#and using proper caps again!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marblehazel · 6 months ago

Text

Sitter

dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

Part One | Part Two: Deeper

You’re spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your father’s buddy, sent by him to check on you.

Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving)

Word count: 6.8k

“Dad,” your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.

“So like, I’m… sick, kinda, but it’s not really bad, so—” A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. “—sorry about that. It’s nothing. Don’t worry too much, don’t even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.” Another coughing fit. “Okay. Have fun, I love you.”

You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your father’s ancient block of telecommunication. It’s 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because it’s their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.

“Will you be okay?” your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom door’s frame while you were unpacking your backpack.

“Yeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.” you laughed lightheartedly.

“It’s just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish you’d said yes and come with us.”

“And third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?” you giggled. “Dad, it’s okay. Come on. We’ll still have the weekend together when you come back.”

You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.

“Me and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?” he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. You’ve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?

Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. It’s broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if he’s going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your father’s medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.

You second-guess your decision to let your father know that you’re unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.

It’s dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.

You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you can’t pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.

You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Can’t sneeze or cough if you’re knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. You’re too tired to reach for the remote.

Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.

You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.

“Easy, easy,”

If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.

It’s Joel Miller.

Of course it’s him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.

He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.

Well, just your father. Not Joel though.

You haven’t seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.

He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.

“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”

“Hey.” he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. What time is this?” you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.

“One-thirty. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.

“Your front door was unlocked when I came in.” says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “And sorry my Dad made you come here. You didn’t have to, it’s not so bad.”

“Come on, it’s only a ten minute drive. ‘S okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, y’know. You took the Nyquil?”

The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldn’t breathe through your nose. Man.

“I did.” you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.

“Good,” Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmer’s glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.

You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesn’t let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.

“Spit.” he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon you’ll realize how foolish it is to grab someone’s wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.

“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.

“You wanna go to urgent care?” Joel asks.

“Nu-uh,” you shake your head. “I’m okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.”

“It’s probably just a bug,” he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. “How long has it been going on?”

You wait until he comes back because you don’t think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didn’t hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, “Uh, it got progressively worse last night.” you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, “But not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,”

“And before that?”

“Just a scratchy throat.”

He looks like he’s mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. It’s the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You can’t really make the colors out, but he’s wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. He’s keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You can’t help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.

And his eyes. They’re rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.

The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where you’re sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.

All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.

Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. “Did you eat?”

“I’m okay,” you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.

He chuckles. “Yes or no?”

That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. “Yes, Joel. I’m okay.”

Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. “I’m starvin’, actually,” he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.

“Mind if I take a look in the fridge?” he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.

You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as fireman’s poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you can’t conclude.

Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.

You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.

“So, how’s school?” Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. “And don’t just say okay, please.”

“You got me there,” you laugh. “Nothing really amusing, really.”

Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. It’s fun and familiar.

“Did you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?” Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. “You used to be so nice and polite.”

“I was like six!” You snorted. “And you can’t even pay me to call you that again, Joel.”

Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. You’ve heard some of them from your own father’s mouth, but you still listen to Joel’s versions eagerly anyway.

At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You don’t complain—it means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.

When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.

“You should stay the night,” you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?

Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. “Eh, we’ll see,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind drivin’ through a storm, but I can’t just leave you alone if you don’t feel well.”

“Dad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.” You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you can’t really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.

“Oh, yeah, that.” Joel chuckles. “I was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.”

He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.

After the very late dinner, the two of you retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.

“Headstrong, ain’t ya?” Joel sighs. “Okay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?”

“Not really sleepy,” you shake your head. “Feel free to take Dad’s bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?”

“Nah, I’m alright by the couch.” Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesn’t even recline anymore near Joel’s feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.

The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.

You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesn’t seem to really care about the TV.

“I don’t know what to watch,” you admit. “Do you wanna pick the movie?”

Truth is, Joel can’t give a single shit about no goddamn movie. He’s been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway. “Let’s see the trending ones.”

You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.

“This one looks excitin’.” Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You don’t recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.

The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but he’s looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.

Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.

“Woah,” you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adam’s apple moving awkwardly.

They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.

You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.

Joel clears his throat. “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t watch this,”

“You’re the one who picked the movie.” you say, eyes fixated on the screen.

“Well, it didn’t say nothin’ about eatin’ a lady out in the summary.”

He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.

“Hey,” you whine. “That’s not nice. I didn’t say yes.”

“It’s late. Go to sleep.” Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because he’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well he’s far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.

“We’re both adults anyways,” you mutter, but Joel doesn’t move. He’s probably actually tired.

Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesn’t look like he’s sleeping in peace right now but he’s still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. He’s gorgeous.

In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? It’s both excruciating and foolish.

The movie you just saw doesn’t help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you don’t get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.

You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat “Release me from this earthly desire” in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.

It’s not working.

Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lips…

You can’t do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.

The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.

There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.

Oh, he is totally aware of what’s happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.

And he totally understands. He’s been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasn’t hurting and his face hadn’t been ‘graced’ with crow’s feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.

So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.

That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping you’d catch the hint and stop for good. But you don’t, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.

It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.

He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa.

You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. “Yeah?” you croak.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”

You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.

“What… Do you mean?” you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.

Joel clicks his tongue. “Might as well hump me if you want it that much.”

Wait, what? Your eyes light up. “Really?”

Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possible—like telling a puppy she can’t eat electronic parts—sighs, “No.”

“Oh,” you cover your mouth. “I thought you meant—“

“Yeah, yeah. My bad.” he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.

Silence. You don’t dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beeping—desire—will not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze age—Joel—in your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?

“Joel,” you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.

“Hm?”

“What if… I hump you anyway?” you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.

Joel’s jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, “That fever is really messin’ with your brain, huh? Sit down.”

“You’re bricked up, Joel.” you accuse. You don’t actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.

“Unrelated to you.” he hisses in defense.

You scoff.

“Joel, please,” you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. “I want this so bad.” you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. “I want you so bad.”

“This ain’t right, kid.” Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and it’s worth pointing out that he’s shaking. “You know that.”

Joel doesn’t tell you that he’s battling demons in his head, and he’s currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.

He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.

But he knows he doesn’t want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.

A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you don’t need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.

Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. “You can help yourself, that’s all,” he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. “Just to make you shut up and get rest. That’s it.”

That’s an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.

You put your hands on Joel’s shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb ‘accidentally’ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.

The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joel’s name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesn’t. If you weren’t so absorbed in your own pleasure, you would’ve noticed how shallow and rapid Joel’s breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.

Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that he’s doing what he’s doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isn’t exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.

You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod weakly. “So good, Joel, so good,”

For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you can’t cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.

“I want to see your face,” Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You don’t know what to say, and maybe you don’t have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.

“Hold on,” he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. “I need to take these off.”

He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. “C’mere,” he says, “I need to feel you on me.”

You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. “Fuck, yeah,” he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.

The contour of Joel’s cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again.

“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.

“Keep going, baby,” he says through a smile. “Don’t hold back. You sound so pretty.”

The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. You’re close. So close.

“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”

You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.

“That’s it, that’s it. There you go. You’re so good.”

Joel holds the back of your head while you’re laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. “Attagirl.”

When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.

“Damn, kid, you’re practically a snail,” he points to it. “Poor thing.”

You wince. “What are you doing?”

“Puttin’ my pants on?” he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.

“But you haven’t even come yet!” you protest. “What the fuck? Take them off!”

“That’s not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so you’ll shut up and sleep. You’ve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.” he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.

“You’re a sick person,” you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. “You’re literally still hard.”

“That has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”

You stare at the open space, like you’re trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?

“Joel, your line is ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard.’ Now let’s start again from the top.”

Joel, who’s struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head back—softly—to the couch. “Sleep,” he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.

“Joooooel,”

“Your line is ‘Yes, Joel, good night.’”

“Yes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,” you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.

“What are your pants made of, steel?”

“What is wrong with you?” he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.

“Nobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,” you reach for the TV remote again. “Now let’s watch something again and then sleep.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again,” you repeat. “We’re watching SpongeBob.”

Joel groans.

“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”

“Not my era,” Joel says. “I watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.”

“No wonder you act like the heckling old guys.”

“I don’t, but, sure,”

“Oh, you’re more like the eagle. So serious all the time.”

Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that he’s at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.

On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joel’s lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.

You shift so that you’re on your back, legs resting on Joel’s lap. He gives you a look, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.

They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way you’re consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joel’s bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like you’re captivated by the TV. It’s hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.

Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired. “I know you were going to do this,”

But he doesn’t push you away. And that excites you.

You don’t say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandy’s treedome as background noise to amplify Joel’s restrained grunts.

You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.

You stare at him, bold. “Would you like my mouth?”

Joel nods.

You don’t even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better you’d see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.

“That’s it,” Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely don’t act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.

The only downside of this is that Joel can’t really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You can’t help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.

Joel knows he won’t last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. He’s surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

“No can do,” Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.

Just like in the movie.

You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.

“Joel, Joel,” you grasp his hands with all your might. “This is fucking unfair, I’m so— I’m gonna—”

Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that it’s time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later you’ll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.

“Fuck you, man,” you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. “I was supposed to make you come.”

Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. “You did.”

“I meant technically,” you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.

“What now?” you ask when he hands you your clothes.

“Sleep. It’s four in the mornin’.” he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you can’t drive me mad anymore, he says.

You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. “Blowjob first time in the morning?” you offer before letting yourself drift off.

“Thought you were s’pposed to be sick.” Joel shakes his head. But he grins.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #dbf!joel #dbf!joel x reader #dbf!joel miller x reader #tlou #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #dbf!joel miller

2K notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 1 year ago

Text

The Princess and the Piastri

Oscar Piastri x Princess of Denmark!Reader

Summary: in which you follow the time-honored tradition of Danish royalty falling in love with Australians

Note: dedicated to my favorite Dane, @struggling-with-drivers, who had to put up with me taking months to finally get the proper inspiration to write this

“And if you’ll just follow me, Your Majesty and Your Royal Highnesses, I’ll take you to meet Kevin now,” the overly peppy Haas PR representative says as she gestures down the garage.

You force a smile, trying not to physically recoil as you take in the assault of garish Haas branding surrounding you. The white, red, and black color scheme is far too harsh on the eyes this early on a Saturday morning.

“Oh goody,” your younger sister Josephine says flatly, eliciting a snort from your younger brother Vincent.

Your mother, Queen Mary, shoots the two a reproachful look before turning back to the PR rep with a polished smile. “We’re very excited to meet Kevin and support Denmark’s driver.”

The PR rep beams and starts leading you further into the Haas garage, rattling on about Haas’ ambitious goals for the season as you pass mechanics in matching black Haas polos barely paying you any mind.

You internally groan, already dreading the interaction ahead. As the Crown Princess, you’ve long perfected the art of feigning interest, but this weekend has tested even your limits.

“And I know meeting the future queen will just make Kevin’s day!” The rep continues enthusiastically. “He was so honored when King Frederik reached out about you all coming this weekend to support him.”

You resist the urge to snort. More like the royal communications secretary reached out when they realized the Australian Grand Prix overlapped with your visit to your mother’s family in Australia. Nothing like conveniently timing a royal appearance to drum up positive press.

Your younger sister, Isabella, sidles up next to you, linking her arm through yours commiseratingly. At 16, she’s already mastered your family’s signature skill — conveying boredom through a pleasant facial expression.

“I have some fresh sets of Haas merch we would love for you to wear when you meet Kevin,” the rep says, holding out stacks of Haas emblazoned caps and shirts insistently. “It would mean so much to the team for you to showcase your support.”

You force a smile, already shaking your head. “Oh, I’m afraid we can’t wear anything with advertisements or sponsors per royal protocol.”

The PR rep’s face falls slightly before she plasters the smile back on. “Of course, Your Royal Highness, I understand. Shall we?”

She gestures further down the garage to where the Haas drivers are standing with team personnel. Kevin Magnussen spots your approach, nudging his teammate before they turn towards you.

As you reach them, Kevin steps forward first, offering a short bow. “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, it’s an honor to meet you.”

You offer your hand, which he takes, bowing again as he brushes his lips over your knuckles. “The honor is ours, Mr. Magnussen. Denmark is proud to have you representing us in Formula 1.”

Kevin smiles bashfully as you drop his hand. “Please, call me Kevin.”

You return his smile politely. “Very well, Kevin it is.”

The rest of your family exchanges pleasantries with Kevin before the PR rep guides you towards the pit wall to observe the action on track. Practice is getting underway, and you’re grateful for any chance to extract yourself from the oppressive Haas environment.

As you exit the garage into the sunlight, you breathe a sigh of relief. Two bodyguards fall smoothly in step behind you as you start down the paddock, taking in the buzz of activity.

You smile softly, the excitement infectious despite your general disinterest in motorsports. There’s something about the frenetic energy at a race that gets your blood pumping.

Your eyes light up as you spot the unmistakable papaya motorhome of McLaren up ahead. Now that’s a team you can get behind. Cool retro appeal and a driver line-up you’ve heard is full of young talent — what’s not to love?

You pick up your pace, eager to get a closer look at the iconic livery, when suddenly you collide headlong into a firm, muscular body.

You gasp as strong arms wrap around you, stopping your momentum abruptly. Your hands brace against a solid chest as you glance up, prepared to stammer out an apology.

But the words die on your lips as you find yourself staring into warm brown eyes set in an unfairly handsome face. The eyes widen in surprise, clearly not having expected the Crown Princess of Denmark to go careening into his arms.

His mouth opens, no doubt to ask if you’re okay, but you stand frozen as the hustle of the paddock fades into background noise.

In this moment, it’s just you and this beautiful stranger. A stranger who hasn’t let go of you yet, one hand still pressed gently against your back.

You know you should pull away, apologize for your clumsiness and be on your way. But something about his eyes makes you want to stay right here, wrapped safely in his arms.

You stand frozen, lost in the stranger’s mesmerizing brown eyes. You vaguely register your bodyguards stepping forward on either side of you.

“Your Royal Highness, are you alright?” Henrik, your lead bodyguard, asks urgently.

You blink, the spell broken as Henrik’s hand lands on your shoulder, gently tugging you back.

The stranger’s eyes widen further as understanding seems to dawn. His eyes flick over the royal crest on Henrik’s suit jacket before moving back to your face, a hint of panic in his gaze.

Before you can offer any reassurance, a voice calls out sharply from behind the man.

“Oscar! What are you doing, mate? We’ve got the strategy briefing in five!”

You watch as the man — Oscar, apparently — glances reluctantly over his shoulder to where a thin harried man bearing a McLaren team pass stands tapping his foot impatiently.

Oscar’s hands slip from your waist as he takes a small step back. “Sorry, I—”

But whatever he was going to say gets lost as the man strides forward, clapping a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder.

“C’mon, let’s go. No time for chatting up fans when we’ve got quali coming up.”

Oscar allows himself to be steered away, casting one last, almost wistful look back at you before the brisk man hustles him around the corner.

You stare after them for a long moment before Henrik’s voice breaks through your daze once more.

“Your Highness, are you injured at all? Shall I call for a medic?”

You blink, shaking your head quickly as heat floods your cheeks. Honestly, they must think you a simpleton, standing here gaping after a man you collided with.

“No, no, I’m fine,” you assure him quickly. “Just a bit clumsy this morning it seems.”

You force out a breathy laugh, hoping your flaming cheeks can be explained away as embarrassment from your blunder.

Henrik eyes you skeptically for a moment before nodding. “Very well. But please be more careful, Your Highness. Next time we may not be so lucky.”

You nod contritely before allowing Henrik to usher you back towards the Haas garage, your other bodyguard falling smoothly back in step behind you.

As you near the garage, you spot your family gathered by the pit wall, watching as a group of track marshals examines a particularly suspicious drain cover. Your younger siblings all turn as one to look at you, eerily in sync.

The knowing looks on their faces make you shudder. Of the many curses of growing up in a big family, the inability to keep secrets ranks near the top. You’re sure they’ll have the truth out of you before long.

“Nice of you to join us, Y/N,” your younger brother Christian remarks wryly as you reach them. “Have a nice stroll?”

You resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him. Barely.

“Lovely, thank you,” you reply breezily instead, moving to stand between your mother and Isabella.

You determinedly avoid meeting any of your siblings’ gazes, focusing on the timing sheets instead. But you can feel their curious stares boring into you.

“You look a bit flushed, darling. Are you feeling quite alright?” Your mother murmurs, pressing a hand to your forehead in concern.

“Just peachy!” You chirp in response, internally cringing at the unnatural brightness in your tone.

From your other side, Isabella leans in, voice sly. “You do seem rather … distracted. Anything you want to share with the class?”

You glance at her sharply, taking in her knowing smirk. You narrow your eyes in warning, but Isabella just smiles innocently.

“Oh leave your sister be,” your mother chides. “I’m sure Y/N is just overwhelmed by the excitement of experiencing her first Grand Prix.”

You make a noncommittal noise of agreement, turning your focus back to the timing sheets. Isabella elbows you subtly and you pointedly ignore her, keeping your gaze fixed ahead.

You’re immensely thankful when the Haas PR rep appears again, ushering you towards the back to “give the team space to prepare for qualifying,” and drawing your family’s attention away from you.

You trail after your family to the cordoned off hospitality area, gratefully accepting a bottle of water from the proffered cooler.

As the mechanics spring into action around you, Isabella sidles up next to you again, playful smile still in place.

“Soooo,” she drawls, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Who’s got you all flustered then?”

You nearly choke on your water, whipping your head to face her. “What? No one! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even to your own ears, the denial sounds feeble. Isabella merely arches one perfect brow, clearly not buying it.

You huff out a breath, scanning the room quickly to ensure none of your other family members are in earshot before hissing under your breath. “I may have accidentally careened into a McLaren crew member during my walk.”

Isabella’s grin turns positively feline. “Oh, do tell ...”

“There’s nothing to tell!” you insist, face flaming once more. “We collided and his reflexes were quick enough to catch me before I fell. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm, I’m sure that blush is just because you’re so very embarrassed by your clumsiness and nothing else.”

You scowl and take a long swig of your water.

Isabella chuckles. “So was this mystery McLaren man at least handsome?”

You nearly choke again. “Isabella!” You admonish under your breath.

She holds up both hands innocently, still grinning. “What? It’s a perfectly reasonable question. No judgment here, promise.”

You narrow your eyes, considering her carefully. Before you can think better of it, you mutter reluctantly, “He … wasn’t entirely unfortunate looking.”

“Aha!” Isabella crows triumphantly. “I knew it!”

You shush her frantically, glancing around to make sure her outburst didn’t draw any unwanted attention.

“Do you know his name at least?” Isabella asks, slightly more quietly this time.

You hesitate before admitting, "... Oscar, I think. His colleague called him that.”

Isabella hums thoughtfully. “Very mysterious ...”

You roll your eyes, shoving her shoulder. “Oh stop it. Can we please just drop this?”

“Of course, of course,” Isabella relents, though the impish twinkle remains in her eye.

You’re prevented from further interrogation by the start of qualifying. You rejoin your family, studiously keeping your gaze away from your siblings’ knowing looks.

You determinedly put the morning’s events from your mind, focusing on Kevin’s qualifying efforts. Though you can’t help the occasional wish that the handsome stranger from McLaren — Oscar — was the one flying around the track instead.

The session proceeds fairly predictably, with the top teams claiming the top spots and the backmarkers bringing up the rear.

As Kevin pulls into the garage after qualifying 17th, you paste on an encouraging smile.

“Excellent job out there, Kevin! You and the team should be very proud.”

Kevin smiles wryly back at you. “You’re too kind, Your Highness. But I think we all know 17th is nothing to celebrate for a team with our aspirations.”

You nod sympathetically. “Of course, there’s always room for improvement. But you showed admirable pace given the circumstances.”

Kevin inclines his head gratefully at your measured response. “You have a bright future ahead as queen with such judicious words.”

You thank him sincerely for the compliment before your family takes their leave, the day’s obligations finally complete.

As you all pile into the waiting cars, Isabella leans over and whispers, “Do you think Kevin would’ve qualified higher if Haas wasn’t so slow?”

You have to smother your snort of laughter into your hand.

“Without question,” you whisper back. “I think a snail could qualify ahead of Haas at this point.”

Isabella dissolves into muffled giggles next to you as the cars pull away from the circuit, leaving the chaotic world of Formula 1 behind. At least until tomorrow.

***

You stare contemplatively out the car window as the city lights of Melbourne streak by in the darkness. Despite your family’s teasing, you can’t seem to remove a certain McLaren crew member from your thoughts.

Oscar. Even his name sends a flutter through your stomach.

You know it’s foolish to get caught up over a brief collision with a stranger. And yet … those eyes. You can’t shake the connection you felt in that moment, however fleeting.

The car slows to a stop outside your hotel and you make a split-second decision. Turning to your mother, you adopt your most winsome tone.

“Mor, I was hoping you might allow me to go out for the evening. To experience the Melbourne nightlife before we depart.”

Your mother’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Go out? Alone?”

You rush to reassure her. “Oh no, I’ll take Henrik and Simone with me of course. I would just love the chance to explore the city a bit, like a normal young woman.”

You see a flash of understanding on your mother’s face and press your advantage. “In fact, didn’t you and Far meet during a pub crawl?”

Pink stains your mother’s cheeks but her lips quirk up. “I suppose we did. But those were different times ...”

“Please Mor?” You plead. “When will I have a chance like this again?”

Your mother regards you shrewdly for a long moment before sighing. “Oh very well. But Henrik and Simone must accompany you at all times. And I want you back by midnight at the latest.”

You beam, leaning over to smack a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, thank you! I promise I’ll stay safe.”

As you exit the car, your younger brother Christian pipes up from behind you. “Hey, can I come too?”

“Absolutely not,” your mother shuts him down swiftly, leveling a quelling look at his crestfallen face.

You hide a smile as you sweep into the hotel to change, giddiness rising in your chest. A night out is just what you need to clear your head from a certain handsome distraction.

An hour later you slide into the backseat of one of the discreet royal security vehicles, now wearing jeans, heels, and a silky camisole, your long hair spilling over your shoulders.

Henrik raises his eyebrows at your outfit but doesn’t comment as he pulls away from the hotel, heading for the club district.

When you arrive, the bouncer’s eyes widen at the royal crests adorning your bodyguards’ suits. But a few quick words from Henrik and you’re granted access without a fuss.

The heavy beat of the music washes over you as you enter the fashionable club. Bright lights flash hypnotically over the crowded dance floor. You glance back at Henrik and Simone stationed near the entrance, allowing the music to carry you further inside.

You weave your way to the bar, excitement simmering in your veins. Tonight you’re just Y/N, anonymous clubgoer. No titles, no expectations, no watching eyes judging your every move.

Well, except for your bodyguards of course. But they’re discreet enough to give you space.

You’re so lost in the heady freedom of anonymity that you don’t notice the nearby figure doing a double take. But as you step up to the bar, waiting to order, a now familiar voice sounds behind you.

“Y-Your Highness!” He stammers, nearly dropping the drinks he just received. “I mean, Princess, uh Crown Princess? Sorry, I’m not actually sure—”

You whirl around to see Oscar standing there, looking devastatingly handsome in a button-down and jeans.

“Oscar!” You gasp, a smile breaking across your face unbidden. “What are you doing here?”

Pink stains Oscar’s tanned cheeks. “Ah, well my mates from the team wanted to go out and blow off some steam before the race tomorrow.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “But what brings Denmark’s future queen out to the clubs?”

You shrug lightly, grin turning impish. “Can’t a girl just want to dance and have some fun?”

Oscar’s eyes gleam with understanding. “Suppose she can. Well then, may I get you a drink … er ...”

He trails off, clearly unsure how to address you in this unusual context.

You take pity on him and lean in conspiratorially. “Tonight, I’m just Y/N. No need for fancy titles.”

Relief flashes across Oscar’s face and he smiles. “Y/N it is.”

Soon you’ve got drinks in hand and are chatting easily at a tall table beside the dance floor. Oscar is witty and charming, and laughs freely at your sarcastic commentary about Formula 1.

You’re amazed by how at ease you feel in his presence, the crown’s ever-present weight lifted from your shoulders. With Oscar, you’re not an heiress apparent, but just a girl talking to a boy she really really likes.

When he asks what you think of McLaren, you perk up eagerly. “Oh yes, what is it exactly that you do there? Are you an engineer or mechanic of some sort?”

Oscar’s eyes shutter briefly and he clears his throat. “Ah, something like that. Mostly just tinkering to try and make the car faster.”

He steers the conversation to safer waters before you can inquire further. You make a mental note to look up the full McLaren staff list later and figure out his specific role.

The night flies by in a blur of laughter and stolen glances. Oscar gamely joins you on the dance floor, his hands resting lightly on your waist as you sway together.

When at last you note the time, disappointment sinks heavy in your gut. Oscar’s face mirrors your own regret as he insists on walking you to meet your bodyguards.

Outside the club, you turn to him reluctantly. “I wish this didn’t have to end. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

Oscar shuffles his feet, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Would … would you want to meet up again tomorrow? Maybe outside the McLaren garage before the race?”

Your face lights up. “I’d love that.” Overcome by boldness, you lean in and brush a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

Oscar’s hand drifts up to his cheek, eyes dazed. “Brilliant. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You bid him goodnight before allowing Henrik and Simone to usher you into the waiting car, unable to keep the giddy smile from your face the entire ride back.

***

The next morning, you awake with a smile stretching across your face. The memory of Oscar’s brown eyes gazing into yours as you swayed together in the club fills you with warmth.

As you dress and prepare to head to the circuit, an idea strikes. There’s no rule saying you have to spend the entire pre-race hours cooped up in the Haas garage after all.

You slip into the hotel dining room, grabbing a piece of toast. “I’m afraid the petrol fumes in the garage were giving me a dreadful headache yesterday. I think I’ll take a walk around the paddock this morning for some fresh air before the race.”

Your mother’s brows furrow in concern. “Oh dear, that won’t do at all! Yes, a nice walk sounds wise.”

You thank her profusely on your way out, hiding your triumphant smile until the door closes behind you. Phase one complete.

You hold yourself back from rushing through the paddock once at the circuit, maintaining a sedate royal pace. But inside, excitement bubbles through your veins at the thought of seeing Oscar again.

As you make your way to the McLaren garage, your steps falter at the larger-than-life image emblazoned on the wall. Oscar beams back at you, brown hair just barely poking out from under his McLaren cap. The block letters beside the photo proclaim OSCAR PIASTRI #81.

You press a hand to your mouth to smother your gasp. Oscar is a driver? Your Oscar?

Speak of the devil, you spot him emerging from the garage, already dressed in fireproofs with his race suit half hanging around his waist. His face lights up when he sees you, lips curving into that boyish grin that makes your knees weak.

“Good morning!” He chirps, moving in for a brief hug.

You return the hug distractedly, still grappling with this new discovery. As you pull back, you arch a questioning brow at him.

“So … you’re a driver. Funny, I don’t recall you mentioning that last night.”

Pink stains Oscar’s cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, right. I may have omitted certain details about my role here.” His eyes turn pleading. “I hope you can forgive me? I just liked talking to someone who didn’t already know everything about me for once.”

You regard him thoughtfully before allowing a teasing grin to emerge. “Well, I suppose I can understand the appeal of a fresh slate. And it’s not as if I was fully forthcoming either.”

Oscar’s shoulders sag in relief. “Too right. Quite the pair we make, Princess.” His eyes dance playfully.

You open your mouth to respond but are interrupted by a shout from the garage. “Oscar! Debrief in two minutes, let’s go!”

Oscar smiles apologetically. “Duty calls. But let’s continue this later?”

At your nod, he squeezes your hand briefly before jogging back inside. You make your way back to Haas, butterflies still fluttering wildly.

Once the race starts, you have to work to restrain your enthusiasm as Oscar quickly moves up the field. More than once, you catch your lips curving upward as he deftly overtakes a competitor, and have to rearrange them into careful neutrality.

A discreet glance sideways shows your family members focused intently on Kevin’s efforts in the Haas. You allow yourself a small smile. Watching Oscar race with no one the wiser feels like getting away with something deliciously secretive.

The checkered flag finally waves after 58 intense laps. Your heart leaps as the McLaren crew begins celebrating Oscar’s podium finish. You have to force yourself not to join the applause as he climbs from his car, settling for clasping your hands tightly to contain your glee.

Meanwhile, Kevin finishes in 18th position while his teammate Nico suffered a mechanical retirement. You paste on an encouraging smile, tamping down your excitement over Oscar’s podium.

“Nice recovery there at the end, Kevin. Surely the team can build on this result in the next race.”

Privately, you think Haas would be lucky to keep a wheel attached long enough to make it to the end of a full race, let alone fight for points. But you keep that thought to yourself for now.

As your family rises to congratulate a dejected Kevin on completing the race, Isabella leans in close to whisper in your ear. “Not a great showing, I dare say. Perhaps you are considering transferring allegiance to a certain papaya team instead?”

You press your lips together to contain your smile. Trust Isabella to have guessed your conflicted loyalties.

“Indeed,” you murmur back. “One must be open to supporting all teams in the spirit of global unity.”

Isabella’s eyes dance with mirth, but she simply links her arm through yours, giving a sage nod. “Spoken like a true diplomat.”

As the celebrations kick off for Oscar’s first home race podium, you sneak glances over your shoulder, hoping for another glimpse of him through the chaos.

Someday soon, perhaps you’ll be able to cheer for him openly. For now, you hold the image of his smiling face in your mind as you reluctantly follow your family back out of the disappointing Haas garage.

If nothing else, this surprise-filled weekend has shown you that your heart will not be so easily commanded. And it seems to have rather fixated itself on a certain charismatic McLaren driver.

***

You hover near the paddock exit, half hoping to catch one last glimpse of Oscar before your departure. Your family made their polite farewells to the Haas team and you seized the opportunity to slip away.

You’ve just resigned yourself to missing him when hurried footsteps sound behind you.

“Princess! Wait up!”

You whirl around to see Oscar jogging towards you, face freshly showered but still flushed with elation. He draws up before you, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

“I’m so glad I caught you before I had to leave,” you smile brightly. “I had to come say a proper congratulations for your podium first!”

Oscar ducks his head bashfully even as his eyes shine. “And, well, I hoped maybe you were cheering me on out there today?”

Heat floods your cheeks as you let out an embarrassed laugh. “You know I can’t answer that. But I will say you drove brilliantly and I’m so pleased for your result.”

Oscar’s grin widens, clearly reading between the lines of your diplomatic answer.

“Well I’m glad I could end your weekend on a high note after the woeful introduction to Formula 1 from Haas.”

You groan good-naturedly. “Ugh yes, I think Kevin was grateful when I finally made myself scarce from that garage of doom.”

Oscar chuckles before his expression turns wistful. “I suppose this means you’ll be heading back to Denmark now though?”

You shake your head, curls spilling over your shoulders. “Oh no, we’re spending a few more weeks visiting my mother’s family in Tasmania first.”

At Oscar’s look of surprise, you elaborate, “My mother is originally Australian. Her family is from Tasmania.”

Understanding dawns on Oscar’s face. “Well how about that! Danish royalty certainly seems to have a taste for us Aussies.” He winks playfully.

Heat blooms in your cheeks but you rally to return his banter. “I suppose we do. Though from what I hear, McLaren seemed rather keen on Danes once upon a time as well.”

A rather in-depth Google search earlier that day taught you that Kevin Magnussen once raced for the papaya team. You rather wish he never left, if only so you did not have to suffer through the tedium of being in the Haas garage for the past two days.

Oscar barks out a laugh, eyes dancing with mirth. “Too right, you’ve got me there.” His laughter fades to a soft smile. “But I can’t say I blame my predecessors in the slightest.”

The tender look in his eyes makes your breath catch. Before you lose your nerve, you hurriedly dig out your phone.

“I should give you my number. So we can keep in touch.”

Oscar’s face lights up as he scrambles for his own phone. You quickly swap devices, inputting your contact info and trying not to notice how his name looks lighting up your screen.

Once you’ve traded phones again, an awkward silence descends. You clutch your phone tightly, unsure how to say goodbye when this thing between you feels so new and delicate.

Oscar clears his throat, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. “Well, I suppose I should let you get on your way ...”

“Right, yes ...” You trail off, searching for the right words. Because as silly as it sounds, the thought of not seeing Oscar’s smile for who knows how long makes your chest unexpectedly tight.

Acting on impulse, you step forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders in a hug. Oscar’s arms immediately curl around your back, clutching you close.

You breathe him in, imprinting this moment in your memory. The noise of the paddock fades away until it’s just this — the two of you suspended in time.

Far too soon, Oscar pulls back reluctantly. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“Travel safely, Princess. I’ll see you soon.” His voice holds a promise.

You nod, not trusting your voice. With a final squeeze of his hand, you turn and walk steadily towards the exit. Your bodyguards fall in step behind you.

You don’t look back, though you can feel Oscar’s gaze on you until you disappear from view. As your car pulls away, you finally chance a glance backwards, just in time to see Oscar still watching wistfully after you.

Your breath escapes in a shaky exhale and you clutch your phone like a lifeline. Everywhere else suddenly feels much too far away.

***

You collapse back onto your bed, phone already pressed to your ear before the first ring even finishes. Oscar picks up on the second, voice warm and teasing as always.

“Eager today, are we Princess?”

You roll your eyes even as your lips quirk up. “Oh hush, you know you wait just as anxiously for my calls.”

Oscar’s answering chuckle makes your heart skip a beat. “Guilty. I’ll gladly admit your voice is the highlight of my day.”

Warmth floods your cheeks as you get comfortable against the pillows. “Flatterer. Now distract me from the drudgery of royal life with some F1 gossip. How go things in the glamorous world of racing?”

“Oh where to even start!” Oscar launches eagerly into the latest paddock drama — teammate clashes, contract disputes, and salacious hookups. You listen eagerly, living vicariously through his tales.

“Meanwhile Lando has been his usual chaos gremlin self ...” Oscar continues, recounting his teammate’s latest antics.

You laugh until your sides ache, picturing the outrageous scenes. “Honestly, I don’t know how McLaren copes with you two!”

“We keep things lively, that’s for sure,” Oscar agrees, audibly grinning. “Although we’d love an even livelier paddock with a certain Danish princess around again ...”

He leaves the statement hanging tentatively. You chew your lip, heart racing as you gather your courage.

“Funny you should mention that … I’ve been thinking lately that it would be nice to attend a race again soon.”

Oscar’s sharp inhale crackles through the phone. “Really? You’d come to another race?” His voice turns playful. “Any particular reason for the sudden interest?”

You laugh, hoping he can’t hear the breathlessness in it. “Oh you know, miss the atmosphere, the excitement ...” You pause before adding softly, “Getting to see a certain Aussie driver again.”

Oscar makes a pleased little noise that sends butterflies swirling wildly. “Well I’m sure that driver would be absolutely thrilled to see your face in the paddock again.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, emboldening you further. “As it happens, my godmother is the Queen of Belgium. So it should be easy enough to arrange an appearance at the Belgian Grand Prix.”

“That’s perfect!” Oscar enthuses. “Spa is one of my favorite circuits too. Say you’ll be there?”

His boyish eagerness melts your heart. “I’ll speak to our communications secretary this week. I’m sure they can make it happen.”

“Brilliant.” The tender hope in Oscar’s voice finds its mirror in your own thudding heart. A new chapter is beginning.

You chat longer about lighter topics until Oscar reluctantly says he should get some rest before practice tomorrow.

“I suppose I should let you go then ...” He trails off reluctantly, neither wanting to be the one to end the call.

You clutch the phone tighter, casting wildly for an excuse to keep him on the line. “Wait, you haven’t told me what ridiculous outfit Lando is wearing today!”

Oscar huffs out a laugh. “Trust me, words don’t do justice to the monstrosity. I’ll send pictures so you can experience it fully.”

“It’s a deal.” You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, but the thought of hanging up is unbearable.

Just then, the bedroom door crashes open and your younger brother Christian strolls in.

“Hey Y/N, Mor wants to know if … is that Oscar you’re talking to?” He raises his eyebrows knowingly.

You frantically shoo him away but Christian swoops in and plucks the phone from your hand. “Sorry mate, gotta steal my sister back. Royal duties call and all that. But great chatting, bye now!”

Before you can wrestle the phone away, Christian ends the call with a cheeky grin.

You smack his shoulder indignantly. “You little brat! I was right in the middle of important diplomatic relations!”

Christian just cackles gleefully. “Oh yeah, I could tell. Your dopey romantic sighing was a big clue.” He laughs harder at your outraged stammers.

“Just you wait until you’re madly pining over someone, I’ll get my revenge,” you threaten.

But inside, not even Christian’s teasing can diminish your euphoria. The promise of seeing Oscar again soon eclipses all else.

***

Your heels click rapidly over the pavement as you sweep through the Spa paddock gates. Bodyguards trail discreetly behind but you barely notice them, eyes scanning the bustling crowd for one face.

And then you see him. Oscar stands just ahead, back turned as he bounces on his toes, head swiveling in search of you.

Joy bubbles up in your chest. You break into a run, calling his name. “Oscar!”

He whips around, eyes lighting up when they land on you. His arms open wide and you launch yourself into them with a breathless laugh.

Strong hands grip your waist, swinging you in an enthusiastic circle before setting you back on your feet. Neither of you make any move to step back, standing tangled together.

“You came,” Oscar murmurs, voice awed like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You lean into him, his warmth chasing away the months spent missing him. “Of course. After all, I made a promise to a certain driver.”

Oscar’s answering smile outshines the sun. Reluctantly, he loosens his hold, keeping one hand entwined with yours.

“Well then, allow me to escort you inside properly.” He presses a quick kiss to your knuckles before leading you towards the paddock entrance.

After scanning your VIP guest pass, courtesy of Oscar, you pass through security hand-in-hand, giddy smiles fixed in place.

The paddock buzzes with activity but you only have eyes for Oscar as he guides you straight to the McLaren garage.

Mechanics glance up curiously as you enter behind Oscar. He squeezes your hand, leaning in close.

“Ready to meet the team, Princess?” At your answering nod, he steers you confidently through the organized chaos.

You run a suddenly nervous hand over your hair as Oscar approaches a genial looking man conversing with a slimmer bearded man.

“Zak, Andrea — there’s someone special I want you both to meet.”

The two men turn, eyebrows raising in polite expectation. Oscar gently tugs you forward.

“This is Crown Princess Y/N of Denmark. Y/N, meet Zak Brown, our CEO, and Andrea Stella, team principal.”

Zak’s eyebrows climb higher but he recovers smoothly, extending a hand. “Your Royal Highness, welcome. We’re honored to host you in our garage.”

You return his firm handshake. “The honor is mine, thank you. Your team has been so welcoming.”

After greeting Andrea as well, Oscar steers you further inside just as a mop of fluffy brown hair zooms by.

“Oscar, mate! There you are, I’ve been ...” The words die on his lips as he spots you, mouth falling open comically. His eyes dart between you and Oscar rapidly.

“Lando, come meet the princess!” Oscar calls out cheekily.

Lando snaps his jaw shut, looking utterly bewildered but offering you a hasty bow. “Your Highness! I mean, lovely to meet you, really.”

Amusement flickers through you at his gobsmacked expression. Oscar shoots you a playful wink over Lando’s shoulder as he scrambles to regain composure.

“But, wait.” Lando glances between you again in confusion. “You mean all those times you cooed ’good morning, Princess’ over the phone … you were talking to an actual princess!”

Oscar bursts out laughing while you press a hand to your mouth to smother your own giggles. Lando flushes but eventually joins in your laughter.

After extracting a promise to explain everything later, Oscar steers you away so they can focus on final prep.

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of during the race before I have to suit up,” he promises, getting you settled with refreshments.

The anticipation builds until finally the cars are screaming away from the grid in a blur of color. Your nails dig into your palms as positions shuffle wildly on the first lap.

But soon Oscar settles into a rhythm, battling wheel to wheel with Lewis Hamilton. You’re on your feet with every overtake, yelling yourself hoarse.

The final laps loom with Oscar still fighting for a podium finish. But suddenly disaster strikes for the leaders. Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc collide attempting to lap a backmarker on the Kemmel Straight.

You watch in disbelief as both the Red Bull and Ferrari limp to a stop off the track, clearing the path for Oscar to sweep through into the lead.

The McLaren garage roars in elation as Oscar maintains the gap and finally, finally crosses the line to claim his maiden Grand Prix win.

Chaos erupts as a stampede of papaya uniforms makes its way towards parc fermé but Oscar’s performance coach Kim grasps your arm urgently. “Quickly, he’ll want you there for this!”

Kim rushes you down towards the area where Oscar guides his car to a stop. He vaults out, pumping both fists and clambering atop the chassis in triumph.

Your breath catches at the sight of his windswept hair and exultant grin. As McLaren swarms Oscar, his gaze catches on you at the barrier, pressed close by Kim.

In two strides Oscar is right there, joy and adrenaline shining in his eyes. His hand cups your cheek … and then his lips find yours.

The roar around you fades away. For one perfect, suspended moment, your world narrows down to Oscar’s lips slanted over yours, his fingers tangled in your hair.

When you break apart, eyes flying open, the full reality crashes back in. But with Oscar’s breathless laugh warming your skin, the rest of the world no longer matters.

***

You pace the plush hotel carpet, nerves jangling as you await the imminent video call with your family. Since Oscar’s podium kiss yesterday, you’ve been hyper aware of your phone blowing up with notifications but too anxious to check them.

A brisk knock precedes your royal secretary poking his head in. “The call is ready whenever you are, Your Highness.”

Squaring your shoulders, you take a seat at the polished desk as the large monitor springs to life. Your family’s faces fill the screen, ranging from sympathetic (Isabella) to highly amused (Christian).

Before you can get a word in, the royal PR advisors elbow into view, expressions like thunderclouds.

“Your Royal Highness, might we have a word about this … incident from the race?” The chief advisor’s tone drips disapproval.

Ice trickles down your spine but you keep your face neutral. “Of course.”

“I trust you’ve seen the coverage?” At your hesitant nod, the advisor continues, “Then you understand what an embarrassment this is, how damaging to the dignity of the crown.”

You clench your jaw, anger rising. But he barrels on, “Such scandalous behavior, and broadcast globally! You must see how this recklessness reflects poorly on Denmark.”

The rest of the advisors murmur emphatic agreement. Your cheeks burn in humiliation even as you desperately blink back furious tears.

“The narrative has already spiraled out of control. Such associations cannot be tolerated from the future queen.”

The scorn in his tone ignites your temper. But before you can spit out a scathing retort, a commanding voice interrupts.

“Enough!” Your father’s stern face fills the screen, pinning the advisors with an icy glare. They recoil, mouths snapping shut.

Satisfied, your father turns to you, expression softening. “My dear, you’ve done nothing wrong. What matters most is that you’re happy.”

Hope flickers tentatively inside you as the advisors gape. But your father silences them with another quelling look.

“I know a thing or two about duty versus matters of the heart.” His eyes soften, finding your mother. “I’ll not see my daughter denied the same chance at love that brought me such joy.”

Your mother smiles gently, affection shining through the screen. On her other side, Isabella squeezes her shoulder in solidarity.

The fight drains from the advisors under your father’s resolute gaze. With a few grumbled concessions, they disconnect from the call.

Your muscles uncoil in relief as your attention returns fully to your family. Isabella waggles her eyebrows.

“Soooo … looks like someone had an eventful race!”

Heat floods your cheeks but you can’t suppress a giddy smile. “It just sort of happened in the heat of the moment.”

“This Oscar must be something special,” your mother remarks kindly.

Your insides turn to mush at the memory of Oscar’s kiss. “He really is. I can’t explain it, but it feels … right with him.”

Your normally stoic mother looks touched. “Then he has my blessing.”

On her other side, Christian smirks. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re in looooove.” He exaggerates a swoon, cackling when you stick your tongue out at him.

“Hush dear, let your sister be happy,” your mother chides, swatting his shoulder before smiling indulgently. “Reminds me of another young prince long ago, besotted with an Australian girl ...”

Your father laughs, eyes crinkling. “Too right, darling. Clearly our Y/N takes after me.” He winks at you. “We Danes do seem to have a weakness for Aussies.”

You groan good-naturedly at the gentle teasing, buoyed by your family’s support. With their love behind you, the rest no longer matters.

You conclude the call with hugs blown through the screen and a heart full to bursting. No matter what the coming days hold, you won’t be facing them alone.

Later, a hesitant knock interrupts your contented musings. You open the door to find Oscar, eyebrows pinched anxiously.

But at the sight of your radiant smile, the tension melts from his frame. His hands settle comfortably on your waist like coming home.

“So ...” he begins, nose scrunching up adorably, “Think your family will let you keep me around?”

You answer by pulling him down into a long, sweet kiss. When you finally separate, foreheads pressed together, Oscar sighs out, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Your answering laugh fills the space between you as he lifts you effortlessly into a spinning embrace. The setting sun gilds the hotel room in amber, basking you both in warmth and promise.

Let the world say what they will. You’ve made your choice, the only one your heart would allow. And with Oscar’s arms encircling you now, you know you’re right where you belong.

***

“Come on, it’ll be great! When’s the next chance you’ll get to come down under?”

Oscar’s pleading face fills your laptop screen, bottom lip poking out beseechingly. You try to stand firm, but your resolve is crumbling.

“I don’t know … won’t I be imposing on your family time?”

Oscar waves a hand breezily. “Nah, Mum and Dad have been hassling me nonstop to bring you for a visit. Trust me, they’ll smother you with Aussie hospitality.”

You chew your lip thoughtfully. A trip together does sound tempting. And you’re endlessly curious to see where Oscar grew up.

Sensing your wavering, Oscar presses his advantage. “There’s so much I want to show you! The beach I learned to surf at, my favorite cafes and shops ...”

His voice turns coaxing. “And just think, falling asleep under the southern stars ...”

Your heart flutters traitorously. Oscar knows your weakness for astronomy. With a defeated huff, you nod.

“Oh alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll see if I can clear my schedule for next month.”

Oscar whoops, pumping a victorious fist. “Yes! You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

The rest of the call passes in eager planning until Oscar reluctantly disconnects to start his day. As the screen goes dark, butterflies swell in your stomach. A whole trip together!

The weeks crawl by agonizingly until finally you’re boarding the royal jet bound for Melbourne, giddiness rising with each mile.

Oscar is waiting when you deplane, sweeping you up joyfully the second your feet hit the tarmac. You cling to him, breathing in the scent of home you’ve missed so much.

As the hug extends well past proper etiquette, your bodyguard Henrik pointedly clears his throat. You spring apart, blushing when you meet his knowing gaze.

Oscar just grins unrepentantly, grabbing your hand to lead you towards where his parents are waiting.

You spot them immediately — Oscar’s smile mirrored on his mother’s face and his kind eyes reflected in his father’s crinkled gaze. They hurry over, clasping your hands warmly.

“Your Royal Highness, we’re so honored to finally meet you!” His mother gushes. “Oscar’s told us so much, I feel as if we know you already.”

You smile, charmed by her easy manner. “The honor is mine, Mrs. Piastri. Please, call me Y/N.”

She pats your hand merrily. “Of course, dear! And you must call me Nicole. Now come, let’s get you home and settled.”

The ride to Oscar’s childhood home passes quickly, filled with lively conversation. His parents’ sweet banter reminds you so much of your own.

When you arrive, Nicole loops her arm through yours, bustling you inside. “We’ve freshened up Oscar’s old room for you, I do hope it’s comfortable.”

You take in the posters of racing legends and cricketers adorning the walls, the cluttered bookshelves full of well-loved texts. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Excellent!” Nicole claps her hands. “Now, you two get settled. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

She disappears down the hall with a parting wink that makes Oscar flush beet red. You stifle a laugh and let him tug you further inside.

Dinner passes in a blur of delicious food and easy laughter. Chris’ eyes twinkle knowingly as he refills your wine.

“We’re just delighted to finally meet the girl who’s made our Oscar so happy.”

Oscar covers his face in exaggerated mortification, but his fingers squeeze yours under the table. You lift your joined hands to brush a kiss over his knuckles when his parents aren’t looking.

The peaceful mood continues as Nicole breaks out photo albums. You coo over baby pictures of Oscar, smothering laughter at his gap-toothed grin and wild hair.

Yawns eventually take over and everyone reluctantly shuffles off to bed. In Oscar’s room, you borrow his old karting club shirt to sleep in.

Oscar looks up from turning down the duvet, eyes darkening as he takes you in. “This was a terrible idea, you looking so cute in my clothes.”

You giggle and kiss the tip of his nose before climbing into bed and patting the space next to you. Oscar obliges, pulling you close and nuzzling into your hair.

Outside the window, the infinity of the southern skies beckons. But here in Oscar’s arms, you have everything you need.

Oscar hums contentedly, dropping a kiss to your hair as your eyes drift closed.

“Sweet dreams, my princess,” he whispers. You float off cradled in his warmth, perfectly at peace.

The rest of the trip passes in blissful domesticity — lazy beach days, intimate dinners, long talks under the stars. Meeting Oscar’s family feels like coming to a second home.

On your last night, you creep outside to sit curled against him on the back porch, committing every detail to memory.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whisper into the quiet night.

Oscar presses a lingering kiss below your ear. “It’s only the start for us.”

And basking in his touch, the infinite potential of the future unfolding before you, you know he’s right. This is just the beginning.

***

You smooth your hands over your dress, peering anxiously out the palace window overlooking the winding driveway. Any moment now, the car bringing Oscar should pull through the gates.

It’s his first time visiting the palace and meeting your family officially as your boyfriend. You know they’ll love him, but nerves still flutter in your chest.

The crunch of tires on gravel draws your gaze back outside. You watch Oscar emerge from the car, craning his head back to take in the towering palace facade.

Unable to wait any longer, you gather your skirts and hurry downstairs just as he steps inside the grand entryway.

Oscar turns at the click of your heels, face melting into a smile. In a few quick strides, he sweeps you into his arms, spinning you joyfully.

You cling to him, breathing in the soothing scent of home you’ve missed. When he sets you down, hands come up to frame your face tenderly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“There’s my beautiful girl. I’ve missed you so much, Princess.”

Heart swelling, you lean in to capture his lips in a kiss that conveys weeks of longing. Oscar responds urgently, fingers tangling in your hair to keep you close.

A pointed cough interrupts your reunion. You pull back to see your brother Christian smirking knowingly.

“Well now I see why you were so eager for Oscar’s visit. Should I come back later?”

You stick your tongue out at him even as a blush stains your cheeks. Taking Oscar’s hand, you lead him towards the family wing.

“Come on, everyone’s excited to finally meet you properly.”

Voices carry from the dining room as you approach. Inside, your family looks up, faces alight with warmth and curiosity.

Your father strides forward first, clasping Oscar’s hand firmly. “Oscar, welcome. We’re delighted to have you here.”

Oscar returns the handshake graciously. “The honor is mine, Your Majesty. Thank you for the invitation.”

More greetings follow before your mother guides everyone to the table. Oscar pulls out your chair, pressing a discreet kiss to your temple as you sit. Happiness bubbles up inside at having him here with your family.

Dinner passes enjoyably, conversation flowing. Oscar charms them all effortlessly with his quick wit and humor. Laughter fills the room, the atmosphere light and intimate.

With dessert finished, your siblings seize their chance to grill Oscar playfully.

“Sooo tell us,” Isabella begins, propping her chin on her hands. “What exactly are your intentions with our dear sister?”

Oscar just grins, unfazed. “Why, to make her happy every single day, of course.”

You melt at his simple sincerity, grasping his hand under the table.

“Good answer!” Christian crows. “But know if you ever hurt her, you’ll have the entire Danish army to answer to.”

Despite his teasing tone, you know Christian means every word. Oscar inclines his head solemnly.

“You have my word such a day will never come. Her happiness means everything to me.”

Your siblings appear satisfied, moving on to pepper Oscar with questions about his career and interests. He takes their antics in stride, witty comebacks drawing fond laughter from your parents.

The relaxed family atmosphere reminds you so much of that first dinner at Oscar’s childhood home. Your heart swells with quiet joy at how seamlessly he fits here too.

Eventually Oscar politely extracts you both, citing early flights in the morning. Alone in the hall, he sags against the wall in exaggerated relief.

“Whew, your family is something else! I think that interrogation was more intense than any press conference.”

You laugh and swat his shoulder before lifting on your toes to kiss him sweetly. “You were wonderful. I’m so happy you’re here.”

Oscar’s eyes soften. “Me too, Princess. Being here with you feels like home.”

Heedless of any lingering eyes, you kiss him again under the twinkling chandelier.

A loud retching sound interrupts you. “Ugh, get a room you two!” Christian complains, dodging your swat.

Oscar just tugs you closer with a chuckle. “Don’t worry mate, I plan to.”

He silences Christian’s protests with another searing kiss. And surrounded by Oscar’s warmth, you can’t bring yourself to care who sees.

***

Moonlight filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow. You lay curled against Oscar’s chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over his heart.

The steady rhythm soothes you, but your own heart feels anything but calm. There’s something you need to discuss, but nerves stall your tongue.

Sensing your tension, Oscar’s hand comes up to sift gently through your hair. “Penny for your thoughts, love?”

You lean into his touch, gathering courage. “I was just thinking about the future. Our future.” You twist to meet his gaze. “I know it’s still early days for us, but if this continues to get more serious ...”

You trail off uncertainly, but Oscar’s eyes are warm with encouragement. Bolstered, you continue.

“There are certain expectations that come with being attached to the heir to the throne. Traditions and duties to learn.”

You watch Oscar’s face closely, but he simply nods thoughtfully. “Of course, that makes sense. I’m happy to learn whatever I need to.”

Relief trickles through you. You prop yourself up on one elbow, smiling softly down at him.

“For example, even before my mother was engaged to my father, she decided to learn Danish. The protocol and duties, the public role … it was a massive life change.”

You take a bracing breath. “I don’t expect you to make such changes overnight. But someday, if this continues on the path we hope ...”

You trail off meaningfully. Oscar’s hand comes up to cradle your face. “Hey, if being with you means learning Danish, or attending stuffy banquets, or anything else, I’m in this 100%.”

His eyes bore into yours. “I’ll do whatever it takes to build a life together.”

Emotion clogs your throat. You have to swallow thickly before responding. “Well, maybe we start small then. How about I teach you a few phrases?”

Oscar grins, pulling you back down against him. “Ja, det lyder perfekt.”

You jerk back in surprise, swatting his chest. “You brat, have you been practicing without telling me?”

Oscar’s eyes dance with laughter. “Maybe just a few key phrases. Wanted to surprise you.”

His smile turns tender. “I’d love nothing more than for you to teach me, sweetheart.”

Happiness bubbles up inside you. You snuggle closer, thinking. “Alright, let’s start simple. Like hej simply means hello.”

Oscar repeats the phrase dutifully, brow furrowing in concentration. You cover his hand with yours.

“Jeg elsker dig,” you murmur, gazing into his eyes.

“Jeg elsker dig,” Oscar echoes. “What does it mean?”

Sudden shyness has you ducking your head. “It means I love you.”

Oscar’s sharp inhale lifts your head. He grasps both of your hands, staring deeply into your eyes.

“Jeg elsker dig,” he repeats reverently.

Emotion clogs your throat. You lean in, whispering against his lips, “Jeg elsker dig, Oscar.”

The kiss starts soft and unhurried, a confirmation of feelings conveyed best without words. Oscar’s arms wrap securely around you as the kiss deepens, pouring every ounce of love and promise into it.

When you eventually break apart, Oscar keeps you cradled close, dropping kisses into your hair. “What else can you teach me?”

Happiness bubbles up at his tentative Danish endearment. You settle back against him, whispering translations as his steady heartbeat lulls you towards sleep.

But too soon, Oscar is reluctantly packing to leave, both clinging to these last private hours before he has to set off for the next race.

You wind yourself around him, unwilling to let go. Oscar holds you close, murmuring promises of next visits and calls into your hair.

As you finally part at the airport, his whispered “jeg elsker dig” warms you from the inside out. No matter the miles between you, your hearts remain entwined.

***

You adjust the diamond clips in your elegantly twisted updo, scanning your reflection critically. The deep blue gown hugs your frame perfectly, but nerves still flutter in your stomach.

Because tonight, Oscar will be attending his first official function as your partner — a lavish gala in honor of the new children’s hospital bearing your mother’s name.

A knock precedes Oscar peeking his head in, hands clapped over his eyes. “Safe to look?”

You smooth your skirt with a shaky exhale. “Yes, come in.”

Oscar drops his hands, mouth falling open. “Wow. You look absolutely stunning tonight, my love.”

He takes your hands, eyes roving appreciatively over you. “Going to have to beat all the envious blokes away with a stick.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “Oh hush. You look rather dashing yourself, Mr. Piastri.”

And he does in his impeccably tailored tuxedo, hair swept back neatly. You brush a piece of imaginary lint from his lapel, nerves melting away under his warm gaze.

“Shall we?” He offers his arm gallantly. You lay your hand atop it, spine straightening.

“We shall.”

The ballroom glitters under fairy lights as you make your entrance, immediately garnering interested looks and murmurs. On your arm, Oscar draws admiring glances of his own with his rakish good looks and easy confidence.

You greet various dignitaries and philanthropists, Oscar a steady, charming presence at your side. As you speak with the hospital’s key figures, his hand at the small of your back anchors you.

But as the speeches drag on, Oscar leans in subtly. “Is it terrible I’m already bored senseless? I’d rather actually meet these kids we’re meant to be helping.”

You hide a smile behind your wine glass. The same restlessness plagues you as schmoozing patrons preen and prattle.

As dessert wraps up, an idea strikes you. You catch Oscar’s eye, tilting your head meaningfully at a side exit before excusing yourself discretely.

Understanding dawns on his face and he trails casually after you. In the entry hall, you hurry to a secluded alcove, grabbing his hand.

“Quick, while we won’t be missed. Let’s actually go see the children.”

Excitement flashes across Oscar’s face. “Brilliant thinking. Lead the way, Princess.”

Adrenaline courses through you as you sneak out to the waiting car, bodyguards eyeing you curiously.

“Rigshospitalet, please. Quickly.”

At the children’s hospital, you sweep inside, Oscar at your heels. The receptionist gapes as you approach.

“So sorry to drop by unannounced. We were hoping there might be a chance for us to visit with some of the patients?”

The receptionist’s mouth opens and closes before she stutters, “O-of course, Your Highness, right away!” Clearly your boldness has paid off.

You exchange exhilarated looks with Oscar as she pages a nurse to escort you up. On the cheery pediatric ward, you peek into rooms, greeting curious families.

At one doorway, a gasp stops you short. A little girl sits up in bed, pointing.

“Mama, it’s the princess! And her boyfriend!”

You glance at Oscar to find him rubbing his neck bashfully. Clearly his fame extends beyond the F1 sphere here.

You laugh and enter slowly. “We were hoping we might visit you, if that’s alright?”

The girl — Else — nods eagerly, blond braids bouncing. Her mother rises to curtsy but you wave her off kindly as Oscar produces a small plush racecar from his pocket, to Else’s delight.

As you chat and play with Else, joy lights up her face. For a short time, she’s just a normal girl again. Your chest aches at her bright spirit despite her poor health.

All too soon, a nurse taps her watch. As you make your goodbyes, Else throws her thin arms around your waist.

“Thank you! This was like a fairytale.” Over her head, her mother mouths a tearful thank you of her own.

You hug Else gently before kneeling down. “It was our honor. You stay strong, little one.”

Her returning whisper warms your heart. “Don’t worry, I will!”

Similar scenes play out in room after room. Your cheeks ache from smiling but it’s a welcome ache. The children’s awed joy makes the real reason for tonight crystal clear.

Watching Oscar kneel patiently as a shy boy shows him a prized toy car, your heart clenches with love. Catching your gaze, Oscar’s eyes mirror the same emotion.

Far too soon, your bodyguards notify you it’s time to return before your absence draws notice. A chorus of disappointed groans follows you out.

Back at the gala, you slip in just in time for closing toasts. No one seems the wiser about your little detour.

Under the table, Oscar squeezes your hand. The contact says it all — this is what truly matters. Not accolades or commendations, but joy brought to hurting hearts.

You know you’ll be back. Both of you. Not for galas or acclaim, but for the chance to see young faces light up, if only for a moment.

Late that night, you slow dance alone in the empty ballroom, music and laughter faded. Oscar’s arms circle you from behind, chin tucking onto your shoulder.

“I think tonight was the most important royal function I’ve ever attended,” he murmurs.

You cover his hands with yours, leaning back into him with a contented sigh. No more words need be said.

The rest of the world may see events like tonight as social currency and networking. But you hold the truth in your heart — the only currency that counts can’t be bought, only given freely through love.

***

Two Years Later

You smooth your hands over your dress, pulse thrumming as you await the imminent news conference. Just hours ago, the palace formally announced your engagement to Oscar, sending the public into a frenzy.

Now, you’re about to face the media together for the first time as an engaged couple. Press stands crowd the palace gardens, cameras poised and ready.

At your side, Oscar seems calm and collected, fingers threaded loosely with yours. But you sense the storm brewing beneath his tranquil surface.

You reach up and gently adjust his suit collar, fingers lingering on the lapels as you meet his eyes. He gives you a small, grateful smile before you both turn to face the expectant crowd.

Because today also brings another announcement — one that will upend Oscar’s world irreversibly.

Your father steps forward first to formally confirm the engagement and expound on Oscar’s character. As he returns to your side, Oscar squeezes your hand and you nod in encouragement.

Oscar clears his throat, stepping closer to the microphones. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Y/N and I are over the moon at the chance to spend our lives together.”

He gazes at you softly before continuing. “I’m truly the luckiest man in the world to have won the heart of Denmark’s lovely princess.”

You have to resist the urge to kiss him senseless then and there. Cameras flash brightly as Oscar details your romantic (and heavily abridged) love story, punctuated with charming wit.

But gradually, his mirth fades. With another fortifying hand squeeze, he steels himself for the harder part.

“While I’m elated at this new chapter ahead, it also brings difficult changes. I’m announcing my retirement from Formula 1 following this season’s conclusion.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Oscar’s grip tightens as he pushes forward.

“As a member of the royal family, I will no longer be able to continue racing competitively. I am grateful to have achieved my dream this year of winning the championship.”

His voice falters briefly and your heart clenches. Racing is Oscar’s passion — having to walk away is unimaginably hard.

Oscar visibly gathers himself. “But as difficult as this is, marrying Y/N is worth any sacrifice. She is my true dream now.”

He turns to you then, eyes glistening. “The honor of being your husband eclipses any trophy or medal. You are my greatest victory.”

Emotion clogs your throat and without thinking, you wrap him in a fierce embrace. The rules of propriety fade away, only your pride and love for Oscar remain.

His arms clutch you close as flashes erupt around you. But in this moment, you see only each other.

Eventually you separate and Oscar takes your hand once more, gracing you with a tender smile. He turns back to the microphones for one last address.

“Til Danmark og det danske folk. Jeg lover at tjene jer med ære, respekt og kærlighed.”

The Danish press reacts first, visibly surprised and impressed at Oscar’s speech in their native tongue.

You blink back a fresh wave of tears at his poignant promise — to serve Denmark with honor, respect, and love.

Overcome with emotion, you step forward to the microphones as well.

“Oscar’s love for me and Denmark is clear to all who meet him. I am truly blessed to have found such a selfless, caring partner.”

Your voice wavers with feeling. “Though it grieves me to see his racing career ended prematurely, I could not be more proud of the man he is.”

You reach for Oscar’s hand, gazing at him through tear-filled eyes. “He gives up much out of love for me. I only hope I can bring him a fraction of the joy in return.”

Oscar’s fingers tighten around yours, eyes shining with affection. Cameras flash furiously at your raw display of love and emotion.

But you remain lost in Oscar’s eyes, the rest of the world fading away. In this moment, all that matters is your shared devotion and the bright future stretching before you.

Questions start flying from the excited press corps but Oscar politely extracts you both, ceding the floor to the waiting palace officials.

Alone inside once more, Oscar sags against the wall in clear emotional exhaustion. You wrap him in your arms, heart aching for the pain this transition causes.

Oscar clings to you tightly, face pressed into your hair. “I meant every word,” he whispers fiercely. “You are my whole world now.”

You draw back just far enough to meet his eyes, hoping he can see the depths of your love reflected there.

“I know, min kæreste. We’ll face this new future together.”

The answering kiss speaks what words cannot. No matter what comes, your love remains constant.

A new path lies ahead now, one you will walk hand in hand, till the end of your days.

***

Five Years Later

The roar of engines draws nearer as your car nears the Copenhagen street circuit. In the seat beside you, Oscar bounces his leg restlessly, face alight with anticipation.

In the backseat, your three-year-old daughter, Margrethe (affectionately called Maise for short), mimics her father’s excitement, chattering cheerfully about anything and everything.

You reach over to still Oscar’s jostling knee, smiling indulgently. “Easy there, we’ve barely arrived and you’re already wound up.”

Oscar shoots you a boyish grin. “Can you blame me? It’s been so long since I was last in the paddock. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

Your heart swells with quiet awe once more at the sacrifices Oscar has made for your future together. While racing still runs through his veins, his duties as Crown Prince of Denmark now take precedence.

But today offers a joyous reunion, with Oscar instrumental in bringing Formula 1 racing back to Danish soil for the first time since 1962.

As the car pulls through the paddock entrance, Oscar cranes his neck eagerly, drinking in the familiar organized chaos. Before the door even opens, you hear a familiar voice shouting.

“He lives! The prodigal prince returns!” A blur of McLaren papaya hurtles towards Oscar as he steps out.

Oscar just manages to brace himself before Lando Norris tackles him in an exuberant hug. Laughter bubbles out of Oscar as he returns the embrace.

“Good to see you too, mate. It’s been way too long.”

You round the car to find Oscar’s former team already swarming him, clapping his back and jostling each other good-naturedly to greet their long-lost driver.

Oscar’s eyes shine as he falls back into easy banter, trading inside jokes and reminiscing. With Maise balanced on your hip, you hang back contentedly, letting Oscar have this moment.

As the reunion finally winds down, Lando gestures to you and Maise. “And who do we have here? Don’t tell me this little beauty is your daughter?”

Oscar beams, waving you both over. “She is indeed! Lando, meet my little girl.”

Lando pretends to stagger back in shock. “No way, our little Oscar is all grown up and domesticated now!”

Oscar shoves him playfully before sweeping Maise into his arms. “What can I say, my fast living days are behind me now.” He kisses Maise’s wavy hair, eyes finding yours. “I’ve got all I need right here.”

Your insides turn mushy at the adoration in his voice. The years have only deepened your love further.

More drivers trickle over to greet Oscar, ribbing him good-naturedly about his new royal status. But the obvious affection underlying the teasing is clear.

Zak Brown claps Oscar on the back. “It’s so good to have you back, even just for a day. You and your family should stay, watch the race from the garage!”

For a fleeting moment, naked longing flashes across Oscar’s face at the thought of experiencing race day excitement again up close.

But reality settles back in quickly, his expression turning regretful. “That’s a lovely offer, truly. But I’m afraid we’ll have to make our way to the royal box.”

He bounces Maise gently, tone wry. “Some of us have a job to do handing out trophies later.” Maise giggles and tugs at his ear happily, blissfully unaware of the wistfulness simmering beneath her father’s smile.

You slip your arm through Oscar’s, offering a comforting squeeze. His answering smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

After more fond farewells, you exit the nostalgic bubble of the garage. Oscar pauses, taking a moment to just breathe and gather himself.

You shift Maise to your other hip, wrapping your free arm around his waist. Oscar leans into you gratefully, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Can’t believe it’s been five years already,” he murmurs. “Feels like another lifetime.”

You smile up at him sadly. “I know, my love. But look at everything you’ve accomplished for Denmark in that time. This race wouldn’t even be happening without you.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “Too right. Who needs driving when I’ve got you two anyway?”

He tickles Maise playfully, eliciting delighted giggles. The melancholy edge has left his eyes now, replaced by contentment.

Hand in hand, with Maise toddling happily between you, the three of you set off together towards the royal box. The Danish Grand Prix awaits, along with the bright future you continue building as a family.

This may no longer be Oscar’s world, but he now shapes the path for future generations of drivers. After the race, as Oscar graciously awards the beaming winner while Maise excitedly cheers from the side of the podium, you know this is precisely where he’s meant to be.

4K notes · View notes

fakehousesrealawesome · 1 month ago

Text

Moonreach Hall

40x35 lot (12 Ashwinder Rd in Glendalough)

§104,221 | §97,965

4 bd/4 ba

I'm sharing this mostly unfurnished. Only the kitchen and bathroom fixtures are included.

This lot may use items from any/all EPs. Custom content used:

Brick patterns by Peacemaker

Wood patterns by Simlicious (pic #3, 2nd row, patterns 5 and 6)

CAStable University Life chimney by demonwolf, and chimney cap piece by armiel

Roof by Hatshepsut

Barn walls by armiel

Windough add-on windows by Mutske (1x1, single 2x1, 2x1, tall 1x1, small short 2x1, double short 3x1, private 1x1)

Enchanted ivy by Murano

Wall by Gelydh (textured paint 2)

I also used Dr. Prosper's Glowing Orb from the Store. I have it installed as a package, and I believe you have to have it installed the same way for it to show up in your game.

DOWNLOAD HERE

My rambling is below the cut...

When I opened my TS3 game for the first time in years, I started a new game. It didn't hold my interest though, and I hopped around a few different worlds and many new Sims. Eventually I dug through my old save games and found my one in Eltham's Drift. That particular save game really needed to be purged, but I used Porter to preserve the direct family tree line of my ten-generation legacy family and moved them to Glendalough. Eltham's Drift is my all-time favorite world, so I figured I would love another one by the same creator (neuroticrobotic).

I've been adding the lots and rabbitholes from EPs after the world's release, including the elixir shop, arboretum, and an observatory rabbithole rug for the decorative observatory already in the world. I'm finding room for my favorite old builds from Eltham's Drift—like Fiddleford House, where my legacy family is still living—and will be replacing/renovating other houses as I play. I'd like to build proper shells for the rabbitholes at some point, but community lots aren't my strength. I also made some new households to populate the town, and I'm keeping a spooky, supernatural theme—again, like Eltham's Drift. All that is to say that I'm very, very excited to play this game again.

Moonreach Hall is for my legacy family heir who's moving out of Fiddleford House. The interior will have a lot more CC and Store content before I'm done with it, so I decided to share this one unfurnished. Hope you enjoy.

#sims 3 #ts3 #s3cc #ts3cc #sims 3 house

342 notes · View notes

hannibals-favourite-meal · 7 months ago

Text

.⋆｡Deforestation｡⋆.

John Price x plus size reader

Price being mad you shaved your pussy. That’s it

Warnings: smut, Dom!Price, possessive!Price, fluff, established relationship, pussy spanking WC: 840

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

You stepped out of the master bathroom feeling like a brand new woman, empty wine glass in your hand and your body practically glistening with the amount of expensive moisturiser you used. This is what you needed, a boiling hot everything shower to wash off the stress of the week. From your shitty manager laying off yet another one of your coworkers and giving you their workload to learning that your fiance was about to be deployed again for the second time in three months, you needed a proper refresh.

The bedroom was significantly cooler than the sauna you turned the bathroom into. Goosebumps bloomed across your exfoliated skin as you eased yourself into the plush chair in front of the vanity John had built for you. The dark green satin robe slipped from your shoulder but you ignored it, your gaze instead on the line of oils just below the mirror.

A pair of warm if not slightly chapped lips descended upon your bare shoulder, he wasn’t quite kissing you, just pressing as much of himself around you as he could. You hummed and leaned your head against his temple, breathing in the smell of tobacco and cheap cologne and something so wholly John that clung to him.

“Good shower?” He muttered, his large calloused hands coming around to rest on your plush stomach, the tips of his fingers barely brushing against the sliver of bare skin revealed by your robe.

“Mmm very good. I needed it so badly.” Your nose trailed along the edge of his hairline, your eyes fluttering shut as his hands began to wander downwards. John released a low sound from deep in his chest as you spread your thighs and granted him exactly what he had come to the bedroom for. He knew just how pliable you got after your showers, barely needing any prep for his thick cock with how relaxed and soft you were.

You held onto his forearms as he finally reached down and… froze.

“Everything ok there, cap?” You teased. John grunted in reply and cupped your pussy in his massive hand, the heel of his palm digging against your clit as he probed around.

“You shaved.”

“I did.” You confirmed, wiggling forward in the seat so he could feel even more of you. “Decided I wanted to clean up a bit.”

You received an almost feral snarl in reply. “I thought I told you this was mine.”

——————

The headboard slammed into the wall with such force that the drywall had begun to crack and flake away but the special forces captain refused to stop, not when he was so close to proving his point.

You wailed and squirmed beneath him, your nails digging into his strong back as he continued to pound into you viciously. “Please!” You cried, your voice broken and hoarse. Your stomach twisted with pleasure and you tightened around him. John glared down at you.

“No.” Immediately, he changed his pace, ripping your orgasm away from you. You sobbed in frustration but John was unforgiving. “She is mine, I know what’s best for her, not you. I know when she needs to cum because obviously you can’t be trusted taking care of her anymore.”

Your body bounced with each thrust, your words only coming out in short bursts. “It’s. My. Pussy.” You ended with a bitten off moan as John slammed into your g-spot, the fat head of his cock making your vision blur.

“She’s fucking mine.” John angrily pressed down on your lower stomach. “I trained her to take me. I know exactly what she needs to feel good. She loves me, she knows I take good care of her.” You grumbled as he once again shifted, lifting your hips from the bed so your shoulders pressed into the mattress.

Your thighs shook violently, the breath being knocked from your lungs by a precise strike to your cervix. John reached forward, his palm meeting your bare cunt with a loud smack. You cried out and he did it again, his lips pulled downwards in what his boys dubbed the ‘Captain Face’. He clicked his tongue and delivered one last slap to your over sensitive pussy.

“Look at her, she’s so cold now. Guess I’ll just have to warm her up.” His thumb flew to your throbbing clit, finally letting you cum around him. Your back arched further up as your jaw dropped open. He huffed out a breathless laugh at the way your body locked up so tightly, he could barely pull out. “That’s it. See, knew exactly what she needed.”

As soon as your muscles relaxed, John readjusted his hips and slammed back into you, his pace immediately picking up again. Your stomach burned with the stretch of his cock and the sensitivity of your first and long overdue orgasm. “John!” You tried to protest but the man only lifted your legs higher onto his waist with a victorious grin.

“Like I said, I have to keep her warm until her coat comes back.”

Modern Warfare Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3sloth @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @mooniequeen @slutfor-fictionalmen @km-ffluv @black-rose-29 @Minedofmoria @relatednative @starboygf

Call of Duty/Modern Warfare

@joyfulfxckery @looking1016

John ‘Bravo-6’ Price

@un-aesthetic @Voice_Activated @starlighta @midnight-shadow-cafe

#john price x plus size reader #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #john price x female reader #john price x f!reader #price x plus size reader #price x reader #price x you #plus size reader #female reader #reader insert #fluff #smut #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you

1K notes · View notes

leyavo · 3 months ago

Text

| I am my father’s daughter | 5 |

💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader

PART FIVE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over a year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2,908words

[18+] MDNI | TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

Previous parts > [Series Masterlist]

🔈Reader’s view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

The whirring heater on John's desk blew a cloud of dust in his face as he flicked it on. He didn't know when it had last been used, the halogen bulb glowing orange, blinding him. The small cubicle office they'd assigned him looked like it hadn't been touched in over a decade. Thankfully it had been dusted, a little musty, nothing a cracked window couldn't solve.

The autumn weather dropped considerably the past week and John still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that you didn't have a proper coat. His fleece lined and cord jacket weighing you down, but you wore it with no complaints. He tried to search your bag, but you interrupted him before he could figure out what size in clothes you were. Every one needed a thick coat for the autumn, winter. A staple in the wardrobe, something to pull out every year.

Now that he thought about it, you didn't complain about much. Definitely nothing like your mother, she enjoyed picking fights with him over anything and everything. Not that he'd compare you much, you're your own person. You’re an adult now and he’s starting to feel like he isn't needed, but that’s when parents are needed most, right?

Doesn’t matter how old you are, he wants to help.

A knock sounded on the other side of the door, the person however didn't wait for a response to enter. Kyle walked in, dropping to the seat opposite the captain. He winced, shifting in the hard plastic chair trying to get comfy.

"Little early for our meeting later," John grumbled, gaze flitting to the clock on his computer screen. He picked up the chipped mug and sipped the warm coffee.

"Well, Toff passed Si on her way in and gave him a bag of interview clothes. He's been roped into being a fashion advisor," Kyle chuckled, finger prodding Price's name plate back into the centre of the desk.

John eyed the clock again, two hours till your interview and five till the meeting with Laswell. “And you left him?” John’s brow raised, smile tugging his lips.

That John had to see, he logged out of the computer and rose from his seat, tugging the fleece draped over the armrest. He’d woke a few hours earlier to clear some of his work and have the hour to take you to your interview. You were going to take the bus, which took a lot of convincing for you to give in and let him drive you. There was no way he'd leave you waiting around.

“Maybe you should ask him for some pointers too,” Kyle said, dodging the stress ball flying at his head. "Still at the res' house before Laswell's?" He called over his shoulder, chair tipping onto its back legs as he tried to catch John's gaze.

"Yep, don't be late," John snapped, pushing the back of Kyle's head and setting the chair back on the floor with him. "You boys got everything."

"All set Cap."

Nodding, John shrugged on his fleece and readjusted the knitted fisherman's hat under his hood. The rain lashing against the windows didn't deter him as he pushed the emergency doors open. A group of sergeants acknowledged him, but he didn't stop to chat like he usually would. He flashed his military pass at the gate, squeezing through the gap instead of waiting for it to slide open and allow him entry.

The cluster of houses all the same, red brick exterior and dark wood doors. Thick blocked pavement slippery under his boots, he rushed down the pathway and unlocked the front door. Your voice echoed through to the porch, soft and light as you asked questions.

John inched round the corner, hanging back to take in the moment. You were holding up two belts in your hands and asking Simon which one would be better. Simon's head tilted up at the ceiling, his arm hung off the back of the sofa. You might as well have been talking to the void. He was surprised Simon was still there.

"Never mind, the black is the probably the safest. You're not very good at this," you muttered to yourself, too focused on pulling the belt through the loops of your suit trousers. "I should tuck my shirt in, right?" You glanced to Simon, shaking your head as you realised he wouldn't give you any input.

"Tucked in, Kiddo," John said, sitting on the edge of the arm of the sofa. The bag of clothes that Toff had given you were more than enough, four different suit bags filled with matching pieces. You'd chosen the simplest one, navy straight leg trousers and a crisp blue shirt. A blue pin striped blazer slung on the coffee table. He'd have to thank Toff later.

Simon muttered a thank fuck under his breath, his gaze sliding to John's. He stood from the sofa, walking to the kitchen and flicking the kettle on.

John turned back to you. You buttoned up the blazer, only to undo it and throw a satchel over your shoulder. Something Toff said you could keep, the worn leather had seen her through university and she hoped it'd hold out for you too.

"Ready," you said, standing in front him. You glanced at the watch on your wrist, "takes like, twelve minutes to drive there."

The loafers on your feet are shiny, Prada badge telling him that those too were borrowed from Toff. Maybe he'd be able to take you shopping for a few bits, if and when you got the job. Or just give you his credit card and you order it all.

"Thanks Simon," you said as you passed him on the way out, he raised his cup of tea to you and retreated to his bedroom.

John couldn't get over how grown up you looked, he kept glancing at you and you raised a brow at him, as if you thought he was judging your attire. "Come on, let's get a move on," he said, unlocking the trucks door and opening it for you.

You shifted in your seat, smoothing out the creases in your trousers and pulled the seatbelt, clipping it at your side. The satchel on your shoulder rested on your lap, fingers playing with the buckles on the front.

The truck started on the third turn of the key, the colder weather making the engine stutter, but it always started. Your grip on your bag loosened and your eyes flitted to each road sign and street John drove by.

The passenger window rolled down, glass panel screeching as you turned your face towards the rush of wind entering the truck. Your leg bounced up and down, lips moving silently as if you’re practicing a script for the interview.

“You’ll be alright kiddo. A firm handshake and clear speech, all you need.”

Exhaling, you draped your arm out of the open window. "Can we not," You mumbled, hand pushing against the cool breeze. "I don't wanna talk."

He didn't take it to heart, you were always a quiet kid. John would have to sit in silence till you were ready to speak. A little hand holding onto his pointer finger, head leant against his arm as if you didn't want him to leave again. Each time he came back from an op, it was like you knew he needed grounding and the weight of your touch reminded him that he was a father. Sometimes you'd sit beside the couch by his boots and watch tv with him until you warmed up to him again and climbed into his lap.

Never allowed in their bed because of his nightmares, no you self soothed probably as you never knocked on your parents door. The only time you sobbed into his chest was when he had to return to work, his sleeve twisted in your grasp as he tried to climb into his truck. He tried not look in the mirror as he drove away, didn't want to see you still watching him disappear for who knows how long.

Your mother used to make him stay at the base till his wounds had healed, blaming him for scaring you the one time he came home battered and bruised. John hadn't shown up like that ever since, afraid to cause you any harm.

In some ways he can still see that little girl. Hesitant to reach out, as if you're trying to figure out the kind of man he is now. John doesn't blame you for it, not after he picked you up that night. Not after he found out the type of guy you'd been living with. The thought alone is enough to anger him, but he shoves it down. That's the last thing you need, rage and violence.

John parked in the nearest space, cutting the engine and flinging his seatbelt off. "Good luck, Kiddo."

Forty, fucking minutes you were in the building. You jabbed the down button and waited for the lift. The thumping in your head chipped away, eyes squinting as the metal doors opened and your vision flooded with the harsh florescent lights of the lift. You'd spent the last fifteen minutes staring at a computer screen and filling out test spreadsheets and doing bloody maths.

The lady that interviewed you looked like military. Her hair scraped back so tight it gave her facelift, the pant suit she wore tailored to the curves of her body and clung to the defined muscles of her biceps and calves. You found yourself calling her Ma'am, sitting up straight in your seat and looking her in the eye.

You stared out at the carpark, hoping that you'd be using it soon. The wound on your back burnt, your hand patting the area as you tried to stop the itching sensation rubbing against the scab. You shrugged off the pin stripe blazer and draped it over your arm, the cool cotton shirt light against your shoulder blades. The less weight on you the better.

The mirror beside you highlighted every flaw, the yellow lighting drew out the scar above your brow. Deep rims under your eyes as if they'd been carved there and would never go away. You pressed your finger to the spot, nose scrunching up at your reflection. You tried not to look too long, never were one to look in the mirror.

Another reminder of everything. Another mark to remind you.

Stepping out of the lift you're met with the same receptionist, her head nodding and smile pulling her lips. You handed over your guest I.D and signed your name out, waiting for the security guard to buzz you out.

The cold hits you, but you don't bother slipping on your blazer. The drop of temperature soothing your aching body. You preferred the cold, always easier to make yourself warmer. Walking around the side of the building, you had to do a double take. Your dad's brown truck still parked at the side of the road.

You slowly walked to the truck, the captain too engrossed in the newspaper spread across the steering wheel. A take away coffee cup in one hand and a croissant in the other. As you crept closer you could see the flakey crumbs in his moustache, the sports radio a dull hum of presenters talking about some football league. His window rolled half down, he probably smoked whilst he was waiting for you.

"You're still here," You blurted out, "I mean don't you have work or something to do?"

The Captain didn't even flinch, he folded the newspaper and stuffed the half eaten croissant back into the paper bag, dropping it into the centre console. He leant over to unlock the passenger door, pushing it open as you rounded the truck.

"Don't you worry about that, Kiddo," he said, waving his hand in the air and sipping his coffee quickly before placing it back in the cupholder. "Coffee and a pastry there for ya." He dabbed his face with the scratchy tissue, crumbs falling into the newspaper which he tucked into the side of the door.

The interior reeked of tobacco, another pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. As if that would make a difference when the Captain smoked like a chimney. There's still an underlying smell of old spice, the same old aftershave that you used to mix in the sink when he was still living with you and your mum.

"Uh, thanks." You're still getting used to the small stuff, the little things your dad gives you without you even asking. You pick up the paper cup and lift the lid, a sweet aroma escaping with it.

The car stuttered to a start, indicator ticking away. The Captain glanced to you, "caramel, you still like that?" He says it like you change your mind weekly, but who are you to turn down a free coffee? Or whatever pastry he's just dumped into your lap.

You don't even know the last time someone had bought you something. It's been ages since you've had the money to buy yourself a coffee let alone be given one.

"Yeah, I still like caramel." Of course you do, he used to bring you caramel chocolates every time he visited when you were a kid, the only reason you liked it so much. It's not till now that you realise it.

The car ride back to base is silent, thankfully the Captain's figured out you aren't one for small talk. Nothing but the football stats blaring through the speakers, the tick of the indicator with each turn. You can't wait to change out of the formal clothes and hide out in your dad's room until the house is empty whilst they're at their meeting.

The Captain swore under his breath as his sacred team's dropped down the league table, finger switching the radio to some classic rock station. You bit your lip trying to muffle the laughter, but his gaze swept to yours, hand squeezing your knee. Another thing he used to do to you as a kid, a yelp leaving your lips. You rubbed the spot, swatting his hand away as he tried to go for another.

You don't wait for the truck to roll to a stop, flinging the door open and slamming it behind you. The Captain calling after you, muffled voice telling you not to slam the bloody door. You're not too bothered though, the safety of the front door in your reach, but it's snatched away as you set foot in the porch.

The guys are all huddled in the kitchen, Simon stirring something in the pot over the cooker. Kyle setting the table and Johnny's leaning against the counter tasting what ever's on the spoon. So much for eating in the canteen.

A hand landed on your shoulder, "Why don't you get changed and we'll have some dinner. The boys made stew," the Captain said, giving you a light push towards his room.

You nod, not quite sure why they're all having dinner so early, but you don't question it. Their laughter and voices echoed down the hallway, Simon asking Johnny to speak English another round of laughter erupting. You shred the suit and chuck on some comfy clothes, slipping back out.

Just like everything else, they move in sync with each other. Like a family would, well that's what you've seen in movies. You sink into the chair beside the Captain, staring at the placemat and cutlery set in front of you. Everything mismatched, the weight of the knife and fork different.

The guys took their seats at the table, Kyle stood over the casserole dish in the middle with a ladle in hand. "Anything you don't like?" Kyle said, ladle paused above your bowl before he adds all of the food to it.

You shook your head, "I'm not fussy." It was food at the end of the day, you weren't going to turn down a warm home cooked meal. Soft beef, carrots, potato and dumplings swimming around the casserole dish. Kyle served up three spoonfuls and placed your bowl in front of you.

Apparently Kyle's the designated person when it comes to dishing up equal proportions, but he gave you extra according to Johnny. Another reason they go to the canteen on base, so they can help themselves to food and not worry about sharing. That and the convenience of going whenever they've got the time.

"So how'd it go?" Johnny asked between bites, he sucked in a breath trying to counter the heat of the food in his mouth. His spoon already digging for the next load.

"I think it went well, won't hear back for a couple days," you replied, pushing the dumplings around in the stew.

Simon's elbow knocked into your arm, your spoon clanging back into your stew. You're squeezed between him and your dad, both of them invading your space. He doesn't say anything, just dropped a dumpling into your bowl instead of an apology. pointing his fork as if to tell you eat up.

“I’m sure you’ll get it,” Johnny said, scraping the last bits of his food off his bowl. “How about you help me clean this up?”

You nodded piling up all the stuff the on the table and dumping it in the sink. Maybe staying here wasn’t so bad after all.

[PART SIX]

✨ Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it :) there might be some errors/mistakes as I'm dyslexic, I do check my work a couple times, but I do miss bits and pieces - Leya

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @reiluvr @elita1 @tired-writer04 @kaoyamamegami @gallantys @leon-thot-kennedy @trulovekay @harley101399 @misshoneypaper @rpgsandstuff @tomatto1234 @lolyouresilly @madsothree @astrothedoll @grandfartvoid @delaynew @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @little-mini-me-world @exitingmusic @majocookie @elegancefr

(Some of the tags wouldn't work so sorry if I didn't tag you. If you would like to be added just let me know)

323 notes · View notes

neontiger · 4 months ago

Text

routines in the night

♡ Jason Todd x reader

♡ semi-angsty fluff

♡ a nighttime routine, adjusted to having a vigilante for a boyfriend. It's not all roses and bedtime kisses.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Lately you’ve been getting ready for bed earlier, when the moon is still low in the sky. The stars are washed away by the lights of the Gotham skyline. Outside your apartment window a street light flickers, but it’s nothing but a dull glow behind the curtains.

Jason sits on the edge of your bed, watching your movements through the open bathroom door. It has become something of an obsession for him, your nighttime routine. Maybe it grounds him. Makes it all feel real. His eyes never leave your face in the mirror as he watches your fingers swirl cleanser over your cheeks. Remain steadfast when you swipe a cotton pad soaked in toner over those same cheeks, upward motions, then across your forehead and jaw. Next, careful dots of serum, pat in with pretty fingertips.

Thick lotion, and you purse your lips at the mirror. He notices the fight you have, trying not to wrinkle your forehead and keep your face relaxed as you work. Then his favorite part comes, though he doesn’t know why – you lean forward to dot eye cream under your beautiful eyes, your mouth hanging open and your brow unintentionally furrowed in concentration. Maybe that’s what it is, the way you seem so serious about something so simple. You cap the tube and replace it in the drawer before patting the cream with your ring finger until it’s fully absorbed.

You tug off the fuzzy headband keeping your hair in place and stuff it back into the drawer with your other skincare supplies. Jason’s still watching as you shut the bathroom light off and close the door. He’s already in uniform for the night; the only thing missing is the mask.

You stand between his legs at the end of the bed. He gazes up at you, the look in his eyes heavy, almost back-breaking. You both know what comes next. These routines in the night, so predictable.

“Do you have to go out?” You ask, though the answer is always the same:

“Yeah.” Jason takes a deep breath, his shoulders sinking with the exhale. “I’m working on something.”

You want to say no, forbid him, demand he give up the bullshit and settle down, but you think it’s not within your rights. Who are you to ask that of him? You can’t imagine a Jason that sits still, that thinks of himself before this stupid city.

So you do what you always do. You cup his cheeks, you kiss his forehead. “Be careful,” you say, in the same tone you had last night – same fight against the break in your words, same swallow around the knot in your throat – your lips linger against his skin. Don’t let go.

Jason takes your hands. Like last night, he has to be the one to end this. “I will.” He kisses your fingertips first, then the tops of your hands, before tugging you gently. Your lips meet his in a chaste kiss. Short, because he wants you to think of it as a prequel, and that when he returns some hour after midnight he’ll give you a proper one.

You step back and let him stand. He pulls you against his chest. Thoughts run through his head – say it, just say it – but his mouth remains closed, better used to kiss your cheek for now. The words are difficult for him to form. Maybe he’s afraid, because if he admits something like that, what happens when he doesn’t come back? Despite the past, he’s not immortal. He doesn’t know if he wants to come back this time, even if he says those three words.

He doesn’t want to imagine how broken you would be then.

“I’ll be back.” Another kiss. Jason steps away – again, it has to be him – and grabs his mask from the armchair by the window. “Don’t wait up.”

The words fall to the floor at his feet. You don’t hear them.

He leaves through the front door. You lock it after him, fix the chains, the deadbolt. His orders. He’ll come in through the window; he knows the alarm code. It’s safer that way, he says.

You climb into bed. Alone. The darkness is a weighted thing, crushing the air from your lungs.

Sleep won’t come until you hear that window slide open.

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd fluff #red hood fluff #red hood x reader #red hood x you #jason todd x you #red hood x y/n

350 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 8 months ago

Note

Hi I just discovered your blog and i’m obsessed with your writing, like the talent?? unmatched.

Could you do a longer fic about doctor remus and reader? Maybe he is graduating from med school and reader is so excited and proud of him and being insistent on taking a million pictures of him in his graduation gown? Or reader is pregnant and he is total helicopter parent, making sure he is up to date on everything and knows all the proper procedures for keeping their baby safe?

Or honestly anything!! I love your writing :)

Thank you sooooo much

Hi lovely! I realize you asked for a longer fic and this is not that, but thank you for the idea and I hope you like it anyway :)

med student!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 434 words

“Dove.” Remus sounds exasperated, but he’s smiling. “That’s enough.”

“Just a few more,” you negotiate. You’re standing outside the venue of your boyfriend’s graduation ceremony, forcing him to pose in front of a fountain. “Throw your cap in the air!”

“I’m not doing that.”

“C’mon, be a sport,” James urges him.

“I think, traditionally, you’re not supposed to do that until after the ceremony.”

“Oh, traditionally,” Sirius drawls. “He goes and gets a fancy degree, and now he’s all about convention and decorum. What a tosser.”

Remus snickers, and Sirius grins. “There, do it, do it!”

You snap as many pictures as you can get of Remus smiling, though he rolls his eyes once he realizes he’s fallen for a ploy.

“Alright,” he argues, blushing. “You’ve already taken pictures at home, and again on the way here. How much storage can you possibly have left?”

“Enough for pictures of you walking the stage,” you say. “We’ll need some after the ceremony, too.”

Remus heaves a long-suffering, and you laugh.

“It’s an occasion! We’re going to want pictures of you in your cap and gown.”

He gives the large gown he’s wearing a distasteful glance. It’s more of a robe, really, with velvet trim and large, billowy sleeves. “I look like a pompous prick.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” says Sirius.

“Piss off.”

“You look distinguished,” you say. “And handsome.”

“He is handsome.” James reaches forward, pinching Remus’ cheek and giving it a little shake before his hand is knocked away. “He’s our handsome guy.”

“Ooh.” Sirius points to some trees in front of the building. “That lighting looks nice. Maybe we should get a few there.”

“No,” says Remus, at the same time as you clap your hands and say, “Perfect!”

He sighs again. “Fine. But those are the last ones. Then we go inside.”

“Deal.” You take his hand, drawing him close as you walk towards the new spot. “Thanks for humoring us. We’re proud of you, you know?”

“Thanks, dove.” He drops a kiss on your head, cheeks glowing pink. “I’m glad you—careful.” He catches you as the heel of your shoe gets caught in a crack in the pavement. “You’ll break your neck.”

“He knows that sort of thing now,” you boast to Sirius and James. “He’s a doctor.”

“Not until after the ceremony,” James teases.

“Handsome, distinguished, and educated.” Sirius whistles. “You really snagged a good one, babe.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” Remus mumbles embarrassedly.

“I know,” you chirp as if he hasn’t spoken. You go up on your toes, pressing your lips to his cheekbone. “Sorry, boys, he’s all mine.”

625 notes · View notes

blainesebastian · 3 months ago

Text

throwing hands

word count: 8,110 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language and expletives) summary: Nick teaches reader how to throw a proper punch. notes: thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, like, comment, leave an ask or reblog! means a lot :) masterlist here. notes2: gifs from this gif pack

You’re not used to heading to parties without your boyfriend, especially when he’s so integral in the friend group that you have. But his mom has been pulling his chain on when he can see his sister, and the last thing you want is for him to miss that. He tries to get you to come with, and that is definitely tempting, but Maddie having Nick’s full attention is important.

You know exactly what that’s like.

So despite missing him, you’re determined to have a good time. Besides, he’s headed home from his mom’s and should be here in twenty or so minutes (not that you’re counting), so maybe there’s still time to spend with him drinking a little too much and dancing a bit too close.

You were talking with Jenna and Lion about the birthday you have coming up, about how you want to spend it, but that quickly dissolves into Jenna ending up on her boyfriend’s lap and laughing between kisses. You smile a little, shaking your head in soft amusement. Definitely can’t fault them for that, you’ve been there plenty of times when you’re with Nick. You hate the ache in your chest in missing him, like you’ve been apart for a month and not a long weekend.

You ignore the urge to text him, not wanting to distract him while he’s driving, and stand from the couch, quietly leaving your friends to their relationship as you search for a bottle of water. The alcohol is buzzing through your veins in a rose-colored glasses way, slightly tipsy but not overdoing it. You could have another drink but…that toes the line into becoming a bit too drunk and you hate having to deal with a hangover.

You brush a hand through your hair, weaving through crowds of people laughing, dancing, overall having a good time. There’s a twinge of a smile to your lips as you think about earlier, bouncing on the makeshift dance floor with Jenna, laughing a bit too hard as you spun one another. You’re not particularly good at dancing, but you love it. Especially with friends.

Turning a corner into the kitchen, you grab a bottle of water from the fridge, cracking the cap open to have a few gulpfuls. Sighing, you tip your head back, rolling your shoulders, enjoying the cool air sticking to your warm skin. It’s not as busy in here, the traffic of people low, easier to breathe.

When you open up your eyes, a familiar face wanders into the kitchen. You don’t know his name, though maybe it’s Steve? You’ve heard it volleyed back and forth through the crowd as he’s worked his way through. He’s tall, broad and blonde, eyes glazed over, clearly intoxicated.

You take a step towards him out of instinct when he stumbles, wanting to help.

That motion catches his eye and he grins at you, straightening his shoulders, “Hey.”

You lick your lips, “Hi.”

He moves towards the fridge, grabbing a drink for himself, though it’s a beer. You bite down on your tongue that wants to suggest water instead. You have a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate that. Regardless, there’s something that curls in your stomach that feels a lot like apprehension, encouraging you to go find your friends.

It’s then that he staggers towards the doorframe again, effectively blocking your path.

“Excuse me,” You motion, “Just heading back to my friends.” You don’t want him to think you’re alone. Even though you are right now.

He smiles, lazy, the cologne he has on making you feel queasy, “Saw you dancin’ earlier tonight. You’ve really got some moves.”

You resist an eyeroll and don’t dignify that with a response. He may be in the way of you leaving, but he’s unsteady and seems to be unaware of his limbs—you just need to create a small diversion and it might open up an exit. You left your phone in your purse. With Jenna.

“Maybe you could show me some other ones.”

You can sense he’s going to touch you before it happens and his movements are so jerky that the bottle of water you’re holding near your mouth gets in the way of an arm he’s throwing around. He knocks right into the bottle and causes a chain reaction, the edge of it hitting your mouth. Your lip gets caught against your teeth and a sharp hiss leaves your lips as it draws blood.

“Fuck,” He mumbles. Though he doesn’t look sorry—your stomach drops. He looks turned on.

He goes to grab you again but this time you’re ready, squeezing the open bottle of water right into his face. He’s stunned, swearing as he falls back and hits the doorframe, and it’s wide enough to cause an opening for you to sneak past.

You make a b-line back to the living room, picking up your purse that’s still next to Lion and Jenna, digging through it for a tissue. Your friend instantly gets off of Lion’s lap when she catches sight of your face,

“Babe, what happened?” She touches your arm.

You roll your eyes, body trembling just a little from adrenaline as you press the tissue to your lips. Fuck, ow. “Nothing, it was just an accident.”

“That doesn’t look like an accident.” She insists, her hands falling to her waist.

“Can we just head out?” You ask, not wanting to ruin the night for everyone but…your mouth is sore and the warm fuzzy feelings you were having from before have definitely dissipated.

You almost suggest that Lion and Jenna stay, have a good time, that you can just request a ride home but your friend won’t allow you to leave by yourself. You already know that.

Putting your purse over your shoulder, you head outside and down the steps into the gravel driveway, the cold air nipping at your warm skin but it’s a little comforting. It grounds you. Pulling the tissue away from your lip, you see a bit of blood, but nothing too concerning. You probably just broke the skin…nothing a cool compress won’t fix. It throbs a little in time with your heartbeat, probably swelling something ugly. Your tongue runs over the cut on the inside of your lip and you taste blood again, so you press the tissue back where you had it.

Your phone buzzes in your purse and you don’t have to check it to know who it is. There’s the roar of an engine nearby and when you look up, Nick is parking his car down the long line of others. He gets out, dressed in a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt and a black zip-up hoodie. Something comfortable that he doesn’t usually wear to parties, but perfect for spending time with his little sister.

He transfers his keys to his other hand, sliding them into his pocket as he walks towards the house. He hasn’t noticed you yet, but you can tell when he does when he gets closer. His entire body stills, his eyes ticking from the tissue in your hand, to your mouth, to raking over your entire form, like he’s checking to make sure there’s no other injuries.

His movements speed up until he’s within distance to touch you, his arm stretching out, hand touching your cheek, “What happened?”

You shake your head, cheeks kissed in a soft flush of embarrassment, though you’re not sure why. This isn’t your fault, “Nothing,” You assure him, saying it was an accident but he speaks over you.

Nick’s hand catches your wrist, the one with the tissue in hand, “Let me see,” And gently tugs it away from your mouth. He tips up your chin, the lighting awful out here, but you can tell he sees enough.

His entire demeanor changes as he assumes the worst, muscle ticking in his jaw, shoulders tight, his eyes leaving you for a moment to glance towards the front door of the party where laughter and people are spilling out. His thumb brushes against your jawline, the touch gentle and at war with the look in his eyes, the heated fury there.

“Stay here,” Nick informs, voice deathly calm and panic zings up your spine as he moves to walk past you.

Your hand clamps down on his arm, the force of his momentum making you stumble forward. You manage to get in front of him, hands falling to his chest,

“Nick, stop,” You have no idea what he’s about to do but you know it isn’t good.

Him storming in there, half-cocked with no concept of what’s happened to you and to what? Throw his fists around until it lands on someone who’s responsible? That isn’t going to help anything.

His eyes snap to yours, nostrils flaring, “You either tell me who did it or I’m going in there to figure it out for myself.”

You straighten your spine, your hands pushing on his chest a little, “Don’t talk to me like that.” You get he’s pissed, you love that he’s so protective of you, but him acting like a hothead won’t solve a damn thing. He just came from visiting Maddie after a complicated set of setbacks from his mother when she learned he was still getting into troubling situations. Things like this.

Nick swallows at that, looking away from you, but he’s no longer pushing against your hands. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, turning just a little like he needs to concentrate on anything that’s not you or the party behind you for a moment. Lion and Jenna come down the steps—you had forgotten your jacket inside and they were willing to get it for you. You take it from Jenna, pushing your arms through the sleeves, freeing your hair from underneath the collar.

“All good?” Jenna asks, her voice a little wary as she sneaks a look to you and then Nick.

You can hear Nick mutter peachy under his breath at the same time Lion opens his big mouth, “Tried to find the guy that clocked Y/N in the face but I think he went upstairs with someone.”

Jenna steps on his foot, “Lion.”

“What?” He asks, completely unaware of how tightly wound Nick’s body is. He looks two seconds from ignoring your requests and doing whatever the fuck he wants. Which includes finding this guy and putting his hands on him.

“I’m fine,” You insist, looking back at your boyfriend. You reach out to put your hand around his bicep, “It was an accident.” Nick’s brown eyes meet yours, searching. “Really.” You promise.

He holds your gaze for a long moment before he nods, body decompressing beneath your touch. You feel a swirl of relief as he relaxes, though not completely convinced he doesn’t have something to fix.

“Take me back to your place,” You request, knowing he won’t be able to resist the pleading in your tone. “Please?”

Nick licks his lips, letting a long breath out of his nose. He nods again, wrapping an arm around your waist to walk back to his car.

—

Seated on a stool in Nick’s kitchen, changed into one of his black t-shirts, he stands between your legs looking at your lip. He’s been quiet since you arrived, tension still coiling around his body like shadows. Your hand hovers on his hip, playing with the fabric of the hoodie he’s wearing between your fingers, something to distract you.

When he swabs over a sore spot you wince, jerking your head back. Nick’s movements still, his one hand splayed against your neck. He smooths his finger against your pulse point in comforting circles.

“Sorry.” He whispers.

You hum lightly, “He speaks.”

Nick draws in a breath, setting down the cotton ball meant to clean your lip. You took a look at yourself in the mirror when you wiped off your makeup. As suspected, it’s not too bad. It’s mostly just swollen—your lip obviously got caught between the plastic edge of the top of the bottle and your teeth. Once you get some ice on it and the cut heals, you’ll be brand new.

“What exactly do you want me to say?” He asks, reaching for another cotton ball. He adds antiseptic to it, tilting your chin with his thumb so he can address the cut that’s split the skin on the outside. Fucking ouch; your hand reaches up and squeezes his wrist, eyes fluttering closed.

Once the sting passes, you open them back up to look at him. “I want you to say that you were wrong for nearly storming back into that house and wanting to turn it into your own personal Fight Club.”

“I’m not going to say that.” Nick replies, stubborn as ever. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting to deck the guy that hurt you.”

Even though it was an accident? Rests on your tongue. Though maybe it doesn’t matter. You’re not sure why you’re trying to defend that point. You know that guy was fucking sleazy, he was trying to do something, which is how your mouth ended up getting caught in the way. And even after it had happened? He was still insistent on trying to manhandle you.

Your eyebrows draw together in a gentle crease, shifting uncomfortably on the stool. Nick’s right. Maybe he didn’t go about it the right way, exactly…you don’t think him punching that guy was going to solve anything. But you also know that Nick, at his core, is a caring, reactionary person. He saw you hurt, he knew someone was responsible, he wanted to defend that. Defend you.

It’s hard to be upset with him over that.

Nick steps back to throw away the trash on the counter from cleaning up your lip, grabbing a small ice pack from the fridge and wrapping it in a washcloth on his way back over to you. He brushes your hair over your shoulder, placing the ice pack in your hand and then encouraging it to your mouth.

“Keep it on your lip or you’re gonna swell up like a balloon.”

You crinkle your nose, “Attractive.”

Nick cups both sides of your face, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. He lingers, lips along your hairline, and you close your eyes, breathing him in.

Thing is, you know that violence isn’t always the answer. You hate that Nick participates in these underground fighting rings, regardless of the fact that he’s good and usually wins. There’s just something so inherently toxic about him doing it—not that Nick is toxic, but that arguments for some reason need to be handled with fists. It goes against your entire being to think of things like that.

But…tonight has your brain spinning in another direction. The fact of the matter is, you’re small. Not so much where Nick is concerned, he’s a bit taller than you, but that guy tonight? He towered over you. You try not to let your mind wander there, but it does anyways—what would have happened if that water hadn’t done anything to deter him? What if he would have used his weight against you, pressing you into a darkened corner or behind a closed door?

A shudder runs through you and Nick pulls back a little, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to upset him even more than he already is.

Instead, “Maybe…maybe you could teach me how to throw a proper punch.” Your eyes meet his own and something plays along the edges there, the weight of not being there tonight, like he somehow has to own that blame. He doesn’t.

“I can do that.”

You nod, attempting to shake off the nerves from tonight. You pull the ice pack from your face and sniffle, adjusting the washcloth protecting your skin.

“Just don’t let Lion pull me into any ring matches,” You joke, “Would hate to ruin your reputation.”

A small smile cracks Nick’s stoney demeanor, ice melting away. There’s only fondness when he rolls his eyes, leaning his elbow against the counter as he stands in-between your legs. “I’d put my money on you every time.”

And even though it hurts your lip to kiss him, you do it anyways.

—

Dressed in a pair of bike shorts, a sports bra and long jean jacket, you make your way into the warehouse where Lion lines up these fights to meet Nick. You’re not sure what you’re expecting overall—when you asked your boyfriend to teach you how to punch, you had been feeling a tiny bit foolish and a lot vulnerable. Regardless of the request, Nick never made you feel like you were asking something ridiculous. He took it seriously, as he does all your emotions, and told you a time to meet him.

There’s a big difference between knowing how to hit someone and actually doing it. Even if you go through the motions and steps, you’re not sure you’ll actually be able to use your fist if ever faced with a particular situation. You’ve heard of people who go through self-defense training and then completely freeze up in the moment.

Though you can’t allow yourself to overthink it—the point is, you want to know how to do this just in case. It’s not the be-all, end-all of any negative interaction you might have. It’s just…adding tools to a toolbox.

And seeing Nick half naked, body lithe, kissed with a sheen of sweat certainly doesn’t suck either.

When you turn into the room where training occurs, he’s there in the center of the ring with Lion, throwing punches. He’s dressed in sweats, boxer briefs poking out, the fabric resting against his hip bones. Your eyes drink him in—the long lines of his body, the defined tonal muscles of his stomach and chest, the swell of his biceps. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth, fingers dragging across your palm as your gaze dances along familiar tattoos.

He winds back his fist and tosses it forward, all measured and precise, as easy as breathing. He’s been doing this a long time, the movements second-nature.

It shouldn’t be so attractive. And yet.

His stance stills as he gets a good look at you, his fists dropping when you begin to wander over. He sniffs, straightening his shoulders, a silver chain resting delicately on his chest. You reach out and toy with it, fixing it so that the clasp is along the back of his neck.

“How am I supposed to concentrate on proper technique when you look like this?”

He huffs out a laugh, tipping his hand through his damp curls, “You’re going to have to control yourself.”

You give him a cheeky smile, taking off your jean jacket, “No promises.” You pass it off to Lion who leaves you two alone.

You draw in a breath, your hands resting on your hips as you raise your eyebrows at him, wondering how exactly this is going to work. “Well?” You ask, “Should we tape up my knuckles or something?”

There’s a gentle eyeroll from Nick but it’s paired with affectionate amusement. “I want you to tell me what happened the other night.”

You pause, eyebrows crinkling together in confusion. “Why?” You hadn’t shared for a few reasons. For one, there’s no purpose in harping on what happened, there’s nothing that can be done about it. Secondly, it’s over—why drudge up something that clearly upsets you both in different ways?

But Nick’s not angry when he looks at you, his touch gentle as he reaches for your hand and tugs you closer. The smell of his skin, something purely him underneath soap and cologne, clenches your stomach. His hand rests on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip bone.

“I want to give you a scenario to pull from, so you know what best to do.”

And that…that sounds wildly organized and smart and yet…you’re still hesitant, words trapped underneath your tongue and behind your teeth.

“Please,” He adds and it’s almost enough to make your knees buckle. Nick rarely uses that word so it’s laced with purpose. He wants to make this exercise as meaningful as he can…but you also know he really just wants to know what happened to you at that party.

The swelling has gone down significantly on your lip and if it wasn’t for the small, healing cut on the inside of your mouth, it would look as if nothing had happened. But it did happen. And despite you refusing to be rattled by it doesn’t mean you weren’t at one point.

You draw in a soft breath before nodding, Nick taking a step back but still holding onto your hand.

“I went to the kitchen to get some water and…this guy wandered in, obviously drunk,” You pause, thinking about how small the space felt with him in it, like the walls could close in. You roll your shoulders back, “He said he noticed me dancing and if I could show him other moves.”

Nick’s face is expressionless, but you know him well enough to notice minute reactions. His eyes darken, the muscle in his jaw feathers, there’s a slight pressure of him squeezing your fingers but he doesn’t interrupt. Almost doesn’t breathe.

“He was trying to touch me but his movements were awkward, his arm swung into the bottle I had near my mouth and—” You motion to your lip, self-explanatory.

Nick glances down at your hand in his own, licking his lips, “Did he try to touch you again?” It seems like a simple question, but you can hear the gentle fury—it’s like curling smoke.

You swallow, nodding, the words escaping your tongue for a moment. “I threw my water in his face. When he was distracted, I snuck under his arm and out of the kitchen.”

Nick’s quiet for a few moments, thumb tracing the knuckles on your hand, as if he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to have your skin against his own. He chews on the inside of his cheek, nodding his head as if speaking to himself, and then looking back up at you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Your heart clenches in your chest because no—telling him what happened should not be about him blaming himself. It’s not about taking ownership of something he has no business owning.

“Don't do that,” You reply gently, stepping forward to kiss his cheek, “Don’t take the blame. Bad shit happens sometimes, you can’t protect me from all of it.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Nick’s mouth, as if to say he would if he could. And that sentiment means everything to you, so much that it nearly swallows you whole. As if you could love him more than you already do.

Nick takes another step back, drawing in a breath as if to clear his thoughts before squeezing your hand and letting go. “Alright let’s…” He motions with his hands, “Turn a bit at an angle.”

You try to mimic what you’ve seen him do in the ring when he fights and his lips twitch before he reaches out and corrects your stance. It’s awkward, your body not used to it, and you hold onto his shoulder for balance as he positions your hip.

“Now obviously the more you practice, the easier it’ll be to adopt standing like this before you throw a punch.” You also read between the lines of what he’s saying. It’s not always going to come organically, having enough time to line your body up just-so before a punch.

But it’s still nice to know what it’s supposed to feel.

“It’s always best to go for weak spots,” He motions to himself, “Eyes, throat, groin.” You raise your eyebrows and he smirks, “We won’t be practicing that last one.”

“Shame.” You smile, lifting your hands.

Nick steps in close, “But if you’re going to throw your hand,” He takes one of yours into his own, molding your fingers away from your thumb, pressing it against the outside of your index and middle fingers, “Last thing you want to do is break your thumb.”

He then presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Nick steps around you, his arms almost creating a cage around your body as he takes one of your wrists into his hands as you hold the formation of a fist. The heat of his skin presses alluringly into your own and you do your best to concentrate on the lesson at hand. Heart-racing thoughts can wait. Probably. You force yourself to breathe in, deep, through your nose as his hips press into your backside.

“You want to keep as much tension as you can here,” His hand slides to your abdomen, “And you want to rotate a bit as you throw.”

His words sound like absolute gibberish and your head tips back, resting against his shoulder. “You’re gonna need to say that again.”

He smiles against the shell of your ear, “Having trouble concentrating?” Then the asshole presses a kiss to your shoulder, nose brushing a ticklish spot on your neck.

You try not to squirm, especially when liquid heat slides down your body to rest headily in-between your legs. You pointedly tip your hip back against him and turn your head, trying to look at him. “Is this a lesson on throwing a punch or turning me on?”

Nick brushes his lips over your cheek. “My apologies.” He does not sound sorry in the slightest.

You straighten your shoulders, attempting to bring some equilibrium back when he stops crowding you and stands to the side.

“Throw a punch.” He instructs and fuck, you already know it’s awful by the time you draw your fist back after trying.

You expect him to look disappointed, or maybe even quirk his lips in silent humor, but he does neither of those things. Instead, he calculates the best way to set up your next punch. He goes through a few motions with you, he works your body through throwing your hand forward so you can get a sense of what it’s supposed to feel like. He also stands in front of you and punches the air himself, very slow and then quick and measured. It looks so easy when he does it.

“Okay, try again. Aim for my hand.” He lifts a hand to face you, palm out.

You raise your eyebrows, “You want me to punch you?”

Nick smiles, “I want you to punch my hand, try not to hit my face. I’m fond of it.”

That makes two of us. Nerves spread through your belly as you put everything together that he’s taught you. You line your body up, you angle your hips, you fix your thumb on the outside of your fingers, you pull your arm back and keep it level with your shoulders—

And then snap forward.

You force your eyes to remain open even though your flaring nerves want you to close them, your fist ending up…right in Nick’s hand. There’s force behind it for sure and when he catches you, when his fingers wrap around your own, there’s something bright shining in his eyes.

Pride.

You can’t help but grin, “I did it.” It’s not perfect, it’s going to take practice and effort and reminders but that doesn’t take away your glow about the moment.

He squeezes your fist, “You did.” Nick drops your hand and then motions you to turn around, “I want you to do one more thing, mostly because I’ll feel a lot better if you’re ready for this scenario.”

You chew on your lower lip, turning around as he instructs. He comes up behind you again, but this time, there’s no teasing heat in his movements. Nick gently clasps your elbows in his palms, pressing himself against your back,

“If someone comes up behind you and tries to manhandle you that way,” He squeezes your right elbow before his left arm circles your waist.

It’s not uncomfortable because you know Nick, you trust him, but as you picture the guy from the kitchen, a sprout of disgust wriggles between your ribs. Despite your heartbeat ticking up, you force yourself to imagine what he’s describing. It could have easily been something that happened the other night.

“I want you to throw your elbow back as hard as you can, try to connect it with someone’s face. If you’re lucky, you’ll get their eye or their nose.”

You swallow, nodding, but he doesn’t move. You realize then he wants you to try it out on him. “I don’t think—”

Nick squeezes your elbow again encouragingly, “You’re not gonna hurt me.”

You let out a slow breath that flutters your hair—you’re not so sure…but. You attempt to relax your shoulders and not lean back into him as much, concentrating on the way it feels to have him breathing against your back. Your features scrunch just slightly, picturing the guy from the other night, what it would have been like if he’d gotten a hold of you like this. His overheated body, his breath over your neck and jawline, the smell of stale alcohol, the panic crawling up your spine that he could have taken you somewhere against your will—

You wail your elbow back. It’s quick and jerky and you swear you’re going to connect to Nick’s face but he ducks the blow, anticipating it. A sharp breath leaves your lungs and you whirl around to see him grinning, contentment once again on his handsome face.

“You would have got me right here.” He taps his cheekbone.

You run both of your hands over your hair, “Glad you ducked. Your face gets bruised enough without me adding to it.”

He lets out a breath, his lips forming an ‘O’ shape as the jab hits. Amusement licks the fire in his eyes as he takes two steps towards you to close the distance, leaning down to kiss you.

You lean into his body, arms circling his waist, pressing yourself up on your toes to deepen it. A soft sound leaves the back of his throat and his tongue teases the seams of your lips before it rolls against your own. Fuck. You feel it all the way down to your toes, which curl in your shoes. When he pulls back, he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your lip where the swelling was.

“C’mon, let's get out of here. One of the perks of getting all worked up in here is how good it feels to take a shower.”

You raise your eyebrows at the thought, “Oh good idea, you stink anyways.”

Nick huffs a laugh, playfully smacking your ass as you turn to pick up your jean jacket and follows you out.

—

You let out a soft yawn, sitting on the closed toilet seat in Nick’s bathroom as you wait for the water to heat up. Rolling your neck, you rub the one side, eyes finding Nick as he moves in the bathroom, shirt off again.

“Tire you out?” He asks, eyebrows raised as he sets towels down on the counter.

You shake your head, even though overall, your body is a tiny bit sore. But it’s a good sore, proof that you worked your muscles in a way you weren’t used to. With even more practice, it should start feeling like something natural. A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth—you’re looking forward to that.

“You going to undress or do you need help?” He asks, pulling his sweatpants down and tossing them across the floor with his foot.

You purse your lips, a playful glint in your eye, “Well when you put it like that.”

But you stand, peeling off your bike shorts and sports bra, Nick’s gaze appraising your body as you step into the shower and under the stream. A long sigh leaves your lips and you tip your head back, the hot water unwinding knots in your shoulders. Your boyfriend steps in behind you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder,

“Can I wash your hair?”

You smile a little, turning your chin so you can glance back at him before nodding. He never needs to ask. He plants a kiss to the bridge of your nose before grabbing a bottle of shampoo, squirting a decent amount into his palms before working his fingers into your hair. A soft groan of pleasure leaves your mouth and fuck, that feels so good.

You feel yourself go boneless, leaning back into him, and heat curls around you and dips into the center of your body when you feel his cock brush up against your lower back. You purposely swivel your hips back as he rinses your hair, a soft groan rumbling in his chest. His hands come down to your waist, squeezing,

“Thought you were too tired.”

You turn to face him, raising your eyebrows, “Who said I was tired?”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself up on your toes to kiss him, your body flush against his own. Shower sex is a great idea in theory, but you’ve been there—it doesn’t work. Not enough surfaces are stable, lubrication becomes a bit of a problem because sometimes it’s washed away and…the one time Nick lifted you up into his arms he almost slipped. You hit your head off the shower-head. Giggles ensued and you both found it better to just end up in bed afterwards.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other things you can do.

Nick’s on the same wavelength, because before you can wrap your hand around him, he sinks to his knees. Your breathing becomes uneven looking down at him, eyelashes thick with water droplets, curls a bit unruly. You run your hand through them, gently tugging. He tips his head up, a small smirk on his lips as he gently shifts your thighs, just like he did in the ring, encouraging you where he wants you.

He backs you up against the shower wall and taps your one knee, “Over my shoulder,” He instructs, “Hold onto me.”

Fuck.

You do as he asks, opening yourself up to him, clit throbbing as he leans closer and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Your head tips back against the tile, anticipation nearly tearing you in half as he kisses closer and closer to where you want him. Then—his fingers part your lips open and his tongue circles your clit.

“Fuck.”

The asshole smirks against you but it doesn’t stop him from what he’s doing. You roll your hips forward, despite his hand on your stomach to keep you steady, in place. His tongue traces down the center of you, dipping inside, not enough to provide any sort of release but just to tease. You bite down on your lower lip, your fingers drawing his curls into your hand again, not pulling but just enough pressure to encourage him to keep going.

And he does. It’s a dance between flicking his tongue inside of you and sucking on your clit, and you swear to god you’re about to see fucking stars—before choking out—

“Stop,” You tug on his hair, “Don’t—”

Nick listens immediately, pulling back to look up at you. There’s soft concern in his brown eyes, wanting to make sure you’re alright first before you cup his cheek, running your thumb over his slightly swollen lower lip.

“I want to cum with you, get up here.”

Then he smiles, standing to his full height, his lips crashing down onto yours. It’s nothing soft, nor gentle, but greedy and a little desperate, his tongue licking into your mouth, his teeth snagging onto your lips. His hard cock brushes against your stomach and you reach down, unseeing, to grasp him in your hand.

The strangled groan that leaves his lips sends a zing of heat right to your clit and you know that neither of you are going to last very long. You hike your leg up under his ass, holding onto him, his hand brushing the underside of your thigh before slipping between your bodies. When you begin stroking him in even jerks as you take the time to rub your thumb over the head of his cock, he slips two fingers inside of you.

It’s a bit uneven and choppy in movements, a series of moans into one another’s mouths but it’s enough. You bury your face into his shoulder as you cum, squeezing around his fingers, and jerk your wrist once, twice, three times before Nick is stepping forward into you when he releases against your stomach.

Your entire body throbs in pleasure and soft aches, your hands moving to rest against his sides as you lean fully back against the shower wall, attempting to catch your breath. Nick presses lazy, open mouthed kisses on your shoulder blade, your neck, nose brushing the shell of your ear.

“Worn out now?” He asks, voice thick with leftover pleasure.

You respond with gentle laughter, unable to speak but squeeze his waist in confirmation. Nick licks his lips as he steps back, reaching for a washcloth that’s hanging on a small hook near the shower head. He spreads body wash on it, his body wash, and gently glides it over your skin to wash you off. He then encourages you to stand under the stream of water, facing it, using his fingers and hands to rinse your cunt, a sharp breath leaving your lips thanks to sensitivity but you’re grateful for the help.

Once you both are finished, Nick turns the water off and reaches for a towel. He wraps you up first, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips before looping his around his waist. Stepping out of the shower, you do your best to dry yourself and your hair, limbs tired and slightly sluggish. You know you’re going to regret not tending to your hair or putting lotion on but you can’t be bothered right now. You make a b-line for Nick’s bed, pulling on one of his t-shirts as you sit on the edge.

Nick comes out in boxer briefs and unbuttoned jeans, your eyebrows drawing together. “Are you leaving?”

He towels his hair, curls unkempt and a little frizzy, “I told Maddie I would go to her game and then get ice cream.”

You wince, “You’re not late, are you?” You ask, your tone apologetic.

He smiles softly, coming to stand in front of you. He brushes his hand through your hair, even though it’s tangled, settling it behind your shoulder, “No, I’m not late. I still have time.”

“Time to…fall asleep with me?” You ask, tipping your chin up in a small pout and batting your eyelashes.

Nick chuckles, the sound warm, his hands cupping your cheeks for a moment, “As if there were any other choice.”

You grin, shifting over so he can pull the covers back. He gets into bed with his jeans on, doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, laying down and waiting for you to drape yourself over his chest. You easily mold into his side, as if you were always meant to be there, tucked under his chin and arm sliding around his waist. You breathe him in, brushing a kiss over the tattoo of Roman numerals under his collarbone. He turns his head into you, planting a kiss to your forehead, letting out a slow sigh from his nose.

“Thank you for helping me,” You whisper, fingers tracing shapes into his abdomen. “I know I’m not exactly the strongest, but,” You mean in putting force behind your punches, in the symmetry of your body, in the way your muscles ache from lack of use. You know that can all come with time but…it means a lot that Nick listened to you, that he took you seriously.

“That doesn’t matter,” He replies, his lips moving against your temple. “You’ve got a lot of heart—sometimes that’s all you need.”

Warmth and affection pitches in your chest, touched by his sentiment. It’s the last thing you think about before falling asleep and the first thing you think about when you wake to an empty bed.

—

A few weeks pass and you visit the warehouse space a handful of more times to practice. It’s nothing too over the top, just running through the same drills as before, trying to have your movements become more fluid and throwing more power into your punches. You think Nick likes having you there…also doesn’t hurt that you end up a distraction and he drags you to the backseat of his car.

“Honestly think it’s so hot of you that you can throw a punch, babe,” Jenna grins, leaning back against Lion’s chest as you enjoy another party. It's at Anna's, of all places, but that doesn’t mean that the alcohol isn’t good and worth drinking.

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, a little touched at the compliment, “I’m not that good.”

Nick comes up beside you, drinks carefully piled in his hands. He hands two beers off to Lion and Jenna before giving you a mixed one, “She is that good.” He replies, hearing the tail end of the conversation.

You do think you’ve been getting better thanks to Nick’s guidance and instruction, but his confidence in you means everything. You smile brightly at him and he crinkles his nose in your direction to make you laugh.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You tell him, handing over your drink, “Be right back.”

You can feel his eyes on you until you disappear around the corner, the line for the bathroom downstairs a little ridiculous. Glancing upstairs to the second level, you move up the steps, small groups of people hanging out talking, smoking, swaying to the music that’s playing downstairs.

Chewing on your lower lip, you walk past a semi-open door, the bathroom, but it looks like two people are in there. You’re about to apologize even though there’s no reason to, a quirk to your lips in amusement that clearly a pair is having a good time—

But then you notice a familiar face. It’s Anna. There’s something off about the way she’s holding herself, eyes slightly glassy as she leans back against the bathroom counter, hands on a guy’s chest. He’s towering over her, kissing her neck, hips grinding into hers. A tendril of nausea works down into your stomach, your smile disappearing, as you hear her mutter something—

She says no.

Pushing open the door, you’re not quiet as you try to interrupt them, “Hey, she’s not okay with that. Can’t you hear her saying no?”

Anna blinks at you, her arms sluggish. There’s recognition on her face but it’s like she can’t grasp two clear thoughts—all she can do is weakly put her hands against this guy’s chest and repeat herself. Then comes another phrase, don’t.

“She’s fine,” The guy snaps at you, “It’s not your business.”

“It is my business,” You hiss, moving further into the bathroom and attempting to reach for her. You’re not sure whether Anna is drunk or drugged but you’re not going to leave her alone, even if you both don’t get along. “Get off her.”

“Piss off,” The guy throws his hand out, pushing you hard enough that you almost stumble.

And like a flip switching, that training with Nick clicking into place. Your feet splay slightly apart as you angle your body, movements fluid and easy and just like you’ve practiced. It takes zero thought to wail your arm back. You get his attention and when he turns to look at you, your fist flies at his face.

Pain zips up your arm, your knuckles slamming into his nose—you can feel more than hear the bone crack. When he stumbles back, you quickly wrap your arm around Anna’s waist, holding her to you. She can barely stand upright, a soft whimper telling you what you suspected. She’s barely holding it together.

The guy whirls on you, fucking stunned, blood is dripping down his face and onto his perfectly pressed shirt. Adrenaline sings in your veins and you have…no idea if he’s going to try and hit you back or whether he’s too dumbfounded to move. But either way? You’re not leaving Anna alone and you’re not letting this asshole get the best of you. Even if it turns into something ugly.

He scoffs out fucking bitch but doesn’t retaliate. You must not be worth his time or effort, because he turns on his heel and leaves the bathroom. A relieved breath skitters from your lungs and you dig in your pocket for your phone,

Y/N: Upstairs bathroom. I’m okay but I need your help

Nick appears in the doorway two minutes later, his eyebrows drawn together in concern as he gives you a onceover before his gaze flits to Anna.

“What happened?”

“I think she—oof!” Anna begins to slide and you make a pitched noise, not wanting to drop her, Nick coming up beside you and wrapping his arms around her waist. She ends up planted against his chest and while it’s definitely not a sight you like seeing, you’re glad she’s safe.

“This guy was all over her and she’s…like this. She was saying ‘no’.” You lift your hand to rub at your forehead, your voice slightly pinched at the whole upsetting situation. Despite not liking Anna or getting along with her, you’d never want her to be involved in something like that.

Nick’s jaw works a little and then he gets a good look at your hand. He gently catches your wrist, looking at your knuckles, “Did you hit him?”

You blink, the question not catching up for a moment as you look at your hand and—there, as plain as day, a little bit of blood on your bruising skin. You raise your eyebrows, almost as if it’s supposed to be surprising. A giggle bubbles up in your chest,

“Yes, fuck, I—I hit him.”

There’s a short laugh from him, brushing his thumb over your sore knuckles, “That’s my girl.”

A burst of warmth unfurls in your chest at that, despite your hands shaking, a small smile toying with the corners of your lips. You can unpack that later—

“Can you help her lay down? I’m going to find someone to sit with her.”

Nick nods, pulling back from you to scoop Anna up into his arms, cradling underneath her knees as she loosely holds onto his neck. He carries her out of the bathroom and you let out a slow, shaky breath before going to find her friends.

—

“Trouble just finds you everywhere, doesn’t it?” Nick teases, a familiar set-up of you seated on one of his kitchen stools while he stands in front of you, examining your hand.

You huff a dramatic sound, tipping your head back as he prods your knuckles. You really don’t think you hit the guy that hard to sprain any of your fingers, or anything, but Nick’s being thorough. You glance at the semi-bloody cotton balls on the island table from cleaning you up.

“Ow,” A pout on your lips, a dance of a smile on Nick’s. You resist the urge to snatch your hand out of his, “I didn’t think it would be that painful.” Maybe that sounds stupid. Now you can really appreciate Nick’s careful insistence about where your thumb is placed—you definitely would have broken it if you would have had it tucked into your fingers.

“That’s what happens when bone hits bone.” He squeezes your fingers, moving to get an ice pack from his fridge. He wraps it in a washcloth, standing close to set it on your hand. “This should help, Rocky.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging your lips before you sit with him in silence, his hands warm and on yours as he keeps the ice pack in place. You chew on your lower lip, glancing up at him.

“Do you think Anna will be okay?”

Nick lets out a sigh through his nose, “I think she’ll be alright…thanks to you, you know.”

You shake your head, “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He shrugs his one shoulder, “Doesn’t change what I said.”

Humming, you curl your fingers against his, “Well, I had a good teacher.”

Nick leans down, playfully placing a kiss underneath your ear, “I’m sure I got plenty of other things you can learn.”

A wide grin spreads across your face—you definitely love the sound of that promise.

#my fault london #nick leister #nick leister x reader #my fault london x reader #matthew broome #matthew broome x reader #my fault series #my fault:#my fault: london #mccall writes things

373 notes · View notes