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astonmartinii · 6 months ago

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other side of the moon: chapter four | formula one imagine

chapter four: matchstick men

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

the cocktail party is fun while it lasts, late guests throw y/n’s decision into question but also show her just who she’s a mentor to.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | SERIES MASTERLIST

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there was a january chill in the monaco air as max and y/n exited the dutchman’s apartment complex and started their short walk to kimi’s place. y/n pulled the shawl around her tighter, the light material of her slip dress doing nothing to keep the heat in.

“i told you you were going to be cold,” max teased, pulling her into a side hug, rubbing his free hand up and down her arm, “are you sure you don’t want me to run back and get your jumper?”

y/n leaned further into the dutchman’s warmth but shook her head, if she was really that cold by the time they made it to kimi’s she’d just had to steal something from them.

“sometimes you have to make sacrifices to look this good maxy,” y/n said, poking her tongue out at him, “and that includes hypothermia!”

“you don’t need to do anything, you’re perfect the way you are. i should’ve known you were still the same diva from karting when you still managed to look perfect in that ghastly shade of orange.”

“a dutchman who doesn’t like orange, now this is a scandal!”

“i like my orange, my shade - not that ugly papaya. i like you in my orange.”

“well if you play your cards right i might just wear some in zandvoort. they might be paying me a lot, but no one can pay me enough to wear that ugly uniform.”

max tightened his grip on y/n as they turned the corner to kimi and ollie’s place. there, in front of their door, stood the pair… in suits.

“did i miss the memo of this being a black tie event?” max yells, making the two boys jump, “now i look like i just rolled out of bed!”

“you always look like you’ve just rolled out of bed, we’re lucky i put all of your red bull merch in the wash so you’d wear something different tonight.”

kimi came to stand by y/n, she looked down at the italian and fixed his collar.

“are the suits too much? we wanted to make a good impression but… are they all going to laugh at us?” his voice was small and the way he craned his head to look at y/n made him look even smaller.

“no! it’s cute, you guys are going the extra mile and that means a lot. plus if they have a problem with you dapper gents, then they’ll have a problem with me!”

kimi giggled as the pair started on their way to charles’, ollie hung back and turned to max, “thank you for convincing her to say yes, he hasn’t stopped bouncing off the walls since.”

max slapped ollie’s back, “he convinced her all himself. that letter had her immediately, i think she has this weird belief that we’re not all over the moon she’s back. she’s been more herself in these past few days since meeting him than she has in three years. trust me mate, she was a shell of herself. hell, i would’ve given him the second red bull seat years ago if i knew he would bring the real her back to me.”

“i don’t think you have the power to give out the second red bull seat?” ollie pointed out, max shushed him loudly, “that’s what we want you to think.”

up ahead, y/n and kimi had linked arms like they were old friends.

“i don’t want you to be nervous going here tonight. i know my whole retirement to solitude may look like i don’t like anyone in formula one but truth be told they’re all big nerds. i expect you thought max was this big massive asshole before you met him properly but we all know he’s a big softie inside.”

kimi let out a deep breath, “i know i’ve technically met all of them, i mean i’ve been to countless race weekends now, but i’m still scared - i don’t want them to treat me like a kid, i’m a competitor!”

y/n laughed even though truth be told she was guilty of treating kimi like her long lost child, hair ruffles and cheek pinches, the lot. kimi tugged on her arm, “what was it like when you first met the drivers? not like on the grid where everyone is on their best behaviour, but when you truly met them?”

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march 2020 - bahrain testing.

“i’m nervous! what if they hate me!”

y/n whined, throwing the entire contents of her suitcase at george sat on the bed. despite having meticulously planned about a million different outfits for the annual post-test party, she was at a loss for what to wear.

“did you smash into them during preseason? did you piss in their coffee? no! so you’ll be fine, stop worrying.”

“but what if they still hate me?” the look on her face was so genuine that george’s heart broke a little.

“no one can be angry at you for too long,” george laughed, “i’m sure that even if you shunted them into the first wall you they’d be here grovelling first thing.”

pelting another piece of clothing at george’s head, “what like you? i remember monaco last year. how long did it take you?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, i’m a broody, stoic stallion, i don’t grovel.”

“your delivery of artisan croissants and a teary monologue about how much i mean to you says different…”

a blush breaks out over george’s face at the memory. he’d hardly covered himself in glory in monaco he’d admit that, but every ounce of common sense left stage right when he saw y/n lean in and lick the line of salt off of mick’s hand.

“i treasure our friendship, i didn’t want to lose you over a dumb drunk argument,” george said, taking her hand in his, “i’m older now and i know when i should and when i shouldn’t step in. you’re old enough and ugly enough to look out for yourself.”

the pair had been friends since they first started karting against each other. y/n was nervous, lining up against a grid of boys for the first time but george had come right over and introduced himself, prim and proper handshakes and all.

y/n finally found the dress she had been looking for in the worryingly big pile of clothes, jumping up with a pleased grin. she ran to the bathroom and pulled it on, a short black sequin dress with boots and a black leather jacket on top. y/n thought she looked mysterious enough without looking like she was attending a funeral.

“what do you think georgie? does it scream ‘don’t take me out on track or i’ll kill you’ but also a healthy amount of ‘i’m a scared little girl don’t be mean to me or i’ll cry’?”

george was speechless, his mouth open but no words finding their way out. y/n did a little spin but he was still sputtering and running his hand through his hair like a mad man. he cleared his throat and stood up abruptly, “you look amazing y/n, i mean seriously amazing but i just remembered that i think i left the iron on in my room and i don’t want to burn the entire hotel down!”

he rushed towards the door, flinging it open, “williams definitely can’t afford that, i’ll see you later!”

he took off running down the hotel corridor, very nearly barrelling into alex who was on his way to y/n’s room.

“where’s he off to?” alex asked, coming into the room and making his way straight to the mini bar.

“he said he left the iron on in his room? i don’t know. he just started freaking out for like no reason. i just asked him whether this outfit is cute enough for tonight and he just sat there like i told him his whole family is dead and bolted.”

“weird.”

“so weird, right?” y/n made her way back to the bathroom to start her makeup, “i don’t know what came over him, is my outfit really that offensive? alex, you’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

“i think it might have been too much for george, but he’s being a weird puritan maniac recently, so?”

y/n poked her head past the door, “you’re so right. he’s posted about a hundred topless photos since making it to formula one but got so angry at me for licking mick’s hand!”

y/n was so close to the point it was right in front of her, but much to alex’s disappointment it looked as if she was just as useless as the rest of them. he tried to hide his annoyance on his face, but y/n still caught onto it.

“did you think that was bad too?! have you people never done tequila shots? so do you think this is too slutty for a driver party?”

alex shot up, nearly spilling his drink all over y/n’s bed, “no! george was being a weirdo about the tequila salt thing, had a proper bee in his bonnet that night. you look great, don’t change. i think he’s going through boy things…”

alex did not sound convinced by his own words, but he would work with it. y/n was confused until alex picked up a pillow and mimed putting it in a very specific spot and it finally clicked.

“he got a boner?!”

alex barked out a laugh, “oh tell the whole floor why don’t you? be quiet!”

y/n could not keep her laughs in, folding over with tears streaming down her face. this would definitely explain the emergency exit.

“you cannot tell him i told you, swear it!” alex hissed, grabbing y/n’s hand, “please, he’ll kill me and you know him he’s weirdly sadistic he’d go all dexter on me!”

the two linked pinky fingers, “i promise to never tell george that you told me he got a boner from me in a leather jacket”

“didn’t have to go into that much detail, but yeah i promise too.”

y/n touched her makeup as alex finished off his drink, “but you’re sure this is okay? everyone knows that the real time you meet the grid is when they’re all drunk.”

“you look great, stop worrying. i think george would agree, little george as well-” y/n pelted a pillow at him.

“i just fixed my makeup, don’t make me cry laugh again!”

y/n slipped her shoes on and the pair made their way down to the lobby and across the street to the bar. it was very laidback, completely empty bar the other drivers and some of their significant others.

“about time you guys turned up!” daniel called out from the table most of the drivers were huddled around.

“sorry all, um, we had something to iron out - ouch!” alex said before an elbow to the side from y/n cut him off. the rest of the table were none the wiser but george was suddenly infatuated with his drink, hoping the small umbrella in the glass could cover his blush.

amongst all of the chaos of welcomes, lance pulled up a chair for y/n and asked what she would be having to drink. “just a tequila sunrise for me lance, if they do them. thank you.”

the canadian gave her a little salute before heading to the bar. pulling up his own chair beside her, alex grumbles a little ‘don’t ask me if i want a drink then’ and gets another shove.

daniel claps loudly, silencing the table. he turns to y/n theatrically, wiggling his eyebrows. “so, to our lonely rookie of the season here, a couple of questions.”

the table all turned to her and y/n let out a nervous chuckle, fiddling with her jacket - where was lance with that drink?

“we won’t be hazing you, no worries. no that’s actually illegal, although i am curious as to your karaoke song of choice… we’re getting off topic! my burning question is… growing up with half of the grid you must have a rolodex of embarrassing stories about them. spill. i’m talking embarrassing falls, pissing in their karts or awkward boners, i want all of it!”

daniel looked at her earnestly, waiting on her response. this was a little overwhelming, lance had returned with her drink, alex was trying to keep his laughs at the mention of boners and charles was fixed on her with a death glare - guess the waterpark story was out of the question.

all of the focus was on her and it was overwhelming. y/n was somewhat used to having people watch her every move, you get used to that as the only girl in paddocks where people are just waiting for you to fail.

“i don’t know if i want to make enemies on the grid this early on,” y/n said, looking shyly at daniel to see whether this would be considered a good enough answer.

“very diplomatic, very diplomatic indeed,’ daniel said, pondering, “you’ll do well with the media with answers like that.”

“you learn quick as a girl in this sport.”

the entire table quietened again, although a lot more awkward this time. great first impression. daniel broke the silence once again, “not that we’re going to haze you, but just out of interest, what IS your go to karaoke song?”

“man i feel like a woman,” y/n answered without hesitation, seeing a wide smile break out on daniel’s face, “i think we’ll get along very well, rookie,” daniel replies. the aussie stands up and drags her to the bar, proclaiming that they ‘simply must do some shots together on account of being his new best friend’. y/n was not complaining, this was the first driver outside of the 2019 rookies and max who was expressing actual interest in friendship.

max had always gushed about daniel during and after their time at red bull together. y/n was surprised she hadn’t seen the dutchman yet that evening, but recalled him saying that he wanted to let her get to know the others, not wanting to hover over her like an overprotective parent.

another figure slipped in beside her at the bar and when she turned she came face to face with none other than sebastian vettel. the german gave her a soft smile and said, “i hope tonight wasn’t too daunting for you, we’re all very excited to have you on the grid, though some more than others.”

y/n raised her eyebrow, imploring him to continue. “the way max insists on praising you at every turn i thought your name was already on the second red bull.”

she let out a short laugh, “max does like talking…”

“oh he’s been showing us your formula two highlights all season, gushing about your lines and how we’ll all have to watch our backs this season.”

daniel finally got their shots and butted into the conversation, “max literally hasn’t shut up since you started in formula two, he’s all in on the y/n train.”

y/n smiled. she knew max was a big supporter of hers but hearing it from others made her heart swell.

the trio headed back to the main group who in the short time at the bar had managed to consume a worrying amount of alcohol. there was something surreal about seeing world champions struggle to string a sentence together or keep their heads up straight.

“oh my god what happened? how are they this fucked? we were gone for like five minutes?”

sebastian chuckled, looking over to fernando who was practically sat on a very bemused kimi raikkonen’s lap, “some of us have tasted the glory of winning the championship, so when you know that your car is nowhere near that this season, you cope in your own way.”

the bar had descended into chaos, looking closer to a renaissance painting than a sophisticated night out amongst high performance athletes. alex was sat in the same seat but now found himself flanked by two of his rookie class who now closely resembles a pair of clingy cats. y/n was sure she even saw lando, for the lack of a better word, nuzzle alex’s neck.

when checo appeared with an entire platter of tequila shots, alex took that as his cue to take lando and george home before they got their hands on any more alcohol.

“do you want some help with them?” y/n asked, watching alex wrangle the two drivers towards the exit.

“no, i can handle them. if you think this is bad, you should’ve seen them last year, proper made a fool of themselves. stay and get to know everyone, soon they’ll be so drunk you’ll have some good blackmail material on them.”

y/n hadn’t thought about that. not that she’d ever blackmail a fellow driver…

“well good luck getting them back to their rooms, see you tomorrow!”

y/n turned back to the mess in the bar. max was pouring pure gin in pierre’s mouth, charles was trying (key word, trying) to slow dance with sebastian despite the only music playing being edm and kevin magnussen was already asleep at the main table with nico hulkenberg and lance stacking coasters on his head.

“enjoying the circus?” a voice asks her from behind, y/n turned to see none other than kimi raikkonen. trying not to show her nerves, y/n took one of the drinks kimi was holding.

“i think i am. it’s a bit overwhelming.”

kimi nodded. there was a silence between them but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“are you excited for your first formula one race?”

“i am. i just want to show mclaren that they made the right decision on me.”

“you’ll be fine, trust me. i watched you in testing. i know that doesn’t mean much when it comes to the actual pace of the car, but you already had good control over the car. have faith in yourself.”

all of the praise from everyone else was nice but to get that many words out of kimi, it all was real now.

“thank you kimi, i hope we get to race this season. you’re a hero of mine.”

“that makes me feel old.”

“oh! i didn’t me too-”

“i’m kidding. most people would’ve chosen seb or lewis as they’re heroes.”

“oh i admire them, but there was only one blonde i loved in formula one.”

kimi let out a little laugh. the two sat there, observing for a couple of moments.

“don’t trust anyone,” kimi said suddenly, turning to y/n. “huh?”

“don’t trust anyone. i’m sorry that it’ll likely be worse for you, but these people they’re not really your friends, not when you’re in the car and everything is on the line. you can’t take it personally but you can prepare yourself. you’re a girl, so people will take their side more often than not. just know you’re here for a reason, they can’t push you around without repercussions.”

y/n took a second to let it sink in. there were things that managers and friends from outside the sport had warned her about, but a reminder from someone like kimi made it really resonate.

“i guess i’ll just have to be so fast that they can’t get near me.”

kimi laughed, properly this time. they clinked their glasses and went back to watching the mess unfold before them.

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yourusername

may 2020.

liked by alexalbon, lewishamilton and 1,289,409 others

tagged: georgerussell63, fernandoalo_oficial & landonorris

yourusername: that’s one way to get introduced to the grid

view all comments

user1: the way i’d actually give a kidney to have been here

user2: so much i need to know, so little information

user3: george and lando are never getting rid of the lightweight allegations

yourusername: as long as i am living and breathing those allegations will live on

landonorris: and when i sue you for slander

yourusername: come for me baby i know the law

landonorris: bring it on, the mclaren legal team love me

yourusername: they’ll take one look at my camera roll and laugh in your face xxx

landonorris: CAMERA ROLL?

yourusername: sleep well

landonorris: i will ruin your life rookie

user4: mclaren duo you are so precious

user5: now i have them, i can never see them at different teams

user6: they’re my prediction for biggest surprise this season

maxverstappen1: who keeps leaving bottles of gin unattended around me

yourusername: why can’t you control yourself around them

maxverstappen1: gin talks to me like the green goblin mask

yourusername: that much is clear

yourusername: poor pierre was sent into a different dimension that night

pierregasly: still better than my red bull experience

user7: this girl has chemistry with everyone damn

user8: bro sees a girl having banter with someone and loses his mind

user9: this is why the ‘friend zone’ exists because you guys mistake a girl being nice or funny for flirting

alexalbon: i miss out on so much because those dumbasses can’t handle liquor

yourusername: you should’ve just left them to die?

alexalbon: i fear both mclaren and williams know my address

georgerussell63: i don’t know where this is all coming from?

alexalbon: you threw up in the shower?

georgerussell63: i don’t recall this therefore it didn’t happen

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“george got a boner? can i use that as blackmail for a quali tow?” kimi gasped, clutching his metaphorical pearls.

“do not tell him i told you that,” y/n thought for a second, “or you can, i don’t really care.”

the four of them approached charles’ house and could already hear the hustle and bustle from inside. y/n went to ring the bell but kimi grabbed her hand quickly,

“you’re sure this will be okay?”

the italian had a little shake in his voice.

“you’re going to be fine, everyone will love you, okay? stop doubting yourself.”

she finally rung the bell and the group could hear the silence sweep throughout the house. the door swung open to reveal charles who was already pink in the face, telling y/n that the monagasque had already been amongst the drinks.

“well look what the cat dragged in,” charles said looking her up and down. the three behind her were suddenly weary, charles’ face had hardened when his eyes landed on y/n. “i’ve fucking missed you!”

charles pulled her into a tight hug. the world had stopped. y/n hadn’t spoken to charles since the crash and three years of silence was suddenly pouring out of both of them. tears slipped out from both of them, pulling each other so tight like they were trying to fall into each other’s bodies.

“as touching as this all is, it’s fucking freezing out here and i’d love that cocktail i was promised?”

max broke the silence in his typical fashion and charles finally acknowledged the three others. his smile turned wicked when he realised what kimi and ollie were wearing.

“oh mon amis, those suits are just too cute!”

y/n peered over charles’ shoulder with a very clear ‘i told you so’ written on her face. charles pulled on ollie’s hands, muttering about how well dressed his son is, and ushered the rest of them into his home.

kimi, ollie and max continued down the corridor and into the common space with the other attendees but y/n and charles hung back.

“i’m being serious, i really missed you,” charles said, “i really haven’t been the friend i should’ve been during all of this. i know i hurt you and i don’t expect you to forgive me, but know i am sorry, truly.”

the tears had returned to charles’ eyes once again. y/n tried to summon the anger that she had festered in for three years, but here, stood face to face with charles, she just couldn’t. the monegasque looked so wrecked and she knew that wasn’t a lie. y/n, through common sense but also the advice of her therapist, had never seen the race that ended her career. however, in a weak moment of social media addiction, y/n had stumbled upon a clip of charles’ radio. it was a compilation of his radios across the year, including grosjean’s fireball, pierre’s near miss in japan a couple years ago and finally, silverstone 2022.

“holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck! is that y/n?”

“i can confirm it is y/ln, we are waiting for news from mclaren”

“is she okay? has she responded on the radio?”

“no news yet charles, stay in delta and come to the pit lane.”

“anyone but her, god please. please be okay, please, please, please. not another one, don’t take another one.”

shivers had wrung up her spine when she had heard it. the weekend had been so traumatic that she had hardly stopped to think about anyone else. the crash had unleashed such an ugly anger within her, so powerful that just a glimpse of a formula one car made her feel so vulnerable to her emotions. instead of facing it head on, it just felt easier to hide and to try and forget.

“hey, hey,” y/n took charles’ face in her hands, “look at me okay, i have no hard feeling against you. you don’t need to be sorry, these things happen. i did what i thought i had to do and that was hide. was it healthy? no, but i hate that my silence might have made you think that i blame you in any way.”

charles let out a wet laugh and y/n continued, “i heard your radio, for the first time a couple months ago. i know what you’ve been through, i should’ve spoken to you.”

charles shook his head, “you did what you needed to do, i won’t ever hold it against you. i’m just glad you’re here now, we can make up for lost time now. although i am pretty offended that you didn’t come back for me but for this kid?”

“kimi is a lot nicer than all of you dummies,” y/n poked her tongue out, “and once he looks at you like a lil puppy, you can’t say no.”

y/n smiled to herself, and charles replicated it. the two just existed together for a moment, listening to the greetings down the hall. a small shiver of doubt made its way up y/n’s spine. the reunion with charles had gone well, but would everyone else look past her three year silence?

“they’re looking forward to seeing you,” charles said, nudging y/n closer to the action. she took a small breath and made her way to the common area.

all conversation ceased when she took her first step in the room. max, kimi, ollie and alex all smiled at he, trying to ease her into the room. carlos looked happy to see her, but as always there was something off in his eyes, like he didn’t quite trust her and oscar was there? y/n had never met the aussie but had heard he was a little standoffish.

oscar couldn’t even make eye contact with her, he looked anywhere else, charles’ white ceiling suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. that was odd.

“welcome back!” alex yelled, making everyone else jump, “i have missed you so much, so much has happened. please never disappear again!” he said, wrapping her in a hug. y/n snuggled in closer, breathing in the familiar scent of her friend. drawing back she looked up at him with a strange look,

“have you changed your cologne?”

“well, i’d like to think i have changed a lot in three years, but yes i have?”

“do you have a girlfriend?”

“tell me you don’t check my instagram why don’t you? yes i do, you’ll have to come to dinner at some point. lily is very excited you’re coming back, she says we don’t shut up about you.”

y/n was so happy for alex, “you smell like a girl, she’s done wonders for you.”

alex’s smile fell immediately, “i didn’t miss this, you didn’t get any nicer in your break huh?”

“still a bitch i fear.”

everyone was back engrossed in their conversations, with carlos keeping his distance from y/n by busying himself with charles at the bar. y/n saw oscar again, hovering by ollie, trying and failing to conceal his staring.

“is oscar usually this weird with new people?” y/n asked alex, “he’s staring but also can’t make eye contact without looking like he’s going to shit himself.”

“oh he’s got massive survivors guilt, which is a weird way to put it considering he wasn’t in the race that day, but…”

oh. now it makes sense. “i see, i should probably talk to him shouldn’t i?”

“you can if you want to but you also don’t owe anyone anything? it’s your choice.”

y/n looked over again and oscar again quickly diverted his eyes. here goes nothing. making her way to the other group of drivers, oscar started looking for his escape.

“hi guys, are you okay if i steal the aussie for a second?”

the rest of the group didn’t care but oscar sputtered out a, “really? i’m okay, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to?”

“come on,” y/n took ahold of his arm, “let’s go talk somewhere else.”

the aussie looked nervous but he followed y/n through charles house. after trying a couple doors, the finally found a study and the pair sat down. oscar couldn’t stop fidgeting, he felt the sweat beading at his brow and the collar of his shirt was starting to strangle him.

“do you want to tell me why you’re so nervous?” y/n asked, “as far as i’m aware, you’ve done nothing to warrant this?”

oscar didn’t say anything. he didn’t know how to word it without sounding like an idiot.

“i just thought you would maybe resent me for taking your seat? i’m sorry for being such a weirdo about it. i know it was a dick move from me to not even bring you up but there was this whole thing with mark and zak, but i should’ve listened to myself, i’m sorry…”

it all spilled out at once and oscar just looked at her horrified. did she even know about mark and zak?

“oscar, i don’t resent you for taking the seat. i can’t say i’ve watched much more than just the races, so i can’t say for sure you’re the greatest guy off the track, although the fact you were even invited here tells me so, but you more than deserved that seat. yes, it’s unfortunate the way it became available, but i’ll never resent a racer for following his dreams.”

oscar let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, “thank you, you don’t know the amount of sleepless nights i had after i took the seat. i thought that maybe you would come back and either i’d have to give it up or i’d keep it and stop you from coming back. i mean you’re a hero of mine and all i could think was ‘am i an asshole for taking this from you when you’re still in hospital?’”

y/n sighed, “i won’t lie, it hurt. but not because of you. a full lifetime of work was snuffed out in one second. i understand formula one is a business but i don’t think zak knows that i could hear everything while i was in the medically induced coma.”

oscar’s head shot up at the mention of zak’s name and this told y/n everything she needed to know.

“he was on the phone just five minutes after the nurse told him i’d never be able to get in a formula one car again. my racing body wasn’t even cold yet. i do know it was mark on the phone. i’ve not held it against him, unless there’s something you’d like to tell me?”

was it betrayal if he told y/n? everything had already happened and the truth was y/n knowing wasn’t going to change anything. but if he didn’t say then y/n could decide to go back and watch interviews and videos and see what a big liar he was.

“him and zak had this weird thing they were stuck on. like i said you’re a hero of mine, and i still wanted to honour you in any way i could. i had a plan to have a 13 on my helmet, i even wanted to dedicate my first win to you. but i wasn’t allowed. they said i needed to leave you in the past or it would make me look weak.”

tears were falling down oscar’s face as y/n pulled him into a hug. the aussie shook with the strength of his sobs.

“i’m a grown man, i should’ve told them no, but i had just gotten there. i’m sorry, i wish i had a back bone.”

y/n ran her hands through his hair, comforting the younger driver, “oscar, don’t worry. i don’t take any offence. you forget i raced under zak, i know what an asshole he can be. you don’t have to do anything to make it up to me, just don’t be a stranger in the paddock. i may be there for kimi, but you can still come to me.”

y/n wasn’t sure how lando was treating oscar, had he started off kind with him and flipped on his head as well? it couldn’t hurt to check.

“i know lando can be difficult, so don’t think you’re alone okay? i know how it feels, so come complain to me if you need to.”

oscar laughed, “i know exactly what you’re talking about. did you watch hungary this year? that was a mess, it was so awkward in the garage after that. it’s creepy how he can turn it on for a video right? i don’t know what happened between you but it’s almost like he knew i wanted to dedicate it to you? he asked me like ten times whether i dedicated it to anyone.”

okay, that was a problem. y/n had stupidly thought that maybe lando going cold turkey from her for three years might have made whatever weird vendetta he had against her disappear, or at least lessen.

“if i’m being completely honest, i’m not sure what happened between us. we obviously grew up together and were close from that, we all were, but as soon as the racing started he just switched up, and by the sounds of it, it hasn’t gotten better in my absence.”

the pair moved to the bathroom to get oscar some tissues and make him look a little more presentable. fixing his hair, y/n said, “i’m serious oscar, there’s no hard feelings. i’m proud of you-”

y/n was cut off with some commotion coming from the common area. the pair looked at each other and hurried to the scene of the noise. there stood george and lando, they both looked like they had grown up, lando sporting some facial hair and george in a suprisingly formal getup.

both brits locked on y/n and oscar as they returned.

“so one mclaren driver wasn’t enough for you? you had to go and seduce oscar as well?”

lando accused, a look of pure disgust on his face, “he’s got a girlfriend as well, do you have any respect for yourself?”

y/n burst out laughing, looking bewildered at lando. “is this guy serious?” she asked looking around the room, most of them looking just as shocked as her at his outburst.

“i don’t know what you’re laughing at,” lando said and turned to oscar, “i really thought you’d last more than five minutes mate.”

“lando, i don’t know what you’re problem is, but we were clearing the air about me taking the seat after her crash. you know, we spoke, like normal fucking people. just because you couldn’t spend more than five minutes with the one girl in the sport without wanting to fuck her doesn’t mean i don’t see her as an actual person.”

oscar replied, standing in front of y/n who was shocked but also impressed by the aussie’s take down of his own teammate. lando glared at his teammate, “you know having her on side will do nothing for this bullshit bid you have to be the number one driver this season. in fact i remember her launching a plot like that herself, and look how that ended.”

one second lando was smirking in front of oscar and y/n and next he was on the floor, all courtesy of kimi. the italian was looming over lando, the angriest anyone in the room had ever seen him. ollie tried to grab his hand, but he yanked it back and set his sights back on lando.

“you really are the dumbest person in the world aren’t you?”

lando was speechless, still on the floor.

“she could’ve said so much about you, your team and the bullshit you both put her through, but she didn’t. we all know you were an asshole to her, she could’ve ruined this dumb boy next door act you’ve got going, but she didn’t. so you should think yourself lucky.”

kimi felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see y/n. he stood up, moving away from lando and let y/n lead him towards the exit just as the other one decided to pipe up.

“she’s a bit old for you isn’t she, buddy?” george’s voice rung out, “or are you really going for the max verstappen route, problematic older woman and everything?”

that was a low blow. kelly was a sore subject for max, y/n didn’t really know much about her, just that they got together and broke up during the time that y/n was first moved to london. max had been the only one to know where she was, but that was only months after she had moved. y/n never met her and only heard about her when max had visited and gave her a life update that included a whirlwind romance.

“that’s a bold choice george,” max said, getting in his face, “isn’t kimi like a son to toto? you really think he’s choosing you over him? you were just a bed warmer for him when lewis had pissed him off. we all know he’d choose kimi and well, that he’d do anything for me, so are we really the ones you want to try and go toe to toe with?”

george narrowed his eyes at max, “i went through so much trouble for that girl back then, i hope you’re not getting your hopes up. she’ll just lead you on like she did to us, you’re just a stepping stone to her.”

“i am right here, you know? you don’t have to talk about me like i’m not?”

george’s head whipped around to her direction, “you were fine not talking for three years. why now? why come back now? there’s nothing for you there? or do you have an ulterior motive? are you using kimi to sabotage me?”

y/n let out another laugh in disbelief, “are you being serious right now? you can’t be this seriously delusional. despite popular belief, to you, not everything i do, is to do with you. both of you seem to have such an inflated view of your place in my life, please sleep well knowing i don’t want anything to do with either of you.”

charles interrupted, “i invited you two because i thought you would be happy to see y/n, why are you ruining my night? i brought olives and you’re bringing the mood down!”

“yes, i think it’s time you guys left.” max said, ready to escort them himself, with force if necessary.

the two gave y/n a final dirty look before storming out of charles’ house. y/n didn’t understand how it had gotten so bad between them, she longed for the times when they’d sneak out for ice cream at karting competitions and tell each other ghost stories. she wanted those times back so badly, but with displays like tonights she wasn’t sure if it was worth it. maybe those bridges had burnt the moment her car hit the wall.

the atmosphere in the room was thick, no one knew what to say following what ever they just witnessed.

“i guess we don’t outgrow the pettiness. ever.” ollie said, downing his drink, “if that’s what formula one does to a man i need another drink.”

charles started working behind his home bar and with the silence broken, the conversation started again.

“y/n i’m sorry i brought you back into this. i just wanted to have you as a mentor and try and get you to fall back in love with the sport, i didn’t want to bring you into a civil war where you get accused of seducing everyone.”

“kimi, i am happy to be here and we will work together. they don’t mean anything to me, okay? the things they say is water off a duck’s back for me now.”

“as long as you’re sure, i want you to enjoy it.”

“there’s enough of you i love to stick around. i’ve only known you for a short while, but the way you go for the things you want and stand up for what you believe makes me believe. they don’t matter to us. what matters is you and your car, and we will prove them all wrong.”

max slipped his arm around her shoulder as she spoke to kimi. “do you want to go?”

y/n looked back to kimi, “are you okay if we go? you and ollie can stay and enjoy yourself, rinse charles for as much as he’s worth.”

kimi nodded and hugged y/n. “see you soon, thank you again.”

“no worries, bunny.”

y/n and the dutchman grabbed their stuff and made their way to the door. charles escorted them out, “sorry it became such a downer, but i still liked seeing you again. we’ll have to get lunch some time before testing, arthur has been bothering me about meeting you.”

the pair ventured back out into the wind, a strained silence between them. “you know none of us believe what they said, right?”

“unfortunately, i’m very used to it maxy,” y/n said, leaning into him, “but it doesn’t bother me anymore. the people i care about know me, that’s all that matters.”

“just say the word and i’ll make their lives hell.”

“that’s noble, max, but i’m okay.”

“you let them get away with too much, y/n. seriously, what they just did was fucked up.”

“maybe to them i did do those things?”

“don’t say that,” max said stopping her, “they’re being childish. they can’t act like they have and expect that you’ll just fall into their arms.”

“do you think i’ll fall into your arms?”

“no. maybe? i don’t know, i want whatever you want. you know how i feel about you, but i just want you in my life. you’re the only one who has always really known me. we were so young and you saw me, not my dad and not my driving, but me. i will forever be grateful for you, it’s in your hands.”

“it’s all so confusing, max. if i do anything i just prove their point. at this moment i just need to exist. but i’d like to exist with you.”

“i’d like to exist with you too.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

fin.

note: it's the drama mick i love it! a big bust up chap for you all, and boy have i been tired this weekend so this took a lil longer than i wanted it to. testing next!!!

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998 @xsilkesworld @justaf1girl @daddyslittlevillain @evans-dejong @abq654 @elizamoe133 @wierdflowerpower @t1nkerbel1 @okcurran @raizelchrysanderoctavius @skepvids @multilovebot @fernandoalonso14 @jules-kup-172 @m4xgirlie @rorabelle15 @minkyungseokie @formula1-motogpfan @peterholland04 @miureiz @freyathehuntress @lighttsoutlewis @aleatorio1234 @chaosandevelyn @blueberry648579 @dog-and-cat-person230 @fastandcurious16 @obxstiles @cosmicwintr @becca388510 @savagittariuspy @tibadi @thisbitxhs-blog @finn-dot-com @scenesofobx @moofilms @alilstressyandlotdepressy @nana-love-bugzzz @mayax2o07 @obsessed-fan-alert

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #charles leclerc #max verstappen #ollie bearman #kimi antonelli #alex albon #oscar piastri #lando norris #george russell

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 9 days ago

Text

The Blackline.

This is a sub-story about Stack’s Brothel in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1929. It will be within the same alternate timeline I plan to write when I explore Stack as a pimp. Exploring Smoke in the midst of it all.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part One.

There was a hum on Ninth Street that didn’t exist anywhere else in Little Rock.

Not in the white part of town with its strict corners and clean churches. Not along the cotton fields where sharecroppers bent their backs and begged the sun for mercy. But right here, between Gaines and Broadway, down near the old train tracks and past the Dreamland Ballroom. Black life pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath the city.

In 1929, Ninth Street was everything.

It was jazz sliding off trumpet bells, bootleg whiskey sweet as sin behind the curtain, girls in sequin dresses with rouge on their knees, and young men in sharkskin suits gambling rent money on backroom dice. It was barbershops and beauty parlors, Sunday suits and Saturday lust. It was survival. Black, brilliant, and dangerous.

This street had raised its own people.

It gave birth to musicians, conjure women, gamblers, preachers, and madams. And when the city turned its back on them, they turned to each other and built banks, clubs, undertakers, and juke joints from sawdust and spite.

But where there is rhythm, there is shadow.

And in that shadow lived a man named Elias “Stack” Moore.

Down a narrow alley off 9th, just past an old tailor’s sign faded into the brick, was a heavy red door with no name.

Folks called it The Blackline.

Not just because of how close it sat to the edge of everything respectable, but because crossing that threshold meant you were stepping into the soft belly of Black pleasure and vice. Nothing past that door was legal. Everything inside it was intoxicating.

To get in, you had to know the knock:

Three slow. Two fast.

Or the password:

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The inside glowed with low amber lamps and the heat of too many bodies. The walls were velvet red. The air was thick with jasmine oil, cigar smoke, and sweat. A gramophone crackled from the corner, slow jazz bleeding through the room like maple over a hot skillet.

Curtains hung heavy around each alcove, some whispering, some moaning, always shifting like silk being pulled from the skin. The floor creaked under heels, under knees, under lives slipping quietly into pleasure and forgetting.

The women here weren’t just working. they were art personified.

Dark-skinned goddesses with gold hoops and garters. Plump cuties with high cheekbones and wide backsides. Light-eyed country girls with long legs and sad stories. New flappers with pressed curls and voices like gin. All of them owned by no one: except Stack.

Stack ran The Blackline like a man who knew the cost of control.

He wasn’t loud like most pimps. He didn’t need to be. He watched everything, leaning in the corner with a cigarette between his fingers, or a drink in his hand, velvet coat open, fedora low and dapper over his brow. His eyes were sharp, mouth always curved in that half-smirk that meant he either wanted to fuck you or gut you, and sometimes it was both.

His girls respected him. Feared him. Some loved him, though they wouldn’t say it out loud. He didn’t beat his women. But he didn’t let them leave easy either. He fed them, clothed them, protected them from the white cops and the worse men who came knocking. And in return, they gave him their best—on the floor, in the backrooms, on their knees.

Stack wasn’t just a pimp. He was a businessman. A gambler. A bootlegger.

And he wasn’t alone.

They were born in heat and hunger, two Mississippi boys who came out the womb fists clenched, mirror images with mirrored scars.

Elias was the mouth, the mind.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore was the fire.

Stack ran the brothel, the books, and the girls. Smoke handled the bootlegging, the deals, and the dirty work. He was the enforcer, the bullet in the chamber, the one you didn’t see coming until your knees gave out.

Together, they built an empire on sin and silence.

People knew the Moore twins didn’t play. You crossed them, you didn’t just get beat—you vanished.

And yet…

Smoke had a way with women. A slow kind of seduction. A man who touched soft but fucked hard. Girls wanted him even when they didn’t know why.

Stack didn’t mind.

As long as the business kept running, the girls kept earning, and the city kept looking the other way, The Blackline stayed lit, and the Moore brothers stayed untouchable.

She didn’t belong here.

Not yet.

Not with her thrift-store shoes worn at the heel, her patched satin dress clinging too loose to her hips, or the scent of salt marsh and memory still clinging to her skin. Not with her innocence intact and her voice too soft to ask for anything out loud.

But Violet was desperate. And desperation was the only currency that mattered on Ninth Street after midnight.

The alley was narrow and damp, lit only by a flickering gas lamp and the far-off glow of the Dreamland Ballroom. Jazz bled through the brick walls like vapor, and somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed too loud.

The red door loomed before her.

She’d been told what to say by the older girl who’d found her crying behind the beauty shop two days earlier, the one with the silver eye and a split lip she wore like jewelry.

Three slow. Two fast.

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The peephole opened.

Two shadowed eyes looked her over, lingered on the bare knees below her hemline.

“You don’t look like you know what you doing,” the voice said.

“I can learn,” she replied, trying to keep her chin lifted.

The door creaked open.

And Violet stepped inside.

Heat wrapped around her like breath. The air was thick with perfume, pipe smoke, and the smell of sex so fresh it clung to the walls. Light came from low amber lamps, each corner flickering like a secret. Everything was red—the carpet, the drapes, the wallpaper—blood velvet and mahogany shadows. She could hear moans behind curtains. Laughter behind beads. Cards flipping. Shoes tapping. Skin slapping.

A woman walked past in nothing but a beaded bra and stockings, hips moving like a song no man could resist. A man in suspenders had his hand buried beneath the hem of another girl’s skirt, and no one batted an eye. The air tasted like cinnamon and heat. She felt it instantly—between her thighs, in her belly, behind her ribs.

She didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But something inside her, something deeper than fear, wanted to.

He saw her from across the room.

Stack leaned in his usual spot—against the far wall, velvet coat draped open, dark liquor in his hand. The room swam in bodies and fog, but his eyes landed on her like they’d been waiting for her arrival.

Young. Thin. Pretty in a way that wasn’t polished but raw. Something untouched. Her eyes were wide, posture tight, hands gripping the strap of a borrowed purse like it held a weapon.

He knew the look.

Fresh meat.

He stepped forward, smooth and slow, like the room parted just to let him walk.

“You lost, baby girl?” he asked, voice deep, syrupy.

Violet turned toward him, startled by the height of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his mouth didn’t smile even when his tone pretended to.

“No sir,” she whispered, “I’m lookin’ for work.”

He let his eyes drag down her body, slow.

“You ain’t been touched, have you?”

Her breath caught.

“No,” she said softly, “But I’m willin’. I just need a place to stay.”

Stack stepped closer, leaned in near her ear.

“‘Round here, baby…we don’t take what ain’t offered. But if you wanna give it, there’s a place for you upstairs.”

She swallowed hard.

He smelled like rum, spice, and danger. She felt like a match held to oil.

He straightened up and looked her over one more time.

“Name’s Stack. You remember that.”

Then he turned, nodded to one of the girls near the bar.

“Get her cleaned up. She sleep in the green room tonight. I’ll decide what to do with her come mornin’.”

And just like that, Violet was pulled into the velvet bloodstream of The Blackline.

Not as a worker. Not yet.

But as a girl the house would keep its eyes on.

The green room was small, no bigger than a boxcar berth, with peeling wallpaper and a single oil lamp that painted the cracked mirror gold. Violet sat on the edge of the old porcelain tub, steam rising in curls around her face. The bathwater was warm, not hot, the kind that clung to your skin like a whisper. Rose petals floated on the surface—leftover from another girl’s soak, but she didn’t mind.

It had been a long time since she’d felt anything soft.

She undressed slow, like it meant something. Like the silk slip she unfastened wasn’t secondhand. Like the stockings she peeled from her legs weren’t fraying at the toes. She laid them gently on the wooden chair. Her body looked thin under the lamplight. Not fragile—coiled, like something waiting to bloom.

Violet stepped into the water.

It wrapped around her like hands from the other side.

She exhaled, lowered herself in, and let her head fall back against the porcelain. Her eyes fluttered shut.

She thought of her grandmother.

Old Miss Luella. Thick hands, voice like saltwater and thunder, skin dark and smooth like polished shell. The woman who raised her on boiled root tea, haint blue, and Gullah prayers whispered to the wind.

“Your body is a gate, child. Not a gift. Not for free. And not to be feared.”

The memory of her voice wrapped around Violet now like arms.

She’d come here because she had nowhere else to go. But something inside her knew this was more than survival.

This was crossing a threshold.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her most precious thing.

a piece of lavender ribbon, worn and soft.

Her mother used to tie it around her wrist when she was scared.

Her grandmother would wrap it around her ankle and say, “No man can touch what’s guarded by memory.”

Now, Violet tied it around her throat.

Not tight. Just snug enough to feel.

It wasn’t just protection anymore.

It was a signal.

That she was hers first.

And whoever touched her after this…would have to be worthy.

She dried slow, humming a tune only her family would recognize. Her curls damp, cheeks feeling like brown velvet gone warm, the warmth of her body from the bath and the shade of her skin like café au lait. She stood in the cracked mirror, naked but not ashamed. There was still fear. But there was something else now too.

A quiet hunger.

Not just to survive…

But to become.

The room was warm with lamplight and perfume.

Not strong, just faint hints of amber, pressed powder, and lilac, the kind that clung to bedsheets long after a girl had gone. The velvet chaise against the wall sagged with familiar use, and lying across it, a cigarette in one hand and one heel kicked off, was Cordelia.

Cordelia Toussaint.

The girls just called her Delie. The men called her whatever she whispered in their ear.

She was thirty miles of legs and don’t-give-a-damn, eyes lined in coal, lips always painted in something dark like plum or wine. Her robe was silk and nearly see-through, the color of crushed garnet. One thigh peeked from the slit, golden and gleaming.

She didn’t flinch when Violet walked in.

Just raised one arched brow and looked her over.

“Mmm,” Cordelia hummed, “Ain’t you a delicate little thing.”

Violet froze in the doorway, arms wrapped tight across her front, “Sorry—I didn’t know anyone was—”

“I ain’t just ‘anyone,’ sugar. I’m the Queen of this floor,” Cordelia smiled slow, cigarette curling smoke toward the ceiling, “And this here,” she gestured to the piles of lace, satin, and beaded silk draped over the bed, “is your coronation.”

Violet stepped farther in, bare feet soft on the worn rug. The heat of the oil lamps made her skin glow, still damp from her bath. Her curls had puffed around her face, and her ribbon—lavender—was still tied around her neck.

Stack had sent up a box of clothes earlier. Beautiful ones. Too beautiful. Like someone else’s dreams.

“Stack got taste,” Cordelia said, eyeing the garments, “Or maybe he just sees somethin’ in you he don’t wanna say out loud.”

Violet looked down, fingers trailing over a lavender chemise trimmed in black lace, “I’ve never worn anything like this.”

“Well, try it on then. Ain’t nobody gonna bite. ‘Cept maybe me,” She grinned around her cigarette.

Violet turned her back, cheeks burning.

She slipped out of her plain cotton shift and stepped into a deep emerald set. It was a camisole that hugged her waist and barely reached the curve of her hips, paired with tap shorts that rode high.

When she turned around, Cordelia sat up, real slow.

“Well, well, well…” she purred, “Ain’t you a quiet little storm.”

Violet shifted, unsure, “It fits weird. I’m too skinny for it.”

Cordelia scoffed, “Skinny? No, baby. You just got all your weight where it counts.”

Her eyes dragged down Violet’s frame, deliberate.

“Those hips could rock a man stupid. And that little ass? That’s trouble. Small up top, soft down low. You built like a promise.”

Violet’s arms crossed her chest, trying not to blush harder, “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“No, honey. I only say what’s true.”

Cordelia stood then, barefoot, and came close. Close enough that Violet could smell the jasmine and smoke on her skin. She ran one fingertip over the satin strap at Violet’s shoulder.

“You ever had a woman look at you like this before?”

Violet swallowed, “No.”

“Well, Miss Vi, you better get used to it,” Cordelia stepped back and smiled, “‘Cause by the time Stack puts you on the floor, they all gon’ be lookin’.”

Violet sat on the edge of the bed now, legs crossed at the ankles, fingers tracing the hem of the tap shorts.

Cordelia had returned to the chaise, reclined with one arm draped behind her head, her cigarette replaced with a glass of dark wine that shimmered like rubies in the lamplight.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The room was thick with perfume and tension—not heavy, just tender, like when rain wants to fall but isn’t ready yet.

Then, softly, Violet asked, “Does it hurt?”

Cordelia didn’t turn her head. Just sipped her wine and let the question settle.

“When it’s your first?” she said finally.

Violet nodded.

Cordelia breathed slow through her nose.

“Sometimes. Depends on the man. Depends on how much you want it…or how much you pretend you do.”

Violet looked down, “And what about after that?” she asked, “After the first time?”

Cordelia set the glass down on the floor and finally turned toward her, one knee drawn up beneath her robe.

“After that?” she said, “You learn your own rhythm. What you can take. What you like. Where to let them touch. Where to keep to yourself,” She studied Violet for a long moment. Then added, “It don’t always feel like much. But sometimes…”

She trailed off.

“…Sometimes?” Violet whispered.

Cordelia smiled slowly.

“Sometimes, with the right one…it feels like your soul’s gettin’ kissed from the inside out.”

Violet’s breath caught. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

Cordelia’s smile deepened, “Mmhm. You felt that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said, “I just—when I think about someone touchin’ me like that…I get warm. But I also feel scared. Like my body wants it, but the rest of me ain’t caught up yet.”

Cordelia nodded, “That’s natural. Your body been ready. It’s your heart that takes her time.”

She reached over and plucked a satin robe from the side of the bed. Rose-colored, soft, worn. She walked it over and draped it gently around Violet’s shoulders.

“You don’t gotta give nothin’ you ain’t ready to give,” she said softly, “Not to Stack. Not to Smoke. Not to nobody.”

Violet looked up at her, “Have you ever loved someone who paid you?”

Cordelia paused, just for a breath. Then said, “No. But I’ve loved how they made me feel. For a little while. That counts for somethin’, too.”

Violet pulled the robe tighter around her chest. “I don’t want to be just…a body.”

Cordelia tucked a curl behind her ear, “Then don’t be.”

She leaned in, kissed Violet’s cheek—soft, warm, and brief.

“Let ‘em touch your skin, sugar. But keep your name in your own mouth. Keep your soul in your back pocket.”

Violet had been at The Blackline for a week.

Long enough to learn which girls brought in the most coin. Long enough to know who Stack trusted with the money box. Long enough to stop flinching when the back curtain swayed with moans, and long enough to learn how to smile without meaning it.

She hadn’t let any man touch her yet.

But she knew how to lean soft against their side, how to let her fingers trail across a lap, how to pretend she’d whisper something filthy but only ask if they liked their drink cold.

Stack didn’t pressure her. Not yet.

“You sell the idea right now,” he’d said, voice low, one gold tooth catching the lamplight, “Let them chase what they can’t have. That body gon’ pay double when the time comes.”

So she played host.

She laughed when needed. Danced when asked. Gave lap dances in silk and lavender and let men groan beneath her without ever opening her legs. She was a ghost in perfume, a promise wrapped in ribbon.

And when her shift was done, she’d sit in the corner room behind a sheer drape, knees drawn to her chest, watching.

Watching the other girls work.

Watching bodies move like shadow puppets behind beaded curtains, the sound of wet mouths and thick groans muffled by the low hum of jazz.

Sometimes, she’d close her eyes and imagine someone touching her like that. Not the men who came in drunk and lonely.

Someone else.

Someone who hadn’t even looked her way yet.

He came and went through the hallway like a breeze before the storm.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t smile. Didn’t talk unless he had to. Just passed through with his coat open, sleeves rolled, his news cap pulled low over a face that made women stare without meaning to.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

But Violet noticed everything about him.

The way he lit his cigarette with one hand. The way his loafers hit the floor slow but certain. The way his voice rumbled when he spoke to Stack—not raised, not rushed, but enough to make the other girls shut up just to listen.

He wasn’t dressed like Stack, who wore velvet and gold and lace cuffs when he felt like it.

Smoke was simpler. Cleaner. But not softer.

Dark shirts. Dark trousers. Black suspenders. He didn’t wear flash. He didn’t need to. He wore command.

And something about that…Something about how his silence filled a room more than any shout…

It did something to her.

It made her thighs press together beneath her dress.

It made her breath catch when he passed.

And it made her wonder, what would his hands feel like?

Not the hands of the laughing men who grabbed without asking.

But his?

Would they be rough? Careful? Would he say her name like it was a secret or a sentence?

Violet didn’t even know if he’d noticed her.

But her body already had.

On the third night she saw him, some drunk fool tried to grab at one of the newer girls—Peaches. The kind of man who forgot this place had rules. Smoke didn’t say a word.

He rose from his chair like a dark wind, flicked his cigarette to the floor, and grabbed the man by the collar. The struggle wasn’t loud. There were no threats, no curses. Just the wet sound of knuckles hitting bone, the quick thud of someone’s pride dropping to the floor. Then silence again, broken only by the ragged wheeze of the man as Smoke leaned in, murmuring something only he could hear.

He dusted his coat, lit another cigarette, and sat back down.

Violet hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until Cordelia touched her hand beneath the table and whispered, “That’s how Smoke handles disrespect. Quiet and clean.”

They all tried him. The girls.

Some sat on his lap, giggling and twirling curls like schoolgirls. Others pressed their breasts to his arm, offering their best pout. Cordelia once wrapped her legs around him just to tease, but even she couldn’t break through that armor. Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. He simply watched. Took long drags of his cigar and let the world orbit him.

The only time he smiled was when Stack made some offhand joke, or when the saxophone player hit a particularly sweet note. But never at the girls. Not the way they wanted.

Violet found herself waiting for him. Listening for the weight of his boots on the floorboards. She never approached. Just peeked around corners. Hid behind curtains. Her heart fluttered every time his gaze swept across the room.

Once—just once—his eyes landed on her. Those sharp, heavy-lidded eyes. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

And Violet turned away so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

The night had finally slipped quiet, the gramophone long gone silent, the perfume of cigar smoke and gin clinging to the velvet drapes like ghosts.

Backstage, in the dressing parlor with cracked mirrors and soft lamplight, Cordelia peeled off her silk stockings slow, leg stretched out long, her golden skin catching the amber glow like honey poured over polished mahogany. She had high cheekbones dusted in old rouge, eyes lined sharp as razors, and a gold mole painted just above her full mouth. Her hair was set in glossy Marcel waves, pinned back with a diamond barrette she claimed once belonged to Josephine Baker herself.

She sat in front of the mirror like she was on stage again, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a thin clove cigarette in a long ivory holder.

Peaches was across from her, lounging in a pink floral robe that hugged her plush figure. She was soft in all the places men dreamed about—belly round, hips thick like southern bread dough, and breasts that spilled out no matter what she wore. Her sandy brown coils framed her moon-round face like a lioness, fake flowers tucked behind her ears—yellow hibiscus and a few wilted daisies from the night before. She smelled like coconut oil and rum, sweet and warm.

Violet sat quiet near the wall, still in her slip, legs curled beneath her. She wore a pale-blue robe Cordelia had passed down to her. It was satin and fraying at the sleeves, but still soft against her shy skin. She didn’t speak, not yet. Just listened.

Cordelia let out a long sigh and flicked ash into an old crystal ashtray.

“Mmm. That old man in Room 2 tried to suck on my toes again,” she muttered, “Swore up and down I was an angel sent to forgive him. I told him, baby, I ain’t the Virgin Mary, I’m just Cordelia with rent due.”

Peaches cackled, her laughter rich and sweet like a gospel solo.

“At least he’s clean. That man with the gold teeth wanted me to act like his damn mama,” Peaches said, fanning herself, “Callin’ me ‘mama’ while I was ridin’ him. I almost said ‘boy, go to bed’ just to mess with him.”

Cordelia leaned back, puffing on her cigarette, “These men want every kinda woman. Soft ones, mean ones, silent ones. But you know what they really care about?”

“Pussy hair,” Peaches said, deadpan, grinning.

Violet’s eyes widened slightly.

“Exactly,” Cordelia purred, “I swear, half these fellas more opinionated than a church mother. One want it waxed bald like a lil’ girl. Another want it wild like a thicket. One man asked me to braid it.”

Peaches hollered, “Stack like it full, but trimmed. Just enough for his nose to get lost but not choked.”

Cordelia raised her brows at Violet through the mirror, “You shy, baby, but you got somethin’ under there. What you got goin’ on? Don’t be modest. We all women here.”

Peaches wiggled her brows, “Show us, baby girl.”

Violet hesitated. Her cheeks burned, but something in the way they watched her wasn’t cruel, it was curious, sisterly. So slowly, carefully, she opened her robe just enough to reveal the soft down between her thighs. A natural, delicate triangle—neatly trimmed, but untouched by razor.

“Well damn,” Cordelia murmured with an approving nod. “That’s a pretty little thing.”

Peaches smiled warmly, “You keep it just like that, baby. Let the right man teach you how he likes it.”

Violet closed her robe again, heart thudding.

“I’m surprised Stack ain’t done your initiation,” Cordelia said next, shifting tones.

Violet blinked, “My what?”

Cordelia smirked, “The initiation, sugar. When Stack gets a taste. He don’t always fuck you, sometimes he just eats. But he gotta make sure you gonna sell. That your body gonna bring money in.”

Peaches nodded solemnly, “He say he can tell from just the first taste. If you gon’ be a money-maker or a waste of time.”

“All the girls been through it,” Cordelia added, “We love Stack, even when we hate him. He run things tight. If you need food, he got it. If a man put hands on you, he handle it. If you act up, he cut you off. But he protect his girls.”

A hush fell after that. Cordelia reached for her perfume, dabbing it behind her ears. Peaches picked petals out her hair.

Violet sat quiet again. Not with fear—just thought.

She wondered if Smoke had ever done an initiation.

But the idea seemed…strange. He didn’t look at them like Stack did. He didn’t play. Didn’t sample. He sat in the shadows like a king who’d already had every fruit in the orchard.

Still, she wondered.

if he did it…how would it feel?

Would he ask?

Would he taste slow?

Would he whisper her name?

The brothel was still humming low that night—music crawling through the floorboards like midnight pour, the scent of clove and spilled gin heavy in the air. Violet was in the hallway near the parlor, pretending to check a tear in her stocking. But really, she was watching.

Cordelia walked by in her silk robe, hips swaying like she owned gravity itself. She passed Violet without a glance but tossed, “Don’t stare too long, baby. You’ll get ideas,” over her shoulder with a sly smirk.

Violet followed behind, quiet as always.

Stack was in the main parlor, sunk into his velvet armchair like a man born to it. His legs were spread, gold rings glittering on thick fingers. A black button-down hugged his chest, the top few undone just enough to show the glint of a gold chain and the curve of a rose tattoo blooming over his collarbone. A toothpick rolled lazy between his lips, and his fedora was tilted just enough to cast a shadow across his sharp eyes.

He was flanked by two women—Black beauties dressed in mink-trimmed lingerie. One with midnight skin and copper-gold eyes, the other with a cinnamon glow and long, oil-slick braids. Girls from back in New Orleans. The kind who moved too quietly, whose laughter echoed wrong if you listened too long. Their glamour was turned up high tonight—cheeks glowing, lips stained bloodred, eyes like honeyed storm clouds.

They leaned into Stack like cats in heat, one on each arm, hands tracing his chest while he accepted the girls’ cut of the night’s earnings—crisp bills folded neat in silk pouches. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t ever look rushed.

Cordelia stepped forward, elegant as a sermon, and slid her own pouch into his open palm, “For you, baby,” she purred.

Stack gave her that grin, slow, wicked, full of teeth and secrets, “That’s my girl.”

Cordelia stayed close, ran her hand up his thigh, “I got a question though,” she said lightly, tone flirtatious but eyes sharp, “That lil’ new one…Violet. Why ain’t you done her initiation yet?”

The question landed like a dropped match.

The girls giggled, expectant.

Violet froze in the hallway, half in shadow.

Stack chuckled low, licked his lips slow. Then he leaned back and finally looked up—right toward Violet. Right through the wall, through the shadows, like he felt her watching.

“’Cause she ain’t ready,” he said. Voice calm. Final, “She still soft. Still dreamin’. I bite her now, she won’t come back from it.”

The room went still for a moment.

One of the girls murmured, “Ain’t never heard you hold back before.”

Stack smirks, “I don’t break toys I like.”

Cordelia tilted her head, “You like her?”

He didn’t answer that part. Just sat there, eyes still locked in Violet’s direction.

The one of the girls leaned down, whispering something in his ear. He grinned wider, eyes glinting gold.

Cordelia laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and walked off, hips rolling like waves.

Violet slipped back down the hall, heart pounding, not sure what she felt.

She wasn’t afraid.

But something in her ached.

She didn’t know whether it was longing for Stack…or disappointment that it wasn’t Smoke who’d said those words.

The days passed, and Violet became a ghost of temptation.

She hadn’t laid with a single man yet—not really. Not how they wanted. Not how Stack trained the girls to break a John in, slow and sweet. Violet would let them look, let them taste her perfume and the way she moved when she walked—but that was all.

She’d lean in close enough for breath to catch in their throat, then pull away with a soft apology and a smile that made them want to beg.

They were starving for her.

Some started offering more; double, triple. One even brought roses. Another sent sweets and a gold bracelet. Stack let it happen. Watched from the upstairs rail with his cigar in hand, head tilted just enough to track every whisper, every reach, every ache in the eyes of the men who wanted to ruin her.

Cordelia called it “the long game.”

“You reel ‘em in slow, baby,” she told Violet one afternoon in the vanity room, lips lined red, a lace shawl loose over her shoulders, “Make ’em chase what they already think they own.”

She leaned in, breath warm against Violet’s ear, “You let ‘em think you’re green. Shy. Then one night, you open that door just a little…and they lose they whole mind.”

Peaches nodded from across the room, filing her nails, “Ain’t nothin’ like the first time a quiet girl turns bold. That pussy hit different when it’s got mystery on it.”

Violet listened. Blushed. But she held her posture a little taller now. Her silence wasn’t fear, it was control. And she was learning.

Upstairs, Stack knew.

He saw it in the way she moved through the hallway now, hips learning how to sway without effort. He saw it when she made the mistake of biting her lip in front of a customer and didn’t notice the way his hand twitched. She was blooming. Not all at once. But the petals were opening. And Stack…was patient.

He didn’t rush the flowers he wanted to own.

That night, Smoke returned.

The front door swung open in the low light. He came in like he always did—silent. Slow. Solid. Black suspenders over a white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms and the cut of his veins. Cigarette already lit. No words. No greeting.

Just presence.

Violet was sitting behind a sheer gold drape near the hallway curtain, her usual hiding place. A secret pocket of velvet and hush where she could pretend to be invisible and watch the world breathe.

She held still, barely blinking, eyes tracing the shape of his jaw in the smoke.

And she wasn’t the only one watching.

Two of the girls were near the bar, sipping gin and whispering low.

“Mmm mmm mmm…that man walk in here like sin in a suit,” one said, fanning herself, “I’d let him ruin my whole damn life.”

“He don’t even talk much,” the other whispered back, “But I love me a grown, confident-ass man. One that don’t gotta raise his voice to make the whole room shift.”

“You see how he move?” the first continued, “Like he ain’t gotta explain nothin’. Just action. He said forget all that talk, I’m bout that action.”

They giggled, voices thick with desire and bravado, but there was hunger underneath it. Real hunger. The kind even the boldest girls didn’t say too loud.

Smoke didn’t even glance their way. He walked straight to the far wall, leaned back, lit a fresh cigarette, and scanned the room with eyes that held weight. You didn’t look into them—you fell into them.

And then…he paused.

His eyes drifted. Toward the sheer drape. Toward her.

Violet held her breath.

Did he see her?

She didn’t know. But she knew one thing…

The ache inside her, the low simmer that burned beneath her belly, had a name.

And it wasn’t Stack.

It was him.

Smoke.

The brothel quieted in the small hours, when most of the girls had either gone to bed or were curled in the laps of men too drunk to finish what they started.

Violet slipped away to the back bathroom, the one with the deep porcelain tub and the cracked pink tiles, where steam clung to the mirror like breath. She twisted the knobs, hot water rushing out, cloudy with the salts and lavender oil Cordelia always kept in a little jar by the sink.

She stripped slow.

Her pale blue slip slid down her curves, skin dewy in the dim yellow light. Her breasts rose and fell with soft, shallow breaths. Her thighs were warm with sweat from the long night. Her curls stuck to her neck. She eased herself into the bath, the heat licking at her skin, pulling a sigh from her lips.

She sank deep with her knees drawn up, arms resting along the edges, eyes drifting shut.

And then the ache started again.

Smoke.

Not Stack. Not one of the slick-mouthed Johns who tried to coax her open with sweet words and sugar lies. But him—silent, watchful, heavy with power and mystery. The way he filled a room without ever trying. The cut of his jaw, the roll of his sleeves. The way he looked like he’d never say your name out loud—but growl it into your skin.

Her hand drifted down.

Fingers slipping between her thighs, slow at first. She breathed his name so softly it never left her lips. Her toes curled. Her hips arched slightly. She imagined his hand instead of hers. His fingers. His breath hot against her ear, not asking permission, just knowing what she needed.

The water lapped softly. Her moans were barely whispers, but they filled the little room all the same.

She was just on the edge, lost in that imagined weight of Smoke pressing her down, when—

Knock-knock. Click.

The door creaked open.

“Mmm.” Cordelia’s voice floated in, amused, “Now what we got goin’ on in here, sugar?”

Violet jerked up, water sloshing over the edge. She scrambled to sink lower into the bath, cheeks blazing red.

“I—I thought I locked—”

Cordelia leaned against the doorframe, fully dressed in a black silk robe trimmed with marabou feathers, cigarette holder dangling from her painted fingers.

“You didn’t,” she purred, eyes twinkling, “And even if you had, I got keys to everything in this house. Don’t look so scared. I ain’t mad. Girl’s entitled to her lil’ bath time fantasy.”

Violet covered her chest with her arms, mortified. Cordelia stepped inside, clicking the door shut behind her. She didn’t come to shame. She came like a storm that knew the rain was needed.

“Let me guess…” Her eyes narrowed, voice playful, “You wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout Smoke, was you?”

Violet didn’t answer.

Cordelia smirked and slid down to sit on the edge of the tub, letting her hand stir the water lazily.

“No shame in it, baby. That man walk in like judgment day, and every girl in this house got a little tremble in her thighs when he lights a cigarette.”

Violet looked down, face flushed, lips still parted from what almost was.

“You ever wonder what he’d do if you let him have you?” Cordelia asked, voice dropping, “Not rough like these other fools. Nah. A man like Smoke…he take his time. He don’t fuck. He consumes.”

Violet whimpered under her breath, thighs pressing together beneath the water.

Cordelia chuckled softly, “See? I knew it. You hooked and he ain’t even touched you yet,” She stood, smoothing her robe, “Just don’t drown yourself in here, alright? Save a little of that sweetness for when the time come. And baby…”

She paused at the door.

“When a man like that finally notices you? There ain’t no goin’ back.”

Then she was gone, leaving the room scented with her perfume and laughter.

And Violet?

She leaned back in the tub again.

But her hand moved slower this time.

And in her mind, she heard Smoke whisper her name.

After her bath, the house had gone hush. Only the soft lilt of old jazz drifted up from below—scratchy and faraway, like a memory playing through a wall. Most of the girls had gone to their rooms or curled up with company. Violet had begged off early. Said she had a headache. Nobody questioned her.

She wasn’t sick.

She was starving—but not for food.

The dressing room was dim, lit only by a row of half-burned candles flickering in their dusty glass jars. Smoke from earlier perfumes still clung to the air—rose, patchouli, hair tonic, clove cigarettes. The mirrors were fogged from the night’s heat and steam, the room heavy with the perfume of want.

Violet stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, wrapped in a short silk robe. Her curls were damp, falling in soft tendrils around her face, and her cheeks still flushed from her bath. Her skin glowed in the candlelight—bronze, delicate, young.

She stepped closer to the mirror.

The fogged glass showed only a whisper of herself at first, like a spirit trying to take form.

She wiped it clean with her palm.

Then stood still.

She studied her reflection. The cut of her collarbone. The shape of her mouth. The softness of her eyes, the way her lips always seemed half-parted like a question left unanswered.

“He don’t want soft,” she whispered to herself, “He want…sultry…woman.”

So she tried.

She dropped one shoulder of the robe. Let it slide down slow.

She ran her fingers through her curls and pushed them back, exposing her neck. Then she tilted her chin up just a little, parted her lips.

“You like this, don’t you?” she murmured, voice breathy, “I bet you wonder what I taste like…”

She paused. Cringed.

It didn’t sound right.

It sounded like someone else. Cordelia maybe. Or one of the other girls who knew how to speak a man into madness. Not her. Not sweet little Violet from the coast with Gullah blood and old folk songs still hiding in her bones.

She tried again.

Swayed her hips slow. Dragged her finger down her chest. Let the robe part just a little between her thighs.

“You want me, don’t you?” she whispered.

The words stuck in her throat.

Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes dropped.

It felt fake.

Like she was wearing someone else’s skin, trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t made for her. Pretty? Sure. She’d been told that. Men looked. Girls cooed. But she didn’t have Cordelia’s poise, Peaches’ sass, or the polished glamour of the girls from Stack’s past. She didn’t know how to weaponize her beauty yet.

And Smoke?

Smoke would eat a woman alive if she stepped to him wrong.

Violet sank onto the vanity stool, staring at her bare thighs, her robe still half-open.

She whispered, “You don’t see me, do you…”

She wanted to cry. Not from sadness. From that terrible tightness in the chest when your want grows too loud, and your confidence grows too quiet.

She reached for a lipstick tube and twisted it open. It was a deep wine red, something Cordelia once left on the table.

She painted her lips slow.

Then leaned in and kissed the mirror.

A print bloomed on the glass.

“If I was bold…you’d touch me, wouldn’t you?” she whispered again, softer now, “You’d press me to the wall. You’d tell me I was yours without sayin’ a word…”

Silence answered her.

And still, she sat there, robe slipping from one shoulder, red lips parted, candlelight dancing across her skin.

Just a girl aching to be noticed.

She didn’t even remember falling asleep that night. One minute, she was staring at her own reflection, robe half open, mouth painted, thighs pressed together. The next, the mirror seemed to ripple, soften, breathe.

And suddenly, he was there.

Smoke.

Leaning in the doorway behind her, half in shadow, cigarette in hand.

But this wasn’t the real Smoke. This was dream-Smoky, smoky Smoke—heavier, slower, hungry.

He stepped into the room with that same impossible quiet, like the floor moved for him, not the other way around. The door didn’t creak. The candles didn’t flicker. He just was.

His eyes moved over her…over her parted robe, over her soft thighs, over the kiss mark on the mirror like it was a challenge.

Violet tried to cover herself, but in the dream, her arms wouldn’t move. She could only look back, breath catching, skin prickling with heat and shame.

“I was just—”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped behind her. She could see him in the mirror now. Towering. Watching. His gaze dragged down her body like a match tip over dry bark. And then, he bent low, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured, voice like liquid dusk on hot skin.

His hands slid down her shoulders, calloused palms dragging over her arms, her waist. He didn’t grab. He claimed. His touch said…this has always been mine.

No one else’s

You hear me?

You’re mine, my pretty Violet…

She whimpered. Softly. Slightly strangled. Like an echo. Like she’d been longing for him to say those words and it’s only been such a short amount of time.

He dipped his head further, pressed his lips to her neck feather-like, breathing her in like she was a fragrance. The robe fell from her shoulders. Slowly. Her nipples hardened in the air.

“I see everything, Violet,” he said, “Every little ache. Every quiet moan you try to hide from the night…”

He turned her gently in the dream, and she rose without resistance. She was bare before him, trembling, but not afraid. Ready. Puddy beneath his calloused hands. Ready and willing to be told what to do.

“You ain’t gotta perform for me,” he whispered.

Then he sank to his knees. His eyes never leaving hers. Not once. His mouth was at her belly, then lower, his breath hot against the soft thatch between her thighs. He pressed a kiss there—slow, worshipful.”

“I want this,” he said.

And she believed him.

Violet gasped—and woke with a jolt.

The candles were low. The room was quiet. Her thighs were wet with sweat, her robe askew. No one was there. No door creaked. No match was struck.

But her heart was racing like he’d just left.

And for a long, long moment, Violet sat in the hush, fingertips brushing her lips.

A thought bloomed in her chest like a secret.

Despite what Violet thinks Smoke wants—sharp, sultry, polished women like Cordelia…

She’s wrong.

He’ll want her exactly as she is.

Soft. Quiet. Ache and all.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams @rolemodelshit

#nahimjustfeelingit-writes #sinnersfanfiction #sinners smut #elijah smokes #elijah smoke moore #elijah smokes x black!oc #smoke sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners fic #sinners 2025 #elias smokes x black!oc #elias stack #elias stack moore #smoke x stack #stack smut #stack sinners

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wispythreads · 10 months ago

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Different ways NPC's address the Knight

Elderbug - traveller, little traveller, (after gifting the delicate flower) my friend Quirrel - my friend, my short friend, friend Cornifer - my short friend (only said once, usually just directly addresses the Knight) Old Stag - little one Confessor Jiji - small intruder, little one Snail Shaman - little shadow, my friend The Hunter - tiny squib, little squib, Zote the Mighty - cur, soggy vagabond, clumsy little oaf, lowly worm Hornet - ghost, little ghost, Ghost of Hallownest Tiso - pale thing, little squib, pale one Salubri - sweetling, stylish litte gadfly, my dear, sweetums, my dapper gadfly Cloth - my adventurous friend, tiny warrior, tiny creature, my friend, tiny saviour, tiny one Bretta - White Saviour, White Wanderer Millibelle - dearie; creepy, little thing (thought to herself, not out loud) Seer - Wielder Grey Mourner - Le'mer (she does also address the Knight as 'you,' so Le'mer must mean something else) Nailsmith - traveller (only after not killing him) Relic Seeker Lemm - grubby little wanderer, short one, Little Fool - warrior Nailmaster Mato - my pupil Eternal Emilitia - bug, little grub Dung Defendor - mighty warrior of Hallownest Midwife - my dear, my good friend Bardoon - tiny thing Troupe Leader Grimm - my friend Divine - funny little thing, little lovely

no nicknames, always addresses the Knight directly with "you:" Myla, Sly, Iselda, Leg Eater, Willoh, Tuk, Nailmaster Sheo, Nailmaster Oro (both nailmasters will say the Knight is their pupil, but not address the Knight as 'my pupil'), Brumm, White Lady

Maskmaker is an outlier in that he is so cryptic he never addresses the Knight directly

#hollow knight #the knight #found this in my desktop notes and thought someone might find it neat

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foreverambrosia · 11 months ago

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Modeling my new glasses and tops

#dapper herself

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dapper-shipping-forever · 2 years ago

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Jabberwocky makeup looks. Spoopy makeup lol

#dapper herself

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mysterystarz · 1 year ago

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nanami kento is standing at a wedding. he’s dressed in a dapper suit, fitted and tailored to the contours of his muscular frame — a product of constant dedication and jujitsu sorcery. he’s exchanged his usual glasses for a fresh set of sunglasses that you picked out for him.

he’s at a seat near the altar, watching his old workplace friend stifle tears while he waits for his bride to emerge on the other side. he recalls the way you messily tied his tie and swept his hair aside, swearing that it was just your attempt to get him ready to look stunning in pictures.

he can almost conjure the image of you in front of him, face scrunched up in the cute confused way he loved as you attempted to smooth him out.

“screw your stupid ties,” you huffed, pouting at him in the way that always melted his heart. “they’re too…twisty.”

he hears the bridal fanfare erupt into the venue as his friends bride walks down the aisle. he can smell the scent of the rose petals as they’re thrown about by the toddlers excitedly.

the bride herself seems radiant, and when he takes a glance at his friend, the tears have already started to run down his face.

he paused to picture it then — you walking down the aisle with flowers in your hands. you with that smile he treasured so much, making your way towards him. you and your infectious love that he’d receive at the edge of the altar and seal with a kiss.

the two of you forever, til death do you part.

looks like it was time to buy a ring.

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e-vay · 11 months ago

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Hey E-Vay ! Before I say anything, LOVE your work.

Okay, so I know that you're in the process of showing us how Sonic and Amy's wedding and proposal is planned out (no pressure). BuT, just curious, how did Knucks and Rouge get married? Or even how did he get to propose?

Thanks for seeing this!

Thank you so very much! 🥰 I’m so happy you like my work!

I will not be doing a full comic or even a full fic of how their wedding goes down just because I have too many other projects I want to do (I’m only one person! 🥵). But I will give you a breakdown of how the Knuxouge wedding goes in my AU! And if anyone wants to do fanart or a fic based off it, I’d love to see/read it!

During the events of Boom!Baby, Knuckles and Rouge finally get engaged. I don’t have the exact proposal in mind, but I like to think that the two of them have been aggressively/playfully putting it off for awhile, with Knuckles constantly joking “As if I’d ever want to be married to HER” and Rouge jabbing back with “Please, you’d need to offer me the Master Emerald on a ring for me to even consider it!” But with Sonic and Amy taking this next major step in their lives, Knuckles is inspired and does end up popping the question (with a CONSIDERABLE ring full of gems that he scavenged himself!).

Knowing Rouge is an absolute diva, she’d have the most extravagant, over-the-top, dazzling wedding you could imagine. And it would definitely be a “no-kids-allowed” event. Have you seen the movie “Crazy Rich Asians”? Picture that. The wedding would be a spectacle that would last for DAYS! But, the wedding date would be expedited super fast (I headcanon that Rouge is actually very insecure and puts out a bold front to hide that about herself. She’d want to rush the wedding because she’s secretly afraid Knuckles will want to back out. She shouldn’t worry about that, he loves her very much and really wants to marry her!).

In my AU, Shadow is off-world during Boom!Baby, so though Rouge would have obviously asked him to be her “Man of Honor,” she wouldn’t be able to find a way to reach him and get him back in time for the wedding. Because of this, Omega gets pushed to the role of “Man (Mech?) of Honor” and Rouge asks Amy to be a bridesmaid instead. Note, Amy is nearing the end of her pregnancy at this time haha. I always write Rouge and Amy to have a very tense “friendship;” that’s just my personal preference. So Rouge asking Amy to be her bridesmaid was because Amy is her closest female friend, but also because she thinks it will make herself look extra fabulous when standing next to a very pregnant lady haha. She even picks out an awful yellow bridesmaid dress for Amy to wear (because Amy is still very beautiful, pregnant or not). Though Amy does agree to be a bridesmaid to support her friend, she’s actually quite upset and very self-conscious and it initially puts a damper on her enjoyment of the wedding festivities (Her feet hurt like hell, she feels like a bowling ball, she thinks she looks horrendous in this color!). Don’t worry though, Sonic cheers her up and reminds her just how radiant she is 🥰

[Sonic seeing Amy in her bridesmaid dress] S: “Wow!” A: “This yellow dress is awful. She did this on purpose.” S: “Well if she was trying to make you look bad, she failed miserably. You look like the sunshine!” A: “I look VERY pregnant!” S: “Sure, pregnant with MY baby. There ain’t a thing more beautiful than that 😉” [Rabid kissing ensues hehehe]

I picture Rouge having many outfit changes for every event that happens during their week-long wedding extravaganza, but for her actual wedding dress I imagine something super sleek, super sexy, and made up entirely of diamonds! My drawing doesn’t even do it justice. Just picture that as she’s walking, every single facet of every single diamond is sparkling! All the men would have to wear 3-piece black tuxedos complete with trousers (Sonic hates this), except Omega obviously. But he’d still wear a dapper bowtie and Sunflower & Iris boutonniere like the rest of the wedding party. (I chose Irises because Rouge seems to like the color purple and they’re a very elegant flower, and I chose sunflowers because they remind me of Knuckles for some reason. Maybe because they’re big and tall. Idk, I can see Knuckles really liking sunflowers and yellow pairs beautifully with purple). Sonic and Tails are Knuckles’ groomsmen, but Team Chaotix are also among honored guests so Vector and Espio (and maybe even Mighty) would attend all the groom-related events (like the bachelor party) leading up to the wedding.

Right before the ceremony, Rouge and Amy have a touching heart-to-heart moment and Rouge does thank her for stepping in and helping out, and she apologizes for making Amy feel bad. She admits that she has insecurities that she doesn’t like people to know about, so that’s why she goes over-the-top and sometimes puts others down in the process. Also (at least in my AU), Rouge doesn’t have very many close friends outside of Shadow and Omega, so Amy really is her next best friend. They make up, the ceremony is perfect and romantic, and everyone gets to have an absolute blast at the reception!

Lastly, because Rouge is so over-the-top… after Shadow returns back to their planet 20+ years later, I can AB-SO-LUTELY see her throwing a vow renewal that’s even more extravagant than their first wedding as an excuse to have him as her Man of Honor and also as an excuse to throw another huge bash. Though this one would be even crazier and BIGGER, I think the vow renewal would actually be way more fun because everyone (including kids) can come this time, everyone’s families are bigger (even CC would be there!), and Knuckles and Rouge’s adopted kids (Ruff and Tumble) would get to be part of the ceremony, so it’d be very heartfelt even with goofy antics.

Sorry I’m not going to make this one into a full-fledged comic, but I hope you enjoyed this condensed version anyway! And I hope nobody takes the way I write Rouge as me not liking her character. I just like to add a little spice into why she comes off so proud all the time. I adore Knuckles and Rouge as a couple. Their rivalry and catty attitudes are just a hoot!

#ask me #evayQA #my art #my au #knucklesxrouge #knuxouge #wedding #knuxouge wedding #knuckles the echidna #rouge the bat #sonamy #sonic the hedgehog #amy rose #sonic trash #sth #long post

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whowrotethenote · 5 months ago

Text

ꜰʟᴀꜱʜɪɴɢ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Summary: Brielle's life was the epitome of rags to riches. She had it all. Fame, fortune, and an older wealthy husband who kissed the ground she walked on. That is until haunting thoughts of her future where he became the only superstar in their marriage, forces her to fall into a downward spiral before her time.

Pairing: Roman Reigns (Joe) x Black Fem OC (Brielle)

Warnings: Age gap // Smut // Angst // Arguing // Addiction & alcohol abuse // Profanity

Word Count: 8.9k (once again, so sorry lol)

Inspo: Flashing Lights by Kanye West

A/N: I actually got the inspiration for this from another piece i’m working on, only it’s not fan fiction. I changed some things around. Same premise: young supermodel married to an older, wealthy and prominent man. If I ever decided to publish the original work, it will most likely be professionally (novel) not on social media. Anyway, this is a test run lol let me know what y’all think. Tell me what you like/don’t like. This is wayyy smuttier than the last jawn lol. Happy reading bitches!

Also, my taglist form is up. I'll add more options of posts to be tagged in as my blog grows.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any media posted. Credit to their respective owners.

I do not consent to any portion of my writing to be reproduced or used in any manner without expressed written permission of myself, with the exception for the use of brief quotations.

This story is completely fictional. With the exception of OCs, I do not own any characters in this story. The pictures posted are for the intention of face claims and imaginative purposes. The ideas, stories, scenarios, and characters you are about to read about are a mixture of my imagination, and inspiration from real life whether it be loosely based on people I know or public figures. By no means should you take anything a character thinks, says, or does, as my way of expressing my own interpersonal beliefs and thoughts. The characters are themselves and I am me. Two completely separate entities. I am not trying to promote any lifestyle, ideas, or agendas throughout the book. I am simply telling a story. If you cannot grasp that concept, do not read any further.

“You want a refill, love?” The young, blonde bartender offered Brielle a weak smile that she returned.

“Fuck it, why not?” She pushed the now empty martini glass aside watching her work. It wasn’t long ago that Brielle was the hustler on the other side of the bar. Every bartender had a sixth sense. One that told them who needed a drink versus who just wanted one. And Brielle was in desperate need of a drink.

She turned slightly away from the bar top to scan the sea of people in the upscale ballroom before her, looking for one face in particular. Normally he wouldn’t be hard to spot. He stood six foot three, and was two hundred and sixty-five pounds of pure muscle. Only, the room was full of men with the same build in suits.

She tapped her expensive Russian manicure on the glass surface, squinting. She found him surrounded by a few of his colleagues and his boss, indulging in what looked like deep conversation. She fought the urge to roll her eyes knowing it couldn't have been that deep. Most likely the usual mindless chatter men share. Sports, pussy, wrestling, cars, politics and more pussy.

Brielle couldn't help but to stare. He was Dapper Dan, in an all black Tom Ford suit, hand-picked by Brielle herself. On his left wrist sat a two-toned AP. No diamonds. He had never been the flashy type. He didn't need to be. His aura spoke for itself, always giving away the fact that he was worth a billion before he ever even opened his mouth. Clean cut with a thick dark beard, lined to perfection. His shiny locks pulled back in his signature sleek bun.

He must've felt her. His eyes locked in on her before she even noticed he was staring back. He flashed that billion dollar smile from across the room and Brielle almost forgot that she wanted to be anywhere else but where she currently stood.

Just when it looked like he would make his way over, two more of his colleagues joined the group, reeling him back in. Oh, fuck me, she thought.

“Babe, while you're at it, how about a shot of Vodka?" Brielle asked with her head now in her hands.

The bartender chuckled at the only miserable seeming person in the ballroom. "Particular brand?”

"Whatever has the highest percentage.”

It was the week before a paper-view event. Summer-slam? Royal Rumble? Wrestle-mania?—Shit she didn’t know. She couldn’t keep up with that shit anymore than he could keep up with the endless runway shows and fashion weeks all over the world. What she did know? It was all a pain in her ass. The whole ordeal. The weeks leading up, the actual event, and all the fallout from it. Black tie events, interviews about storylines she didn’t have a clue about, terms she barely understood and unfamiliar faces. Worst of all? Her man’s hands were too full to assist in carrying any of her weight.

He was the one. The whole WWE universe orbited around him and the rest of the Bloodline. That was means for him to be involved in every little aspect of the company. Pulled him every which way, in every direction. The forefront of it all.

In his world, Brielle always found herself taking a step back. She was used to being center of attention, all eyes on her, and the camera’s object of affection. But this was different. Sports entertainment wasn’t her lane. The cameras and microphones weren’t for her here. Its like someone picked Barbie up and dropped her in an all men’s gym.

"Here you go, love."

Brielle’s night was starting to go uphill at the sight before her. A colorful martini and a clear shot filled to the brim of the shot glass. God bless the bartender.

“Thank you so much. Do I even wanna know what this is?” She picked up the shot first.

“Probably not,” she shook her head, already onto the next patron flagging her down.

Like it was water, Brielle got it down in one gulp and chased it with the Apple martini. She should’ve asked for a water. The shot ignited her insides like a furnace, waking her up immediately.

“Oh, come on girl. It can’t be that bad.” Her lips curved widely into a genuine smile at the familiar voice. “What you got going on over here?” Jey held the martini glass up to his nose and jerked his head back with a screwed face. “I can’t get with that vodka, now.”

“Good. It's for the grown ups anyway.” He pulled her slim body into a comforting hug. “Where’s Kecia?” She looked past him for his wife, getting her hopes up that maybe this night wouldn’t be so excruciating if she had a friend.

“Lil’ man got sick. I’m dolo tonight.” She audibly exhaled and flagged the bartender down.

“Yeah, i’ma need another one of whatever that was.”

He rubbed her bare back that was exposed in the silk Roberto Cavalli gown, in an attempt to alleviate some tension. He’s bore witness already on multiple occasions, of what the night could become after Brielle’s frustrations have been amplified by too many drinks.

“Where’s that big-headed husband of yours?” He searched.

She waved a hand. “He was somewhere talking to Hunter in a huddle. I think I saw Seth with them. I doubt they’re in the same spot still.”

“Stay put,” he instructed before walking off.

Two shots and two drinks later, Brielle had opened and closed every app downloaded to her phone. She made useless conversation with the young blonde that fed her drinks, getting interrupted every time someone new came up to ask for a drink. It seemed like she was second priority to everyone in her line of sight.

She looked over her slim shoulder to find Joe, with Paul by his side, and to no surprise a camera and microphone in their faces. He stood with his big hands locked in front of him, listening to each of their questions intently.

The ballroom hosting the night was exquisite. The pinnacle of wealth. A three-piece chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling. Spacious as can be with marble flooring. Cathedral-like interior, giving the room an ancient castle feel. White clothed table tops accompanied by groups of people, babysitting glasses of champagne, caught in conversation. Then there was Brielle. Secluded, getting drunk at the bar.

It’s not that Brielle was ungrateful or necessarily unhappy. What was happiness anyway? In a room full of prominent strangers, drink in hand, she thought about what happiness and living a fulfilling life meant to her before. Before all of this. Not just Joe and his world, but her new one too.

Before the flashing lights and glamour, it seemed so simple. She just wanted to survive. So happiness to her back then would’ve been the equivalent to just living, as opposed to surviving. And however that came, she was ready to snatch it by the balls and never let go. Didn’t matter if it was attached to a wealthy man, the lottery by some miracle, or just straight finesse.

Brielle had came a long way from sleeping on her sister’s couch and surviving off scraps of tips in a sports bar. She was scouted on a late night slinging drinks. An older caucasian man who was just there to watch the NFL game, ended up being one of the head photographers for French Vogue.

One look at her face, with exceptional bone structure, beauty mark planted naturally on her chin, soft doe eyes, and he was mesmerized. Inspired. He almost had to beg her to come to his studio and take a few pictures. It was New York. Any old pervert with a camera could come in a bar and lure a young beautiful woman to his “studio.” And although Brielle, starving for a change of pace in life and obviously struggling, with her long low ponytail loose from the chaotic night; that didn’t mean she had to be desperate or naïve.

He slid his business card on the bar top. Still hustling and bustling to give the growing crowd their drinks, she didn’t even give it one look. “Just think about it, please!” He shouted with a thick accent over the wave of excitement after the Eagles made a touchdown. “My number is on the card!”

“Yeah, sure!” She shouted back uninterested. Almost a whole half hour after he left, she shook the alcohol-soiled card from off the bar top and when her eyes focused on the French Vogue logo, she nearly choked.

Damn right she called the next morning. Seven a.m. sharp. She had only clocked out three hours before and stole an hour of sleep.

He instructed her to come bare faced, in a white tank top, jeans, and her hair pulled back, just as it was the night before. She didn’t know he really meant just how it was the night before. When she arrived with a tight low ponytail, slicked back to perfection, he pulled it looser and staged a few fly aways.

He ordered her to move exactly how he wanted her.

“Chin up, please.”

“Raise your hand a little.”

“Turn slightly to the right.”

“Look away from the camera.”

She posed and posed, while he snapped away. It took hours. The whole morning had passed. He needed it to be perfectly imperfect. Although skilled in professional photography and supermodels being his area of expertise, Brielle was new territory for him. He had to find a way to sell the young distressed girl from the Harlem bar, with deer-like beauty, to the executives at Vogue.

They were looking for the next big thing. And while their eyes were on the next Bella Hadid or Kendall Jenner, he had something better in mind. Something more refreshing and relatable. When destiny placed him right on a path to spotting Brielle in that bar, he felt his whole life about to change forever. And it did. Right along with hers.

She wore stardom well. Fame fit her like it was custom made. The “It Girl.” Thats what they were calling her. Known for her doe eyes, the beauty mark, and her sharp east coast wit. She rose to the top of the food chain at what seemed like the speed of light. Everything had moved so fast. The flashing lights of cameras blinded her at every corner. A new city, a new country every other week. A complete one-eighty for a girl who prior to signing with her modeling agency, had never been outside of New York.

She was partying with the A-listers and whoever was above them at the top of the social food chain. Gracing the cover of over three hundred magazines, both national and international. The most desired runway model of her peers. She was being pulled and stretched thin. She was zooming through life in the fast line, picking up nasty habits just to keep up. She was swimming in millions, so stopping or even slowing down wasn't an option.

The general public had their eyes glued to her. She picked up the attention of CEOs, NBA players, actors, and anyone else who mattered. Brielle had always been the kind of girl to live her life on the go. Never limiting herself to one man because she saw herself as too much woman for just one anyhow. She dated and fucked them all. Spent their money well and had them hanging off the edge of their seat for more. None of them stuck. None of them were special or so different from the one before. That was until she crossed paths with WWE Superstar, Roman Reigns, or as she would come to know him as, Joseph Anoa’i.

One erotic night spent with him after an ESPY Awards afterparty, and it couldn’t have been more clear to her that he had to be hers. She’d keep this one for herself. He was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Joe was a go-getter, just like her. They were cut from the same cloth. The breadwinners of their family, paving the way and making it seamless for everyone who came after them.

When she found herself in Joe’s orbit, that fast life filled with nasty habits, slowed down a bit. Nothing else mattered. It's like they were the only two on planet earth and everything else was just distant noise.

They married only three months after knowing each other. When you know, you just know. Of course the public had their opinions about how they were just another Hollywood couple that wouldn’t last, but majority of the world adored them.

The wedding was like a national holiday. Vogue did an entire spread of them and it was flying off the shelves. That cover would be the one to define the entire state of stardom in their generation. It was everywhere. Joe sitting open-shirt, with Brielle and her half a million dollar Givenchy wedding gown, on his lap. Picture perfect.

Fiji was their honeymoon destination. An entire week off the grid. Nothing but love making, skinny dipping in the waterfall caves, and two people who couldn’t seem to get enough of each other, celebrating a whole lifetime they had left to get tangled in each other’s web.

Returning to the states was like entering into another level of life. It seemed her instantaneous marriage to Joe, took her status from superstar to legendary. She was Dior’s new muse and Joe was her older, wealthy, athletic husband. For the first time in all of Brielle’s twenty-five years of living, she was happy.

But that was back then. Three years later the stakes are higher. She’s adapted and now her ideas of what happiness is, have changed. She’d have to go back to the drawing board to figure out exactly what she wanted out of life. There were just a few hurdles and demons she’d have to address before then.

Her alcohol dependence for one. While most supermodels indulged in coke or popping pills, Brielle’s fatal flaw was alcohol. It started off as her just blacking out at parties like everyone else would. Then it escalated. She became the party girl. Always dancing on tables. Skinny dipping in someone’s pool. It was harmless until she started getting into scuffles in nightclubs. TMZ catching her and Joe having a screaming match where she was obviously drunk. Picking fights and starting shit with him at public events, like the one they were at now.

She clung to drinking because it helped her cope, especially lately, with the fact that the life she was doused in and became accustomed to, wouldn’t always be. It haunted her.

All models have an expiration date. She dreaded the day when it came. It would come like a thief in the night she had heard. One day she’d be trending, booked and shoved on every platform possible. The next day it would all vanish. She’d go from being Joe’s sexy, young, supermodel wife, to just his wife.

Alcohol was her companion. Alcohol was there on the lonely nights, early mornings, and impossibly long days. Alcohol was there on nights like tonight, when she felt alone in a room full of people. When her mind was overrun by dark thoughts of the unforeseeable future, where her career and everything she worked for would be in limbo.

Joe just didn’t get it. Women were treated accordingly based on their looks. Men were treated accordingly based on their pockets. He could be retired and worn out and they’d still love him as long as he was paid. This wasn’t her reality. And there bore another disconnect in their marriage.

She loved Joe. There was no denying that. A blind man didn’t need to see it, because just by standing within two feet of them he would be able to feel it. From the night they met, neither could ignore the magnet-like, invisible force, urging them to one another. First night, nothing but heat and passion transpired between them. And it stayed that way every night after, only growing. But sometimes passion painted an ugly picture. People were passionate about addiction. Others passionate about racism. Passion is not synonymous with healthy.

They came colliding into one another from two different worlds, seemingly at the same pace. Young, hungry, and swimming in new money. Only he was oil and she was water. Brielle just always felt like a jaguar in a room full of house cats. Completely out of place. Out of her element. Too much. Their worlds just didn’t mix. Or so she thought…

“Brielle?” A feminine voice questioned not too far from behind her.

Brielle paused her idle twisting of the wedding ring, weighing her left hand down, to turn to the voice in question.

A yellow-boned, thin woman, as tall as her stared back with an infectious grin. She had thick, wavy curls, cascading down her back. The emerald green silk gown she wore only enhancing her smooth skin. The bitch was bad and still, Brielle couldn’t pinpoint where she knew her from. Brielle’s eyes somehow landed on the red birthmark that adorned the mystery woman’s right hand and it hit her like a wrecking ball.

“Millie?” Her head dipped. “Oh my god.” The two beauties conjoined in a hug and rocked side to side chuckling in equal disbelief that they had found one another. “What are you doing here?”

“Girl, modeling was a bust. Trying to dip my toes into this sports journalism thing. I’ve just been interviewing some of the guys on the roster before Summerslam next week.”

Millie had been one of the very few models Brielle took a liking to during her early years doing runway. During her first fashion week they were glued to each other’s hip. Exchanging gossip, sex stories, walking tips and beauty secrets.

It had been nearly two years since she laid eyes on her. It's like she had vanished from the face of the earth. That happened a lot in the modeling industry. So many pretty faces came and went. It was hard to keep up. She chalked it up to her probably getting sent to rehab for a coke problem or something. Thats usually where the models disappeared to. That or a billionaire from another country scooped them up.

Born to two Cuban immigrants, Millie was just trying to get ahead in the city of dreams, but nothing about her stood out to scouts and labels. She had a killer walk, but runway was all she could pull off. Her face card was exceptional, but it wasn't memorable. And anything other than memorable in the modeling world would get one tossed and forgotten quick.

“Where’s Joe?” Millie’s eyes danced around the room.

Brielle’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of her husband. His name fell so comfortably from the girl’s plump lips, it's like she’s said it a thousand times over.

“Joe?” Usually people who didn’t know him referred to him by his stage name, Roman. Millie had to have been somewhat familiar with him to call him by his name.

“Yeah,” she waved almost with a child-like giddiness once she found him across the way. He put a big hand up and nodded once to acknowledge her. Brielle tried to keep her face neutral, observing the whole exchange.

“Y-you know Joe?”

“Of course I do. He didn’t tell you?” She grinned wide.

Only Brielle’s eyes looked around in wonder. “Tell me what?” She chuckled to ease the underlying tension.

“Joe and I dated. Way, way back in the day.”

“Dated?” Her doe eyes became significantly wider. “Well, when was this?” She probed through a tight, manufactured smile as to not throw Millie off.

“Oh, girl,” the Latin beauty waved a dainty hand chuckling. “That was so long ago. He was still with The Shield, then. Didn’t even have a full beard.” Brielle tried to swallow an insult. It was on the tip of her tongue as she watched Millie eye her husband with nostalgia all in her gaze. No, she wanted her to keep spilling. She knew Joe would downplay it, so this was her best bet at collecting the truth.

“I was so happy for you guys after the proposal.” Millie finally snatched her eyes from Joe to focus on Brielle. “And that cover and spread in Italian Vogue? Fucking iconic…” It was now Brielle’s turn to burn a hole through her husband. She tried her best to not let the thoughts running through her mind, show on her face, but it was all in the vein that made itself visible on her forehead. The constant rubbing of her fingertips. If Millie touched her, she’d probably jump like she had come in contact with a stovetop burner. “It's crazy though,” Millie continued with her head cocked to the side. “Joe never struck me as the marrying type. Don’t get me wrong he’s an absolute sweetheart. I just couldn’t see him sitting in one spot long enough for just one woman to catch his attention. I guess men really do change for who they want to,” Millie finished with a drawn out sigh.

“Yeah. I guess they do, huh…”

“Well, this was a shock.” Millie stretched her arms out and Brielle came in for another hug. Her smile faded once she rested her chin on her shoulder and reemerged after pulling back.

“It was really nice to see you, Mills. Good luck on the whole journalism thing.”

Millie flashed Brielle another bright smile and walked off in a direction she wasn’t paying attention to because she was too busy glaring at Joe still.

There were days when Brielle took into account what the public had said about her marriage. That it was fake. For publicity. Or that it simply wouldn’t last because of how fast the two seemingly fell in love.

They didn’t waste any time. Fucked on the first night. Vacationed together a week after. He was moving her in just a month later. Before Brielle knew it, he was down on one knee asking her to spend the rest of her life with him. Her infatuation with the kindhearted man who looked like he could kill anyone with his bare hands, drove her decision. She loved the way he took charge of his life and career, and turned the entire business in his family’s favor. How he kicked cancer’s ass. How every room he went in, people couldn’t help but to stop and stare.

It seems they did everything backwards. Got all the big hurdles out the way and worked their way down. Brielle found herself at times dumbfounded at just how little she knew about Joe’s past. Too many times she’s had to sit and listen to someone tell her something about the man she slept next to.

She’s not stupid. Of course there were women before her. I mean look at him. But a model? Models were such superficial creatures. Always caught up in glamour and materialistic matters. Joe was too grounded and down to earth in Brielle’s mind to bat an eye at what the world viewed as a mannequin. She thought she was the exception. Clearly not.

From across the way, Joe caught his wife staring at him again. His mouth curved into a smirk and he winked at her.

“Sexy, two-faced bastard,” she mumbled bringing the glass of vodka to her lips.

The couple rode back to their penthouse in an uncomfortable silence. After any event, the partition was rolled up so Brielle could bless her man whatever way she saw fit. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But tonight, she clung to the left door in the back of the black Suburban, eyes never leaving the tinted window, gazing at the bright lights that decorated the city.

Joe gave a harsh side eye to her. The deliberate space she placed between them by crossing her legs to the door was a dead give away that she was pissed. Physical touch was a shared love language between them. The absence of it could be felt immediately.

He refused to gauge what the issue was in such a confined space. That mistake was made several times before and never ended well. He’d have to wait until they were alone and in the comfort of their own space.

She didn’t realize, but his eyes were on her all night while she threw each glass the bartender fed her back like it was the fountain of youth. When Jey found him they both exchanged looks. It didn’t need to be said. The soft spot Joe’s cousin grew for Brielle, couldn’t overshadow his concern for her obvious drinking problem. He and his brother Jimmy got a front row seat to the downfall of America’s beloved couple. Too many nights having to chase an intoxicated Brielle down, or dragging them apart from verbally destroying each other.

All night, Joe’s anxiety grew like wildfire with every drink and every minute that passed where he couldn’t just leave with her. Now, in the backseat of the truck, he rubbed his forehead already feeling a headache from the argument that hadn’t even happened yet. He wished he could just press a button and fast forward to the part where they fucked and forgot about whatever the problem was.

When they got to their building, she stormed out of the car not bothering to wait for the driver or Joe to open her door like usual. Ignoring the doorman and the lady at the front desk she usually greets, her heels clicked aggressively on the marble floor of the lobby all the way to the elevator.

Joe stood behind her near the back elevator wall. He bit his bottom lip at the deep line in her back that led to her perky ass. Even with her attitude, he had the urge to rip her clothes off and fuck it right out of her. The elevator dinged when they reached the top floor. She wasted no time breezing fiercely through the foyer area, and collecting the bottom of her gown in her hands to stomp up the wooden floating stairs.

“Brielle, bring your ass back down here.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Brielle had fell in love with the way he could make the world and everyone in it shift without doing too much. Not tonight though. No, tonight the control he had over her pissed her off to no end. She turned around in the middle of the steps, but defiantly didn’t make a move to come down. Instead she stood her ground and crossed her arms like a child about to be grounded.

“Alright. Let’s get this shit over with.” He removed the suit jacket and laid it over the back of the all white loveseat and rested his hands on his hips. “What has pissed Brielle off tonight, huh?”

“Besides the fact that my husband has been passed around?” She shrugged throwing the first punch. “I don’t know.”

He chuckled in disbelief. “You wanna elaborate, sweetheart?”

“You and Millie? Why didn’t I know that you two dated?”

“Dated is a very generous word. More like slept together.”

“Don’t try to downplay it, okay? Doesn’t matter what happened between you two. Why did I have to hear it from her?”

“I don't understand what’s pissed you off? The fact that I’ve fucked with other women before you?”

“I’m not talking about other women.” She slapped the back of her hand to her other palm sharply. “I’m talking about one woman. A woman I considered a friend. A friend I told you about!”

His shoulders shrugged almost high enough to reach his ears. “Why does it matter? You knew her like two years ago—”

“It doesn’t matter if I knew her ten years ago, damn it!” She stormed down the stairs and brushed past him to the kitchen. Unbuttoning his shirt, he shook his head knowing what she went in there for. More alcohol.

Cabinets opened and shut continuously, until he heard her heels making their way back to the living room. She stood across from him vexed.

“I threw it out,” he answered the question she didn’t have to ask. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he was ready for however she would react.

She scoffed and giggled at once. “Don’t you think my drinking is the last thing you should be worried about right now?”

“What could be more important than you getting healthy?”

She rolled her eyes looking to the ceiling with a forced smile. “I can’t believe this. I sat there all night watching you work the room. By myself! While you work, you expect me to just sit in a corner like a fucking mannequin? Smile and look pretty, right? Don’t say a word, don’t draw too much attention? Well tell me, Joe, what would you have done tonight?” She held a hand up. “Oh wait! Don't let me forget, just when the night couldn’t get any worse, I have to hear the horror story of how my husband and my friend used to fuck!”

“You are so fucking ungrateful,” he shook his head removing his cufflinks. “Unbelievable.”

“Un—” She scoffed. “Ungrateful?” She turned her head as if she didn’t hear him right.

“Thats right,” he nodded with a face void of any expression. “Look around you. Look at where you are.” He spread his toned arms out wide. “In a penthouse overlooking all of Brooklyn. Five hundred thousand dollar dress on. Closet full of designer that could feed a fucking third-world country. Fucking thousand dollar sculptures from Italy, just for it to sit on a glass table all day.” Brielle flinched at the Versace Rokko Cheetah sculpture flying to the other side of the room and shattering. Just as quick, she straightened up, knowing he wasn’t crazy enough to take his frustrations out on her that way.

“What’s your point, Joe?”

“My fucking point is, I put you on the highest pedestal possible and I work my ass off every day to make sure you can live like this. And all you seem to be worried about is some bitch I was smashing, back when I used to bring a damn blow up mattress with me to arenas?” He squinted in disbelief.

“You’re missing my whole point!”

“What point?!”

Back and forth they shouted, but still neither one of them heard the other. It was all pointless. Just a battle of pride and resentment.

“Oh my god,” he threw his hands up. “Oh my god. This is fucking stupid. I can’t believe this, is what you want to fight about.”

Brielle’s chest stung and her eyes followed suit. Her feelings were stupid now. Just a blimp on his star-studded life. There was a point in time, where every little need, every little voice of discomfort, he would fall at his feet to correct for her.

She turned and rushed up the steps. She was overwhelmed and refused to keep the yelling match up. In their walk-in closet, she let the dress fall and pool around her feet, to change into her mint-colored Juicy Couture sweatsuit. She stuffed an LV duffel with clothes and headed to the bathroom next to sweep everything that was hers off the counter and into the bag.

Unfazed by her theatrics, Joe sat on the couch downstairs, shaking his head at all the ruckus she was making.

“G’head,” he waved. “Leave. You’ll be back anyway.”

“Fuck you, Joe!”

“Yeah, sure.” He sat back on the cream colored couch, arms outstretched, dress shirt unbuttoned, without a care in the world.

Brielle and him both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. It was the same shit every time. They’d argue and fuss all night, she’d threaten to leave, packing a bag to stay in an expensive hotel, paid for with his black card. He’d show up with an expensive gift. Usually jewelry. Maybe a bag by some designer that hadn’t even hit the shelves yet. A trip to an island she had never been before. Shoes. Those were her favorite. She had a whole collection in the walk-in, courtesy of Joe. Each pair she could pinpoint which argument it was a result of.

After the grand gift, it was make up sex and they’d be in the honeymoon phase for two weeks tops, then the cycle repeats. Joe had grown tired of it. Two years ago it was exciting and far left from the good girls with degrees he was used to.

Brielle was a breath of fresh air until her ways started to suffocate him. She had a personality that was larger than life and an attitude to match. Included in the packaging was a love so fiery and consuming, you forget to breathe. And although he had seen enough, been through enough, and was old enough to know better, he still found himself from time to time gasping for air after forgetting to breathe around her.

She was like a drug. Potent, exhilarating, and unpredictable. He was hooked. And unfortunately for the both of them, he wouldn’t know how to get off her even if he tried.

Bag slung over her shoulder, she made her way back downstairs and all the way to the door.

“Brielle…” The sound of his baritone voice had her frozen in place. He closed his eyes and inhaled deep from his nose. “You walk out that door and you gon’ be sorry.”

“I just need space—”

“Then pick a room. It's real spacious in here.”

Brielle turned and made her pursuit back to the stairs. He wasn’t going to let her leave tonight. She didn’t just want space, she wanted the one thing she depended on when it felt like the walls of her life were closing in on her. And he was actively trying to take that away from her.

“I hate you,” she spat with venom in all three words.

The foot that was previously propped up on the glass coffee table came down as he sat up, elbows rested on his knees.

“Im sorry…what?”

“You heard me.” She started back up the floating steps, but halted upon seeing him rise to his full height in her peripheral. She had only made it to the third step. She turned in place and there he was at the bottom, eye level now.

“You wanna repeat that again, while I’m standing right here in your face?” He dared, hands clasped in front of him.

She knew better than to test him. Hate wasn't something they just tossed back and forth. Irritation, maybe. Disgust even. But hate? Joe didn’t play that shit. Not with her or anybody else in his circle.

He nodded with his tongue just barely teasing the hairs on the side of his mouth. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“That fucking character you play,” she squinted looking him up and down. “It’s not a fucking character! You’re a narcissistic, manipulative, controlling—”

“You were singing a whole different tune this morning.” Her mind flashed to just fourteen hours prior when he was balls deep, quite literally driving her up the shower wall. In the aftermath they held each other as she told him how much he meant to her and how he changed her life. The man from this morning and the one in front of her were two different men with the same face.

She shook her head holding back tears. “You’re never who I need you to be when I need you to be it,” she exaggerated. Joe always knew who to be. Always knew exactly where it hurt. If he showed up as something different it was seldom and with purposeful intent.

Something dark flashed in his eyes. “Well maybe if you opened your fucking mouth and told me what you needed, I could provide it. But, no. You’d rather look for answers at the bottom of a shot glass! So tell me, Brielle—tell me! What do you need?!”

“I don’t know!” She screamed in frustration and was snatched off the steps by the front of her hoodie.

Their lips collided. Two tornadoes full of angst coming together to form what was their complicated ass marriage.

See, Joseph Anoa’i the man outside of the ring was delicate and considerate. He displayed affection as much as he could and never touched Brielle with any thing less than love. However, the man he was in the bedroom, or wherever else he saw fit to take Brielle down, was a beast. Unforgiving and relentless. His ring persona, Roman Reigns, took over him like he had a split personality. He manipulated, tossed and flipped Brielle’s slim frame however he wanted her. Narcissistic in the way he couldn't care less if he hit it so hard that she couldn’t breathe.

Tonight was no different. As a matter of fact, tonight he had something to prove. It was deeper than just make up sex, or angry sex. He intended to break Brielle down. Resentment and frustration grew inside of him like weeds, all stemming from Brielle’s misbehaved, toxic and unpolished ways whenever she got an ounce of liquor in her. The garden was no longer pretty. He was tired of faking the funk. He was going to put his foot down tonight, making sure she felt all the consequences of her actions.

His big hands slid down to the back of her knees, hiking her up so her long legs could wrap around his waist. He never broke the connection. His thick tongue continued to invade her mouth, claiming what’s his.

The pair expended all their breath and stole more from one another. That was the complicated formula of their bond. Give and take. Take then give.

Brielle stared up in awe at the god before her after he released her onto their all white couch. Every ridge and line in his abdomen telling a story of his hard work and dedication to his craft. He removed the black button up to reveal the rest of the artwork on his right arm, never breaking eye contact with his wife. His manhood made an impressive print through his slacks as it begged for freedom.

Brielle wasn’t moving fast enough for him. In fact, she wasn’t moving at all. She was too mesmerized by the sight of him. Good enough to eat, she thought. Every time she saw his body it felt like the first time.

He tore the zipper of her Juicy hoodie down in such haste to reveal her chocolate nipples, he broke it. Before Brielle could complain, she was flipped over and put on all fours. The waistband of her sweats were pulled down to her knees, exposing her warm core to the cold air.

A gasp escaped her lips as they fell wide open from the feeling of his entire mouth latching onto her most sensitive nerve. The entirety of his palms covered both ass cheeks, as he spread them apart to feast on her.

He didn’t have the patience for formalities. She didn’t deserve it anyway. He attacked her clit, switching from sucking and licking with broad strokes of his tongue.

“Oh my—fuckkkk.” Brielle was stuck between pushing back into his mouth and running from it completely. She wouldn’t get far. The grip his rough hands established on her ass would lock her in place.

“Sweet ass,” he mumbled into her. He pulled away for a second to bite down on her left cheek before going back to eating. A pit of pure ecstasy formed in her lower stomach impossibly fast. She shut her eyes tight, prepared to explode, listening to the wet sounds of him demolishing her and his hefty breaths. Her breathing accelerated while she reached for the pillow to gain some type of hold. And just when she thought she would reach her peak, she was left with nothing.

Joe pulled completely away once he decided she was ready for him. Something like a whimper left her pouted lips. He took his time unbuckling his pants and releasing himself from the confines of his briefs.

“Stay down,” he demanded in a dark tone that sent a chill down her spine.

Brielle felt like a junkie, waiting and barely able to keep still. Joe’s tongue slid out over his top lip at the masterpiece before him. His supermodel wife, bent over and her wet, fat center exposed, waiting for him. His dick jumped and he grabbed the base of it to align with her pussy.

His thick mushroom head glided along her arousal, coating himself to prepare for entry. She struggled to keep still. He kept grazing over her sensitive bud and it was torture. She knew he was doing it on purpose. It was wicked how he watched her desperate, contorted face and listened to her pants knowing he could put an end to her misery.

“Joe—Uhnn!” Brielle release a guttural moan from him pushing himself all the way in and bottoming out. Joe stayed there for a minute trying to brace himself. The grip and slickness always felt brand new. She was a hot head with an even hotter pussy, making it nearly impossible to leave her alone. He’d lose his mind just at the thought of another getting to experience this after him.

Without warning he palmed the back of her neck so her face was flush against the couch cushion and he snapped his hips against hers repeatedly. Mercilessly.

“Get off me.” He shoved the arm she reached back, careful not to lose his rhythm. Although small, as a result of her strict diet and expensive Lagree classes, that ass still jiggled with every thrust.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Ahh!” She moaned out every time he shoved his thickness back into her.

“Shut up,” he jerked his hips as far as they could go and got comfortable. It felt too good to move and he was determined to make her lose her fucking mind.

Brielle’s mouth fell wide open. She didn’t know what she felt. The line between pain and pleasure started to blur. She reached a hand back, in another attempt to make him ease up, but he caught it just in time and pinned it behind her small back in a vice grip.

“Joe—

“Shut the fuck up,” his top lip curled, thrusting into her again with the same force as before. “I don’t wanna hear none of that shit. Fucking take it.” His free hand came down hard on her ass, immediately causing red welts to form.

Brielle was a glutton for punishment. Her pussy contracted and it was so wet she could hear the squishy noises like somebody was playing in running water.

“You hear that shit, Bri?”

“Yes, baby. She’s so wet for you."

“At least she’s honest.” His breathing was erratic as he tried to talk shit and fuck her at the same time. “She always shows me love.” His hand came down again and he relished at the sight of her ass with new welts forming.

“Fuck!” She cried. Another smack. Then another. His pace never faltering. He let his bottom lip sink between his teeth, concentrating on how his dick slid in and out of her effortlessly. She left him shining and covered in white stuff. Every stroke wetter than the last.

“You hate me, Bri?” His eyebrows furrowed. She tried her best to look back at him. A sheen of sweat covered him and his hair had fell wildly over his broad shoulders.

Joe’s battle with leukemia had him holding everyone he loved in a vice grip, close to his chest, fearing the day he ever had to let go. He didn’t have the luxury to invite negativity and hate of all things into his space. Which is why when Brielle expressed it earlier, it triggered something in him.

Brielle shook her head as much as she could. “No—no!”

“Huh?”

His larger frame hovered over hers as he leaned over and gripped the back of the couch to push harder into it from a different angle.

“Oh god! No—baby I swear I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it. Fu-uuuck!” Her voice shook as she tried to reason with him.

“Tell daddy how sorry you are,” he toyed with her. Joe only needed to hear it for his own ego. He already knew she was sorry. She looked the part. Brows turned down, hands reaching and grasping to hold onto something, while she struggled to breathe and keep her eyes from rolling to the back of her head. Pathetic.

She tried to catch her breath and fulfill his wishes, but his every move sent a shockwave of pleasure right through her. All she could focus on was the feeling happening where they connected.

“Say it,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

“I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, daddy. It won’t happen again!”

“Yeah, I know it won’t. Mhm, fuck.” His ways were backfiring on him as he felt the pressure for release build in his lower stomach.

Slowing his movements down, his hand came down on her ass again. “Come on,” he instructed. She already knew the drill, rocking back and forth on him at her own pace to help them both get to the finish line.

Together they ogled at one another. Brielle in complete awe at what he was doing to her body. Joe mesmerized by the beauty below him and trying to reconcile how she became his biggest problem.

He loved the fuck out of her. Would do anything for her. His favorite accomplishment. He vowed to spend the rest of his life with her, but everyday they spent together, that dream grew more out of reach.

How could something so ethereal looking be so problematic? So angry? So insecure?

Small whimpers and cries spilled from her throat before she made a declaration that calmed him as much as it terrified him.

“I’m gonna love you forever,” she declared. It was like a hex. A spell. Binding him to her forever. Cause the hard unshakeable truth was that as long as Brielle wanted him here, he’d never leave. No matter how many fights, how many crash outs, public incidents, he knew leaving her alone would leave him suffering.

Against his initial mission to punish her, his soft nature took control. He leaned all the way down to capture her plump lips in a kiss. He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses from her mouth to her cheek, until he reached her ear. Whispering a mix of loving reassurances and vile obscenities to her.

“I love you so much, Bri. Keep fucking me, baby. Just like that. Yesss. You feel so good,” he encouraged in between huffs of breath. “It’s all yours baby. Take it. Just yours. Nobody else’s.” His deep voice directly in her ear and the smell of her own arousal lingering on his beard, sent her body into overdrive as her pussy spasmed around him.

Brielle’s orgasm caused a chain of reactions. His dick swelled inside her while his balls tightened. At the last second he pulled out and covered her round ass with his release. She wasn’t on birth control and loathed the idea of kids ruining her physique.

He stroked himself until the last of his cum oozed out and threw his head back. “Mm,” he groaned. Shame on Brielle. She laid on the couch, head spinning from the beating she just took mixed with all the shots she took earlier. She was just about ready to call it a night, but Joe had other plans.

“Not done with ya ass yet. Come show me how sorry you are.” Like he had just ran a match fighting off guys twice his size in the ring, his chest rose and fell as his voice became menacingly deep.

His tall frame stood in the living room, widening his stance with his hips slightly pushed forward. His dick was covered in her essence, still hard as a rock, swaying slightly from him shifting his weight back and forth on both legs.

She climbed down from the couch, knowing better than to make him wait. Crawling like the feline she was at heart, she stopped right in front of him. God, he was just fucking perfect. All she really wanted to do was climb on him and drag another nut out, but it had to wait.

Placing her dainty hands on his muscular thighs, she gazed up him and ducked slightly to swirl her tongue on his large balls. "Yeah," he breathed deep, savoring the feeling of her warm mouth.

She took his heavy dick in her hand, giving the tip teasing licks and swirls. The visual of her on her knees worshiping him was a sight to see as she gathered spit and let it ooze onto him before sinking his length into her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing him as far as she possible could.

“Look at me,” he instructed in a guttural tone followed by a moan. It was music to her ears. Everything about him turned her on. She studied him and the look of mixed lust and love he provided as their eyes locked, prompting her to slide a hand down and rub herself. “That’s right. Get it wet for me.” He rocked back and forth in her mouth, on the brink of another orgasm that quick. She watched the muscles in his abdomen flex from trying to hold his nut in.

He gathered her long silky tresses into somewhat of a ponytail in his hands and pushed her head down to hit the back of her throat repeatedly.

Going as far as her throat allowed he held her there and instinctively her hands pushed at his strong thighs. Tears spilled out the corner of her eyes feeling his warm release coat her throat.

“Aghh!” He threw his head back, going to a whole different realm for a while and coming back down to earth. He looked down at the beauty below him. Mouth still full of him, mascara running, with spit decorating her chin and chest. She looked perfect to him like this. Vulnerable. Submissive. But he knew it was all just a result of the circumstances. This version of her would be long gone and forgotten in the days to come. So he decided right then, he would take full advantage while he could.

He hissed upon sliding out of her mouth as her cheeks sunk in. He lifted her up with one arm and she wrapped her legs around him. His other hand found his still semi-hard thickness to ease into her. Together they exhaled when he slid in. The feeling of her had him bricked back up in no time.

"Hold on. Tighter," he instructed. He maneuvered her long legs in crook of his arms before moving her up and down at full force. All gas no brakes.

Joe hummed softly to himself, turning in the California King bed toward his wife. It was late. Their night didn’t end until the wee hours of the morning. He immediately knocked out when it was over. He was exhausted mentally and physically.

Brielle however, couldn’t quiet her mind long enough to sleep. He found her wide awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark room. The city lights from their bedroom window cascaded over her enough for him to see her face. Something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” He questioned in a sleepy voice.

“Can’t sleep.”

“Then come here.” When she didn’t make a move to come closer to him, his eyebrows dented. She lay frozen in place, as the noise from the city took away from the eerie silence in the room.

“Do you think I need help?”

Joe released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. They had this conversation before. Too many times. Only it was never a conversation. Mostly an argument of some sort. Him complaining and practically begging her to get help. Trying to reason and get her to see that drinking at every event, at every inconvenience, just wasn’t normal. That it was killing them. Killing her.

“Doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think about yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “…I don’t know.” He watched a single tear slide out the corner of her eye. He wanted to blame his own eyes beginning to sting on him being a natural empath, but he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. He loved this woman. So by default, whatever she felt he also felt times ten.

“I used to look in the mirror and loved what I saw. I was confident. Proud of what I was. And that was when I had nothing. I was a nobody three years ago. Now i’m somebody and I just feel so empty…”

Seeing a glimpse of the girl he met years ago, who snatched his heart from his chest with no remorse, had him frozen in place. Vulnerability was not a dress Brielle wore often. He bore a hole into the side of her face while she confided in him.

“All the flashing lights, the cameras, the money…I don’t know if i’ll be able to handle the day it all stops. I don’t think I know who I am without it anymore. I never meant for it to go this far.”

Joe took her dainty hand in his and squeezed. An attempt to let her know that everything was going to be okay. But the truth of the matter is that he didn’t know if everything would be okay. He knew he loved her and that she loved him right back. Only problem with that? The saddest truth about life is that sometimes love is just not enough.

….Well?😂

I know y’all were asking for a continuation of Biggest Fan, but I already had this in the tuck and was hyper fixating. Plus, I’m not entirely sure I want to continue Biggest Fan yet since I didn’t plan on it. I’ll keep y’all updated.

As always, if you read up until this point, I am forever grateful. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

taglist: @raya-hunter01

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