bit of flirting, see if I can't get the cop away from that door for a bit?"

"I'm not sure that's the best idea." His forehead creased, "I think I should go with you."

You rolled your eyes at his protectiveness, "Right. Well, what do you suggest? You pretend to be my boyfriend, we've broken down and need some help with the car?"

He looked down at himself and then back to you, he didn't have to say anything about the age difference, you knew exactly what he was implying, "I'm not sure that's believable, sweetheart."

He didn't even mean to say the nickname. Something in his brain connecting the word boyfriend and you together pushed it out of him involuntarily. Your stomach still flooded with butterflies, even if you knew it was harmless.

"Well, follow my lead then, I think I have a better idea."

You began to walk away before he could stop you, catching up as you rounded the corner to the house, the cop within sight. He straightened his face, knowing he'd have to go along with whatever you had planned whether he liked it or not.

You marched up to the front door, a meak smile on your face as you tried to act docile, "Hey sorry, do you have a second?" You fluttered your eyelashes at the man.

He was closer to your age than Dean's, not unattractive but not what you were usually into. Well- you were usually only into Dean anyway.

"How can I help?"

"I'm so sorry to do this, we've been driving all night and somethings just happened to the car, we can't seem to work out what's going on and we just need a little help." Dean sidled up next to you as you continued speaking. You held out your hand to the man for a handshake, offering up a fake name you'd used before, and then looked over at Dean, "And this here's my daddy!"

You looked over at him with a grin, a glimmer in your eye only he could see. He didn't want to even begin to do the math on whether that was really possible. He swallowed hard as he looked between you and the cop, before finally relenting and holding out his own hand, "Name's Malcolm."

You almost laughed out loud, the mixture of fake name and the expression on his face too much, but you kept a straight face. You wrapped your arm around his waist, pulling him towards you, "My daddy really ain't much of a mechanic, ya see, it'd be a real big help if you could take a look at it?" You bit your lip, looking the man up and down slow enough that you knew he'd catch you.

You felt Dean tense up beside you, but he didn't say anything.

"Sure, I'll take a look."

You walked around the side of the building, keeping in line with the cop as Dean trailed behind you, trying to catch your eye but you wouldn't let him. You were fully engrossed in the act now, a small touch on the younger man's arm, a lingering look at his lips, you knew everything you were supposed to be doing.

Dean popped the hood for you as he started a mental timer of how long this would have to last before Sam would be done. You knew what an honor it was for Dean to be going along with this, to be using his precious car in the ruse, and you knew you couldn't fuck it up.

"So, this is the engine?" You asked, wide eyed, trying to act perplexed.

Dean didn't like watching you flirt, he never did. Protective, he called it, never jealous. But it was undeniable how much he loved watching you hustle. He almost blew the whole thing with a laugh as he watched you point around the engine, acting like you couldn't tell your alternator from your carburetor. But when your hand landed back on the top of the cops arm, his smile fell again as he swallowed hard.

"Sounds like a fuel pump issue to me." The cop said, turning back to you.

Your doubt almost seeped into your voice, but you let it sounds like naivety, "Fuel pump?"

"Yeah, you and your- ehem- father, could probably just get it replaced by the mechanic in town."

"Ya hear that, daddy?" You looked over at Dean again, widening your eyes to mask your sarcasm, "He says it's a fuel pump issue."

"Does he now?" Dean's jaw clenched.

You turned back to the cop, "Forgive him, he doesn't like to admit how little he knows about cars. Say, how do you know so much anyway?"

Dean watched as you turned back around, looking back into the engine as the man pointed out different sections. He let himself look, it wasn't often that he did, but between the deception and the daddys he couldn't help himself. He looked down at your body, your legs, your ass clad tight in jeans. He let his tongue sit on his bottom lip deep in thought as his eyes trailed over your body.

And that's when he spotted it, as you leant further in, your hand brushing the cop's, he spotted your new tattoo. He swallowed hard. He'd always seen you as innocent. Sure you flirted with guys on cases all the time, but he'd never actually know you to go home with with one. He thought of you as pure, virtuous, maybe even immature. But as he looked down at your tattoo, he felt a growing arousal hit him. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts as quickly as they had arrived.

"Mechanic then?" He spoke up quickly, "I mean, you think we should take it to a mechanic?"

"Uh, yeah." The cop looked back over at him. You spun back, confusion on your face, this really didn't seem like enough time.

"Great, thanks." He held out his hand again for the cop to shake it, clearly a sign he'd overstayed his welcome. Your eyes grew larger: confused, angry.

You leant back into the cop, holding the top of his arm gently to stop him walking away, "Say, if we get stuck in this town overnight, where can I come find you?"

The cop looked between you and Dean, you could tell he'd made note of your black eye, "I'm not sure..."

You bit your bottom lip, letting your hand stroke down his arm, "Don't mind him, really, he wouldn't hurt a fly. Just gets a bit... protective of me sometimes."

He looked back at you, as you fluttered your eyelashes once again. "O'Reilly's Bar, downtown, that's where I tend to head after my shift."

You smiled at him as he pulled away, giving Dean a friendly nod before walking back the way he came. Your face dropped once he turned the corner, looking back at Dean, "What the fuck was that?!"

"What was what?!"

"Sam said ten minutes."

"He said five to ten! We've given him more than enough time!"

You let the hood of the car drop with a small clang. Dean winced slightly at the noise.

You both stood pacing for another few minutes, your jaw on edge as you tried to relax. Then you saw Sam turning the corner and you both let out a sigh of relief.

"All good?" Dean questioned once he was close enough.

"Think I've got everything we need!"

You smiled at him, "Had us worried there for a second. Dean, what was that?!" Now you knew Sam was safe, you could let your chastising begin.

"You have a tattoo." Dean spoke quietly, firmly, out of nowhere.

You let out a loud laugh, "I've got a few, what does that matter?"

"I- you've got a tramp stamp!?"

Sam looked between you and Dean, feeling like he was missing something. It didn't help that you felt like you were missing it too.

"Once again, I don't see how that matters?"

"You're a kid, you shouldn't be getting tattoos you're gonna regret! You can't even see it, what's the point?!"

Sam laughed, "Gives a guy something to look at when they bend her over." He looked at you with a knowing smile and you held back another laugh at his reference.

Dean's face dropped, "You're disgusting, dude, you're old enough to be her-"

He stopped himself, swallowing hard. The word daddy was glued between his lips, you knew it, and so did he.

Sam looked between the two of you, the tension sat between you as you eyed each other over cautiously. "I think I'm gonna walk back to the motel."

The concentration on Dean's face broke, "What are you talking about, that'll take hours."

"I just need to stretch my legs, you guys, uh, go on without me." He locked eyes with you, trying to tell you something with his expression that you couldn't completely understand, before turning on his heel and beginning to walk.

You looked at Dean, who looked at Sam, both of you confused but neither of you wanting to leave the moment. Eventually he slid into the driver's side, waiting for you to get in the car so he could start driving.

You both sat in silence as he drove back to the motel, occasionally glancing over at each other when the other wasn't looking. Eventually he broke, looking over at you, "A tattoo?"

"I've got loads, Dean, it's really not a big deal."

"You're just a kid."

"I'm old enough, Dean." The words were slick with implication. But you didn't want implication, you wanted him. You leant over, placing your hand on his thigh, "I'm old enough."

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw clenching. He couldn't hide what he felt for you, he couldn't hide his looks when your back was turned, or the way he'd still smell your perfume in the Impala days after you'd left and miss you. But he knew he wasn't right for you, his life filled with too much danger, the distance between you too large, "I'd wreck you, sweetheart."

You knew what he meant, the solemn expression on his face, but it didn't stop you from looking over at him with a glisten in your eyes, "Maybe that's what I want."

There was a silent beat as you both sat in the moment. Then you pulled back, taking your hand off of his leg and sitting back down, eyes on the road. You were at the motel only a few minutes later, both of you shrouded in tension. He shut off the engine and you both sat, staring out the front window, neither of you willing yourselves to move.

He managed to whisper out the words, not looking at you, "You're just a kid."

You sighed and rolled your eyes. You knew he'd never see you how you wanted him to. The words hit you in the gut, winding you for a moment, making it hard to breathe in the small space.

You opened the car door, stumbling out and making your way to your room. Only a few hours and Sam would be back, then you could finish the hunt and get on with your life. Maybe you wouldn't even wait for him, just pack up and go. Yeah, that sounded good.

You heard the sound of Dean behind you, following your footsteps, but you didn't slow down. Frustration kept you moving, not even turning back.

He only caught up to you by the time you reached the doors to your rooms, grabbing your wrist to stop you going any further. You looked down at his hold, and then back to his face, his jaw tensed, worried lines creased into his forehead. He hooked a finger under your chin as he looked down at you, his eyes darting over your face.

He whispered again, "I'm too dangerous, sweetheart."

"I'm used to danger, Dean." You looked back down at his hand. He wasn't gripping you tight, you could push him away if you wanted, but you didn't want that. You wanted him touching you.

"You deserve someone your own age." His thumb reached out, lightly brushing over your bottom lip. You blinked hard to keep yourself composed as arousal flooded through you.

"I don't want anyone else." You replied back, meekly.

"It would never work." His eyes were firmly placed on your lips as his thumb brushed over them, before looking back at you.

You lowered your voice to match his, "I don't care."

He leant down torturously slowly, looking between your eyes and your lips. You didn't want to move, afraid of scaring him off, but you pushed yourself up only slightly onto your tiptoes to help close the gap between the two of you.

And then his lips were on yours. Soft, hesitant at first. They locked together, fitting into place around each other. He savoured the moment, the feeling of your lips. You held your breath as you leant into him, his hand moving to your jaw holding you tight, afraid that if he let go he might lose the moment. He allowed himself to kiss you deeper, his tongue swiping out to your lip, testing the waters, his other hand reaching for your waist, pulling you closer.

He pushed his tongue into your mouth, exploring you, as your own hand came up to his cheek, feeling his stubble harsh against your fingertips. You felt as he let go of your waist, fumbling with his keys as he tried to open the door to the motel without breaking away from you. You placated him for a moment, continuing to kiss him as you listened to the sound of keys jangling, before breaking away from him, allowing him to look at the door and finally get it open. He blinked hard as he looked down at you again, taking you in, the feeling of you still on his lips.

As you looked at him you could see his mind racing as thoughts filled it, his eyes darting over your body, his forehead beginning to crease without him realizing it. You reached out again before his thoughts could get the better of him, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into the room, your lips back on his, harder, seeking him out.

You were on your knees within seconds, pushing him against the wall and dropping in front of him, fumbling with his belt. His head rolled back instinctively, hitting the wall, as you pulled out his cock, wrapping your mouth around it without a second thought. It took you a moment to adjust to his size, but once you had you began to play with him on your tongue, letting your lips envelope him. And then you pushed your head down, taking him in your mouth, his head hitting the back of your throat as you choked down his salty taste. The sounds of you below him caused his fist to tighten at his side, a loud grunt escaping his lips as he lost all control.

But this isn't how he wanted it, you on your knees praising his cock. What the hell- of course that's what he wanted- but not right now. Right now he needed to show you what a real man could do.

He cupped your cheek gently as you looked up at him. He gave himself one last look at you, swallowing down is cock with wide eyes, before gently pulling you off of him.

You looked at him, confused, as he helped you to your feet, cautious that he'd come to his senses, that he'd tell you it was a mistake. Instead he just let his eyes roam your face.

"Dean, let me keep going-" you wrapped your hand around his cock, desperate for more.

"Next time, darlin'." The idea of a next time set your skin aflame, a flush overwhelming you. "Can I touch you?"

You lead him towards the bed, your lips connected again as you moved, his hands roaming over your body, tugging at the bottom of your shirt. You pulled at your own jeans, desperate to be unclothed as quickly as possible, while Dean broke away for a second to pull your shirt over your head.

He stopped to look down at you as you kicked your jeans off your ankles, taking you in. He'd never allowed himself to look at you like this before, it was always stolen glances, small looks, but now, with you naked except for underwear in front of him, he eyed you greedily. He made note of your tattoos, the ones he didn't know existed an hour ago, as he sought every inch of you, devouring you with his eyes.

He gently guided you down towards the bed, and you pulled him on top of you as you laid down, bodies entwined. He pulled his own shirt off before sinking back against you, skin pressed against skin as he kissed you, his mouth heavier, needier. You guided his head down to your neck, and he kissed messily against your skin. His cock twitched at the idea of putting a hickey on your perfect, innocent neck, of marking his territory.

He let his teeth graze slightly over your skin and you let out a gasp, rolling your head back as your hand combed through his hair. He chuckled lightly against you before biting down, sucking at your neck as you moaned into him. He could feel his cock rock hard in his boxers for you already, and your noises weren't making it any easier.

He pulled back only slightly to catch sight of you again, looking down at your body under him, before looking back to your face, watching him closely, "You're gorgeous."

His finger trailed down your collarbone absentmindedly, and you bit your lip as warmth spread over you. He made easy work of the clasp on your bra and pulled it off of you, his tongue darting out at the sight. Lowering his body down he lightly kissed at your skin here and there as you closed your eyes and relaxed back into the bed, letting the feelings take you over. He nestled between your legs, small kisses dotting your inner thigh, where the desperation to ruin you took him again, and he bit down hard. You let out a small yelp, that quickly turned into a moan as you sunk into the feeling again, his teeth on your skin sending pleasure through you.

He kissed you lightly over your underwear, and you whined quietly, needy. You felt as his finger came up to circle your clit through the fabric, and you pushed your hips up, desperate for his touch.

"You want me, darlin'?" He was half teasing, and half genuinely asking, his eyebrow cocked. You bit your lip as you looked back down at him, nodding enthusiastically. He hooked his fingers around the sides of your underwear, dragging them down your legs as he sucked in a ragged breath at the sight of you, completely naked below him.

His lips found your knee, then your inner thigh, working his way up dangerously slowly. You whined again for him, showing him how much you wanted him. He looked back up at you with a creased forehead, "You tell me if it's too much for you?"

You wanted to roll your eyes at his caution, but instead only nodded again as you looked down at him between your legs. He slowly pushed a finger into your entrance, a strangled groan escaping his lips as you moaned, your pussy slick around him. He inched in slowly, desperate to feel you, before pulling out just as slow, dragging out your pleasure. Slow, gentle thrusts as your pussy clenched around him.

"Dean- Please..." You pleaded, all you were able to get out, desperate for more.

You felt as he pushed a second finger into you and you gripped the sheets next to you, his movements still gentle, taking his time to stretch you open. And then his mouth was on you, softly lapping up your juices as his tongue roamed your folds. You let out another gasp, tightening your grip on the sheets.

Long strokes with a flat tongue, desperate to taste as much of you as he could, as his fingers gained speed, beginning to thrust in and out of you with ease. And then his tongue darted out, only for a second, to your clit, testing for your movements, your reaction.

You let out a loud gasp, wrapping your legs over his shoulders, needy for his mouth, for his hands. He began moving his fingers faster, building up momentum as you felt your orgasm rising. He kept lapping you up, his whole mouth on you with deliberate movements as you grinded against him, your rutting only pushing him deeper into you.

And then he curled his fingers, only slightly, continuing to thrust into you as he pressed against your g-spot. You felt your whole body clench up as you came, rolling your head back with a loud gasp as waves of pleasure flowed through you and you pulsed below him. He kept his movements steady, letting you ride out your orgasm as he continued to push his fingers into you.

He felt as you relaxed again into the sheets, coming down from your high with heavy breath, your hand moving down to comb through his hair gently.

He broke away from you for a moment, kissing your inner thigh lightly, "That okay? You okay?"

"Yes, Dean!" You laughed, exasperated, "Fuck, that was good!"

His kissing got messier again as he nipped at your skin, small red marks forming along the inside of your thigh that he kissed lightly, acknowledging his handy work. You went to sit up, reaching down to cup his face, but his grip on your legs tightened, keeping you in place as he continued to kiss against your skin.

He pulled you back down, closer to him, as his face moved back towards your pussy, still sensitive as you continued to come down from your orgasm. And then he dove in again, messier, frenzied, desperate to taste you. His tongue moved rapidly against you, and you rolled your head back again, not expecting the pleasure that rocked your body.

He lifted you towards him, your legs over his shoulders, one hand going to the small of your back to support you as he kneeled upright, pulling your ass off of the bed. His whole mouth was on you as he pushed his tongue through your folds, tasting you, his stubble rubbing against you sending your back arching. He sucked lightly at your swollen clit and you let out a pleading gasp, the feeling almost too much. He broke away for only a second to eye up your reaction before pushing back in, his pointed tongue darting out over your clit, not giving you a moment without stimulation.

He circled your bud messily, desperately, as you writhed below him, another orgasm rising quickly. He didn't relent, his need for you overwhelming any other thought as he continued to savor you. His free hand came up to spread your folds apart as he lapped at you, your wetness practically dripping over his chin as he sucked and licked at you.

"Dean- I'm gonna-" you panted out, rolling your head back into the pillow.

Without a response he focused back on your clit, flicking at it with the pointed end of his tongue. He felt your legs tense around him again and sped up his movements, overwhelming your body.

You came again, hard, grinding into him, a shuddering moan escaping your lips. He continued his frenzied movements as you choked out a desperate gasp, blinding pleasure overtaking you.

His movements slowed in time with you, letting you come down slowly from your shattering high. He rested one hand on your stomach, lowering you back down onto the bed, as he continued to slowly lap you up, staying away from your overstimulated clit. He watched you go limp below him as you sunk back into the sheets, your chest rising and falling heavily.

He kissed your thigh lazily as you came to, looking down at the grin spread across his face. "Y' okay, sweetheart?"

"Fuck-" You looked back up at the ceiling.

You heard him chuckling as he knelt back up, looking down at you, yearning for more. He reached out to lightly brush your clit with his thumb and you moved to clamp your legs together instinctively, earning a tsk out of his mouth as he moved his hand away again, "Sensitive?"

You only nodded in response, looking back at him with wide eyes.

"You ready for more?" He looked down at you, and then at his own cock, desperately hard beneath his boxers.

"Yes, Dean- Please-"

He looked down at you again, and then started to move, "I've got a rubber in my wallet-"

You grabbed his wrist, "Just pull out."

He looked at your body, your gorgeous naked body that he couldn't drag his eyes away from, the dark marks starting to form on your inner thigh and neck. He'd come this far, he'd earned you, but he knew he still had an obligation to keep you safe. "-It's in my wallet."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, shaking your head only slightly as he stood up, pulling off the rest of his clothes and fumbling around in the pile until he found his wallet, pulling out the rubber and ripping the packaging quickly with his teeth. A small pit formed, trying to push away your thoughts of where he was planning on using it, who he'd been planning on using it on. He turned back to you and you pulled yourself up instinctively, rolling over with your ass in the air, arching your back with your head buried down in the pillows, ready for him.

You felt him kneel behind you again, his eyes trained on your ass, the tattoo on your lower back, your pussy still pulsing as he trailed his finger over your wetness, causing you to let out another small gasp.

"Not- not like this...", heavy blinks bringing him to his senses.

You looked back over your shoulder, eyeing him carefully, "I thought you were going to wreck me, Winchester."

He broke his eyes away from your ass finally, feeling triumph at his self discipline, "I want to see your face-"

You swallowed hard at his confession, your mind buzzing as he guided you to lay down again, your back sinking into the sheets as he positioned himself above you, holding himself up with one arm next to your head, his other hand lining his cock up to your entrance.

He teased the head of his cock through your folds, as his eyes traced over your face carefully, watching your for your expression, "You sure?"

"Dean- Please-"

His face darkened, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He pushed into you slowly, his cock stretching you out. You bit your lip, wincing only slightly as you adjusted to his size, but as the pleasure of his movements filled you, you moaned, your shaking hand moving up to his chest as he began to thrust into you.

"You okay?" He watched you carefully.

You smiled in response, pressing your forehead against his, "You're big-"

He half chuckled, masking a genuine question with sarcasm, "Too big?"

"Biggest I've ever had." You laughed lightly, your hand flowing down over his body.

The thought caused a pang of jealousy to hit him, that you'd ever had anyone else, that other men had had you. But as you moaned beneath him, your own hips moving in time with his, guiding him in, he didn't care. Right now you were his, utterly and completely.

He watched your face again, soft grunts escaping his mouth as he thrusted, gaining speed. You felt as his expression tightened, his eyes fixed on the bruise next to your eye. You tried to turn your face away from his gaze but he stopped you, cupping your cheek with his free hand.

Both of you stared at each other for a moment before he pushed his forehead against yours again, "You're mine."

You gasped at the statement, another orgasm rising within you, speeding up your own movements as he began to drive into you harder. His expression softened as his breathing became more strained, "You're mine. And you're safe."

You smiled up at him as you felt your orgasm on the edge, your hands wrapping around his shoulder for leverage as you continued to move under him, your leg wrapping around him to push him into you completely.

You relaxed your forehead against him as you let pleasure dissolve your body, quaking under him as you came. He held his breath as your walls convulsed around his cock, pushing him to his own edge as you leant up for a messy kiss, lips colliding while your orgasm overtook you.

Within moments he was coming himself, breaking away from your kiss to push his face back into your neck, a groan vibrating through him. His thrusting faltered only slightly, and you kept your hips grinding against him as he saw out his release.

You both slowed, panting hard as he pulled his face back in front of yours, small kisses across your cheeks and nose. He kept himself in you for a moment, feeling your walls spasm against his cock as you came down from your high. And then he pulled back out of you again, kneeling in front of you as he pulled the condom off and threw it to one side.

He looked down at you as you closed your eyes, relaxing back down into the sheets below him. He kissed your legs lazily as you lay there, spent. He sucked in another breath, eyes tracing over your body, fixating on the new marks on your neck as his tongue darted out to wet his lip.

"You okay?" He sighed as you sat back up, stretching your body.

You smiled, warmth filling your face, "Yes, Dean, yes I'm okay- more than okay."

He blinked hard, "Sam'll be back soon."

You pouted out your bottom lip, sarcasm dancing behind your eyes, "You think he'll join us if we ask him nice enough?"

Dean's jaw tightened as he rolled his eyes at you, "Put your clothes back on."

You hopped off of the bed, bending down to pick your clothes up off the floor as Dean looked at you, longing still holding him.

You looked back at him over your shoulder as you stood back straight, "You're staring."

"You're beautiful." He climbed off the bed after you, his finger hooked under your chin once again, "You're so beautiful."

A pause. He leant down to kiss your forehead, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "But you need to put your clothes on before Sam gets back. I ain't sharing."

[cause-im-mirrorball]

Friend: Don't you want to have a romance?

Me: I'm good, I have romance at home.

Romance I have at home:

[cause-im-mirrorball]

images are not mine! icons are from pinterest :)

[cause-im-mirrorball]

the hum of our contact

[cause-im-mirrorball]

Breaking Point | LN4

ꕤ* summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N’s Friday night goes from frustrating to electrifying when her car dies in a downpour and she has to swallow her pride and call Lando Norris—the one guy she can’t stand—to come to her rescue. He shows up soaked and irritated, but quickly becomes her savior. Trapped together in the warmth of his car, all their old arguments and jealous glances melt into a raw, unexpected confession of desire. 

ꕤ* pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

ꕤ* word count ━━━━━━━ 6.3k

ꕤ* warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, enemies to lovers, creampie, fingering, rough sex?, aftercare, use of 'baby', multiple orgasms

The rain hammered against Y/N's windshield as her car sputtered to a pathetic stop on the desolate stretch of highway just outside the city. Of course. Of fucking course this would happen tonight.

She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, cursing under her breath as she scrolled through her contacts. Everyone she called went straight to voicemail—probably out enjoying their Friday nights like normal people who didn't have cars that betrayed them at the worst possible moments.

Her thumb hovered over his name. Lando Norris. The last person on earth she wanted to call. The mere thought of his smug face made her blood boil.

But as another car zoomed past, spraying water across her already-fogged windows, she had no choice. She pressed call, each ring feeling like a personal defeat.

"Well, well," his voice drawled through the speaker, already dripping with that infuriating smugness. "Y/N calling me on a Friday night? Did hell freeze over, or are you finally admitting you can't resist me?"

"My car broke down," she bit out through clenched teeth. "I need—" The words physically hurt to say. "I need your help."

The silence on the other end stretched just long enough to make her want to hang up.

"Where are you?" His voice had shifted, losing some of its teasing edge.

"Highway outside the city. Mile marker 47."

"Don't move." The line went dead.

Thirty minutes later, headlights cut through the rain, and his McLaren pulled up behind her car. Y/N watched in the rearview mirror as he emerged, not even bothering with an umbrella. The rain immediately plastered his white shirt to his chest, outlining every muscle as he jogged toward her car.

She rolled down her window a fraction. "Took you long enough."

"You're welcome for coming to rescue your ungrateful ass," he shot back, rain dripping from his dark curls. "Pop the hood."

"I already tried—"

"Just do it, Y/N. Unless you'd prefer to sit here all night arguing in the rain."

She yanked the hood release with more force than necessary. Through the windshield, she watched him work, trying not to notice how his soaked shirt clung to his shoulders, how his jaw clenched in concentration. She hated him. Hated how he always looked so effortlessly good, even drenched and annoyed.

After a few minutes, he appeared at her window again. "Battery's completely dead. You're not going anywhere tonight."

"Fantastic," she muttered.

"Get in my car. I'll drive you home."

"I'd rather walk."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "It's fifteen miles to the city in a downpour. Stop being so fucking stubborn and get in the car, Y/N."

The way he said her name—low and commanding—sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. She grabbed her bag and stepped out into the rain, immediately regretting not taking his earlier offer of waiting in his car.

The rain soaked through her dress in seconds, the thin fabric clinging to every curve. She caught Lando's eyes tracking down her body before he quickly looked away, his jaw tightening. They tumbled into Lando’s car, slamming the door shut against the downpour. Once inside, he glanced over his shoulder, reached back, and pulled a jacket from the back seat.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her.

“I don’t want—”

“Take the damn jacket before you freeze to death and I have to explain to everyone why I left you hypothermic on the side of the road.”

She snatched it from him, their fingers brushing. The contact sent electricity shooting up her arm, and from the way his breath hitched, he felt it too.

The interior of his car was warm and smelled like his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made her stomach flip traitorously. They drove in tense silence for several minutes, the only sound the rain pelting the windshield and the swoosh of the wipers.

"Why do you hate me so much?" he asked suddenly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"I don't hate you," she replied automatically.

He let out a harsh laugh. "Could've fooled me. Every time we're in the same room, you look at me like you want to strangle me."

"That's because you're insufferable," she snapped. "You walk around like you own the world, with that stupid smirk and your stupid perfect hair and—"

"My stupid perfect hair?" He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "That's what bothers you?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. "That's not—you know what I mean."

"No, I really don't." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Explain it to me, Y/N. What is it about me that gets under your skin so badly?"

Everything, she wanted to scream. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel completely out of control. The way I think about you when I shouldn't.

"You really want to do this now?" she deflected.

"Yeah, I do." He suddenly pulled over to the side of the road, throwing the car in park and turning to face her fully. "I'm sick of this dance we do. The fighting, the tension, the way you can barely stand to be in the same room as me."

"Lando—"

"Do you know what it's like?" he interrupted, his eyes blazing. "To want someone who looks at you like you're dirt beneath their shoe? To spend every interaction wondering what you did wrong, why you're not good enough?"

The raw honesty in his voice stole her breath. "That's not—I don't think you're not good enough."

"Then what is it?" He leaned closer, close enough that she could see the rain droplets still clinging to his eyelashes. "Because I'm going insane trying to figure you out."

"Maybe that's the point," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Maybe I don't want you to figure me out."

"Why?" His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "What are you so afraid of?"

This. She was afraid of this—the way her body betrayed her the moment he touched her, the way every cell screamed to close the distance between them.

"I'm not afraid," she lied.

His thumb traced her bottom lip, and her breath caught. "Liar."

The air between them crackled with electricity. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she unconsciously licked her lips.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was nothing like she'd imagined—and she had imagined it, late at night when her defenses were down. It was fierce, almost angry, years of frustration and want poured into the clash of lips and teeth and tongue. His hand tangled in her wet hair, pulling her closer, and she moaned into his mouth.

That small sound seemed to snap something in him. He hauled her over the center console and into his lap, her dress riding up her thighs as she straddled him. His hands were everywhere—her hair, her waist, her hips—like he couldn't decide where to touch first.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled against her mouth, his hands sliding up her bare thighs. "To drive me absolutely fucking insane?"

"Yes," she gasped, grinding down against him and feeling him hard beneath her. "God, yes."

He groaned, capturing her mouth again, his kiss brutal and demanding. She gave as good as she got, biting his bottom lip and swallowing his resulting hiss. His hands found the zipper of her dress, but he paused, pulling back to look at her.

"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice wrecked. "Tell me this is a mistake."

She should. This was Lando—the man who infuriated her more than anyone else on the planet. But he was also the man looking at her like she was everything he'd ever wanted, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on her skin.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

His control shattered. The zipper came down, and he pushed the wet fabric off her shoulders, his mouth following the path of exposed skin. She arched into him, her hands fisting in his hair as he found that spot where her neck met her shoulder that made her see stars.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned against her skin. "Do you know how long I've wanted this? How many times I've thought about you like this?"

"Show me," she challenged, rolling her hips against him.

The windows were completely fogged now, creating their own private world as the storm raged outside. Every touch felt electric, every kiss more desperate than the last. When his hands found the clasp of her bra, she helped him remove it, too far gone to care about anything but the feeling of his hands on her.

"You're perfect," he breathed, his touch reverent even as his eyes burned with hunger. "So fucking perfect it makes me crazy."

She kissed him to shut him up, but also because she needed his mouth on hers like she needed air. Everything about this was intense, overwhelming, like a dam had finally burst after holding back a flood.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, reality started to creep back in. She was half-naked in Lando's lap, in his car, on the side of the road. This was insane.

"We should—" she started.

"Yeah," he agreed, but neither of them moved. His hands stayed on her waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on her skin.

"This doesn't change anything," she said weakly.

He laughed, the sound dark and knowing. "This changes everything, and you know it."

She did know it. There was no going back from this, no pretending the explosive chemistry between them didn't exist.

"Take me home," she whispered.

"Yours or mine?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with promise and possibility.

"Yours," she decided, consequences be damned.

His eyes darkened. "You sure?"

Instead of answering, she kissed him again, pouring all her certainty into the contact. When she pulled back, his pupils were blown wide.

"Drive," she commanded, climbing back into her seat and attempting to fix her dress with shaking hands.

He drove faster than was probably safe given the weather, one hand on the wheel and the other tangled with hers across the console. The silence wasn't awkward now—it was charged, full of anticipation.

When they finally pulled into his garage, he was around to her side before she could even unbuckle, pulling her out and pressing her against the car.

"Last chance," he murmured against her lips. "Tell me to take you home. Tell me this was just adrenaline, or the rain, or temporary insanity."

"Lando," she said, framing his face with her hands. "Shut up and take me inside."

He grinned—not his usual smirk, but something genuine and almost boyish. "Yes ma'am."

As he led her inside, her hand in his, Y/N realized the truth she'd been fighting for so long. She didn't hate Lando Norris.

She was completely, utterly, irrevocably falling for him.

And judging by the way he looked at her—like she'd hung the moon and stars—he was falling just as hard.

The storm outside had nothing on the one they'd created between them. And for once, Y/N didn't want to run from it.

She wanted to dance in the rain.

The elevator ride to Lando's apartment stretched like an eternity compressed into seconds. Y/N stood beside him, hyperaware of every breath, every slight movement, the space between them crackling with unspoken promises. Her dress still clung damply to her skin, his jacket draped over her shoulders like armor she no longer needed.

Neither spoke. Words had become obsolete, replaced by something more primal, more honest—a language written in glances and trembling hands, in the way he kept looking at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that seemed to echo through her bones. Lando's hand found hers, his touch both question and answer, and she let him lead her down the hallway to his door. His fingers fumbled with the keys, a vulnerability in that simple struggle that made her heart clench.

"I can't get the—" he started, frustration coloring his voice.

She took his face in her hands, turning him to look at her. "Breathe."

He did, his eyes closing for a moment, and when they opened again, the raw need in them stole her breath. The lock clicked open.

The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The storm continued its assault outside, rain painting abstract patterns on the glass, but inside, a different kind of tempest was building.

"Y/N," he said her name like a prayer, like a question, like an answer to something he'd been asking his whole life.

She stepped into him, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath her palms. "I know," she whispered. "I know."

Their mouths met with the inevitability of tides meeting shore—not gentle, but necessary, fundamental. His hands tangled in her still-damp hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and she melted into him, years of resistance crumbling like sandcastles before a wave.

They moved together, a dance neither had choreographed but both knew by heart, until her back met the wall. His hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in, but she'd never felt less trapped. This was where she wanted to be—had always wanted to be, if she was honest.

"Do you know," he murmured against her neck, his breath hot against her skin, "how many times I've imagined this? Imagined you here?"

She arched into him, her nails scraping lightly down his back through his wet shirt. "Tell me."

He pulled back to look at her, his eyes dark with something that went deeper than desire. "Every night. Every time you looked at me with fire in your eyes. Every time you walked away and I wanted to follow."

The confession hung between them, heavy with truth. She saw herself reflected in his eyes—not the careful construction she showed the world, but something raw and real and utterly exposed.

"I hated how much I wanted you," she admitted, the words scraping her throat. "Hated how you could look at me and make me forget why I was supposed to keep my distance."

"Why did you?" His thumb traced her jawline with devastating gentleness. "Keep your distance?"

"Because this," she gestured between them, "this terrifies me. You terrify me."

"Why?"

"Because you see me." The words came out broken, honest. "Really see me. And I don't know what to do with that."

He kissed her again, softer this time, like he was trying to tell her something words couldn't capture. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

"I see you," he confirmed. "The real you. The one who's brilliant and stubborn and passionate. The one who fights me because it's easier than admitting we're the same."

"We're not the same," she protested weakly.

"No?" His hand slid down to where her pulse hammered in her throat. "Then why does your heart race when I touch you? Why do you look at me like I'm both your salvation and your damnation?"

She couldn't answer, because he was right. They were two sides of the same coin, two storms destined to collide.

"I'm tired of pretending," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Tired of acting like I don't think about you every moment. Tired of this dance we do."

"Then stop," she challenged, her hands fisting in his shirt. "Stop pretending."

Something shifted in his expression, a wall finally crumbling, and suddenly they were moving again. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her deeper into the apartment. She expected him to head for what she assumed was his bedroom, but instead, he stopped at the sofa, setting her down gently.

"I need to see you," he said, his hands framing her face. "In the light. Need to know this is real."

The city lights painted them in silver and shadow, the storm outside providing a percussion to their heavy breathing. She reached for the hem of his soaked shirt, helping him pull it over his head, her hands mapping the planes of his chest like she was trying to memorize him by touch.

"It's real," she assured him, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. "We're real."

He shuddered beneath her touch, his hands tangling in her hair again. "Say it again."

"We're real," she repeated, punctuating each word with a kiss. "This is real. I'm here."

"Finally," he breathed, the word holding years of longing.

He sat down on the sofa and pulled her onto his lap, the cushions creaking beneath their weight as his mouth crashed into hers with a hunger that left her breathless.His lips were soft yet demanding, and she couldn’t help but moan into the kiss, her hands tangling in his messy curls. The kiss was wet, messy, and fucking perfect, their tongues sliding together in a rhythm that felt like they were trying to consume each other. His hands immediately found her waist, gripping her like he couldn’t believe she was real, like he needed to anchor himself to her.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled against her mouth, his voice rough with lust. “You’ve been driving me fucking crazy. You know that, don’t you?” His hands slid up her body, fingers skimming the sides of her breasts before he palmed them through her dress and lace bra, and she arched into his touch with a gasp. Her nipples were already hard, aching for his attention, and he didn’t waste any time. He pinched them through the fabric, making her cry out, her hips bucking up against him.

Lando pulled back just enough to unzip her dress and take it off in one smooth move, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her tits. They were fucking perfect—full and round, spilling out of her black lace bra like they were begging for his touch. His hands came up to cup them, squeezing gently before his thumbs brushed over her nipples, and she whimpered, her back arching off the sofa.

“These are fucking incredible,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ve been staring at them all this time, all these years, imagining how they’d feel in my hands. And fuck, Y/N, they’re even better than I dreamed.” He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth through the lace, sucking hard as his hands kneaded the soft flesh. She gasped, her hands fisting in his hair as he gave her other nipple the same treatment, his teeth grazing the peak through the fabric. It was almost too much, the sensation so intense it felt like he was sucking directly on her clit.

He pulled the cups of her bra down, and her tits spilled out, her nipples already hard and begging for his mouth. He didn’t disappoint, his lips wrapping around one nipple again while his fingers pinched and rolled the other. She cried out, her hips grinding against his thigh, her hands clutching at his shoulders. He sucked harder, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, and she felt like she was on fire, every nerve in her body alight with need.

“Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “I need you. I need you inside me.” He pulled back just enough to look up at her, his eyes full of promise.

“Not yet, baby,” he murmured, his hands still kneading her tits. “I’m not done with these yet.” He leaned down again, this time taking both nipples between his fingers and rolling them roughly, making her cry out. His mouth moved to her neck, sucking and biting as he continued to torture her tits, and she could feel her pussy getting wetter with every touch.

“Lando, please,” she whimpered, her hips moving frantically. “I need you to fuck me. I need you to fill me up.” He groaned, his hands moving to her hips as he pulled her closer, his cock hard and pressing against her thigh.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re so fucking wet,” he growled, his fingers slipping under the waistband of her panties. He found her clit, rubbing it in fast, tight circles, and she cried out, her hips bucking against his hand. “You want me to fill you up, baby? You want me to give you my fucking cream?” His voice was rough, almost guttural, and it sent shivers down her spine.

“Yes, please, Lando,” she begged, her voice breaking, each word trembling with need. “I need it. I need it so bad.” His response was a low, guttural groan, one that sent shivers down her spine. His fingers slid inside her, slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to savor every inch of her tight, wet heat. When he crooked them against her g-spot, she gasped, her back arching as pleasure shot through her like a live wire. “Oh god, Lando,” she cried out, her hands gripping his shoulders so hard she might’ve left marks. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, the sensation so intense it felt like she was being pulled apart and put back together all at once.

He didn’t stop, didn’t give her a moment to catch her breath. Instead, he fucked her through her climax, his fingers moving in and out of her with a rhythm that had her crying out his name over and over. She could feel herself unraveling, her body trembling with aftershocks as he pushed her higher, driving her toward another peak before she’d even come down from the first. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her neck, his voice rough and full of admiration. “Let go for me. Let me feel how much you need this.” His words, so filthy and tender at the same time, made her whimper, her hips bucking against his hand as if begging for more.

Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as she gasped for air, her body completely overwhelmed by the sensations he was wringing from her. His lips found hers, and the kiss was wild, desperate, his tongue sliding against hers as he continued to fuck her with his fingers. He swallowed every sound she made, his free hand gripping her hip so tightly she knew she’d bruise, and the thought of his marks on her skin only made her wetter.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Y/N,” he growled against her mouth, his voice ragged with need. “The way you’re clenching around my fingers—fuck, I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her pussy tightening around his fingers as her orgasm built again, faster this time, more intense. “Please,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as she clung to him. “Please, Lando, don’t stop. Make me come again. I need it. I need you.”

He didn’t disappoint, his fingers moving faster now, harder, his thumb brushing against her clit as he fucked her relentlessly. She could feel her orgasm building, a coiled tension in her belly that threatened to snap. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise. “Come for me. Let me see how much you need this.” And then she was there, her body convulsing as she came with a scream, her pussy clenching around his fingers like a vice. He didn’t stop, didn’t let her catch her breath, just kept pushing her higher, until she was gasping for air, her body trembling with the force of her release.

He pulled his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving hers. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and full of desire. 

“But I’m not done with you yet.” He stood up, pulling her with him, and she felt his cock press against her stomach, hard and thick and ready. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, baby. I’m going to fill you up until you’re dripping with my cum.”

She whimpered, her hands gripping his shoulders as he pushed her panties down and kicked them aside. He spun her around, bending her over the back of the sofa, and she felt his cock press against her entrance, the tip already slick with her wetness.

“Please, Lando,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Please fuck me. I need you so bad.” He groaned, his hands gripping her hips as he pushed inside her, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt. She cried out, her nails digging into the sofa as he bottomed out, the stretch almost too much.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re so fucking tight,” he growled, his hands tightening on her hips as he started to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. She gasped, her pussy clenching around him as he set a brutal pace, his cock hitting her g-spot with every thrust.

“Oh god, Lando,” she moaned, her head falling forward as he fucked her harder, faster, his cock filling her up so perfectly she thought she might come again just from the feel of him inside her.

“You feel so fucking good. Please don’t stop. Please don’t ever stop.” He groaned, his hands moving to her tits, squeezing and kneading them as he fucked her, his hips slamming against her ass with a force that made her see stars.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “You take my cock so fucking good. I’m going to fill you up, baby. I’m going to give you every fucking drop.” His words sent a thrill through her, her pussy clenching around him as she felt her third orgasm building.

“Please, Lando, I’m so close,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as her hands gripped the back of the sofa, her knuckles turning white. His cock slammed into her relentlessly, hitting that perfect spot inside her with every thrust, making her see stars. Her pussy clenched around him, so tight it was almost unbearable, and she could feel her orgasm building, coiling in her belly like a spring ready to snap.

“I need you to fill me up,” she begged, her voice trembling with desperation. “I need to feel you come inside me.” 

His response was a low growl, his hips driving into her with even more force, his hands gripping her hips so tightly she knew there’d be marks. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his voice rough and full of need. “You’re so fucking tight. I can feel you milking my cock already, baby. You want my cum that bad?” His words were filthy, so raw they sent shivers down her spine, and she whimpered, her pussy clenching around him as if to answer. 

“Yes, yes, Lando, please,” she gasped, her body trembling as she hovered on the edge of climax.

“I need it. I need you to fill me up. I want to feel you spilling inside me, marking me as yours.” Her words seemed to unleash something in him, because he fucked her even harder, his cock driving in and out of her with a desperation that matched her own. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and her broken cries. 

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he growled, his voice guttural, almost primal. “You’re always going to be mine.” His words, so possessive, so full of raw emotion, pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body convulsing around him as she screamed his name, her pussy clamping down on his cock like a vice. He didn’t stop, didn’t give her a moment to catch her breath, just kept fucking her through her climax.

“That’s it, baby, come for me,” he murmured, his voice rough with admiration.

“Let me feel how much you need this.” His hands moved to her tits, squeezing and kneading them as he continued to thrust into her, his cock hitting her g-spot with unerring precision. She could feel him swelling inside her, his release so close she could almost taste it.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he promised, his voice low and full of intent. “I’m going to give you every fucking drop.” 

“Please, Lando,” she cried, her voice breaking as she clung to the sofa, her body shaking with the force of her pleasure.

“I need it. I need you.” He groaned, his hips slamming into her one last time before he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he came deep inside her. She could feel him spilling into her, hot and thick, and she moaned, her pussy clenching around him as her own orgasm peaked again, drawing every last drop from him. 

Lando stayed buried inside her, his cock still pulsing softly as their bodies remained locked together. The air around them was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, their breaths ragged and mingling in the stillness. Her back was still arched over the sofa, her hands gripping the edge for support, but now his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close, anchoring her to him. He pressed his chest to her back, his lips finding the curve of her neck, and the tenderness of the gesture made her shiver. 

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice raw and husky, yet so full of affection it made her heart ache. His fingers traced delicate patterns along her hips, and she could feel the way he trembled against her, his own body still catching up with the intensity of what they’d shared.

“You don’t even know, do you? What you do to me?” His words were soft, almost reverent, and they sent a warmth spreading through her chest. 

She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a soft, breathless moan. It was part plea, part prayer, and he seemed to understand, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“I know,” he whispered against her skin, his lips brushing her shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

The endearment, tender amidst the raw passion they’d just shared, nearly undid her. This was Lando—her obsession, her undoing—holding her like she was something fragile and sacred, even as his body still pulsed inside hers. His hands moved to her stomach, splaying across her skin like he wanted to memorize every inch of her.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed, his voice rough with admiration. “I could stay like this forever, just... feeling you. Being inside you.”

She turned her head slightly, seeking his gaze, and when their eyes met, she saw herself reflected in his—wild, free, utterly transformed. “Don’t look away,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm.

“I need to see you. Need to know you’re still here with me.” His hand moved to her cheek, brushing away a strand of hair, and she leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his. 

“There you are,” he said, his voice so tender it made her chest tighten.

“There’s my girl.” The possessive endearment should have made her bristle, but instead, it settled something in her soul, a piece she hadn’t realized was missing. She felt claimed, yes, but also cherished, like she was his in a way that went beyond the physical. 

“Yours,” she whispered, the word slipping out like a secret, a promise. And it was—a surrender and a claim all at once. 

He kissed her then, his lips soft against hers, and she melted into it, her body still trembling with aftershocks. His hands moved to her hips, gripping her gently, and she could feel him hardening inside her again, his cock stirring as if it couldn’t bear to be separated from her. 

She gasped softly, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of their passion. "That was..." she started, her voice breathless and unsteady, her hands still gripping the edge of the sofa for support as she tried to find the right words. But nothing seemed adequate, nothing could capture the intensity of what they’d just shared.

"Yeah," Lando murmured, his voice low and rough, his chest still pressed to her back, his hands splayed possessively over her hips. His breath was warm against her neck as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her hair. His hips shifted slightly, still buried deep inside her, and she felt a shiver run through her.

"It was, baby." His words were soft, but they carried a weight that made her chest tighten.

Her fingers traced idle patterns across his forearm, marveling at the way his skin felt against hers, at the way he held her like she was something precious. The walls between them had crumbled, and she was still trying to process it—the raw vulnerability, the honesty, the way he had claimed her body and soul.

"What happens now?" she whispered, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the stillness of the room. Her body was still pressed against his, their connection unbroken, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to let go of this moment—of him.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer, as if he could sense her uncertainty. "Now," he said, his voice firm but gentle, "we stop pretending. No more games, no more dancing around this. We stop wasting time." His lips brushed her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. "Unless," he added, a teasing edge creeping into his voice, "you’re planning to hate me again tomorrow?"

She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. How could she hate him when he held her like this? When his touch made her feel more alive than she’d ever been? When she could still feel him inside her, their bodies utterly entwined? "I never hated you," she admitted softly, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

"I hated how you made me feel. Out of control. Vulnerable." Her voice wavered slightly, and she felt his hands tighten on her hips, grounding her.

"And now?" he asked, his voice smooth and low, his lips trailing up her neck to press a kiss just below her ear.

She hesitated, taking stock of her scattered defenses, the walls she’d spent so long building now lying in ruins around them. "Now," she said, her voice steadier this time, "I think maybe control is overrated."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and she felt it vibrate through her. "There she is," he murmured, his voice full of admiration. "The Y/N I fell for. The one brave enough to admit what she wants."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned her head slightly, trying to catch his gaze. "You fell for me?" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, and she hated how vulnerable she sounded.

He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes, and the intensity in his gaze made her heart stutter. "Sweetheart," he said, the endearment rolling off his tongue like he’d been saying it for years, "I’ve been falling for you since the day we met. I just got tired of hitting the ground alone."

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she blinked them back, but he noticed, his thumb catching one that escaped. "Hey," he said softly, his voice gentle, "what’s this?"

"I wasted so much time," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Fighting this. Fighting you."

"No," he corrected, his voice firm but tender. He pulled her closer, his hands moving to wrap around her waist, his body still pressed against hers. "We both did what we needed to do. Maybe we weren’t ready before. Maybe we needed the fire to forge us into something stronger."

She shifted slightly, her body still connected to his, and with a soft, almost reluctant push, she eased him out of her. The sensation of his cock sliding free made her breath catch, her pussy feeling suddenly empty, as if it already missed the heat and fullness of him. He groaned softly, his hands gripping her hips as if he didn’t want to let go, but she turned in his arms, settling back against the sofa until his now-softening cock rested lightly on her lower belly, the weight of it a reminder of what they’d just shared. Her hand trailed down his chest, fingers brushing over the damp skin, before she cupped his face and kissed him—slowly, deeply, pouring everything she couldn’t say into the contact. When they broke apart, she felt something settle in her chest, a rightness she’d never experienced before. His breath was warm against her lips, his eyes searching hers, and in that moment, she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be.

When they broke apart, she felt something settle in her chest, a rightness she’d never experienced before.

"I want to try," she said, her voice steady now. "No more games, no more pretending."

"Good," he said, his voice low and full of promise. His hands moved to cup her face, his eyes locked on hers. "Because I’m not letting you go now. You’re stuck with me, Y/N."

"Promises, promises," she teased, but her heart was in her throat.

He smiled, that boyish grin she’d seen glimpses of before, but now it was directed at her with such open affection that it made her chest ache. "I don’t make promises I can’t keep," he said seriously, his thumb brushing her cheek. "And I promise you this—I’m going to spend every day showing you that this was worth the wait. That we were worth the wait."

She believed him. For the first time in her life, she let herself believe in something as dangerous and beautiful as love.

[cause-im-mirrorball]

Waiting Game

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’ve been in love with Max for years, silently watching him date the wrong girl, until walking away makes him finally realise you were the one all along. (Requested)

3.9k words / Masterlist

The first time you met Max Verstappen you knew you were doomed.

Not in a he’s-going-to-ruin-my-life kind of way. No, it was quieter than that. Deeper. It was the kind of knowing that settled into your bones and never left. The kind that whispered, I will love him for the rest of my existence, even if he never loves me back.

And you had. Hopelessly. Silently. Faithfully.

You’ve never known a world without Max.

From sandbox castles to celebratory podium hugs, you’ve always been there. When you think of home, it’s not really a place, it’s him. The way he throws popcorn at you during movie nights, the way he remembers how you take your tea, the way he always texts “landed” the moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

You were inseparable. The kind of closeness that made people tilt their heads and ask, Are you sure you’re just friends? You brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, a carefully rehearsed, Yeah, just friends. But you knew better. You felt it every time your hand brushed his and he didn’t pull away. Every time he called you at 2 a.m. because something was heavy on his mind and you were the only person he trusted enough to hold it with him.

There was never a clear moment when friendship turned into something more for you, it was just a slow unraveling. A shift in the way you watched him. The way your heart stuttered when his name lit up your phone. The way everything softened when he looked at you, even if he didn’t know what it meant. The time he flew across three countries just to bring you soup when you had the flu. You’d laughed, voice hoarse, swaddled in blankets and tissues.

“You’re insane,” you said, but your heart was already halfway gone.

You memorised him like a religion. The furrow between his brows when he was focused. The way his voice softened when he talked about things that scared him, the future, family, not doing enough. You traveled the world with him, race weekends blurred into hotel rooms and midnight drives and laughter spilling out of overpriced restaurants.

And at night, when you’re apart, FaceTime is your safety net. You fall asleep more times than you can count, with his voice crackling through your phone, tucked on your pillow. Sometimes it’s quiet, just the sound of his breath syncing with yours. Sometimes it’s laughter, or whispers about things he’d never say out loud during the day.

Still, you said nothing, because Max was Max. He had dreams to chase and tracks to conquer and a world to carry on his shoulders. And you? You were his best friend. The keeper of secrets. The one he called when everything else fell apart.

It’s always him.

Always.

And that was enough you thought.

That’s probably why it hurts so badly when he chose her.

It was one night, when you were sitting on the couch with him, legs folded, laughing about something dumb. And then, just as the moment quitened, he said it.

“I’ve been seeing someone by the way.”

So casual and unbothered, and you smiled like it didn’t split you open.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s nice, I’m happy for you.”

She wasn’t outright awful.

Not in a way you could call out directly. Not in a way that gave you permission to hate her.

She was sleek and polished and knew exactly how to pose for the cameras. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it looked good on magazine covers. She knew how to charm a crowd, how to toss her hair just right, how to smile for the cameras and nod politely at press events.

She never reacted to his frustrations, because she didn’t care enough to be affected by it. She didn’t ask about his bad days. Didn’t know the way his fingers twitched when he was nervous or the sound he made in his sleep when he was too exhausted to dream.

You wanted to believe she loved him for his sake. But it felt like she loved the image more, the icon, the podiums, the press, the power. Not the boy who forgot to eat when he was stressed. Not the man who kept every letter from his mother in a shoebox under his bed.

You watched from the sidelines, clapping the loudest, smiling the widest, standing just close enough. Pretending that your heart didn’t fracture a little more each time she showed up wearing his jacket. Each time he kissed her forehead. Each time he introduced you as his best friend, like that word wasn’t slowly bleeding you dry.

You didn’t ask for more. You never had. Because loving Max wasn’t a choice, it was an inevitability. And you knew, deep down, he was never really yours to lose.

But God, it still felt like he was.

The longer she stuck around, the more cracks you began to see. Not gaping ones, just tiny fractures only someone who truly knew Max could notice. Subtle, quiet things that dug under your skin until they bruised.

It was in the way she watched his races, when she even bothered to show up. Sometimes she’d arrive midway through, sunglasses still on indoors, distractedly scrolling through her phone while his car kissed the barriers. She never flinched. Never held her breath when he went wheel-to-wheel.

That was the thing, her indifference wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t loud. It was just careless. Passive. It came out in the small things, the way she dismissed his nerves before qualifying with a flat, “You’ll be fine, babe.” The way she laughed when fans screamed his name, muttering, “They’re obsessed with you. It’s creepy.”

Max didn’t see it.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he caught glimpses of her disinterest and shoved them deep enough that they wouldn’t threaten the stability he’d convinced himself he needed. Maybe he stayed because it was easier to be with someone who never demanded the truth.

And you?

You smiled through it.

You were polite. Friendly, even. Because Max was your best friend, and the last thing you wanted was to be the reason for a wedge between him and someone he cared about. So you bit your tongue when she interrupted him. You offered her a drink when she showed up late to the paddock. You complimented her shoes. Let her lean on your shoulder for a group photo you didn’t want to be in.

You did it for him.

And still, people noticed.

The fans weren’t blind. If anything, they saw it more clearly than he did.

@maxarmy33: I don’t care what anyone says, Max’s gf is just NOT it. It’s actually wild how Max can’t see that Y/N has always been the one. She’s been by his side through everything. That kind of loyalty isn’t fake.

@redbullfan1: Max doesn’t just smile around Y/N LOOK at how he lights up around her.. You can’t fake that kind of connection. They’re meant to be, and everyone sees it but him.

@dutchlion26: The fact that Max still isn’t dating Y/N despite their perfect chemistry is a crime.

@maxy4stappen Y/N has been in Max’s corner since day one. She knows him better than anyone, and he’s out here dating someone who barely even watches his races?? Be serious.

You knew they weren’t kind comments. Fans never know the full story, they only saw what was on the surface. Still… you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little vindicating.

You thought maybe, maybe, one day he’d see what everyone else did.

But he didn’t. He chose her.

Things changed slowly after that.

He called less. You didn’t always answer. You made excuses when he asked to hang out, not because you didn’t want to, but because every mention of her name was like pressing on a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

You watched him wrap his arm around her waist at events, post pictures with captions you assumed she wrote. You watched him smile at her like she might be everything.

You told yourself it was fine. That it was enough to love him quietly, from the background. That your place, constant and steady, just a little to the left of center, was still better than not being in his orbit at all.

But deep down, you hoped. Hoped that the weight of your love, quiet and unconditional, would finally register. That maybe one day he’d turn around and realise you’d been there all along.

The intervention happened after Monaco.

You’d watched from your usual place, tucked into the Red Bull hospitality suite, just close enough to feel like part of the chaos, just far enough to know you never really would be. The routine was muscle memory by now. Headphones looped around your neck, heart thrumming in sync with every lap. You could trace the corners of the circuit with your eyes closed, every turn etched into your bloodstream from years of watching him fly through them.

Max had been brilliant. Fierce and unrelenting. He’d carved through the streets of Monte Carlo like the track had been built for him, like it was always meant to be his. You felt every gear shift like a jolt in your ribs, every overtake like a breath you couldn’t quite finish.

His girlfriend had sat two chairs down from you, legs crossed, thumb lazily scrolling through her phone. She hadn’t flinched once. Hadn’t looked up when the entire suite held its breath. You’d barely heard her speak.

You stood in the paddock afterwards, soaked in golden light and champagne mist, your ears ringing with celebration. Cameras flashed. People screamed his name. He threw his arms around his team, his smile wide and breathless. She kissed his cheek and he didn’t even glance your way.

You should’ve felt proud. Happy. Triumphant, even. But instead, you just felt… hollow. Like you were watching the best moment of his life from behind glass.

That was when your friends stepped in.

You didn’t even notice them closing in until you felt a firm hand wrap gently around your wrist.

“You need to stop.”

“Stop what?” you asked, forcing your voice to sound casual, light. The kind of tone that might fool someone who didn’t know better.

“This.” She gestured vaguely, helplessly. “Hanging around like this… waiting for Max to finally wake up and realise you’re the love of his life.”

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked and gave you away.

“You are,” she said quietly, cutting you off. “You have been. For years. And it’s killing you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again.

She stepped closer. “You think we don’t see it? The way you look at him? The way you never say no when he needs something? You would rip yourself in half to make his life easier.”

Your throat ached. Your chest felt too tight to breathe in.

“I just want him to be happy,” you whispered, and it was the closest thing to the truth you could say out loud without completely breaking.

“Yeah?” Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. “And what about your happiness? When’s the last time you even thought about that?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

It started small. Innocent. A slow, gentle push toward something else, something that wasn’t him. Saying yes when someone asked for your number. Letting a date buy you coffee. Letting someone else ask you questions and actually listen to the answers.

The first date was forgettable. The second, slightly better. You started saying yes more often.

And suddenly, Max was paying attention. Longer glances. A missed text here, a delayed reply there and he started asking more questions, Where were you last night? Who were you with? when you posted a photo of a drink across from you at a candlelit restaurant. Did you not fly out this weekend? when he didn’t spot you in the paddock.

His voice stayed easy, but there was something sharp beneath it. Something unsettled.

One night your phone buzzed with a message from him.

Max: Who’s the guy in your story?

You stared at the screen, pulse skipping. Your photo had only shown two hands over dinner, one of them yours.

You: Just a guy I met. Does it matter?

It took him five minutes to respond.

Max: No. Just curious.

You didn’t reply.

For the first time in a long time, Max is the one feeling left behind.

He calls on a Thursday night.

You’re halfway through applying mascara when the screen lights up with his name.

“Hey,” you answer, brushing your lashes carefully.

He sounds tired. “You free to talk tonight? Facetime like always? I can’t sleep.”

You hesitate.

There’s a silence you’ve never had with him before.

“I have a date,” you say softly.

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Did I have to?” you replied, and instantly felt bad about it.

Max is quiet. Then, “Right. I guess not. Sorry.”

You hesitate. Then add, “Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t say goodbye. Just end the call gently, then stare at your reflection in the mirror until the ache in your chest settles into something bitter and familiar.

Max doesn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the race, not because of jet lag, but because your voice won’t leave his head.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

You’d sounded tired. Guarded. Like you were hiding yourself from him.

And for the first time in his life, Max realises he has no idea what’s going on in your head.

It’s terrifying.

He calls the next morning.

You ignore it.

He opens his camera roll without thinking. Starts scrolling through old photos. Ones he’s probably passed a hundred times before without thinking. You in hotel lobbies, laughing at something he said. You wrapped in scarves on cold race weekends, clutching a takeaway hot chocolate. You curled up on his couch at 1 a.m. after some terrible horror movie, half-asleep, legs tangled in his.

And suddenly, it hits him how constant you’ve been.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just there. Always.

You never asked for anything. Never made him choose. You just showed up. When he was exhausted, when his dad said something that cut too deep, when the media turned cruel or the pressure felt suffocating, whether he won or lost, you were there. Not trying to fix it. Just holding space for him in a way no one else ever had.

How had he not seen it?

How his apartment feels colder without your socks drying on the radiator. How he still buys your favourite cereal without thinking, even though you haven’t been over in two weeks. How he used to FaceTime you after races if you couldn’t be there, win or lose, just to hear your voice while he fell asleep. He never does that with his girlfriend.

It’s never been the same.

He thinks about the last thing you said.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

And it lands like a punch to the gut.

Because she’s not the one he wants to call at night.

You are.

You were trying. Trying to mean it when you smiled at someone else. Trying to accept that Max had chosen someone who wasn’t you.

Which is why you brought Jake to the next race.

He wasn’t serious. Just kind. Simple. He asked about your day, laughed at your dumb jokes, and held your hand like he meant it. He didn’t know much about racing, but he tried.

You entered the paddock with his fingers laced in yours and felt the storm hit before you even made it to hospitality.

Max was standing by the Red Bull garage mid-conversation, but he went still the second he saw you. His eyes locked on Jake’s hand in yours like it was a threat. Like it didn’t belong there. His jaw clenched. Shoulders squared. A barely visible storm gathering behind his eyes.

You smiled like you didn’t notice, but your pulse fluttered in your throat all the same.

After the race, another podium, another photo-op, he found you.

Cornered you, really.

It was quieter outside the motorhome, the hum of the paddock fading behind you, tension heavy in the air.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked. His voice wasn’t soft, it was guarded. Accusing.

You turned to face him slowly. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured in the general direction Jake had gone. “You and what’s his name? James? Jason?”

You blinked. “Jake.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Right. Jake.”

You folded your arms. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Of course it matters.”

“Why?” you asked, harsher than you meant to. “Because you don’t like him? Or because you don’t like the idea of me moving on?”

He flinched, actually flinched. That small, involuntary pull of guilt across his features.

“That’s not—” he started, but you cut him off.

The words came spilling out before you could stop them. “Don’t you dare say that this isn’t fair. You don’t get to tell me what’s fair. I spent years waiting for you, Max.” Your voice shook, the truth finally cracking through the surface. “I waited while you ran to me for everything and still gave your heart to someone else.”

You took a breath. Swallowed the lump rising in your throat.

“I was your best friend. Your person. And I thought… maybe one day you’d finally see me.”

Max opened his mouth, barely, but nothing came out. His expression twisted, like your words physically hurt. Like they were the truth he’d buried too deep to admit.

“But you never did,” you whispered.

He looked lost. Like he didn’t know how to hold onto anything without holding onto you.

“I’m done waiting,” you said, voice steadier now. Stronger. “I deserve someone who actually chooses me. Who doesn’t need to lose me to realise I was there all along.”

He swallowed hard. The kind of swallow that hurts going down. His jaw clenched. His fists curled like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

And for once, he had nothing to say.

You come home the next day to flowers on your doorstep, express delivery.

White tulips your favourite. No note. But you know who they’re from.

You stare at them for a moment too long, heart thudding unevenly, before finally unlocking your phone.

Thanks for the flowers, you text, hitting send before you can overthink it.

His reply is instant. Like he’s been waiting.

Can I see you?

You hesitate, thumb hovering, nerves buzzing just beneath your skin.

Okay.

He comes straight to your place. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie drawn up, not to hide from paparazzi, you suspect, but to hide from you. Or maybe from whatever truth he’s only just beginning to face.

There’s a hesitation when you open the door, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here anymore.

Once he’s inside he finally speaks. “I didn’t know,” he says, voice hoarse.

You frown. “Didn’t know what?”

Max exhales, slow and heavy, like dragging the truth to the surface is painful. “I didn’t know it was you.”

Your brows draw together, confused, lips parting, but he keeps going.

“I’ve been chasing all these things, titles, wins, people, and I didn’t realise I already had the most important one right in front of me.”

You blink, caught between disbelief and the ache of wanting to believe it.

He steps closer, carefully. “You’re the one I want to talk to at 2 a.m. You’re the one I want next to me when I fall asleep. You always have been. I just didn’t see it. Not until I thought I’d lost you.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching. “Max…”

“I think…” he cuts in, voice raw, “I think I’ve been in love with you this whole time.”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, stunned. The word barely escapes.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he says, his hands shaking slightly as he rakes them through his hair. “I know I’ve been an idiot, but you have to know I never meant to do anything to hurt you, I was just blind. I thought… fuck, I thought it was just how we are. I thought everyone had a best friend like you. I didn’t realise it until I saw you with someone else, and it felt like the air got ripped out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand it.”

You step back on instinct, the pain too fresh, too tangled with old wounds. “Max… don’t do this. Not because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I mean, I am, obviously, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, so longed for, so impossible, and yet, somehow, not enough to steady the storm inside you

His voice breaks on the next part. “I ended things. I don’t love her. I don’t think I ever did. She was easy and safe. But she’s not you. No one is.”

And God, the way that splits you open. The way it taps into something buried but still bleeding.

He watches you, eyes wide and full of fear. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But tell me…”

He swallows hard.

“Tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him.

Really stare.

You see it. The boy who once held your hand under a table because you were nervous. The one who stayed on FaceTime with you for hours after a race just to hear your voice. The boy who didn’t know how to love you the right way until he almost lost the chance to try.

And there’s a part of you, raw and wounded, that wants to say no. That wants to tell him it’s too little, too late. That it’s not fair it took you walking away, took someone else’s hands on your waist, for him to finally look up and see what had been in front of him all along.

But the love runs too deep. Deeper than pride. Deeper than reason.

“I love you,” you whisper, before you can think about stopping yourself.

Max goes completely still.

“I have for a long time,” you add, voice trembling. “I just didn’t think you’d ever feel it back.”

For a beat, he’s stunned. And then he laughs, a quiet, breathy sound, and crosses the space between you, pulling you into his arms like he never wants to let go.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I love you.”

You smile, eyes burning, burying your face in the soft cotton of his hoodie, heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ribs. When he pulls back, his hands linger at your jaw, brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence. And then, finally, finally, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Careful. As if he’s still not sure he deserves it. But when you sigh into it, arms tightening around his neck, he deepens the kiss with a low, shaky breath.

When he eventually pulls away, he’s grinning, eyes soft and voice rough.

“No more falling asleep on FaceTime okay?”

You tilt your head, confused. “Why not?”

Max squeezes your hand.

“Because I want you next to me for real.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89

[cause-im-mirrorball]

─── A L W A Y S W A T C H I N G [dean winchester]

cw: toxic ex-boyfriend!dean.ᐟ naive!reader.ᐟ possesiveness.ᐟ jealousy.ᐟ manipulation.ᐟ gaslighting.ᐟ toxic behavior.ᐟ mentions of alcoholism.ᐟ fist fight.ᐟ blood.ᐟ pet names (sweetheart, baby, my girl).ᐟ smut (teasing, tit sucking, cowgirl, p in v, creampie). 18+

[let me know if I missed any]

wc: 4650

۫ ꣑ৎ bee yaps: okay had this idea in mind from this post. think of a demon dean mentality without him being a demon, just pure toxic and undeniably hot.

the breakup between you and dean had been inevitable, a slow burning destruction that neither of you could stop. at first, it had been the subtle possessiveness. dean would never lay a hand on you, but his control came in other ways. he’d accuse you of being too independent, wanting to get away from the hunting life. the pressure of constant danger from your lives on the road weighed on dean, and it made him volatile.

when he wasn’t out hunting or dealing with the fallout of a hunt gone wrong, he was obsessing over his next mission. it was a vicious cycle you watched him dive into. his focus on the job consumed him entirely, and you were just expected to always be there, waiting for him to come home. although, most times when you were left back at the bunker for your own safety, you weren't sure if you'd ever see dean again.

between stress of life on the road, always running from danger, never knowing what was next, only made dean's toxic behaviour worse. he would disappear for days on end, stop checking in. when he did, it was often to accuse you of not understanding the weight of the job. there was always this wall between the two of you now, one he built with his need to control. where you went to, who you talked to, as if your independence was a threat to the image of the relationship he had created in his head.

the drinking made it worse.

when he’d come back from a brutal hunt, blood still on his hands, hair tousled, new scars littering his body. he’d turn to drown the pain in whiskey, and the lines between love and control would blur even further.

it all came to a tipping point. you couldn’t keep sacrificing yourself for someone who refused to change, and so, you made the painful decision to leave. because when you looked at dean, it wasn't the man your first fell in love with.

a few months had passed, and now, you finally felt ready to step back into the world. you'd taken time to heal, rediscovering who you were without the weight of deans toxic presence.

no raging aggression, no whiskey filled promises or drunken kisses when he came home.

tonight, you weren't out on a date— you went to a local bar just enjoying yourself while talking to a man. the simplicity of normal conversation without the fear of judgment or possessiveness hanging over you, felt refreshing.

what you didn’t realize was that dean still had your location on his phone. the toxic behaviour hadn’t disappeared; it had only evolved since loosing you. the one thing he swore would never happen.

he noticed your location pop up at a new spot. your apartment was no longer showing up, nor the usual places like the grocery store you'd go to after work or the mall on a saturday evening.

tonight, it was a bar.

deans eyes narrowed, raging jealousy flared up inside him without thought. he hadn’t planned on confronting you tonight, but the thought of you out in public, smile lighting up the room, pretty eyes focused on another man, laughing at his jokes—it was too much.

so when his worn boots were tied up and the keys to the impala rattled off the hook, he already knew he had to see it for himself.

dean’s knuckles gripped the leather steering wheel so tight that his fingers went white, mind racing. he couldn’t stop picturing it—the image of you laughing at another mans jokes, your smile soft and inviting, your lips so damn close.

the vision burned through his brain, hot and sharp, making him see fucking red. it shouldn’t be like this.

you should still be with him, not out talking with random guys. he was the one who had the right to make you smile, to kiss you, to touch you the way only he knew, to leave you completely wrecked. no one else should be able to experience the intimacy that only he got to have with you.

his foot slammed down harder on the gas pedal, the engine of the impala roaring as it cut through the night. each mile felt like it was stretching out further in front of him, and the closer he got to the bar, the tighter the knot in his chest grew. jealousy clawed at him, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.

when he finally reached the cozy bar, the night air hit him like a slap in the face, but it did little to cool the fire inside him. his eyes immediately found you, they always did.

you were standing at the bar, talking to a man, and everything about you was different. gone was the worn-out, exhausted look from when you were with him. replaced by a soft glow, like you’d been touched by an angel. your hair was done up in a way he hadn’t seen before, and you looked... free.

his stomach twisted as his eyes moved from you to the guy you were with. he didn’t like the way the man was looking at you, the way his hand lingered a little too close to your arm.

dean slid out of the car, and with a second nature, tucked his gun into the middle of his jean waistband against his back.

it wasn’t out of necessity, god no, not yet.

he didn’t plan on starting a scene right away, already running scenarios in his head, planning how to take this guy out, how to make him pay for getting close to what was his.

he stepped into the bar, keeping his movements casual, trying to blend in with the crowd. his eyes scanned the room and locked on you almost immediately. standing at the bar next to this guy, who the fuck was he.

but then he overheard a conversation from across the bar. the bartender slid a drink toward the man with you and casually said "for matt".

matt. nothing about 'matt' screamed danger or bad boy or anything that could ever hold a candle to the fire dean winchester brought you. his hands soft and un-calloused, his height didn't tower over you, he smiled a little too much... how the hell could you be into someone like him?

he sat back in the dark corner of the space, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. stalking his prey with a cold, calculating gaze. his foot bounced against the worn wooden floor, trying to keep from storming up to you right away. he needed the right moment—he needed to make sure it was just the right time to remind you who you really belonged to.

it didn’t take long. matt, with his stupid, clean-cut smile, leaned in to whisper something to you, and then, without any warning, he stood up and started heading for the door.

“gonna grab a cigarette,” he muttered to you, as you followed behind him.

that was all dean needed.

he stood up from his seat, his body rigid with barely contained rage. his footsteps were quiet as he moved toward the exit, but there was nothing calm about the way he approached the door. he didn’t glance at you, not once.

it wasn’t about you anymore, it was about matt. dean had to be the one to protect what was his. he didn’t give a damn about how you felt.

if he couldn't have you then no one could.

when dean pushed through the door into the breeze night air, his eyes found matt immediately. the guy was busy trying to flick the lighter towards his cigarette, totally unaware of what was about to happen and he didn't waist a second.

“matt, right?” he asked, his voice sharp and sudden in a growl.

matt’s hand froze mid-light, and before he could say a word, dean threw the first punch. it connected with his jaw with a sickening crack, sending him stumbling back. cigarette falling to the ground.

matt barely had time to process the attack before he was knocked flat onto the hood of a nearby car. the sound of metal groaning beneath his weight was drowned out by furious punches.

dean didn’t stop, he couldn't. his fists rained down on matt over and over again, each punch more brutal than the last. and fuck if it didn't feel good.

it wasn’t until a sharp, panicked voice broke through the haze of anger that he slowed down. blood running everywhere from his knuckles, to matt's busted face, and all over the hood of some persons car.

“dean, stop- please, stop!” the words came from you frantically, sobering you up quickly.

dean barely even looked up at you, still seething, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes when he heard the desperation in your voice. his broken hand paused mid punch, instead, picking matt up by the collar to shove him back down like he was worthless.

you were standing there, absolutely shocked. your eyes watery and wide, taking in the chaos that dean had just brought to the peaceful night. it hit you like a slap in the face.

dean was back. dean was really back infront of you—and he was ruining everything.

“dean, what the fuck is wrong with you!” you screamed, your voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger.

still breathing heavily, he didn’t even acknowledge you at first. he stared at matt’s unconscious and crumpled form on the hood of the car, a sick satisfaction curling in his chest.

wiping the spit off his lips with a bloodied hand which in turn just smeared crimson everywhere.

matt wasn’t a problem anymore. but you? you were.

you stood there, frozen, heart racing in your chest as you took in the scene. dean’s presence, his anger, everything about it hit you all at once.

for months, you had avoided thinking about him, tried to heal, to move on. but seeing him like this, standing over a man you'd just met, his beaten body, covered in blood, it was like all that progress had been wiped away in a matter of seconds.

you wanted to yell at him, to demand answers, but your body was frozen. the sight of dean—fists still clenched dripping blood all over the pavement, his chest heaving with adrenaline, was more than you could handle.

you took a shaky step toward him, now closer, but the fear made your heart pound harder in your chest. you wanted to help matt, but you also wanted to get through to dean. you didn’t know if you could save either of them, but you had to try.

he matched your step and got closer to you, your heart beating in your chest. you felt your own heart painfully beat against your ribcage as your eyes darted for an out, but their wasn’t one.

“stay out of this” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

the tension between you both was suffocating. you could feel the weight of every unsaid word, the past few months of silence crashing back into your chest.

you swallowed hard, trying to gather an ounce of courage. “you can’t just keep doing this, dean. you can’t keep—” your voice broke, and for a moment, you looked down at matt’s unconscious bleeding face. “you can’t just hurt people because you’re angry!"

dean’s eyes narrowed as his lips curled into a smirk, his posture relaxed as if he wasn’t still on the verge of violence. he was in control again, but you knew that control could snap back into rage any moment.

“yeah?” voice dripping with sarcasm. “and what are you gonna do about it, huh? tell me what i should do sweetheart?"

the last part stung, like a slap to the face. you didn’t want to deal with this. you didn’t want to deal with him anymore. but part of you still cared, and that’s what made your next words come out shakier than you expected.

“i wasn’t doing anything wrong. i—i barely know him!" you scramble for an excuse, pathetic you know, but still feeling the need to prove yourself.

before dean could respond, you heard sirens in the distance. they were coming for him, and the panic in your chest doubled.

“dean, you need to leave. now.”

sirens were growing closer, but neither of you moved. dean’s glare never left you, his body still tense with the adrenaline from the confrontation. his hand twitched as if he wanted to grab you, pull you into him, but there was something in his eyes now. something that made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered to him in that moment.

“dean, go, please...” your voice was shaky, but you couldn’t keep the part of you that was still drawn to him, the part that wanted him to save him.

you shouldn’t feel this way, not after what he'd just done, but here you were standing face to face with him again. the air thick with unresolved tension. your chest heaved as you tried to fight the pull toward him.

when deans boots met the tips of your shoes, you didn’t move. every inch of your body was screaming at you to get away, but your legs felt rooted to the ground caught in his gravitational pull. 

“you been fucking around with him?” dean growled lowly, his voice like gravel. his eyes flicked down to your lips, and the raw, possessive energy he gave off made your pulse quicken.

your skin tingling as his fingers brushed lightly against your arm. his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how much you wanted it. how your anger towards him turned into a twisted longing.

“dean, you—” your words faltered mind racing. you needed him to leave, to not get caught in the middle of this mess, but the weight of him standing in front of you made everything feel like it was spiralling. “please, just go before the cops get here... m'not doing this with you right now” you plead.

but once agin he didn’t budge. his jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with frustration. “'doing this'? you think i’m just gonna walk away now? after everything you did to me, and then you go and pull this shit?” his breath hot against your face for a beat.

"y'think i’m gonna leave you out here, alone with him? that i can just move on like that?” his voice softened, like a switch had flipped. “you know i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, never have”.

your heart hammered in your chest, but there was a part of you that couldn’t fight the way his words made you feel. his eyes softened just enough, like he was trying to pull you back in, like he was still the guy who could make you believe everything would be okay if you just stayed with him.

his fingers brushed along the curve of your cheek, and the way he looked at you was too much, too familiar.

“i need you, baby” he cooed, his thumb gently tracing your bottom lip. “don’t push me away, don’t make this harder than it has to be. m'not leaving without you.”

it wasn’t just sweet talk—it was manipulation. everything he used to do, everything that used to make you feel like you could never escape him. even though your mind screamed for you to run away, your body betrayed you.

“c’mon” dean muttered, his grip on your wrist firm but not painful, pulling you toward the impala with an urgency that made your heart race. “we’re getting outta here before the cops show up. no more waiting, not for him, not for anyone.”

you didn’t have the energy to fight him anymore. you wanted to scream, to tell him to leave you alone, but you couldn't. knowing what he was capable of and lost in the memories of the way things used to feel with him.

he shoved the door open to the impala, pushing you inside and slamming it shut with that familiar squeak of the hinges. before you could even catch your breath, he was in the driver’s seat, gunning the engine.

dean's eyes flicked over to you, quick, dangerous. “you didn’t think you could just move on, did you? thought you could have that with him?”

silence stretched between you and dean, tense and thick like smoke. your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

“why are you even here, dean?” you finally asked, your voice quiet, raw. “how did you even know where i was?”

he didn’t look at you at first. just kept driving, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. but then he let out a low breath, almost like a laugh.

“y’really think i stopped caring sweetheart?” he muttered, voice low and rough. “that i wouldn’t know where you were, in case something happened?”

you blinked, taken back by his words. “you still have my location?"

he glanced at you, just a quick look, but it was enough. that familiar softness in his eyes. that same lie he used to sell so well.

“just needed to make sure you were safe…” he said, voice dipping into that dangerous sweetness. “that you were okay without me, cause i’m not. m'not okay without you, baby. our beds been so fuckin cold these past few months without you”.

you shook your head dismissively, trying to keep your guard up but the heat behind your eyes betrayed you.

“that’s not fair,” you whispered. “you don’t get to say that. not after everything—”

“i know,” he cut in, softer now. “ i know i fucked up... was angry and tired, i let the job get to me. fuck i pushed you away. but i never stopped loving you. i never stopped needing you”.

you stared out the window, trying to focus on anything but the way his voice made your chest tighten.

“you beat the shit out of some poor guy tonight" you mumbled flatly, as it wasn’t a total shock given his line of work.

dean’s bruised hand flexed on the wheel, the crusted bloodied cuts a reminder of it. “yeah. cause he touched what’s mine.”

“dean" you warned, voice shaking. “i’m not yours anymore.”

he pulled the impala to a halt on the side of a quiet street. his bloodied hand came up, gentle under your chin, turning your face toward him.

“say that again,” he said, voice a low growl now, but not angry—wounded. “look me in the eyes and say you don’t still want me.”

your mouth opened, but the words didn’t come. because no matter how badly you wanted to deny it, the truth was sitting right there in the way your thighs pressed together.

his hand slid down your neck, warm and familiar, before his lips brushed the corner of your mouth. soft, almost reverent.

then his voice dropped, rough and low against your skin. “tell me to stop" he breathed, nose nudging yours. “say the word, and i’ll walk away.”

but the words never came. it hung on the tip of your tongue, trembling like the rest of you, but you couldn’t say it. you didn’t want to say it.

dean’s mouth hovered over yours, his breath fanning across your lips.

“that’s what I thought,” he muttered, voice drenched in smug satisfaction. then he kissed you, desperate and claiming, like he’d been dying to taste you again.

your fingers curled into his jacket without thinking, pulling him closer as his hands roamed, dragging you with him as he slid back onto the bench seat of the impala, pulling you straight on to his lap.

his lips never left yours, tongues tangling, the kiss growing messier, needier by the second. his hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, cock dripping pre-cum in his boxers already.

“i missed this" he rasped between kisses, his teeth grazing your jaw. “missed you”

his hands explored like he already knew every inch of you, but needed to relearn it anyway. mind flashing back to the countless times you'd been intimate with him on the worn bench seat.

“c'mon say it" he murmured, lips trailing down your throat. “tell me you’re still my girl" sucking a hickey just above your shirt collar.

“dean…” you whispered, hips giving in to grind against the bulge in his jeans.

“just say it,” he coaxed, kissing the corner of your mouth again, then lower, just under your jaw. “say you're still mine"

you mind was foggy, pulse thundering, but your body was already betraying you. and when his hands cupped your face, still dusted with the dried remnants of matt’s blood, it only made your breath catch harder.

“i’m still yours, dee” you whispered the nickname, broken and breathless.

“that’s my girl"

he leaned back in the seat manspreading his thighs further to drag your hips back and forth. with slow, reverent fingers, he slipped his rough calloused hands beneath the hem of your top, thumbs brushing your waist, touch featherlight.

the streaks of blood on his knuckles stood out starkly against the softness of your skin, but his touch was anything but harsh.

“you're so fuckin beautiful baby” he murmured, dragging your shirt higher, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone as he exposed you inch by inch.

despite everything—the chaos, fear, the blood, your body arched into his hands, craving more of that all-consuming fire only dean winchester had ever made you feel.

your shirt ended up somewhere in the backseat now, discarded without a second thought. dean was already lowering his mouth to your chest, eyes flicking up to yours like he needed to watch the way you fell apart for him.

“you missed me, didn’t you?” he rasped, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive nipples.

your only answer was a soft gasp when his mouth closed around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking slow and deep. your fingers tangled in his hair on instinct, which was slightly longer since you ended things with him.

“fuck—dean…” you whimper.

he switched sides, giving your other breast the same worship, soft kisses and wet licks “been dreamin’ about this... every night. wakin’ up so fuckin’ hard, thinking 'bout this perfect body"

you whimpered, your thighs squeezing around his as he rocked your hips forward. “dean, please…”

“please what” he breathed, his hands roaming your fragile skin. “tell me what you want, baby. i’ll give you anything you want.

his fingers toyed around the crotch of your jeans “this pretty little cunt need’a get stuffed?”

“i need you... need you inside me" you breathe.

he gave a low chuckle, before pulling back just enough to catch your lips in a searing kiss. his hands were already working at his belt, yanking it free with a quick, jerky motion. shedding off clothes until you were both bare.

his cock pressed up between both of your bellies, the soft pudge of deans stomach now glossy with pre-cum. mouth watering at the sight of him again. equal parts thick and with veiny length.

"look at this greedy cunt," he growled against your mouth. he guided the head of his cock to your folds, tapping it against your clit, just to make you squirm with frustration. "can't wait five fuckin' minutes, huh?"

“y'feel that, baby? feel how badly you still want me?” his voice was rough and taunting. he continued to gently tap and rub against you, only giving you the briefest maddening taste of what you were aching for.

your hands grabbed at his shoulders, pulling him closer, trying to close the distance, but he just smirked enjoying your desperation. enjoying that he had you back exactly where he wanted you. needy and desperate for him.

"this cunts droolin' over me already, fuck" he hissed, his lips brushing against yours as he the tip of his cock barely slipped inside, then pulling back.

“dean... please, i don’t want anyone else, just you. please i’ll never leave you again, i swear. i love you, only you. i need you dee" tears welled in your eyes as you looked up at him, your heart racing, your body trembling from the overwhelming need pulsing through you.

dean’s eyes softened for just a moment, his lips curling into a twisted smile. "go ahead then baby" he purred roughly. "ride that cock then, take what you need from me”.

without warning, he smacked your ass hard enough to make you gasp, the sharp sting sending a jolt of sensation through you as you sank down onto him, the familiar stretch of him filling you completely.

you began to move, slowly at first, getting used to the way he stretched you open, each slow roll of your hips making you ache with longing. keeping the searing eye contact with him as he gripped the fat of your ass.

but it didn’t take long for him to grow impatient. his hands moved to your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he planted his feet flat on the car floor, his muscles flexing as he thrusts up into you.

the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the tight space, the rhythm of your bodies moving together filling the air. heat between you both was unbearable, impala's windows fogging up.

he alternated between spanking the plush of your ass, and sucking love bites anywhere he could. he was determined to leave you branded with his marks for a few days. so if you regretted it the next day, you were still left with the reminder of him.

dean groaned beneath you, his breath ragged, but his voice still sharp with praise. "fuck you look so good ontop a'me" he hissed, eyes burning into yours as he drove up harder, deeper.

you could barely keep your eyes open with how much he was giving you, how his thrusts turned punishing, each one pulling you closer to the edge.

his palm placed gently around your throat. not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you belonged to.

his thumb pressed beneath against your rapid pulse, holding you there, eyes locked on yours like he needed to see every second of you falling apart for him.

“m'gonna cum inside you,” he groaned, voice low and dangerous. “can’t fuckin’ waste it. take it like a good girl f'me, yeah?”

your whimper turned into a mewling cry when his thumb dipped between your legs, rubbing fast circles over your clit. the combination was too much—the rough rhythm of his cock nudging your cervix, the heat in his voice, the gentle squeeze at your throat.

with a shattered cry, eyes glassy, body trembling, you fell apart for him.

“that’s it fuck” he panted, slamming up into you one last time. “feel that? that’s mine.”

his release hit deep, his grip firm as he kept you flush to him, letting every last drop of his sticky cum stuff you full.

the fogged windows, the slick slide of your bodies still locked together, was filthy and overwhelming. but when he looked at you, all blown pupils and panting breaths, it almost felt like home.

you were still trembling in his lap, your forehead resting against his, breath catching in your throat every few seconds. the aftershocks rolled through you, your thighs twitching around his hips but dean’s hands didn’t leave your body, not even for a second.

“you alright, sweetheart?” he murmured against your temple, placing a gentle kiss there “did so fuckin’ good for me.”

his lips brushed your hairline, then your cheek, then your jaw, kissing the sweat and desperation from your skin like he wanted to memorize every piece of you.

still buried inside you, he shifted just enough to cradle you closer, his large hand splaying across your lower back, keeping you flush to him. you felt the remnants of dried blood from his knuckles brush your skin, but his touch now was nothing but reverent.

“you'll always be mine,” he whispered, more to himself than you. “n’you belong right here"

your eyes fluttered shut, your heart pounding against his chest, and despite everything that had just happened—the madness, the violence, the need—you felt a sense of safety being back in his arms again.

divider creds here

tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery

[cause-im-mirrorball]

──────── ⋆˚꩜｡ S T R O K E C O U N T P.4 ⚐

cw: cartgirl!reader x golfer!jensen.ᐟ cheating.ᐟ age gap.ᐟ tension.ᐟ flirting.ᐟ pet names [sweetheart, pretty girl].ᐟ sex [p in v].ᐟ risk of getting caught.ᐟ ‘dirty secret’.ᐟ 18+

part one here — part two here — part three here

bee yaps:

۫ ꣑ৎ alright this is for anyone who wanted a part four. I don’t really like the ending but I’m tired okayyy!!

۫ ꣑ৎ i don’t condone cheating, this is all in the state of pure fiction .ᐟ

the ringtone sliced through the intensity like a knife. part of you wanted to get the hell out of there, get your clothes and run, the other half too turned on to do a damn thing about it.

"fuck" he barely flinched. just sighed almost annoyed, and dragged the phone off the nightstand with two fingers.

you were still trembling,naked beneath him, lips swollen and breath shaky from where you’d just licked your own arousal off his wedding band.

your thighs twitched around his hips, overstimulated and burning for more, but the second he saw the name on the screen, a coolness settled behind his eyes.

“hey, sweetheart" he said smoothly, voice dipping into that familiar soft drawl, the exact same tone he used the day you met him out working the beverage cart. warm, easy and charismatic.

the voice of a man you hadn’t known was married.

your blood ran hot. feeling shameful and desperate all at once. his hand slid up your bare thigh, slow and deliberate. dragging goosebumps in its wake. two fingers curled under your knee, guiding your leg to hook higher around his waist.

your breath hitched when you felt the hard press of him, thick and ready dragging against your slick cunt. arousal clearly giving away any protest of not wanting him the way you wished you would.

“yeah, no, it’s been a long one—” he said into the phone, shifting his weight so his cock rested right at your entrance, heavy and glossy with pre-cum. “meetings all day".

then he gave you a look. a sly dark look that said all the words he didn't have to say...

don’t dare make a sound.

your heart thundered as he started to push in. inch by inch, stretching you open around him so achingly slow it made your toes curl, teeth digging into your bottom lip, breath stuck in your throat. he was big, so fucking big, and every inch made your body tighten, squeezing around him as your fingers gripped the sheets in a white knuckled plea.

“nah, didn’t even have time for lunch” he added, casual and sweet, like he wasn’t pressing you to the hilt, with a groan muffled by ‘clearing his throat’. “but i’m unwinding now. hittin' the course with the boys".

his gaze locked on yours then, almost cruel with how knowing it was. unwinding. 

you were how he was unwinding. not a round of golf. not a cold beer. you and your sweet pussy.

you almost choked on your own spit when his hips rolled forward, shallow and slow, dragging the full length of him against your sensitive walls. you bit your lip hard to stay silent, tears springing to your eyes at the pressure and the way your body clenched, needing him to move more.

but you couldn’t. it was too much.

a soft, broken sound escaped you, a whimper laced with pleasure and disbelief, and his eyes narrowed sharply. his free hand moved fast, slipping between your lips and pressing two fingers deep into your mouth. your jaw stretched to accommodate him, the pads of his fingers resting heavy on your tongue to silence you.

“be good for me” he murmured pressing the phone on mute for a split second. his thumb brushed your cheek gently, but his eyes were firm. “i know y’can do it”.

then he thrust again, deeper this time, hips slamming flush to yours in one slow, devastating push. your nails dug into his biceps, the stretch of him and the burn of holding back coiling in your gut like a live wire.

“mmh, love you too” he said into the phone with such polished adoration that it made your stomach twist "can't wait to see you too baby, mmhm, bye".

he ended the call with a low grunt, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand without a second glance. and then, his hands were on you. gripping your waist, yanking you up with almost no effort, his mouth hot against your neck.

“get. up.” he rasped.

your legs wobbled, but he manhandled you until your feet touched the cold hardwood and he spun you toward the window. the long, sheer curtains danced in the evenings breeze from a cracked pane. it barely concealed anything. you could see the dimly lit fairways of the course outside, empty and quiet in the sunset.

his firm grasp guided you to press against the floor-length window, cheek smooshed against it's cold surface, tits pressed tightly into it too.

“y'feel bad?” he growled as he pushed inside you again, deeper this time, making your breath catch in your throat. “you should. letting a married man fuck you".

the window fogged up with your a mix of your gasps and saliva. palms flattening against the glass as his hips snapped forward, relentless and punishing, making your thighs tremble.

you tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a broken moan.

“what was that?” he said, leaning in close, breath hot against the shell of your ear. “should i stop?”

your eyes welled, lashes damp with heat and confusion and pleasure so sharp it was almost pain.

“no” you whispered, voice cracking, slurping up the drool that managed to seep out.

he pulled almost all the way out, making you whine in protest, then stilled.

“then say it”

you swallowed hard “i— i don’t want you to stop”.

he grunted, satisfaction curling in his voice like smoke “s’not what i asked”.

he slammed back in, burying himself to the hilt, earning a mewl from you.

“tell me you like getting fucked by a married man” with a sharp sting on your ass as he slapped it.

you sobbed, forehead pressed to the glass, the shame making your skin burn and your cunt clench even tighter around him.

“i like it” you breath “i like getting fucked by a married man—please”.

his hand curved around your throat, not tight but just enough pressure to anchor you there, to make sure you felt the weight of what you were doing. of what he was doing to you.

his hips moved with sharp purpose, a rhythm that bordered cruel if not for the soft little praises that slipped through between thrusts.

“christ, sweet girl, not all just pretty looks, are you?” he gritted “makin’ me forget i gotta whole wife waiting at home” 

your hands scrabbled against the windowpane, searching for something to hold onto that didn’t exist. nothing to ground you except him. his raspy voice, his firm body pressing into you, the filthy relentless slide of his cock molding into you.

he leaned in again, his chest flush to your back, and the roughness of his stubble scraped your ear as he growled “bet y’thought about this the past few weeks, haven’t you?”

you nodded, barely, feeling your own juices drip down the insides of your thighs.

“thought about me bending you over right here, where anyone could see. letting me use this pretty body while i lie to my wife on the phone?”

your teeth sank into your lower lip, tears clinging to your lashes. you didn’t trust yourself to answer, not when your knees were buckling, not when the glass was trembling with the force of his thrusts.

but that only seemed to spur him on further.

he slipped two fingers past your lips once again, hooking the side of your mouth open, his favourite place to put them. “c’mon, tell me you like being my dirty secret”

your moan echoed against his fingers, eyes fluttering shut as you sucked on the digits instinctively. he groaned low in his throat, hips stuttering slightly.

“fuckin christ—” he breathed “so goddamn messy for me. drooling all over my fingers while i split you open”.

you tried to speak, tried to tell him how good it felt, how deep he was, but it was all muffled. nothing but wet creamy skin-smacking-skin filling the room.

his pace slowed, pulling out with a sloppy squelch.

his hands slide down, gripping beneath your thighs and hoisting you up with practiced strength before you can blink.

suddenly you’re weightless, scooped up like nothing, your back pressed flush to the cool glass as he holds you there. strong arms gripping the fat of your ass, body caged around yours.

you wrap around him on instinct, like some sort of second nature, arms clinging behind his neck, legs locked around his waist.

“gonna miss my pretty girl…” he groans again, thrusts back in slow but deep, “this pussy—fuck—it’s gonna haunt me”.

your heat wrapped around him, your soft little gasps at his ear, everything was blurring the lines of responsibility, of the pressure of his life back home.

his forehead drops to yours, sweat beading at his temple as he breathes you in like he’s already gone.

“you’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice rough but quiet. “one more day and i’m gone, and all i’ll be thinking about is this.” his hips roll into you, deep and steady, and you keen into his mouth when he kisses you. messy, open-mouthed, tongues slow and wet as he fucks you right against the glass.

“every swing, every hole—fuck” he groans, swallowing your words, “gonna see you everywhere on that course. my pretty girl with this sweet mouth and this perfect fuckin’ cunt.”

you nod helplessly, arms winding tighter around his neck. your body gives another needy pulse around him, and he groans deep in his chest, lost in it, in you.

“gonna miss me too, huh?” he smiles a little, lips ghosting along your jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make you chuckle shyly.

“yeah?” he mutters, dragging his nose along your cheek, kissing the corner of your mouth like it’s a secret.

“look at me” he growls, voice thick with something greedy, almost possessive. his hips slam up hard, by the grasp of your ass in his hands. flesh smacking loud and wet between you, and your eyes flutter but you obey.

his stare pins you in place intense, like you can barely keep the eye contact. like he’s memorizing your fucked out face, the hazy lust filled eyes, glistening parted lips.

with a few more brutal thrust up into you, his breaking point comes with a loud groan. “fuuuuck” he pants, lips hot against your skin, voice trembling as he spills into your slick cunt.

“always gonna be my pretty girl, don’t forget it ‘cause i’ll be back” he murmurs, a soft kiss to your forehead.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel @bejeweledinterludes @deanstubble @sunnyteume

[cause-im-mirrorball]

cw: smut.ᐟ oral [m.receiving].ᐟ soft&dom!ben.ᐟ praise kink.ᐟ daddy kink.ᐟ light humiliation.ᐟ glasses kink [kinda].ᐟ face fucking.ᐟ spit everywheres.ᐟ cum on face&glasses.ᐟ pet names [bunny, sweetheart, pretty girl, good girl].ᐟ sloppy and messy.ᐟ 18+

wc: 1500

۫ ꣑ৎ bee yaps: absolute filth. reader calls him daddy a few times, there's the warning. also for any of the glass-wearing girls!! if you’re not into it pls don’t read!! ༝༚༝༚

you were already on your knees, naked and waiting, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. those same pretty frames he couldn’t stop looking at, being the only thing you had on.

ben was still fully dressed, boots on, shirt clinging tight to his chest, belt buckle glinting in the dim light. he hadn’t even touched himself yet. just stood there in front of you, arms folded and watching you squirm. thighs pressed together, eyes wide and glossy.

his hand dragged along your cheek, fingers tilting your face up until you were looking at him. your lips were parted, breath warm and damp with spit. and that look in your eyes, fuck, he could’ve come from that alone, so desperate to please.

“undo it then” he said lowly, like it was something you’d both been waiting on. “use those pretty little hands and take my belt off, bunny.”

your fingers fumbled with the metal buckle, shaky and eager. ben didn’t help, just stood there watching while you pulled the leather strap free from the loops, slow and reverent.

your hands hovered for a second, then slid down, popping the button open, easing the zipper down. the unmistakable rasp of metal teeth slipping apart.

your eyes dart from ben's down to his crotch. the denim parted just enough for the thick outline of his cock to press forward, straining against the dark fabric of his boxers. already hard and already waiting for you.

he tugged at the waistband, enough to free himself, almost bobbing out to smack you in the face. wrapping one hand around the thick base of his cock, slow strokes as he stepped closer. “y'gonna be a good bunny for me?”

you nodded quick, voice already a soft whimper. “m’gonna be good, i promise, please daddy—”

he cut you off with the first tap of his cock against your cheek. light at first, then firmer, each one nudging your head with the weight of him.

your breath hitched, lashes fluttering, but you didn’t pull away, letting him do it. his smirk twitched, smug and lazy, and then he smeared his pearly pre-cum across your cheek in messy strokes. warm and wet.

“that so hm?” he muttered, sliding the tip along your jaw. “say it again.”

you stuck your tongue out, already drooling at the thought of tasting him.

“i’ll be good” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “i'll be a good bunny i promise. please let me taste it—” you squirm.

he groaned low as he dragged the flushed head across your other cheek, the mess glistening on your skin. a bead of spit slipped from the corner of your mouth.

“gonna let me use this mouth?” he rasped.

you nodded again without thinking. his grip on his cock tightened.

“words"

“yes” you whispered, breathless. “wanna be good, wanna make you feel good."

he exhaled hard through his nose, jaw clenched. “then open up. lemme see that tongue.”

you did as he asked, pink tongue flicking out, lips parting wide. he tapped the tip against it once, then again, smearing precum over the warm slick of your tastebuds.

“y’sure you can fit more this time, baby?” he asked, brushing your hair back with one steady hand.

you nodded fast. the ache between your legs making a mess. so much of a mess, you slipped a few delicate fingers down to ease some of that throbbing tension.

ben noticed. the little shift in your hip, a hand disappearing between your legs to touch yourself. the way your eyes fluttered with heat.

“nu-uh bad bunnies don’t get what they want,” he tsked. “and impatient ones? they get teased.”

he tapped two fingers against your lips. “open up, bunny. let me see how sweet that mouth is.”

you obeyed, lips parting, letting his fingers slide over your tongue. thick and slow. your spit coated them immediately, your lips sucking obediently around each pump.

he pulled them free with a wet sound, a string of your saliva stretching between them. then he fisted your hair and tugged your head back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“tongue out for me”

you flicked it out again, and he finally guided his cock to your mouth, letting the head drag slowly across your plump bottom lip. he tapped it once, twice, then again harder, the wet plop sound echoing.

“go on” he rasped, thumb at your chin. “don’t be scared now sweetheart.”

you leaned forward, licking up the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he was warm and heavy, the thick vein along the bottom throbbing against your tongue. every ridge, every pulse, every twitch burned into your memory.

“fuck—” he groaned, head tilting back for a split second. “feel how hard you make me, bunny?”

you nodded, lips wrapping around the head. your tongue swirled over the tip in slow, teasing circles. he tasted like salt, something earthy and heady, and completely addictive.

it made your pussy ache and lips suck harder.

inch by inch, you worked your way down, your jaw stretching, lips slick with spit. two hands curled around the base to steady what you couldn’t yet fit. tears pricked your eyes, but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t.

you pulled back for air, panting, spit strings coating your lips and his cock. and still it wasn’t enough. the ache in your core throbbed, sharp and insistent at how empty you were.

you took a hand off him and drifted lower. pressing your fingers against the slick heat between your thighs, dragging them over your clit, just once.

ben’s eyes dropped. “what’s that hand doin’, bunny?”

your lips parted, but you kept touching yourself. slow circles. shame blooming in your chest.

he gripped your hair tighter, not to hurt, just to anchor. “you that fuckin' needy?” he growled. “got a cock in your face and still need your fingers on that pretty cunt?”

you nodded, nuzzling against his shaft, kissing the base. closing your eyes when his hips rocked forwards. throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling at the corners of your lips. he moaned, deep and low, when you took him again.

your lips dragged down to his balls, mouth wet and eager. you licked over one, then sucked it in, soft and slow. your hand still pumping his cock. your eyes lifted up, glassy and wide, while your tongue swirled around each jewel like you’d done it a hundred times.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “makin’ such a mess of yourself."

you let them go with a soft pop, dragging your tongue back up. your jaw ached from being stretched. your fingers were soaked, cunt throbbed with every grunt that left his mouth.

“jaw hurtin’ yet, bunny?” he asked, thumb brushing your spit-slick cheek. “droolin’ all over me, fuck m'gonna cum.”

you choked around him again, trying your best to take as much was you could. spit splattering your chin and drooling down to your breasts. when you pulled back, a thick string connected your lips to the flushed, twitching head of his cock.

“please… please wanna make you cum" you mumbled.

his thumb caught your lip, slick and hot. “you want it, huh?” he hummed. “y'wanna wear it like a pretty girl?”

“say it” he muttered, voice low and hungry. “tell me to paint this pretty fuckin’ face with cum.”

you tried, your voice cracked around him, muffled and useless. your nails dug into his thighs, clawing red lines that surely would be there later.

but ben saw it in your eyes, the pleading doe-eyed look you gave him, and that was all it took.

pulling out of your mouth he groaned deep as he pumped himself a few times, rough and sticky. aligning the swollen tip right against your glass frames.

and when he came, it was hot and heavy splatting across your face. you whimpered closing your eyes at the weight of it, sticky and warm, dripping across your cheeks, your lips, and the curve of your chin.

your glasses caught the brunt of it. splattered with creamy streaks that clung to the lenses. you blinked behind them, dazed, trying to focus.

ben let out a noise, half-laugh, half-moan. he reached down, dragging a thick smear of his release across the glass with two fingers.

“can’t even see straight now, can you?” his lips twitched in a smile. “made a fuckin’ mess of you, bunny.”

you nodded, lips still parted, breath caught in your chest.

his thumb tilted your chin, holding you there, eyes locked on the wrecked mess of your face.

“come here,” he said, already pulling you up, into his arms like you weighed nothing. his fingers caught another glistening stripe off your cheek and brought it down to your lips.

“open up, sweetheart.”

you did, cheeks hollowing around his thumb as you sucked him clean without hesitation.

his hand cradled your head, brushing your jaw as he watched you.

“could keep you like this forever,” he murmured, soft and sincere. “right here, all sweet. ain’t nothin��� better than this.”

tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel @bejeweledinterludes @deanstubble @sunnyteume @titsout4jackles @sunnyfuffly @deansbeer

if you'd like to be added / removed for the taglist pls comment or private message me ༝༚༝༚

[cause-im-mirrorball]

another masterpiece engraved into my brain

pride ☆ cl16

genre: smut, manipulation, erotic literature, egotistical reader+charles, rivals to "lovers", tennis!reader, a bit of fluff and humor, mentions of depression, mentions to suicide, mentions of alcoholism

word count: 14.1k

pride (noun) — a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, cowgirl, doggy style, fingering, fingers in mouth bc why not?

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh] !

cherry here!...thank you all for being so patient with me and for sticking around—welcome to the twisted world of prideeee mwah!

You’re both on opposite sides of the world with very little knowledge about one another when they break the news.

You and the Monegasque like to think that your guys’ reaction was quite valid.

“Fuck!” 

Smashing your tennis racket against the green court, you let out a yell slithered with a deep trace of agony, feeling your vocal cords threaten you to snap with how raw and cruel the sound is. That alone makes your manager, Lisa, flinch harshly, quickly covering her ears as she squints her eyes with bewilderment. Up and down, you raise the paddle, each time crushing it harder against the concrete, pieces of plastic flying everywhere as your face burns red with fury. And for a moment there, the blond woman who’s devoted most of her life to you and your religiously famous family, begins to wonder—what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Letting go of the racket, you stomp on it this time until it’s no longer recognizable. Lisa curses beneath her breath, somehow having it mixed with a wince as she takes a steady step back before hugging her tablet against her chest as some sort of shield, just in case you decide to swing at her next. Lord knows you have it in you. Grinding your teeth, your dark eyes finally meet hers as you inch closer, enough that you can spit at her if that was really your intention. She prays it’s not. 

Who got the cover?

“Fuck!”

Throwing his steering wheel worth more than life itself, Charles lets out a yell, something that catches everyone around him by surprise because he’s not usually like this. He doesn’t normally lose his temper this way, and if he ever does, it’s definitely not in front of his loyal team.

As soon as it makes its impact with the floor, it shatters into a million little pieces, making him scream until his throat hurts, foot stomping all over, making things much, much worse. Isaiah, his manager, nearly makes a run for it as soon as the Monegasque reaches for his helmet, chucking it towards the nearest wall, a loud crack following rapidly. He hears the murmurs behind the heat of his ears, he hears the way the mechanics all mumble to one another, but honestly, he doesn’t give a single fuck about any of that right now.

Who got the cover?

Right—the cover to the most prestigious magazine of all time. Generations and generations of actors, singers, models, entrepreneurs—athletes—who have fought their way against one another for it. To stand out in ways very few can. 

Vogue.

Everyone has the same goal—to be the face printed onto the front page. It’s plain and simple. But to get there was the trouble.

May’s issue. That’s where you’re trying to be. And the funny thing is that you should've been chosen by now. You’ve been having your best season yet. Becoming a professional tennis player has always been a part of your destiny, since birth. It’s just the way things have played out in your favor. How exactly? Well, because your father injected his talent into your veins—he was no ten-time Grand Slam winner for no reason.

Your entire childhood has been filled with luxury all thanks to him. You saw trophies shine brighter than stars, you felt medals weigh heavier than boulders, and you savored all his accomplishments as if they were your own. And in hindsight, they sort of were.

Like it was just yesterday, you can still picture him, forming a gun with his fingers, shooting it at you with a proud smile, crinkles indicating his pure euphoria. Three fingers, aimed at you and your two older brothers—one to indicate Bennett, one to indicate Vinnie, and one to indicate you. Your mother never liked that stupid celebration of his, she never understood it, but you didn’t really care about that—it was never meant for her, so why was it to matter?

You remember the way you’d tag along to his tennis practices, to his prestigious photoshoots, and you remember how much you loved it. Time and time again, you begged him to teach you how to play, how to win. Only that was where you learned his secret to success.

“You have to view everybody else as the loser,” he’d advise with a cigarette in his mouth. You rarely saw him smoke, but when you did, he became a little bit more open and honest. He’d cover your nose with a spare towel to prevent you from inhaling too much second hand smoke and made you swear not to tattle on him, and you always promised the exact same thing: this is just between you and I. “Think of yourself as the winner. Think about winning because there is no other option. Do you want to be pitied?”

“No,” you’d respond firmly. “I want to be just like you.”

He’d laugh, always that same laugh. The one that sounded like it was fading into the clouds, but at the same time, more alive than ever. Your eyes would twinkle, indicating your admiration towards him like no other.

“There’s only one me, sweetheart.” A sly smile. “But there’s only one of you.” Blowing a gray puff of smoke into your face, you’d giggle, digging it deeper into the clean rag. “And I think that’s worth more.”

He died a few years later. Your mother blamed it on the drugs, your brothers blamed on the fame, but you blamed it on the heartbreak of being left to die in the dust as soon as new blood entered the game. Whatever it was, it ruined what was left of your family.

Only recently, you’ve been going through a rough patch yourself. You can’t put a finger on the last time you won a match, one that boosted your ego the same way it boosted your paycheck. The thrill was dying and apparently so was your talent. So, yeah, you need the Vogue cover.

You needed validation.

“You’re s-still under consideration, Charles,” Isaiah stutters, tucking his chin in order to avoid his strict gaze. “You just need to stand out, that’s all.”

He knows what Isaiah means by that—he needs to win again in order to gain their attention.

Quite frankly, the Ferrari driver never really cared for things like this. He never understood what the fight was for, it was never a part of his agenda. Until this year. When Lewis first joined the team, the Monegasque was quick to be waterboarded with all of his accomplishments—his championships, his race wins, his pole positions, his podiums. Everything about him screamed utter perfection.

And regularly, he wouldn’t let that get to him. This was his friend, he should be proud of that, but all of the comparisons are what wore him down eventually, one sucker punch at a time. Then, the opportunity to be the face of Vogue’s May issue came up.

“Wow.” Lewis whistled, brown orbs trained onto the screen where Zhou took his Ferrari on a test run. He smiled, dimples forming. “That’s a pretty big deal, innit?”

Was it? To be fair, the green eyed driver couldn’t tell, but the way the Brit said it made him think, yeah—it was a massive deal. Charles chuckled, arms crossed with his excitement building up higher than any skyscraper planted on Earth. “It’d be kinda cool to get it, I suppose.”

“Cool?” Lewis teased light heartedly. “It’ll set you for life, man, that’s what it’ll do for ya.”

And he couldn’t help but ask, he couldn’t help but feel confused. The Monegasque titled his head, thick brows knitting together. “Set me for life, how?”

Just then, Zhou pulled back into the garage, gaining Lewis’ attention, and he’s about to walk away, but before he had the chance to, he shrugged sheepishly.

“I’d put a heavy layer of respect onto your last name, that’s for sure.”

And he was right. Getting the cover of Vogue would make everyone take him seriously. He’d no longer be the one hiding in Lewis’s shadow, he'd no longer be the scapegoat or Ferrari's dry spell—he’d be the one.

He needed it.

“You’re up against Charles Leclerc,” Lisa said all at once, waiting for you to throw another tantrum. But it never comes. Instead, you ask—

Who’s that?

Isaiah freezes. “How do you not know who she is?”

Charles sighs. “I don’t have time for this, just tell me, will you?”

The black haired man shakes his head, swiping a finger along his tablet for a split second before flipping his screen towards him. There, with the brightest screen ever, the Monegasque squints, reading your name, followed by a last name that comes off far more familiar than he’d like to admit.

“Wait a second—she’s the daughter of that one tennis player? You know, the one who won eight Grand Sla—”

“Ten,” Isaiah corrects him like a little know-it-all before deflating beneath the harsh glare. “But yes. That would be her. She’s had a spectacular year. Well, up until—”

Lisa’s eyes widened. “How do you not know who Charles Lecelrc is?”

“Leclerc,” you repeat, furrowing your neat brows. “Leclerc, Lerclerc, Lecelerc…huh?” And then it hits you harder than a tide. You snap your fingers loudly. “Hold on! He’s the son of that one driver so long ago, uh, what’s his name? Ju…Ju…”

“Jules Bianchi?” Lisa offers, making you nod fiercely. She laughs. “Only that’s not his son, he’s his godfather. His father was Hervé Leclerc. He passed away a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “Yeah. My father used to be friends with his, I think.”

Charles rubs his eyes. “My father used to be friends with hers. I remember now.”

Isaiah grins, as if his realization might mean something to him. It doesn’t. “She’s been having a bit of bad luck on court, but she’s one of the highest grossing tennis players of all time.”

“So what?” Charles shoots back. “I’m one of the highest grossing drivers of all time, aren’t I? Are they seriously pitting me against a nobody?”

“—he looks like such a snob,” you declare, grabbing a small towel from your duffel bag, patting yourself dry, no longer interested in practicing, though you could really use it. “Like he assumes everything is for him. It’s obnoxious.”

“—she looks like a petty little princess,” Charles announces, slipping his gloves off as he reaches for his water bottle, chugging down most of it in less than a second. Pulling away from his straw, he rolls his eyes. “It's like she thinks everything will fall into the palm of her hand. It’s obnoxious.”

Lisa bites her tongue.

Isaiah bites his tongue.

Sitting down on a wooden bench, the one your father and yourself would rest on most Sunday’s growing up, judging the way your brothers would attempt to play tennis, never really as good as you two, you hum, waving her off. “Doesn’t matter—they’re going to pick me over him, anyways.”

“There’s no way they’re going to choose her over me,” Charles points out, walking into his driver's room as the black haired man follows him squeamishly. “They’d have to be out of their minds in order to do that.”

Lisa makes a face. “Here’s the thing, honey…”

Isaiah lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, so here’s the thing…”

They want you guys to fight for it.

“Fight for it?” Charles echoes, scoffing sourly. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Fight for it?” you ask, face pinched up. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Isaiah shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his tablet, the sound itself making the Monegasque clench his jaw. It was quickly starting to irritate him. “Make the best athlete win.”

Lisa smiles, trying to encourage you. “Make the best athlete win.”

A loud cackle rolls off the tip of your tongue, making her question your sanity. “Give me a break! Formula One drivers are not athletes.”

“Tennis players aren’t even athletes!” he pipes up, laughing at the thought of you and him being placed on the same level. “If anything, that takes her out of the equation, they should just give me the issue.”

“It belongs to me,” you declare, your voice breaking with how disturbed you were at the fact that you had to go through any of this. “I should be on the cover of Vogue, not him.”

Lisa licks her red lips. “And you will be, don’t worry. We just have to beat them to it. Shouldn’t be too hard, you’re a prodigy at what you do, everybody loves you—they’ll see that.”

“You’re the best at what you do, Charles,” Isaiah reassures his client. “We just have to jog their memories up a bit. After, they’ll have no other choice than to pick you, you’ll see.”

You don’t know why you ever doubted yourself.

He doesn’t know why he ever doubted himself.

You’re one of the best athletes of all time.

He’s one of the best athletes of all time.

You’ve got it locked down.

He’s got it locked down.

You smile, nodding with a mischievous look in your eyes. “You’re right…”

“You’re right…” Charles whispers, nodding with a roguish smile.

It’s obviously going to be me.

-

You’re in Monaco. 

You’re here for a match he doesn’t quite care about, but he finds himself attending anyway. He wants to see what he’s up against, if you will.

Smack!

Piercing green eyes struggle to keep up with your figure as you glide from side to side with such ease, following the neon ball, rapidly firing it back to your opponent with a certain determination in your eyes. The kind he's never seen before, the kind that doesn’t let the other player respond on time.

The kind that makes you win.

Bowing gently, you wave towards the massive crowd of people that celebrate you, chest rising hard and fast as you soak in this much needed victory. This is what sports were all about. This is what you knew like the back of your hand. This is what you’ve come to memorize.

This is what you were made for.

He pays close attention to the way you talk, how soft your voice comes across besides the fact that you look tough enough to snap back if necessary. He pays close attention in the way your eyes glint with excitement. He pays close attention in the way you wink at the camera, signing it with a white marker nicely before doing a quick finger gun, shooting sheepishly, and making your way off the court, leaving everyone to lose their minds at the infamous move your father was once known for.

As soon as you disappear, the Monegasque is fast to rise to his feet, following after you. And no one asks questions, no one wonders where he’s headed. That way—he reaches you in a second.

“I’m a huge fan!” he shouts, watching as you come to a halt. “Can I get a signature?”

Spinning back to face him, he’s instantly hit with a whiff of florals, which is weird because you’re practically drenched in sweat. Only, you don’t look half as gross as the other girl—you appeared to be absolutely breathtaking. Stunning. Radiant.

“Do I know you?” you ask, pink lips forming into a suspicious smile, slightly startled by his presence, he can tell.

The brunette grins, extending his arm out towards you. “I’d say so.” Linking your small hand into his, you giggle, somewhat dreamy eyed over his broad stature. “I’m Charles Leclerc.”

In less than a second, your face drops, suddenly scratched with hatred. Ripping your hand back, you pull it to your side, wiping it down against your skirt for good measure. “No wonder you looked so…familiar.” A beat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You use that word quite lightly, enough for him to know that you don’t mean it. By now, you’ve crossed your arms, bumping your hip out as you look up at him with a sense of boredom. He didn’t even want to be here, but of course, the fact that he was is what stroke your ego sickeningly well. He shrugs, tilting his head smugly. “Came to see you play. You were flawless out there.”

“You don’t mean that.” A click. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason why?”

And he doesn’t hesitate even by a bit.

“I want you to turn down the Vogue cover.”

Silence, then: “Sure.”

He blinks. “What?” You nod, continuing your march back to your dressing room, hearing the way he follows you like an abandoned stray. You bite back all kinds of snarky comments before he speaks up again. “Why are you making this so easy for me?”

Opening the door, you jut your head to the side, catching his confused expression. He hadn't expected this when he first showed up. He didn’t expect this when he first spoke to you. He simply didn’t expect this at all. A slow smile slowly starts to spread across your lips as you play with the golden knob. “I never stood a chance. You’re Charles Leclerc—it was bound to be you.”

He feels himself start to feel bad for pushing you to this. Pity. It’s not something he’s completely accustomed to, but you’ve brought it out of him it seems like, and now he’s left perplexed. “Wow. That’s, uh, really kind of you.”

“Kindness doesn’t always make you successful in life,” you note, stepping inside, leaning against the doorframe. “Sometimes you just have to be the bigger person and admit defeat, you know?”

“Sure,” he says. “The bigger person, yes.”

You giggle. “Yeah! And we both know that isn’t you, right?”

“Right,” he agrees before coming to the quick realization of what you’re actually saying to him. “Wait—are you calling me small?”

“Well…” Forest green nails tap against the wooden, slightly chipped frame as his blood begins to boil. And there it is again, his burning irritation. “If the shoe fits.” Flashing a dopey smile, you wave gingerly. “It was so nice to finally put a face to the man I’m going to outbeat!” you cheer before shutting the door right in his face.

Staring directly at your name that is spelled out in fancy cursive, the Monegasque hums to himself, glaring and wishing it was harsh enough to kick your door down.

Yeah. You definitely weren’t going to go down without a fight.

-

You extend your stay in Monaco for one reason and one reason only. 

His home race.

You studied him later that night, after he chased you down like a desperate bloke. You read all the articles you were able to find on him, took notes too. He was young, he was successful, and he was a heartbreaker. It's no wonder everyone stupidly falls for him. But much like you, he was sort of stuck in a predicament—he wasn’t winning as often as he once used to.

Which is why it catches you by surprise to see him zip past the checkered flag, claiming first place as if it was something he was born to do. And maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, and maybe your opinion didn’t matter.

You hated seeing him gloat like a champion, something he clearly was not. Electricity flies through the air as he stands on top of his car, screaming with triumph as he jumps down, running towards his team who waits for him with open arms and loud chants of Italian. You don’t need to understand any of it to know that he’s made them proud. 

Up on the podium, drenched in champagne that probably cost more than one’s college tuition, the Monaco native raises his trophy with pure accomplishment. You partially respect it, but you can’t help but feel your stomach twist at the sight.

You find him heading to his motorhome, shoulders high and mighty, and it takes all of you to not sucker punch him on his way there, though you heavily considered it. 

“I’m a huge fan!” you call out, making him stop dead in his tracks. “Can I get a signature?”

Charles lets out a mocking laugh, facing you with his golden baby on full display, showing off without missing a beat. “If that’s what you want, then yes—I’ll give you anything you ask from me.”

You physically have to stop yourself from squirming. You wouldn’t dare stroke his ego in that way or any other. Swallowing, you regain your composure before it slips away again, and you narrow your eyes with subtle warning. “I’m not here to have you flirt with me, I’m here to have you back down.”

It takes him a second to register what you're asking him to do, but once he does, all he can do is chuckle, eyes crinkling childishly. “You’re insane.”

An eye twitch. “Then you must be too because if I recall correctly, you begged for the same thing from me a couple days ago, no?”

The Ferrari driver rolls his eyes, a certain flush painting his cheekbones. “I didn’t beg, it was a simple request.”

“Fine then, call it what you want,” you sigh. “I’m requesting the same thing as you. You have to say you’re no longer interested in accepting the cover and move on.”

Green eyes flicker with amusement, seeing you for who you really were. Not some sweet girl, no, but rather someone willing to track him down just to ask him to do her a simple favor. In your own manner, but still. A couple mechanics walk by, patting him on the shoulder as they exchange a couple words of wisdom before running off. He lets out a soft breath. “I think I get you now,” he states, making you frown. A nod. “Yeah. I get where you’re coming from, I get why you don’t want to back down first.”

“And why is that?” you challenge, raising a neat brow with curiosity to see how he might turn this around.

Charles licks his pink lips, leaving them moist and wet. “You’re used to getting your way in life, so the one time it doesn’t work out, then you’re desperate enough to ask for your opponent to give up and let you have it.”

Your stomach churns with his accuracy. “Aren’t I in the same position to say the same thing about you?”

Slapped with the precision of playing the same game as you, the Monegasque rolls his jaw, mixing it with a dark smile. His grip tightens around his trophy, knuckles turning as white as paper as he tries his best to remind himself that you’re a girl—a pretty one, too—and that he can’t take out his anger on you in ways he wishes he could.

“Alright then, yeah,” he agrees. “We’re the same, you and I. It’s a shame we’re not friends the same way our father’s once were.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Shame.”

A moment lingers. 

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue so bad, anyways?”

You flinch. “I don’t know—why do you?”

He flinches. Then, he fixes himself, seeming to be the same Charles as before. Fun and easygoing. Yeah right. “Come out and have dinner with me, won’t you?”

You can’t help the blush creeping up because despite the fact that you hate his guts right about now, you’re able to admit to yourself that Charles fucking Leclerc is strikingly beautiful. You hum, biting down on your bottom lip subconsciously before shaking your head adamantly, as if that will be enough to hold you back. “I already told you, I’m not here to have you flirt with me.”

“And I’m not flirting,” he shoots back, pushing you into a pool of embarrassment. “I’m simply inviting you out for dinner.”

I have a proposition for you.

You scoff playfully. “A proposition?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “I promise you that I’ll make it worthwhile, you’ll see.” When you fail to make up your mind, he sets the golden cup down onto the floor and walks closer to you, making you freeze almost as natural instinct. Leaning down, he comes close to your face, grinning teasingly. “Unless you’re too scared to find out what it is…”

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are,” you whisper, staring intently into his colorful eyes. Being this close lets you see that they aren’t just green, but they also have a thousand other colors mixed in them. In any other scenario, you would have let yourself be a fool, but in this one, you push back the need to memorize them in all their glory. “And I am not scared—I’m just not interested in wasting my time on you.”

“Oh, no—you wouldn’t be wasting it on me,” he points out, extending back up to his full height, looking down at you, heat shooting through his body, one that he’s quite familiar with. He makes a face. “You’d be wasting it on us. Isn’t that intriguing?”

And fuck it, it was. 

Which is how you find yourself cooped up in his Monaco flat because according to you, you’d rather die a slow and painful death than be seen out in public with him. God forbid people think you two got along, or worse, were dating. A complete nightmare is what that would be.

Filling up your glass with red wine, the brunette finds a spot right besides you, making note of the way you’re able to maintain eye contact for so long. And honestly, he was filled with awe because of it. 

“You father was my favorite tennis player, you know?”

Any mention of the first man you once loved is enough to soften you up a bit. Your shoulders let loose, your smile becomes a bit more sincere, and you’re suddenly not that cold and strict. “He was?”

“Yeah,” he says, opening up because it was true. “His post celebration was my favorite thing to do growing up.” Doing a sloppy gun with his fingers, he clicks his tongue smoothly. “My mum wasn’t a big fan, though. When I did it, at least. Said it was too violent for a little kid to learn and do. A bad example?”

“I suppose she’s right,” you laugh. “My mother hated it, as well. Tried to get my father to come up with something else countless times, but his heart…” You look down onto your lap. “His heart was set on it for us.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean by that because he knows what your father’s celebration already meant. It was aimed at you and your brothers—not as an act of violence, but rather out of love. Very few understood that, and once he heard him explaining to his father in one of their hangouts at his house growing up, he understood it too.

With splotchy cheeks, your eyes connect back with his, letting out a dry chuckle. “Anyhow—what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Looks like the subject wasn’t something you wanted to touch up on too much, so he followed your change of topic. “I want us to take a business-trip together.”

A beat. “A business-trip? Just you? And me? Alone?” He nods boyishly, grinning as if nothing and you can’t help the mocking giggle that slides up your throat. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! Oh my God—you seriously think I would accept, just like that?”

He was hoping you would, and he was feeling pretty confident about it too, up until now. Charles sets his glass down, sighing tiredly because apparently he was dealing with an immature girl who seems to be the only female in this world who wouldn’t jump at the chance he’s given her. 

“And what for, too, man?” you question, still laughing, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. “If you would be so kind enough to explain, of course—”

“Shut up and maybe I will,” he ricochets back, making you raise a brow with his snappy response. A pause. “I want us to come to an agreement by ourselves.”

“What does taking a so-called ‘business-trip’ have to do with anything?”

“It would allow us to get to know each other, for starters,” he points out. “Not just by what we think we know about one another, but rather the truth.”

“I don’t think the rumors are that far off about you,” you joke, making him roll his eyes at the fact that you don’t seem to be taking this as seriously as him. You purse your lips, a wobbly smile threatening to slip. “Sorry, continue.”

“We could work on our communication skills,” he adds. “That way—”

“Are you trying to fuck me?”

He sighs. “—you don’t jump to any conclusions. Much like now.”

You shrug.

“I can learn how to understand you from your perspective, you can learn how to understand me from mine.”

“As if that would ever happen,” you mumble stubbornly against the rim of your glass, silently sipping on the alcoholic beverage as the Monegasque edges closer to snapping due to your many disruptions. 

“And lastly, we can come up with a mutual decision on who deserves to have the Vogue cover.”

“You’re telling me you have faith in this plan of yours?” you ask.

“I do.”

“And you’re telling me that you and I can come to an agreement without ripping out each other's throats?”

“I think we can.”

Your safest bet is to debrief with Lisa. She can tell you what to do, how to do it, and beat him at his own game, once and for all. But something deep inside tells you that you can have the best spin off of your entire life if you really thought this through.

You can have him fall in love with you.

Yes. You can do that. You can play it up real nice, and you can have him falling faster than he’s ever known. Then, once you have him, you would gently—ever so fucking gently—have him give you what you want without him even realizing because he’ll be too busy thinking that if anyone deserves it, then it’s probably going to be the girl that he adores.

Green eyes watch as you weigh your options and that gives him enough space to come up with a plan of his own because his idea didn’t blossom from nowhere—no. It was meant to benefit him.

He was going to have you fall in love with him.

You won’t see what hit you until it’s too late, and by then, you would’ve already handed him the one and only thing he's been chasing after. That stupid cover. You’d think it was your idea, perhaps, but you wouldn’t care too much about it because you love him and you’d want him to have it, not you.

“All in?” he asks, extending his hand out for a shake to make things official.

You nod, fitting your delicate hand into his. “All in.”

And like Lisa and Isaiah once said.

Make the best athlete win.

-

You two settle on having this ‘business-trip’ up in Switzerland. You’re in between seasons, he’s in between seasons—it just works. Plus, you’ve never been there.

The breeze is cool against your skin upon arrival, enough for you to grow goosebumps. He smiles because eating outside was your idea. Rubbing your arms up and down to try and gain some warmth, you chew slowly on your grilled salmon. “I’m glad we chose this place. It’s always been a dream of mine to visit.”

“Yeah?” 

You nod.

“I come here all the time.”

You drop your stare, frowning theatrically. “Do you have to try and one up me every time?”

Charles laughs, dropping his fork against the porcelain plate, causing a loud clink to ring through the air. “I wasn’t trying to, my bad.” Biting down on your giggle threatening to fly out, you look away, your side profile on full display. The gentle wind that kisses you makes his heartbeat quicken. Just a tad bit. He forces a cough, regaining your attention once again. “I want you to teach me how to play tennis.”

Amusement strikes your soft features. “Are you being serious?”

“Completely.” A beat. “And I’ll teach you how to drive a Formula One car. Sort of.”

This time you let out a snort, finding his words genuinely appalling because there’s no way any of that can happen without an argument taking place. “Why would we do any of that?”

The brunette rolls his eyes, resting his arms against the table. Like this, you’re able to admire his muscles that pulse like the feeling between your legs. Oh God, no, not him, anyone but him. Swallowing, you raise a brow, feigning indifference.

“We’re here to learn about one another, right? See who deserves the chance to be on Vogue—in order to understand you as an athlete and vise-versa, we need to be in each other's shoes.” He sighs dreamily. “Show me the struggle or whatnot.”

“Or whatnot?” you tease.

“Well…yeah,” he says, orbs still trained onto you. A certain flush paints your cheeks now that the temperature has dropped. “I just don’t think tennis is that hard, is all.”

Almost in a reflex, you sit up straight, narrowing your eyes with darkness. “Oh, and driving a car is?”

“Actually, yeah, I do think driving a car for a living at a fast velocity is much more difficult than chasing after a neon green ball like some Golden Retriever.”

The absolute nerve that this guy has. 

Hitting him with a dirty glare, you scoff. “Please! All you do is go around in circles like some manchild who doesn't know the difference between left and right!”

“That happened one time!” he argues, recalling the mishap he had back at the airport. You snicker, sliding your legs up, sitting criss-crossed as he leans back against his chair in return. Sighing tiredly, his shoulders sag, a large hand coming up to rub his temples. “Just…trust me, m’kay?”

You don’t—not fully—but if you wanted him to like you, you needed to suck it up and go with it. Play along to the best if your ability and not be so snappy.

Forcing a smile, you nod sweetly, surprise clearly locked in his eyes. 

“Sure—I trust you, Charlie.”

-

That fucking nickname came out of fucking nowhere.

And it’s fucked with him all fucking night and now he can’t fucking think straight anymore because the only fucking thing living in his fucking head is you and your fucking voice that sounds like fucking honey and he bets that if you said it one more fucking time then maybe he’d fucking risk whats left of his dignity and for God’s sake what the fuck was he thinking asking you to do this and better yet why the fuck were you wearing the smallest and tightest tennis dress he has ever fucking seen in his fucking entire life and why was he fucki—

“Ready?” you ask, hitting the ball in his direction as he snaps out of this trance you suddenly have him in, pushing away the spiral you’ve caused. 

Gulp. “R-ready.” Great, now he’s tongue tied. Another gulp. “I’m ready.”

Turns out, it’s not as easy as he once thought it’d be. He completely missed the mark and now you’re on your forth racket because apparently breaking them was a silly little thing you do when things didn’t go your way.

“I’m usually an avid instructor, what the fuck are you on, man, are you fucking joking?”

Bright red crosses the bridge of his nose as he wipes away a drop of sweat. He winces, squinting hard due to the burning sun, but also, your killer glare that is harsh enough to make a grown man cry if he really thought about it for too long. “I-I’m sorry, let me try again. I promise I’ll get it right this time.”

Without saying anything, you strut to the opposite side of the court, looking over your shoulder to warn him like—don’t screw this up. It’s both attractive and scary. You’re asking for something simple, something easy, and somehow, he finds the way to mess up his serve for what seems like the millionth time that day. 

He can tell you want to beat him with the purple racket next. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m trying, but my forearm hurts!”

“Because you’re not holding it right!” you yelp, marching up to him once again and snatching the paddle from him harshly. “Fuck it, let’s do your thing now.”

You hate Charles Leclerc.

He’s showing off now, yeah, that’s exactly what he was doing. You gave him so much shit for not being able to excel in your world, and now he’s returning the favor.

“My neck hurts so bad,” you groan, massaging it as he lends his hand for you to grab, helping hoist you out of the car. There was a race track nearby, a lousy one kind of, but it’s enough for you to get the gist of driving a Formula One car. You were scared to step on the accelerator a tad bit too hard, you were scared when you spun into the barrel, and you were more than scared when he zoomed past you with ease. You swore you heard him laugh at you behind his helmet.

Taking in the fresh air, you sigh contently, shutting your eyes and thanking God for living to see another day. The Monegasque snickers, sharing a quick conversation with the owners who begged him for a photo and his signature before making his way back to you. “Not so easy, is it?” A beat. “Ha—and this doesn’t even come close to the real thing. That’s where you should be terrified.”

“I did just fine,” you grit, pushing your sweaty hair back. Your face is flushed, bare, and angelic. It’s nearly too much for him to take in. Switching his gaze back to the open track, he brings his arms to rest on his hips. “How do you do this for a living?”

A hum. “How do you play tennis for a living?”

“Fair,” you say, shrugging with a yawn. “Can we head back now?”

As soon as you make it past the door, you eagerly rush towards the couch, plopping down lazily as the green eyed boy sighs, reaching for a blanket from a nearby cabinet. You’re so fast asleep that you don’t seem to notice the moment he covers you up, but you do cuddle into the warmness like a maternal instinct that has suddenly kicked in. 

He doesn't have much to do either because quite frankly, this thing between you and him has been enough to keep him occupied. He thinks of shit he can get done in the meantime. See, usually he’d hop into his at home stimulator, but right, that couldn’t be the case being so far away from Monaco. He could binge watch that one show Pierre had nagged him on for so long, but that doesn’t sound too appealing. 

But you did.

Grabbing his computer that sits on the edge of the kitchen island, he’s quick to open up a new tab, Googling your name. Instantly, a million different articles come up, some solely focused on you, others on your family, and a lot of them about your career.

But only one in particular catches his eye.

“Holy…” Scroll. “Shit.”

Your father died before his. Charles thought it was heart failure, that’s what his mum told him it was the moment he asked why he wasn’t coming around as often anymore, but now he’s left in a puddle of doubt.

“What are you doing?” a raspy voice questions over his shoulder.

Flinching, the brunette turns back to face you, color draining from his usually lively face. His eyes flicker up towards the clock that hangs on the wall and that’s when he finally notices that it hasn’t in fact been five minutes of your deep slumber, but rather two hours. Had he really been this caught up?

“N-nothing.” He slams his screen shut. “You look much better, you really did need a quick nap, didn’t y—”

In a flash, you lean over, picking up the electronic device once again and freezing as soon as you read the same title you’ve been re-reading ever since that God forsaken journalist published it with zero respect towards you and your family.

“She doesn't know what she's talking about,” you mutter, exiting from the page before rudely throwing the computer back onto the table, making him frown because he wouldn't be too surprised if he finds a crack on it next time he opens it. “I swear to God, if I ever meet this so-called Lissie Mackintosh, I’ll curse her out so good, she won't ever want to write another article in her life ever again.”

Charles bites down on his tongue, choosing not to admit that he knows Lissie, and that she was actually a super cool girl. It's probably best that he keeps that piece of information to himself. Hesitantly, he licks his dry lips, looking up at where you remain tense. “I—”

“Do you agree with what she wrote about me?” 

Honestly—he doesn't even know where his opinion stands given how you've reacted.

He swallows. “I don’t think you should care what I think.”

You don’t like his response, he can tell in the way you shift position, avoiding him now almost. You wish he had lied, you wish he had lied to you and said, you know what, no, I don’t agree with what Lissie wrote, and you do reserve the right to sue if you really wanted to. 

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t—he doesn’t know you like that yet.

Nodding rigidly, you murmur an lame excuse to flee, and he finds himself wishing he had said something else to make you stay.

Even if that just meant having you in silence.

-

Whoosh!

Letting out a yelp, your eyes grow wide, watching as the tennis ball hits the fence with a loud smack. Charles laughs. How was that? “Not bad,” you respond, grabbing another ball and hitting it back towards him with a simple smile. “That was actually really good, Charlie.”

His jaw ticks.

Cutting him off on a curb, a move he probably wouldn't have pull, but you somehow managed to make it work, he finds himself swerving to avoid crashing, and the fact that he was scared of that happening in the first place is enough to make his stomach roll because how did you manage to do that so smoothly?

How was that? you ask once you climb out of your car, excited as ever.

The Monegasque tilts his head, helmet still on. “You were…” He lifts his visor up, green eyes twinkling with amusement. “A natural—you were a fucking natural.”

You blush.

It's a hard thing to admit to yourself, but you were starting to enjoy having Charles as a companion.

And unbeknownst to you, he felt the same way.

That afternoon, during dinner, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He tried, he really did, but the more you rambled on and on about how much better you were at driving than him and at playing tennis, the more he realized that you weren’t all that bad.

“I think the choice is clear—it should be me who gets to keep the cover.”

But fuck, why couldn’t he have met you in different terms?

Sitting up straight against his chair, the brunette makes a face of disagreement. “I don’t think so, actually…” A loopy grin. “If anything, I should be the one who gets it—I think I’ve outshined you in both your own sport and mine.”

“Bull!” you yelp, fighting the urge to kick him under the table. “That's just your opinion.”

“You did the exact same thing!” he argues back, wondering if you truly knew that you were being a hypocrite of some sort. “If we both don’t agree with one another, then we haven’t made a decision, no?”

He was right. 

Annoyed, you stand up, chair screeching. “Fuck you.”

The sun turns from golden to pearl white and you two haven’t spoken a word to each other ever since. You shouldn’t be mad, you shouldn’t be upset, you’re well aware, but you truly thought he’d let you have it by now. He’s been looking at you differently, you’ve caught him a couple times throughout the weeks, especially during your lessons, but you suppose he wasn’t quite there yet.

And, well, now that you know that—you’d take a different approach and be more straightforward with your intentions.

Knocking on his door, you wait impatiently, playing with your hair as a way to pass time, but really it was only three seconds. With a swing, you find yourself face to face with the Monegasque who looks like he just awoke from a late nap. You muster up a warm smile. “I wanted to apologize. About before. My outburst wasn’t…necessary,” you finish with a struggle because something tells him you don’t mean it, not completely. “I wanted to invite you out for a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

As expected, it was a yes.

Peeking an eye over to where he grabs your guys’ order with a charming smile, and a giggly barista who wishes there weren’t a drastic language barrier between them, you stifle a gag, forcing a tight grin when he returns. “Thanks,” you chirp, fluttering your lashes flirtaciously, hoping the blond girl was still looking—she was. And you don't know why that satisfies you. 

Or why you felt a pang of jealousy in the first place.

“What’s your dream?” you ask after a few minutes of walking in silence. Mid-sip, he raises a dark brow. You nod gingerly. “What do you wish for in life?” A beat. “And you can’t say winning a world championship—that’s too basic.”

Charles sticks his tongue out with humor before bumping his shoulder against yours, making you laugh dreamily. Realizing how stupid you sound, you straighten out your lips, ignoring the need to pinch your arm for being so soft all of a sudden.

“To not be so prideful.”

His confession catches you off guard because of course you knew he was such a thing, but the fact that he knows it too is what blew your mind—the fact that he admits to it. Drinking carefully, you taste the rich flavor of dark roast and hum to yourself, as if still weighing in his words.

A beat. “I think being prideful isn’t always a bad thing.”

The green eyed boy shakes his head with a simple click of his tongue. His gaze lingers for a moment too long, and it should be intimidating, but it’s not. Charles rolls his jaw, gently running his hand through his hair. “What’s your wish?”

“To not be so prideful.”

This gets a laugh out of him, one that’s laced with mirth. “See—this is why we’re so alike. You and I just…get each other, you know?”

You hate that he’s spot on about it. You hate that he knows the way you think because he’s too busy thinking the same. 

She’s playing me, Charles thinks to himself, realizing what game you’re taking part in because as stated before—you two are practically the same person. 

You smile tightly. “I like that.” A beat. “Don’t you?”

The Monegasque forces a grin. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s hard not to get in any kind of trouble when you’re with him. Getting pulled over for going over the speed limit on your way back to the AirBnB is a harsh reminder. 

And he’s honestly a bit ticked off with you, but he does a good job at hiding it. “That’s alright, I’ll pay for it.”

You sigh. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Sharing a sweet smile, one that’s soft as jello, the brunette gingerly grabs the ticket from your grasp, sending a reassuring look. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t worry about something like this.”

Oh yeah, you think to yourself as you blink stupidly. He’s playing me. You would know—you’re doing the exact same thing. 

“You’re such a dream,” you mutter, clenching your teeth with a fake smile of your own. 

What are the odds?

-

The kiss was a total accident. It wasn’t a part of your plan. It wasn’t a part of his. 

It’s been three weeks now and neither of you have given up. You flirt, he flirts back. You wear a short dress, he walks around shirtless. It’s even, it’s fair, and it’s messing with your head.

He honestly didn’t think it’d be this hard. 

He’s tried his best to get you to fall for him, but every time he tries to wink smoothly, you bite your lip seductively. At times, he even thinks about just surrendering and letting you have the cover, then, he reminds himself that you’re just brainfucking him, and that instantly slaps him back into reality. 

But the kiss—that came to mess with you both. 

It’s early morning, and you two are yet to change, comfortably lounging in pjs. It’s a funny view, to see him in anything other than fancy linen. Instead, he stretches coolly on the couch with plaid cotton pants and a simple white tee. Meanwhile, you wear an a pair of shorts with an oversized t-shirt that once belonged to Vinnie—or was it Bennett’s?—whatever, doesnt matter. 

“I bet I could I could draw a constellation with all the moles you have,” you hum, lazy feet kicked up as he flickers his gaze to where you are. In a separate couch, not too far from him, but the floral scent radiating off your body is enough to convince him that you were closer than he'd like. He thinks it’s too tempting, and it was—you were tempting him to cross the invisible line.

Charles raises a brow. “Wanna try?”

This is the game, this is what you both are into. Silently, you walk over, laying right besides him as you rest an arm gently over his firm chest and draw a finger along his face with a teasing smile. His breath hitches, realizing how much power you have over him now that he’s given it up, and how much he’s enjoying all of this. That can’t be a good sign. “From here,” you whisper, drawing shapes. “To here—it looks like a heart.”

“Yeah?”

Your stomach flips with how he’s looking at you, and suddenly, your hand feels clammy. You get the sense that you’re enjoying this more than you'd like. That can’t be a good sign. You nod. “You know, beauty marks are a portal into your past life. It’s where your loved one once kissed you.” A giggle. “Looks like you were quite lucky.”

Green eyes focus on the corner of your lips, smiling softly. “Looks like you were too.”

You blush, bringing a hand up to your cheek. “I hate mines. Doesn’t look half as good as yours.”

This gets a frown out of him, as if he’s genuinely bothered by you not liking a mole of yours. It was small, and not really there, but if you pay close attention—just like him—then you’d learn to appreciate it. “What are you talking about? It makes you look like a doll.”

A beat. A blink. “You think I look like a doll?”

Charles chuckles, sitting upright as you follow along, still astonished by how much his words meant to you. “Are you kidding? You have got to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

A surge of affection bubbles within you as you look away, biting down onto your bottom lip. Compliments—they were never something you could ever receive. It always seemed like the most difficult task, but now that you have him here, with a sincere look in his eyes, you learn that you kind of like it.

So long it comes directly from him.

His attention is stuck on you like superglue, you feel it tug you closer and closer. You try to ignore it, God knows you’ve tried to ignore it, but the more either of you try to fight it, the more it…feels right. 

He didn’t know a kiss could feel like this—so hot and cold, all at once. One one side, he know he should be running from you, he knows you’re not the kind to fall in love, but the other side of him is screaming with satisfaction because he never knew you'd taste so goddamn intoxicating.

You should probably pull away, you should probably remind yourself that he’s not one to count on, but you almost can’t seem to help it. Not when his long fingers run through your hair with the need to ease your nerves or with the way he sighs contently against you whenever you move your lips at a certain angle.

This was just—

The plan.

He has you. He comes to the conclusion that he has you now.

You have him. You come to the conclusion that you have him now.

“Do you—”

“Yes,” he answers in a heartbeat. “Do you—”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Is that even a question?”

He smiles.

-

You don’t want to. You really don't want to share your past trauma with him.

But if you want this cover to be yours, you have to pull at his heartstrings a bit. Enough.

And it looks as if he was thinking about doing the exact same thing. 

You lick your lips numbly, twiddling with your fingers. “I just want to preface that I’m not a bad person.” Charles nods, smiling reassuringly. “Okay then—ask away.”

It was his idea. To each get ten minutes to ask each other all the hard hitting questions. All the questions that would help you and him resonate with one another. It sounded easy, but it wasn't. 

“Are you still close with you mum? With your brothers?”

You swallow. “Not after my fathers death, no, we’re not as close as before.”

“Have you ever cheated in any match of yours?”

You grind your teeth. “Yes.”

His eyebrows raise with surprise. “How?”

“Using hand signals.”

“Huh.” A beat. “Clever.”

“What’s your biggest fear in life?”

“Being a loser.”

“But you’ve lost many matches before,” he rebuttals.

“Sure—but I’ve never lost a Grand Slam.”

His lips quirk. “Don’t you think that that’s a possibility?”

“Only if I allow it.”

Charles laughs. “You quite a tough girl, you know that?

“I do know that,” you answer confidently. “But it’s also called having a winners-mentality. It helps eliminate the competition. It helps you overachieve.” You can tell that he's amused with the way he leans back against his chair, manspreading as if his life depended on it. “It allows you to—”

“Why do you want to be on the cover of Vogue? Why do you deserve it?”

Your breath gets caught in your chest. You knew this would happen. You knew that he would bring this up sooner or later, but you just didn't think it would bother you this much.

“If I answer truthfully…” you start, slowly and unsure. “You promise you won’t judge?”

“Promise,” he reassures you with zero hesitance.

You could lie. You could make something up that would be enough to gain his sympathy and call it a day, but this somehow felt like therapy, and you somehow felt as if he might understand. Gathering you words, you look up at him blanky. “I don’t want to be a failure.” A beat. “Like my father.”

You father? And failure? In the same sentence?

That’s just unheard of.

“Just hear me out,” you say, adjusting yourself and licking your lips in preparation to explain. “I’m sure you don’t agree with what I’ve said, but I want a Golden Slam. I want it because he never got it.”

The Golden Slam. Of course you'd go for the Golden Slam. 

“He was an amazing tennis player, but he wasn’t always the best father,” you mumble, sort of wishing to take it all back, but no. You're in too deep. “I first noticed us starting to grow apart the moment my career started to pick up.”

Charles remembers that. He remembers all the headlines of your father coming face to face with his own daughter and how everyone all around the world started to place bets. First it started with millions, then it went to billions, and then it started to move on to real estate properties and businesses, and later even children. It was a fucked up world of gambling. One you had no clue you were a part of.

“I started beating him at his own game, one he dominated for years before me. And he—he didn’t like that.” Your cheeks burn up with the reminder of once being your fathers favorite, to later being someone he resented harder than anyone else in life. “He stopped talking to me, but our matches still continued. I think it had to do a lot with me.”

“How so?” Charles whispers, too afraid to make you shy away.

You shrug. “I think he wanted to win against me—even just once. But apart from that, things were never really the same.”

The green eyed boy nods rigidly. “And what does Vogue have to do with this?”

“Technically nothing,” you respond lamely, then smile menacingly. “I just want to rub it in his face, that’s all. That I’m still able to accomplish things he never could.” A short chuckle. “That’s the ideal situation for me—that’s it.”

The competition was never between you and him. Not the way he once thought it was.

It was between you and your father.

“You get where I’m coming from, don’t you, Charlie?”

His chest tightens.

You smile flirtatiously. “Athlete to athlete here, you understand what it means to win, right?”

In this moment, one he never thought he’d be a part of, he wonders that if by answering this question he’d be signing his life away to you. It nearly felt like it with the way you were looking at him right in the eye, sharp and smooth. He shivers, intimidated by you and your cold stare. “I do.”

“Great,” you whisper, leaning in to peck his lips and leaving him to accept it with a heavy sigh. What about Lissie? Your eyes darken at the mention of her name. “What about Lissie?”

His gaze flickers curiously once again. “Do you agree with what she wrote you?”

He switching up the question on you. You had once asked him if it mattered to him, and now he was doing the exact same thing to you. It was smart. You roll your eyes, separating yourself. “In a sense, yes. Maybe.”

The article was published a year after your fathers death.

To the public and your mother—he died of alcohol poisining.

To your brothers—he died because of all the dark enegry surrounding his fame.

To you—he died of heartbreak.

But in reality.

“I think it had to do a bit with everything,” you claim calmly.

Lissie Mackintosh was an up and rising journalist, one that caught the eye of many. Specifically, the world of Formula One. And there came a time where she published a single piece of article once every few weeks on her blog she was known for. Honestly, you never cared enough to learn the name. It gained attention—lots of it—so much so, that people were always anticipating for the next piece to drop, always excited to read away.

But then, she went on a long hiatus. And when she came back.

Shit hit the fan.

She had chosen to switch it up a bit and write about the world tennis. Out of all things…tennis. 

She dove into your life as if it was already hers. You didn’t like that. You didn't like that what seemed to be the most interesting topic to her was your father’s death. Because that meant digging. And boy, did she find out about a lot of things.

In her now taken down article, the Brit wrote about how the possibility of your talent might have pushed your own father to pass away before getting the chance to reach his sixties. Suicide wasn’t a conspiracy before that, but after millions clicked to read, it sort of was.

It made your mother go crazy. She started blaming you because maybe you did have to do with his drinking problem, maybe you did have to do with his depression.

Maybe you did have to do with his death.

Bennett and Vinnie—well, they were always momma’s boys so there wasn’t even a second thought for them to choose her.

And that left you. Just you. Alone and pensitive.

Did you have to do with his passing?

And even you can admit to something like that in private—yes. You probably did have to do with it. 

You killed his ego. You killed his winning streak. You killed his fanclub.

And honestly, you didn’t care if he killed himself by drinking his way to his grave.

But Vogue? Vogue was just the cherry on top. And you pray—pray—that when you get it…he’ll see how successful his descendant was able to become without his help.

You hope he rots in Hell for outcasting you out of pure jealousy.

“I think he just gave up on life, is all,” you wrap up right when the timer rings. “It happens, ya know?”

“Yeah,” Charles murmurs, looking you in the eye to see if you were truly as soulless as you sounded. “I suppose that could be it.”

Humming softly, you start the ten minutes up again and smile brightly over at him, making him snap out of his sticky daze. “Looks like it’s your turn, Charlie. First question…” Silence. “Did I scare you?”

Heat rises to his ears. “Wha—no. Not at all.”

You eye him suspiciously. Once. Twice. Three times. Four even. Then, you push it aside. “Alright then—have you ever cheated on a race?”

Fuck. Of course you’d return the question. He grinds his molars before smiling tightly. “I have.”

“How?”

“My mechanics made my car light enough to win, hence, allow me to drive faster.”

“How did you not get caught?”

“The FIA agent checking my car at the time was easy enough to bribe.”

“Who did the bribing?”

A beat. “I did.”

“Wow,” you whisper with a loopy grin. “I mean, wow—I didn’t think you’d have it in you when I first asked.”

“Can we move onto the next question?” he grumbles, ashamed to be identical as you.

“Yeah, yeah, no, yeah,” you say, a teasing smile slipping once before letting it fall. “Just—which race was it?”

This is what he didn't want you asking. And he could lie. He really, really could. But he doesn’t.

“Monaco.”

“Oh shit!” you exlaim, letting out a loud laugh and clapping excitedly as he withers with embarrassment. “That day! That I went to see you race—you cheated?”

Green eyes flip with danger. “I saw your coach sending you hand signals the day I went to go see you play—in Monaco,” he snaps back, making your lips part with surprise that he had even noticed. “So I wouldn't be talking if I were you.”

This gets you to shut up because yeah. The day he went to go pay you a visit was the day you cheated for your win. It seems like the universe keeps finding ways to remind you two that you're looking into a mirror when you’re looking at each other. Biting the inside of your cheek, you brush him off, thinking of your next question.

“Do you hate anyone?”

“You,” he answers, half-jokingly, half-serious. “Only when you get on my nerves, though.”

You giggle. “Which is almost always?”

Charles’ lips quirk. “Which is almost always, correct.”

Nodding, you squint your eyes, making his stomach twist like a pretzel. “Why do you deserve to be on the cover of Vogue?”

Pause. “I don’t want to be a failure. Like many people that I know.”

You encourage him with a gentle nod. “Do you mind explaining?”

His blinks feverishly. “I want to be better than my father. Better than Jules.” Your eyebrows dart up with surprise. He continues. “I love them—God, do I still love them—but they never reached their full potentials. Given, yeah, their deaths had a lot to do with that, but I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Being forgotten?” you speak up. “You’re afraid of being forgotten…just like them.”

The brunette grimaces. “Part of me thinks that I’m doing this for them, but I know that’s not the truth—I’m doing this for myself.” His jaw clenches and it’s almost as if you’ve spilled truth serum in him. “I’m selfish. I’m vain.” Connecting his gaze up to yours, his eyes soften like a child pleading for help. “But I wasn’t like this before…”

“Oh, Char—”

“And the thing is that I don’t hate it,” he says meekly, almost embarrassed to be admitting something as dumb as this. “No, I don’t, and you want to know why? Because it has helped me win. It has helped shape me. Everything else can fail on me in life, but my ego won’t. It’s the only thing I have.”

Athlete to athlete, you get what I mean, don’t you?

Plump lips part, pink and wet. And you do. You do get where he’s coming from. You understand because you’re just the same. Resting a delicate hand over his, you feel his skin, warm and calloused from gripping onto a steering wheel for a living. 

“I do,” you whisper. “I get you what you mean.”

And just like that, his ten minutes are up.

And you're both left confused on who deserves May's issue more.

Because both reasons are pretty fucking good.

-

You’re down to the last week in Switzerland and Lisa keeps calling you and saying—

“This isn’t a good idea, how many times do I have to keep reminding you? He’s obviously going to choose himself, you’re obviously going to choose yourself. Both of you—you're just wasting each others time.”

You sigh tiredly, rubbing your eyes because she really was starting to sound like a robot. “I actually do think that we can come up with a mutual decision, him and I.”

“Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall,” you hear her mutter before clearing her throat. “Don’t let him sweet talk you is all I'm asking, okay? Men are deceiving.”

“Women are deceiving. It's the number one thing I learned from college," Isaiah speaks through the static. Right now, if the Monegasque were to look out the window, he’d spot you on a call, much like him, but he’d be too busy dealing with his manager to linger on about it. “I’m starting to think you like wasting your time on her.”

“What?” the brunette accuses. “That’s not true.”

“Right,” Isaiah hums suspiciously. “Whatever you say. Just don’t let her sweet talk you—that’s another thing they're good at.”

Goodbye now, Isaiah.

Bye-bye, Lisa. 

Hanging up, you squint towards the wide window where Charles peeks out. “Ready?” he hollers.

“Ready,” you confirm.

It was a two-in-one kind of day. Usually, you either play a round of tennis or you race a few laps, but due to your trip coming to an expiration date, you’ve both decided to wrap it up and give your sports a farewell before going your separate ways and moving on with life.

He was going to miss it, though. Especially now that he’s so good at it.

“Fifteen-love,” he calls out, making you blink with bewilderment. For the past few weeks, he’s gone from not knowing how to play, to sort of keeping the game alive. But never—ever—has he scored a point on you. Charles snickers. “You can serve if you’d like.”

“Don’t say it like you’d be doing me a favor,” you snap, shooting daggers at him for even assuming you’d be into that. “Just hit the damn ball.”

The game continues and your anger begins to burn.

Thirty-love.

Forty-love.

Panting, you let out a scream, crashing your racket against the court. He flinches at the sound, watching as you quickly lose what’s left of your temper. “No, no, no, no, no!” you shout, raising the paddle before smashing it twice as hard. “Fuck me! No! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Relax,” he tries soothing you from a large distance. “It’s just a game.”

Freezing, you breath hard as your movements come to a pause, an eye twitching with irritation. “Relax? Are you seriously telling me to…relax?”

Charles doubles down. “I’m just saying—it’s no big deal. Losing is a part of life.”

“No,” you spit out. “Loosing is a part of your life. Of Jule’s. Of your fathers and mines, so please—don’t you dare add me into the mix.”

Here, in a tennis court that you’ve rented out for an hour or so, it dawns on him that even though you two may agree on many things in life, and though you may be more alike than if he were to have a twin—you two were never really going to get along. Not at all. Because you’d always remind him how much better you thought you were. And how could that ever work out when he thought the opposite?

The drive to the race track is laced thick with tension.Neither of you say anything up until he instructs you to your car, keeping steady eyes to where you push the helmet over your head and fix your attire. And he can tell that you're still sore about losing to him.

And you take it out on him on track.

You press on the gas angrily, with no sense of precaution of keeping you and him safe from crashing. Though, he sort of thinks that if you were to collide, then you wouldn’t care either. 

What you wanted to do was beat him at his own game—and you do.

“She was faster than you by two seconds,” the man behind the counter explains, eyes trained on the data in his computer. Charles freezes, eye twitching. Say that one more time. The man sighs. “Actually, by one, but hey, that’s still pretty good for being a newbie.”

“Ha!” you cheer, rubbing it in his face. “Faster than a Formula One driver, who would’ve thought?”

Two seconds was bad, but for some reason, one was worse. Yeah, it was, because that meant he was nearly there—but you somehow managed to win.

They gift you a trophy for that. A trophy that doesn’t last long.

“Can I see that real quick?” 

“Sure,” you answer, handing it to him with a simple smile.

“Thanks.” In a single movement, he throws it onto the floor, a loud crack following as you gasp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yells out, stomping the tiny broken pieces until they practically turn into dust. “Fuck me! No, no, no, no, no!”

And despite not liking what he did, you’re not mad. You’re more so…satisfied. 

Rolling your eyes as he breathes hard, not really wanting to apologize, but doing it anyways, you shake your head like a parent scolding their four year old. 

“Relax, Charlie. Losing is a part of life, isn’t that so?”

Forcing a tight grin, he hums sourly, leaving you to yourself.

Back at the house, the view is particularly beautiful today. It always is, but right now? The sun shines bright, the birds chirp beautifully, and it looks like just the right time to make peace.

Let’s have dinner outside tonight, you had said the moment he awoke from his nap. You had taken one before him, hence why you were able to start up on dinner. To celebrate our last few nights together. You know you’ll miss it. 

He knows he will. He knows he’ll miss having you around, even if it’s just to get him mad. He knows he’ll miss his private lessons and watching you swing with those mini skirts you like to wear. He knows he’ll miss hearing the sound of your voice, especially when you yell at him.

He’s just going to miss you.

Chewing gently, you wash down your food with a bit of sparkling soda. Peach, to be exact. You purse your lips, your free hand playing with the tall grass. From here, the mountains stand out in green and the flowers replicate a rainbow. It was gorgeous. 

“Will you be biased?” He raises a brow with subtle confusion as you shrug, playing with a nearby tennis racket that had been lying around for a while now. He had been practicing his backhand a couple days ago, and it appears he left it out in open. You pretend it’s a guitar, slowly stroking your fingernails along the plastic. “Based on your decision, will you be biased?”

“I actually think I’ll be fair,” he answers truthfully. “And you know what? I think you deserve it.” You freeze, heart caught in your throat by his words. He smiles, popping a dimple. “Will you be biased?”

A beat. “I was actually thinking about being fair...” Your eyes soften. “I think you deserve it.”

“Oh.” Okay then, definitely unexpected. “So what do we do now?”

You knew about his intentions all along. You knew about his project to get you to fall in love and choose him for the Vogue cover—you just never thought it’d work.

He knew about your intentions all along. He knew about your project to get him to fall in love and choose you for the Vogue cover—he just never thought it’d work.

“I don’t know,” you admit, chewing on your bottom lip, lashes fluttering. “I have no idea.”

A moment of silence lingers upon the open blue sky, filling your mind with a race of it’s own because how is he so composed? How is he so unbothered? And how is he so goddamn handsome? It's a crime of it's own, his looks.

Your delicate fingers continue to strum up and down, avoiding his gaze because suddenly something as simple as that is intimidating to you. It takes a second for him to process that you're nervous. The strong and independent girl you've always been is long gone and that get's a sweet smile out of him.

"I wish we had met sooner," he confesses, hoping that will receive some sort of reaction out of you. Real, fake, anything at this point. He's desperate. And you do. React, that is. Gazing up at him, your round eyes soften up, young and beautiful, and he triple swears that his heart gets caught up in his throat and it's no longer his own, but rather yours. The green eyed boy nods gingerly. "Wouldn't it have been nice to have known each other since kids?" A snort. "I mean, our fathers were friends, why couldn't we have been too?"

"Because people like you and I aren't meant to get along,” you rebuttal, still playing with the racket.

"Don't do that."

You blink. "Do what?"

Charles rolls his eyes, scooting closer to you and making it hard for you to breathe. "Don't push me away."

"I-I'm not," you stutter. "I'm just telling the truth. Look at us...we consider each other a threat and we're not even a part of the same sport, it's ridiculous." A beat. "And you're trying to convince me that we could've been friends if we had met under different circumstances?" This time you have to laugh, which bothers him. "The way things are...are the way they're supposed to be."

He's looking to contradict your words. He's thinking, the wheels are spinning, and you can see it.

"No," you let out, picking up the racket and placing up towards your face as some sort of shield that might keep you from him. From making a mistake. He frowns, thick brows knit tightly together. You wince poorly. "Let's just...not, yeah?"

He doesn't answer. Nope. He simply continues to move forward until he kisses you, tennis racket still stuck between you both, making you freeze. It's an odd kiss, you both know that's true, but what he's trying to prove to you is that nothing really matters to him.

Not as much as you.

A simple peck and you're hooked.

How could either of you have fallen for this trap?

Straddling the Monegasque, you keep a desperate hand in his hair as you play with it, the other holding steadily onto his broad shoulder. “Y-you should be on the cover,” you pant against his lips as he shuts you up by squeezing your hips harshly, making you let out a whine.

“Non—it should be you,” he groans, imagination running wild when your begin to draw circles back and forth. “Fuck.”

It’s as if a wave of yearning has finally caught up to you two, leaving you with no room to act normal. Instead, he eagerly slides your panties to the side as you whimper at the sudden stretch.

It burns, and you deeply consider biting down onto his shoulder, but something in your brain tells you not to, too afraid to appear sensitive. Which you were, but he didn’t need to know that. 

“God, you were made for this,” he praises when you start bouncing up and down, hair swaying from side to side. You moan softly against his ear. “So pretty—having you like this.”

“Char—” you begin, but fail to conclude your sentence when he starts sucking on your neck. It's brutal, it's barbaric, and it's making you loose your patience. Leaning back rudely, he reaches out to keep you in place, too distraught at the thought of having you leave him, even for a second. You don't, though.

Cradling his cheeks with both soft hands of yours, you graze his skin gently, almost as if you can't quite believe any of this was happening. It's an innocent moment, one that belongs to both of you, and suddenly you were an angel up on top of him to claim and write your name on.

Smiling to yourself, your eyes flicker back and forth, admiring his nose, his lips, his everything. He lets you do just that, too busy doing the same. Then, a lazy finger starts to play with his lips and he’s left to just accept your childlike behavior, the corner of his mouth tempting to let out a grin of his own.

“Open,” you whisper gingerly, instructions loud and clear. His green eyes darken and he raises a brow. You nod, watching as his lips slowly start to part, leaving you to hum.

Once his mouth is on full display, you poke his tongue, making his stomach churn, flinching a bit along the way. You tap his teeth, focused on how white and straight they were. They couldn’t have been veneers. Was he truly this perfect?

He observes your curiosity. He feels it too. But the weirdest part of all is that he’s not telling you to stop. It’s something interesting to him, something that’s never happened, and probably never will again.

Then, it’s a singular finger. Then two. Then three.

Then…he realizes.

It’s a loaded gun. You’ve formed a finger gun—inside of his mouth. Your eyes sparkle with something he can’t describe, but all he knows is that you like seeing him spiral with hesitancy.

“So pretty,” you mumble, keeping your hand in place and his eyes close for a second before opening up again, this time unusually lustful. “Having you like this.”

You have control. You did this to claim control. That’s why. But two can play this game.

Moving his head to the side, your fingers slip out of his mouth, making you giggle happily to know that you’ve gotten to him. But what you seize to remember is that he has you in a vulnerable position.

Pushing a digit along your sensitive clit, you squeal with pleasure. He mocks you with a big kiss, though it’s messy and not quite right. His speed quicken and you can’t help but squirm stupidly, therefore, clenching around his cock. 

“Do that again, do that again.” You repeat your actions, watching his eyes shut with pleasure and his jawline tick. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”

You don’t get the chance to do it again because before you know it, he’s pushing you off and fixing you fiercely onto all fours. You cry out, already missing his warm touch that seemed to not have mattered to you a few weeks ago, but now appeared to be the lost important thing.

Thrusting in rapidly, the brunette grunts when your arms give out, ass up in the air for him to keep his gaze stuck on. He chuckles, somehow enjoying your lack of words as you babble on and on about God knows what. 

“Repeat after me—I deserve to be on the cover of Vogue.”

“It should be y-you,” you stammer. “Not me.”

“That’s sweet, baby, but it needs to be you.” Reaching your g-spot, Charles sighs when he feels it pressed against his tip. “I don’t want it anymore.”

And something clicks inside of you. Forgetting the intensity that shoots through your body, you disconnect yourself, pulling your dress back down angrily and furrowing your brows with accusation.

“Oh my God—you feel bad for me, don’t you?”

He blinks once before pulling his pants up. “What? No!”

“Why the change of heart, then, huh?” you question, feeling a burst of fury swirl inside of you. “You heard my sob story about my daddy issues and now you want to play the role of being some sort of savior complex, right?”

“That’s not true!”

Sharing a bitter laugh, you shake your head with disappointment, and during it, he narrows his brows sharply. “If you don’t mind me asking—why do you suddenly want me to have the cover?”

Silenece. 

Charles scoffs. “Oh, fuck you. You’re doing the exact same thing! You pity me!”

“I do not,” you snap, standing up and walking back towards the direction of the lively house. “I was just trying to be nice, you asshole.”

Chasing after you with long strides, the Monegasque shares a sarcastic chuckle. “Let me tell you one thing and one thing only, alright?”

“What?” you challenge, spinning back to face him. His skin is still flushed, and his collar is still wrinkled, but he look just as handsome as before, making your stomach flip. You lift your head up. “What is it?”

The green eyed boy stiffens. “I don’t need your permission to accept something that has always belonged to me.”

“I’m sor—belonged to you?” Your face drowns with annoyance. “This was never a competition, you were never in the running, please!”

“Is that really what you think?” he rebuttals. “Do you really think that a tennis player like you has a chance against a Formula One driver like me?”

A beat.

Stick to fucking, princess. That’s all you're good for, anyways. 

He feels the sting right away, and he knows he deserves it not long after. 

Your lips open dryly, then close, a trace of hurt coloring your irises. “I never want to see you again.”

“Done,” he confirms, nostrils flaring as he pushes past you, entering the AirBnB without a doubt that you were insane.

Completely—and utterly—insane. 

-

You haven’t seen him in three months, but honestly, that’s probably for the best. 

Whatever happened in Switzerland feels like a fever dream by now, and none of it makes sense anymore. Did you two really think you could come to an agreement by yourselves?

Because of that, no one has been chosen for May’s issue, and time was ticking. And a result, and because the date is closing in on you, an emergency meeting has been declared. 

Just you. Lisa. Isaiah.

And Charles.

Entering the spacious office, one that has about a million photos of you and your family, the Monegasque starts to wonder if your manger was secretly a super fan that just lucked out on working with you. It was extremely creepy. 

“Hello you two,” Lisa welcomes with a bright smile and red lips. “What a beautiful day to have you here with us!”

“Thanks for hosting, Lisa,” Isaiah chirps happily. “Why don’t we get started?”

They both call you out on your sense of delusion. For thinking that a trip to Europe might’ve helped to make a decision amongst you two without the need of them. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Since you two couldn’t make a decision like two grown adults, looks like we’ll just have to settle with a simple round of rock, paper, scissors.”

You face drops. “That’s it? That’s your solution to all of this?”

“Yeah, man, what the fuck?” Charles yelps, sending a glare over at Isaiah who looks ready to wither away. “A child’s game is bullshit.”

Lisa narrows her beady eyes with subtle threat. “You either play, or you don’t—it’s your choice. One round.”

“What if we tie?” you murmur, orbs stuck on the Monegasque who keeps his eyes trained on you as well. “What happens then?”

“You share the cover,” Isaiah says. “It was always an option.”

“No,” Charles responds. “It’s not.” He smiles. “Let's play.”

“Fine then,” you hum, tilting your head. “Let’s play.”

One round. Just you and him.

But you want to humiliate him—one more time.

Only he had the same thought as you.

Rock.

Paper.

Scissors.

Shoot—

“A gun?” Isaiah ponders with pure confusion, squinting and rubbing his eyes tiredly. But he’s not imagining it, in front of him, you and Charles shoot—a hand formed into a gun.

Your breath hitches because you know he’s using your father celebratory against you. He’s aware that he now knows something that you wouldn’t want anyone finding out about. Your family secrets, your history of cheating—any of it.

His breath hitches because he knows that you’re threatening him just the same. You now know something that you can hold over his head. His actual point of view over Jules and his father, his history of cheating—any of it.

It’d ruin both of your careers.

You were even, it was fair, but—

“I can’t work with him.”

“I can’t work with her.”

With that, Charles exits Lisa’s office, not sparing a single goodbye to any of you. You flinch, eyes following him as he leaves before the door even clicks shut, having you remind yourself that this really was over. 

Parting your lips, you stand up, sharing a look with both managers from very different worlds of sports, before abandoning them to try and understand what just happened. 

“Do you have a clue as to why she doesn’t want to do it?” Isaiah asks, attention glued on the wooden door, almost as if waiting for either of you to come back. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m a hundred percent sure that she wants to—that’s just her pride talking.” Lisa angles her head over to Isaiah. “You have any clue as to why he didn’t want to go through with it?”

Isaiah shrugs. “He’s the exact same way—it’s his pride.”

Mixing pride with pride?

It never works out.

And it never will.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting @chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @wanderingreigns @aykxz98 @ruti26-11 @esposamultifandom @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @r0nnsblog @aeriblu @inchidentofftrack @natashaklein @rutaceae-gelato @bowielovesyou @lilypat @folklaur21 @dustie-faerie @ajordan2020 @oscobabe @briefkittenearthquake @anayaverse @cassielikereading@satorinnie @ginsengi @n3versatisfied @koalalafications @ashley-k @mxm47max @jaejer-chan@oddends @sweetwh0re @fortunapre @formulahoney

[cause-im-mirrorball]

I need him in my life so badly

cw: smut & tension.ᐟ shy!reader x neighbour!beau.ᐟ voyeurism.ᐟ age gap [20’s and 40’s].ᐟ possessive!beau.ᐟ power play [a little].ᐟ risk of getting caught.ᐟ finger sucking.ᐟ oral [f.reveiving].ᐟ sex [p in v].ᐟ pet names [sweetheart, honey, sweet girl, baby, my girl].ᐟ 18+

꣑ৎ bee yaps: part one here — part two here. it's mentioned that reader has been celibate for a while, but not inexperienced. & thank you to my second brain @bruisedfig for bouncing ideas back and forth ♡

since that night in beau's truck— his hands on your waist, mouth on yours, body curling under his touch, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

not as the sheriff, not as your neighbour, but just beau. warm hands, honey voice. the weight of him against your chest when he leaned in close and kissed you like he wanted to ruin you that night.

you'd surely be going to hell for it. for fantasizing, looking out of your window, going to the side where your fences connected, in hopes to catch glimpses of him. being so embarrassed that you didn't even recognize who you were slowly becoming.

what happened to everything dad taught you growing up? everything you gave pride in? it was still there, somewhere. but beau was peeling it back, slow and sweet, like it was his to take from the beginning.

so changing in your room today, the blinds were left opened just enough to let the sun spill in. just enough that maybe he could see. just maybe.

and beau? he hadn't been outside for more than a few minutes. sipping coffee on his front porch, cowboy boots crossed at the ankle and sheriff's badge still clipped to his jeans. that's when he caught the movement up in your window. blinds wide open, which was unusual. he'd know since it overlooks his living room every time he attempts to relax.

there you were, delicate silhouette framed through the window pane. must've thought you were being subtle.

he watched as your shirt came off slow. arms raised, chest lifting beneath your bra. nothing hurried, nothing frantic. it was deliberate in that sweet, uncertain way of yours. a flick of your hair, then the little sway of your hips as you stepped out of your jeans, bending in just your panties by the window.

like you didn’t know how easy you were to see.

but you knew, of course you did.

he’d seen the way you looked at him lately. after the bar, after his truck, after him being buried between your thighs. all nervous glances and bitten lips. you were shy as ever still but you weren't running.

and that counted for something in his mind.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

twenty minutes later, beau was knocking on your front porch like he hadn’t just seen you bare. he already knew your dad wasn’t home. the truck was gone, workshop locked up. but still, he knocked. predictable.

you opened the door in that same t-shirt you’d pulled on after undressing, no bra. half-confused as to who was knocking this late in the evening.

your heart shot up into your throat.

beau stood there in dark jeans and a brown button-up, the kind with the sleeves always rolled to his forearms. but today, he wore his badge too. pinned right on his belt like it wasn’t just a piece of protocol, it was part of him. his hand tipped up in a lazy wave, resting on the doorframe.

“oh— mr. arlen, hi” you said softly, voice half sweetness and half startled, holding the door open with a little extra grip.

“hey there, sweetheart” he smiled, eyes doing a once-over of the porch before flicking back to you. “your daddy home?” as if he already didn't know the answer.

you shook your head. “no, sir. he’s— he’s out for a bit, errands.”

beau just smiled, like that was the answer he was counting on. “huh” he said casually. “was hopin’ to borrow that old wrench set he’s always braggin’ about, for my lawn mower.”

you blinked, still holding the door open like a good host, never be rude to the guests, like you’d always been taught.

“i can tell him you stopped by, if you want?” you suggest.

“‘preciate that—” he drawled, glancing past your shoulder like he was already halfway inside. “hey, you mind if i come in for a minute? long day. could use a bit of coffee, if you’ve got any brewin’." he asked tapping his sheriffs badge.

before you could even stammer out a reply, he stepped in. beau knew the more time he gave you to think, the less inclined he was to see you, to feel you, to taste you. if you'd just given in by now, he would already given you the world.

he brushed past you, two hands against your shoulders. not rudely or rushed. but natural, like he belonged there.

it sure as hell wasn't the first time he'd been inside the house. he came over for football nights, family and friend gatherings, or to chat with your dad about anything inside that damn workshop.

only thing is, this was the first time he’d been inside since you'd been intimate with him. home was your calm space, a spot for you to be with nature and go about your business. but now a six-foot-one cowboy was inside, crowding it.

the screen door clicked behind him as he tipped his hat slightly, looking around the kitchen. “smells good in here” he murmured, voice low. “not botherin' you for makin’ me a coffee, am i honey?”

it was quiet while you busied yourself at the counter— shaking fingers that you couldn't control while opening the cabinet, pouring coffee grounds into the machine.

you were acutely aware of how close he was, leaning against the island now, his hips slouched just enough to make you notice how casual he looked. mind replaying every touch, every grind, every bit of him you had encountered in the past month. like the whole house knew what was sitting unsaid between you.

you didn’t see his eyes flick down the hall, or the staircase just past it. you didn’t see the way his fingers flexed against the counter, jaw tight like he was holding back something on his mind.

“you sleep okay last night?” he asked, breaking the silence.

you froze mid-stir “um yeah, i guess.” not daring to turn around and face him.

he hummed “mhm, good" then a pause. “cause i was wonderin’ if maybe your blinds need fixin’. the ones in your room.”

your hand jerked slightly, spoon clinking too loud against the mug. his eyes stayed burning into the back of your head, steady and slow, like he had nothing but time to watch you squirm.

“what?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“they not closin’ all the way?” he continued. “could’ve sworn i saw ‘em opened earlier when i was out front. s'quite the view from my porch.”

but you didn’t answer, you didn’t know how to. fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, the coffee forgotten.

“course, maybe that’s just the way you like ‘em, huh? open like that. puttin' on a show for anyone passin' by?” the thought had his jaw clenching.

beau’s boots scraped back across the tile as he stood up straighter “m'just askin’, sweetheart. not accusin’.”

he looked down the hall again, then back to you. “maybe I oughta go take a look. make sure nobody else out there’s gettin’ a view they shouldn’t.”

and before you could say anything, before your mouth could even catch up to your thoughts, he was already moving.

up the stairs and to the left, like he knew exactly where to go, like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined this. because it sure as hell wasn't.

you stood frozen for half a second, then followed. nerves fraying with every creak up the steps. and he was in your room when you got up there.

beau was already leaned against the window, flicking the blinds open, then shut, then open again. click. click. click.

“would'ya look at that, works just fine—” he said in a mock-surprised tone. “guess that means it somethin’ else, huh?”

you hover in front of him, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. slowly, he steps into your space, a finger tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

“now, i could bring that up downtown if I wanted y'know. a sweet girl gettin’ naked in her window like that? somethin’ the whole street could’ve seen.” he tsks. “lucky it was me who caught it, not someone else. someone who’d look at you and think they could take somethin’ that don’t belong to them.”

you wanted to say sorry. to put on your 'big girl shoes' as your dad called them, and admit what you did was on purpose. that you wanted beau to see you, to want you again, but you just couldn't when he was standing in front of you.

“i didn’t mean to.”

he smiles again, but it reeks of possession. eyes dragging over the details of your bedroom. the little things that gave you away. a childhood blanket on your bed. the pink stuffed bunny tucked against your pillow. the framed photo of you with your grandmother.

“cozy little space you got here—” he says, stepping past you like he owned the place. “s'kinda what I figured.”

you trail behind him instinctively, eyes wide as he starts wandering around. “this your blanket?” he runs his fingers along the edge, the throw blanket folded over your bed, pale and faded soft from years of use.

“yes, sir” you nodded stiffly.

he glances back, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. “christ, what do i have to do t'get you to stop callin' me that, since you been what— fifteen?”

your breath stumbles. “my grandma made it, the blanket.” you point trying to deter the conversation.

his wandering hands find the stuffed animal tucked neatly by your pillow. something pink, small and quietly embarrassing. he picks it up and turns it over in his palm. “this little guy got a name?”

“it's just bunny” you murmur.

“cute” he chuckles and places it gently back down. and at this point you want to melt into the floor and crawl away.

he makes a soft sound, barely a hum, as his eyes drift back to you. “you respect the law, sweetheart?” his voice was lower now, more direct. “your daddy raised you to obey the rules, didn’t he?”

you nod again, like an obedient puppy. “yes, sir”

he steps closer and you swear the floor creaks under his boots from how silent everything had gotten. “bet he didn’t think his baby girl would be givin’ his neighbour a show."

“speakin' of— why’d you go puttin' on a show for me earlier, sweetheart?” his voice was quieter now, but persistent, he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you admit it.

your eyes flick down to the floor, too flustered to meet his. it’s all bubbling up now, the warmth in your cheeks, the way your stomach felt queazy. the ache that’s been building since the truck, since that damn bull ride, since the way he looked up at you from between your thighs.

your voice is barely there when it slips out. “i wanted you to see.”

and that’s all it takes.

beau exhales slow through his nose, jaw ticking just slightly as his hand moves, steady and assured. his palm is warm and broad as it wraps around you, tugging you forward until your chest pressed against his.

you feel all of him. toned chest, erection hard and heavy against your lower belly, bulging beneath his jeans like he’s been holding back for weeks. because he had been.

“that right?” he mutters, thumbing a slow circle against your spine. “wanted me to see you standin’ there all sweet and bare in your window?”

you nod, too ashamed to say it again.

he leans in just enough that his lips fan against your temple, words soft and syrup-slick. “tell me, sweetheart, right now what do you want?”

his hand trails lower, dragging a warm line down your spine until his fingers press just above the waistband of your shorts. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your lip.

“c'mon use your words for me, baby,” he murmurs, gentle but firm. “wanna hear you say it.”

you’re trembling from a mix of nerves and desire, everything crashing down at once.

your voice doesn’t shake when it comes this time. “i want you, beau.”

his eyes narrow, heat crawling behind the green depths. something shifts in him, not rough but decisive.

“yeah?” he breathes, brushing your hair behind your ear, cupping your cheeks with his palms “s'my girl.”

his lips start off as a feather-light press against yours, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees press into the edge of your bed. you sink down easy, head falling against your pillow, right beside that worn little stuffed bunny.

beau follows you down, body caging you against the mattress. his knees at either side of your legs.

his hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing under your chin. he doesn’t rush or push. he takes his time tasting your mouth, coaxing your lips open, letting his tongue slide slow over yours until your fingers curl tight in against his shirt.

“lay back f'me sweetheart” he murmurs. “lemme take care of you.”

“you want me here?” the pad of his thumb pressed against the seam of your shorts , right where you’re aching for him. “right here?” he teases, rubbing a soft circle over your clothed cunt.

you whine, hips bucking. “yes— there.”

your shirt goes first, then the shorts, then panties. beau wanted full unobstructed view this time.

you’re bare in front of him, nipples hard. attempting to cover yourself with your hands but he gently guides them away.

“no baby, don’t do that. ain't nothin' you haven't shown me before." his voice softens. while he does a slow one-over of your body.

“so fuckin’ pretty. you know that?”

he kisses the inside of your thigh, then the other. he’s slow with it. finally getting the chance to worship you, and he means it.

you’re already worked-up and soaked when he's finally kisses against your cunt.

light and broad deliberate strokes of his tongue. warm, wet and so much better than your memory of it.

“fuckin' hell sweetheart, i missed this pretty pussy.” he hums low when he tastes you. thrusting against the mattress to ease the throbbing need in his cock.

his tongue circles your clit just right. his fingers spread you open, thumb pressing lat your enterance while he sucks gently, then firmer. doesn't stop until your hips are jerking and your hand's yanking at his hair.

he pulls back only when your thighs are shaking, cunts clenching around nothing, and your begging him to let you come.

your eyes flutter open just in time to see him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. those dark eyes drag up your body, hot and full of hunger.

“still want this, sweet girl?” he asks, unbuttoning his jeans.

and when you give him the nod, he pushes his jeans down and your breath catches.

he's thicker than you expected, with that perfect heavy curve, flushed dark at the tip. a line of soft hair trails up his stomach. his hand wraps around the base and he strokes once, slowly just to watch your expression.

and beau could come then and there, just from how wrecked you already look and he barely even touched you yet. every charming encounter, every night of fucking his fist imagining it was you, led to this moment.

“have you... recently at all?” he asks gently, not judgemental but curious.

you shake your head. “no, not in a while.”

his jaw tightens slightly. that matters to him, thinking about it. about the time he’s lost.

he leans over you, nudging your nose with his. “gonna start real slow, honey. stretch you out nice and easy”

he kisses you again as he rips open a condom from his pants pocket. lines himself up, one hand steady on your thigh. the first push in had your whole body tensing, back arching off the bed.

“just relax baby, i got you” beau reassures in your ear.

your hands grip his shoulders as he inches deeper. the stretch burns but it’s good, like he’s carving a place inside you no one else has fit.

“jesus” he groans, voice ragged. “you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin' tight, baby."

he bottoms out, giving you time to adjust. thumb strokes over your cheek, eyes locked on yours. “can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. in your bed, in you. after all that waitin’."

you bite your lip, eyelashes damp. his hips roll slow in shallow thrusts, just enough to make you whimper.

“shh, shh. don’t wanna get caught like this if your daddy gets home, do you?” what would he think of his baby girl, gettin’ fucked by his neighbor? by the sheriff?”

you shake your head, barely able to form words. not when he feels this deep, this thick. “he'd— he'd kill me” you breathe, fingers digging into his biceps.

“mm, then you better keep quiet for me, sweet girl.” his thumb brushes over your bottom lip and presses it into your mouth, muffling the gasp that slips free when he rolls his hips again, deeper this time.

“there we go” he murmurs, pad of his thumb resting heavy on your tongue. “keep that pretty mouth busy for me, yeah?”

you whimper around it, eyes glassy, clinging to his shoulders as he moves inside you deeper now. the sound of your slick cunt was sinful, but he gladly watches you fall apart.

you whine around his thumb, the stretch still thick and sweet, and his eyes flick down to your mouth, your parted lips wrapped so obediently around him. his other hand presses to your hip, holding you steady while he works deeper, fucking into you with calculated thrusts. watching every flicker, every little twitch of your brows as you struggle to take it all.

beau's thumb drags from your mouth, slick with spit, and he uses it to smear a soft line over your bottom lip, then down your throat.

“anyone else ever make my baby feel this full?” he growls, leaning down until his chest brushes yours.

his hand slips between you, fingers steady as he finds that swollen little bud, the pad of his middle finger circling slowly.

“nu-uh, don’t fight it. gonna come for me, been wantin’ this too long to stop now.”

his finger rubs tight circles over your clit, synced with every hard smack of his hips. your legs tremble, thighs squeezing around him, helpless against the hot building pressure between your thighs.

“look at me.” he pants it against your jaw, filled hunger and satisfaction all at once. “come on, baby, wanna see you fall apart on my cock.”

and you do. it hits hard, a high pitched cry of his name escaping before he presses two fingers to your lips, muffling you again just in time.

his mouth drops open, his rhythm turning desperate. rougher now. he’s chasing it. chasing you.

when he spills into the condom. his body falls forward, pressing you down into your sheets as his hips stutter, release hot and thick. he holds your face in one hand, thumb dragging along your bottom lip, eyes locked on the way you look beneath him.

you were both wrecked. but you were perfect and his.

beau's chest rises and falls against yours. the air is thick and quiet, heavy with everything unsaid. he should pull back. should leave. but he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then right between your brows.

you breathe out a trembling laugh, half-glowing, half-nervous. “beau you should go—he’s gonna be home soon.”

but he doesn’t move. just looks down at you and you see it. how badly he wants to stay, wants to hold you. run his fingers through your hair, kiss you softer, and make you feel cared for.

he would stay, if he could.

but he nods, like he's fighting an internal battle. “you’re right” he whispers. “we’ll save that part for next time.”

he dresses slowly, like every button of his jeans is a test of will. and when he leans over again, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye, and kisses your forehead reverently.

then he’s gone.

you watch him through the window, chest still bare as he steps onto your porch and moves down the path. and like fate meant it, you see your dad's truck pull into the driveway at the same time he steps into his house next door.

he made it. barely.

but in his mind, he’s not thinking about your dad.

he’s thinking about your mouth, your little stuffed bunny, the way you whispered “i wanted you to see.” he’s thinking about how perfect your body wrapped around his, the taste of your skin, the warmth of your cunt.

he's thinking about how now that he's had you, really had you, there’s no going back.

you let him in once.

and next time, he’s staying.

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[cause-im-mirrorball]

I'm crying laughing 😭😭

Barcelona GP 2025

[cause-im-mirrorball]

Oscar was hard before he even walked through the door.

warnings: smut, CNC, everything in this scene has been pre-discussed, mention of pain and sort of role play ig?, does it count as angst? Idk but at the end it’s fluff. barely proofread tho

His heart was beating fast in anticipation, he almost scared that he was going to enjoy this a bit too much.

But you'd assured him the day before that he had nothing to feel guilty about. You wanted this, and you wanted him to enjoy it just as much as you did.

Just like you agreed, he came home after work needing some relief after a long and stressful day.

He found you in the kitchen, pottering around and he came up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist.

“Hello, Osc." You smiled "How was your day?” you turned around in his arms to kiss him, hands cupping his cheeks to pull him in.

“It was shit.” He chuckled against your lips. “But I'm here now…” he ran his hands over your hips, pressing you against the counter “and you're here to make it all better” he growled.

The tone of his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Oh…” you stiffened up at the feeling of his hands reaching under your skirt. “Osc- I don't…”

He shushed you and slid his hand under your thighs to pick you up, and swiftly carried you into the bedroom.

“Oscar I’m not in the m-”

“ I need this, okay? Just relax.”

He dumped you on the mattress and crawled over you, kissing you deeply enough to shut you up, and sweetly enough that your heart fluttered. Your heart rate picked up.

He kissed down your neck while pulling your skirt off, one of his hands cupping you over your panties to feel your wetness, which made him growl possessively.

“Gonna make you take me, baby. You can take me can't you?”

You shook your head, whimpers spilling out as he manhandled you onto your hands and knees. He threaded his fingers through yours, holding one of your hands in place so that you could move too much.

“Oscar I can't, please”

“Course you can. You want to be a good girl for me, yeah?”

He ripped your underwear down your legs and pulled his own pants down, just enough to free his leaking cock.

He rubbed himself against you, pushing the tip inside to test the stretch. It was already too much.

“Tell me to stop.”

Your cries were muffled by his fingers stuffed in your mouth and he chuckled darkly.

“Oh I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Better luck next time”

He pushed himself in to the hilt, and you wailed, drool already dripping down your chin and his wrist.

He fucked into you rough, angling his hips in the exact way he knew would make you breathless, and concentrated on that spot that made you numb.

“Tell me you don't want this. Go on” he took his fingers out of your mouth and wrapped them around your neck to pull your head back and make you arch your back for him.

“I don't!” you cried, voice cracking at the rough thrusts. “Please it's too much- I can't…”

Your body shook with both pleasure and sobs, he was going too hard, too fast.

“Please!”

“Too late, I'm already inside you, baby. Can you feel me? Feel how fucking hard you make me” he was panting in your ear like a dog while he bullied his cock into you from behind.

“It hurts” you whimpered.

“Oh it hurts?" He mocked. "Am I too big for you, baby?” He didn't relent, pressing into you deeper, pulling your hips back against him and forcing you to take it.

“Well too bad, because you're taking me one way or the other”

You squirmed, trying to dislodge his grip on you but he was too strong, and the arm around you tightened.

“There's no use struggling baby. I'm going to fill you up and you're going to take it all, like the good girl I know you can be”

He sped up, and your body caved at the insistent press of his cock inside you. You were flat on the bed, legs forced apart by his thighs while he hammered into you.

“That's it baby, just take it. Take my fucking cock, that's it”

You could barely breathe. Your face was pressed into the pillow and your tears and snot were smeared across your face as you as you cried out.

“See, baby? This isn't so bad.” He was draped over your body, rutting into you as he chased his pleasure freely. “Feel so good… shit- you're gonna make me come you're so tight.”

He groaned, hips stuttering as he pumped his cock inside you a few more times before he came with a grunt inside you.

You could almost feel him pulsing inside you with the force of his orgasm, while you could do nothing but wait for it to be over.

He pulled out quickly, pulling a face at the mess between your legs before getting his pants back on.

“Fuck… I feel much better, now” he said flatly. “Thank you”

He patted your ass and left you, body trembling, sweat cooling on you skin making you shiver as you lay there exposed and messy, unable to move while your brain caught up with the events.

A lonely tear rolled down your cheek.

---

Oscar was in the kitchen, waiting.

His hands were shaking with nerves. Was that okay? Did… did he go too far? Isn't that what you wanted? What if he misunderstood? What if he actually hurt you?

He was spiralling, and the longer he waited for a sign of life the longer paranoia pulled at his heart strings.

You were supposed to join him in the kitchen, but after nearly ten minutes, Oscar couldn't bear it.

He shuffled back into the bedroom to check on you, only to find you curled up into a ball.

“Baby?” his voice wavered “Are you okay?”

You turned over, and he saw you were crying.

“Oh fuck” he stumbled forward and crawled over to your side of the bed, “Did I hurt you? Why are you crying? Did I go too far?...”

He then noticed a smile appear on your face, which confused him.

“No baby, I'm crying because I'm happy, and I love you so much and..., geez that was intense…” you laughed wetly, wiping your eyes as Oscar let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh thank god…” he breathed, hugging you tighter. “You had me worried there for a sec.”

“Sorry… I was just in my feels a bit. It was perfect, thank you” you pulled him in for a kiss, which he gladly accepted. He needed a bit of tenderness after that.

“I'm serious, Oscar” you smiled. “I loved it, was it good for you?”

He chuckled nervously “Yeah… I uhhh… I actually have a confession.”

You frowned at him. “What is it?”

“That was so… you know, I was so excited and uh…I'm fucking hard again, babe” he muttered, burying his face in your chest. “Does that make me a psycho for liking it so much?”

You laughed, pulled his face back up and kissed him again.

“No, Oscar. But I am going to need you to make love to me now, I deserve to come too, you know”

He laughed, squeezing you in his arms before sitting up and helping you get the rest of your clothes off.

“After that, you better believe I am going to be making love to you at least six times a day for the foreseeable future.”

You grinned, spreading your legs to accommodate his body, and he gulped when his eyes landed back on the mess of his cum leaking out of your raw puffy cunt.

“Sounds good to me”

[cause-im-mirrorball]

they did it your honor I just can't prove it

They make me insane, have this offering of filth

"Sorry I couldn't be more use to you" Oscar's panting, breath knocked out of his lungs because Lando's just slammed him against the wall of his driver's room and is running his hands on him, everywhere.

Lando is busy grinding against the thick thigh that's slotted between his own. Not too busy to be needy though.

"Doesn't matter now. I won and I need you" Lando has been at least half hard since he crossed the finish line.

He's just won in Monaco, and Oscar has been driving him insane all weekend, in that damn white suit that makes him look slightly less pasty than usual.

"Fuck- Lando slow down" Oscar's hair is plastered to his forehead and he's covered in champagne. Lando too.

"That's not how you win races, Osc-"

For that snark, Oscar grabs Lando by the jaw, dangerous expression flashing in his eyes, and kisses him, deep and sloppy while they grind against each other in a mindless haze.

They'll need to get out there eventually, to see the team, do interviews, briefings, whatever. But right now, the only thing they can think about is the heat building between them.

Oscar's holding Lando's waist tightly, drawing him in while the older driver ruts against him like an animal in heat, and his lips ghost over than tan neck that Lando is exposing to him, an invitation.

His suit is getting tighter, suffocating almost, but they're too far gone to stop now, and he kisses down the delicious throat of the man currently losing it. Teeth scrape over the flesh still dripping with sweat and sweet celebratory showers. Oscars feeling a bit feral himself right now, and a bit possessive.

He bites down, just under Lando's cut jaw, and a broken sound is forced from his lips.

"Oscar- osc!" Lando cries out and his moans are too strained, too loud to be normal moans...

Oscar's breathing hard in shock, staring at the face so close to his own, lashes fluttering, and lips hanging open in bliss as Lando's body slumps against him.

"Lando-"

Lando's just come in his suit, and it's possibly the hottest thing Oscar's ever seen, so much so that he feels a spurt of precome in his own underwear, and his cock is now throbbing with need.

"Fuckin'... Lando"

He shuffles around, dumps Lando on the couch and straddles his chest, rushing to get his own suit unzipped and his fireproofs pushed out of the way.

He fists his cock, aided by the obscene mix of precome, sweat and champagne, and shoves a thumb in Lando's open mouth, hooking it over his bottom teeth to open him up wider.

He comes with a loud growl, eyes darting between Lando's now outstretched tongue and his fucked out gaze. It's messy.

He comes hard. Some of it manages to fall into Lando's mouth, but most of it streaks across his face, glazing those infuriatingly long lashes.

Lando swallows what he can, the rest cooling on his overheated skin. Oscar is just staring down at him with a hungry expression.

He looks pretty like this, covered in come. Maybe Oscar should keep him like this forever. Maybe take a picture.

In fact, he does.

His phone is within reach, he grabs it and snaps a quick pic, smirking like a devil.

"The face of a winner, indeed."

[cause-im-mirrorball]

the ending?? hello?? I am dumbfounded

lust ☆ fc43

genre: smut, angst, unreliable narrator(s), pathological liars, forbidden “love”, douchebag!franco, journalist!reader, mentions of sexuality

word count: 16.6k

lust (noun) — intense, often uncontrolled, sexual desire or craving, but can also refer to a strong desire for something else, like power or material possessions.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...unprotected sex, f!receiving, oral sex, missionary sex

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]

cherry here!... don’t ask me who’s lying because boy i don’t even know lol this is messyyyy—welcome to the twisted world of lust mwah!

“Logan Sargeant is out, Franco Colapinto is in!”

Face mask dried up. Towel tied up. The Sound of Music plays. You let out a muffled scream, eyes growing wide with shock. 

“Are you serious?”

Lissie nods, jumping onto the open space beside you on the bed, grabbing a chocolate covered pretzel and popping it into her mouth. “As serious as a heart attack.”

“Woah,” you say, letting out a sigh, sympathy washing over at the thought of someone’s dream coming to an end. “That…woah.” A beat. “Wait. How do you know?”

The brunette wiggles her brows theatrically. “I don’t—it’s a rumor.”

You roll your eyes, shoulders drooping as you go back to relaxing. “You’re so silly, Elisabella.”

By now, you’ve reached for the control and switched off the television, opting into the idea of a book. The one you’ve been dragging all over the world for the past few months, but you haven’t managed to actually flip through a single page. And it looks like today isn’t the day, either. 

Lissie scoffs, ripping the novel straight out of your hands. “I’m providing you with the juiciest piece of information, and you’re taking it with a grain of salt?” Bewildered, she skims through the pages, using it as a fan, then tosses it into the unknown, making you frown. “I’m telling the truth!”

“Are you, though?” you challenge. “I mean, you said it yourself—it’s a rumor.”

“Yeah, and rumors are the truth,” she retorts quickly. 

“Not always,” you push back, wagging a finger as she pushes it down, making you want to crack a smile. “It could also be nothing but a hoax.”

“Since when?” As soon as you open your mouth, she’s quick to slap a hand over your lips, causing the mask to break. Lissie! you squeal against her hand as she lets out a snort and a poor apology. “You’re just choosing to ignore it because you were rooting for the American.”

Finally, pushing her away, you stick your tongue out. “The American has a name. Plus, the sport has treated him like dirt, how could I not cheer him on?”

She pops another pretzel, crumbs falling onto her lap. “Look, I know you’re being an empath and all, but that’s life for ya.”

And you know she’s right, but over the course of time, given the very few chances you’ve gotten to interview Logan, you’ve come to realize how much of a softie he is and you like that, because in a way, you see yourself in him. “When is the news coming out?”

Buzz! Buzz!

Darting her eyes down to her phone, she lets out a sad smile, and you know she feels just as bad as you. 

“Looks like it just did.”

-

The paddock has been swirling with anticipation ever since the news and it’s safe to say that every journalist has their eyes set on the smiley Argentinian who enters it without a single care in the world. Camera’s flash, people stare, and he seems to like it. Why wouldn’t he?

“I heard he likes to be interviewed mainly in Spanish,” Lissie hums besides you, spectating just the same as everyone else. Sipping on her iced tea, she squints, watching as the brunette disappears against the crowd. “Diva.”

You laugh. “How so?”

“He thinks his fans interact more with him in his native language, but that just can't be true—can it?” Another sip. “Probably not. Nobody speaks Spanish in this sport.”

“Carlos? Fernando?” you question with a soft smile, one that she ignores. 

“Excluding drivers,” she clarifies. “He’s just looking for attention because he knows he can.”

Spinning to face your friend, your brows pinch together with curiosity. “Can what?”

Lissie snickers, biting down on her straw. You’ve always been this way—naive. She sees things you don’t, and sure, that adds to your charm, but sometimes, she genuinely worries. “Get it.” When you fail to understand, she lets out a dramatic sigh, patting your head like a dog, causing you to blink with wonder. “Attention. I’m referring to attention.”

Heat surfaces towards your face as you look away, brushing the embarrassment off. “Duh. Of course, that's what I was thinking….”

Minus the constant cheers for him, there's silence where you two stand, taking part in people watching as if your lives depended on it. And somewhere in between the line—the thin, thin line— he turns to face in your direction. 

Instantly connecting his gaze—with you.

As if it's a daily occurrence, your breath hitches, making you flinch with surprise. He seems to notice—the effect he's made on you—and this gets a smile out of him, loopy and mischievous, all at once. You don't like the way he's looking at you, like he knows you. Like he can tell you things about yourself that you haven't figured out yet. Overall, you hate it.

Especially with how fast your heart is beating.

“Damn it.” The Brit groans. “Even I miss the American. This lad just seems to be full of himself already, don’t you think?”

Except, you don't, because your mind is no longer in control and you're no longer sane. It appears all of that has gone out the window the moment he's walked into the paddock, chased by girls. And you despise the way you can feel yourself becoming one of them.

Oh yeah, you murmur, still not looking away, but he has, already signing a bunch of merch. You blush, shaking your head in complete daze. “Way too, uh…full of himself, indeed.”

-

Franco Colapinto is one of a kind.

He never takes anything seriously, never lets his mistakes bother him for too long. He thinks lingering in moments like those is stupid and unnecessary, and he'd rather just have fun. Very few get it, but that’s not something he cares about, to be quite honest. 

He had gotten the call last minute. He was in Brazil with…friends.

And without a doubt in mind, he accepted to drive for Williams. Things apparently haven't been working out for Logan, and while he felt pity for his distant friend, he couldn't help but feel ecstatic to get the chance to drive a Formula One car. This was his dream.

And it all went down the way he had pictured. All eyes were on him, not a singular second passed without someone turning to look. He can tell some were confused, he can tell some were shocked, but he enjoyed every last bit of it.

He loved the way girls stared, admiring him in ways he’s gotten quite used to. He loved sending sly smiles and seeing them burn up in return. He loved knowing he’s figured out things that other guys haven't had the time of day to figure out themselves. 

He just loved the attention.

“I’ve had a blast, uh, driving with those I’ve looked up to ever since I was a little boy,” he says with a sheepish smile, eyes crinkling as Will nods, taking notes and raising the microphone. Franco chuckles. “I can’t wait to continue.”

He gets along with everyone and they all want to be his friend. This is normal and he likes that he’s fitting in with ease. Though, for some odd reason—

“I don’t think they like me much,” he admits once the interview is over, making Will quirk a thick brow, turning his attention to where you and Lissie stand, waiting impatiently for him.

The journalist snickers. “You’re joking, right?”

Only, he’s not. He knows when people tolerate him and you two aren’t one of them. He doesn’t know why he suddenly cares given he doesn’t really know either of you, but he just knows that he does. Very much, actually. Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, the brunette looks away, ignoring the laser being aimed at him, particularly from the British girl. 

He doesn’t say anything after that, just makes his way closer, watching as you whisper something to your grumpy friend before flashing him a warm smile. 

“Oh God, he’s coming.”

“Relax,” Lissie quips, standing straight. “We can’t inflate his ego, remember?”

“What ego?” you hiss, palms sweating as he inches closer. You gulp. “I have to be nice, I’m always nice!”

“Yeah, well not this time, you aren’t,” she declares adamantly, causing you to shake your head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this, look at him, he’s smiling at us!” Flashing a dopey grin, you hear her sigh, obviously disappointed in the fact that you’re blindly giving into his games. Then, he’s in front of you two, extending his hand out as a formal introduction. 

“Hi, I’m Franco—”

“We know,” Lissie cuts him off, a slight edge in her voice. He blinks, completely frazzled by her tone. Shrugging, she mocks a smile of her own, downright confusing the fuck out of him. “Welcome, mate.”

“Thanks?” he mumbles, shaking her hand deliberately slowly as her eyes remain as sharp as knives. He’s intrigued by now, as to why she’s treating him this way. Then, to his right, there you are. Fragile. Shy. Round eyed. Not a single thought behind them. Feeling his personality come right back as if nothing, the Williams driver sends a wink. “Hola.”

“H-hola,” you return, copying him, but your accent is mediocre, at best. It’d be lame if you weren’t so beautiful. You cough, clearing your throat as you lend your hand into his, and immediately, you feel a pull. Not physically, no, but rather—energetically. It’s a scary thing, but something tells you not to question it and that this is all a part of his charisma. “I’m—”

“Not interested.” At once, both you and Franco turn to face Lissie who stands with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot strictly. “She’s not interested.”

“I wasn’t—” he tries to speak, but she’s fast to shut him down.

“Yes. You were.” Rolling her eyes, she tugs you back from your wrist, making you let out a yelp by the sudden clutch. “Look, how about you mind your business and we’ll mind ours, yeah?”

“Lissie…” you warn with a slight crack, ignoring the rush of blood. Biting down on your lip nervously, your eyes flicker back and forth, feeling the cool weather suddenly suffocate you with shame. “He hasn’t done anything.”

“He was about to, though.” A scoff. “I’ve heard all about you and your games—Franco.”

She says his name in a way that makes you aware that she isn’t fond of the idea of him in any shape or form. And he seems to pick up on that too, eyebrows raising with amusement. “Have you now?” Cocking his head to the side, a smile starts to spread. “And what exactly have you heard about me?”

“That you're nothing but a deceiving flirt,” she responds without missing a beat—zero pressure, zero problem, zero intimidation. Flustered, you fiercely start to shake your head, but it's too late, Lissie is on a roll. “I know your intentions aren't genuine, so how about we save ourselves the trouble and keep this professional. It's not like you'll be seeing much of us, anyways.”

“Yeah?” he questions, accent deep and raw, making you squirm, and of course he picks up on that too.

The brunette girl sighs, feigning indifference, or maybe it was real, who knows. “As you may have noticed, Will interviewed you, right?” Still, he says nothing, standing there with a blank expression. She lets out a sour chuckle, one that even catches you by surprise. “It's going to stay that way.”

“I still need an interviewer for my Spanish debriefs, who's to say it's not going to be you?” he challenges, focusing on her now and enjoying the twist in her face. 

“I don't speak Spanish, so no—it won't be me, thank God.”

“You don't?” he asks, clearly shocked.. “I thought you were Latina—”

“Oh, so you're quick to jump to conclusions, too?” Rolling her jaw, you can tell your best friend is close to the breaking point. And while you've seen it before, you haven't seen it much, but you were pretty certain it wasn't going to make her look any better. Plus, people were starting to stare, and that alone was making your skin itch and shift uncomfortably, wishing to vanish into thin air. “You really are a know-it-all.”

Franco ignores the dig. He ignores the murmurs. 

But he doesn't ignore you.

“What about you?”

“Me?” you squeak, looking around as if there might have been someone else. Like a blushing mess, you open your dry lips, feeling a catch in your throat. “I, uh…I, um.” You don't. Oh, definitely not. But the way he's looking at you makes your head spin, and the need to answer correctly makes you believe this just might be it. What exactly? That you don't know yet, but it. 

A firm nod. I do.

“You do?” Lissie and Franco say in chorus, and while she's bewildered, he's over the moon. 

Another nod, this time more secure. “I've been practicing.”

“Since when?” the Brit interrogates, not choosing to believe what you're saying. 

You gulp, lips wobbling into a slippery smile. “Ever since the rumors started.” Her face darkens, clenching her jaw. “Since I heard he might be entering the grid—I wanted to be r-r-ready, just in case…” 

Lissie snarls. “So you do believe in rumors.”

A wince. “Lissie, I—”

“Would you be interested in conducting my Spanish interviews?” Franco asks, vibrant eyes dedicated to you as your heartbeat spikes. He smiles charmingly, eyes squinting in a way that makes your body feel the need to jolt. “I like you.” A beat. “You're sweet.”

He thinks I'm sweet, you cheer to yourself, keeping a straight face on the outside. Besides you, Lissie pokes your hip, and you know what that means—decline his proposition. There's got to be a million different reasons as to why this probably isn't a good idea, you're sure she has them ready to lay out to you with a whining noise like I told you so. But in a moment like this—where you can't even seem to comprehend—you choose to ignore them. 

Snapping your berry lips into a thin line, you just slightly—ever so slightly—nod, making Lissie disinflate and Franco grin brightly. 

And dear God—were there signs.

-

You've been avoiding him for the past few days and the problem is he doesn’t know why.

At first, he thinks you're intimidated by the idea of being caught with his presence—maybe it was too much to handle for you. He liked thinking that to be true. Then, he thought maybe you were backing out. Perhaps Lissie had said something that made you come to a realization, and sure, he can easily find someone else, but it needed to be you. 

Why?

Well, because he liked knowing he could get a pretty girl to choose him over her best friend.

It was all about power for him. Power, fun, and games.

So, when he crosses with you in the hotel he didn’t think journalists like you could ever afford, he takes a chance to cage you in and get some answers. And that just so happens to be in an elevator.

Crap, you think to yourself as he enters, ever the giddy guy he is. He presses a button—fifty. And he doesn’t say anything at first, but when you fail to acknowledge him with a greeting, he looks over with those brown eyes that make you wish you were blind. “I didn't know you were staying here,” he chokes out, gently inhaling your soft perfume. It makes his eyes flutter, just for a minute. 

Forcing a light hearted laugh, you shake your head. “I'm not. I'm just…visiting a friend, that's all.”

And just like that, his stomach drops. Were you here for some rendezvous? Was it with someone he knew? And yes—yes—it must be because the entire grid was staying on the fiftieth floor. 

“Cool,” he murmured, gritting his teeth, passing time by counting every floor. “Cool, cool, cool—can I ask who?”

Taken aback, you giggle awkwardly, resting against the metal wall. Brown orbs are aimlessly looking for an answer as you struggle to give it up. You lick your lips, shrugging as if no big deal. “Carlos.”

“What?” he screeches, eyes practically flying out of their sockets, making you flinch. Running a hand quickly over his rosy face, Franco tries his best to calm down. “I'm sorry, but…” he trails off, cringing. “Isn't he old enough to be your dad?” 

“Huh?” you mutter with genuine confusion. Then, it dawns on you what he was thinking. The tip of your ears burn bright red as you laugh nervously, waving a finger strictly. “I-It's not like that.” He nods robotically, attention still unsteady and not at all convinced. “He's just giving me private lessons.”

Franco's jaw drops, not making sense of what you're saying. Because while he doesn't know you to the full extent quite yet, he hadn't had that impression over you. Here you seemed kind and innocent, not…

Again, you realize your choice of words aren't so great, so you play it off with a poor grin. “How's your first week been?”

You're obviously changing the conversation, and he's sort of grateful for that, but he still remains curious about the situation with you and the Spaniard. “Just fine.” Silence. “What kind of lessons?”

He’s overstepping—he's well aware. And he should stop asking questions—he's well aware. And he's trying, he really is, but he just—can't. 

Embarrassed, you chew on your bottom lip with a subtle smile, making his jaw tick and his fists clench. Why is he acting this way? Why is he bothered so much? And why does he want to curse out Carlos fucking Sainz?

“Spanish lessons.”

It's said just high enough to be a whisper, and just low enough to let him know that you're somewhat embarrassed by your confession. And still, he lets out a breath, feeling his shoulders relax and the tenseness roll away. A laugh. “Wait—I thought you already spoke Spanish.”

Plump lips open feverishly before you swipe your pink tongue along it. His stomach flips cruelly at the sight that leaves him wondering about your mouth in other places. Places not even the dirtiest would think of. Because seeing as you stand there, like an angel, he pictures what it’s feel like to fuck someone like you.

“I don't…” Your brows knit together with apology. “I'm sorry about lying to you, I really am—”

“I can teach you.”

It's an offer that catches you off guard. Off guard because why would he take time from his busy schedule—for you? But for him, it was a simple one, one that made sense.

One that meant you wouldn't need Carlos—because honestly—fuck that.

Blinking feverishly, you shake your head, as stiff as an animatronic. Embarrassment practically flows out of you as you look away, orbs flying up to where the number fifty flashes, indicating the floor you’ve finally reached. Pressing down on the open door button, Franco smiles at you without missing a beat, making you think this was serious.

He was being completely serious.

“There's n-no need,” you fight back numbly, because the way he's begging with those brown eyes makes you think you might accept just about anything he'd say to you in this weak moment of yours. “I shouldn't have lied, and you deserve someone who actually spe—” You trail off, heat rising to your cheekbones. “I'll find you someone, don't worry.”

“There's no need,” he mimics, but with more confidence in his tone than yours. “I’ll teach you.”

“But—”

The Argentenian rolls his eyes light heartedly, going in for your hand and finally leading you out the tight spaced box, and thank goodness for that, because you're quite sure you would have fainted if you stayed in there for a second longer. He wiggles his brows, making you crack a soft smile. “I’ve taught a bunch of other girls. Teaching you shouldn't be too hard if I've done it a million times before.”

Wincing, you take a small step back, and he doesn't know what for. He doesn't know why you've reacted this way, he doesn't know why you haven't accepted yet, and he doesn't know why he feels the tiniest bit satisfied by it all.

“I think I’ll stick with Carlos for now,” you whisper, still not looking at him. Bewildered, he frowns, not able to hide his shock. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

That said, you leave him there, standing alone, eyes roaming your body and left wondering what you didn’t fucking say yes.

-

So, he isn’t doing Spanish interviews until later notice.

He sticks to English, he struggles in English, and he lives and breathes English. It's exhausting, it's starting to bore him and you still haven't spoken to him since that day.

He can tell Lissie is over the moon by your sudden detachment from the Williams drivers and that doesn't do him any better. He should have you by now, and the British girl should be warning you, too, but it seems like nothing is happening the way he's used to.

From the other side of the paddock, where you sip on your green juice, trying not to gag from how nasty it was, your friend side eyes you suspiciously before separating her own lips from her straw. “So, uh…”

Blinking, you look up.. “Uh what?”

And she's left it alone for long enough now and the curiosity has finally reached its brim. “What happened between you and what's his name?”

Chuckling, you cross your legs, resting your arms against the table. “You know his name, Lis, there's no need to be dismissive.”

“If I admit that I do know, will you finally tell me what happened?” You think about it, pouting subtly. And you're messing with her—teasing—you both know it. The brunette groans, gently kicking your leg under the table, making you squeak. “Oh, come on, don't be like that.”

“Be like what?” you ask, playing coy for a second longer before sighing. “He didn't do anything wrong, actually. He just…spoke like a boy.”

Thick brows draw in together with confusion. “A boy?”

You nod. “Yeah—egotistical, in a sense.”

Right away, the British girl claps, pointing at you boldly. “I told you so, didn't I?” she cheers, clearly enjoying the fact that she was right and thriving that you've finally realized it. 

Twisting your mouth from side to side, you shrug lamely. “You know I hate it when you say that.” A beat. “But yeah, you did.” A certain silence lingers for a split second before you rub your temples harshly. “I just…just—why did he have to be this way?”

She knows what you mean by that—immature. Why did Franco Colapinto have to be immature? 

Out of the many years Lissie has known you, from worst to best, she's come to figure out that you hate men like that, but despise boys even worse. They just weren't at your standard, and for a million different reasons. For starters, they think they're Gods. Second of all, they think they could get away with their shitty behavior. And third of all, they probably are some version of God and they probably could get away with just about anything.

And that's why you hate them—because they're easy to fall for, guys like him.

“Who knows,” Lissie responds with a smug expression, one you wish to wipe off. “But think of it as a sign—you dodged a bullet with that one.”

But no you didnt—no, you fucking didn’t.

-

You wish you had walked a little faster, you wish you had acted a bit soon, and you wish the word no was a part of your vocabulary.

At a nearby cafe, close to the paddock, you went out for coffee. You specifically chose this one because quite frankly, there were less people. It made things easier for you, but apparently for Franco, too. 

Ignoring him, you push past, acting as if you had no idea he was standing there, but as soon as he calls your name out in that accent that rolls off his tongue like honey, you freeze, turning to face the truth. The curly haired boy waves. “What are you doing here?”

“Just…grabbing coffee.”

He nods. In hand, he has his own cup, raising it up like a toast before taking a sip. “Ignoring me or something?” Shame fills you up as he's come to notice what you had been totally doing. Waving you off as if nothing, the Williams driver scrunches his nose for a second. “Ah, it's alright, don't worry about it. Can’t say I'm surprised.”

You freeze, narrowing your neat brows with blame.“Wha-what do you mean by that?”

“See ya,” he hums, already heading towards the exit all high and mighty. 

In a state of disorientation, you stare at his back before snapping out of the trace he had you in and chasing after like a madwoman. “What do you mean by that?” you yell, panting with the struggle to keep up. Stopping dead in his tracks, Franco grins to himself before turning around with a phony frown like a wallscreen.

“You're being told what to do, what to think,” he speaks up given the distance you have from one another, so you take a couple steps forward before leaving it as it is. 

“That's not true,” you mumble weakly.

The Argentinian scoffs, causing you to pinch yourself to make sure this wasn't some nightmare he's snuck into. But no. It's not. “Tell me one thing—and I want you to be completely honest with me.” Doll Like, you blink, nodding to his instructions. He quirks a sharp brow. “Has Lissie talked bad about me to you?” 

No fucking doubt, you want to snicker, but something in his mannerism shows that he knows she has, and that he’s just waiting for you to say it. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

But he's not letting go, not yet, at least. Closing the final gap between you two, you find yourself, nose to nose basically, with someone as intimidating as Franco Colapinto, which is a weird sight, because usually he's out having fun, and not doing…this. He opens his mouth and it's stupid how you find yourself doing the same before coming to the realization and clamping your lips shut. The corner of his lips quirk with amusement. 

Disconnecting from you again, he inches away, leaving you there feeling like a hopeless romantic with her heart caught in her throat. You want to rub your eyes, but you have a feeling that if you do, he might laugh from how much this has already affected you. 

Instead, he speaks up first. “You said you’d be honest. Go on now—be honest.”

Pursing your lips, you wince pathetically. “She has.”

You've said the right thing in his eyes, you've given him the answer he was looking for because this makes his point much more valid. And you're starting to realize, yeah. Maybe it is.

“There you go.” Another sip. “She's playing you like a puppet.”

She is Lissie, and Lissie is your best friend. Lissie can't be manipulating you—can she?

“You're right,” you find yourself accepting in a quiet whisper like you can barely even believe it. As if you're having some sort of epiphany. Bringing a delicate hand up to your lips, you shake your head, a trace of sadness lost in your eyes, one he caused for bringing you down to reality. If you're seeing this now, how long has this been going on for? “I don’t have my own opinions because…of her.”

He notices then that he could potentially be ruining a perfectly good friendship, but he also notices that he doesn't seem to care. He never liked Lissie and Lissie never liked him and now…

Now there was a winner amongst them.

Still with a pinched and sour expression, you nod repeatedly. “I’m in—I want to work for you.”

For me, he finds himself replaying your words as a similar glow pours across his features. One that you don't pick up on because you think this was your doing, not his. But none of this actually was, because as it came, you’re as clueless as a toddler. 

He plays the role of modesty first, and he plays it well. Forcing a small frown, Franco clicks his tongue softly. “You don’t have to. I get it. Lissie has made you think that—”

“Fuck what Lissie said,” you cut him off, suddenly enraged by what your so-called friend had been doing all along. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

No, you’re doing it because I made you think so, he thinks to himself and bites his cheeks in order to hide his creeping smile. That was the thing—he always knew he had you, before you even knew it yourself. 

That day at the paddock, when he first laid eyes on you, your reaction told him. The way you stiffened, the way your cheeks became blotchy. It was a dead giveaway, your infatuation, and that’s something he became interested in. But then, as unexpected as the unexpected can get, you had someone to look out for you.

And that someone was sweet ‘ol Elisabella.

She was right, right off the bat. He was a flirt. He was a no-good. But he hid it well and she knew that—but you didn’t.

Then, for some reason, he lost the plot and you were no longer googly eyed for him. It fucking ticked him off. He kept watchful eyes on you for the time being, watched you come and go as if he was no one to you.

But he knew that wasn’t true. That you probably didn’t believe that lie yourself.

He saw the way Lissie held onto your arm like a protective older sister. As if you were someone pretty little lamb who knew no better than to stay away from someone like him. The way she smiles as if saying—“I won”—is what made his blood boil because that wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.

He was supposed to have you by now.

And sure, there was a bump on the road, and for a minute he thought it might have not worked out—but look at you now.

“I’m tired of being controlled,” you admit as if it all finally caught up to you. “Lissie told me to stay away from you and that’s exactly what I did because that’s what she does best—control me.” Fuming, you throw away one of the coffee cups, one he notices has the Brit’s name written on it in neat cursive. “Well, not anymore, I’m done.”

And I’m all in.

-

“What did you say to her?”

Once the Argentenian glances up from his phone, he finds himself with an angry looking Lissie who seems just about ready to bite his head off. He kind of wishes she would just cause. 

“To who?”

The Brit girl's eye twitches. “You know who I’m talking about.” Letting out a raw groan, she pushes her hair back, suddenly irritated with anything in her way. “Why would you tell her a whole bunch of lies about me?”

“I don’t know, why would you?” he challenges without missing a beat. 

This practically gets a snarl out of the journalist, rolling her jaw before speaking. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing,” he answered, but too fast and too defensively.

A chuckle. “No, no, I want to know—what the fuck are you watching, Franco?”

“I already told you, nothi—”

In one swift movement, one that even is too fast for someone like him, she snatches the phone from his grasp before he even has a chance to turn it off. And there, in all its glory, is a naked woman moaning erotically as she self pleasures herself. Lissie scoffs, tossing it back, rolling her eyes.

“You see! You’re too lustful. All you think about it sex, sex, sex.” A beat. “What’s your problem, huh?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he shoots back, digging his phone back into his pocket, grateful that no one is around to witness any of this. “And no. I’m not. I’m just looking out for my friend.”

“Your friend?” Lissie repeats dryly. “Oh, darling, don’t get things mixed up—she is not a friend of yours.”

“Yeah?” he questions smugly, finally standing up and towering above. “And who did she just drop?” And that seems to do it, because in a single second, her eyes slowly begin to water. He grins, eyes crinkling with humor. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

No one says anything for a minute, no one says anything for two, but as soon as a droplet slides down her rosy cheeks, she’s quick to wipe it away, sniffling like some poor bunny. “You’re a fucking dick and she’s going to realize that sooner or later, you’ll see—”

“She’s going to realize when I want her to realize,” he says, filled with content. “Besides, you shouldn't worry too much.” Leaning down, he grabs her arms, holding her in place and whispers in her ear as she stands there numbly.

I promise I’ll make her feel so good, she won’t even remember calling you her friend.

-

Your lessons start right away.

There’s no room for mistakes, and yet, you find yourselves making them. You can tell that he’s losing his patience at times, but he always tries his best to hide it. It sort of works, it sort of doesn't, but nevertheless, you feel stupid. 

“Say it back to me again,” Franco commands, rubbing his jaw with a slight clench. He’s stressed out, you’ve made him stressed out, and now you want to leave his room.

Licking your lips, you nod gently. You process the sentences one more time before opening your mouth hesitantly. “Mi…” 

“Color,” he says, helping you out.

Heat rushes towards your cheeks. “Right—mi color. Mi color favorito es…es…” What was it again? Panicking, you look up at him, and he’s just staring so gingerly, so supportive, and so sweet, and you can’t let him down. “Mi color favorito es el rosa.”

His eyes light up, instantly grinning. “¡Bravo! Yes! You got it!”

“Really?” you ask in disbelief, laughing loudly. “Did I?”

“¡Si, si!” he chants excitedly, and honestly, kind of relieved that you finally got it down after so long. “That was good, you did good, you did so good.”

Something about his praise makes your stomach burn and your thighs press against one another. It’s both humbling and new, all at once. Flustered, you purse your lips, looking away as you toss your hair over your shoulder, searching for any reason to just not make eye contact with him anymore. Because what if he can read your mind?

You shouldn’t be doing that.

He doesn’t typically see you in dresses—especially dresses like this one you’re wearing right now. It’s short—it is hot where you’re staying, after all. Lacey—teasing him into barely getting the chance to see your skin. Dark—a royal blue that bleeds a bit harsher than normal. He thinks you did this on purpose—you did this for him.

Coughing, he watches as you flinch gingerly at the sound, attention back on him like before. He likes that. Your eyes on him, he means. “Won’t lie, it took you a bit longer than expected.” You blush, wobbly lips forming a foolish smile that makes your features soften like a cloud. He grins back. “But you got it, and that’s all that matters.”

“Sure,” you quip. “And for what it’s worth, I really am sorry for wasting your time!”

You were. You were wasting his time. He could have easily been out with friends, meeting new people he probably wouldn’t even remember meeting. But he had to do this. Not for you, but for himself. He couldn’t stand the idea of Carlos teaching you such an intimate language, he couldn't stand the possibility of you rekindling with Lissie and marching off, leaving him to be the loser amongst them both.

Plus, the way you act around him makes him think it’s only a matter of time.

He’s going to get his way with you, he’s sure of it.

“Don’t say that, cariño,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to be here with you.”

Your heart beats fast against your ribcage and a tingle runs along your legs. “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you think? You should rest before your race tomorrow.”

Right. Makes sense. Nodding, the Argentinian stands up, watching you do the same as you fix your dress up a bit and smile gracefully. He leads you down the hallway towards the door, making easy conversation, but as soon as he finally reaches for the knob, he pauses. 

“Hey—it’s actually really dark out now.”

You blink. “I suppose it is, yeah…”

Franco tilts his head flirtatiously, even you can tell. “A pretty girl  like you probably shouldn’t be walking alone at a time like this.”

You blink faster, lashes fluttering. What was he trying to say? I mean, you knew what he was trying to say, but what was going on? And you’ve never been the kind to…to…God, was the room suddenly spinning?

“I can do it,” you whisper meekly. “I’ll be fine.”

She’ll. Be. Fine. She. Said, he thinks to himself sourly. Did you not catch the hint? Did you not want to take up this opportunity that many girls would die to have? Are you stupid or what?

But he doesn’t want to seem like a jerk, even if he sort of is one, so, instead, he grabs his jacket and opens the doors, signaling for you to go first. This gets a smile out of you, not a tight lipped one or a forced one—a real, genuine smile. Huh? So you’re the kind of girl who likes romantics. Maybe that’s what he needs to be.

He can pretend.

Placing his jacket over your shoulder, he finds you chewing down on your lip, suppressing your smile from growing any wider. Thanks, you mumble as you finally reach the lobby, walking past the people in fancy suits who open doors for you. What were they called? Honestly, who even cares because here you were—with Franco—and nothing could ever have been as important as this moment. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he starts, hands dug into his pockets. “What ended up happening between you and Lissie?”

You grimace. “What didn’t happen between me and Lissie?”

“You’re not listening!” she yells as she chases after you. Marching up to your suitcase, you angrily start to pick up all your belongings and stash them in with no need to fold anything. “He’s just using you!”

“Stop saying that,” you demand, still not looking at her. “And stop feeding me lies, seriously, you’re starting to sound obnoxious.”

She doesn’t mind you degrading her, she doesn’t mind you belittling her, but she does mind the fact that you’re ready to erase her from your life and draw him in as a replacement. It’s not fair. The Brit girl rubs her eyes feverishly, hearing them squish harshly. “I don’t care, I just want you to realize that you’re making a mistake!”

You freeze, insides burning with fury as you collect your reason, but there seems to be none left. Turning slowly to face her, your lips turn into somewhat of a snarl, making her flinch in return. “You know what? Yes. I have made a mistake, a big one.” A beat. “By ever calling you a friend.”

Lissie doesn’t say anything, but you can tell that she’s deeply hurt. Of course she is. You’ve finally done it.

Chosen someone you just met—over her.

Blinking rapidly, the brunette runs a hand through her long hair, letting out a heavy breath. “Franco will never see you the way you want him to. The way you think he does.” She chuckles, making your blood boil at this point. “For God’s sake! You’ve read the thousand of tabloids surrounding him and his habits. Have you ever—ever—read a good one that has nothing to do with his driving skills?”

And that’s when it hits you. “Lissie—are you jealous?” There’s a string of silence that engulfs you two, letting it hang there for a minute too long. And you just have to, you just have to laugh. “Oh my God, you are!”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are! You have a thing for Franco!” With wide eyes, you clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the sound that makes her skin burn with irritation at the mere thought of you thinking she would ever have a thing for a guy like him. “How could I not see it?”

“I don’t like him!” she yells, aware that the people  next door are probably enjoying these five seconds of drama. “I could never like someone who treats girls like fucking shit, are you kidding me?”

“He’s not like that, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you continue, picking up from where you left off. “If you actually took the time to get to know him, then maybe things could be different, and perhaps we wouldn’t be here, now would we?”

Lissie groans, eyes screwed tightly. “Fuck you.”

You gasp. “No— fuck you.” You march closer, eyebrows narrowed. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“You know what? Yeah. Maybe I do,” she spits, furrowing her brows the exact same way as yours. “And that might explain why I’m conscious about Franco’s nature and you’re not.”

“He’s a great guy!” you exclaim, pushing her back, making her gaze darken. 

With the same energy, she reaches and pushes you too. “Fine, then! Get ridiculed, who fucking cares!”

That’s it. She just grabs her bag and walks towards the exit of the room you once shared. But at the very last minute, she turns to face you with soft eyes. Ones that almost—almost—make you break out of this trance he has you in because what if she’s right?

“I really hope you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

You shake your head, ignoring the sting. “She and I just…didn’t see eye to eye, is all.”

Franco stares ahead, feeling the hot breeze push his hair back. The night sky is a mixture of both beautiful and daunting, the vendors are hard at work, and he’s yet to get a solid answer from you. He thought he might know it, but he was sickeningly interested to hear if it was true. 

And it was.

“I don’t know how to say this without making her sound unprofessional, but, well, um—she doesn’t quite like you.”

And there it was. He knew that—since day one, he knew that deep down in his bones. He saw the way she glared at him, like a know-it-all, standing guard next to you. It was obvious. 

But he can twist this in a thousand different ways if he really wanted to.

“It’s because she’s in love with you, you see that, right?”

Bewildered, you stop dead in your tracks, unbeknownst of the smile that spreads across his lips before he turns to face you with a blank expression. You swallow, but even that suddenly seemed like hard labor. “That’s not …” you whisper weakly, fighting the urge to scrunch your nose with how taken aback you were. “That can’t be…”

He takes a look around, spotting the city lights and the way they surround you like a flashlight. And like that, he can note the slight redness painted across your cheeks, the way your chest rises hard and fast now that you’ve settled with a lie he completely ripped out from the farthest depths of hell. He knew what he was doing, he knew that he was being dishonest for no particular reason—but he just couldn’t have you running back to her to hear all the things he was keeping you from. 

A minute ticks by. “I’d say it’s obvious.” He can see you begin to spiral out of control, chewing hard on your thumb now, like an anxious teen. And he sort of feels bad—sort of. “I always thought she looked at you a bit…differently.” He contains a snicker, settling with a small wince. “Compared to everybody else, at least. Come on. Think about it.”

You do. Suddenly every interaction you two ever had is making you second guess. All those times she insisted on sharing a room in order to ‘save money’. The way she’d lace her arm through yours, leaning her head against your shoulder. How she pushed and pushed the idea of Franco being wrong for you. It all made so much sense now that he’s brought it up.

Shaking your head rigidly, you squeeze your eyes shut, choosing not believing any of it, but then again, you know it is—true. 

“You’re right.”

His lips flicker upward in the slightest of flickers before falling down.

You rub your eyes. “Wow. I mean…wow.” A beat. “That explains so much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being—”

Horrified, you nod, fast and hard. “Oh, yeah! Of course there’s nothing wrong with being…” You trail off, looking down to the floor, fixing his jacket that drapes over your shoulder once you feel it slipping. “I just feel so blinded, so…brainwashed, in a way.”

Franco nods gently. “I’m glad you know that. She was trying to keep you to herself.” You share a flinch. “But you don’t want that, no?”

“Want what?” you ask curiously. 

He shares a smile, shrugging innocently. “To belong to anyone?”

You blink, not knowing why you feel an odd heat circle between your legs. Maybe it’s the way his voice has gone dark and raw by now. As if he’s just getting over some cold that’s been attacking his throat for the past few weeks. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, as if he’s offering something no one else could ever offer. But he hasn’t said anything, he hasn’t really said anything at all.

“I think I wouldn’t mind,” you find yourself confessing. “If it’s the right person with the right intention, then no. I wouldn’t mind belonging to someone.”

Franco knew you were naive, Franco knew you were the kind to daydream.

He just didn’t think you’d ever be this foolish.

-

The next time you see Lissie and find her already staring, you’re quick to walk away. 

You don’t think you could ever fully explain what you’re feeling now that you know what you know, but there’s something that makes you feel a bit uncomfortable. I mean, the entire time you thought you two were friends—best friends, at that—and now you find out she’s always had a thing for you? It’s just a very hard pill to swallow.

“Welcome to your second official lesson,” Franco congratulates, making you giggle. “¿Lista?”

Dumbfounded, you stare, lips parted. “Pista? Like the car?”

She’ll be worth it, he thinks to himself, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Once you fuck her, this will all have been worth it.

“Let’s just get started,” he says, smiling tightly, but you don’t seem to notice, already nodding excitedly. It isn’t until halfway through—after he’s bitten his tongue about a thousand times—that you finally reach your breaking point. 

“I’m sorry! I can’t!” you wail, covering your face with embarrassment for struggling continuously. “I thought this was supposed to be easy?”

“It is,” he responds, grinding his teeth, then smiling gingerly when you look up at him with surprise. “It is not for everyone,” he finishes off, shrugging lamely. “Sorry. English isn’t my first language.”

“Oh. Okay,” you mutter softly. Sitting up straight, you tilt your head with sudden interest. “Hold on a minute—how did you learn English?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, popping a berry into his mouth. 

“Yeah,” you insist, propping both legs against the chair you're sitting on, skirt falling just a tiny bit. He stops chewing, brown eyes glued to the exposed area. “I figure you had your challenges at first.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but he feels like he’s floating.

You haven’t noticed yet, attention drawn to the open window, glow of the sun making you swoon for a second. “What had to happen in order for you to pick it up?”

He stares one more time before looking back at your pretty face, watching as you finally look back at him too. He shakes his head, curls swaying in a way that makes you smile. “I think all the prizes helped,” he admits. “Those were cool.”

“Prizes?” 

Franco nods. “An award? A reward? A—”

“I get what you mean,” you cut him off. “I just…what kind of prizes?”

“Well,” he starts, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “For starters, I was lucky enough to have a private tutor.” Attentively, you listen, round eyes devoted to him and this crumb surrounding his upbringing. “Her name was Adelina.”

“Her?” you echo.

The Argentenian bops his head, aware of your interest now that you’ve mentioned a name that appears to be important to him. Now you’re engrossed to the point of no return and he likes to know that you care—that you’re desperate to know, though you’re trying your best to hide it. “She was much older than me, therefore, wiser.” He smiles at the memory of what once was. “She made learning fun.”

“That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He frowns, not expecting you to react this way. “No, it’s not.”

Yawning, you stand up, bending down momentarily to slip your flats back on. “It’s getting late and you still have quali later. You should rest before then.”

He figures you’re right, but he doesn’t like that you get to decide that. You don’t so much as say bye, you don’t promise to find him later in the paddock just like the other times, and he doesn’t like that you get to have the last word. 

“Don’t you want to know what the prize was?”

You snort. “A lollipop? A brand new soccer ball?”

“Better.”

Squinting your eyes suspiciously with a bit of humor, you find yourself humming. “What could be better than that?”

“I was a hormonal teen—what could have been better than that?”

You freeze.

And he just…laughs. His eyes crinkle. His nose scrunches. His stomach shakes with the sound of joy. And you just stand there like a deer in headlights. 

“I will say, I did learn a lot more than just English from Adelina.”

You don’t even get the proper chance to register any of what he’s saying before he walks up to you, like a wolf teasing its prey. You swallow, taking a step back until your back reaches the door. The brunette tilts his head.

“Would you be interested in me taking the same approach?”

He’s giving you an option—a fucked up one—but still. It’s either yes or no, of course it’s either yes or no. You could either stay or go. He’s letting you decide. And quite easily, you could say you don’t need it,  any of it, but like always, the word no doesn’t mean a single thing when it comes to him and his magnetic field.

“Yes.”

-

“Hey.”

Looking up from your laptop, you purse your lips awkwardly. “Hey.”

Lissie takes a look around, finding a seat next to you before clearing her throat. “You look pretty. Pink is so your color.” You freeze and she continues without realizing. “Anyways, I know you were probably expecting Will, but he's a bit busy with the edits right now, so it looks like you're stuck with me.”

You haven't quite processed what needs to be processed, therefore, you can't hide your reluctance. “I really don't want to see you right now.”

This obviously catches the Brit a bit as expected, but damn. She shrugs, frowning. “I get that you and I aren't on the best terms, but there's no reason as to why we can't remain professional, right?”

You shake your head stubbornly. “Have you always been this annoying?”

She flinches. “I-I-I’m not trying to be—”

But you don't bother sticking around to hear the end of her sentences, because before she knows it, you've snapped your laptop shut and gone up and left, leaving her frazzled by your rudeness. 

You in an obvious rush—“The American” can tell.

“Are you in too much of a hurry to not say hi?” Logan calls out after you, making you whip your head quickly, eyes wide with shock to have him standing right in front of you in the one place you could have sworn you would have never seen him step foot in again. He grins, waving boyishly.

“Wh-wh-what are you doing here?” you stutter, an unsteady smile starting to spread as you walk up closer to him now that you know this is actually happening. 

The blue eyed boy chuckles. “Can’t I come around and visit from time to time?”

You two were never close—never really buddy-buddy—but you know when to be polite and so does he. It's one of the many reasons you two got along quite well during his time in Formula One. 

“How are you, Logan?” you ask, beaming practically from the fact that he actually looks…okay. One would have pictured the opposite. 

A tsk. “I’m great.” Another click. “Yourself?”

“Great,” you say, swaying a bit. And you don’t know why you feel so nervous talking to him. Maybe it starts with the fact that you’re close to the guy who practically stole his seat. You gulp. “You look younger.”

“I feel younger,” he responds with humor laced in his voice, glancing around. “I seriously think I was born again after leaving…” A snicker. “After I was asked to leave.”

“Stop it,” you warn, brows drawn together with pity. “What they did to you was uncalled for.”

“You think so?” Logan asks as both of you begin to walk with no clear indication as to where. People begin to stare, dazed and confused. It appears they truly believe someone just rose from the dead, and honestly, you’re beginning to think so too. “But you must really like my replacement.”

And there it was.

Cringing, you peek over at him quickly before looking back ahead. A couple mechanics do a double take, whispering things that make your stomach churn. This will definately be tomorrow's news, if not tonights. “Franco’s cool,” you let out, tension in the air. But he doesn’t feel it—only you.

He nods, blond hair shining against the rays of sunshine. “No, no, I agree.” A loopy grin. “To a certain extent.”

You snort, bumping your hip to his as he remains with a plain expression now. And now—now you’re confused, because now you don’t feel any tension—but he does.

Numbly, your eyes burn down to where he grabs your hand, pulling you behind a wall of tires. You can’t even tell who’s motorhome you’re standing in, all you know is that his eyes are similar...

Similar to Lissie’s.

“Don’t—”

“Just listen to me,” he pleads, buzzing with worry that you might push him away. And boy does it look like it. “Franco’s not the guy you think he is.”

“Lissie sent you here, didn’t see?” you accuse, a storm forming in your cloudy eyes, shaking your head with fury.

And it’s the hesitation that gives him away. Logan shrinks back. “She’s just looking out for you…”

“Looking out for me, how?” you hiss, a sour laughter mixed with it, making him flinch, because as far as he’s concerned, you’re quiet, you’re shy, and you’re not like this. “You know what? No. You tell me—how, Logan?—how is he not what he makes himself out to be?”

He sees it in you then, it hits him all at once, that Lissie was right about the situation. You’re no longer yourself, you’re no longer that sweet, innocent girl. You’ve changed—he’s changed you.

The blond takes a steady breath. “Franco is a good guy. The best.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter harshly, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms, indicating your irritation towards him and Lissie.

He continues. “But only when he feels like being one.”

“What are you talking about?” you groan, feeling a migraine rolling in like a tide. 

Logan shakes his head, dragging a tired hand across his normally calm features. “When I first met him, I had my first girlfriend—Adelina.”

You freeze.

He licks his lips, animated hands jumping from side to side with his storytelling. “He barely spoke English, really sucked at it. And Adelina was kind enough to start teaching him.”

So this so-called Adelina was a real person, but she also wasn’t a tutor his parents had hired. 

A million questions run through your head at the thought of Franco lying to you and all Logan does is wince. “While I was out racing, they’d meet up for a couple lessons. She grew up speaking Spanish because of her parents. And…and I thought it was nice.” He chuckles, as if living the moment once again. “Truthfully, it made me fall more and more in love with her—her kindness, that is.”

“But how was I to know, huh?” he asks pathetically. “How was I to know that a sixteen-year-old would ruin my relationship?” Silence, then he nods, letting out a heavy sigh. “She changed overnight, you know? Started trusting him more than me. I don’t know what he said to her, but it…but it worked.”

“And I get it—Adelina wasn’t perfect either. She was older than him, she should have known better, but fuck.” Blue eyes darken dangerously so, making you squirm, thankful to be somewhere you can run if you really needed to, though you doubt it it’d get that far. “He just has a way with words. He’s…a manipulator.”

“You sound ridiculous,” you speak for the first time since going cold. 

And you hate that all he does is chuckle. That all he does is smile. Something about it makes your skin crawl because it tells you that it almost seems like he doesn’t care if you believe him or not, as long as he knows that it’s the truth.

Which it was.

“He’s a good friend, sure—but if he wants you?” A beat. “Forget it. He’ll find a way to have you. He won’t care if that requires sheltering you from everybody else. He won’t care if that requires ending friendships. He won’t care, period.”

“You’re just saying this…”

“Listen, I don’t hold grudges. I don’t hate Franco. I don’t mind that he fucked my girlfreind, I don’t mind that he took my seat, I don’t mind any of it at all anymore.” Pause. “But I know that I once did, and I know what it feels like to go through it.” 

You blink.

“What I’m trying to say is that I know what Lissie’s feeling right now.”

“Lissie,” you say with resentment. “Was keeping me from living life. From experiencing things—and you want to know why?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Because she’s in love with me. Because she wanted to keep me to herself.”

“Yeah,” he challenges, grinning smugly. “And who told you that?”

It’s a reality check, all of this. It’s not a nice one, either. Taking a wobbly step back, you watch as he hums to himself, already knowing the answer to his question. Already knowing that he was onto you and your lack of better judgement. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks after that.

Pursing your lips, you push your hair back, you stand straighter, and you look him dead in the eye.

“It was nice seeing you, Logan—but do me a favor? Tell Lissie to fuck off.”

-

He notices your change in demeanor the second he finds you sitting by yourself.

By now he’s heard all about Logan being in the paddock, but what he doesn’t know is what he has said to you, which is why he thinks a milkshake might help you let it all out. 

“I don’t like strawberry,” you whisper, almost as if your voice is gone. “I prefer vanilla.”

Of course you do. 

Without thinking twice about it, he throws the sweet drink away into the nearest trash can, claiming his spot next to you as he fixes his hat. “I should have known,” he jokes, looking for a smile, but nope—nothing. “You look pretty, by the way.”

“Why did you lie to me, Franco?”

Okay. So you definitely know something. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finds himself responding, ignoring the way your head jerks swiftly. 

“Don’t feed me with that bullshit,” you snap, reminding him that he can’t do the same as much as he wanted to. No. He needed you to believe him—not them.

“What did he say to you?” he asks carefully.

And you tell him, you tell him all of it, not leaving out a single piece of information that makes your head spin more with every passing second because how could you have fallen for it? Any of it?

“Adelina was my tutor,” he says adamantly. “Why would he say she was his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

The Argentenian clenches his jaw because there is no way he wasn’t going to let you trust them more than him, even if he was actually the one telling lies. “Don’t you find this suspicious?”

You say nothing.

The brunette nods, rolling his jaw as if he’s onto something you might’ve missed. “I mean, you stop talking to Lissie, and now what? She pulls out the big guns? Is she really that desperate to have you back by her side that now she’s gone as far as to make Logan lie to you just to make her look like the good guy?”

Still nothing. He’s losing you, he knows it. He sees it in the way you squint your eyes for a minute before furrowing your brows neatly. So, he does what he knows he does best—play the victim.

“Oye—what’s one thing they both share in common?” When you still fail to say anything, he clicks his fingers, startling you from the sudden sound. “Jealousy.” A beat. “They’re jealous of me.”

This time you do speak. “Why would they be jealous of you, Franco, why?”

“Have you forgotten that they think I’ve stolen something or someone from them?” 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, sitting straight as you finally connect the dots. He nearly lets a rude chuckle slip before he swallows it down, frowning instead, along with a sad nod. “You stole me from Lissie. You stole the seat from Logan.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh my God…oh my God. How could I be so blind?”

He wonders the same thing. And genuinely, he begins to worry for your well being, for being so goddamn trusting. But hey—this was all working in his favor, so be it.

Those eyes—the ones that are half as pretty as your body—soften instantly. You’re grateful, you let him know, for being the only one to be honest with you. For taking the time to wake you up, to make you see things that were always right in front of you. They were never really good friends, they were never really good people, and now you know.

And that’s all thanks to Franco.

Somehow, he convinces you to sneak out to the beach with him. He’s had a shitty day in the car, he’s had an even worse meeting with both Alex and James, and according to him, this might help release some stress.

You owe it to me, eh? he teased when you first shook your head, claiming to be too tired. After that, you were quick to run back to your room and grab a thick sweater due to it being past curfew. 

The moonlight isn’t beautiful tonight, which is a weird thing to say aloud, so, instead, you keep it to yourself. It’s a full moon, but it’s not white, it’s not yellow—it’s red.

“Scares you?” the Williams driver asks, raising his brows with curiosity. You blush, feeling awfully childish for actually being. Scared, that is. He chuckles, arms propped against the towel he stole from his room, the one that was too small to fit you both, but you managed to make it work. “Do I scare you?” he interrogates and you don’t know why that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Not at all. You’re—you’re.” You aim a ginger smile, one that reminds him close to sugar. “You’re sweet.”

“I was born during a red-moon,” he admits, watching as goosebumps run down your legs, the only area that wasn’t covered because stupidly enough, you thought it wouldn’t be that cold. “It scared my parents shitless.”

“Why?” you ask, interested to know more.

He shrugs. “Some believe it can cause birth defects like a cleft palate. Others think it brings in evil spirits.” He sees the way you squint at his lips, as if looking for a scar of any kind, no matter big or small. He snickers, making you feel ashamed for even searching for one. “I wasn’t born with a cleft palate, in case you’re wondering.”

I wasn’t, you wish to confess, but you know that's not true. Instead, you make a joke—an awful joke. One that doesn’t land for the first few seconds.

“Does this mean evil is within you?” You giggle. “Tell me, Franco Colapinto, were you born to be sinful?”

His jaw goes slack.

Your stomach drops. “I-I-I am so sorry—”

“It’s fine.” It’s not. “Forget about it.” 

There’s a pressure in your chest now that you worry you’ve upset him. He doesn’t say anything after that, he doesn’t try to laugh it off, instead, he clears his throat, waiting for you to be washed away by the shore. Why was he wasting his time on you again?

He doesn’t know it. You don’t know it. But the reason your joke got to him is because—you’re right. He was out to get you, he was out to get Lissie, he was out to get Logan—he was out to get anyone who he felt like toying with in one way or another.

But he just doesn’t realize it. His destruction comes naturally, and that? That just might be the scariest thing of all.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat with a mumble, hair dancing against the wind. You feel awful. Maybe it came out harsher than intended, maybe not, but guilt slides down you, nonetheless. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I said it’s fine,” he restates, his features softening as he let out a toothy smile, as if he suddenly thought your joke was funny. It wasn’t, but whatever, fuck you, honestly. “Have you been practicing your Spanish?”

More guilt. “I haven’t…”

He wants to yell. Yeah, he wants to fucking scream because why are you wasting his time? Why is he wasting his? 

But no—no. He nearly has you, he nearly has you, he nearly has you.

“No worries,” he reassures, sitting straight this time as he signals around. “We’re at the beach. We’re alone with no distractions.” And this guy—smirks. Devilishly. “Are you ready for your first real prize?” 

Heat pools between your legs with eagerness, though you try not to overshow it.

But he notices—he notices everything when it comes to you. And there’s not a single thing you can hide.

“Well,” he teases, shrugging smugly. “That’s if I feel like you deserve it.”

You almost feel like you don’t. You don’t deserve attention of any kind from someone like Franco Colapinto. He’s not only handsome, but he’s also calculated. He’s not only easy going, but he’s also stern. And honestly, you don’t know what side of him you might get. 

But you also don’t seem to care, and at this point, you’d take just about any attention.

“Lay down on the towel,” he instructs, a deep rumble mixed with his accent. Swallowing, you do just that, adjusting your skirt so it doesn’t slide up. But that’s not the plan—it never was. A single chuckle can be heard from him before he towers over you, his large hand going down to bunch up the thin fabric, pulling it up your hips. Your eyes grow wide with panic as he coos at you like a baby. “Relax—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Technically, yes. You had agreed a couple weeks back, but dear God, was this it? What were you doing? And he just does the best job at controlling your nerves, at making you let loose, because suddenly, your panties being fully exposed doesn’t feel that daunting anymore. 

“There you go,” he whispers as he analyzes your breathing the more it becomes a lot less hard. He grins, eyes crinkling. “Mira que innocente.”

“Innocente,” you copy him, furrowing your brows as the word sounds extremely familiar. Just then, you burn up, giggling awkwardly. “You think I’m innocent?”

“And she knows how to use her brain, too,” he congratulates, making you blink with surprise for a second time due to the tone he says it in. “Well, aren’t you?”

You think of lying to him. At making up some crappy story about a first time you’ve never even had, but think—what if he can see past your lie? Oh, you’re sure you’d never leave the house ever again, no, you’d be too embarrassed to look him in the eye ever again.

So, ignoring his questions, you tilt your head against the towel, feeling the back of your head rub against sand without actually getting dirty. You bite down on your bottom lip once before letting go, watching as his breath hitches at the sight. You like that. 

“I got it right, didn't I?” The ocean waves crash rapidly. “Where’s my prize?”

He’d be laughing right now if he weren’t so impressed by you. Here he was thinking you were some doll he had to take care of and look at you—you’re just as ready and desperate as him. He likes that. 

Without a second to kill, the Argentinian leans down, clashing his lips against yours as your mouth opens pathetically in return, welcoming him in a way that makes his cock grow hard. He doesn’t just use his lips, he also uses his teeth. He doesn’t just stay silent, he also makes noises. He groans as if this is something he’s been craving for quite a while now, but you can’t judge him too much on that—you feel the same way.

You’re left panting the moment he pulls away, staring at you with dark eyes, irises blown out as his chest heaves in a struggle to catch his own breath. Looking up at him, your lips are plumper than ever before. Your nose is rosy and your cheekbones have a certain glow to them.

And would you look at that? 

You’re in love.

You never thought a guy like him would notice you past a hundred other girls. In your mind, you never stood a chance, and now this? No one kisses like that and doesn’t fall in love. And you see it—you see it in his eyes. The way they glimmer and glisten as if saying—yes, yes I feel it too.

You smile, a sweet giggle sliding up your throat as your eyes begin to shut with tenderness. 

So fucking stupid, he thinks to himself as he smiles back, so fucking easy.

Is this really all it took? If he had known, he would’ve kissed you ages ago and gotten his way and left, but alas, everything happens for a reason, right? 

“Say something else,” he encourages.

You purse your berry lip, thinking long and hard because the thought of letting him down seems like too much now. That, and you were curious with what else he’d do to you. “Okay, um, so…soy periodista,” you mutter, tongue jittery. “Y trabajo contigo—Franco Colapinto.”

“Good enough,” he lets out, already sliding down as he comes to view with your white lace. You squirm, fixing yourself so you can keep an eye on him. It takes him a while, he doesn’t know why, for him to to loop his fingers around the thin string and pull down. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to taste you.”

“Wha—” 

Just then, he mouth is pressed down against your core, licking up any wetness that was already there, causing more to slither down your legs as you squeal, twisting so much that he physically has to hold you down. You feel his nose brush against places that make you see white, you feel his tongue dive in until it’s practically inside of you, looking for any sign that you might like it. And of course you do—of course you do—he knows what girls like you are into.

“Sabes a dulce,” he murmurs against your thighs, already reaching up to throw them over his shoulders. The way his muscles twitch underneath your calves makes you moan louder, pulling the rest of your dress up and biting down on it to lessen the loud sounds you’re making. Franco chuckles, sending vibrations up your sweaty body. “Don’t do that…no one’s around.”

He’s right. Not a single soul is here, but you can’t quite figure out why your pornographic noise makes you feel wrong. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that you’ve never done anything like this before, and not your first time on the open beach—yeah. Maybe.

Adding a finger in as a test, you let out a yelp, not used to having anyone do that. You lurch up, locking eyes with him before he grins, slipping in another, admiring as you go limp. He’s seen this view a million different times. With blonds, with brunettes, with gingers, with all kinds of girls, but nothing excites him more than you.

And it’s not because he’s in love—God, no—but rather because all his scheming was worthwhile. All his lies, all his irritation…was worth having you like this. Usually, girls throw themselves at him, but you were, truly, truly, truly the hardest to get at, and it wasn’t even your fault.

It was Lissie’s.

He hopes you two make up. After all is said and done, he really does pray now that a rekindling can happen amongst you two. The Brit will probably still hate him, probably write a ton of articles in order to make him look back, but who would ever believe her? Everyone sees him as a bubbly personality. The kind of guy to get shy sometimes. The one who blushes even with the smallest compliments.

Of course no one would believe her.

And you?

You’d probably regret it all.

And he doesn’t even care.

But that’s all a persona—one that works wonders. I mean, shit…it worked on you.

“Oh…” you whimper, as you feel your stomach tighten, seeing all the stars despite having your eyes closed. “Fuck, fuck, Franco, I’m gonna—”

Grunting wildly, he open mouth kisses your pussy all over, collecting the warm liquid that finally spills out of you, growling beneath his breath because he just can’t get enough, because this—

This is what a virgin tastes like.

“God,” he moans as he pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as you try to recollect the rest of your sanity that seems to have slipped away ever since he entered your life. “You taste sweeter than Adelina ever did.”

You flinch—hard. 

You think that if you were to ask if you had a slap marked across your cheek, the answer would be yes. He’s too busy telling you how great you were, he’s too busy comforting you, rubbing small circles against your hips as he grins brightly, a small dimple forming in the corner of his lips. And then, there’s you—dumbfounded as ever.

“I used to do this with her all the time,” he continues, drawing shapes on your arms, chuckling to himself, clearly diving back to the past. And realistically, that’s fine. He’s allowed to do that. But in front of you? Your lack of words is what ultimately makes him frown with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you not…” You trail off, feeling a sting burn your eyes, forcing them to flutter dramatically.

Are you serious? he wants to ask dryly. Were you seriously getting butthurt over something so long ago? For fucks sake, you two weren’t even together.

Licking his lips, he nods fiercely, faking an apologetic look, but inside, he’s burning with annoyance. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” Wincing, you gently push him off, fixing yourself and throwing on your puffer jacket. “I’m sorry—”

“I just want to go to bed,” you say weakly, looking down at the sand, spotting a tiny crab crawling away in a hurry. Almost as much hurry as you. You sniffle, scoffing at the fact that you’re crying. How would he ever take you seriously if all you do is act like a child? Wiping away a small droplet, you force a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I hope you feel better.”

Right. He was supposedly stressed out after the day he had. Nodding robotically, and a bit lost, he jumps up, grabbing the towel and shaking it off before following after you. 

There’s really no room to talk. Or maybe there is but neither of you take it.

Not until you reach your slightly cheaper hotel. Well. A lot cheaper. “Goodnight, Franco,” you say awkwardly, swaying from side to side as he remains as blank as a naked canvas. 

“Lo siento,” he says, suddenly agitated. “It was never my intention to hurt your feelings.” And the thing is—he’s telling the truth. He wasn’t looking to do any of that, but the moment he did, it didn’t feel like a big deal either. Girls were just always overly dramatic. But they’re also sickeningly beautiful, so he’d make sure to fix this mess. “Forgive me?”

This is another test of his. To see if you either have some dignity or not.

Newsflash—you don’t.

How you manage to end up in his bed, you don’t know, because last thing you remember, you were at the entrance of your hotel, not his.

Because that’s not what’s important right now.

What’s important is the way he’s talking you through it, saying it isn’t going to hurt, which turns out to be an outrageous lie because honest to God, you feel as if your entire body has been set on fire. A fire he fuels with his praises, calling you things like preciosa and linda. He makes it difficult to speak, so you stick to your whimpers and mewls. You stick with letting him fuck you until you feel ready to pass out.

Back arched, you gasp as the tip of his cock reaches a place even you haven’t been able to reach, no matter how many times you’ve touched yourself. It makes your mind go haywire and his jaw go slack as he lets out a whine that catches both of you off guard. 

“You.” Thrust. “Feel.” Thrust. “Perfect.” Thrust.

He’s talking about your body. He’s talking about your tiny cunt that takes him like no other. He’s talking about the fact that later on, he will able to brag on and on about the virgin he fucked in Miami to all of his cocky friends with dicks smaller than the size of their brains. 

He’s not talking about you.

He’s not talking about the fact that you’re clinging onto him as if he’s your only savior in this life and the next. He’s not talking about the way you say his name, as if he’s the most special person to you. He’s not talking about the fact that you’re in love with him, and he’s not.

Because that’s not what’s important right now.

“Shit—” He tosses his head back, struggling to breathe as he pounds into you harder, trying to erase the view of you, mouth hung open, sweaty body under his. Because if he thinks about it for too long, he might just come right there and then. “Mierda, mierda, mierda—me tienes jodidamente adicto.”

You don’t know what he’s saying, you’re not that advanced to understand, but something about it makes you grin, glancing up at him as he finally looks down at you, watching you slide higher and higher up the bed from how fast he’s sinking into you. 

“F–F-Franco Colapinto,” you stutter, giving it your all to not let your eyes fall shut with how good you feel. 

“Yeah, baby?” he encourages, large hands going in to cradle your face against them, making you feel more than sure about what you’re about to say. 

Your smile expands. “Te amo.”

Fuck, he grunts one last time, very animal like, and cums into you as you do the same, moaning at the sensitivity and new emotion. 

You just never expected—never, ever, ever expected—for him to react this way.

It all happens so fast, him changing. You barely have a chance to register that he no longer has that afterglow, that he no longer wears that smile that millions of camera’s and fan’s love to see. All of it is gone—in the span of a second.

“You don’t know what you're saying.”

You blink, suddenly feeling dirty of being left bare on the bed. Quickly, you grab a nearby blacket and toss it over your body, standing and carefully walking up to him, wearing a wobbly smile, as if you’re still debating whether to fully show it or not. 

“Sorry?” you question, bothered by the fact that he's invalidating your feelings. You frown, neat brows knit together. “I’m telling you I love you because I know what I’m saying.”

Franco rolls his eyes, a thing you’ve never seen before, and it’s not something you like, either. It makes him look distant, and cold, and almost…irritated by your existence. By the fact that you’re still in his room, the room he practically begged you to come back to with him.

And deep in his soul, he finally felt it—a snap in him.

Getting rid of the distance between you two, his eyes soften, just like honey. They’ve gone delicate and kind and that’s the Franco you know and love. 

But that's just for show—that’s just what he wants you to see.

And now—now he’s done.

You think he’s going to kiss you, like in the movie’s. You think he’s going to confess his undying love for you, too. You think he’s about to prove everyone wrong, those being Logan and Lissie. But that’s not the case, it was never going to be. 

“You should’ve listened to them,” he whispered into your ear, making your stomach drop, a strong pain going straight to your heart. A minute ticks by. “You’re a sweet girl,” he says, taking a step back. “I still think so—can’t that be enough for you to live with?”

Your lips open and close lamely. “I-I’m confused…”

“You girls always expect too much from men,” he says, sighing and saying ‘girls’ as if it’s a thing that costs him to respect. Seeing it now, you might think that’s true. “What do you want me to say? That I’m in love with you?”

Silence.

The brunette scoffs, rolling his tongue as he raises a dark brow. “See. This is exactly what I mean. It’s not your fault, though. You were born naive, you can’t help it. It’s adorable.”

This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.

“The rumors,” you whispher beneath your breath, eyes welling with tears. “They were right all along…”

He sighs, crossing his arms. “Cariño, a thousand rumors surround my name on a day to day basis, could you be more specific?”

An eye twitch is what makes a single tear slide down your face, but you’re not crying out of heartbreak anymore, no—you’re crying out of pure anger. You feel a hatred like never before, seeing him standing there all nonchalant.

The fame. The money. The attention. It’s all gone straight to his head. 

“That you’re a flirt,” you accuse. “That you’re egotistical. That you’re too full of yourself. That you’re vain. That you’re a player.” You let out a delirious laugh, nearly letting go of the sheets that cover you whole. Mascara stains the corner of your eyes as you shake your head in disbelief. “That you’re nothing but a manipulator who thrives on deceiving those around you.” Your hand shakes with fury as you glare at the Argentinian. “Lissie and Logan…they were right about you all along.”

He can’t even deny that, so he says nothing indeed. But that just angers you even more. Grabbing him by the collar, you yank him down to look at you straight in the eyes of the girl he just broke with zero mercy.

“Lissie was never in love with me, was she?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Adelina wasn’t your tutor, she was Logan’s girlfriend, wasn't she?”

He doesn't say anything.

Hiccupping, his face becomes far too blurry as your shoulders shake with every sob. It's filled with suffering, and agony, and he sincerely starts to worry about your wellbeing. You don't look good anymore—your eyes are puffy and lifeless, your lips are swollen from how often you keep biting them to try and suppress your tears, your makeup smears tragically, and that…pains him to see.

“You were never going to take me serious, were you?”

A lump enters his throat, cruelly making him realize that for some reason, and for the first time in his life—he cares.

He feels guilty.

But feeling at fault does not make the reality any less true.

Slowly, he grimaces, shaking head full of curls and making you let him go, chucking to yourself. “I’m not mad at you, Franco.” You scoff, rolling your eyes and using the sheets as a tissue. “I’m mad at myself.” This time, you narrow your eyes, sharp and threatening, contradicting your prior sentence. “For letting some boy get in between my best friend and I. For letting some boy feed me lies. For letting some boy drag me to hell and back. For letting some boy think he was a man.”

He flinches harshly at your words that are laced with venom. He’s had this happen to him before—grls cursing him out, girls belittling him for doing it first to them.

So then why—why does this hurt him?

“Don’t you feel funny knowing that people know you for what you are?” you ask, curling a brow. “That all the rumors are true.”

“Not always,” he answers weakly, still not meeting your eyes, too ashamed. “They could also be a hoax, at times.”

“Mmm,” you mumble, thinking back to a couple months ago where you and Lissie had a similar conversation. Christ, were you just as stubborn as him? “Since when?”

All he does is blink. All he does is stare.

All you do is change.

All you both do—is learn a very valuable lesson. 

-

Rightfully so, Lissie kept her distance despite you texting her hundreds of times begging to meet up and talk. To make things right amongst you both.

And honestly, there would have been no chance of sitting in front of one another if Logan had not been the first one to accept your apology, forcing you two to talk about everything.

“Okay, um—” An awkward giggle. “I’m sorry, I don't know how to do this…”Twiddling her thumbs, the Brit sighs, probably just as nervous as you, and Logan snickers during the whole thing. Gulp. “I want to start off by saying that you were right. About—well. Franco.”

Stillness is your enemy because suddenly her lack of words makes your entire world begin to flip on its axis, too horrified to begin and imagine the worst. But Lissie has never been one to hold grudges—well—when it comes to you.

“I know I was.”

Okay, but maybe she’ll put up a good fight for the first few seconds.

You nod feverishly. “Yeah…and I, um, should have listened to you. To both of you.”

“You should have,” she responds dryly, still with her head held up high.

Okay, you deserve this.

“Lissie, I’m so sorry,” you say, firm and desperate, round eyes softening as she remains stoic for a second. “You were just looking out for me, and I was acting childish.” Or two. “And I would understand if you never want to see or hear from me again, but—I really wish that's not the case.”

Or three.

Pursuing her pink lips, the journalist gets up from her place on the couch, making you stomach drop at the thought of her leaving, putting a definite end to your guys’ friendship. But you wouldn't be able to say you were surprised. She had every right to do just that.

And by some miracle, she stays.

Walking up to with eagerness, she happily throws her arms around you, making you laugh and do the same, digging your face into her neck. How could you have ever pushed something as sacred as this away for someone like Franco?

“I forgive you, of course, I forgive you,” she says with enlightenment, smiling from ear to ear. “And I'm sorry you had to go through all that, I hope he rots for the rest of eternity.”

You let out a giggle, pulling back, eyes flickering over at Logan. “Come here, dude.” It's a bear hug, one that suffocates you, but you couldn't have asked for anything better. “Ah. I can't believe I let him get to my head,” you yelp, bumping your hand against your temple over and over again. “I feel so stupid.”

“Stop it,” Lissie warns, brown eyes painted with subtle threat, like an older sister. “How could you have known?”

“Because you told me countless times to stay away,” you return, deadpan.

Logan snickers. “True.”

The brunette girl swats his arms, making him let out a yelp in slight pain. You smile gingerly at the interaction, realizing how much you missed this. “Whatever, you live and you learn, right?”

“Right,” they chorus.

You three spend the next few hours cooped up in Lissie’s flat, ordering shitty pizza from the parlor down the street. It takes like cardboard, you all agree after the first few bites. You beg for an update from both of them, hit with surprise when Logan opens up about seeing someone—Riley, you think her name is—and how he might be joining IndyCar, but only time will tell.

“He’s already had a couple test rounds,” Lissie brags for him, watching as he blushes, nursing his soda. “And he’s fantastic. I really think you have a fair shot at getting an offer. Plus, your racing history is killer, it’ll help.”

“Thank, Lis,” he mumbles timidly beneath his breath. “Oh. Tell her about Marcus.”

“Marcus?” you repeat, clearly interested in knowing more. You lean forward, shimming as she rolls her eyes over at the blond. “Who’s that?”

“No one—”

“Yeah, right!” he yelps. “Only the hotshot you're dating.”

A beat. “Wait, Lis, you have a boyfriend?”

The Brit burns burgundy. “No, no, no. We’ve just gone out a couple times, that's all.”

“Oooh,” you tease. “And what? You love him?” you sing, enjoying the way she withers away with embarrassment. “Oh, come on, Lissie, tell me, tell me!”

“I don't love him,” she groans, digging her face into a pillow and sounds far too muffled. “Fuck you two.”

“I didn't say anything,” he says, chuckling with amusement before getting up to use the bathroom.

Once he's far out of view, you jump to the spot next to her, ripping the cushion out of her hands. She frowns, long hair messy. You wiggle your neat brows. “I swear I won't tell.”

“There's nothing to say.”

“Oh, so it was physical?”

“I will kick you.”

Raising your arms up in surrender, you giggle wholeheartedly, making her start to giggle too. And just like that, it feels like old times.

As if he never even happened. 

“Tell me one thing,” she speaks up, gathering her breath. “Did you fall in love with him?”

A rude flinch, then: “I did.”

“But you regret it?”

This you don't have to think twice about. “Of course, I do, are you kidding me? Franco quite literally shattered my heart.”

A beat.

“I told you so.”

You glare. “Seriously?”

Lissie waves her arms theatrically. “I'm sorry, but it's true! Didn’t I?”

She did. She told you millions of times, but you never listened. But God, you really, really, really wish you had. “Wanna hear something crazy?”

“Uh, duh,” she responds, propping her arms to face you.

You laugh, already feeling silly about what you're about to say. “Franco swore you were in love with me and that's why you didn't want me near him.”

She freezes. “What?”

Picking up a slice of pizza that's gone cold by now, you nod, snorting at the thought you once believed something as outrageous as that. “Yeah, he said that you just acted differently around me.” Another bite. “Told you it was crazy.”

“It is,” she mutters, brows furrowed as she watches you chew. “The lengths he would go to just to keep you to himself, Jesus Christ.”

“I know,” you respond. “And I know you love me, but not like that. He was actually sick for making up lies like that without even flinching.” A giggle. “Anyways, now I know that the person you do love is baby face, Marcus Armstrong.”

The Brit blushes, pushes her curtain bangs away from her face. “Leave us alone.”

“Us,” you squeal, getting up once Logan comes back into the living room with a new can of soda. “Where do you keep the cherry colas?”

“In the mini-fridge,” she yells, sighing contentedly as the couch dips once again.

Logan looks behind him swiftly, then back at Lissie who scrolls through her phone. 

“I feel bad for lying to her.”

Flicking her gaze back up quickly, the British girl glares hard enough to make him wince and regret saying anything in the first place. “Don’t,” she states, brown eyes darker than ever. “Say that ever again.”

“Why not?” Agitatedly, he runs a hand through his hair, glancing around before narrowing his blue eyes, matching her scowl. “This isn’t what you do when you love someone.”

“Be quiet,” Lissie hisses, inching closer to him, afraid of you walking in and catching their conversation. “I told you that in confidence.”

The blond sighs, going in and holding her small hand against his. In a way, he feels sympathy for his friend at this moment because he's sure being secretly in love with someone is a challenge of its own. She opened up to him about it, told him how she was confused at first, but now she was sure. How she said it all came to be the moment you introduced her to a couple of your hometown friends a few years ago and she realized, yeah, I want to belong to her world. 

But what she hadn’t expected was for Franco—out of all people, Franco—to be able to tell how she feels. And sure. Maybe he thought of it as a lie, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he nailed it right in the bullseye. Lissie just couldn’t—couldn’t—imagine him having you. It was impossible, it didn’t make sense.

But you and her did. You just didn’t know it yet.

“You have to tell her how you feel, she’s going to find out!” he hisses, gritting his teeth, trying to make her understand that would lead them to no good. 

“No—she won’t,” she reassures him more than herself. “She wasn’t able to tell that Franco was a douchebag, do you really think she’ll be able to tell that her best friend is in love with her?” A beat. “Even I can admit that she’s a bit dumb.”

“That’s low, Lissie, so fucking low,” he says, taken over by a wave of sympathy for seeing how others view you when you’re not around. “How does that make you any better than him?”

“Please,” she grits. “Franco and I are not the same. What’s my crime? That I haven’t confessed my feelings? And what about him? That he manipulated her, told her lies, fucked her, then left her to figure it out by herself all with a broken heart?”

Who’s the real villain here, Logan, huh?

In hindsight, he is. Franco is the one who caused the most harm. 

But Lissie? Lissie’s not that far behind.

“What about Adelina?” he counterstrikes pathetically. “She was never even my girlfriend!”

“Yes, she was.” The brunette tilts her head slowly. “Why are you suddenly backtracking on all of this? I thought you were onboard.”

“I was!” Pause. “I mean, I-I-I am. Fuck…I don’t know.”

But she’s seen this happen before. She’s seen it happen with you.

Lissie squints her eyes, long lashes fluttering dangerously. “Franco got to you, didn’t he?” Logan looks away and that’s a valid answer in her dictionary. Sitting straight, the Brit girl lets out a sigh. “Which side are you on?”

“Yours.” Right? “Franco’s?” Right? A loud exhale. “Shit, I don’t know!”

“She’s lying to you, Logan, can’t you see?” Franco explains, somewhere in Texas. Formula One and IndyCar cross paths here, and while the Argentinian is here to race, well, Logan was here for testing because he thinks—thinks—he might have a shot at landing a strong contract by the end of the month. “She’s good at doing that.”

The blond shakes his head. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she hates me,” he responds as if it were the most obvious answer. “Lissie…she’s never liked me. I swear, I think she might be in love with—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Logan says, cutting him off. But it’s too late—he can tell Franco is skeptical. 

“Hold on a minute—am I right?” 

“No,” the blue eyed boy responds with such a hurry, that not even the stupidest idiot on Earth would think he was being honest. “Are you cra—no, of course not.”

“Dios, what is going on?” the William's driver mumbled, head growing dizzy from how complicated this has all gotten. And it was all your fault, for being so goddamn alluring. Or maybe it was his. Or maybe it was Lissie’s.

Who’s fucking keeping score anymore?

Logan reaches for the tab, simply looking for a reason to get up and go, but the brunette is quick to grab it, sliding his card against the folder. “Thanks,” the blond stutter, standing up and pushing his chair in. “I can’t tell anymore.”

Franco freezes. “What do you mean?”

“Who’s telling the truth and who’s telling lies.”

“I don’t trust you,” Logan whispers, almost letting out a wince from how hard Lissie is glaring at him now. “But I don’t trust him, either.”

And it’s confusing because you two are such good people, deep down, but the way you both are able to lie, and lie, and lie—

“I couldn’t find it,” you say, barging back into the room, panting softly, mouth open. “I know you said the mini fridge, but I didn’t see anything.”

Both your friends blink blanky, looking up. The journalist is the first to break the silence, giggling to herself. “Don’t worry, I can help.”

“Great!” you cheer, disappearing back in the direction you came from.

And before she leaves, before she goes out of view as well, Lissie leans down, face to face with Logan who shifts uncomfortably. 

“Why do you think Franco might be lying to you?” she asks, voice deep with tranquility. 

Blue eyes connect with brown ones.

She smiles, a childlike dimple popping innocently.

“Could it be that maybe he's in love—with you?”

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[cause-im-mirrorball]

they killed charlie because if she got her hands on dean and cas in later seasons destiel would’ve gone canon on screen

[cause-im-mirrorball]

oh.. endverse dean and cas definitely fucked