#This challenge might deserve a name

[endlesspaint]

"I had to save them"

Rest in peace, Liam. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten. 😔✊

I finally finished this, YAY! This animatic is a mix of digital and traditional art. I definitely learned a lot of tricks while making this (also, can you notice the slight difference between art styles??).

This animatic singlehandedly explains what happened to JD after his mom sacrificed him. He was definitely ready to accept his faith until he discovered Branch's was with him (which almost gave him a panic attack). It was a good thing that everyone decided to help him, and Liam (a troll around his age, maybe older?) helped him escape.

For more context about my au check this post!

I obviously don't own the audio, only the animatic. "Bruno is Orange" by Hop Along featuring Francis Quinlan, so credits to them. Here's the link

[yinyeu]

your partner wants you to die what would you do

[luna-azzurra]

12 Emotional Wounds in Fiction Storys

Betraying a Loved One. Your character made a choice, and it backfired, badly. They betrayed someone close to them, maybe on purpose, maybe by accident. Now, the guilt’s eating them alive. They might try to fix things, but can they even make up for what they did?

Guilt Over a Past Mistake. They made a mistake, one that cost someone else. Maybe it was reckless, maybe it was a dumb decision, but now it haunts them. They can’t stop thinking about it, and no matter how hard they try to make things right, the past keeps pulling them back.

Survivor’s Guilt. Imagine surviving something awful, an accident, a disaster, but someone else didn’t make it. Now your character is stuck asking, “Why me? Why am I still here?” They push people away, convinced they don’t deserve to be happy or even alive.

Feeling Powerless. Your character is trapped, maybe in an abusive home, a toxic relationship, or just in life itself. They feel stuck, with no control over their own future.

Being Wrongly Accused. They didn’t do it. But no one believes them. Your character has been falsely accused of something serious, maybe even a crime and now they’re fighting to clear their name. It’s not just about proving their innocence, though. They’re also battling the pain of being abandoned by people who were supposed to stand by them.

Public Humiliation. They’ve just been humiliated in front of everyone, maybe it’s a video gone viral, or they were betrayed by someone they trusted. Now, they can’t even look people in the eye.

Living in Someone’s Shadow. No matter what they do, it’s never enough. Someone else, a sibling, a friend, a partner, always shines brighter. They feel stuck in that person’s shadow, invisible and overlooked.

Abandoning a Dream. They had big dreams, but somewhere along the way, life got in the way, and now they’ve given up. Maybe it was because of fear or circumstances beyond their control, but the loss of that dream has left them feeling empty.

Childhood Trauma. Something happened to them when they were young, something painful that still affects them today. Whether it was abuse, neglect, or a significant loss, the trauma follows them into adulthood, shaping how they see themselves and the world.

Being an Outsider. They’ve never felt like they fit in, whether because of their background, their personality, or something else. They long for acceptance but fear they’ll never find it.

Struggling with Addiction. They’re caught in a destructive cycle, whether it’s with substances, behaviors, or even people. The shame and struggle to break free from addiction are real and raw.

Living with Chronic Illness. They’re living with a chronic illness or disability, and it’s not just the physical challenges that weigh them down, it’s the emotional toll, too. Maybe they feel isolated, or like they’re a burden to others.

[renthony]

In Defense of Shitty Queer Art

Queer art has a long history of being censored and sidelined. In 1895, Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray was used as evidence in the author’s sodomy trials. From the 1930s to the 1960s, the American Hays Code prohibited depictions of queerness in film, defining it as “sex perversion.” In 2020, the book Steven Universe: End of an Era by Chris McDonnell confirmed that Rebecca Sugar’s insistence on including a sapphic wedding in the show is what triggered its cancellation by Cartoon Network. According to the American Library Association, of the top ten most challenged books in 2023, seven were targeted for their queer content. Across time, place, and medium, queer art has been ruthlessly targeted by censors and protesters, and at times it seems there might be no end in sight.

So why, then, are queer spaces so viciously critical of queer art?

Name any piece of moderately-well-known queer media, and you can find immense, vitriolic discourse surrounding it. Audiences debate whether queer media is good representation, bad representation, or whether it’s otherwise too problematic to engage with. Artists are picked apart under a microscope to make sure their morals are pure enough and their identities queer enough. Every minor fault—real or perceived—is compiled in discourse dossiers and spread around online. Lines are drawn, and callout posts are made against those who get too close to “problematic art.”

Modern examples abound, such as the TV show Steven Universe, the video game Dream Daddy, or the webcomic Boyfriends, but it’s far from a new phenomenon. In his book Hi Honey, I’m Homo!, queer pop culture analyst Matt Baume writes about an example from the 1970s, where the ABC sitcom titled Soap was protested by homophobes and queer audiences alike—before a single episode of the show ever aired. Audiences didn’t wait to actually watch the show before passing judgment and writing protest letters.

After so many years starved for positive representation, it’s understandable for queer audiences to crave depictions where we’re treated well. It’s exhausting to only ever see the same tired gay tropes and subtext, and queer audiences deserve more. Yet the way to more, better, varied representation is not to insist on perfection. The pursuit of perfection is poison in art, and it’s no different when that art happens to be queer.

When the pool of queer art is so limited, it feels horrible when a piece of queer art doesn’t live up to expectations. Even if the representation is technically good, it’s disappointing to get excited for a queer story only for that story to underwhelm and frustrate you.

But the world needs that disappointing art. It needs mediocre art. It even needs the bad art. The world needs to reach a point where queer artists can fearlessly make a mess, because if queer artists can only strive for perfection, the less art they can make. They may eventually produce a masterpiece, but a single masterpiece is still a drop in the bucket compared to the oceans of censorship. The only way to drown out bigotry and offensive stereotypes created by bigots is to allow queer artists the ability to experiment, learn through making mistakes, and represent their queer truth even if it clashes with someone else’s.

If queer artists aren’t allowed to make garbage, we can never make those masterpieces everyone craves. If queer artists are terrified at all times that their art will be targeted both by bigots and their own queer communities, queer art cannot thrive.

Let queer artists make shitty art. Let allies to queer people try their hand at representation, even if they miss the mark. Let queer art be messy, and let the artists screw up without fear of overblown retribution.

It’s the only way we’ll ever get more queer art.

_

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[unheavenlyvision]

CLOTHED?!

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 【𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞】 fushiguro toji/reader, geto suguru/reader, gojo satoru/reader, kamo choso/reader

𝐖𝐂: 4.8k

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: they all have their own reasons for not undressing completely, just how crazy will they drive you in their pursuit to have you cumming in your clothes?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ only, smut, swearing, dirty talk, teasing, dry humping, thigh riding, cunnilingus, afab!reader, no pronouns or y/n used, pet names used: doll, baby, sweetheart, i think that's all !! <3

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 ★

This all started because he believed something and you didn’t, now you’re sat on him, fully clothed, struggling to comprehend just how your few words worked him up so much to the point that it feels like he’s torturing you over them. A punishment, that you feel, you do not deserve.

All you had said was that you don’t think it’s possible for you to finish fully clothed and he took that as a personal challenge and a slight against his ability to please you, which, you never meant it as.

What you meant doesn’t change the facts of your situation though, he’s got you teary eyed and shaking on his lap. Clothed erection rutting up against your core, hands digging into your hips to drag you back and forth over him. So determined in how he’s devotedly humping up into you.

So badly you want for him to forget about the thing you said, you just want him to fuck you but he’s not going to, and you can tell that just by the look on his face alone. “Toji, please just – hah – forget what I said,” your voice shakes slightly.

Almost baring his teeth when he snaps back, “Trying to prove you wrong, doll.”

“But it would feel so much better if you – hnn – would just–”

He grunts at you, hips jerking up, “I’ll make you feel so much better once you cum in your pants.”

“I don’t think I–”

Predicting what you were going to say, “–You can, I’ll make sure of it,” his hands gripping you so firm you think he might leave bruises behind.

Toji’s so hard, straining against his pants, desperate to fuck you, to feel some kind of release but you said something that he disagrees with, and now he’s going to show you that you can cum for him no matter how clothed you are.

Panties so slick and sticky, stuck to your cunt, leaking into your pants, you’re going insane. Right on the edge of cumming but not feeling like it’s enough, wanting for him to just stuff you full at this point. Foggy brain not understanding why he’s so bent out of shape over this, it would feel so much better if he would just fuck you.

The friction against your core not enough, his cock splits your folds, grinding you down into him. The pleasure better, hands grabbing at his shoulders, fisting his shirt, gasping at how the head of his clothed cock hits your clit.

“Toji,” you whine at him.

“Right there, huh?” He huffs, doubling his efforts.

Dripping into your panties and shorts embarrassingly, soaking them, so incredibly damp. Something that he doesn’t miss, not if his smirk and visibly inflating ego are anything to go by.

Your eyes are large as you plead with him, “Please, just fuck me.”

His smile is dark, evil, taunting, “I will…after you’ve cum for me.”

Your hips stutter on him, grinding down harder, your own determination to cum like this growing, if it means finally getting fucked full then you will finish for him, fully clothed.

“Suddenly feeling motivated, doll?” His chuckle feels demeaning.

“Shuddup,” you mean for it to have more bite when you say it, but you sound pathetic and needy.

He bites his lower lip at the way you circle your hips, “Pretty cute how desperate you’ve gotten.”

“Be nicer,” trying to chastise him while humping his clothed cock isn’t all that effective.

Laughing heartily at your poor excuse of admonishment, “You should be nicer to me, you know I could always be meaner.” As if to illustrate his point, he lets go of your hips, no longer assisting you.

A sad noise leaves you at the loss of his hands, struggling to get the same kind of pleasure from this without his help. Your fingers digging into his shirt, brows scrunching as you try to make up for the loss of him. Wet cunt grinding down, not quite getting the same kind of pleasure, back to desperately wanting for him to fuck you open.

“I’m sorry,” you rush out, hoping he’ll show mercy.

“What was that, doll?” He asks, feigning like he couldn’t hear you perfectly well.

Shooting him a teary-eyed glare, you repeat, “I’m sorry, just please– help.”

His smile is self-satisfied at your pleading, cooing at you, “You sure you want the help of this mean man?”

“Mhm,” nodding your head vehemently at him, wanting nothing more than that.

Huffing a breath of amusement at your eagerness, “Should’ve said I wasn’t mean there.”

“Toji!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, pulling you down with a strong hand on the back of your neck. Lips colliding with his, sloppy and messy, all teeth and tongues.

Once he has his lips on yours, he moves his hand back to your hips, stroking them lower to your thighs just to pull them apart further on top of him. His clothed cock splitting your folds more like this, your pussy twitching and drooling into your panties.

He groans against your mouth, “I bet you’re so fuckin wet,” he pants against you, growing just as frustrated as you, if not more, “Gotta cum soon, doll. Can’t handle much more of this.”

He could always just stop this and fuck you but he’s stubborn and you know better than to try and convince him of this, especially now, when you’re getting so close to finishing.

“Promise to fuck me after?” Feeling worried he might go back on his word and torture you some more.

“Hah– I’m not depriving myself of your creamy little cunt, doll. Stuffing you full right after you’ve cum is one of my favourite pastimes,” he licks at your lower lip before nipping it.

Your arms wrap around him completely, face nuzzling into his neck, focusing on how you’re moving against him. Starting to stutter against your will, his large hands helping you along, supplying you with the friction he had robbed you of only a few moments ago.

His huffed breaths tickling your ear, having turned his head towards you, to continue talking to you, keep spouting filth at you. Too aware of how much his voice gets you off, “C’mon, doll, know you’re so close, cum in your panties for me, hmm?”

Only able to whimper against him in response, no words forming as you continue to rut into him. Pussy hole clenching pathetically around nothing, begging to be filled, getting closer to your end. It’s almost embarrassing that he’s able to have you falling apart despite the fact you’re both fully clothed.

“Be good and cum for me, wanna fuck you into next week,” he groans out when you press down into him with more pressure, his words getting to you more than you’d ever admit.

“Toji –hnn– I’m soo–”

His voice is lilted, excited, “Yeahh that’s it, doing so good for me– fuck.”

You shake on top of him, clit hitting his cock just right, whimpered whines leaving you as you huff against the skin of his neck. Tears welling in your eyes, nails digging into him slightly. The groan he lets out swiftly followed by your name has you cumming for him, in your clothes, fully dressed.

He talks you through it, hands stroking at your back, amused by how you twitch from your aftershocks. After a beat of silence, and your breathing evens out, he speaks lowly into your ear, “Told ya so.”

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 ★

Your panties are soaked through, almost completely wet as you slide back and forth on Geto’s jean clad thigh. He’s not even touching you, refusing to help, only sitting back and enjoying the view of you humping down into him like a bitch in heat.

Enjoying the frustrated pout settling on your features, playing dumb when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Not enough,” you huff back.

“Sure it is,” he hums, hand moving only to tickle up the length of your inner thigh, “Look at the mess you’re leaving behind, ruining my pants.”

Your skin flares at his comment, all too aware of the dark and damp spot you’re leaking into his jeans. Not appreciating his comment, only serving to embarrass you, feeling self-conscious with how you’re rubbing your pussy into his thigh.

He must notice, smile kind when he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s cute how worked up you are just for my thigh, think you could cum like this?”

Shaking your head at him, “No –hng–” moaning when he bounces his leg up, jostling you on his thigh suddenly.

“I think you can,” his lips curling into a deceivingly innocent grin, “Go on, keep going,” nodding downwards at his leg, encouraging you to continue your movements.

Sticky folds splitting obscenely to rut down into him, panties moulding to your pussy lips, leaving nothing to the imagination. Slick beading through the material of your underwear, repeated back and forth of your hips spreading it all over him.

A completely lewd display, one that Geto is appreciating deeply, his cock painfully erect at how your eyes are all bleary and unfocused. Simultaneously embarrassed about how you’re humping his leg and so desperate to cum that you’re not stopping your movements.

Small whines and whimpers leaving you, despite the fact that you’re biting your lower lip in an attempt to stop them. Geto’s fingers twitch with the need to touch you, feeling an itch to help you, get you off faster but stopping himself, enjoying the struggle you’re facing a bit too much.

“Sugu, I just want you,” sounding pathetic even to yourself, begging him for help? For his cock? Either? Both?

Tutting at you with faux sympathy, “I’m right here, baby,” smirking at how your brows upturn and you huff at him.

“I want – hah – want you to touch me, please,” eyes big and pitifully wet.

“Always so pretty when you beg,” his hand reaches for your face and wipes away the tears you hadn’t realised you’d shed.

Spreading your legs slightly, continuing to grind down onto his thigh, wishing he would at least take off his pants so you can feel every ridge and dip of his muscles. Slippery in how you rock back and forth, clit catching with your grinding, gasped moans leaving you with it.

He observes, “Getting desperate?”

“Please just touch me, I don’t care where, just touch me please, Sugu,” practically sobbing at him, feeling so completely deprived of him by now.

His outside demeanour stays unchanged, forever amused by how desperate you are for him to touch you but his cock twitches in his pants and is leaking profusely. So fucking hard and ready to fuck you, loving how you plead and beg for him.

Wanting nothing more than to fuck inside you, feel the way your tight cunt sucks him in, drooling all over him but he’s gonna have you finishing like this first. Thinking to himself that you’ll probably make a great face when you cum in your panties for him.

He obliges you slightly though, hands moving to your hips, forcing you down on his thigh harder. Giving you a more consistent pace to get off to, relief flooding you at how much better it feels to have him set the rhythm, you could almost cry at how good it feels.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” it’s repeated over and over, so grateful for his help.

“So polite when you get what you want,” he muses, eyes fixated on the way you’re seemingly growing slicker. God, by the time he’s inside you, you’re going to be beyond dripping, the realisation thrilling him.

Panties borderline see through with how you’re coating them, his large hands gripping your thighs harshly, spreading them open even more. He wants to see how you rub your pretty little cunt down into him, needs to see.

Aching in his pants for you, close to giving up and bullying his thick cock inside you, voice strained when he asks, “Getting close?”

“Mhm,” you mumble back, hole fluttering on nothing at the sound of his wrecked voice.

His leg starts bouncing again, adding more stimulation for you to get off to. Almost screaming at the abrupt change, hands digging into his shoulders, mouth gaping open as moans and whines push their way out of you.

Tears streaming down your face again as you twitch down into him, “Sugu– it feels – ah –” Not able to properly verbalise just how good he’s making you feel.

“If it feels so good,” his hands forcing you down and circling your hips, feeling the way he almost starts salivating at the wet sounds your slutty pussy makes for him, “Cum for me,” almost spitting out the rest of his sentence.

His eyes glazing over, mirroring your own, so fucking horny he’s going to go insane. Poor cock feeling neglected, getting consumed in his own thoughts, thoughts about your cunt and how divinely you take him.

“I– I’m gonna–” panting with the effort it takes to talk when your brain is so foggy.

Extremities thrumming with the build up of your orgasm, head feeling heavy as you struggle to hold it up straight. Letting it loll to the front, chin on your chest as you cum all over Geto’s leg. Gushing inside your panties and soaking his thigh, cum seeping into the material, matching the small wet spot on his pants by the tip of his dick.

“Ffffuck– that’s it, so fucking perfect for me,” praise falling from his lips easily as he watches your body twitch and jerk on top of him.

Once you’ve come down some, he has you standing between his spread legs, your hands resting on his shoulders still to keep yourself on your feet. His hands tug your panties down, watching the way your cum connects to your cunt with sticky strings, low growl stuck in his throat at how creamy your pussy is.

“That’s what I like to see,” he hums, smile evil as he continues to pull them down and off you.

“Sugu.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ll fuck me now, right?” You ask, hoping desperately that he will, not realising that it might just kill him if he doesn’t stuff you full.

“Ah, on one condition,” smile growing as he says, “Open your mouth.” His hand holding your panties shoving them into your mouth, “Since you wanna get stuffed full so bad,” he hums.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 ★

What’s gotten Gojo so worked up, you couldn’t say, all you know is that it’s hard to think. Feeling breathless at the way he’s lapping at your clothed cunt, hands pulling at the material on your hips to have them melding to you.

Your legs thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, his faze nuzzling into your pussy, licking and sucking at the material of your panties. His saliva soaking them just as much as your slick is, lolling his tongue out and letting it rest against your cunt. His dazed eyes and small sounds of pleasure having you twitch down onto him, pussy gliding along his tongue.

Using him to get yourself off, he’s letting you use him to get yourself off, head nodding slightly with your movements, tongue sliding through your folds. His eyes sparkling as he watches you grow desperate for him, thumbs parting your pussy lips. Tongue fucking deeper, almost dipping into your hole, stopped by the resistance of your panties.

Your voice calls out for him, “‘Toru, please just take them off–”

“No.” His mouth parting from you only to spit out that singular answer, not interested in taking off your underwear in the slightest. Apparently too pleased with himself and this situation.

Huffing out at him, frustrated by his answer, “Please, need more.”

“I need you to let me lick at your pussy like this, I like the way you’re coating them,” he hums, licking at the length of your pussy, hands now holding you still by your thighs, taking back the small amount of control he allowed you, “Want you to cream them.”

“Why?” Eyes wet when you ask him why he’s suddenly so desperate to have you cumming in your panties for him.

“Wanna see what will happen,” he shrugs easily.

Feeling yourself bristle at his answer, basically torturing you just because he wants to see what will happen.

“That – and I’m enjoying this,” he smiles, tongue hanging from his mouth, letting his saliva drip down onto your covered pussy, you’ve got him salivating for you and he’s not even put his tongue on you properly, “Aren’t you?”

His eyes on you are intent and bordering on desperate, so hazy, consumed by lust as he stares at you, letting his tongue continue to drool down onto your panties. Panties that are completely soaked by now, you can’t even tell who more from at this point, only really aware of how wet they are, to the point they feel like a second skin.

He chuckles when you don’t answer, too dazed in how you watch him, his tongue licking his lower lip, mouth down turning into a mocking pout, “You not enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”

“No,” your frown must feel meaner than it really is because Gojo’s eyes only sparkle with delight.

Smirking before lowering his head, “I guess I’ll just have to fix that then.”

Mouth back on you in full force, making out with your clothed cunt with so much vigour he’s making wet sloppy sounds, the noises make you grow hot, feeling embarrassed at just how messy it all sounds. It’s even messier than it sounds, your pussy leaking into his mouth and down your inner thighs.

Shamelessly, he presses his face right into your cunt, inhaling deeply, the action has your skin flaring. Hands instinctually moving to his head, attempting to push him away but he’s immovable, steadfast in how he’s sniffing the panties you’re still wearing.

“Gojo!”

“Don’t be embarrassed, love everything about your pussy,” he’s nuzzling into your cunt more, opening his mouth to press his tongue against your hole, letting your slick bead through the fabric onto it.

Groaning when he swallows, “Smell so good, taste so good,” his eyes lazily look up to you, “Feel so good, so soft, sweetheart… you know that?”

Teary eyed when you shake your head no at him, feeling so embarrassingly overwhelmed. It’s like he’s drunk but nothing has happened for him to lose it to this point, “Are you okay?” Your hand runs softly through his hair.

“I’m perfect,” he assures, smile intoxicated as he goes back to mumbling about your cunt, “So soft, so wet, you gonna let me suck at your pussy over your panties?”

“Are you sure you’re–”

“–If you’re so worried about me, jus let me have my way with you,” his words slurring slightly.

He realises that he must seem different from usual but really, he’s just having trouble holding back right now. You were wearing such a cute pair of panties, wandering around his apartment in them and his shirt. Who can blame him for how he’s acting? When you looked like that? He’s just a little drunk on your pussy and he doesn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed about it, not when you’re this wet for him.

Your hand tugs at his hair, pulling his gaze back to yours, it had dipped to stare greedily at your cunt, “Then take off–”

He singsongs at you, “Nope.” Blowing cool air against your core to tease you, it causes you to involuntarily twitch for him, “So needy, lemme play with you like this a little more, hmm?”

“Wouldn’t it be better if–”

“Nooo,” he drags it out, as if it were obvious, “After, I promise after you cum in your panties, I will tongue fuck you so good you’ll see stars but for now, be good and let me do this for you.” He presses wet kisses into your thighs, voice pleading as he repeats over and over, “Please, please, please please please.”

“Just, make me cum, please,” you’re starting to feel neglected.

“Of course I will, what do you take me for?” His brows scrunch at you, considering arguing with you about when he’s not had you finishing for him but too keen to put his mouth back on you to talk anymore.

The only time he’s content to be silent is when his tongue is busy lapping at you like a starved man and even then, he’s far from silent, tongue making obscene noises as he licks at you, moans and whines leaving him against his will. Enjoying himself too much to register or even really care that he sounds so pathetically wrecked just from this much.

Hips grinding down into the bed, too needy to hold himself back, cock so hard and ignored. Leaking profusely into his pants, needing the small relief badly, happy he’s too consumed in your cunt to think about his dick too much, otherwise he’d be stuffing you full before he gets what he wants.

Grip lessening on you, hanging his tongue to let you grind into it again, loving the way you get so eager to cum, chasing your own high and using him to get there. Smiling lazily at how your hips rise and fall, rubbing your pussy down onto him, head tipped back, struggling to keep your whines at bay.

Excitement running through his body down to his stiff cock when you twitch and moan for him in a way that tells him you’re getting so close to cumming. His hands hold your thighs tightly as he assists your movements, encouraging you to be rougher, to use him more.

“‘Toru – hah – I’m gonna – hnn –”

“Mhm,” he hums his acknowledgement, all too ready for you to cum.

Eyes shutting tight against the force of your orgasm, toes curling, thighs attempting to close around his head, but Gojo holds you so embarrassingly open. When your movements twitch and stutter, losing their pace, he pins you down into the bed and keeps licking at you. Depraved in how he’s lapping at you, losing his fucking mind at how you’ve creamed your panties for him.

Tingling felt throughout all your limbs, feeling overstimulated as he doesn’t stop his movements, jerking away from him and pushing at his head, whining, “It’s too much, ‘Toru.”

“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” his hand rips your panties from you, tongue fucking into your pussy hole suddenly, drinking down your cum, desperate for more. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be done anytime soon.

𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 ★

Choso has you on your back for him, legs spread wide, his clothed dick grinding down into your panty clad core. What had started as an innocent kiss, turned into a heated make out session and then into shedding of pants while he humped into your cunt.

So desperate in his movements, cock rubbing through your folds, spreading your pussy lips obscenely. Slick pooling into your panties, he’s much the same, his cock head weeping into his underwear, dark spot at the tip.

His mouth is still firmly planted against yours, kissing you so dizzyingly, sucking your tongue into his mouth. Only ever parting from you long enough to huff out and catch his breath, pressing out compliments through clenched teeth.

“Feels so good, so pretty,” his words murmured, mouth brushing against yours, lips back on yours before you can even think to reply.

He’s holding back for you, you had wanted to take the relationship slower than your previous ones, which included waiting for sex but as the tip of his cock presses at your clothed hole, your resolve cracks and you want to tell him it’s okay.

You don’t get a chance to say anything though, his mouth needily kissing you into submission, almost tearing up at how it feels to have his lips on yours. Hands gripping at his shirt, his own on your thigh, on your hips, your stomach, boobs, anywhere he can reach, he’s touching and groping.

So overwhelming in how he’s touching you, your cunt so slick and ready to take him, legs tightening around his waist and pulling him down into you more. Grinding up into him, so fucking horny and ready to beg for more, Choso whines into your mouth at how you rut up into him.

Breaking the kiss to moan into the delicate skin of your neck, huffing as his hips fuck frantically down into you, meeting your need tenfold. Borderline whimpering at how damp you feel through all the layers.

He’s dizzied, from the thought of how your tight, wet heat will envelop his cock, sucking him in greedily. Losing his sanity as he humps at you, feeling juvenile but wanting nothing more than to respect your wishes and also get you off, he can do both, he can make you cum for him like this without fucking you full.

“Choso – hnn –”

Ah, your wrecked voice has him twitching pathetically against you, hips coming down more forcefully into yours. His breaths panting against your skin, struggling to focus on anything but how good this feels, how much better it could feel.

“– Mmph – Choso,” you call for him again, needing his attention.

His movements don’t stop, not even for a moment, too fucking lost in the pleasure to even think of stopping, “Hmm, you okay?” His hand gently holds your face, his own moving back to look you in the eyes, to check on you.

Nodding your head at him, “I’m fine, want more.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you.

“But–”

“Only saying that now – hah –” his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head at the thought of actually fucking you, “Only saying that because you’re horny – hnn –”

“Nooo – mmph – ‘m saying it because I mean it.”

“Ask me again after you’ve cum,” he noses at the side of your face.

His voice and steadfastness regarding this topic has your pussy clenching pathetically around nothing, eager to be stuffed full of him. Hoping to change his mind, “Cho, please,” eyes big and wet when you plead with him.

“No,” he huffs out, finding it harder and harder to resist you.

“Wanna be stuffed full, Cho – hnn – wanna feel you inside me, so bad,” babbling to him in your want.

Moaning at your words, “I want that too.”

“Then–”

“Nope,” his mouth back on yours to shut you up for a moment, tongue sliding into the kiss. He can’t have you keep begging him like that, he’ll give you what you want but you made the decision to wait for sex before you were so fucking desperate for him to fuck you, so you’ll have to wait.

You’re clawing at him frantically, hips messy in their movements, only seeking pleasure, offering no rhyme or reason to how you achieve it. Drooling into your panties for him, to have him shoving you down his fat cock, taking it all, the idea of it all has you drunk. You’d be embarrassed by how needy you are for his dick if you weren’t so aroused, so preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel.

When he parts the kiss, your mouths are connected by a string of saliva, kiss so messy and fuelled purely by lust. His eyes so dazed as they look down at you, almost unseeing, brows scrunched as his cock jerks against your cunt.

You go to speak, to beg him again, but his hand reaches up to cover your mouth, clamping down, “Can’t keep begging me, I’ll give in, I’ll give you anything you want – fuck – feels so fucking good and I’m not even – hah – not even inside you, can’t even feel how soft you are, how tight, wet – fuck.”

He bites his lip to stop his mouth, dick releasing thick globs of precum at the way you’re almost crying for him, eyes pathetic as you look up at him from underneath his large hand.

“Look so pretty right now,” he compliments, eyes adoring as he does.

You moan back at him, pleading with him through your eyes, his hips stutter and he groans out. His hand leaves you, only so he can use both of them to tug your panties up, spreading your folds open in a lewd display, his cock rubbing against you insistently. Shocked whimpers leaving you at the sudden change in friction, feeling it so much more.

“Cho!”

“I know – fuck – I know,” his head looks down to how your pussy lips bulge around your panties, losing his fucking mind at the sight of it. If he just gave into your begging, your lips could be bulging around his dick.

Shiver running down his spine, eyes flicking back to yours, “You need to cum.”

“What–”

“Right now.”

It feels like he doubles his efforts, grinding down into you with a new kind of need. Your eyes glazing over, fucked out over his clothed cock, body shaking as your high approaches so much faster. The work up having gotten to you, so fucking close to cumming from this.

His mouth back on you, kissing you breathless, hips moving against you almost like he’s fucking you. Hands everywhere, groping, pulling, his whimpers filling your ears, you wonder how he’d sound while actually fucking you.

Cumming suddenly for him, clawing at his back, legs kicking where they’re wrapped around him, cunt pulsing around nothing. Tears slipping from your waterline, mind hazy and foggy, orgasm wracking through you so deliciously.

Choso’s hips stutter against you, nipping at your lower lip before pulling away, whines leaving him as he continues to overstimulate the both of you, refusing to stop until you whimper and push at him.

Looking down to where his pelvis rests against yours, you can see the dark patch at the front of his boxers. His cum leaking into his underwear, the sight has your tummy doing flips and Choso’s skin tinting a deeper pink.

“Can you fuck me now?” You ask simply, still desperate for him.

𝐀/𝐍: i got a bit carried away with this... i think if i hadn't stopped myself gojo's would have been obscenely long 😳 thank you for reading !! ‧₊˚✩彡

[⚠︎] — 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: do not reupload / repost / translate / plagiarise my works © all works are the intellectual property of unheavenlyvision

[manikas-whims]

Love and Deepspace men's reactions when they hear a little kid say he'll marry you when he grows up 🥺

ZAYNE

❄️ “In that case, we're rivals now.”

❄️ Pats the kid's head, encourages the challenge and shakes his hand in the name of healthy sportsmanship.

❄️ He will initiate mini challenges with the kid— lets see who can bring more flowers for you, who can make you laugh first..if the kid has evol Zayne even challenges the kid, saying lets see who can make a better gift for you using their evol..You'd laugh and enjoy all the love and attention.

❄️ He will also instill good habits in the kid. “You won't grow up if you don't eat green veggies. And if you don't grow up, kid, then how will you marry her?”

❄️ Its all good because deep down Zayne’s heart will always belong to you, and he knows that you will always be his.

XAVIER

⭐ To Xavier, it's adorable that the kid wants to marry you. It's only natural. Who wouldn't want to marry someone as kind, strong, loving and protective as you?

⭐ But he will also subtly assert himself and let down the kid. He'll sneak a hand around your waist and pull you closer, making sure the kid is watching as he does so.

⭐ “She’ll already be taken by the time you grow up.” He'd state, causing your cheeks to heat up at the implications.

⭐ He'll also reassure the kid by saying that the kid might find someone truly meant for him by the time he's at that age.. someone who would be a lot like you but unique in their own way, and would love the kid..just as you and Xavier love each other.

RAFAYEL

🌊 Probably rolls his eyes and acts unbothered cause..PFFFFT! It won't happen. And that's cause he.. he will..cause he will marry— ahhh! even the thought of it makes him blush.

🌊 But then he'll notice you giving a lot of attention to this kid. You'll rub the kid's head, calling him adorable and peck his cheek for anything nice he does. And Rafayel would feel the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head. He'd be very jealous..of a kid at that!

🌊 “I’m also nice, aren't I?” Rafayel would point at himself. You won't understand the sudden question but nod anyways to sate his ego. Unfortunately, that won't be enough. He'll ask you to rub his head as well cause if the kid gets your affection, then he deserves it too. You sigh but do rub his head too. You also find it ridiculous because..HE'S LITERALLY YOUR BOYFRIEND AND YOU BOTH LOVE EACH OTHER.

SEND ME REQUESTS FOR LOVE & DEEPSPACE HEADCANONS VIA ASKS.

» MASTERLIST «

[reidsdimples]

“He pins you down on the carpet, makes paintings with his tongue.”

Paintings With His Tongue

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

18+ ❤️‍🔥MDNI ‼️

“Come on, just tell me what you’re thinking,” Reid smirks and tosses a ball of tissue paper at you.

You cross your legs and tug up your knee high socks. The carpet in his apartment is soft on your legs and you shake your head as you continue to wrap JJ’s baby shower gifts from the team.

You had gotten her a puzzle with the new baby’s name as the pieces ‘Michael’ it read. You thought it went so well with Henry,

“I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s a me issue,” you shake your head. You had bit your tongue on a risqué joke that could have been taken as a pass at him.

The truth was, you were extremely pent up. You dumped your abusive ex weeks ago when he bruised your eye. Even before then, your needs were not being met. But you have always had a thing for Dr.Reid and now being alone with him in his apartment… you were barley holding yourself together.

He moistened his plump lips with his tongue in frustration and sighed. The movements of his deft fingers as he wrapped a present caused you to squirm. How exactly the two of you got roped into present wrapping duty was still a mystery. Though you guessed Garcia was trying to finally push you two into each other like Barbie and Ken dolls. You smile to yourself.

“See? What was that- what are you thinking?” He calls you out.

“You may never know,” you flirt and snatch the tape from his grip.

He raises an eyebrow at you, those deep brown eyes pleading.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, placing your crossed feet on his lap. His eyes travel up to your short skirt which allows him a view of your creamy thighs. You swear he swallows hard.

“I was just thinking…” you start slowly. He leans forward attentively.

He rests one hand on your shin, his long fingers wrapping it completely.

“Thinking what?” The air charges and he separates your crossed legs only to lean forward and closes the distance between the two of you. Your heart hammers and you forget how to breathe.

“I…” you think he’s about to kiss you as he gets closer, forcing you to pull your knees to your chest to give him room as you lean back on your palms.

He snatches the other wrapping paper from behind you and moves back to sit. You inhale sharply and shake your head. Fuck.

He pushes his hair back from his face and you nearly fall apart. You know you need to do something about your neediness. He’s your coworker for fucks sake.

Then an idea pops into your head.

“You know what, we’re profilers. Why don’t YOU tell me what I’M thinking,” you challenge him.

He looks up at you through his messy long hair with the handle of the scissors in his mouth. His fingers quickly work to tape up the diaper bag for JJ.

“I don’t know if I…”

“You doubt your abilities Dr. Reid?” You sit up straight.

“I doubt you’ll like what I profile,” he reasons.

That makes you doubt he knows what you’re actually thinking.

“Try me,” you demand and stuff a bag full of tissue paper.

He narrows his eyes on you and loosens his tie. The dark cardigan was already tossed into the couch three presents ago and he begins rolling up his sleeves.

“You’re healing from your recent break up. You feel guilty that you miss him because he hurt you but you do. What you don’t quit understand is that you miss attention, not him. You deserve better but you don’t think so,” he pauses to sip his wine. You tilt your head.

“Is that it?” You jest.

“You knew you and I would be alone so you’re wearing something more revealing than you might have otherwise. You flip your hair over your shoulder to draw my attention to your neck. You lean back and allow me to see your thighs because you want me between them.”

Your mouth falls open at his words. But he doesn’t stop there.

“Not because you want me specifically but because you want that attention I mentioned before. Perhaps a distraction or…”

“No- that’s not true,” you cut him off.

“You’re wearing glasses, knee high socks, and a school girl style skirt because you perceive me as intellectually superior. You have a school girl and teacher fantasy you wish to act out.”

He leans forward between your legs again. He braces himself above you when you lean back on your elbows and he keeps talking.

“You’ve been trembling since you got here, you won’t stop biting your lip, and you keep squeezing your thighs together. You were about to make a joke that showed your hand but thought better of it because you fear rejection. You also don’t want to cross professional boundaries, and you can’t gauge where my interests lie.”

You’re dumbfounded, actually speechless as his breath fans across your face.

“Your inability to read my micro expressions leaves you feeling uncertain about the chemistry we have and I intended it to be that way. The truth is I want nothing for than to bury my face between your legs and make you scream my name until your throat is so sore that you remember it everytime you speak tomorrow,” he holds your gaze and you’re melting.

You feel your cunt pulsing with need and you want to squeeze your thighs together for some relief but you can’t because he’s kneeling between them.

“Please,” is all you can manager to whimper.

He grips you behind the knees and slides you forward so quickly you barely register it. You fall willingly onto your back with a soft huff and watch him meticulously roll your skirt up. His hair is messy and disheveled and he seems to be panting with need just like you are.

Wrapping paper crinkles beneath you but you don’t care when he leans down and begins kissing your thighs.

“Spencer,” you inhale in shock at his lips on your skin.

He continues to kiss your soft skin then starts nipping it gently. His fingers dig into the outside of your thighs, pinning them open. You never would have thought he’d be so… demanding?

He starts to kiss your pussy through your underwear and you writhe against him. The friction is heaven but the view of him there could send you both straight to hell. He moves one hand up to your hip to pin you down why he uses a thumb to rub your clit. He’s kissing your pussy gently and you know you’re soaked, you know he can feel it through the thin fabric.

Finally he rolls your panties down and out of the way. He looks up at you for consent ones more and dives in like he’s been waiting to his entire life.

It’s too much, it’s everything. His nose pushes against your clit, his tongue drags up between your folds, he comes back down to your interest and pushes his tongue into it into you mewl.

He’s moaning and he licks and laps at your cunt, slowly to savor it. He moans as he sucks your clit into his mouth and moves back down to your hole.

“Oh my god,” you cry and tighten your thighs around his head.

He sucks on your pussy and audibly devours you on his living room floor. He skillfully and artfully brings you to climax and before you know it you’re coming over and over again for him. You pant beneath him and whimper but he doesn’t stop.

He makes small whimpering noises of approval and eats you like a man starved. Your pussy quivers and responds to him as he continues to beckon more cum out of you. You swear his tongue must be painting a masterpiece or spelling every word in the English language.

“One more,” he pants from between your legs.

You roll your eyes back as the fourth orgasm siezes you. You can’t even try to tense your legs anymore, they’re jell-o. You’re shocked when the last orgasm is more squirting that your usual.

“I’m sorry!” You squeal but he laughs and dives back into you, his strong hands still gripping your hips. You cover your face in embarrassment, not ever having had more than one orgasm per sexual encounter.

Ones he fills himself on that last orgasm which left you red faced and embarrassed, Spencer sits up from between your legs. He’s on his knees looking down out you when he brings his shirt up to wipe his face.

You cover your eyes with your hands, utterly shy under his gaze.

“You are incredible,” he breathes.

“Me? You… you’re the one that did all the… that,” you stammer gesturing between the two of you. You sit back up and pull your skirt down.

“Mhmm,” he grins sinisterly at you.

You remain in awe that this man just did that to you. You crushed on him but you never imagined him to be so skilled, so dirty mouthed, and egotistic about his abilities. You glance down and see just how much he enjoyed himself, taken aback by the length of said enjoyment.

You lick your lips hungrily.

“For the record. It’s not about attention for me, I genuinely like you,” you assert and reach for his belt.

He raises his eyebrow in a ‘touché’ manner and crosses his hands behind his back as he watches you pull him free from his pants.

[pucksandpower]

Pinky Promise

Logan Sargeant x Vowles!Reader x Carlos Sainz

Summary: you had it all planned out — do whatever you can to make Carlos Sainz regret the day he signed a contract to replace your best friend — falling in love with both of them wasn’t in your plans, but when has love ever been predictable?

The soft hum of the air conditioning fills the hotel room as you and Logan lie side by side on top of the crisp white sheets. Your heads are close together, almost touching, as you both stare up at the ceiling. The silence between you is comfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Logan’s voice breaks through, barely above a whisper. “I still can’t believe it.”

You turn your head slightly, studying his profile. “I know. It doesn’t feel real.”

He lets out a long sigh. “I mean, I knew it was a possibility, but ... I thought I’d have more time, you know?”

“You deserved more time,” you say firmly. “Dad should have-”

Logan cuts you off gently. “Hey, no. Don’t put this on your dad. He’s doing what’s best for the team.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a frown. “But you’re what’s best for the team.”

A small, sad smile tugs at Logan’s lips. “That’s sweet of you to say, but we both know that’s not true. Not anymore, at least.”

“Logan ...”

He shakes his head, still staring at the ceiling. “It’s okay. Really. I’m... I’m grateful for the opportunity I had. Not everyone gets to live their dream, even if it’s just for a little while.”

You flop back down onto the bed with a huff. “Your dream isn’t over. This is just ... a detour.”

Logan chuckles, but it sounds hollow. “A detour to where, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But somewhere amazing. You’re too talented for this to be the end.”

There’s a long pause before Logan speaks again. “They’re saying Sainz is going to replace me.”

You stiffen at the name. “Carlos? Are you sure?”

“Nothing’s official yet, but ... yeah. Pretty sure.”

You sit up abruptly, a fire in your eyes. “Well, that settles it then.”

Logan looks at you warily. “Settles what?”

“I’m going to make his life absolutely miserable next season.”

Logan’s eyes widen. “Y/N, no. You can’t-”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” you say with a mischievous grin. “And I will.”

Logan sits up too, shaking his head. “Come on, you know that’s not fair. It’s not Carlos’ fault.”

“Maybe not,” you concede. “But he’s benefiting from this injustice, so he’s fair game.”

“Your dad will kill you,” Logan points out.

You shrug. “Worth it.”

“Y/N, I’m serious. You can’t do this.”

“Watch me,” you challenge, holding out your pinky finger. “I’ll even make it official.”

Logan eyes your outstretched finger like it might bite him. “I’m not letting you promise me that.”

“C’mon Logie, live a little,” you tease, wiggling your pinky enticingly.

He groans. “I’m going to get fired for conspiracy or something.”

“Well, they already fired you once,” you point out. “Can’t do it again. So let me just make this promise to you.”

Logan hesitates for a long moment before finally relenting. He hooks his pinky around yours with a resigned sigh.

“I, Y/N Vowles, pinky promise to make Carlos Way Too Many Names Sainz wish he was dead-”

“Y/N,” Logan warns.

You roll your eyes. “Okay! I solemnly swear to make his life a living hell! Better?”

“Marginally,” Logan mutters. Then, with a hint of a smile, he adds, “Okay, and I, Logan Sargeant, pinky promise to win whatever the hell I end up going to next … this is ridiculous.”

“Logan!” You gasp in mock outrage. “Don’t say that. We’re doing a ritual here.”

You tug your joined hands towards your mouth, lightly kissing Logan’s finger where it’s wrapped around yours. He mirrors the action, and you both pretend not to notice the dusting of pink on each other’s cheeks.

“Now what?” Logan asks softly as you lower your hands.

“Now we wait for the future,” you reply with a small smile, slowly detangling your pinkies.

Logan flops back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “The future. Right. No pressure or anything.”

You lie back down next to him, your shoulders just barely touching. “Hey, no pressure. Remember? We’ve got pinky promises on our side now.”

Logan snorts. “Oh yeah, because those are legally binding.”

“More binding than any contract,” you insist solemnly. “Break a pinky promise and you lose the finger. It’s the law.”

“Is that so?” Logan asks, amusement coloring his voice.

You nod sagely. “Absolutely. It’s in the Constitution and everything.”

“Which Constitution would that be?”

“The International Pinky Promise Constitution. Obviously.”

Logan finally cracks, letting out a genuine laugh that makes your heart feel a little lighter. “Oh, obviously. How could I forget about that very real document?”

You grin, turning on your side to face him. “See? I knew you’d come around to the seriousness of our pact.”

Logan mirrors your position, his expression sobering slightly. “Y/N, you know you don’t actually have to do anything, right? I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want you jeopardizing your relationship with your dad or ... or doing anything you might regret.”

You reach out, gently squeezing his arm. “Hey. I know. And I’m not going to do anything truly terrible, I promise. But a little harmless mischief to make Carlos’ life interesting? That’s fair game.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘harmless mischief.’”

You grin wickedly. “Oh, you know. The classics. Whoopee cushions. Plastic wrap on doorways. Maybe I’ll learn to play the kazoo and practice outside his hotel room at 3 AM.”

“You wouldn’t,” Logan gasps in mock horror.

“Try me, Sargeant,” you challenge.

Logan shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you concede. “But you love me anyway.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged. Logan’s eyes widen slightly, and you find yourself holding your breath.

“Yeah,” he says softly after what feels like an eternity. “I guess I do.”

Your heart does a little flip in your chest, but before you can respond, Logan clears his throat and sits up.

“We should probably get some sleep,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes. “Early start tomorrow.”

You nod, trying to ignore the slight sting of disappointment. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

As you both stand up from the bed, an awkward tension settles over the room. You hover uncertainly by the door, not quite ready to leave.

“Logan?” You say softly.

He looks up at you, his expression unreadable. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath. “No matter what happens next ... I’m always going to be in your corner. You know that, right?”

Logan’s face softens, and he crosses the room to pull you into a tight hug. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “Thank you.”

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his embrace. “Anytime. That’s what best friends are for, right?”

Logan pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on your shoulders. For a moment, you think he might say something more, but then he just smiles and nods.

“Right,” he agrees. “Best friends.”

As you leave his room and head back to your own, you can’t help but wonder if there might be something more simmering beneath the surface of your friendship. But for now, you push those thoughts aside. Logan needs you as his friend right now, and that’s exactly what you’ll be.

Besides, you have a season of mischief to plan.

***

Carlos steps into the Williams headquarters with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. It’s his first day as an official driver for the team, and he’s determined to make a good impression. As he’s led through the facility, he can’t help but notice the curious glances and whispered conversations that follow in his wake.

“And here’s our main break room,” his tour guide announces, pushing open a set of double doors.

Carlos’ attention is immediately drawn to a figure standing by a table laden with what appears to be refreshments. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the sight before him.

You’re wearing a pale blue apron over a simple sundress, your hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. There’s a smudge of what looks like flour on your cheek, and your eyes are sparkling with barely contained mischief. To Carlos, you look like you’ve stepped straight out of a 1950s magazine, and he’s instantly smitten.

“Ah, Carlos!” You exclaim, your voice warm and inviting. “I’m so glad you’re here. I made something special to welcome you to the team.”

Carlos approaches, unable to take his eyes off you. “That’s very kind of you, señorita ...”

“Oh, where are my manners?” You giggle, extending a hand. “I’m Y/N Vowles. James’ daughter.”

Carlos takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from your father.”

You blush prettily, and Carlos feels his heart skip a beat. “All lies, I’m sure,” you tease. “But come, you must try the cake I made. It’s a special recipe.”

Carlos allows himself to be led to the table, where a beautiful cake sits proudly on a stand. It’s frosted in a vibrant red, with delicate swirls of orange and yellow that make it look almost like flames.

“It looks incredible,” Carlos says, genuinely impressed. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”

You wave off his words with a bright smile. “Nonsense! It’s not every day we get such an esteemed driver joining our team. I wanted to make something that would really ... leave an impression.”

There’s something in the way you say those last words that makes Carlos pause, but he brushes it off as nerves. After all, what could be wrong with a simple cake?

“Well, then,” Carlos grins, “I’d be honored to have the first slice.”

You clap your hands together excitedly. “Wonderful! Let me just grab a knife.”

As you bustle around, cutting a generous slice and placing it on a plate, Carlos can’t help but admire the way you move. There’s a grace to your actions, but also a hint of barely contained energy, like you’re holding back laughter.

“Here you are,” you say, presenting him with the cake and a fork. “I do hope you enjoy it.”

Carlos takes the plate, noticing how several other team members have gathered around, watching with interest. He supposes it’s natural for them to be curious about the new driver.

“Gracias, hermosa,” he says, flashing you his most charming smile. He takes a bite, savoring the sweet flavor for a moment before ...

Fire erupts in his mouth.

Carlos’ eyes widen in shock as the heat hits him full force. It’s like someone has poured molten lava directly onto his tongue. He coughs, struggling to catch his breath as tears spring to his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” You ask innocently, though there’s a glint in your eye that suggests you know exactly what’s happening.

Carlos tries to speak, but all that comes out is a choked gasp. He reaches for the nearest glass of water, downing it in one go, but it does little to quell the inferno in his mouth.

Through the haze of tears, he sees you watching him, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. And despite the agony he’s in, Carlos can’t help but think you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Hermosa,” he finally manages to croak out between coughs, “I’m touched you tried to make a cake in honor of my nickname, but I got it because I don’t like chili.”

You tilt your head to the side, the picture of innocence. “Oh? I had no idea. How terribly unfortunate.”

Carlos isn’t sure, but he thinks he detects a note of satisfaction in your voice. He wipes at his streaming eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“What ... what kind of pepper did you use?” He asks, his voice hoarse.

You tap a finger against your chin, as if deep in thought. “Oh, you know, just a little of this, a little of that. I believe there might have been some Carolina Reaper in there. And maybe a touch of Ghost Pepper. Or was it Trinidad Scorpion? It’s so hard to keep track.”

Carlos’ jaw drops. “You ... you put the world’s hottest peppers in a cake?”

You shrug, your eyes dancing with barely concealed glee. “I wanted it to have a real kick. After all, you’re going to need all the fire you can get to keep up with our team, aren’t you?”

There’s something in your tone that makes Carlos wonder if there’s more to this than a simple baking mishap. But surely, he reasons, no one would go to such lengths just to make him uncomfortable on his first day. Would they?

“I ... appreciate the thought,” Carlos says, trying to be diplomatic despite the fact that his entire mouth feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper. “But perhaps next time, a simple vanilla cake would suffice?”

You laugh, the sound like tinkling bells. “Oh, Carlos. Where’s the fun in that?”

Carlos finds himself chuckling despite the lingering burn. There’s something about you that he finds utterly captivating, even if you did just try to melt his taste buds.

“You know,” you say, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’ve heard that milk can help with the heat. Would you like some?”

Carlos nods eagerly. “Sí, por favor. That would be wonderful.”

You disappear for a moment, returning with a tall glass of milk. Carlos takes it gratefully, downing half of it in one go. It’s only after he’s swallowed that he realizes something is ... off.

The milk tastes sour, curdled. Carlos gags, barely managing to keep from spitting it out in front of everyone.

“Oh dear,” you say, your eyes wide with feigned concern. “Is the milk not to your liking either? How terribly clumsy of me. I must have grabbed the wrong carton.”

Carlos looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly he’s sure that none of this is an accident. But why? What has he done to deserve such treatment?

Before he can voice any of these thoughts, you’re already backing away, that mischievous smile still playing on your lips.

“Well, I should really get going,” you announce. “Lots to do, you know how it is. Welcome to the team, Carlos. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

With that, you turn on your heel, giving your hair a little flip as you saunter towards the door. Just before you exit, you glance back over your shoulder, meeting Carlos’ bewildered gaze.

“Oh, and Carlos?” You say sweetly. “Do try to stay cool out there on the track, won’t you?”

And with a final giggle, you’re gone, leaving Carlos standing there with a burning mouth, sour milk, and more questions than answers.

As the other team members rush to get him water and apologize for the “mix-up,” Carlos finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Despite everything, he can’t deny the spark of intrigue you’ve ignited in him. You’re a puzzle, one he’s suddenly very eager to solve.

“Are you alright, mate?” One of the mechanics asks, looking concerned.

Carlos nods, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the lingering burn. “Sí, I’m fine. Just ... adjusting to the Williams welcome, I suppose.”

As he’s led away to continue his tour, Carlos can’t shake the feeling that his time at Williams is going to be far more interesting than he’d anticipated. And somehow, he’s looking forward to every moment of it.

Because if there’s one thing Carlos loves, it’s a challenge. And you, with your sweet smile and fiery surprises, might just be the biggest challenge he’s ever faced.

Game on, he thinks to himself. Game on.

***

The bell above the door chimes as you step into the local Boots pharmacy, a mischievous glint in your eye. You scan the aisles, searching for your target: the hair care section. As you approach, a friendly-looking employee notices your slightly lost expression and approaches.

“Can I help you find anything?” She asks with a smile.

You put on your most innocent face. “Oh, yes, please. I’m looking for some hair products, but I’m not sure where to start. What would you say are the absolute worst ones you carry?”

The employee’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, did you say worst?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes, exactly. The ones you’d never recommend to anyone. The cheapest, most damaging products you have.”

“Well,” the employee says hesitantly, “we don’t really carry anything I’d consider ‘damaging,’ but there are certainly some budget options that aren’t as high-quality as others.”

“Perfect!” You exclaim. “Those are exactly what I’m looking for. Could you show me?”

Still looking confused, the employee leads you down the aisle. “May I ask why you’re interested in these particular products?”

You think quickly. “Oh, it’s for a ... science experiment. I’m testing the effects of different hair products on ... um ... synthetic hair fibers.”

The employee doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she shrugs and starts pointing out various items. “Well, if you’re looking for the least effective products, I’d say stay away from these. This shampoo tends to leave a residue, this conditioner is known for making hair feel greasy, and this styling gel can make hair crunchy and flaky.”

You nod along, grabbing each item as she mentions it. “Excellent, excellent. Any others?”

By the time you’re done, your basket is overflowing with an assortment of the cheapest, least recommended hair products in the store. The employee eyes your haul with concern.

“Are you sure you want all of these?” She asks.

You flash her a bright smile. “Absolutely! The more data points for my experiment, the better. Thank you so much for your help!”

As you make your way to the checkout, you can’t help but giggle to yourself. Phase two of Operation Humble Carlos is officially underway.

Later that evening, you find yourself outside a sleek apartment building in the heart of Grove. Your heart races with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as you fish a key out of your pocket — a key you had “borrowed” from your father’s desk drawer earlier that day.

“Sorry, Dad,” you mutter under your breath as you slip into the building. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You make your way up to the fifth floor, your footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Pausing outside apartment 5C, you take a deep breath and slide the key into the lock. It turns smoothly, and you’re in.

Carlos’ temporary apartment is immaculate, with minimalist furniture and a few personal touches here and there. You spot a framed photo of him with his family on a side table and feel a twinge of guilt. But then you remember Logan’s devastated face when he learned he was being replaced, and your resolve hardens.

“Right,” you say to yourself, setting down your bag of drugstore products. “Let’s get to work.”

You head straight for the bathroom, knowing you don’t have much time before Carlos returns from his evening training session. The bathroom is just as pristine as the rest of the apartment, with a array of expensive-looking products lined up neatly on the counter.

You pick up one of the bottles, whistling low under your breath as you read the label. “Oribe? Fancy.” You turn the bottle over, eyes widening at the price tag still stuck to the bottom. “Holy... that’s more than my entire hair care budget for a year!”

Shaking your head, you get to work. One by one, you empty out Carlos’ high-end products, replacing them with the cheap alternatives you bought. You’re careful to match shampoo for shampoo, conditioner for conditioner, making sure the consistencies are as close as possible.

As you work, you can’t help but imagine Carlos’ reaction tomorrow morning. Will his precious locks turn into a frizzy mess? Will his signature style fall flat? The thought makes you giggle.

“This is for Logan,” you remind yourself as you squeeze the last of a particularly goopy gel into its fancy counterpart’s bottle.

Just as you’re putting the finishing touches on your handiwork, you hear a key in the lock. Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Mierda,” you hear Carlos mutter from the other side of the door. “Where did I put that ...”

You freeze, panic setting in. You hadn’t planned on him coming back so soon. Thinking quickly, you gather up all the evidence of your presence – empty drugstore bottles, discarded packaging – and shove it into your bag.

The front door opens just as you’re zipping up your bag. You can hear Carlos humming to himself as he moves around the apartment. Holding your breath, you ease the bathroom door open a crack, peering out into the hallway.

Carlos is in the kitchen, his back to you as he rummages through the fridge. This is your chance. You slip out of the bathroom, tiptoeing towards the front door with the stealth of a cat burglar.

Just as your hand touches the doorknob, Carlos speaks. “Hello? Is someone there?”

You freeze, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he must be able to hear it. You hear his footsteps approaching and, in a moment of panic, you duck behind the coat rack by the door.

Carlos appears in the hallway, looking confused. “Huh, could have sworn I heard something.”

He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne — a spicy, woodsy scent that makes your head spin a little. You hold your breath, praying he doesn’t look too closely at the coat rack.

After what feels like an eternity, Carlos shrugs and turns back towards the kitchen. “Must be imagining things. Maybe I need an early night.”

As soon as he’s out of sight, you make your move. In one fluid motion, you slip out from behind the coat rack and out the front door, closing it as quietly as possible behind you.

You don’t stop running until you’re out of the building and halfway down the block. Only then do you allow yourself to breathe, leaning against a lamppost as you try to calm your racing heart.

“That,” you gasp between breaths, “was way too close.”

But as the adrenaline starts to fade, a giddy excitement takes its place. You did it. Operation Humble Carlos, phase two, is complete. Now all that’s left is to wait and see the results.

As you make your way home, you can’t help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. Will Carlos notice the difference in his hair? Will the promotional photos be a disaster? The possibilities are endless, and you find yourself grinning at the thought.

“Sweet dreams, Carlos,” you murmur as you unlock your own front door. “Tomorrow’s going to be a bad hair day.”

***

Carlos arrives at the Williams factory, his stomach in knots. He’s been dreading this moment since he woke up this morning to find his usually luscious locks in a state of utter disarray. No amount of styling or product seemed to help — if anything, each attempt only made things worse.

As he walks into the building, cap pulled low over his eyes, he can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. His hair has never betrayed him like this before, not even on the most humid race days.

“Carlos! There you are,” James greets him with a warm smile. “We were starting to worry you’d gotten lost.”

Carlos forces a laugh, trying to appear at ease. “Lo siento, just a bit of traffic. You know how it is.”

James nods sympathetically. “Of course, of course. Well, the photography team is all set up in the main conference room. Shall we?”

As they walk, Carlos can’t help but scan the hallways, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Despite the cake incident and his current hair crisis, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you. There’s something about your mischievous smile that both intrigues and unnerves him.

The conference room is a hive of activity when they enter. Lights are being adjusted, backdrops shifted, and various team personnel mill about in their crisp uniforms. In the center of it all stands the photographer, a petite woman with a no-nonsense air about her.

“Ah, there’s our star!” She exclaims upon seeing Carlos. “I’m Lisa, I’ll be shooting you today. Let’s get you to hair and makeup, shall we?”

Carlos feels a wave of panic. “Ah, actually, I was thinking ... perhaps we could do some shots with the cap? You know, for a more casual look?”

Lisa frowns. “That wasn’t in the brief. We need clean, professional shots for the team profiles.”

“I know, I know,” Carlos says quickly. “But maybe just a few? For social media or something?”

Before Lisa can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the room. “Oh, come now, Carlos. You can’t hide that famous hair of yours.”

Carlos turns to see you sauntering towards him, a playful smirk on your lips. His heart does a little flip, even as alarm bells ring in his head.

“Y/N,” he greets you, trying to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You shrug, your eyes twinkling with barely contained mischief. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m quite interested in seeing how you ... present yourself to the team.”

There’s something in your tone that makes Carlos wonder, not for the first time, if you might have something to do with his current predicament. But surely not. How could you possibly have tampered with his hair products?

“Well,” Lisa interjects, clearly growing impatient, “cap or no cap, we need to get started. Carlos, if you could please take a seat in the makeup chair?”

Carlos hesitates, his hand unconsciously moving to adjust his cap. “I ... I’m not sure that’s necessary. I did my own styling this morning.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you now? Well, don’t keep us in suspense, Smooth Operator. Let’s see this expert styling of yours.”

The room has gone quiet, all eyes on Carlos. He can feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he weighs his options. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he slowly removes his cap.

There’s a collective gasp from the room. Carlos squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see the looks of horror he’s sure are on everyone’s faces.

“Oh my,” he hears Lisa mutter.

“Carlos,” James says gently, “is everything alright?”

Carlos opens his eyes, forcing himself to face the room. “I ... I don’t know what happened. I used my usual products this morning, but ...”

His voice trails off as he catches sight of his reflection in a nearby mirror. His normally sleek, perfectly coiffed hair is a disaster. It’s frizzy and dull, sticking out at odd angles and looking more like a bird’s nest than anything resembling a hairstyle.

“Well,” you say, barely containing your laughter, “I suppose this gives new meaning to bed head, doesn’t it?”

Carlos turns to you, a mix of embarrassment and suspicion coloring his cheeks. “This isn’t funny, Y/N. I look ridiculous.”

You put on an exaggerated pout. “Aw, come now, Carlos. I think it’s rather ... charming. Very avant-garde. You could start a new trend.”

Despite his predicament, Carlos finds himself fighting back a smile. There’s something about your teasing that he can’t help but find endearing, even if he’s fairly certain you’re somehow behind this catastrophe.

“Right,” Lisa says, clapping her hands together. “Well, we can work with this. Margie, bring out the heavy-duty products. We’ve got some ... taming to do.”

As the makeup artist approaches with an array of styling tools, Carlos braces himself for what’s sure to be an uncomfortable experience. To his surprise, you pull up a chair next to him.

“Mind if I stay and watch the transformation?” You ask innocently. “I’m always fascinated by the magic of Hollywood-style makeovers.”

Carlos narrows his eyes at you. “Why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this a little too much?”

You gasp dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “Me? Enjoy your discomfort? I would never.”

Despite everything, Carlos finds himself chuckling. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink.

As Margie gets to work on Carlos’ hair, applying what seems like gallons of product and wielding a comb like a weapon, you keep up a steady stream of chatter. You ask about his move to England, his first impressions of the team, his hopes for the upcoming season. Despite his initial wariness, Carlos finds himself relaxing, drawn into easy conversation with you.

“You know,” he says during a brief lull while Margie fetches more hairspray, “for someone who seems intent on making my life difficult, you’re surprisingly easy to talk to.”

You tilt your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Who says I’m trying to make your life difficult?”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “The cake? This hair situation? I may be new here, but I’m not stupid.”

You lean in close, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe I just like seeing you a little ... ruffled.”

Carlos’ breath catches in his throat at your proximity. He’s suddenly very aware of the subtle floral scent of your perfume, the way your eyes seem to sparkle with hidden laughter.

“There!” Margie announces triumphantly, breaking the moment. “I think we’ve salvaged it.”

Carlos turns to the mirror, bracing himself. To his immense relief, his hair looks ... well, not perfect, but certainly presentable. It’s styled in a slightly messier way than he usually wears it, but it works.

“What do you think?” He asks, turning to you.

You study him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, you reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“Not bad,” you say softly. “But I think I preferred the bird’s nest.”

With that, you stand up and saunter away, leaving Carlos staring after you with a mixture of confusion and intrigue.

“Alright,” Lisa calls. “Let’s get you in front of the camera.”

As Carlos takes his place in front of the backdrop, his mind is racing. He’s still not sure what game you’re playing, but he’s becoming increasingly certain that he wants to be a part of it. There’s something about you that draws him in, despite (or perhaps because of) your apparent determination to keep him on his toes.

“Smile!” Lisa instructs, and Carlos obliges, flashing his most charming grin at the camera.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you watching from the sidelines, that ever-present mischievous smirk on your face. As the camera flashes, Carlos makes a silent vow to himself. He’s going to figure you out, Y/N Vowles, no matter what it takes.

***

The Australian sun beats down mercilessly on the Albert Park Circuit as Carlos leans against the wall of the Williams garage, his eyes fixed on the screens displaying telemetry data from Alex’s current lap. It’s the first day of preseason testing, and while Carlos is eager to get behind the wheel himself, he knows his turn won’t come until the afternoon session.

A familiar voice cuts through his thoughts. “Well, well, if it isn’t our resident Spaniard. Enjoying the view?”

Carlos turns to see you approaching, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. Despite his best efforts to remain wary after the hair incident, he can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Y/N,” he greets you, trying to keep his tone neutral. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You shrug, coming to stand beside him. “Oh, you know me. I like to keep an eye on things. Make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? And here I thought you might be here to cause more mischief.”

You gasp in mock offense. “Mischief? Me? I’m wounded, Carlos. Truly wounded.”

He can’t help but chuckle. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe after the cake incident. And the hair fiasco.”

“Pure coincidence,” you say airily, waving a hand. “I can’t be held responsible for your sensitive taste buds or your apparent allergic reaction to ... whatever hair products you used that day.”

Carlos narrows his eyes, studying your face for any sign of guilt. But your expression remains innocently neutral, save for that ever-present glint of mischief in your eyes.

“Right,” he says slowly. “Coincidence. Of course.”

You lean in closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “You know, Carlos, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were becoming a bit paranoid. Seeing sabotage around every corner. That can’t be healthy.”

Carlos feels his pulse quicken at your proximity. Despite his suspicions, he can’t deny the effect you have on him. “Perhaps I have good reason to be cautious, no?”

You pull back, laughing. “Oh, lighten up, Chili. I’m just trying to keep things interesting around here. You wouldn’t want to be bored during your first season with us, would you?”

Before Carlos can respond, a cheer goes up from the garage as Alex completes another fast lap. You both turn to watch the screens, momentarily distracted by the flurry of activity.

“He’s doing well,” Carlos comments, genuinely impressed by the times he’s seeing.

You nod, a hint of pride in your voice. “Alex is a fantastic driver. You’ve got some big shoes to fill, you know.”

There’s an edge to your words that makes Carlos wonder, not for the first time, about your relationship with the team’s previous driver. He’s heard rumors about your close friendship with Logan Sargeant, the man he replaced.

“I intend to do my best,” Carlos says carefully. “For the team, and for myself.”

You turn to face him, your expression unreadable. “I’m sure you will. Just remember, Carlos, this isn’t just any team. It’s a family. And family ... well, family looks out for each other.”

There’s a weight to your words that Carlos can’t quite decipher. Are you warning him? Threatening him? Or simply stating a fact?

Before he can ponder it further, you abruptly change the subject. “Oh, did you happen to see that article I was reading earlier? Fascinating stuff.”

Carlos blinks at the sudden shift. “Article? What article?”

You pull out your phone, scrolling through it with a look of concentration. “It was about recent medical findings. Quite eye-opening, really. Did you know that having your appendix removed has been shown to shorten your life expectancy?”

Carlos feels a chill run down his spine. “What? That ... that can’t be right.”

You nod solemnly. “Oh yes, it’s all here in black and white. Apparently, the appendix plays a more crucial role in our overall health than previously thought. Something about gut bacteria and immune system function. People who’ve had appendectomies are at higher risk for all sorts of health issues later in life.”

Carlos’ mind is racing. He had his appendix removed just last year after a sudden, severe case of appendicitis. At the time, he’d been told it was a routine procedure with no long-term consequences.

“Can I ... can I see that article?” He asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

You look up from your phone, a look of concern crossing your face. “Oh, Carlos, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about your surgery last year. How insensitive of me to bring this up.”

Carlos shakes his head, reaching for the phone. “No, it’s fine. I just want to read it for myself.”

But you’ve already tucked the phone away. “You know what? Let’s not dwell on it. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. These studies are always changing, right? One day something’s bad for you, the next it’s a superfood.”

Carlos frowns, a nagging suspicion growing in the back of his mind. “Y/N, why did you really bring this up?”

You blink innocently. “Bring what up? Oh, the article? Like I said, I just found it interesting. No ulterior motive, I assure you.”

But there’s a glint in your eye that tells Carlos otherwise. He takes a step closer, his voice low. “Is this another one of your games? Are you trying to get in my head before the testing session?”

You hold his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. “Now why would I do something like that? I’m just making conversation. Keeping you company during what must be a very boring morning for you.”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, frustration and confusion warring within him. “I don’t understand you. One moment you’re friendly, the next you’re ... what? Trying to sabotage me? Scare me? What’s your endgame here?”

Your expression softens slightly. “Oh, Carlos. Not everything has to have an endgame. Sometimes life is just ... interesting. Don’t you think?”

Before he can respond, a commotion from the pit lane draws both of your attention. Alex’s car is being wheeled back into the garage, signaling the end of his morning session.

“Well,” you say brightly, “looks like it’s almost your turn. Better get ready, Chili. Wouldn’t want any ... distractions affecting your performance, would we?”

With that, you turn on your heel and saunter away, leaving Carlos staring after you with a mixture of frustration and intrigue.

As he watches you disappear into the crowd of team personnel, Carlos can’t shake the feeling that he’s just been played. Again. But instead of anger, he feels a strange sense of ... excitement? Challenge?

“Two can play at this game, Y/N,” he mutters to himself as he heads towards the locker room to change into his racing suit. “Two can play at this game.”

As he prepares for his testing session, Carlos finds his mind drifting back to your conversation. He knows he should be focused on the task at hand, on the data he needs to gather for the team. But he can’t help but wonder what your next move will be. And, more importantly, how he’ll respond.

For the first time since joining Williams, Carlos feels truly alive. The racing, the competition, it all pales in comparison to the intricate dance he seems to be engaged in with you. It’s dangerous, he knows. You’re a distraction he can’t afford. And yet ...

As he climbs into the cockpit of his car, helmet in hand, Carlos makes a decision. He’s going to solve the puzzle that is Y/N Vowles. He’s going to figure out your game, your motivations, your secrets. And when he does ...

Well, that’s when the real fun will begin.

With a grin hidden behind his visor, Carlos starts the engine. The roar drowns out all other thoughts, leaving only the track ahead and the challenge that awaits. Both on the circuit and off.

***

Carlos strolls down the plush carpeted hallway of the hotel, his mind still buzzing from the day’s testing session. The scent of leather and polished wood fills the air, a stark contrast to the oil and rubber smells he’s grown accustomed to at the track. As he approaches his room, a familiar voice catches his attention.

He pauses, realizing the sound is coming from your room, just a few doors down from his own. Carlos hesitates, knowing he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but curiosity gets the better of him. He takes a few quiet steps closer, straining to make out the words.

“... miss you too, Logie,” he hears you say, your voice muffled but unmistakable. “It’s not the same around here without you.”

Carlos’ eyebrows shoot up. Logie? As in Logan Sargeant? Intrigued, he moves closer, pressing his ear gently against the door.

A male voice responds, tinny and distant — likely on speakerphone. “I know, Y/N. But hey, at least you’re keeping busy, right? How’s Operation Torment Carlos going?”

Carlos feels his pulse quicken. So he was right — you have been deliberately messing with him.

He hears you laugh, a sound that sends an involuntary shiver down his spine despite the circumstances. “Oh, it’s going splendidly. You should have seen his face when he took off that cap at the photoshoot. Priceless!”

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice carries a note of concern. “Don’t you think maybe you’re taking this a bit too far? I mean, it’s not really Carlos’ fault that Williams decided to-”

“Shh,” you interrupt. “We don’t say that name around here, remember? And besides, I made a promise. A pinky promise, Logan. Those are sacred.”

Carlos leans in closer, his ear practically glued to the door now. A promise? What kind of promise?

Logan sighs audibly. “I know, I know. But seriously, Y/N, you need to be careful. If your dad finds out-”

“He won’t,” you say confidently. “Trust me, I’ve got this under control. Carlos doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Carlos has to stifle a snort at that. If only you knew.

“Speaking of control,” Logan’s voice turns playful, “when are you going to get that under control and come visit me? It’s not the same without my number one fan cheering me on.”

There’s a pause, and Carlos can almost picture the soft smile he imagines is on your face. “Soon, I promise. Things are just ... complicated right now. With Dad, and the team, and ... everything.”

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice softens. “You know you don’t have to stay there for me, right? I’m okay. Really.”

“I know,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to. For you, for the team ... for myself.”

Carlos feels a pang in his chest at the emotion in your voice. He’s starting to realize there’s a lot more going on here than he initially thought.

“Well,” Logan says after a moment, “whenever you’re ready, there’s always a place for you here. The house is all set up, and I know a great little taco place that-”

“Logan Sargeant,” you interrupt with a laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me with tacos?”

“Is it working?”

“... maybe a little.”

Carlos finds himself smiling despite the situation. The easy banter between you and Logan reminds him of conversations with his own close friends.

“Seriously though,” Logan continues, “how are you holding up? Really?”

There’s a long pause before you answer. “I’m ... okay. It’s strange, you know? Everything’s the same, but different. The garage doesn’t feel right without you there.”

“Y/N ...”

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just ... I miss my best friend.”

The raw honesty in your voice makes Carlos feel like he’s intruding on something deeply personal. He knows he should walk away, but he can’t seem to make his feet move.

Logan clears his throat. “I miss you too. More than you know. But hey, we’re making it work, right? Long-distance at its finest.”

You laugh, but it sounds a bit watery to Carlos’ ears. “Right. Absolutely killing it.”

“Speaking of killing it,” Logan says, his tone turning serious. “Y/N, about this whole revenge thing ...”

“Logan, don’t start-”

“No, listen to me. I get it, okay? I do. You’re angry and hurt, and you want someone to blame. But Carlos ... he’s just doing his job. He didn’t ask for any of this.”

Carlos finds himself holding his breath, waiting for your response.

“I know that,” you say softly. “Logically, I know that. But when I see him in the garage, in your driver’s room, talking to your engineers ... it just hurts. And I don’t know how else to deal with it.”

“By talking to me,” Logan says gently. “By letting yourself feel it instead of bottling it up and taking it out on some poor, unsuspecting Spaniard.”

You snort. “Poor? Have you seen him? Nothing poor about that man.”

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice carries a warning tone, but there’s amusement there too. “Focus.”

“Right, right. No objectifying the enemy. Got it.”

Carlos feels his cheeks heat up at your words. He shakes his head, trying to refocus on the conversation.

“Look,” Logan continues, “all I’m saying is ... maybe give the guy a chance? Who knows, you might even like him if you stop trying to make his life miserable.”

There’s a long pause, and Carlos finds himself leaning even closer to the door, desperate to hear your response.

“I ... I’ll think about it,” you finally say. “But no promises. Well, except the pinky one. That still stands.”

Logan groans. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” you reply cheekily.

As the conversation drifts to lighter topics, Carlos slowly backs away from the door, his mind reeling from everything he’s heard. He makes his way back to his own room in a daze, collapsing onto the bed as soon as he’s inside.

Carlos stares up at the ceiling, trying to process it all. You’re not just messing with him for fun — this is about loyalty, about friendship, about dealing with a loss. He thinks back to all your interactions, seeing them in a new light now.

Part of him wants to be angry. After all, you’ve been deliberately sabotaging him, making his transition to the team more difficult than it needed to be. But another part ... another part understands. He thinks about how he felt when he was in Logan’s position, when he had been dropped from his dream team and replaced. Wouldn’t he have wanted a friend like you in his corner?

Carlos sits up, running a hand through his hair as he comes to a decision. He can’t pretend he didn’t hear what he heard. But he also can’t confront you directly — that would only make things worse. No, he needs to be smarter about this.

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms. If you want to play games, he’ll play. But he’ll play by his own rules.

As he starts to plan, Carlos can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement in his stomach. This season is shaping up to be far more interesting than he ever could have imagined. And if he’s being honest with himself, he’s looking forward to every moment of it.

***

Carlos strides into the Williams motorhome, a determined gleam in his eye. It’s been two weeks since he overheard your conversation with Logan, and he’s been on a mission ever since. Operation Charm Y/N is in full swing, and Carlos is pulling out all the stops.

As he enters the main area, he spots you chatting with one of the engineers. Your eyes flick towards him, and he flashes his most dazzling smile.

“Buenos días, Y/N!” He calls out cheerfully. “You’re looking radiant as always. Is that a new hairstyle?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard by his enthusiasm. “Uh, no? It’s the same as always.”

He chuckles, stepping closer. “Well, it must be the lighting then. It makes your eyes sparkle beautifully.”

A faint blush creeps across your cheeks, and Carlos feels a surge of triumph. Progress.

“Right,” you say slowly. “Thanks, I guess. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your interviews?”

Carlos waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, there’s always time for a chat with my favorite team member. How are you finding the track so far? I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Since when do you care about my thoughts on the track?”

“Since always!” Carlos exclaims, feigning hurt. “Your insights are invaluable, Y/N. I hang on your every word.”

You snort, but Carlos doesn’t miss the way the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. “Now I know you’re full of it, Sainz. What’s your game here?”

Carlos puts on his most innocent expression. “Game? There’s no game. Can’t a guy just appreciate his talented and beautiful colleague?”

Your eyes widen slightly at the compliment, and for a moment, Carlos thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you shake your head, a reluctant smile forming.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in your words.

As you turn to walk away, Carlos notices your gaze lingering on the water bottle in his hand. It’s just for a split second, but it’s enough to raise his suspicions. He glances down at the bottle, wondering if you’ve tampered with it somehow.

Determined not to let on that he’s onto you, Carlos keeps up his charm offensive throughout the day. During interviews, he makes sure to mention how wonderful the entire Williams team is, singling you out for special praise whenever he can.

“Oh yes, Y/N Vowles is an absolute gem,” he tells one reporter with a wink. “The heart and soul of Williams, if you ask me. We’re lucky to have her.”

From across the room, he sees you stiffen at his words, a mix of confusion and guilt flashing across your face.

As the day wears on, Carlos notices you becoming increasingly agitated. Your eyes keep darting to his water bottle, and you seem to flinch every time he reaches for it. He makes a show of almost drinking from it several times, watching your reaction carefully.

Finally, during a brief break between interviews, Carlos decides to force the issue. He picks up the bottle, slowly bringing the straw to his lips while maintaining eye contact with you.

Your eyes widen in panic. “Carlos, wait!”

Before he can react, you’re across the room, knocking the bottle out of his hands. It clatters to the floor, spilling water everywhere.

“I ... I’m so sorry,” you stammer, your face flushed with embarrassment. “I just ... I saw a bee! It was about to land on your bottle. Wouldn’t want you to get stung, you know? Allergies and all that.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “A bee? Inside the motorhome?”

“Yes!” You exclaim, a bit too enthusiastically. “Must have snuck in somehow. Crafty little things, bees. Anyway, I should go ... get a mop. For the water. Sorry again!”

With that, you turn and practically run from the room, leaving Carlos staring after you in bemusement.

“Well,” he murmurs to himself, “that was certainly interesting.”

As the day winds down, Carlos finds himself lost in thought. Your reaction to the water bottle incident was telling, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He had hoped his charm offensive might have started to break through your defenses.

Sighing, he gathers his things and heads for the exit. As he approaches the door, he hears a rustling sound coming from around the corner. Curiosity piqued, he peeks around the edge of the motorhome.

There you are, glancing furtively around as you try to shove something into a nearby trash can. Carlos squints, just barely making out the label on the package you’re attempting to dispose of.

Laxatives.

He has to stifle a laugh. So that was your plan. It’s juvenile, sure, but he has to admire your commitment to the bit.

Deciding to seize the moment, Carlos steps out from his hiding spot. “Fancy meeting you here. Doing a bit of spring cleaning?”

You jump, nearly dropping the package. “Carlos! I ... this isn’t what it looks like.”

He steps closer, his voice gentle. “No? Because it looks like you’re trying to get rid of evidence.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. “I ... I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was stupid and childish and-”

“And exactly the kind of thing I would have done in your position,” Carlos interrupts, surprising both you and himself with his honesty.

You look up at him, confusion written across your face. “What?”

Carlos sighs, leaning against the wall of the motorhome. “Look, Y/N. I know about the promise you made to Logan. I ... may have overheard a conversation you had with him a couple of weeks ago.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “You ... you were eavesdropping?”

“Not intentionally,” he says quickly. “But yes, I heard enough to understand why you’ve been ... let’s say, less than welcoming.”

You cross your arms, a defensive posture. “So what, you’ve been playing nice to try and manipulate me? To get me to stop?”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, not manipulate. I just ... I wanted to show you that I’m not the enemy here. That maybe we could be friends, or at least friendly colleagues.”

There’s a long pause as you process his words. Finally, you speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do that, Carlos. Logan, he’s ... he’s my best friend. And seeing you here, in his place ...”

“I understand,” Carlos says softly. “Really, I do. But Y/N, don’t you think Logan would want you to be happy? To enjoy your work, to make new friends?”

You bite your lip, considering. “Maybe. But the promise ...”

Carlos can’t help but chuckle. “Ah yes, the sacred pinky promise. Well, how about this — instead of making my life a living hell, why don’t you promise to make it ... interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Interesting how?”

“Challenge me,” Carlos suggests, warming to the idea. “Push me to be better, on and off the track. Keep me on my toes. But maybe without the laxatives, sí?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “I suppose that could work. But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you, Sainz.”

Carlos grins, holding out his hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Vowles. Do we have a deal?”

You eye his hand warily for a moment before reaching out to shake it. “Deal. But I’m warning you, I can be a real pain in the ass when I want to be.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Carlos laughs. “Now, what do you say we get rid of this evidence properly and grab a coffee? I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about.”

As you both head towards the nearest café, Carlos can’t help but feel a sense of excitement. He may have won this battle, but he has a feeling the war is far from over. And honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Carlos pushes open the door of the quaint coffee shop, holding it for you as you follow him inside. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans fills the air, and the soft chatter of other patrons creates a cozy atmosphere.

As you both approach the counter, Carlos gestures towards the menu board. “Order whatever you like. It’s on me.”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your usual mischief returning to your eyes. “Oh? And what makes you think I can’t pay for my own coffee?”

Carlos grins, enjoying this glimpse of your feisty side. “Consider it a peace offering. Or reparations for all the grey hairs you’ve given me these past few months.”

You snort, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Fine. But don’t think this means you’re off the hook.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Carlos chuckles.

After placing your orders — a latte for you and an americano for Carlos — you both find a secluded table near the back of the shop. As you settle into your seats, an awkward silence falls between you.

Carlos takes a sip of his coffee, studying you over the rim of his cup. Now that he’s finally got you alone, without the pretenses and the pranks, he’s not quite sure where to start.

You break the silence first, your voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “So ... you said you overheard my conversation with Logan?”

Carlos nods, setting his cup down. “Sí. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but ... well, I heard enough to understand why you’ve been, shall we say, less than welcoming.”

You wince slightly. “Yeah, about that ... I may have gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit?” Carlos raises an eyebrow, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Y/N, you tried to give me laxatives.”

You have the grace to look embarrassed, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. “Okay, more than a bit. I’m sorry, Carlos. Really.”

He waves off your apology. “Water under the bridge. Or should I say, laxatives down the drain?”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Carlos grins. Then, his expression softens. “But in all seriousness, Y/N ... I get it. I do. Logan is your friend, and seeing me here instead of him ... it can’t be easy.”

You look up, meeting his gaze. There’s a vulnerability in your eyes that Carlos hasn’t seen before. “It’s not just that. I mean, yes, I miss Logan terribly. But it’s also ... this team, it’s like family to me. And seeing someone new come in, someone who didn’t grow up with all of us ... I guess I felt threatened.”

Carlos leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, wrapping your hands around your coffee cup as if seeking comfort from its warmth.

“Why the elaborate schemes?” Carlos asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, they were ... creative. But why not just tell me how you felt?”

You let out a long sigh, your fingers tracing patterns on the side of your cup. “Honestly? I’m not entirely sure. I guess ... growing up in this world, you learn to play games. To never show your true feelings because they might be used against you.”

Carlos tilts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean, growing up in this world?”

A wry smile crosses your face. “Carlos, my dad is James Vowles. I practically grew up in the Mercedes garage during the Brocedes era. You think I didn’t pick up a few things watching Lewis and Nico go at it?”

Carlos’ eyes widen in realization. “The mind games.”

You nod. “Exactly. I saw firsthand how effective they could be. How a well-placed comment or a seemingly innocent action could throw someone completely off their game. I guess ... I guess part of me thought that if I could do the same to you, maybe ...”

“Maybe I’d leave?” Carlos finishes softly.

You look down, guilt written across your face. “Maybe. Or at least ... I don’t know. Maybe I thought if I could prove you weren’t up to the challenge, Dad would reconsider his decision.”

Carlos reaches across the table, gently placing his hand over yours. “Y/N, look at me.”

Reluctantly, you raise your eyes to meet his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Not unless the team decides I’m not good enough. And if that happens, it’ll be because of my performance on the track, not because of any mind games.”

You nod slowly, a small smile forming. “I know that now. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad. You’re ... you’re good for the team. I can see that now.”

Carlos feels a warmth spread through his chest at your words. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.”

You pull your hand away, but the smile remains. “Don’t let it go to your head, Sainz. I still think Logan’s better.”

“You know,” Carlos draws out, “I’m glad we did this. Cleared the air.”

You nod, your expression turning serious. “Me too. And Carlos ... I really am sorry for all the trouble I caused. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Carlos shrugs. “Like I said, water under the bridge. Or should I say, hair products in the bin?”

Your jaw drops. “How did you know about that?”

He winks. “I didn’t. But thanks for confirming my suspicions.”

You groan, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

“Oh, hermosa,” Carlos grins, “you have no idea.”

***

Carlos stands in front of your hotel room door, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. In one hand, he clutches a bouquet of flowers so large it partially obscures his vision. In the other, he holds the key card you had given him just a few days ago, a symbol of the trust that has grown between you.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he’s about to do. Over the past few months, your relationship has evolved from antagonistic to friendly to ... something more. Carlos can no longer deny the feelings that have been growing inside him. Tonight, he’s finally gathered the courage to ask you out on a proper date.

With one final steadying breath, he raises his hand and knocks on the door. “Y/N? Are you there?”

Silence greets him. He waits a moment, then knocks again, louder this time. “Y/N? It’s Carlos. I was hoping we could talk.”

Still no answer. Carlos frowns, a tendril of worry creeping into his mind. It’s not like you to ignore him, especially not after the closeness you’ve developed.

“Maybe she’s in the shower,” he mutters to himself, trying to quell his rising anxiety.

He debates waiting, but something urges him to check on you. After all, you did give him the key card for emergencies. This isn’t exactly an emergency, but ...

Before he can talk himself out of it, Carlos swipes the card and pushes the door open. “Y/N? I’m sorry for barging in, but I was worried when you didn’t ...”

His voice trails off as he takes in the scene before him. The flowers fall from his suddenly numb fingers, scattering across the floor.

There you are, on the bed, but you’re not alone. Carlos’ predecessor at Williams is there with you. The two of you are tangled together in a way that leaves little doubt about the nature of your relationship.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Carlos blinks rapidly, his brain struggling to process what he’s seeing. You and Logan stare back at him, equally frozen in shock.

Logan recovers first, quickly pulling away from you and tugging a sheet over himself. “Carlos! What the hell, man?”

You sit up, clutching a pillow to your chest, your face a mix of embarrassment and guilt. “Carlos, I ... we can explain.”

Carlos opens his mouth, then closes it again. A thousand thoughts race through his mind, but the one that finally makes it to his lips surprises even him.

“Can I join?”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implications. Carlos immediately wants to take them back, to pretend he never said them. But a small part of him, the part that’s been drawn to both you and Logan in ways he’s never fully understood, holds its breath in anticipation.

Your eyes widen in shock. “What?”

Logan looks between you and Carlos, his expression unreadable. “Dude, are you serious?”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks burning. “I ... I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, I came here to ask Y/N out, but seeing you both ... I can’t deny there’s something there.”

You exchange a look with Logan, having one of those silent conversations that only people who know each other intimately can have. After a moment, you turn back to Carlos.

“Carlos,” you say gently, “I think we all need to take a step back and talk about this. Properly. When we’re all ... dressed.”

Carlos nods, feeling slightly dazed. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’ll just ... I’ll wait outside.”

He turns to leave, but Logan’s voice stops him. “Wait. Carlos, man ... I’m sorry. We should have told you.”

Carlos looks back, meeting Logan’s gaze. There’s genuine regret in the American’s eyes, and Carlos feels some of his hurt and confusion start to dissipate.

“It’s okay,” he says, surprised to find he means it. “We all have our secrets, no?”

You slide off the bed, wrapping yourself in the hotel robe. “Carlos, please don’t go. Stay. We should talk about this.”

Carlos hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. Part of him wants to run, to pretend this never happened. But a larger part, the part that’s grown to care deeply for both you and Logan, makes him turn back.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Let’s talk.”

You gesture to the small sitting area in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you sit down? Logan and I will get dressed, and then we can figure this out together.”

Carlos nods, moving to the armchair as you and Logan disappear into the bathroom. He sits there, staring at the scattered flowers on the floor, trying to make sense of his swirling emotions.

A few minutes later, you both emerge, fully dressed but with an air of awkwardness that wasn’t there before. Logan takes a seat on the small sofa, while you perch on the arm, creating a triangle between the three of you.

“So,” you begin, your voice tentative. “I guess we have a lot to talk about.”

Carlos nods, his eyes moving between you and Logan. “How long has this been going on?”

Logan clears his throat. “A while. Since right before I left Williams, actually. We just ... we didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

“I see,” Carlos says, a hint of hurt creeping into his voice. “And all those times you were talking about missing each other ...”

You reach out, as if to touch Carlos’ hand, but stop yourself. “That was real. We do miss each other. But it’s ... complicated.”

“Complicated,” Carlos repeats. “Is that why you were so hostile towards me at first? Because I was taking Logan’s place in more ways than one?”

You wince at his words. “Partly, yes. But Carlos, you have to understand, it wasn’t just about that. I really did feel protective of the team, of Logan’s place there.”

Logan puts a hand on your arm, a gesture of support. “Y/N, it’s okay. He deserves the truth.”

You take a deep breath, looking Carlos directly in the eye. “The truth is, Carlos, I started developing feelings for you too. And that ... that scared me. I felt guilty, like I was betraying Logan. So I lashed out.”

Carlos’ breath catches in his throat. “You have feelings for me?”

You nod, a small smile playing at your lips. “Why do you think I gave you that key card?”

Logan chuckles softly. “I told her she was being too subtle. Should have just asked you out like a normal person.”

Carlos looks at Logan, curiosity overriding his confusion. “And you’re ... okay with this?”

Logan shrugs, a wry smile on his face. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I know how Y/N feels about you, and ... well, I can’t say I haven’t noticed you myself.”

Carlos feels his cheeks heat up at Logan’s words. “I ... I don’t know what to say.”

You slide off the arm of the sofa, kneeling in front of Carlos. “You don’t have to say anything right now. We sprung this on you, and it’s a lot to process. But Carlos, I want you to know that what I feel for you is real. And if you’re open to it ... maybe we can figure this out. All of us.”

Carlos looks between you and Logan, his mind racing. This isn’t at all how he expected this evening to go, but he can’t deny the thrill that runs through him at the possibility.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that I’d like that. To figure it out together, I mean.”

Logan grins, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Well, in that case, maybe we should start with dinner? I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving.”

You laugh, the sound breaking the remaining tension in the room. “Trust you to think with your stomach.”

Carlos finds himself smiling too. “Dinner sounds good. But maybe ... maybe we could stay in? Order room service?”

You and Logan exchange a look, then nod in unison. “Sounds perfect,” you say, squeezing Carlos’ hand.

As Logan reaches for the room service menu, and you start picking up the scattered flowers, arranging them in a water glass, Carlos feels a sense of rightness settle over him. This isn’t at all what he had planned, but somehow, it feels like exactly where he’s meant to be.

“Hey,” he says, catching both your attention. “Whatever happens ... I’m glad we’re figuring this out together.”

You and Logan smile back at him, and in that moment, Carlos knows that no matter how complicated things might get, you’re going to be okay. More than okay, actually. You’re going to be amazing.

***

The Williams garage buzzes with pre-race energy, mechanics scurrying about and engineers huddled over last-minute data. In their own bubble despite the controlled chaos, three figures stand slightly apart, heads bent close in hushed conversation.

Carlos glances around before leaning in closer to you and Logan. “Are we sure about this? It’s not too late to change our minds.”

You bite your lip, uncertainty clouding your features. “I don’t know. Maybe we should stick to the original plan. Logan’s just here as a friend, nothing more.”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. “It feels wrong, though. Hiding. Like we’re ashamed or something.”

“We’re not ashamed,” Carlos says quickly, his hand finding Logan’s and squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s just ... complicated.”

You nod, your eyes darting to where your father stands across the garage. “Dad’s going to freak out. And that’s putting it mildly.”

Logan follows your gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “To be fair, I think he’d freak out no matter how we told him. Finding out your daughter is dating not one, but two drivers? That’s a lot for any father to handle.”

Carlos chuckles softly. “Not to mention one of those drivers is his current employee and the other is his former one. It’s like a telenovela.”

You swat his arm playfully. “This isn’t funny. We need to decide what we’re doing. The race starts in less than an hour.”

Logan takes a deep breath, his expression turning serious. “Look, whatever we decide, we’re in this together, right? All of us?”

You and Carlos nod in unison, and for a moment, the three of you just look at each other, drawing strength from your connection.

The moment is broken by the sharp voice of Carlos’ race engineer. “Carlos! We need you for final checks. Now!”

Carlos sighs, reluctantly pulling away from you and Logan. “I guess decision time is here, whether we’re ready or not.”

You reach out, straightening his race suit collar. “Just focus on the race, okay? We can figure everything else out later.”

Logan nods in agreement. “Yeah. Go out there and show them what you’ve got. We’ll be right here cheering you on.”

Carlos looks between the two of you, his eyes softening with emotion. “What did I do to deserve you both?”

Before you or Logan can respond, Carlos makes a split-second decision. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he pulls you close and kisses you deeply, right there in the middle of the garage.

You gasp against his lips, too shocked to pull away. Around you, the activity of the garage comes to a sudden halt, all eyes turning to witness the unexpected display.

But Carlos isn’t done. As he pulls back from you, he immediately turns to Logan, cupping the American’s face in his hands and kissing him with equal passion.

The garage, already silent, seems to hold its collective breath. You can practically hear the gears turning in everyone’s minds as they try to process what they’re seeing.

As Carlos finally steps back, a satisfied smirk on his face, the spell of silence is broken by a loud thud. All heads turn to see their team principal sprawled on the floor in a dead faint.

“Dad!” You cry out, rushing to his side.

Logan and Carlos exchange a panicked look before following you. As you kneel beside your unconscious father, the rest of the team seems to unfreeze, a flurry of whispers and movement erupting around you.

“Someone get the medic!” A voice calls out.

“Did ... did I just see what I think I saw?” Another mechanic mutters.

Logan kneels down next to you, concern etched on his face. “Is he okay?”

You nod, relief washing over you as your father starts to stir. “I think so. Just shocked, I guess.”

Carlos hovers nearby, looking both guilty and defiant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause such a scene. I just ... I couldn’t stand the thought of hiding anymore.”

As James’ eyes flutter open, his gaze immediately locks onto the three of you. “Y/N? Logan? Carlos? What ... what’s going on?”

You take a deep breath, helping your father sit up. “We need to talk. But maybe not right here in the middle of the garage floor?”

James nods weakly, allowing Logan and Carlos to help him to his feet. As they guide him to a nearby chair, you can’t help but notice the mixture of confusion, shock, and curiosity on the faces of your coworkers.

Once your father is settled, he looks between the three of you, his expression a mix of bewilderment and dawning comprehension. “So, when you said Logan was coming to visit for the weekend ...”

You nod, taking both Carlos and Logan’s hands in your own. “It wasn’t just as a friend. The three of us ... we’re together. All of us.”

James blinks rapidly, as if trying to clear his vision. “Together? As in ...”

“As in dating,” Logan says, his voice steady despite the nervousness evident in his posture. “All three of us. We’ve been in a relationship for a few months now.”

Carlos nods, squeezing your hand. “We didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I got ... carried away. But we’re not ashamed of our relationship, and we don’t want to hide it anymore.”

James leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “I ... I don’t even know where to begin. Y/N, honey, are you sure about this?”

You meet your father’s gaze, your voice firm. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Dad. I love them both. And they love me ... and each other.”

The garage around you is still unnaturally quiet, everyone straining to hear the conversation. You can practically feel the weight of their stares, but in this moment, all that matters is your father’s reaction.

James takes a deep breath, his eyes moving between the three of you. “This is ... a lot to process. But Y/N, if you’re happy ...”

You nod, a smile breaking across your face. “I am. We all are.”

James sighs, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful. At least I don’t have to worry about you dating some playboy from another team.”

Logan chuckles softly. “No, just an IndyCar driver and your star employee.”

The tension in the air starts to dissipate as James shakes his head, a reluctant smile forming. “I have a feeling my life just got a whole lot more complicated.”

You lean down to hug your father tightly. “Thank you for understanding.”

As you straighten up, Carlos’ race engineer clears his throat loudly. “I hate to break up this ... touching moment, but we have a race to drive. Carlos, car. Now.”

Reality comes crashing back as you realize the race is mere minutes from starting. Carlos looks torn, clearly not wanting to leave in the middle of this pivotal moment.

You give him a gentle push towards his car. “Go. We’ll be right here when you finish.”

Logan nods in agreement. “Yeah, babe. Go show them what you’ve got.”

Carlos hesitates for just a moment before a determined look settles over his features. He leans in, placing a quick kiss on your cheek and another on Logan’s before turning to your father.

“James,” he says seriously. “I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make Y/N happy and to make this team proud.”

James nods, still looking slightly dazed. “Just ... just drive safe out there.”

As Carlos jogs towards his car, the garage seems to come back to life. Mechanics resume their tasks, albeit with frequent glances and whispers in your direction. You, Logan, and your father are left in a small bubble of calm amid the renewed chaos.

Logan clears his throat. “So ... I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”

You can’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting you. “You could say that. I think we just gave the entire paddock enough gossip to last the rest of the season.”

James shakes his head, a mix of exasperation and amusement on his face. “You three certainly know how to make an announcement. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t decide to share the news during a press conference.”

As the sound of engines roaring to life fills the air, you find yourself filled with a sense of lightness. The secret’s out, for better or worse, and now you can face whatever comes next together.

Logan puts an arm around your shoulders, and you lean into him, watching as Carlos’ car pulls out of the garage. “Well,” Logan says with a grin, “I guess there’s only one thing left to do now.”

You look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

He winks, guiding you towards the spectator area. “Cheer our boy on, of course.”

***

Four Years Later

The late afternoon sun streams through the windows of the spacious living room, warming over the three occupants. You’re nestled comfortably on the couch, your hands resting on your swollen belly, a contented smile playing on your lips as you watch your two partners bicker good-naturedly.

Carlos paces back and forth, running his hands through his hair in mock distress. “I just can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Our child, our beautiful baby, will be one-third American!”

Logan, sprawled in an armchair, grins widely. “And what’s wrong with that? Afraid our kid might actually develop some taste?”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Boys, please. The baby can hear you, you know.”

Carlos stops his pacing, turning to you with wide eyes. “Exactly! We need to counteract this American influence immediately. Quick, where’s that Spanish lullaby CD my mother sent?”

Logan snorts. “Oh please, like that’ll do any good against the power of apple pie and freedom.”

“Apple pie?” Carlos scoffs. “Please. Our child will have a sophisticated palate. Paella, gazpacho, tortilla española-”

“Burgers, hot dogs, s’mores,” Logan counters, ticking off on his fingers.

You can’t help but laugh at their antics. “You do realize the baby will be more British than anything else, right? Given that I’m the one actually carrying it?”

Both men turn to look at you, identical expressions of horror on their faces.

“Dios mío,” Carlos whispers. “I didn’t even think of that.”

Logan nods solemnly. “We’re doomed. Our child is going to have terrible teeth and an unhealthy obsession with beans on toast.”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily, laughing. “Watch it, Sargeant. This Brit is the mother of your child.”

Carlos flops down on the couch next to you, placing a gentle hand on your belly. “Don’t worry, mi amor. We’ll make sure our little one has the best of all worlds. The passion of Spain, the ... whatever it is Americans have-”

“Awesomeness,” Logan interjects.

“-and the ... charm of Britain,” Carlos finishes, winking at you.

You lean in to kiss him softly. “Nice save.”

Logan gets up from his chair, moving to sit on your other side. He places his hand next to Carlos’ on your belly. “Hey, little one. Don’t listen to your papa. He’s just jealous because he knows you’re going to prefer peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to croquetas.”

Carlos gasps in mock outrage. “Take that back!”

You groan, leaning back against the couch. “Oh god, is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our lives?”

Both men turn to you with identical grins. “Absolutely,” they say in unison.

Despite your exasperated tone, you can’t help but smile. This is your family, quirks and all, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Suddenly, you feel a strong kick under your partners’ hands. Their eyes widen in surprise and delight.

“Did you feel that?” Logan asks excitedly.

Carlos nods, his eyes shining. “Sí, it was so strong! Our little footballer in the making.”

“You mean soccer player,” Logan adds with a smirk.

Carlos groans. “Por favor, not this again. It’s football, Logan. The rest of the world calls it football.”

“Yeah, well, the rest of the world is wrong,” Logan retorts, sticking out his tongue.

You shake your head, amused. “I swear, sometimes it’s like I have two children already.”

Both men have the grace to look slightly sheepish, but their hands remain on your belly, waiting for another kick.

“You know,” you say thoughtfully, “we still haven’t decided on a name.”

Carlos perks up. “I’ve been thinking about that! What about Carlos III for a boy?”

Logan wrinkles his nose. “Because the current two of you aren’t enough? What about something cool, like Maverick?”

“Maverick?” Carlos repeats incredulously. “What is this, Top Gun?”

“Hey, Top Gun is a classic!” Logan defends.

You clear your throat. “Gentlemen, might I remind you that I get veto power on all names?”

They both turn to you, curious. “What did you have in mind, babe?” Logan asks.

You smile mysteriously. “Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m not sharing until you two can agree on at least one name together.”

Carlos and Logan exchange a look, a silent challenge passing between them.

“Fine,” Carlos says. “How about ... James? It’s a name that works in all our cultures, and it would be a nice nod to your father, Y/N.”

Logan nods slowly. “James ... I like it. Simple, classic. And we could call him Jamie for short.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest. “James is perfect. Dad will be over the moon.”

“James it is then,” Carlos says with a soft smile. “For a boy, at least. What if it’s a girl?”

Logan’s eyes light up. “Oh! What about Liberty? You know, because-”

“Absolutely not,” you and Carlos say in unison.

Logan pouts. “You guys are no fun.”

Carlos chuckles, reaching across you to ruffle Logan’s hair. “Come on, querido. Surely you can think of something better than that.”

Logan leans into the touch, a thoughtful expression on his face. “How about ... Sophia? It’s pretty, and it works in all our languages.”

You nod approvingly. “Sophia is lovely. What do you think, Carlos?”

Carlos smiles. “Sophia is beautiful. Sophia Sainz-Sargeant-Vowles. It has a nice ring to it, no?”

“It’s a mouthful is what it is,” Logan chuckles. “But I love it.”

You feel another kick, stronger this time. “I think the baby approves too.”

Carlos leans down to speak directly to your belly. “Hello there, little one. Are you a James or a Sophia?”

Logan joins in, his voice taking on an exaggerated American accent. “Now listen here, kiddo. Whatever you are, just remember: you’ve got red, white, and blue running through your veins. USA! USA!”

Carlos groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “Dios mío, what have I gotten myself into?”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “A lifetime of this, darling.”

As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the room, you find yourself filled with an overwhelming sense of love and contentment. This unconventional family of yours, with its mix of cultures and personalities, is everything you never knew you needed.

“Hey,” you say softly, drawing both men’s attention. “I love you both. So much. And this baby is going to be so loved, no matter what nationality they end up identifying with.”

Carlos and Logan’s faces soften, all traces of their playful argument disappearing.

“We love you too,” Carlos murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Logan nods, squeezing your hand. “More than anything. All three of you.”

As you sit there, sandwiched between the two men you love, their hands protectively cradling your unborn child, you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them together. Spanish passion, American spirit, and British charm — your child will have the best of all worlds, and a family full of love to support them every step of the way.

[povlnfour]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ HEY TWITTER! (AA23)

pairing: alex albon x f!reader

summary: alex spends the night of a concert dancing with a beautiful stranger, he remembers everything about her, from her outfit to what her favorite song was — well, except for her name.

genre: humour, fluff

authors note: dedicated to my fabulous 🪐 anon for the most incredible idea (and also just being the most beautiful human being)

*faceclaim for y/n: yasmin wijnaldum (but please imagine her as you see fit)

dutch anthem antis ੈ✩‧₊˚

alex_albon just tweeted ੈ✩‧₊˚

twitter reacts ੈ✩‧₊˚

meanwhile, texts between lily and y/n ੈ✩‧₊˚

lilymhe just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by yourusername and 23,018 others

lilymhe one of us had way too much to drink last night, you have one guess

view all comments

yourusername um idk this is really difficult

lilymhe it’s the sticker gem still on your face that is getting me

user wait…. is this her…

lilymhe is this WHO

user GUYS I THINK THIS MIGHT BE HER

user GOOD JOB INTERNET

user @/alex_albon CAN YOU CONFIRM OR DENY

alex_albon OH MY

user IM TAKING THAT AS A YES

new activity ੈ✩‧₊˚

alex_albon started following yourusername ➡️

⬅️ yourusername followed alex_albon back

dutch anthem antis ੈ✩‧₊˚

y/n’s dms with alex ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by lilymhe, alex_albon and 50,081 others

yourusername challenge: which one of us had the most fun this past few days

view all comment

alex_albon well if you don’t say you then i fear i bought you dinner for no reason

user IT WAS HER!!! WE DID IT GUYS

user he found out who she was a few hours ago and he’s already on her instagram… maybe he has more power than we thought

lilymhe definitely not me i’ve been sat in a hotel room while you go meet boys

yourusername he bought doughnuts for us to share. omw to you with them now🤝

lilymhe i take it back @alex_albon you can stay

alex_albon just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by yourusername and 150,608 others

alex_albon a story in 3 parts

view all comments

user idk what you did but i’m sure you deserved that middle finger

yourusername that food coma hit different

lilymhe you’re telling me i walked in to you both laying like vampires passed out

user the plot thickens

user heavily entertained by the idea of alex legitimately falling in love with a girl whilst drunk, hunting her down using the internet, and then going instagram official within 72 hours

user i don’t think they’re dating aha

user @/user ok well if he doesn’t want her then i do

user okay answer quickly are y’all dating

yourusername no one knows

alex_albon dating? what’s dating?

dutch anthem antis ੈ✩‧₊˚

williamsracing just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 100,058 others

williamsracing hit tweet, who’s this?

view all comments

user WILLIAMS I LOVE YOU

lilymhe can u ask him to order me more doughnuts pls

user so real, using best friend privileges

user he’s not a want but a need

yourusername oh i miss that face already☹️

liked by alex_albon

mclaren @/williamsracing heard you may be in need of our services…?

williamsracing we’re listening👀

mclaren plans are already in action🤝

yourusername just tweeted ੈ✩‧₊˚

twitter reacts ੈ✩‧₊˚

williamsracing just posted stories ੈ✩‧₊˚

dutch anthem antis ੈ✩‧₊˚

yourusername just posted a photo ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by lilymhe, landonorris and 56,109 others

yourusername safe to say he learnt the meaning of the word dating

view all comments

user FINALLY

user alex albon most successful twitter user

lilymhe AND I DIDNT HEAR ABOUT THIS???

yourusername i tried to ring you but you didn’t pick up😔

lilymhe @/yourusername RING ME AGAIN WTF

alex_albon @/lilymhe she’s busy rn😁

lilymhe @/alex_albon GROSS

alex_albon @/lilymhe NOT LIKE THAT

alex_albon just posted a photo, 1 year later ੈ✩‧₊˚

liked by landonorris, yourusername and 105,660 others

alex_albon got her number, remembered her name, kept her around for a year

view all comments

user wow who said romance was dead huh

user when we talk about having fanfic moments… that’s these two

user ok now bring her to the next race we miss seeing her in the paddock

landonorris and yet IM the one with no rizz

yourusername your girlfriend literally called you cute and you folded. shut up.

landosgf babe our relationship started because you hit me with your car ? that’s not rizz it’s stupidity

landonorris i regret ever introducing you two

yourusername i love you, or whatever🙄

mclaren @/williamsracing i’m not seeing a thank you?

williamsracing logan would have thanked us

alex_albon yes that’s right set him up next

logansargeant no thank yOU i can’t deal with the headache

——————

a/n: okay🤓 first post in a while. half written pre baby half written post. hopefully i’ve still got it LMAO. off to finish some written bits / write a new oscar imagine idea i had over the month

will i ever stop this mclaren matchmaking saga? i don’t think so

taglist: @iloveyou3000morgan @scopeiguess @gwginnyweasley @hetfieldd @sweetbabygirlsworld @wittywhispers @bingewatche @sebvettelsgirl @casperlikej @geniusalpaca @namgification @orangetreekid @

[theplumsoldier]

sore loser

summary: the scales of your rivalry with joel miller tips in his favor as he calls out your mistake and you end up a loser. the classic "you hate your partner but fucks him anyway"

pairing: mean!joel miller x afab!reader

warnings: 18+ please and thank you, hate sex, rough vaginal sex, spitting, slapping, choking, fingering, squirting, sloppy/rough blow job, degradation, age-gap, begging, biting, mean!joel, forced orgasm & multiple orgasms, tasting joel's blood?? no aftercare please let me know if i missed anything!! (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

You hated everything about him. You hated the way he looked, the way he spoke, and the way he walked. You hated how he was always confident, how he was always right, and the fact that he always knew which buttons to push. You hated how he was a better shooter than you, how he was better at finding supplies than you, and how he was better at tracking than you. You hated his salt-and-pepper beard, the curls in his hair, and his sun-kissed skin. You hated his brown eyes, his deep voice, and his large hands. You hated how he treated you like a child, how he called you "kid", and how he looked after you.

Most of all, right now, you hated that he shot the clicker before you managed to put a knife to its skull, how he made it look like you couldn't save yourself. He took the win and he got the point.

It was a game and you were losing this battle for dominance, and you hated losing to Joel Miller.

You had been biting your tongue so damn hard to keep yourself from stooping down on his level and the taste of blood lingered in your mouth for about 4 minutes before the last straw had been drawn.

Joel just couldn't stop himself from being an ass and work in yet another one of his snarky remarks.

"Get over yourself, Miller. I had it handled," you grumbled.

"Sure looked like it," he retorted sarcastically, making scattering noises as he dug through a crate in the warehouse.

The way he didn't even bother looking at you only made you more furious. "How the fuck do you think I survived this long on my own, huh? I've been—"

"Ask myself that every time I save your ass," he interrupted mockingly.

Your blood was boiling in your veins. He felt so fucking superior and it was driving you insane. You knew your worth, but for some reason, you had this crippling urge to prove yourself.

"Somebody needs to knock you off your fucking horse, Miller."

Joel chuckled grimly. "S'that right, sweetheart? Wanna give it a go?"

His infuriating words made you stand to your feet, and frankly, it excited Joel to see you acting like you might just do something about it.

With a groan he got up himself, easily towering over you. You swallowed harshly, jaw clenched.

Joel's face was set in a firm expression, dark eyes analyzing your face to predict your next move. It was a face-off.

There was a subtle smirk and you wanted to wipe it off so badly. This was entertaining to him—a challenge he joined, a game he played just for the kick of it.

You couldn't win a fight against him, you were smart enough to recognize that fact (at least for now). So you breathed out, your nervousness drawing out a shaky laugh.

"I hate you," you spat and turned around, sure you'd only dig a deeper hole for yourself if you looked at him any longer.

"That what you tell yourself when you dip your little fingers down between your legs?" he wondered aloud, not even testing the waters but diving head first into the lake of all your buttons that he planned to push: "Don't think I don't hear you moaning my name when you get off in the night."

Your eyes went wide and shame colored your cheeks pink. You hoped he wouldn't notice as your eyes shot daggers, completely dumbfounded, hoped your anger had already made your face red. You were at a loss for words, completely and utterly embarrassed.

The mixture of emotions compiled a message to your brain for you, and before you had a chance to regret it, you lashed out. Your hand stopped clenching and raised to deliver a well-deserved proper bitch-slap, but Joel caught your wrist. It all happened quickly, and it felt like you were watching on rather than being forced back against the wall, arms suspended against the cool and rough cement in his grasp.

Joel's head cocked, eyes blazing down at you. "You wanna try that again, sweetheart?"

The sudden close proximity made you involuntarily grind your hips forward.

"So that's what all this s'about, huh? You’ve been givin' me that bratty attitude 'cause ya got your panties in a twist?"

"Fuck you!" you snapped, the words seething through your grit teeth, leaving a bad aftertaste on your tongue.

"But that's what you want, innit sweetheart? Goin' around acting like I'm the devil's spawn, but really you just want a good fucking, yeah?"

You hated how he was always right.

Your arms strained in his grasp, writhing to get loose though the heat pooling between your legs protested. You enjoyed having him this close. You could smell him, see him.

"You're so fucking full of yourself, Miller," you snarled but had stopped trying to fight off his grip.

Joel chuckled down at you, tutting: "F’you wanna be full o' me, too, darlin', all you gotta do is ask nicely."

There was no fucking way he was actually offering to fuck you. It had to be a dream. A nightmare. But it wasn't. And he was offering exactly that, you realized as his head tilted. He was dead serious.

You knew it wasn't out of the good of his heart, so he must be wanting this, too. And if he needed it as much as you did, you were going to make him work for it.

You ground your hips into his again, this time very much on purpose.

"Tell me you don't want to bend me over right now, Miller," you leaned forward and whispered in his ear, letting your lips graze the soft flesh of his neck. His cock was hard against your cunt and he didn't do a thing to push you away. "Tell me you haven't just been dying to try out this tight pussy. An old man like you can't have had a proper fuck in ages."

He laughed. "Swallow your pride, sweetheart. You've never even been with a real man before, have ya? Always waltzin' around in your short skirts at the Byson, whoring yourself out for attention from those boys."

"Knew you'd been checking me out," you smirked, the movements of your hips now a consistent grind against him. "But you're right. And those boys can't help, they dunno how to handle me."

"I don't do charities, darlin'. F’you want me to fuck that shitty attitude out of ya, you're gonna have to prove yourself."

This time around, Joel pushed his clothed cock against your pussy and you knew what he wanted.

You wriggled your hands, inching closer to his face but never letting your skin touch. "Kinda difficult to get on my knees when you’re holding me like this, innit?"

Joel let go only to force you down on the ground, but you didn't protest. You had lost all filters, all of your arrogance as you were faced with his cock prodding at the zipper of his jeans.

Looking up as you eagerly undid his belt, you were pleased to see him inhaling deeply, proudly as he looked down on you. You pulled the zipper down, and your breath hitched as his cock saluted. He wasn't wearing underwear.

His cock was thicker than you had imagined, girthier than what you had felt while fingering yourself that night which he had so mockingly reminded you of. Long with a slight curve and a purple mushroom head unscathed. A drop of pre-cum covered the slit and you imagined it was crying for you.

"You gonna put that bratty little mouth to good use or do I gotta do that for you, too?"

Instinctively you glared up at him, giving him a look but it was washed away a second later as he took charge.

Grabbing a fistful of your hair, Joel forced you onto his cock, not giving you a second to wet your lips or spit on it. Harshly pushing you down on his cock, you found that it wasn't needed, there was plenty of saliva in your mouth to lubricate him. A whimper left you when his head hit the back of your mouth, your throat automatically constricting at the sudden intrusion. You felt your cunt mimic the reaction and clenched around nothing.

Joel was heavy in your mouth, the thickness making you worry the back row of your teeth would scrape him. If they did he didn't care, for when you looked up at him through teary eyes he was unconcerned.

He forcefully prodded against your throat, slipping in just enough to push further and you gagged.

Joel inhaled sharply. "S'a tight little throat you got there. Guess you haven't been whoring around as much as I thought," he chuckled, holding your face pressed firmly against him, your nose nuzzled in the patch of curls.

He held you there for a couple of seconds, allowing your throat to get adjusted despite acting seemingly careless about how you felt. A moment later he pulled you off by your hair, and you gasped hoarsely, blinking up at him through the tears slowly blurring your vision.

Hovering over you, Joel cupped your cheeks and lifted you slightly, bending down as he did. For a second you thought he was going to kiss you, but his fingers dug into your face, forcing your mouth open for him and he spat on your tongue, an obscene look on his face.

"Eyes on the price, sweetheart," he chuckled and landed you back on your knees.

With his hand holding you tightly by a makeshift ponytail, Joel pushed his cock back into your mouth and without warning, set a brutal pace sure to give you a headache. As slick gathered between your legs, a migraine was the least of your worries. You snaked a hand between your legs to relieve the tingling strain.

The breaths you were granted came in between the thrusts and you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling dizzy, prompting him to yank at your hair.

"Look at me," he grunted coarsely, voice going straight to your sex and you ground down hard on your hand, gasping for air. Joel admired your puffy lips, smeared with saliva, strings of drool connecting your mouth to the tip of his cock. "You look like a fuckin' mess, sweetheart. This what you been thinkin' about, hm? Been thinking 'bout acting like a little slut f'me, huh?"

His degrading words fueled your fire, both making you want to bite back at him and make him come down your throat. Opting for the latter, you tried to take him back in your mouth, wanting to put your adjusted throat to good use, but he yanked you back. A whimper left your lips and he slapped your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

"F'you know what's good for you, you'll answer when I ask you a question."

Wet and needy, you didn't hesitate. "Yes! Yes, Joel," you cried, one hand on his hip for purchase, the other hid between your legs, fervently toying with your clit. "Wanted you to treat me like a whore! Wa—wanted you to fuck me stupid!"

That's when he noticed your hand between your legs, eagerly seeking out friction. His brows connected in a crease of anger, and he had you on your wobbly legs one moment and hurled you onto a dirty surface the next.

"The fuck you think you're doin', huh? Touching yourself without permission?" Joel growled and for the first time his disappointment got to you.

He held you by your throat and you could feel the calluses in his palm scrape your skin.

"M'sorry—couldn't help myself," you babbled feverishly as he shoved a hand down your undone pants, feeling just what you had been so disrespectful to touch.

A guttural moan escaped him and you could have died just then, knowing you did that to him.

"Christ, sweetheart. You got this wet from chokin' on my cock, huh?" he mused absent-minded and you couldn't decide which you liked more; Joel calling you "sweetheart" or— "such a fuckin' slut.”

You were startled but thankful when he pulled down your jeans in one swift movement, exposing you to the cold air in the warehouse.

He didn't give you a warning before he plunged two fingers into your cunt, curling them against the velvety roof of your wet cave. Clawing onto his shoulder with a gasp of surprise, you instinctively tried to lift yourself and relieve the overwhelmingly intense feeling.

"Where you goin', sweetheart? This not what you wanted?" You desperately wanted to slap the grin off of his face, but he had you completely wrapped around his finger. Literally and figuratively. "Didn't you wanna be used like a little slut, hm?"

"Please," you begged, drawing the word out with a rugged moan and clutching to his shoulders. "Ff—uck!"

He fingered you at an unforgiving pace, three fingers and his palm slapping against your cunt each time. The squelches from your pussy resonated off the bare walls and if you hadn't been so focused on the pain mixing with pleasure, you would have been ashamed Joel was the one making you this wet.

"Joel!" you cried, tugging at the front of his shirt. "Plea-please! Need your cock!"

He choked you with his unoccupied hand, forcing your face inches from his. "Quit whinin' or I'll leave you 'ere," he threatened.

You looked up at him through hooded eyes, unable to comprehend your increasing lust for him from being this close. Joel's breath was hot on your face, breathing his air, you became dizzy from a mix of him and your impending orgasm.

"That's right, sweetheart, cream all o'er my fingers," he beckoned, feeling your contracting walls squeeze his fingers. Your legs were trembling, wanton moans spilling from your lips as Joel pulled an orgasm from you.

You incoherently begged him to fill you up, wanting nothing more than to milk his thick cock, but when he caught sight of your pleading eyes, he applied pressure to your clit instead. It was sore from the heel of his palm having slapped it repeatedly and it made you unable to come down from your high properly.

Your legs spasmed as his torturous fingers brutally skirted across your bundle of nerves. Before you could process what happened, a gush of pleasure sprayed from you.

Your cheeks flushed pink, realizing Joel had just made you squirt. You had never done that before, and you looked at him with an expression of surprise mixed with confusion. He looked proud.

Joel groaned as he stroked his throbbed cock, smearing the precum over the head while his other hand pushed down hard on your belly, holding you just at the edge of the table.

Stammering his name, your attempt at any sort of coherent sentence was foiled as he slid his girthy cock into your cunt.

Your eyes fluttered shut, walls clenching around him. You had never felt so full. "Joel—" you shuddered, gripping his bicep for purchase.

A string of curses left his lips, a crease knitting his brows together in concentration. "Fuckin' hell, sweetheart, s'a tight lil' hole ya got 'ere."

Joel wanted to take a moment just then, revel in the sweet clench of your pussy, catch his breath but he knew you would notice. As much as he had a hidden desire to ruin every other man for you and have you tail him like a lost puppy, he refused to acknowledge how overdue this was.

He didn't give you another second to adjust before he rocked his hips back and slammed his cock back into you. If you thought his fingers hit a spot, his cock fucking destroyed that.

You couldn't even form moans properly as his hips rutted at a bruising pace, expertly molding your cunt to fit him. His face contorted and he grumbled something under his breath, but you didn't care to ponder what as he filled you up. You were still dazed from the previous orgasms and it was like he wouldn't allow you to come down. Your ragged breaths, his grunts, and the wanton sounds of skin slapping filled your head as you soared around on cloud nine.

A large hand snuck under your shirt, the calluses on his palm rough against your skin but you loved the feeling as he squeezed your breast, thumb and index pinching your nipple.

Your knuckles turned pale from clutching down hard on his shoulders, fingernails clawing indents at the exposed skin on his neck and collar.

You hoped the crescents would outlast this moment, that Joel would curse at the sight the next time he looked in a mirror. You hoped he wouldn't be able to get this moment out of his head then, not ever, thinking back to this moment whenever he would see the scars you left on him.

A hiss escaped you and tore the thought of making your mark out of your mind. His deft fingers were rubbing your sore clit once again.

There was determination on his face and animalistic hunger in his dark eyes—he looked as if there was no getting through to him, like he was stuck in a world of his own.

Whether he insisted on drawing orgasm after orgasm out of you for your pleasure or his ego, you did not know. Joel always had something to prove—to himself or the people around him, it was another thing about him you didn't know. In this moment, as he chased every high for you, you didn't care either.

You hated him for making you feel this good. Hated him for making you moan in pleasure, hated him for making your legs shake uncontrollably. You wanted to taunt him, crack a spiteful comment about his age or something, let him know he wasn't doing as well as he thought—but he was. You could lie, but your body would betray you.

There was no snide comment left in you as Joel's hips pistoned into yours. It felt too good. He felt too good.

"S'too much," you gasped and held onto his shoulder, not pushing him away but not pulling him any closer either. "I can't."

The pressure on your clit was too much. The frantic rubbing, the harsh pads of his fingers, mixing pleasure with pain in the most unforgiving way. It hurt too good to want to stop him, though.

Joel surprised you, pressing his forehead against yours. His eyes were heavy, and his jaw was slack, the blissful expression ruined by a smug chuckle.

"You can. C'mon, sweetheart, I believe in you," he tutted like one would to a child riding a bike for the first time.

It spurred something inside you, the degradation. Your hooded, watery eyes caught sight of his plump lip through the blur and without a second thought, you lunged forward and bit it, your teeth piercing the soft skin.

It was the closest thing you would get to feeling them, you knew it, and you weren't about to beg for a taste.

A slap landed on your cheek, sharp and stinging, but he kept his hand there on the side of your face, cupping it in an almost endearing way.

Joel hissed at the taste of blood—surprised but not disgusted. The hand cupping your face in the sweetest way turned to force your mouth open, and you grinned bitterly when he spat on your tongue, tasting his blood.

His thrusts became more frantic, the pad of his thumb sloppily skipping over your clit as he draws your pleasure out. Forcing you to look into his eyes while you come around his cock, Joel's too far gone watching you to notice the way his balls tightened.

"Fuck—"

Slick with your juices Joel slips out of your clenching pussy, jerking his cock a few pumps as he hisses, strings of milky sperm decorating your abdomen.

Your heavy breaths hang in the room like thick syrup, bodies sticky, tension at a maximum as the lust turns back to hatred.

Joel moves from you with a grunt, a sly smirk on his lip as he moves his gaze from the mess on your stomach to your eyes. He leaves you to clean yourself up and tucks his softening cock into his pants, the zipper resounding comically loud through the silence. It reminds you of a secret between children, zipping your lips close as a solemn pledge.

It was over and it would never be brought up again. As you did your best to clean up, get back into your clothes, and comb your fingers through your hair, your eyes were trained on Joel's back—if eyes could kill and all that.

At once, you were back to hating one another. You hoped your nails had dug deep enough into his shoulder, hard enough to leave scars.

[11cupids-tarot11]

Late night conversations with your future spouse.

1 -> 2

How do guys feel about the name "Love Bugs"? I've been considering calling you guys that, I think it's cute 🥹 I want to do something cool with it in the future- stay tuned guys!

In honor of reaching 100 followers I want to do something special! I want to do a follower's request! So comment down below, message me privately if you want, whichever way you prefer! This will still be a general reading for everyone, but I'm excited to see what cool and unique topics you guys can come up with!

Take care!!

- Cupid 𖥔 ࣪ ᥫ᭡ꗃ⋆࣪.

I'm open for private readings! DM me!

$5.55 per question

C@sh app and PayPal payments only!

Cash tag- $minnieplant3

Tips appreciated!

Love y'all!

- Cupid 𖥔 ࣪ ᥫ᭡ꗃ⋆࣪.

Pile 1- Four of coins, The hierophant in reverse, The world, Eight of swords, The sun, Queen of wands, Five of cups.

You guys will talk about the future a lot! You guys will like talking about planning, how to save more or trips, dream vacations. Just your dream life together.

This is a moment when both of you can be in pure silence even and just enjoy each other's company, you both could have busy schedules so making time for each other might be a little rough, but at night time it's y'all little bonding moment basically.

I'm hearing something about not having to really use your brain as much lol. Maybe someone works in a field that requires them to think a lot or it's very mentally challenging or even draining so they get to finally be at rest as well, the conversations will always be light hearted and just lots of laughter and child-like energy here because neither of you really want to take this moment that serious. I'm also seeing you guys could opt for doing other activities instead of talking, like watching a movie and for some of you your person took it to a 18+ level lol.

You guys will really like to talk about how much you want to explore together, where you want to go, I think this person wants to give you the world so you'll be thinking this is just random playful talk but he'll bring it up again when the moment is right to make these dreams and talks come to life!

If you guys have had a bad or gloomy day they'll wanna talk about it so they don't feel so stuck in bad energy, they really don't want to carry it on till the next day so they'd rather talk and get all of the negative things out of the way so you both can sleep peacefully.

You both love talking to each other a lot, about everything and there's no judgement here, you guys could even fall asleep mid way sometimes because I'm seeing you one of you will be so tired (I think it's definitely from a tiring job or schedule, weekday nights will be a lot different than weekend's, weekend will definitely be longer, you guys will talk more or do more activities together because that's y'all's little bonding time! Cute 🥹.

Your person will love hearing about your day! They'll want you to tell them about everything you did. They're definitely the type to ask how your day was, they genuinely care too, they're not asking just to make conversation they'll really want you to go into details! They'll want to emotionally support you through thick and thin.

Random, but someone has a six pack? They might be shirtless a lot too lmao.

You guys will definitely use this as a moment as well to talk about anything within the relationship that you want to work on, I don't think your person appreciates toxicity so they try to eliminate as much as possible, if there is a problem or they've noticed you've been grumpy all day they'll want to discuss in details before bed, this person really hates going to sleep with low vibrations not only for themselves but for the both of you, they think you both deserve a happy good night's sleep! Adorable! 🩵

I hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to do the poll at the bottom and I'll see you later! 💖

Pile 2- Four of wands, Ten of cups reversed, Knight of cups, The tower reversed, Three of coins and The wheel of fortune.

So this person is kinda dramatic lol. I think by the end of the day they're really tired and some days aren't able to stay up like they wish. They say they feel like a zombie some days :(

They'll still be very expressive with you, they'll explain this. They don't want you to think they're making up excuses or don't want to spend time with you or anything. I'm seeing this might be part of the late night conversation, they'll tell you exactly how they're feeling and why. This is only for certain days, it will not always be like this energy.

I think your person's kinda flirty though? Like they're keep you laughing for sure, they have a lot of passion and just like to be near you at night! You guys could end up just cuddling and sitting in silence without even realizing you're both falling asleep. It's very comfortable energy, you'll feel so good cuddling up with this person you guys might just forget about the conversation at hand and drift off, freaking adorable!

This person loves how calm everything feels with you at night, everything's peaceful and they can just relax and let loose, sleep to their hearts content. I think this pile just might really like sleeping? There could've been a thing one of you had trouble sleeping before getting together, it could just be your person's energy but take it how it resonates!! But now whoever had trouble sleeping before can sleep so peacefully so it's their favorite thing to do, you guys can't wait to get in bed to get all nice and warm and get a good night's sleep.

Maybe they'll ask you questions about what you did all day, they'll check up on you, use this as a time to get insight on you I'm hearing.

They'll want to tell you about the wacky things that happened to them out of the blue, if something funny, crazy or even slightly out of normal happens they just have to tell you! They'll gossip a lot, tell you everything! Like best friends at a sleepover.

I hope you enjoyed!! Don't forget to do the poll below, see you soon! 💕

[wonderlandwalker]

After All These Years | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: You think he no longer cares, and he thinks you're better off without him. But the reaping for the 75th hunger games puts a dent in both of those thoughts

Content Warnings/Tags: Angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, insinuations of smut, kissing, once again not proofread

Requested by @rottingpeache: absolutely need to see enemies to lovers with finnick. “I really don’t like you.” “And I really don’t believe you.”

Word Count: 1k

A/N: No clue if this is actually enemies to lovers or just a poor attempt at it. I'm gonna go take a nap now but there is more coming cause the requests sparked something in me again so thank you to everyone who sent them!!

None of you had expected it to happen, how could you? But you've learned by now there is no point in fighting it either. So when you heard Mags’ name being called out and you volunteered in her stead, you suppose it was simply out of habit. In a world like this, the only thing that makes you feel like you are surviving is helping others do the same thing. As you stepped forward you could see the cameras zooming in on your face, trying to capture every expression you were making. You saw the cameras do the same for Finnick. Years of being in an unwelcome spotlight had made his poker face almost unbreakable, but the small furrow of his eyebrows and the twitch in his gallant smile told you everything you needed to know.

It wasn't until the next day that he first spoke to you. Over the years you would see each other, of course, you would talk. But at all the events and all the parties you did nothing more than exchange pleasantries. But now he came out of your peripheral vision and cornered you against the wall behind you with his broad arms.

“What were you thinking, this might be the stupidest thing you've ever done.” His demeanour seemed angry, he seemed serious. But you had no reason to match it, you just wanted to get under his skin like he got under yours.

“Be careful what you say, you might actually be the stupidest thing I’ve done.” you wondered if he remembered, if he remembered the night you had spent together so many years ago, it had been the best night of your life, and you had no idea if he even remembered. If he did, he didn't let it show.

“Did you even think it through? You survived the arena once, and only barely, what makes you think you’ll make it out alive again.” His voice was a low rasp, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he sounded upset. But you knew better, Finnick had shown you his true colours when he started avoiding you, and you did remember that.

“I wasn't thinking, how could I? All I could think about was Mags having to go through it all again, you more than anyone else know she deserves better.” you were looking him in the eyes now, and it took all of your willpower not to melt. “My games weren’t that long ago, I did it then and I’m still here, I can do it again.” He stepped closer to you, eliminating the remaining space between your bodies, his chest against yours, and you could feel his heart skip a beat as he spoke.

“Exactly, I was there, and it damn near broke me too. I was there to piece you back together. But I won’t watch it happen to you again, I can’t let it happen. Because what if I’m not there this time, what if I'm not there to put you back together.” There was a stark contrast between his face and his voice. As you looked at him you saw his eyes soften, and it gave you a glimpse of the Finnick you once knew. But his voice was still filled with anger, and it snapped you back to reality.

“And how would you know what I can and cannot handle.” You were challenging him now, but he had you matched.

“Because I know you. Even if you don’t believe so, I know what youre like, I know how you think. You might believe I forgot, that I ignore you and go on with my life as if nothing happened. But if you were to actually think for one second you would see that I’m simply doing what's best for you, I just want what’s best for you but now you’ve gone and ruined all of it in one day. 

You’re at a loss for words, because maybe he was right, maybe you had gone and messed up everything with a single sentence at the reaping. But maybe everything was finally making a turn for the better, because for the first time, he was telling you he cared. And you’re thankful to finally see his thoughts shine through, but you’re overwhelmed too. So you turn around, you turn away from him, wanting to escape the confrontation. Except he’s not letting you go, not this time

“I really don’t care what you think Finnick.” You weren’t sure if you believed your own words, but you needed to get away from him.

“And I really don’t believe you.” You tried shrugging him off again, and you were about to turn away from him when you felt him grab onto your arm and pull you into him. As you looked up you could feel his eyes fixed on yours.

And so you do the only thing you can think of, you do the thing you want most in this moment right here, you kiss him. You tell yourself that consequences be damned, because even if he will hate you for it, even if you’ll regret it later, at least you have this one moment to get yourself through it, at least you didn't let your fears of losing him completely win this time.  You kiss him as if everything will be okay, because when you feel his lips start to move in sync with yours, it is. 

For a moment you think everything will resolve itself and you and Finnick can live together in a small house near the beach. For a moment you forget how much you hate him for everything he put you through. Because in this moment, if life could be like this moment, you’d forgive him for all of it. And you don't know it yet, but he’s even more scared than you are.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

[primejourney]

Hello world!

I’ve been wanting to get back to drawing daily, and having fallen in the SubMas fandom rabbit hole recently, I was excited to learn about the Sept-Ingo challenge! I’m excited to use this as a way to practice, but also to see what areas I could focus on practicing. 

I worked hard all Labor Day weekend on this one for the prompt “BATTLE”. It depicts Ingo and Emmet during their time as depot agents. (I suppose it could be a bit more Ingo centric! But it just didn’t feel right without Emmet there!). 

Critique is always welcome! I tried to mess around with foreshortening, something I’ve never really tried before (I haven’t practiced anatomy very much either!). I know it needs improvement, but I have to say I am proud of what I’ve accomplished — it’s so nice to create a finished work again!! 

(also...sorry for posting so late @monthofingo ..! i draw very slowly ;D;)

More about my inspiration under the cut

I was inspired by @maniacwatchestheworld post about how the brothers’ Klinklangs were most likely their starters! I adore Chandelure and Elektross as much as the next SubMas fan, but I think these two deserve some more love! They represent Ingo and Emmet’s battling synchronicity and bond very well! I like to think they used them a lot in their time as depot agents before they became masters. 

I took inspiration from the idea of the two Pokémon having Plus and Minus as abilities! You might notice the two klangs look a little different from each other. ;)

I originally wanted to include a speech bubble with an attack name or cool phrase, but I couldn’t squeeze one in…and I couldn’t think of one. I’d love to hear if you guys have any ideas of what they might be saying. :D (I entertained "Gear Shift!" but technically, only one of them knows that move, lol).

p.s. if anyone has tips on how to draw their silly hats in perspective i would be eternally indebted to you ;D:)

[boscoess]

*★,°*:.☆\TONKA NINJA FOR @dreambot's BC CHALLENGE/$:*.°★*

||NAME|| Tonka Ninja

||NICKNAME|| Tonka the Snack

||ZODIAC SIGN|| sun: pieces\moon: virgo\asc: leo

||AGE|| 24

||TRAITS|| Dance machine\Self-assured\Mean

Well,miss Tonka is a very hard working woman,she has stripping background and nowdays she owns and runs a club of her own,miss mawma also has an exceptional taste of a calabasas baddie(main inspos for her warderobe were Bianca Censori and miss Leah the queen Kateb)

So when i pick traits i kind of give them an explanation of my own so here are hers:

-As for dance machine she has always been in love with dancing,she has done ballet school and a lot of other dancing courses since she was a mini tonka

-Self-assured comes from her experiencing sex work at its finest,she is very picky because she had experienced almost all kind of men and she knows what she deserves purr

-Well,i explain her ''mean'' nature as her being a baddie,she wont stand disrespect and she will get in and get u good before u even try to explain urself,also she comes from a ''tough love''background and thats the only way she can express her love

Few more facts:

+She is strictly monogamous and straight\she loves dominating the dominators and she might fall for an abuser

+She is half Japanese half Chilean

+If she wins she will get a pony

+She cannot stand the colour green and if anyone has it on she will jump them probably

+She is a huge JT fan and she wont enter the villa unless no bars is playing.

+Also i spent 6 hours dressing her and she has nearly billion outfits..

Thats it bye mwah!

[justwinginglife]

How Soshiro Hoshina Broke The Internet

Just a silly lil fic based off of a conversation I had with @ryescapades and @minasfwoopyponytail, thanks for indulging my goofy ideas! We love our precious baby Soshiro. Once again, mentions of mature content, but no explicit detail, we're here for a silly time not a sexy one.

“You’re 50 Shades of Stupid and this is your dumbest idea yet.” 

Hoshina grumbled and grumbled, but it didn’t stop Narumi from eagerly setting up the camera and chuckling to himself. “Hey, you lost the bet; this is your punishment, own up to it.”

If it had been just the two of them alone, he might’ve socked Narumi in the jaw. Might’ve declared the bet faulty and stomped off. Might’ve challenged him to another dare with double the stakes to distract Narumi and to avoid paying the price of his last lost challenge. 

But Okonogi was there as a witness, Captain Ashiro was there for moral support (she wanted to take pictures of this whole ordeal and claim it was for the good of the Defense Force), and you were there to make sure he didn’t storm off, with your big brown eyes that he fell victim to every time. 

If Hoshina even looked like he might bail, Narumi would call out to you, “Y/N! Looks like your man’s a big wimp. If you ever wanna know what a real man is like, my door’s always open,” and then Hoshina would stare him down, storms in his eyes, thunder in his throat, as he swore misfortune upon the Narumi line for the next 70 generations if he so much as breathed near you. And Narumi would laugh, knowing he had Hoshina right where he wanted him. 

It didn’t help that you were also curious to see this all play out, so whenever Hoshina would start to sulk, you’d dance your fingers through his hair and murmur against his ear, “But baby… I wanna see it too. Do you think, maybe, you could do it just for me? Please, ‘Shiro? I’ll love you eternally.”

So he begrudgingly put on the bunny ears. 

When Ashiro snapped a picture of him, Hoshina cursed her family name too. Then he threatened to tell Kafka every embarrassing story he knew about her until she put her phone away. But her hand hovered by her pocket as though she was just waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Narumi finally had everything set up the way he wanted it; all Hoshina had to do was dance. Apparently dancing was all the rage on TeekTook these days. 

Hoshina flipped Narumi off but when the music turned on, he danced as promised. And when Okonogi laughed so hard they had to redo the take, he made a mental note to curse her family line as well. 

Finally, the video came to its conclusion and his debt was paid. Hoshina collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the shame of it all. Narumi snickered, but you shooed him off, even bothering to kick the girls out of the room too. Then you knelt down on the floor in front of him and took his face in your hands. 

“See, all done, baby. That wasn’t so hard.” You murmured as you planted kisses over every square inch of his face. 

He accepted your kisses but he still pouted. “Easy for you to say. That was worse than going to battle.”

You nibbled on his ear and trailed kisses down his neck. “Aww, don’t say that, love. You looked so sexy dancing like that. I might be your number one fan.”

He yanked you closer to him. “Yeah? Keep saying things like that and I might just take you right here, in Narumi’s office.”

“It would serve him right, don’t you think? Besides, I think your number one fan deserves an autograph. Maybe you could write it out to me with your tongue? Hmm?” Your voice was dripping with innocence though your intentions were anything but. 

And when Narumi finally came back to his office to find the smell of sweat and sex stenching the air, to find his chair had been broken from exertion, to find his desk was sticky with slick, he cursed Hoshina and then cursed himself for not thinking up a more torturous punishment. 

Narumi’s displeasure continued when he awoke the next morning and discovered that Hoshina’s dancing video had gone viral, but not in the way that he’d wanted. Everyone was calling him the sexiest captain in the Defense Force. Narumi snapped his phone in half after reading all the comments in favor of Hoshina.

When you got your hands on this information, Hoshina should’ve run. You were far too devious not to use this to your advantage. But he fell victim to the curl of your lashes as they batted at him and the next thing he knew, you were setting up the camera for another video. 

“R-remind me why we’re doing this again?” He asked meekly as he watched you flit about, prepping the equipment. He could feel an impending sense of doom settling in, but you were so adorable that he found it impossible to resist you. He could only hope you’d go easy on him. 

“Baby, you can’t let your followers down.” You said matter-of-factly, still fiddling with the camera. “Think of this as boosting citizen morale.”

“Please, I don’t want to dance again,” He pleaded.

You took him in your arms and ran your hands up and down his back until he relaxed. “No more dancing, I promise. How about we just do a trend, okay?”

He sighed. “Do I have to?”

“I’ll let you try that position on me again, the one we almost broke Narumi’s desk with.”

He sat up straight. “Fine. Fine. Strap the mic to me. What are we doing?”

You handed him a script. “Just need you to say this and then we’re all done, easy peasy.”

He took the paper from you and peered at the words. His brows furrowed in confusion as he skimmed the page. “Okay, what does ‘very mindful, very demure’ mean and why am I saying it?”

Several videos later -he was unsure how you’d managed to coax multiple out of him when he’d only originally promised you one- his views had doubled and he’d acquired a fairly large fanbase, much to Narumi’s dismay. With every follower that he accumulated, you found yourself brewing more and more schemes. Just how much could you make him do? Just how much would he let you make him do?

It was too early to convince him to wear a maid outfit… but maybe if you convinced him to wear other things and his followers liked it, he’d eventually cave in. You’d always wanted to see him in a compression shirt and now that you’d been given this opportunity, you couldn’t waste it. You bought him one and presented it to him under the guise of wanting to use it in a “get ready with me” video.

When he first put on the shirt, you almost forgot about your goal of getting him into a maid uniform. In fact, you almost dropped the camera. But you got ahold of yourself, gripped the camera tight, and panned over every ripple of his muscles in slow motion. After views skyrocketed, you convinced him that he needed to do a “get ready with me” video every day.

Washing his face made the viewers go crazy, because he’d run his fingers through his hair to get it out of the way. Eating breakfast made the viewers go crazy, because he’d lick his lips. And of course, the viewers would go absolutely feral when he’d put on that damn compression shirt that by now all of them knew well. You knew how they felt. You were lucky you were hidden behind the camera so he couldn’t see just how much you were drooling, just how much you were enjoying yourself. How much you were enjoying him. 

And his damn intros killed you every time. It took all your willpower not to pounce on him because of how fucking adorable he was. 

“Hi guys. It’s me. Again. Don’t know how this is interesting to you all, but I’m back with another video, I guess?”

“Good morning, all. Turns out you really liked the last video. Not sure why, but I suppose here’s another.”

“Greetings. Um. I guess you’re getting ready with me… again?”

When he started to get weary of doing the same video over and over again, claiming that there was no way that people on the internet actually wanted to keep watching him do such mundane things everyday, you suggested doing a poll. Make his site more interactive. Ask the people what they want. 

The comment section blew up with requests for more compression shirts and his fans even sent him the money to buy a whole wardrobe full of them. So now he had compression shirts of every color and he was still unsure why. They were just shirts to him. 

But you convinced him to give the people what they wanted. You told him if anything, he could consider this as part of his job, because he was advertising the Defense Force. You could tell he only barely believed you when he reluctantly agreed to more videos. 

Eventually, he got camera shy and wanted you to be in videos with him. 

This worked out perfectly for you.

From the very first video you starred in with him, you had a maid uniform on. You thought the least you could do was get the idea in his head. He questioned it but you told him you were trying to draw the attention away from him so he could feel more comfortable on camera. He adored you for it. And he loved the way you looked - you knew because he would steal glances at you in between takes and sometimes even during takes- so he didn’t think too hard about it at the time.

Then you did more and more videos with him, all in the maid uniform, and when you’d worn out almost the entire catalog of TeekTok trends at your disposal, you finally proposed the idea of him wearing a maid uniform.

He turned bright red.

You almost kissed him for it.

“But w-why? No one wants to see that.” He squeaked out.

“Trust me, baby, the viewers will love it.”

The red traveled from his cheeks to his ears. “But w-why?” He repeated again.

“Because you’ll look so good, I promise.” You rubbed calming circles into his palm.

He bit his lip. “D-do I h-have to?”

You faked a pout. “I mean… you don’t have to. It’s just,” You sighed dramatically, “I’ve been wearing one this whole time to make you feel better about being on camera and now I’m getting a little shy… it would just make me so happy if you wore it with me.” You peered up at him with the same big, brown eyes that always ensnared him without fail. 

Then you got on your knees in front of him. 

He choked at the sight of you. 

You crawled in between his legs, nuzzling up against his thigh. “I just want to match you baby. I just want everyone to know we’re together and we love each other. Don’t you love me baby? Don’t you wanna match with me?”

He gulped. “I-I… I s-suppose if it would… if it would make you happy… I could maybe… do it. For you. Just the once.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really? You’ll do it? I love you so much baby, I’ll be right back!” And then you procured for him the maid outfit that had been patiently waiting for him in your closet. He didn’t even dare to question how you’d retrieved it so fast. You were so sweet and innocent, he could hardly accuse you of masterminding this entire situation even though that was exactly what you’d done. 

When he put on the uniform and you saw him standing there, cheeks tinged with pink, thumbs twiddling nervously, dress fluttering from the fan, you couldn’t hold back anymore. He was too adorable. You kissed him. 

And then you pinned a mic to him, turned the camera on, and made history.