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munsster · 10 months ago

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fixer upper

A/N: IM ACTUALLY SO EMBARASSED TO ADMIT THIS IS BASED ON ‘FIXER UPPER’ FROM FROZEN 💀💀💀 does that mean it counts as a song fic…….. (gif creds: @buckysbarnes)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader (Season 3)

Summary: The kids aren’t saying you can change him, per se. They’re only saying that love’s a force that’s powerful and strange. 2.8k words

Warnings: fluff, babygirl steve, cursing, mentions of toxic (?) relationship, hopeless pining, pet names (sweetheart), shameless flirting

Steve can barely see through his rose-tinted daydream, but he's sure he recognizes your smile as soon as you enter the food court. And you lead a trail of whiny teenagers right to his register. This is the fourth time this week you've heard about Steve's lusturous hair and dazzling eyes. You have to hand it to them, they're not bad salesmen, just a tad young to elicit ethos. What the hell do they know about love anyway.

That's what happens when you're licensed and free on a Friday afternoon: babysitting duty. Now, in the event that Steve had been the one saddled with the party on his day off, he would've argued that they're not really babies and they should be self-sufficient. Knowing Dustin, however, this argument proves to be false almost every time.

But it wasn't Steve, it was you. Steve doesn't think he's heard you complain about one thing in your life.

Not even your deadbeat boyfriend called Brad. Who, as Dustin and Max and Robin love to remind him, is utterly replaceable and on thin ice every other week. Steve knows better than to get his hopes up after three months of having them crushed, though. He's learned to live with the strong sense of yearning he feels whenever you're within thirty feet of him.

Take now, for example: you're coralling half a dozen brats into a somewhat single-file line without even having to raise your voice. He should think it's impressive, but he's too distracted by your lip gloss and your voice and the way you did your hair today.

"I hope you give discounts to distressed young women," you tease, brows knitting when you look up at him. This is the part where he's supposed to respond with something charming. Sexy and charismatic, maybe.

"Oh, uh," he chuckles, "No, I mean, yeah. Sure"—Oh, but you smile at him and all that pent up charisma flies out the neon-framed sliding doors. They chatter out their orders at lightning speed, and he can barely catch half of what they're saying when you look at him like that. You finally make it to the register and pay half price. And your cone is always on the house, of course.

"Isn't he such a gentleman?" Max says unenthusiastically. Lucas elbows her side before retreating with Dustin.

"He's also a great driver!" Will chirps, shuffling away to one of the booths with Mike and El who giggle the whole way there. You turn back to Steve who stares off at them incredulously.

"You see what I have to deal with?" you say with some degree of affection for the chaos.

"Aw, come on," Steve says, tilting his head with a shrug, "you love it."

"I think they keep forgetting I already have a boyfriend."

Not much of a boyfriend if you ask me, he thinks.

But what he says: "Ah, yes. The elusive Brad."

You roll your eyes and grin at him. You know Steve has a crush on you. Or else the kids and Robin wouldn't be so adamant on marketing him to you. It's sweet, really. And honestly, you don't think Steve's unfit to play boyfriend or anything, but you're also not disloyal.

Your scoop melts down the side of the cone between your fingers. Steve nearly hurls himself across the counter handing you a thick stack of napkins.

"Shit, thanks," you huff, lapping at the stream of sticky ice cream. His stomach churns as his face screws into a sickly smile.

"Yeah. No problem."

"No, really"—you wrap a napkin around the cone, shoving the rest into your pocket—"I don't know what I'd do if I had to pay the entire bill everytime one of them had a craving."

"Really, it's not a problem," he shrugs it off like it doesn't come out of his paycheck. "I like helping out pretty girls when I can."

You giggle and tilt your head. "Steve Harrington, you're my hero."

He's almost embarassed at how fast his face flushes red hot and frantic. He reaches for the back of his neck on impulse, and any attempt he makes at seeming suave is foiled by Robin patting him on the shoulder.

"If you think that's heroic, there was this one time he singlehandedly saved Hawkins with this sick baseball bat with nails—"

He huffs, "Robin—"

"No, seriously! Don't be so modest, Steve, you're selling yourself short!"

"I'm not trying to sell myself at all!" he says, turning her around and guiding her towards the door to the back room.

"Great seeing you!" she hollers over her shoulder just before disappearing behind the swinging door. You wave with a chuckle. Steve tuts, fixing his sailor hat and shaking his head.

"Did you really do all that? Save Hawkins, I mean?" you ask. And you seem genuinely interested which is why it guts him. The one girl who actually gives a shit is coincidentally unavailable.

"Yeah," he says, shrugging, "but only to clear my conscience. It's like penance, or whatever."

You giggle, not sure if he's being truthful or playing it off. He meets your eyes and he's sure his heart stops dead in his chest for a beat. Nobody pulls off mall lighting like you.

The kids come skipping back to the counter, declaring they've all got different wants and needs around the mall for the next few hours.

"Okay, hold on, I promised I'd have you guys back before my date," you say, Steve overseeing the conversation from over your shoulder.

"Well," he interjects, "when's your date?" All the attention shifts to Steve, and he suddenly wishes he could swallow up the words and take them back for good.

"Two hours from now. Across town," you say, looking a little guilty knowing he's about to make the kindest offer of the year.

"I'm off at five, so I can just"—stop talking—"take them home after my shift."

"Steve, really, you don't have to—"

El grins, eyes wide as she whispers in Max's ear.

Steve shakes his head, "Sweetheart, believe me, I want to. Besides, you've already been through enough with the rascals. Go have fun."

You turn to the kids, almost pleading with them to accept Steve's generosity.

"Is that okay with you guys? I don't wanna leave you stranded," you admit.

They nod in agreement, throwing out a couple yes's and sure's. They're bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, but you still feel bad dumping them on Steve like this.

Dustin interrupts: "This really just goes to show how Steve is a great candidate for marriage and other domestic relations. He can be odd at times and he might care too much about his hair, but you can tell by his actions that he would be a very reliable husband, a generous life partner, and—"

"And a great friend," you giggle, trying not to let Dustin get too carried away. You have sat through enough of his speeches for one day. "Now, quit trying to set us up!"

Steve rolls his eyes at the boy. "Seriously, at least wait 'til she's single. Then she can reject me for me."

You whip back to face him with a sour look on your face.

"Steven! That's not—that's rude to yourself," you huff, "Say three nice things."

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest and squinting at you.

"You're pretty, I like your shoes, and you smell nice."

"About you!"

"Ohh," he feigns surprise, "No." But you reach across the counter to whack him on the arm with a shocking amount of force. The kids chuckle from behind you. Steve can't help but smile when you raise your brows proudly. "Fine! I am deserving of love, I am great company, and my hair looks particularly shiny today."

"Good," you nod, "I agree. And I have to go, see ya!"

"With which one?" he says, watching you jog out of the store waving. "Wait! Sweetheart? Agree with which one??"

Steve sighs sharply, hands perched decidedly on his hips as his gaze falls flat on the militia of pre teens staring him down.

"What do you want?" he says.

"You're hopeless," Max says, mouth pressed in a hard line before she wanders off, arm-in-arm with El.

"Yeah, dude. And kinda desperate," Mike shrugs.

"Hey," he grumbles. Who knew such harsh words could come from such little humans. You'd think they'd be harmless at this age. You'd be wrong.

"You're a total virgin," Dustin says, very matter-of-factly.

Steve cocks a brow, honestly trying not to laugh at the severity of Dustin's demeanor when he says it. "I don't even think you know what that means."

Dustin blinks. "Well, I think you haven't had sex in long enough that you qualify as one."

"Shit."

...

Much to Steve’s surprise, it only takes butthead Brad two more weeks to absolutely shatter your heart. No one knows the complete details other than it happened at a frat party and you had to walk back to the dorms alone. But Steve doesn’t need complete details to know he wants to shatter Brad’s jaw with his fist.

But he also vowed to use means other than violence to get his point across. He should be awarded for the amount of restraint it took to see your bloodshot eyes and not speed immediately off towards Asshole University like a Brad-seeking atomic missile.

Of course, he’s thankful you felt comfortable enough to call him. In fact, he was the first one you rang. And he knows this fact because you told him while you were sniffling away tears a week and a half after the break up.

Now, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of his beemer, curled into your sweater, and listening to late night soft rock radio while he focuses on the dark highway ahead of him. You hadn’t wanted to do anything else but sit in his car and think. His heart clenches everytime you wipe away a tear with your soggy sleeve.

He pulls off the highway during an ad break, finding a secluded diner surrounded by nothing but trees and gas stations. He pulls into a parking spot near the back of the lot where the overhead lights aren’t blinding, but you aren’t completely in the dark. He leaves the car on so the cold doesn’t seep in, engine still purring softly from under the hood.

“Who needs ‘em,” he says in attempt to lighten the mood. “Being single is way cooler. Take it from me. You get a bed all to yourself and you can fart whenever you want.”

You’re frowning, but you know he means well. You just can’t help the fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Oh, come here,” he whispers, leaning over the center console and dipping his hands over your shoulder and around your waist. His arms feel so strong and so warm where they envelop you entirely. Steve always was the best hug you ever receieved.

You can’t help but chuckle wetly into his collar after a moment.

“God, he was such an asshole, wasn’t he?”

“Uh, duh! Doesn’t take a genius to…” Steve laughs, pausing and brushing the hair away from your damp cheeks. “I know, sweetheart, and you deserve heaps better. You were always way too cool for that loser.”

You blink up at him in the low light. There’s a kind of twinkle in your eye that makes the tips of his ears hot. This time, you reach for him, weaving your arms beneath his jacket with a deep sigh. Your breathing slows against his neck, and he rubs your back while your arms tighten a little around his waist.

He can’t help but wonder what you’re thinking whenever you look at him with your doe eyes, seemingly sweet and far too inquisitive. He knows you’re probably just looking, maybe thinking of something else. But the hopeless romantic in him rattles his rib cage and shouts you might actually consider him this time.

“Wanna go get shakes? On me,” he whispers. You sniffle, wiping your aching nose on the cuff of your sleeve.

“I can pay for myself,” you tease, popping open the car door when he cuts the engine.

“Nope! Sorry, I don’t let girls pay, remember? Super sexist, I know. Plus the whole pretty privilege thing. Honestly, I should just be paying you at this point,” he says, hooking his arm around your back and feeling yours reach for his shoulder as you march towards the diner.

“I agree, rich boy,” you chuckle, “Reparations are in order for wrongdoings on behalf of your sex.”

He chuckles. He’s absolutely head over heels.

The waitress seats you at a cozy booth in the corner and makes a casual comment about the cute couple, asking how long you two have been together. Steve flounders at the question, flustered and pink in the face.

“Oh, we’re actually… not together,” you say, laughing awkwardly when she pouts and, again, remarks on how cute you’d be together. You order shakes for the both of you before perching your chin in your hand. Steve’s still reeling when the waitress walks away.

“Funny. We can’t even escape the third-degree from complete strangers,” you tease, winking at him from just a few feet away. Jesus, he’d think you were trying to kill him if you didn’t seem so lighthearted and playful.

“Yeah, pretty funny,” he sighs. And he’s probably being so obvious. Or maybe that’s how he is all of the time, so his heart eyes seem subtle. Or it’s obvious all of the time.

The waitress slides the shakes in front of you, and the bright red cherries sink further into the whipped cream.

“You know,” you murmur between sips, “I always thought you were pretty cute.”

He nearly chokes on his mouthful of chocolate malt, clearing his throat and trying not to crumble in on himself.

“Oh. Yeah, I get that a lot,” he huffs, “Mostly from little old ladies, but—Hey!”

You flick him and say, “Really! I know it’s not couth considering… Brad and all, but…”

“You’re being facetious,” Steve accuses.

“No—”

“Sarcastic!”

“Steve—”

“Ironic?”

“Try serious!” you hum, “I’m just saying, you’re very handsome. I was shocked to learn you were single when we first met.”

Steve’s blushing and puffing trying to maintain eye contact.

“What can I say? I’m just,” he huffs, “I’m not really worried about it.”

You tilt your head. “You’re not?”

“Nah. I know the right girl will find me in the end. Even if it takes a while. I don’t mind waiting for the right one.”

You settle back in the padded seat, wincing when it squeals beneath you. It makes you feel a little dejected, but you suppose he’s right. Especially because he seems so confident. So sure. It’s admirable. You want to be that sure of soulmates and love and the future.

“I feel the same way,” you whisper. He finishes off the rest of his glass with a smile.

“Though, it doesn’t exactly help having a bunch of little shitheads telling you to go get laid all the time,” he laughs.

“Oh, yeah, tell me about it” you lean in, “Just break up with him, steve is so much nicer. Dump that loser. Steve has a big crush on you.”

“They said that?” Steve’s not dumb, he’s sure you know by now, but he thought it was all conjecture. They will be hearing about this next time they want free ice cream.

“Yeah, that was like their main point. But I know with all the love in my heart they’re all full of shit.”

You shrug, and he chuckles dryly. He can’t decide whether you knowing is for better or for worse.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

Steve drives you home. You fall asleep in the car, and he keeps the radio low so as not to wake you. By the time he pulls into your driveway, he doesn’t care about the time or the fact that he lives far. He does, however, care about the way you smile lazily and peck his cheek in thanks.

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

He says it but he wants to tell you what he’s feeling. He wants to ask if you’re over Brad. He knows you’re not and that’s okay, but he wants to ask if he can hold your hand to keep it warm. He wants to ask what kind of flowers you like and if it would be okay for him to drop them off on your doorstep tomorrow. He has so much he wants to say and do, but he doesn’t want to suffocate you.

He doesn’t know that you wouldn’t mind him asking.

more like this

masterlist

#the babygirlification of steve harrington #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #x reader #fluff #stranger things x reader #x fem!reader #friends to lovers #stranger things season three #scoops ahoy

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fleetingtemper · 9 months ago

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when you get lost

possessive unhealthy behaviors! heavily implied yandere

SUNDAY

you were only supposed to be gone for a few hours, doing shopping around the dreamscape. of course, sunday would be damned if he didn’t assign designated oak family agents to closely accompany you all day. you are, after all, mr. sunday’s precious darling.

but he could only blame the incompetence of these agents for losing you. he will have to punish their families quite severely, he thinks to himself. this could only be an act of treason, sunday reasons.

his wings twitch in annoyance.

“i suppose any good pet returns to their master after they’ve realized what an unforgiving world we live in,” he muses

and would he be the head of the oak family if he wasn’t always correct?

there you were, shivering in his doorway, dripping like a wet puppy.

poor (y/n), he thinks. how likely of you to be entranced by street performers and wander off like a child. stars fill your eyes, struggling to take in all the gleaming lights. you are enchanted by these sights for quite some time, until you realize you are lost.

suddenly, the world wasn’t quite as beautiful.

you shakingly walk over to sunday, looking up at him through tear soaked lashes. he tsks before brushing your hair out of your face.

“my dear, how ever did you get lost?” his gloved hand caresses your hair. “i’m afraid i’ve been so careless with you,” how could he let you, a poor, stupid thing, leave his sights again?

“you worry me too much, my dear”

“i’m sorry—“

he pressed a finger to your lips

“as the head of the oak family, i must protect all of my citizens. including you.”

“you best not leave the estate at all.”

JINGYUAN

when jingyuan is informed of you never returning from your outing, he abandons the stacks of paper work at hand. he truly wonders if you just enjoy the punishment at this point.

you had fallen asleep at the base of a tree after a long day of entertaining friends and family. you just needed a break.

deep into your slumber, you felt a raindrop hit your face. groggily, you open your eyes to finally see rain puttering down upon your head. you curse silently before a loud clap of thunder surprises you. however, the thunder was quickly drowned out by the sound of hundreds of armor clanking towards you.

you rub your eyes, only to finally see yourself suddenly surrounded by cloud knights. your stomach drops. how long had you been asleep, you wonder anxiously.

oh no, jingyuan will be—

speak of the devil.

the cloud knights part to make way for the general himself.

the thunder crashing and downpour don’t feel as threatening now that he had shown up. and of course, with the lion.

he silently picks you up bridal style, and you do not dare fight it. you only just recovered your legs recently, after all.

“may i suggest that you take a nap in my sights next time?” ah, but he didn’t really mean that there would ever be a next time.

“yes, general.” you mumble

he gently, but firmly, takes your chin. “you need not maintain formalities, my love,”

“however, as your general, i do not wish to have to imprison you for high treason.”

your eyes widened. high treason?

he lowers his head until his lips are against your ears. “you are my spouse and it is your duty to be as such”

“you cannot absolve yourself of this duty for as long as the mara-struck live.”

VENTI

venti knew you were lost.

there was nowhere in mondstadt where you could ever wander off to where he wouldn’t know your every move. he admired your furrowed brow and how you chewed anxiously on your bottom lip. you were lost, indeed.

oh dear, it seemed as if you were about to walk through an area notoriously frequented by hilichurls and slimes. he thinks to himself that you’ll just have to learn your lesson.

he watches as the hilichurls take notice of you and alert the others.

he only watches as he watches one notch an arrow and lets it soar, narrowly missing, yet scraping your leg.

you yelp out in pain and he almost gets the urge to help you.

but maybe in a little while.

the anemo archon is amused by how you fumble to grasp your sword imbued with your (element) vision. he makes a face, revolted by the reminder of how one of his fellow seven had blessed you, his darling, with their power before he did.

finally grasping your sword, you swing at the hilichurls charging at you, knocking down a few. the pain in your leg makes it hard to fight but archons, you couldn’t afford to lose.

you stifle back groans as clubs bash against your unarmored back. you feel your head spinning from hours of dehydration and hunger.you swung violently at the monsters, not realizing the commotion your fight was causing.

how did that eye of the storm get there?

when you thought you had finished off the monsters, you felt a strong gust of wind knock you down. dirt and debris swirl around you, filling your lungs. you cough violently, eyes filled with fear at the storm in front of you. no way, you internally scream.

you reach for your sword but it is blown out of your weak grip several feet away. fuck, you had no option other than to crawl away.

just as you thought you were finished, an anemo imbued arrow soars past your head and right into the storm, dissipating it. you whip your head around to see venti, the drunkard bard you had befriended.

“are you alright, (y/n)?” he gazes at you worriedly. tears fill your eyes as you throw your arms around the bard, knocking him back onto the grass.

“t-thank you venti,” you hiccup, burying your head into his shoulder.

he rubs your bruised shoulder soothingly. blood stains his hands and he resists the temptation to taste you. how naive, he thinks.

to think you were so badly spooked by a little wind,

he couldn’t wait to see your reaction to dvalin.

#honkai sr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #sunday x reader #sunday x you #genshin venti #venti x reader #genshinimpact #genshin impact x reader #jing yuan #jingyuan x reader #hsr x you #hsr jing yuan #genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere honkai star rail #yandere sunday #yandere venti #yandere jing yuan

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moesthoughts · 20 days ago

Note

Van rigging the cards but then Shauna changing her spot means R picks the queen

Van going feral/ruining the hunt to protect R

Van is so loyal and I literally cannot get what Liv said about Van having “medieval knight qualities” out of my head and thinking about how they would be portrayed in the wilderness

Queen card

pairing ⛧ van palmer x fem! reader

warnings ⛧ human hunting, major death mentions, mentions of blood and cannibalism, Mari dies in your place, implications that you fell in the pit before and not Mari

summary . . The plan was going smoothly, Natalie was ready to depart once the hunt began, Van and Misty had the communicator fixed. All that was left was the card draw, though once Shauna insisted on switching places, you knew the plan was going south. (disclaimer I might've not remembered the card draws correctly bear with me lol)

Adrenaline coursed through your veins; all you could hear was your heartbeat. You’re confident that the plan will go smoothly, Nat will escape during the hunt to call for help, and unfortunately, Hannah will be the distraction for Shauna. It felt so inhumane, but you've learned that sacrifice brings fortune in a place like this. You bit your lip while Hannah went to each person, making them draw their cards. Your fingers clench around the fabric covering you, and you realize Shauna switched her spot. Van looks at you with a worried look in her eye, you avert your gaze, focusing on the card drawing.

4 of clubs

Misty displayed the card she had drawn, showing it around the circle to ensure everyone saw its face. You notice that some people seem disappointed.

6 of diamonds

Van pulls her card next, revealing it to the circle of girls. The plan seems to be going okay, as false hope spreads through your body, hoping that Shauna will return to her original spot.

10 of spades

Nat takes her turn, and you can see how worried she looks. If you noticed, Shauna must have as well. You bite your lip in anticipation. After looking at her card, Nat turns it around to show the group. Lottie seems relieved that she didn't draw the queen.

2 of hearts

Then it was Lottie, who was visibly excited to draw hers. Her face drops and she spins the card around to show everyone. You wonder whats going through her mind.

the joker

Taissa confidently pulls hers, taking a glance at it before turning it away from her. She turns to Shauna with a serious expression.

“I think you should return to your spot,” She mutters out.

“Who let you take AP stats? It shouldn't matter where our spots are. I trust whatever ‘it’ picks.” Shauna responds.

1 of spades

Shauna takes hers out of the stack, a satisfied smile comes to her face as she shows the group her pick. Your stomach drops, this could only mean one thing.

queen of hearts

You’re before Hannah in the draw, you take a deep breath before pulling your card. You aren't surprised when it is the queen of hearts; you exhale before showing the group, a scared look sparkling in your eyes.

“Tough luck, huh?”

Shauna speaks up, and you shoot her a glare. Your breathing quickens as you remove your outer layer of clothing; only a brown coat and pants remain to cover you. The cold wind cuts sharply against your skin. Taissa looks at you with sorrow in her eyes, and you can't quite put your finger on what Van was feeling. You furrow your brows as Shauna approaches, holding Jackie’s necklace—the marker used for these hunts.

Shauna backs away from you, a smirk pulling at her lips. You would do anything to wipe that expression off her face, wishing she’d gotten the queen of hearts instead. You grimace as Lottie walks to you, wearing a soft expression.

“You should be happy, the wilderness wants you.”

You shake your head and look away toward the forest that you'll soon be running into. Thoughts of your family back home flood your mind: you'll never feel the warmth of a shower again, and you'll be leaving Van all alone. At least she will have Tai. You take a sharp breath as you turn around, waiting for the countdown to begin.

You book it into the woods, running as fast as your legs can. You know it isn't smart to wander around the forest blindly, you you change to a jog to examine your surroundings.

You feel like time is slipping through your fingers, no matter how well you know these woods, you'll never know where to run.

You listen for the howling of the girls, relief running through your system once you realize they haven't started yet.

Your feet sting from the snow, pain coursing through your veins.

Finally, the animalistic noises start. You don't know whether you should be thankful that it will all end soon, or be scared for your life. You were so excited to be rescued, your soul filled with hope as the days of winter passed by. In a way you still are, maybe death is the second-best way out. You sniffle as the weather starts to get to you, the bright snow making your eyes water.

You wonder why this will be your way to die; it couldn't have been from the plane crash? That would have been the easiest way to go, no matter how sad that sounds. You stop to catch your breath and quickly look around, taking in your surroundings. Fear rushes through your veins when you hear one of the girls too close for comfort. You dash in another direction, hoping to outrun whoever is nearby.

Unfortunately, you bump right into Lottie, causing you to crash onto the snowy ground. You use your legs to push you away, tears starting to well in your eyes. Is this how you will die? Lottie nailing you straight in the head with an axe?

“You’ve already been here, you could let it different..”

You don’t take the time to calculate a response to one of her many riddles,Instead, you stumble back on your feet and run away from her, hoping she won’t pursue you. You come to a stop in an open area, looking around desperately for a place to hide. You choke on your breath when you hear two sets of footsteps approaching. Quickly, you hide behind a nearby tree, praying that they won’t spot you.

“Get away from me!“

You hear a voice yelling at someone, fear lacing her voice; you recognize it as Mari's. Confusion sets in your brain, who is trying to sabotage the hunt? But, you don't feel disappointed. It's disturbing to think this way, but you can't help but hope someone else will take your place.

“I won’t let any of you, hurt her.”

It’s Van, she sounds almost feral. You squeeze your eyes shut, and your body starts to shake. Either, Van will twist the rules and kill Mari right here, or they'll both see you behind the tree, killing you in cold blood. Only the first option appeals to you.

“You can’t—”

Van shoves Mari with her shoulder, making her cut herself off with a scream. All you hear is a sickening thud, accompanied by the sound of someone getting impaled. You quickly reveal yourself from your previous hiding spot, approaching the pit that appeared in front of you both. All you see is Mari at the bottom, spikes piercing through her body. You shakily raise your hand to your mouth, queasiness taking its place in your body.

Van embraces you, holding onto you for dear life. You can't peel your eyes off the scene in front of you, you can't believe you survived a hunt. You’ve all turned into animals, hunting prey, desperate for some kind of food to fuel you for the next day. Now Mari is dead and you’re alive, the queen card weighing heavy on your shoulders. Van’s fingers curl into the fabric of your coat, you lean into her further, your lips quivering.

You both turn when you hear footsteps approaching, you could practically hear the hunger which each stomp. They stop once they see you alive, and a new hole in the ground. Lottie is the first to walk up, her face not changing from her usual expression. Then they all peer into the hole, everyone having different reactions.

“Holy shit..”

Shauna speaks first, an unsettling grin spreading across her face. Nobody expected Mari to die instead of you, a fate similar to Javi’s. Van’s hand gently rubs your arm in a comforting manner. Your knees give out from under you, your adrenaline running dry. In the end you were saved, by something out there.

“The wilderness has spoken.”

Van breaks through the silence and pulls you up to your feet. Laughter falls out of your mouth, not only is your plan working, but you survived. Shauna is distracted and Nat is nowhere to be seen, rescue is finally coming your way finally.

this was actually so fun to write a different scenario for pit girl death (miss you mari), I hope I did your req justice!! 🤍

req me!

masterlist

#moesthoughts #yellowjackets #moeswriting #yellowjackets imagines #yellowjackets smut #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets imagine #van palmer x you #van palmer imagines #van palmer x reader #van palmer

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luvmahae · 5 months ago

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masterlist — previous — next!

SM DOME how the fuck we feelin?

it’s motherfuckin rave day and guess where we are? sm dome baby!

what’s better than being surrounded by dudes rocking jerseys, half-buttoned shirts, or just straight up going shirtless? and the girls? they’ve got the looks on lock—tiny tops, bottoms barely covering their asses, and of course, the fishnets.

everywhere you look, there’s kandi stacked high on wrists, led gloves lighting up the crowd, and the unmistakable haze of cigarettes, weed, and a rainbow of vape flavors hanging in the air. mango, watermelon, blue razz… you name it!

outside the main doors leading to the floor, some people are already completely fucked up. the night’s still young... right? spoiler: it’s only the openers playing right now. the main section of the venue is pure organized chaos—lines snaking to the bar, the merch booth, the bathroom. and the longest line of all? you guessed it. the water stations.

and this? this is just the beginning of what promises to be one hell of a night.

chenle leads the way to the water stations, his camelbak slung over his shoulders. you and the others follow, weaving through the swarms of people, the energy of the venue running through your veins.

“me, chenle, and jisung are in charge of water tonight.” renjun says, filling the pouch inside of his camelbak at the dispenser.

once the boys finish loading up their camelbaks, the group rallies together, heading toward the floor entrance. mark’s hands rest on Ningning’s shoulders while she clings to chenle’s hand, letting him take the lead. you fall into place behind jeno, fingers gripping his shoulders like a train of carefree, slightly chaotic college kids.*

the crowd is packed, a sea of people all swaying, talking, dancing, you name it. john summit’s final stop in seoul has brought out a massive crowd—more than you had expected, but it’s the kind of energy that gets your adrenaline pumping.

the group moves through the crowd, inching forward towards the middle, where you’ve learned from past events that the view from here is the best. as you get closer to the center, the sights become even more overwhelming—the neon lights, the lasers cutting through the air, the thumping bass reverberating through your body. the visuals are going to be insane.

“right here.”

the group forms a loose circle, finally getting a chance to breathe for a moment before the madness begins.

“y/n you have the baggie right?”

“oh right i do!”

you glance down at your top, tugging on the fabric to pull out the small ziplock bag tucked in your bra. as you pass it to jeno, you notice everyone staring at you with a mix of surprise and amusement—especially the guys.

“you hid it… in there?!”

“i mean… it works out all the time. mark, do you really think security is gonna pat my boobs down?”

“honestly that’s smart as fuck.”

“i mean thank god y/n has tits!” jaemin adds, earning a playful shove from you as the laughter continues.

jeno scans the area, his eyes flicking around for any sign of security before unzipping the mini ziplock bag.

“john summit’s set starts at 9:30, so let’s pop these now.”

one by one, everyone pops their pills, and there’s something about it that feels weirdly intimate. you take a quick sip from chenle’s camelbak after, the cold water hitting just right against the growing warmth spreading through your body.

the opener’s set is still going as the pill starts to settle inside you, your body already humming in anticipation. the crowd roars with excitement, the opener throwing down banger after banger, turning up the energy in the venue.

thirty minutes later, the opening notes of “shiver” echo through the venue, crisp and electrifying, vibrating straight through your chest. the whole group erupts into cheers, their excitement blending seamlessly with the roar of the crowd. the lights flash brighter, neon beams slicing through the darkness as the music builds, and the energy of the night kicks up a notch.

and then, it hits.

at first, it’s a gentle wave of warmth that rolls through you, and then it intensifies—almost like the music is coursing through your veins, the euphoria spreading from your chest to your fingertips. the energy is contagious, with everyone belting out the words, hands in the air, bodies swaying to the beat.

renjun pulls out a pack of gum and starts handing it around. you take a piece, popping it into your mouth just as the familiar jaw-clenching begins to set in. the sharp, sweet flavor helps ground you, even as your body starts buzzing, every sensation heightened to an almost unreal intensity.

jeno waves a handheld fan at the group, his effort to combat the heat appreciated as the air thickens with the crowd’s energy. the sweat, the flashing lights, and the pulsing music all blur together, each sensation melding into the next. your skin sticky from the heat, the lights flashing too fast to follow, the music vibrating through your bones, every beat hitting harder than the last.

the group is fully in it now, rolling hard as ever. eyes half-lidded, jaws working on the gum, bodies swaying and bouncing to the music without a care. mark and ningning are practically bouncing off each other, moving together in perfect sync, feeding off each other’s excitement.

“look at you guys gooooo!” chenle shouts, laughing as he jumps into the circle with exaggerated moves, making ningning double over with laughter.

you can’t help but join in, the sheer joy of the moment pulling you closer. the music, the lights, the people—it’s all blending together into one perfect, unforgettable night.

karina is the first to stumble, her eyes blinking rapidly as the effects of the pill settle over her. she stumbles back, her shoulders colliding with jeno’s chest.

“whoa, whoa- easy.” he says quickly, steadying her with a firm hand.

she looks up at him, her eyes wide and glazed over, chewing her gum aggressively. “i don’t feel so good right now.” she admits, her voice soft but shaky.

jeno, rolling just as hard as she is, grins at her, his face softening with concern despite his own euphoric state. “you’re good. i’ve got you,” he reassures her, his hands gently massaging her temples.

“renjun, water.”

renjun nods and immediately pulls the mouthpiece of the camelbak and hands it over. he flashes karina a quick thumbs-up, his attempt at lightening the moment.

“it’s all in your head rina. you got this! just have fun!”

she takes a long sip, the cool water washing down the rising heat in her chest, grounding her just enough to breathe easier. jeno fans her with one hand, his other still steady on her shoulder

“thank you.”

the overwhelming sensations start to mellow, and for a moment, she just leans into him, finding comfort in his presence.

his grin widens as he looks down at her, holding her close until she’s ready to move again.

“anytime.”

the energy in the group builds as the music pulses through the venue, but ningning suddenly stops dancing, her eyes wide with excitement.

“can someone please give me a shoulder ride?! this is my favorite song! i need to record it NOW!”

jaemin’s grin is instant, mischievous and wide. he crouches without a second thought, patting his shoulders.

“get on!”

she doesn’t hesitate, her laughter bright as she hooks her legs over his shoulders. with a swift push, he lifts her into the air, her squeal of delight blending with the music. she wobbles for a second before steadying herself, one hand gripping his hair lightly for balance while the other raises her phone high to start recording.

“holy shit, john summit is REAL! i love you!”

“you better send me those videos later!”

“jaem don’t let me go okay!”

“i got you! just go crazy!”

“you’re seriously the best!”

he sways to the beat, effortlessly keeping her balanced as she waves her phone around, capturing the moment. his grin never falters, his energy syncing with hers as the track explodes into its euphoric drop.

jisung is completely captivated by the lasers, his eyes locked on the vibrant display, wide with awe. a grin stretches across his face as he chews on his gum, lost in the rhythm of the lights. a girl approaches him, her energy just as high as his, and they start dancing side by side.

she leans in, her voice playful. “you like the lights, huh?”

“they’re fucking insane.”

she laughs and pulls him by the hands, her body swaying to the rhythm of the music, effortlessly guiding him into the groove.

“dance with me, yeah?”

you, on the other hand, are feeling the effects a little differently. while the others are bouncing around and grinning like crazy, you feel lighter—almost like your body is floating. you sway to the music, eyes closed, your body moving with the beats like a feather in the wind.

it’s when you stumble backwards that you feel haechan’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you gently against him.

“you good?”

you smile, leaning back into him, your body relaxed in his arms. “yeah… this pill is strong as fuck, holy shit.” you admit, your voice slurring slightly, but it doesn’t even matter.

he chuckles softly, the sound sending a pleasant shiver through you. his breath is warm against your ear as he whispers, “told you.”

the music swirls around you, and in that moment, you lose your footing again. he catches you effortlessly, pulling you back into his embrace, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head.

“i got you.”

you lean into him, closing your eyes, feeling the warmth of his body grounding you in the otherwise dizzying world of lights and sound.

“just feel the music y/n.” he murmurs, his voice soft, steady, and comforting in contrast to the chaos around you.

when the opening beats of “what a life” burst through the speakers, the group instinctively comes together, forming a loose circle. arms draped over each other's shoulders, pulling everyone close as the music sways in time with the electric euphoria filling the air.

“i love you guys soooooo muchhhh!”

“best fucking night everrrrrr!”

“guys i’m seriously rolling tits right now!”

“tell molly i love her too!”

“god i am literally so happy. let me kiss all of you… NOW!”

you giggle as you stumble from person to person, planting a quick, sloppy kiss on each cheek, feeling the warmth of the crowd and the love flooding around you.

“that’s our girl. classic y/n.” chenle teases from the side, the group erupting in laughter.

then it’s haechan’s turn. when you reach him, the kiss lingers—just a second longer than the others. you feel his skin grow warm under your lips, and when you pull back, his eyes are already locked on yours, their intensity cutting through the haze of the night.

♪ what a life, what a time to be free

as the night winds down, the group finally makes its way back to the cars. the buzz of the pills has faded, but the sense of connection remains. you walk side by side with haechan, your hands brushing occasionally as the faint hum of conversations floats between your group.

you glance at him, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “i’ve got something for you, by the way,” you say, pulling a small green beaded bracelet from your pocket.

“you made kandi just for me? cute.”

“i actually made some for the group... but i couldn't forget about you too.”

“you know what’s funny? i actually made one for just you.”

your breath catches slightly as he pulls a pink beaded bracelet from his jacket pocket. the way the beads shimmer under the streetlights makes your heart flutter, but it’s the glimmer in his eyes that really gets you.

“you know what to do,” he says, holding the bracelet out, his tone both teasing and sincere.

peace. you both raise your hands, forming matching peace signs and holding them for a beat before moving on.

love. your hands curve into hearts, the symmetry between you so natural it feels like second nature.

unity. your palms meet, warm and steady against one another. there’s an intimacy in the quiet contact that makes your chest tighten in the best way.

respect. your fingers interlace with his, soft and deliberate, but instead of letting go, he holds on. his grip is firm yet gentle, grounding you in the moment as he slips the bracelet onto your wrist with his free hand.

you slide the blue and white kandi onto his wrist in return, the action simple but so much more meaningful than it has any right to be.

he doesn’t let go. instead, his fingers stay threaded with yours as he guides you toward the rest of the group, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand.

you know,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear, “this might be my favorite part of the night.”

you glance up at him, a soft feeling blooming in your chest as the night air wraps around you. “mine too.” you admit, the words barely more than a whisper.

and as you walk toward the others, your hand still in his, it feels like a quiet promise—something neither of you needs to say out loud.

♪ what a life, what a time to be you, and me

wc: 2.2k

notes: update on christmas day lets get it 😎 long awaited rave chapter and i am honestly.... living for it 100%. writing this made me relive the past events ive been to irl and ugh 10/10 feeling (not the comeup but everything past that YESSS!) plus im actually dying at the john summit twitter account LMFAO merry christmas and happy holidays to all of u lovely cuties!!! sending u all kisses muah. chapter is based off john summit's "what a life"! such a good song :D

taglist: @4amirwin @wonbin-truther @hearts4hee @jungaji @sundamariis @urlovelily @n0hyuck @dudekiss3r @injunnie-lemon @luvvhaechan @douqhnxtss @tynlvr @haesluvr @hcluvie @pinknjm @nanaxwi @catpjimin @slayhaechan @awktwurtle @myfavoritedelusion @stqrgr7 @t-102 @jianreadsaus @haechanhues @gomdoleemyson @hyuckmoon @haechology @mystverse @hyuckies18 @sunflowerbebe07 @jae-n0 @onlyforyoukook @yizhrt @gwookie @zzzmrk @kukkurookkoo @nightcat101 @tinyelfperson @haefelt @haechsworld @tenjyucat @worldwidecutiemaya @sunghoonsgfreal @snoopyjimin @ypoom151999 @meowtella @honeynanamin @haechanmybaechan @nctrawberries @nosungluv

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accio-boys · 5 months ago

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lost in his dance | fiyero x reader

summary; you confronted Fiyero’s careless attitude, leaving him behind, wondering if he’d notice. btw here's the part 2 of the story.

The wind roared past the window, rattling the glass and filling Fiyero’s suite with a biting chill. Ozma Towers, with its grand halls and lavish rooms, felt colder than ever.

You sat at his desk, staring at the stack of neglected assignments and half-finished projects, the frustration boiling in your chest. You’d spent hours trying to pull him out of his downward spiral, but it always felt like trying to fill a broken jar—no matter how much you poured in, it leaked right back out.

“Fiyero, what do you mean you’re going to Ozdust again?” you called out sharply, hearing him rummage through his wardrobe behind you.

“You’ve been there every night this week with Galinda. Don’t you think it’s time to focus on your work? You’re failing half your classes.”

His laugh echoed from the other side of the room, light and careless.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said, stepping into view with his shirt untucked.

“You’re always so tense. You really should learn to let go.” He leaned against the edge of the desk, his smirk infuriatingly lazy.

“I see I still haven’t corrupted you yet.”

“Corrupted me?” you snapped, turning to glare at him.

“Is that what you call this? Dragging everyone down with you? Your friends, your grades, your future? Do you even care about anything?”

His smirk deepened as he reached for his coat, moving with the same infuriating ease he always did.

“Of course, I care,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.

“I care about enjoying life. About living in the moment. You should try it sometime.”

“Living in the moment?” you shot back, standing abruptly.

“You think ignoring your responsibilities is living? Pretending nothing matters isn’t freeing, Fiyero. It’s pathetic.”

His expression flickered for a moment—just a moment. Something raw and unguarded flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before you could name it.

“What’s so wrong with not caring?” he asked quietly, his voice softer than before.

“What if none of this matters? What if it’s all just… meaningless?”

You froze, the anger in your chest dimming for a second. “That’s why you do this, isn’t it?” you said, your voice quieter now.

“You act like nothing matters because you’re scared it doesn’t. But Fiyero, hiding behind parties and charm isn’t living—it’s running away.”

For a second, you thought you’d gotten through to him. He looked at you like he might say something real, something honest. But then, with a shrug, his mask slipped back into place.

“Maybe,” he said, his grin returning, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“But at least I know how to have fun. You? You’re so obsessed with trying to matter that you don’t even know how to enjoy yourself.”

You stared at him, your fists clenching at your sides.

“Do you think this is fun for me?” you snapped.

“Do you think I enjoy cleaning up your messes while you throw everything away? You’re selfish, Fiyero. And I’m done.”

His grin faltered. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice laced with something you couldn’t place—confusion, annoyance, maybe regret.

You grabbed your bag and stormed toward the door, your chest heaving with anger and disappointment.

Pausing for a moment, you turned back to him, your voice cold and cutting.

“Do your own work for once. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore. I’ll just be dancing through life, like you said.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with bitterness. You didn’t wait for a response.

The wind howled louder as you stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind you. It cut through your coat, chilling you to the bone, but you didn’t stop walking.

Your mind raced, replaying his words over and over, the ache in your chest growing with every step.

You told yourself you were done. Done with his excuses, his charm, and his endless refusal to care. But as the cold wind whipped around you, you couldn’t help but wonder if he even noticed you were gone—or if he’d just keep dancing through life without a second thought.

should I do a part 2? should I also do requests? what do you guys think?

#fiyero tigelaar x reader #fiyero x reader #wicked fiyero #fiyero tigelaar #wicked movie #wicked #jonathan bailey

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osamucide · 9 months ago

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⊹ SEMI-CHARMED LIFE

SHE COMES 'ROUND AND SHE GOES DOWN ON ME AND I MAKE HER SMILE LIKE A DRUG FOR YOU . . . ft. Sigma and Osamu Dazai

wc: 6.4k

cw: sigma x dazai x gn(they/them)+afab!reader, post-canon/canon divergent, language, some plot, explicit sexual content—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, threesome, coaching/guiding, fingering, handjobs, cunnilingus, nipple play, penetration, double penetration, double creampie, spit, teasing, dirty talk, so much kissing, praise, communication, squirting, soft sex, rough sex, hints of fluff and angst, soft dazai, a little bit of mean dazai, switch leaning soft dom!dazai, switch leaning sub!+virgin!sigma, switch!reader, pet names (baby, sweetheart, slut, whore—last two used very affectionately), use of cunt/pussy referring to reader’s anatomy, gambling/strip poker, alcohol+slight dubcon on account of that but otherwise all parties are happily consenting prior, references to pm!reader (and ada!sigma if you squint) but it’s not super relevant, some spoilers for vampire infection outbreak arc/prison break, god will judge me when i’m dead

reid: i have limited knowledge of texas holdem and a huge boner for sigzai. that’s all enjoy

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

“Son of a bitch.”

You sigh and lift your martini to your lips again. It should be too late for a martini, but Sigma's living quarters in the casino is outfitted with a less-than-modest liquor cabinet and while he didn't strike you as much of a drinker himself at first—not while he was on the job, anyway—he could bartend like you wouldn’t have believed had you never seen him do it. Vodka martini, no olive, please.

He had transferred it from his hand to yours with a soft smile that echoed his customer service face; however, he was significantly and refreshingly off the clock, so he addressed you playfully, “007,” as he did and laughed a little as he settled back onto the bed, cross-legged in a triangle made up of you, him, and Dazai.

But that was hours ago. The martini you sip now is your third, and Dazai had graciously made himself at home enough to messily pour up shots between poker games, so it’s safe to say you’re at least a little drunk. Sigma had been looking on in quiet irritation at him spilling remnants of expensive alcohol all over the expensive snakewood. The casino manager couldn’t seem to help but be disarmed by the detective every time he turned around, though, face beneath his messy brown hair alight with intoxication and beaming as he distributed yet another over-poured ounce of sake to both of you still on the duvet. You all drank, poker commenced, money was won and lost.

But that was just the first game. There’s higher stakes this time around.

“I have to fold.” You curse at your shitty hand once more and glance to Dazai, who’s flicking all of his little plastic chips toward the pot.

Of course it was Dazai who’d suggested the stipulations for this game, and of course it’s Dazai who is now letting the words “I’m all in” roll off his tongue while he looks charmingly bored and tipsy.

A few games would not be enough to figure out Dazai’s tells. In fact, a few hundred games would probably not be enough to learn to read him. If it wasn’t evident enough already from his excitement about the idea that he was unconcerned about his chances of being the one with the most clothing left on, it’s certainly evident in the way he’s relaxed now, his fist propping him up by his cheekbone. He peeks at his cards again from where he lounges on his side before he looks up to Sigma with bright eyes and a grin, quiet with mischief.

Sigma could go either way, it seems, from the way his tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth as he idles with an unruly stack of chips. He’s far more expressive, but this is his livelihood; it showed when he faked Dazai out of a 30,000 yen pot last game. Still, this time, this showdown, he pushes the rest of his pile into the center. All in.

The detective flips his cards, pinched between his middle and index finger. Straight flush.

Sigma clicks his tongue and whips his cards down onto the duvet. Straight.

“Hah!” Dazai kicks his feet like a child before sitting up to hoard the large pile. “You both know the rules,” he sings, copying Sigma’s posture as he grabs handfuls of his newly-won chips and lets them rain down over his head. A couple fall into his empty whisky glass.

You and Sigma look briefly at one other before both holding your drinks out for the conniving bastard in front of you to hold, which he does. There’s no agreed-upon piece with which you would begin to undress, so, like any sane person, you reach for your socks.

“Mh-mm,” Dazai hums his dissent through a sip of your martini. “I wanna change one rule. Losers have to undress each other.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s socks, Osamu.”

“Precedent,” he claims with a shrug, switching to take a sip of Sigma’s French 75.

So you and Sigma commence removing each other’s socks in a way that particularly lacks even a little sexiness, but when Dazai starts giggling, you both do, too. You ball Sigma’s socks up and toss them at Dazai’s head, which he dodges and swats back at Sigma. Sigma chucks your own socks at you in return for the indirect fire.

“Hey!” you bite jokingly through your teeth, discarding your socks off the little island of a bed that you exist on right now with these two men, and a moment of reflection strikes you as Dazai buries his face in his hands and Sigma almost tips backwards as they both laugh.

It started months ago in Meursault when you tumbled into the block where Gogol was challenging Dazai and Fyodor to his game after freeing them from the Infinite Dice Room. You, as a low-profile, high-priority Port Mafia affiliate aligned closely with the gravity user Chuuya Nakahara, had followed him into the prison as reinforcement; how Gogol and Dostoevsky were even aware of your existence then, you still aren’t sure. But you ended up there, watching Dazai and Fyodor shoot up lethal poison before dispersing to make their escape. You originally stayed with Nikolai to watch it unfold, but scampered off at some point when Chuuya appeared in danger of drowning. Your ultimate goal had been to help the Detective Agency and by proxy Dazai, but you’d be damned if you stood by while your executive was in a dire situation. It all turned out well, except for Sigma’s prolonged comatose state immediately after the prison break and everything that followed. But all that wasn’t important—not to right now, anyway.

What sticks in your mind and resurfaces now was the way you had watched on the monitor as Dazai—a former associate of yours, to say the least—paraded Sigma through the halls of the prison, teasing him, poking at him, dancing with him. It would’ve been borderline-adorable behavior from anyone sane in a normal situation, but Dazai had a way of driving people to the edge with the timing of his antics, and Sigma was quick to crumble under the pressure of the circumstance. What sticks more is how quickly the casino manager surrendered his trust to the quirky brunette inmate along their journey out of the building that day.

And what sticks most is how Dazai looked at him.

You remember observing a hint of something in his gaze that was usually only reserved for people who held important information, nurses in hospitals who’d taken his phone, occasionally you and Chuuya back in the day if he was feeling especially unhinged—the like.

And you remember looking at Sigma the same way over the screen—all sharp features, milky skin, elegant locks, and a hot trigger finger. His conviction over his purpose was alluring to you, who always understood your purpose to be pure survival. To Dazai, whose purpose seemed to be dying. Sigma was something entirely different from either of you, and when you all reconnected by the chance of business after the chaos, it was difficult to ignore the feelings dredged up from such a stressful time. It wasn’t like you’d always had your eye on Dazai or anything—no, surely not—but anyway, the click between the three of you back in Yokohama was inevitably pursued outside of work. A former DOA associate, an Armed Detective, and a Port Mafia subexecutive meeting up in the Sky Casino for drinks and Texas hold ‘em was certainly unprofessional in one capacity or another, sure, but you can hardly find it in yourself to care as Dazai hands you your martini back, face pink from cracking up.

It’s funny to you, how you never feel out of place between them. Sigma is leaning over onto your shoulder to stifle his dying laughter. You just shake your head as Dazai picks up the cards to deal.

The next game whirls by. You are the first to end up without a shirt, where Dazai and Sigma, both with their seemingly endless respective streams of luck, split the winnings over an evenly-matched two pair. You sit sheepishly after it’s your turn to deal, trying desperately, now that you’re losing in a tangible way (the three of you never use real money), to conjure up ways to gain back some ground and maybe not finish out the night as the only one naked.

“Sigma, deal,” Dazai purrs as if this isn’t Sigma’s show. You have your arms crossed over your chest as two cards flutter down in front of you, and you look at them, thinking, hoping—yes, maybe if Sigma would put a Jack down you could—

But any strategy you’re beginning to formulate is effectively zapped off, like a power button on a remote extinguishing a television’s display, as Dazai takes your wrists in his hands and guides them down to your lap.

“Why are you sitting like that?” he asks so innocently. “You’re hot. Stop hiding.”

You’d be blushing if it wasn’t for the alcohol making an appearance on your cheeks already. You giggle a little again, his touch making you feel more lightheaded than anything you’ve drank thus far. Sigma turns to you for your action, but your eyes are locked onto Dazai’s, so he does the only thing that makes the most sense in his own intoxicated mind—he grips your chin, not too harshly, and turns your head toward himself, in all his pastel, angelic beauty.

“Your turn,” Sigma says gently. While he doesn’t comment on what Dazai has said, and although his hand doesn’t hold the same menace that Dazai’s seems to, the tilt of his lips speaks a silent agreement.

Just as both of their fingers are beginning to overwhelm you, they retreat.

And you look down at your cards again, and your train of thought is as good as gone.

“Um—sorry, uh…”

You push 6000 yen into the pot, and Dazai follows.

And soon enough, like clockwork, you’re removing your pants—no, Dazai is removing your pants as Sigma gathers his winnings, and you’re unbuttoning Dazai’s shirt, and this has to be some sort of plot against you, you think, because the room is suddenly hotter, nevermind the alcohol, and you swear Dazai and Sigma are exchanging looks the way you and Dazai had months ago before leaving Meursault.

But you keep your composure. If there’s one thing you were used to dealing with, it’s sexy, scheming men, and it’s rare you ever let them get the best of you. Poker aside, you won’t crack. You can’t. Your drunkenness, now subsiding into hazy exhaustion and a twinge of need you won’t admit to yourself just yet, bolsters your pride, if anything. These two will not break you. You’ll make sure it’s the other way around first.

Another two games pass, and you finally have the mind and hand to win, which is what leads you to the scene of Sigma inching Dazai’s underwear down his thighs.

The casino manager’s face is broken out madly. He’d lost his own shirt but in all remains the most clothed out of all three of you; your dignity is preserved in your undergarments, and Dazai only ‘tsks as he steps out of his boxers just to lay back down on his side, propped up on his hand, in his spot on the bed.

“Well,” the detective laments, his practiced dramatics coming out to play. “I’ve officially lost. What to do now…?”

You look as unfazed as you can by Dazai’s nudity; Sigma’s eyes, however, are everywhere but the brunette.

You hum thoughtfully, considering your nails. You have your little heatstroke from before under control, it seems, but you’re biting your bottom lip raw at the shift in the energy of the room.

You crawl to sit against the headboard of the bed, shooing Dazai out of your way as you do so—it’s the same luxurious snakewood that the liquor cabinet is made from, and it doesn’t budge when you lean back against it. Dazai sits beside you, one leg curled beneath him and the other hanging off the edge of the bed as you kick the duvet down at Sigma, adjusting yourself so your bare legs are extended and crossed at the ankle. You smirk, only softly. Dazai scoots closer to you when your pinkie wraps around one of his fingers.

Sigma, hunched in on himself at the end of the bed, breathes deeply as you turn your gaze to him and pat the spot on the other side of you. He’s willed up by the expectant look on Dazai’s face, and he takes his seat at your side; he looks to the brunette across your side profile, and you hook each of your legs over one of theirs.

“What else is there to do?”

The question comes from you as you look between them, stroking both their knuckles; Dazai’s expression grows more sinister by the second, and he looks past you too, to Sigma, whose eyes are wide. You follow Dazai’s vision.

Sigma gulps and finds himself nodding. He knows what at, but he can’t bring himself to say it as you flick your gaze down to his parted lips.

You lean in.

“This okay?”

He’s still nodding. His head only stills when your hand leaves Dazai’s and reaches up to cup his face.

And you kiss Sigma with an open mouth. He shivers and leans into you. Your hand falls back to blindly search for Dazai’s cock.

Dazai is half-hard just watching you slip your tongue past Sigma’s lips; you thumb his tip teasingly, giving him a few squeezes and drawing soft breaths from him as the pastel-haired man reaches up for your neck. It’s obvious Sigma’s never kissed anyone like this before, but he follows your lead like a first-time ballroom partner, letting you nip the beginnings of moans out of him as Dazai watches, watches.

When you pull back, Sigma is in awe. His eyes don’t open for a few seconds, and you smile, endeared.

“You’re a good kisser, Sigma.”

His eyes snap open. “R-really?”

You nod. “But I think Osamu could train you even better.”

Something flashes across Sigma’s face—not discontent or anxiety but pure surprise, and you turn back to Dazai for his appraisal. He’s biting the inside of his cheek as your fingers work him up and down, torturously slow. Before anything else can happen, you lean into Dazai; he’s eager to receive your lips, force the gasps that belong to you into your mouth. You think you’ll play them like a pair of cymbals, if they let you. If Dazai lets you. It’s looking like he might.

You tilt your head back as Dazai works his way down your throat, leaving bruising bite marks as you touch him. You find Sigma glazed over in awe—the next thing you do is encourage his face toward yours again, so you can kiss him while Dazai marks you. You don’t hold back the sighs that come from your diaphragm. Sigma swallows your breath with greed. You cup his jaw, your noses bump; he grows more confident by the second, and as Dazai traverses back up your neck, you leave him whining, removing your hand from his cock to push the two men’s faces together.

Soft hums reverberate between their kiss. You look proudly upon your work as their hands find one another, frantically, on jaws, on shoulders, on chests. Sigma reaches to pick up where you left off, but second guesses himself.

“It’s okay,” you whisper to him. “Right, Osamu?”

“Mmhm.” Dazai bites into the other man’s bottom lip. Sigma yelps into the lack of air between them. You guide his hand, which finds Dazai at his base and sends him moaning into the kiss.

With your hand wrapped around Sigma’s wrapped around Dazai, you latch onto Dazai’s neck to return his bites. Your head buzzes with anticipation; it’s so hot to watch them, low-lidded and on two different levels of experience, talking to each other without speaking. You move Sigma’s hand up, down, up, down. Dazai breaks away to let a full-bodied moan into the air; he makes up for contact by resting his forehead against Sigma’s, peering down at where the two of you are working him into a mess.

“That’s it,” Dazai pants, but he looks smug. “Unh—feels good.”

“Hear that?” With your free hand you tuck a thick lock of Sigma’s silvery hair behind his ear as you mumble into it. “You’re doing so good.”

“Tell me what to do,” Sigma breathes, and he sounds so desperate that it makes you throb. “Don’t know what ‘m doing, please, tell me what to do.”

“Exactly what you’re already doing.” You let go of his hand and let him stroke Dazai by himself. Dazai nods weakly, needily, cock twitching as Sigma explores; the pale-haired man’s thumb circles his tip the same way yours did, but faster. When you lean over to spit on his cock over Sigma’s hand, the brunette’s jaw falls slack and the two melt into another kiss; you don’t even have to enlist Dazai’s hands as, through his pleasure, he fumbles for you. You uncross your ankles, and he rubs you impatiently over the final bit of cloth that remains on your body. Your lips find Sigma's throat next.

All heaving breath against each other, you move like this for a bit, learning one another. Dazai reaches to pop the button on Sigma’s pants as he’s tugging at your underwear at the same time.

You both turn your focus to Sigma as you kick your last layer off; he stumbles upward, back onto his feet, and you and Dazai pursue him as he’s helping you both push his pants and boxers off in one collaborative swipe. He’s never been hard like this before—sure, Sigma’s not a stranger to sexual arousal, but he’s only ever touched himself. Call it a side effect of the imposter syndrome or throwing himself into his casino or the fact that this is his first time being alive, but as Dazai sits on the edge of the bed looking like a hungry animal and you toss his pants away, he can’t imagine why any two people as physically gorgeous, intellectually dominant, and purpose-driven as the two of you would want to engage with him like this. He’s excited, he can’t deny it—his cock is straining almost painfully as it bobs in the air now—but there’s a line of tears forming on his lash line, and you’re fast to catch him.

“Sigma,” you call him back from inside his head. Dazai’s fingers have found his hip; they rest there tenderly. “Sigma. We can stop. It’s okay.”

“No,” Sigma all but cries. He aches to be touched the same way you and himself were both touching Dazai. “No, no, don’t stop, I just—I’m—”

A single tear splits down his pretty pale skin. He looks back and forth between you both.

“Sigma,” you say firmly. “Talk to us. It’s important.”

“I—” He gathers himself, voice cracking only once. “I want this. I want it so bad. I can’t believe I deserve it. You’re both… I just don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to... not be good.”

You look to Dazai, who looks uncharacteristically tired for a moment; it’s an understatement to say he understands exactly what Sigma is trying to articulate, but he’s not a man of sentiment, so you pick up the slack. Collaborative. You wind your fingers between Sigma’s and lead him to sit next to Dazai.

You stand, bare, in front of the two of them, also bare; they’re both so beautiful in their own ways. Dazai, with his dark features, cutting cheekbones, flexing jaw, bandages outlining the contours of all his lean muscle. Sigma, all heavenly light, awkward hands, unmarked skin, thin sheen of glistening sweat.

“You don't need to worry,” you reassure him. “We just want you. Right, Osamu?”

“Mmhm,” Dazai hums again. Not a man of sentiment, but he presses a series of kisses to Sigma’s cheek before smiling devilishly. “We’ll take care of you. How about that? Teach you how to fuck.”

Sigma shudders at his words; his eyes still flit nervously, but fall at rest when you sit opposite Dazai and run your fingertips across his thigh.

“Yes,” he responds just above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dazai echoes.

“Okay.” And you. “Can we touch you? Or d’you wanna watch us?”

Sigma contemplates. His cock jumps at the mere mental image of watching Dazai fuck you; he could get off like that and be totally content, but his mind drifts back to your hands, Dazai’s hands, and how selfishly he was campaigning for you both to touch him just minutes ago. “Touch me, please.”

Now it’s you looking across Sigma’s side profile at Dazai. He mirrors the look in your eye, and you lean over to press a kiss to the brunette's lips before you traverse the plane of Sigma’s chest. Dazai reaches for his cock.

And just like that, Sigma is in heaven. His hands fall behind him on the bed to steady himself as Dazai goes through a motion Sigma’s performed so many times on himself, but it feels so much better now—he doesn’t know if it’s Dazai’s calloused fingertips or the curling heat you both create in his pelvis by just kissing him, talking to him, loving on him—and he’s throwing his head back, embarrassed to make noise but in such ecstasy that he can’t help it, won’t help it. You giggle lightheartedly against the shell of his ear when he does, and he loves it. Loves it. Wants it to last forever. Dazai sucks on his collarbone and you tweak his nipples and he’s twitching, twitching, building up so quickly he’s afraid he’ll be spent soon.

"'M gonna... oh—gonna cum if you don't s-stop—"

But it isn't a request to, so when you and Dazai's hands both leave him, he's sent reeling just like you were during the last game. Sigma's chin meets his chest as he recovers from what feels like Dazai's revenge for the bluff that worked on him earlier, and he looks at you both, glazed over with lust.

Your eyes are so warm when they slide from Dazai back to him.

“So handsome. You’re gorgeous, Sigma.” It hardly matters who says it—the other agrees.

“Tell us what you want.”

"Well, um," he asserts, pulling his shaky legs up into himself and leading you by the arms to pull you back to the headboard. "This part seems pretty self-explanatory. Dazai, I think you should show me how to..."

You perch at the head of the bed again as he trails off, and Dazai looks like he's ready to have fun with what's coming next.

"Show you how to...?" he prompts Sigma to finish his sentence, and Sigma's nudging his way between your legs; your lips turn upward at his burst of enthusiasm, and the words get stuck a bit as he settles on his stomach in front of you.

"Touch them. I've really never done this before." He blinks up at Dazai. Weaponized incompetence has never been so sensual.

And Dazai takes the bait and crawls next to him, gripping your thigh a little too hard as he presses his shoulder to Sigma's. "Certainly. Give it your best shot, I wanna see what I'm working with here." It's so natural for Dazai to take on the mentorship position, even in this situation. You can't help the way you giggle at them; their eyes linger on each other a second too long to imply nothing before Sigma turns his attention to you.

You think he'll start with fingering you, but he dips his head down and goes right for your cunt—you're unable to suppress the oh! that leaves you as he licks a sensual and slow stripe from your hole to your clit. Knowing Sigma, you understand that his mind is probably still swimming with self-doubt as he rolls his eyes up to yours, but you can't find any of it. It's all too hot. His pretty pink lips undulate as he tastes you, delicately, and Dazai lets out a surprised noise of his own.

"Seems like you’re alright." Dazai's grinning. "But I'll help you out. Stay there."

So Sigma latches onto your clit, drawing another series of gasps out of you, and Dazai plunges his middle finger into you. You’re so slick, so ready for them that there's no resistance; Sigma's experimenting with his tongue, then his lips, then alternating, and Dazai keeps digging his fingertips into your thigh, your hip, as he works you open on his hand.

"God, with how wet you are, I think we could get you to take both of us."

Your eyes—which you hadn't realized had fallen shut as you wound each of your hands in either of their heads of soft hair—fly open at that. Sigma pulls away too. Tortorous.

"At the same time?" You're unsure if it comes out of your mouth, too, but Sigma asks it—with a sense of wonder that, had you said it, would've been overshadowed with a little apprehension. Dazai looks up to you for approval.

And while it's daunting—neither of them are small, that's for sure—you can't help the way your hips roll at the thought of being stuffed with them both. At the same time. How intimate it would inevitably be, their cocks pressed together as they fuck you. So you nod, vigorously.

"Gotta get 'em ready, though," he lectures to Sigma, snapping back to his instructorly tone as his hand falls on top of yours in his two-toned hair, pushing his face back into your cunt. "Put that mouth to work. You got it, baby."

Sigma hums against you at the nickname and the vibration sends your head lolling back again; Dazai looks wicked as he straddles your leg, still reaching down to split you open, now on three fingers instead of one or two. He kisses you hard.

The attention from both of them is unbelievable—you see now what had them both falling apart so quickly. Something about two sets of hands wandering your body sets lights off behind your eyes. Sigma’s reaching up to paw at your chest, flicking and pinching your nipples the same way you had his; before you know it you’re panting like a dog into Dazai’s mouth and soaking the bed below you.

“Fuck—you two.” You’ve got one hand still twined in Sigma’s hair. You’re almost grinding onto his nose, and he’s lapping up everything you’re giving him like a good boy. Your other arm winds around Dazai’s neck as you pull him closer and bend your knee to nudge his balls. He humps against what you give him. Lewd, wet sounds fill your ears.

“That’s the plan,” Dazai singsongs, pretty teeth visible. Amidst your frantic hips, he shuffles behind you, never breaking the heated kiss you share more than he has to. Those teeth find your lips and you gasp, you moan, you’re so impressed at how quickly Sigma is picking up on this new art, and with so little instruction, really—he watches you and Dazai make out from his place between your thighs and thrusts his hips against the bed at the sight. You notice.

“Sigma, come up here.”

His lips leave your cunt hesitantly; truth be told, your taste is more inebriating than all the alcohol he’s had. He’s rock hard, and you split your attention between him and Dazai as you lift your hips up, arch, and angle Dazai’s cock against your pussy.

His lips catch Sigma’s as he sinks into you; a whine falls from you at the stretch, and you can feel Dazai shake as he waits to move. When he parts from the kiss, he wraps his hands beneath either of your thighs, spreading you open wide.

Sigma all but gawks at the way Dazai’s dick is buried in you from below. You reach behind you, give his brown hair a tug that has Dazai thrusting up roughly, and Sigma would let your moan shatter his eardrums, his entire being, if he could. He sees the whites of your eyes, the white of Dazai’s fingertips as he grips you hard, the white of Dazai’s precum and your slick dripping down onto the sheets, and his hips lunge forward at nothing. Your cunt looks delicious. Dazai looks delicious, all furrowed brows and bitten lips and groans that bubble up from his chest. He fucks you fast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Osamu! Unh, uh-huh—”

Dazai echoes your own name back to you. “Yeah, fuck—you feel so good.”

All the combined sounds are like a symphony to Sigma. He palms his own cock; no way he can cum just watching now, he decides. He needs to be in you. He doesn’t want to be an observer. Sigma catches Dazai’s eyes as if to say can I? But Dazai’s already smirking and breathlessly slipping out of you, holding you up and open still as you reach for Sigma with one hand and will him into you. You suck him in, god—thank god you’re already so wet and fucked open, because he’s not an inch inside of you before he loses himself and thrusts forward wildly.

“There you go,” Dazai encourages, grinning as the pale-haired man’s composure crumbles. “Isn’t that pussy heaven? Just like that, Sigma. They’re fuckin’ creamin’ all over you, look.”

Look, as if his rosé eyes could possibly leave the place where you’re swallowing him in. Sigma’s grunting—he’s never known himself to be noisy during pleasure, but this is another level, your cunt so warm and milky and squeezing him like you’ll never let him go.

The curtain of Dazai’s bangs falls across your shoulder as he kisses you there, mutters filthy musings into your ear while he watches Sigma sink into you over, over, over.

“How’d’they feel?”

Sigma’s unprepared for the way his own voice sounds, wound tight and concentrated while he tries and fails miserably not to whine. All that voice turns into babbling. “So—so, so fucking good, I’m—ah, I’m gonna fucking cum—”

"Woah, woah, alright. Not yet. Give 'em a breather. They're gonna need it, after all." Dazai's still laughing as he puts the brakes on Sigma with his feet—that's especially funny to him, but the way Sigma almost chokes at the way Dazai stops him is even better. Sigma, all sweat and arousal, sinks back onto his knees. You, too, squirm at the loss of stimulation, pushing soft lavender and silver off his forehead where it sticks; when Sigma’s hips don’t quite quit, even with nothing around his cock, Dazai chuckles out a “Looks like you need it, too.”

You trace Sigma’s tangling fingers as you catch your breath, interlocking both your hands with his. Dazai lets up on your legs—your hips will thank him later—letting the flex back into a more comfortable position. Your back rests against his chest, and he plays with your clit lazily.

“This is gonna take some patience, okay?” Dazai is addressing Sigma more than you; you’re guiding Sigma’s hands down to your cunt where he and Dazai move in a figure eight that keeps you occupied.

They're gonna need it, after all is what's registering in your mind. "Osamu—" you start, but he's shushing you.

Once again, Sigma's watching Dazai ride you up by your thighs so he can buck up into you, much more tactfully than the pale-haired man was just seconds ago. Perhaps more neglected than either of you at this point, Dazai's voice is gruff as you squelch around him.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart. Hah." His teeth sink into your shoulder as you croon.

"Dazai—" Sigma starts this time, but the other man answers all his questions with a single look.

"You’re gonna go back to what you were doing,” Dazai breathes, his gaze trained on Sigma as you writhe.

“Please, both of you—”

“Be patient,” Dazai means to snap at you but it’s too melted, too lovey. Anyway, he’s egging you on with his next words. “C’mon, Sigma, you’re gonna give ‘em what they want, right?”

And Sigma nods like he’s in a trance—your cunt already looks full around Dazai, but he needs urgently to be in you next to him. He thinks he’ll explode in all the wrong ways if you don’t let him in. He needs it, so he lines himself up below your clit, above Dazai, looking for anywhere he can slip in; it takes some of Dazai’s fingers, some of yours, but soon enough he feels the veins of Dazai’s cock on his underside and your pulsing walls to the top of him. He’s in. He’s actually in, and his head falls onto your shoulder, and it takes everything in him not to let his full weight slump directly onto you and Dazai. You’re bleating, sobbing, laughing through the stretch, and when Sigma’s tip nestles next to Dazai’s deep inside you, you feel full. Whole.

“I’m gonna stay still.” Dazai sounds just as affected as both of you, but he keeps his facade up a few seconds longer to guide you both to the beginning of the end. “Want you to fuck them, Sigma. Hard.”

And he doesn’t need to be told twice. It’s difficult to pull back and push in at first—you’re so fucking tight and Dazai’s so fucking big, and even though you’re spread apart, Sigma feels like he can’t get close enough to you. Your cunt weeps around both of them, protesting the stretch that your brain adores, but you let up. And he fucks you, soft at first, and then hard.

All three of you are jumbled noise; skin on skin, teeth on lips, moans on shoulders, wet smacking and sliding and sobbing as you take both of them. Your gut heats up with each push, each pull, each frantic grasp, each broken sound the two men let out as they frot inside of you; Dazai’s biting your shoulder again, letting his sweet little protégé do the work. Sigma digs his nails into you wherever he can find purchase.

“Oh—fuckin’ harder, Sigma, baby, please—” you beg.

“Our pretty boy fuckin’ you good?” Dazai doesn’t wait for you to answer. “You gonna go stupid on his cock, huh?”

Sigma couldn’t answer the question even if it wasn’t rhetorical; all of his coherence is gone, and you took it. His thrusts grow erratic, remarkably unpracticed and blatantly virgin, but the repeated pounding of the head of his cock against the entrance to your cervix makes your eyes impossible to keep open, then impossible to keep closed, so you teeter between hyperalert and falling apart. Dazai rubs your clit as Sigma pushes your knees further back with sudden aggression, pins your thighs closer to your shoulders as he fucks you and creates an otherworldly friction against Dazai. He’s gone, he’s lost, and he looks so gorgeous whimpering and whining, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he screws his eyes shut and his mouth falls open over and over again. If anyone’s going stupid, it’s Sigma.

But the longer he fucks you, the more limp you fall; your head falls to rest on Dazai's shoulder as Sigma puts everything into you, and the brunette laughs like the asshole he is, even through this. He’s hardly doing better than either of you, though, and his words fly.

“My two beautiful little fuckin’ sluts, so—unh, so hot. So hot. Look at what I turned you into.”

Neither of you have any hope of answering. His voice just throttles you forward, and Sigma’s grunts ante up—he’s almost yelling, shouting as he exerts himself, as he does everything his body will let him to get himself there, and bring you with him, too.

“Ah! Angh—anh—ah, ah, ugh!”

And you reply with, “Ah! Unh—oh, oh, oh, please, please, please!”

And Dazai drinks it all up, finally letting his eyes roll back as he pulls Sigma down for one more messy kiss—one that sends Sigma headfirst into his orgasm, and he cums, rutting into you while your cunt spasms, squirts, begs for Dazai to follow. It’s like white heat rolling off of him in waves; Sigma’s brows lift as if finding a sort of clarity, and your eyes are wide as you clutch the two men, and Dazai follows shortly after—the mixture of their cum inside you sings the most disgusting and yet most satisfying sounds of the evening. Your legs snap shut around Sigma’s waist as he rides all three of you out, all sweat and tears and incredulous moans that die as he slows to a stop, still stuffed inside of you.

Three pairs of lips are dry, bitten raw—chapstick’s the first thing on Sigma’s mind as his head clears, but he feels himself and Dazai spill out of you, and you and he both reach for him, pulling him down into the pillows as whatever dream the three of you just exited settles around you like dust. He’s sticky, too, but he doesn’t hate it—how can he when you’re between them, throwing one leg over Sigma’s waist and tangling the other with Dazai’s behind you? You head falls into the crook of Sigma’s elbow, and his other arm drapes over Dazai’s, which holds you close by your waist as Dazai’s chin settles on top of your head—not unlike a three-piece puzzle, snapped together and in your right place.

“Oh, fuck.” You’re still leaking. “That was wonderful. Both of you.”

Dazai chuckles again. Unnervingly charming, even after cumming so damn hard. Sigma doesn’t want to know what he looks like himself.

“Who knew there was a whore in the casino man?”

You smack Dazai’s arm, but now you’re all laughing again, even Sigma. He feels… proud. You look so satisfied, so tired. The way your eyes slide shut after pressing such affection into his own prompts him to do the same.

Tired as he may be, though, he can’t lie and say that he’s not still incredibly turned on—you wiggle a little to get comfortable between them, and Sigma feels his cock spring back to life when you brush him, when your fingertips skate over the small of his back. He can’t reflect on what just happened—it’ll have him hard again in seconds.

“Excited again already, huh?” Dazai pokes. Sigma’s face burns.

“Ugh,” you groan out of sheer exhaustion, “if we go again, you’re both taking turns.”

Dazai looks thoughtful. “Hmm. Perhaps we could reprise rock, paper, scissors.”

And Sigma, having begun to nod, stops. “Absolutely not.”

#cackles maniacally #goodnight #with love—reid #dazai x reader #sigma x reader #dazai smut #sigma smut #sigzai x reader #sigzai #bsd smut #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #nnnsfw.ᐟ #mdni

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passengerprincessblog · 6 months ago

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“Intern”~ pt. 1 Max Verstappen x reader

Disclaimer: Reader doesn’t have to be blonde! The images is just to show she’s working for the team!

Warnings: degrading? Mean max.

Summary: The series follows Y/N, a fresh and slightly timid media intern for the Red Bull Racing team, who is thrown into the chaotic, high-stakes world of Formula 1. Her job quickly becomes challenging not only because of the high-pressure environment but because of Max Verstappen, the star driver with a talent for making her feel small and flustered. Max’s arrogance and relentless teasing leave her feeling out of her depth, yet strangely captivated. Despite his condescending demeanor, there’s an undeniable pull between them, a tension that seems to simmer just beneath the surface.

I sit quietly in the corner of the motorhome, tapping nervously on my phone as I check my messages. The whole atmosphere here is intimidating, even more so when Max Verstappen and Checo stroll in, laughing at some private joke. Their easy confidence is almost tangible, filling the room with a sense of belonging I can only hope to someday feel.

Max’s eyes land on me for a split second, and I quickly look away, pretending to be engrossed in a message from my boss, Adam. I can feel my cheeks heat up just from that brief eye contact. It’s silly, but he’s… well, he’s Max Verstappen. There’s something intimidating in the way he looks at people, like he’s sizing them up and finding them lacking. And, of course, I’m not immune to his scrutiny.

The only time he’s spoken to me before, he’d made a throwaway comment that left me red-faced. He wasn’t even trying to be mean—it just slipped out, something about me “looking lost.” The memory of my blush and his faint smirk is still fresh, and I can’t seem to shake it.

My phone buzzes with a message from Adam: Can you come to Meeting Room 3 ASAP?

With a deep breath, I make my way to the meeting room, hoping Adam’s request isn’t something beyond my skill level. When I arrive, he looks a bit frazzled, glancing up from his stack of papers with an apologetic smile.

“Y/N, I know you’re still new, and I haven’t had the chance to train you properly…” he starts, running a hand through his hair. “But we’re short-staffed this weekend, so I need you to help the media team cover for the missing people. Think you’re up for it?”

I swallow hard, my nerves tightening at the idea of being around Max and the rest of the drivers more than I already have been. But I don’t want to let Adam down; he’s been nothing but encouraging since I started, always pushing me to do better, to learn more. It’s why I like him so much as a boss.

“Of course, Adam,” I reply, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “What do you need me to do?”

He hands me a tablet and goes over the details. My main job will be to record the drivers’ answers during interviews, ensuring we have accurate records. I’ll also assist Andrew with media release forms. It’s straightforward, but the thought of messing up in front of Max makes my stomach churn.

Later in the day, Adam decides it’s time for a proper introduction. He drags me into the garage, where Max is leaning against one of the cars, arms folded as he talks with a mechanic. When he sees us approaching, he raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he already knows I’m way out of my league.

“Max, this is Y/N,” Adam says cheerfully. “She’s helping us out with the media coverage this weekend. We’re a bit understaffed, so she’ll be shadowing you a lot.”

Max looks me up and down, his gaze almost clinical, as if he’s evaluating whether I’ll be a help or a hindrance. He smiles, but it’s the polite kind—the one people give when they’re forced to interact with someone they don’t particularly care about.

“Hi, Y/N,” he says, offering a brief nod. “So, they haven’t trained you yet, huh?”

My cheeks flush, and I look away, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. There’s something so arrogant about him, the way he stands there, completely sure of himself. Why does he have to be like this? He’s just a driver, after all. A very talented one, sure, but still just a person. But his energy—the way he carries himself—makes it clear he’s used to people fawning over him.

“Not yet,” I reply, managing to keep my voice steady.

He just chuckles, clearly amused. “Well, I’ll break you in.” He says quietly enough for me to hear.

What? What did he just- I blink and smile at him.

A few hours later, we’re on our way to the media pen after qualifying. I’m clutching the tablet tightly, going over my mental checklist to make sure I have everything. Just as we reach the interview area, I realize with a sickening jolt that I’ve left the team phone back in the motorhome.

I take a deep breath, feeling the embarrassment already creeping up my cheeks. “Um… Max?” I ask hesitantly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you mind waiting a minute?”

He looks at me, eyebrow raised, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You forgot the phone, didn’t you?” he says, not even bothering to hide his smirk. “Let me guess—you didn’t think you’d need it?”

I nod, my cheeks heating up further, and I try to apologize. “I’m sorry, it won’t take long—”

“Oh, don’t worry, intern,” he says, emphasizing the title like it’s an insult. “I know you’re new, but I figured you’d be a bit smarter than that. Or is this your way of making sure I remember your name?”

His tone is light, but the words sting. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out more like a nervous squeak. “It’s just… I thought I had everything.”

He leans closer, making me meet his gaze, his expression full of condescension. “Don’t look so nervous. I’m asking you a question,” he says slowly, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable I am.

“I… I know. I just—”

“Didn’t think?” he cuts me off, chuckling to himself. “It’s fine. Go on, intern. Fetch the phone. I’ll wait here, seeing as you’re so eager to do a good job.”

I nod and practically sprint back to the motorhome, my mind racing. By the time I return with the phone, my cheeks are still burning, and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s pleased with himself.

During the interviews, I focus on recording Max’s answers, refusing to make eye contact. I can feel him glancing at me every few moments, as if he’s waiting for me to make another mistake, something else he can latch onto. But I keep my head down, determined to finish this task without another hitch.

Later that day, Adam calls me aside, a slight frown on his face as he glances at a form in his hands. “Y/N, I need Max’s signature on this media release form. Looks like you forgot to get it earlier.”

I feel my heart sink. Another mistake. Another opportunity for Max to remind me just how out of place I am here. Swallowing my pride, I head to his driver’s room, my hands shaking slightly as I knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, sounding a bit exasperated.

I step inside, holding the form and pen. He’s lounging on a chair, scrolling through his phone, barely sparing me a glance. “Um, Max… I just need you to sign this release form.”

He finally looks up, an infuriatingly smug smile on his face. “Intern, I thought we went over this,” he says, leaning back with a mock sigh. “Didn’t I tell you earlier to get it all done at once?”

“I… I’m sorry. I just—”

“Forgot. Again,” he interrupts, looking like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “Is this going to be a habit with you? Or should I expect you to keep knocking on my door every five minutes?”

I can feel the embarrassment flooding my cheeks, but I hold out the paper and pen, refusing to let him see how much his words sting. “It won’t happen again,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He takes the form from me, signing it with a flourish, but not before giving me one last smirk. “Let’s hope not. I don’t have time to babysit, intern.” he says, clearly enjoying himself.

He doesn’t hand the form back to me. Instead, he holds onto it, his fingers curling around the edges, teasing me as I reach out, waiting for him to relinquish it. But he makes no move to do so. His smirk only widens, and I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach.

“Maybe,” he begins, his tone dripping with mock thoughtfulness, “maybe I shouldn’t give it back to you. Maybe you should learn from your mistakes.” He pauses, watching as I grow visibly more uncomfortable under his scrutiny. And then, with a single, swift movement, he crumples the paper in his fist.

My mouth falls open in shock, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased with himself.

“Do you need a babysitter, Y/N?” he taunts, his voice soft but laced with condescension. “Is that what you’re asking for? Because that’s what it looks like to me. Someone to hold your hand, make sure you don’t make any more silly mistakes.”

His words sting, each one hitting me like a small slap to my pride. I can feel frustration bubbling up inside me, the urge to snap back at him nearly overwhelming. But I bite my tongue, swallowing the retort building in my throat. I can’t risk my job, no matter how badly I want to put him in his place.

Instead, I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “No… I’m sorry,” I mumble, trying to keep any hint of annoyance out of my voice. It takes everything I have not to glare at him, but I keep my expression as neutral as possible.

Max’s smirk only grows at my response. He seems to revel in my discomfort, enjoying every second of this little power play. He lets the crumpled paper fall from his hand, watching it drift to the floor near his feet. “If you’re so sorry,” he says, gesturing to the paper on the ground, “then pick it up and make it work. I’m sure a little crease won’t stop an intern like you, right?”

I hesitate for a moment, the indignation flaring up again, but I bite it back. He’s baiting me, waiting for me to snap so he has another reason to belittle me. So, without another word, I crouch down, reaching for the paper that lies just near his feet. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, that smug satisfaction radiating off him as I pick up the wrinkled form and straighten back up, clutching it tightly.

I want to say something, to tell him off, to make him realize how unbearable he’s being. But all I do is nod, the words caught in my throat as I straighten the paper as best I can. Max watches me, one eyebrow raised in clear amusement, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Say thank you,” he commands, his tone soft but dripping with authority.

I clench my jaw, every fiber of my being resisting the urge to roll my eyes. But I know better. I swallow my pride, forcing myself to look up at him, though the words feel heavy on my tongue. “Thank you,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

He tilts his head, that smirk growing, clearly pleased by my forced gratitude. “See you tomorrow, intern,” he says, his tone dismissive, as if I’m nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his day.

Without another word, I turn and leave, clutching the wrinkled paper in my hand, his mocking gaze burning into my back as I step out of the room.

——————————————-

Thank you for reading! 😇

Remember, liking and following let’s me know you want more writings! 💜

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen x you

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steddielations · 2 years ago

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Dom Steve Fic Recs

Strange as Angels (soft dom steve) by @munsonkitten

Eddie hasn't been able to get himself off in months, and now he's high, sweaty, and horny, thinking about the very man sitting in his room in nothing but a wife beater and a pair of tiny athletic shorts, and he thinks he might die. Steve notices. Of course, Steve fucking notices, what, with all the squirming Eddie's doing. Steve offers to help get Eddie off. As friends do. (As long as those friends are completely in love with each other.)

Like The Hero Who Never Ran (dom awakening series) by callmejude

While Steve and Dustin are searching for survivors, they're surprised to find Eddie alive, hiding out in Rick's cabin. Steve takes up the task of caring for him while staying in his trailer.

Genius Loci (dom bottom, magic steve) by @sayesayes

It’s 1986, and Steve falls in love with a boy who is leaving. It’s 1990, and Eddie comes back home. The fic where Steve is a selectively mute, homesteading, truck-driving witch with head injuries and also somehow it's canonverse.

(Don't) cream your pants (soft dom steve awakening series) by @corrodedbisexual

“Don’t know how to cream your pants, huh?” Steve asks, unable to conceal a smirk. He hears a quiet whine as Eddie seems to try and make himself disappear inside the couch. “Want me to show you how?”

Gilded (dom steve, blindfolds, ice play) by @cheshiredogao3

Steve and Eddie are looking forward to a weekend all to themselves, but it doesn’t go as planned.

Trouble Looks Good On You (wip, spanking, kink discovery) by me indelicate

It happens like a fever dream. The first time Steve gives Eddie a swift smack on the ass, it’s obviously just an old jock habit that’s stuck with him. It wasn’t meant to have Eddie’s knees going weak, or turn his blood hot under his skin, or give him a brand in the shape of Steve Harrington’s hand, or— Nope, because Eddie’s not even into that. But then, it happens again. Or, Steve keeps accidentally awakening Eddie’s new kinks.

You Make Me Feel Like I Am Whole Again (wip, dom top and dom bottom steve) by @munsonkitten

Eddie has never felt like his body belongs to him. It gets worse after he's nearly mauled to death, left with scars and healing wounds, a lopsided chest, and more trauma stacked on top of everything already wrong with him. Steve Harrington finds out Eddie's trans by accident after the bats, and Eddie finds out Steve's surprisingly okay with it. More than okay with it.

Bite Through These Wires (soft dom steve's strap game series 🤭) by @steves-strapcollection

“Wouldn’t you be Ken, though?” Steve had hoped Eddie would ask a question like that and he had to refrain from punching the air and ruining his punchline. “I come with all the coolest accessories, so clearly I’m still Barbie,” Steve retorted, his voice going just a bit deeper as he leaned closer to Eddie.

Relax (Lay it Back) (soft dom yoga instructor steve) by @wynnyfryd

Five times yoga instructor Steve teaches Eddie how to chill the fuck out, and the one time he learns his lesson.

Melt Me On Your Tongue (soft dom, bathing) by me indelicate

“This okay?” “Yeah it’s— shit, it’s more than okay, Steve.” “… you’re crying, Eds.” Eddie can’t hold back a choked off noise then, somewhere between an overwhelmed laugh and a sob. “No one’s ever done this to me before.” He doesn’t know if he means no one’s ever given him a bath, or braided his hair, or just any of the things Steve does for him, really. Eddie's never had a Steve before.

Kiss Me (Beneath the Milky Twilight) (pleasure dom steve, virgin eddie) by @gorgeousgreymatter-x

Eddie has never been kissed. Steve apparently would very much like to volunteer to fix this.

Getting Lost in the Dark is My Favorite Part (wip, masochist virgin eddie, kink discovery) by queerontilmorning

After his near-death experience, Eddie decides it's time to get rid of his pesky virginity and heads to a gay bar. It leads to some... realizations... for both him and Steve.

You're a Sweet Shot of Kerosene (When I Threw it Back, it Poisoned Me) (wip, mob boss steve) by @gorgeousgreymatter-x

Whatever fucked up shit Eddie’s father had inadvertently roped him into simply by being what he was — a shit-stain excuse for a sperm donor who preferred sticking a needle in his arm to taking care of his family — well, Eddie’s pretty sure it’s about to be him that pays that price. And maybe Eddie’s delirious, because by the time it’s apparently his turn and they’re dragging him down some hallway (and yeah, it’s not like Eddie’s not trying to put up a fight, but it feels almost performative at this point considering he’s pretty much hogtied here), the only real thought he has when they deposit him on yet another cold, wet tile floor is this: Uncle Wayne is gonna be so pissed at me if I get shot in the head tonight.

closer to you (soft dom steve) by @natesfwl

“C’mon baby, where's my little rockstar?” Steve spanks him, groans when he feels Eddie tense up around him from the impact, “Perform for me.” “You let me penetrate you” Eddie stutters out the line as he lifts himself up with his knees. “There you go,” Steve whispers, watching as Eddie fights to keep his eyes locked onto Steve’s when he sinks back down. or the really self-indulgent fic of steddie fucking to the song closer by NIN.

Destroy The Silence (drummer steve) by @artaxlivs

Steve becomes the drummer for Corroded Coffin and Eddie can't handle his thirst

Trouble and Temptation (series wip, businessman dilf steve) by @heartharps

“Come on, Harrington. I’d lay you badly but I’d lay you gladly.” When Steve looked up, he was glaring, as stern and serious as ever. “Eddie, let me remind you that as far as I'm concerned, nothing has ever happened between us other than of a professional nature.”

Sting, and Other Brainworms (series with switching) by @riality-check

“Do you need to go down, baby?” Eddie gets like this, sometimes. Stuck between overwhelmed and incredibly bored. Steve watches until he remembers that they have a way to fix this. Eddie calls it a hard reset. Steve calls it fucking him until he can’t see straight.

Edification (sadist steve) by aristal

“Alright Munson.” She bares her teeth and grins like a wolf. “Tell the class: what’s your biggest sexual fantasy?” A slow smile creeps into his features, and his dark eyes flash. “Oh, you’re asking the good questions, Wheeler.” He takes another long pull of his joint, dragging the moment out for dramatic effect. Steve doesn’t care. He wants to know the answer. He needs to know. Eventually, Eddie blows out the smoke, eyes a little hazy as he grins at the ceiling. “I’ve always liked the idea of being slapped around and choked in someone’s car.”

In My Boxers, Half Stoned (dom bottom Steve) by eddywow

"You can," Eddie said, almost sounding like he was nodding along to his words. The image was too pure for Steve. "You could say anything you want to me and I'd- I think I'd be into it. Because I saw your pics and like, I know your face isn't in them but- but I really like them. Is it okay that I liked them?"

Insatiable (public, skirts, cages) by @cheshiredogao3

When their club ritual is rudely interrupted, Steve and Eddie make a point of proving their bond—rather publicly.

Done Deal (series with switching) by @morningberriesao3

Steve Harrington doesn't have any money with him, so he offers to pay Eddie Munson some other way.

Lovebite (sub vampire eddie) by hellcore

It shouldn’t feel so good, being tasted.

* The next few don't have the tag but in my opinion they have dom Steve vibes and I want to include them here (:

Cyclical (wip, time loop fic, rimming, switching, lots of smut with plot) by @cuips-not-cute

steve keeps finding himself back in the boathouse where everything started, wrapped up in the arms of a boy who can’t stop dying. he's desperate to rewrite the timeline, trying everything he can think of to fix it. including falling in love.

Dirty Words by @morningberriesao3

Steve gives Eddie a lesson on dirty talk, but things start to get carried away.

Memorize My Number, That's Why I Got A Phone (phone sex) by queerontilmorning

while on tour with Corroded Coffin, Eddie makes an important phone call to Steve.

My Right Hand Man (spanking, kink discovery) by @entanglednow

In which movie night takes an unexpected turn, and it's surprisingly easy to just let it happen.

Shot Right Through (pierced eddie) by @entanglednow

Steve overhears a conversation between Eddie and Robin, and then spends a few weeks trying to think of anything else.

Pleased To Meet You (demon steve) by midnightdrive

Eddie accidentally summons a demon who is bound to fulfill his every wish. He, somehow, gets more than he had bargained for.

#for the baddies that get it #i'm sure i missed some great ones please feel free to add on <3 #steddie #steddie fic rec #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #dom steve harrington #sub eddie munson

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m1ckeyb3rry · 1 month ago

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hello mira! I’m here to see what gold you can spin from this request: aventurine playing against a card sharp reader

hi cheshire!! i apologize in advance this is probably not what you were hoping would come out of it SKLDJHF i am afraid i did not do him or the reader justice but an attempt was made!! hehe 😜

wc: 1.2k (somehow)

“I’ve heard you never turn down a game.” The man speaks with a firm, charming assurance; he’s not asking you if this is the truth, or at least he doesn’t seem to think he needs to. You hum, tapping your stack of chips, picking up one and rubbing your index finger along the ridged edges.

“I suppose I haven’t yet,” you say, and then you smile at him. “But there’s a first time for everything. Are you interested in the prospect of being that first?”

“I’ll admit it sounds thrilling, but as intriguing as it may be, I’m far more interested in actually playing with you, ma’am,” he says, sitting across from you and steepling his gloved fingers, tilting his chin at you invitingly.

He’s beautiful, his face pointed in the delicate way of a heart, his clothes perfectly fitted to his slender, willowy body, his hair as gold as the watch upon his left wrist. A pair of violet-tinted lenses slides down the bridge of his upturned nose, and a hat is pulled low over his pale brow; it’s a laughable attempt at inconspicuousness, given how gaudy his mere presence is, and he must know this, because he gives you a roguish grin when he notices your careful inspection of him.

“Well, if that’s what you want,” you say. “Do you have any preference for what we play?”

“Rumor has it that it’s impossible to beat you at cards,” he says.

“I wonder where you get your intelligence from,” you say noncommittally; he responds with a shrug, just as noncommittal. “Shall we play baccarat, then?”

“Baccarat,” he repeats. “Why not?”

“So agreeable,” you say, motioning for the dealer to give you each two cards from the wooden shoe in his hands. “Who are you betting on?”

You expect him to say the banker — almost everyone does, after all. It’s the safe option, with an ever-so-slightly higher chance of success, though of course there are never any guarantees in such a noble profession as gambling. Still, it takes you by surprise when he motions towards his own hand.

“I’ll bet on the player,” he says.

“A unique strategy,” you say, because based on the way he wove through the crowd to get to your table, he is no stranger to this atmosphere, which means that this is a conscious choice he’s making.

“Betting on myself hasn’t led me astray yet,” he says. You purse your lips.

“What did you say your name was?” you say.

“I didn’t,” he says. He’s mild, pleasant, even — but behind his glasses, his eyes sparkle with something mischievous, like he’s daring you to ask him what it is, like he knows what you’ll say if you learn it. When you don’t speak, he chuckles. “Ah, what should we wager? I’ll give half my chips, if you’ll do the same.”

“Very well,” you say, obliging him and sliding your chips into the center alongside his.

“You have such lovely cards,” he says. “Where are they from?”

“A gift,” you say. “From a Knight of Beauty. I lent him some money many years ago, and this was his thanks.”

“Did he ever pay you back?” he says.

“Of course he did,” you say. “A mere deck of cards is not enough to reimburse me for what I gave him. This was merely extra. An expression of his gratitude, as the case may be.”

“What a generous man.”

“They tend to be. Do you want to play again?”

He’s won this round, and when he pretends to consider your offer, you can tell he’s not surprised by the outcome. You don’t like it, the way his eyes dart around the dim establishment, the way his fingers dance along the table, the way he hasn’t taken off his glasses or his smile since he sat across from you.

The dealer picks out new cards from the shoe, and you think that the man will consider his choice carefully, but he doesn’t hesitate, glancing at the hands for a mere instant before pointing at you.

“I’ll go for the banker this time, ma’am,” he says.

Baccarat is meant to be a game of luck, and you think that the man before you must consider himself very lucky for his successive wins. You pretend that you have been baited, frowning slightly, and so the two of you continue, raising the stakes with every successive round.

“You are quite skilled in this game,” you say after his fourth victory. He’s won enough times in a row that it is an anomaly, albeit not an impossibility, and although you are suspicious of him, you have no grounds of which to accuse him on.

“It’s merely luck,” he says. “An old friend of mine.”

“Then you won’t mind going for one more?” you say.

“If you insist,” he says. You’re just about to say that you don’t insist, really, but then you stop, because it’ll almost certainly be lost on him. He raises his eyebrows, and for a moment you wonder if he knows what you’ve just thought, but then you dismiss the notion in turn. Your face is as impassive as his, and if any expression does dare cross it, it is only that which you have chosen yourself.

“Who will you bet on this time?” you say when your hands are laid out. He makes a show of it, leaning forward with his elbows propped on the table, and then he adjusts his glasses. For a brief instant, you are given an unfettered look at his brilliant irises, a pair of unpolished gemstones that nevertheless twinkle in the flickering overhead light, and then he sighs.

“How about a tie? I’ll go all in on that. Maybe even...seven and seven?” he says. Before you can stop yourself, you’re scowling.

“Who are you?” you say. He flips over your cards before you have the chance to do it yourself, and when both hands sum up to seven, that smile of his curls into something feline and knowing.

“Would you look at that,” he says. “I think that’s quite enough for today, don’t you? Ma’am.”

He puts a particular and barbed emphasis on the last word, and then he’s sweeping all of the chips into a velvet pouch, standing up while brushing invisible dust off of his lapels.

“You can take your winnings to the front and exchange them for credits,” you say finally, tightly, through gritted teeth and a tense jaw.

“I’ll be sure to,” he says, pushing in his chair. “Say, that Knight of Beauty of yours must not have been very honorable, hm? It’s uncharacteristic, but stranger things have happened.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say. He only waves at you, all but mockingly, really.

“The IPC is always watching,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m willing to let the situation slide this time, since you almost fooled even me…but don’t push it. Not all of my coworkers are as generous as I, and while we may not pay attention when you cheat desperate men out of meager winnings, it’s an entirely separate issue when you’re cheating us out of our own tax dollars. You understand, right?”

“Like I said, I don’t know what you mean,” you say.

“No worries,” he says, holding up his purse, which is as dark as wine and twice as addicting. “You don’t have to. I’ll take this and consider the matter settled for the moment. I think that’s only fair, right?”

He’s gone before you have the chance to respond.

#aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #aventurine x y/n #aventurine #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #m1ckeyb3rry requests #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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monsterswithimagines · 9 months ago

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Undisclosed Desires - Part 5

Joe Goldberg x female!Reader

Summary: Twenty minutes before he would have met Guinevere Beck, Joe meets you instead. You intruige him, but it will soon become clear that there is something off about you.

Words: 781

Masterlist

Let me tell you what I've learned about you these last two weeks.

I know at which store you buy your groceries (TV dinners and twizzlers), and that you spend far too much money on Starbucks coffee (a White Café Mocha in the morning, a Caramel Frappe sometime during the afternoon). You work in an office building. According to our friend Google, the building is shared by an online marketing agency and a large fashion retailer. I want to say you must be in fashion, but I'm just not sure.

What else? You didn't lie to me. You haven't made many friends here. During your free time, you drift through New York all on your lonesome, and you don't seem to mind it. You never seem to know exactly where you're going, and you don't ask anyone for directions. You don't talk to strangers at all - I was an exception, then, and that makes me feel good - and you get lost in crowds, and sometimes I want to approach you and pretend it's random, but I don't want that glassy, dreamy look to go out of your eyes. It's the same look you had the first time we met, before you found Stephen King.

There is so much you can find out about a person, once you know where they live. I'm finding out so much about you, (Y/n).

And yet, I’m having trouble finding an in.

You are not predictable. You don’t get your coffees at the same time every day and you never walk the exact same route twice. Getting breakfast at the same place two days in a row must have been a fluke, because I never catch you following any sort of routine except for when you go to work.

You never go to any other bookstore except Mooney’s, though. I wait for you there whenever I’m working, except for when I know you’re also at work. I feel like a puppy, and I don’t like it. This is what you’re doing to me.

My reward for all this waiting? Your smile.

You walk into the bookstore again, just like you did that first time only now your eyes immediately find mine, and you smile at me and I can’t help but smile back. You approach me, and you say: “Hey, Joe.”

“Hi, (Y/n),” I answer, copying your tone.

“So I was thinking,” you say, leaning your elbows on the counter between us. “We never hang out.”

“Oh?” I say. I can’t sound too interested, but I am, (Y/n), I am! “What do you mean, exactly?”

“We text, occasionally,” you say, and I can tell this is something you’ve practised. You’ve been thinking about what to say because you think about me. You’re obsessed with me. Why else do you come here so often, if not to see me? “And we see each other here, when you’re working. We should hang out some other time, when you’re not. Working, I mean.”

“That could be fun,” I say. Are you asking me on a date? “What did you have in mind?”

“Coffee?” you offer. “Or lunch.”

You are! You’re asking me on a date!

I can’t believe my luck, (Y/n). I’ve been trying so hard to find a way into your life and here you are, finally, opening the door for me. If I’d known it was going to be this easy, I wouldn’t have had to follow you around so much. But then, I’m glad I did, because it means I know to say:

“Saturday? One pm? We can meet here.”

“Yes,” you say, because you don’t work on Saturday and of course you don’t have plans. You pull a hand through your messy hair and you smile with your teeth and you add: “It’s a date.” And it is! It really is!

I’ve been working so hard, (Y/n), and it’s all seemed so impossible so far. But I should have known you were testing me. You wanted to know how long I was willing to wait. For you, I’d wait an eternity.

“Well, the books are calling me,” you say, leaning back. You tilt your head to the side. “Do you hear them?”

“For sure,” I say, even though all I’m hearing is happy music. “Go find your next novel to devour.”

You disappear into the stacks and I stare after you. I can’t wait for our date, (Y/n). We’ll get coffee and I’ll take you on a walk, one of those long walks you enjoy that have no specific direction. We’ll talk about anything and everything, and at the end of the night you’ll love me. You really will.

#penn badgley #you netflix #joe goldberg #joe goldberg x female!reader #joe goldberg x y/n #joe goldberg x you #joe goldberg x reader #joe goldberg imagine #imagine #x reader #you s1 #you

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misshoneyimhome · 1 month ago

Text

What’s up, buttercups! 💕

First things first — I'd like to apologise for this chapter 🙈 I honestly just had one idea in mind the entire time (yes, that last one), so the rest may feel a bit like filler… sorry! And yes, I fully admit I’m playing my characters like pawns right now — but hey, my story, my rules 😏

As always, happy reading! I really do hope you enjoy it 😘 Sending lots of love ❤️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ smut: Auston x female character; oral sex (m receiving), protected vaginal sex - Auston x reader; oral sex (f receiving), public space

Word count: 7.5k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine ; Chapter ten

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter eleven: Thin Ice & Royal Wreckage*

The Benchwarmer

Chapter Eleven: Thin Ice & Royal Wreckage

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

A Queen’s reign is rarely without scandal. One kiss. One flash of a camera. One frozen moment, and just like that—the narrative shifts.

Once hailed for her loyalty, our Queen now stands accused. Betrayer. Manipulator. The internet’s new villain.

But what of our King? The ever-composed, ever-controlled Ice King—how deep does this cut?

The question remains: does he feel nothing, or has the Queen struck where it hurts most?

Either way, the air has turned cold. And the cracks beneath them are beginning to show.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

Thursday –

You should’ve known. You had known—deep down, in the part of your gut that always flinched right before the fall, that instinctive, sinking sensation you’d learned to stop ignoring. The second Ryan’s lips brushed yours—even if it was brief, even if it didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of whatever this strange, spiralling situation with Auston had become—you knew, with every fibre of your being, that consequences would follow, swift and sharp and loud, because that’s how this world worked now.

And still… still, it didn’t stop the sting when you woke up and found yourself smack in the middle of the chaos. Again.

Your phone was vibrating non-stop, the screen lighting up like it was short-circuiting, with messages and alerts and pings stacking one on top of the other like dominoes with nowhere to fall. Texts from people you hadn’t heard from in months. Missed calls. News push alerts. Mentions on social media that stretched for miles. And all of them—every single one—featuring your name, right next to his. You and Auston. Together. Just like always. Only this time, not in a good way.

You hovered over the screen, thumb frozen for a beat too long before you forced yourself to unlock it, as if maybe—just maybe—waiting a little longer would dull the blow. It didn’t. Of course, it didn’t. Because there it was, at the very top of your feed, bold and capitalised and utterly gutting:

“Leafs Star Auston Matthews’ Girlfriend Caught Kissing Another Man—Trouble in Paradise?”

You could feel the breath leave your lungs before you even processed the rest, your heart thudding loud and steady in your ears as your fingers tightened around the phone, scrolling down with the kind of dread that felt both heavy and inevitable.

The photo wasn’t even that good—grainy, low-res, probably taken from across the street by someone who thought they were being slick—but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered. Because the damage was already done.

There was Ryan. Leaning in. His lips brushing just barely against the corner of your mouth. Your expression frozen in time, your eyes wide, your lips parted—caught mid-reaction, mid-mistake. And it didn’t matter that it hadn’t been a kiss, not really. Didn’t matter that you’d pulled away, that you hadn’t even processed what was happening until it was already over. Because to the internet, to the masses watching with popcorn in hand, it told a completely different story. One where you were the villain.

You didn’t even need to check the comments—you could practically hear them already, sharp and bitter and cruel in the way only strangers online could be.

“She was using Auston all along.”“He deserves better.”“What did she think was gonna happen?”

Your stomach twisted, the shame curling deep and acidic as you closed the app with shaking hands and let the phone fall to the bed beside you.

Just a few days ago, you’d been on top of the world. Praised, adored, the girl the internet had claimed was “too good for him,” their favourite Cinderella in a jersey, their sweet, savvy Queen. And now? Now they wanted to see you fall. Hard.

You stared at the ceiling, your thoughts ricocheting too fast to settle, until eventually, finally, you forced yourself out of bed, ignoring the ache in your chest and the burning in your throat as you told yourself—out loud, almost—to pull it together. Because you had a job. You had an event to run tomorrow. You had no choice but to keep moving.

But as the morning dragged on, and the day began to unfold around you, it became harder and harder to pretend that everything was fine, especially when the silence from Auston grew louder with each passing hour.

Nothing. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a goddamn like on your Instagram story from three days ago. And you knew—of course you knew—that he’d seen the photo. Everyone had. You were trending. Again. But still, the nothingness from his end settled into your chest like an anchor, heavy and suffocating.

Work didn’t help. Meetings passed in a blur. Manion looked at you just a little too closely, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. You could practically hear Chase’s voice in his head, whispering poisonous little ideas—maybe without Auston, she’s nothing here. Maybe she just rode his coattails. And maybe—just maybe—he believed it.

But you refused to let that be the truth. So, you worked harder. Smiled wider. Ignored the whispers. Brushed off the tension. Buried it all under the ever-professional facade that had never once cracked.

Until night came.

And you were curled up on your couch, your laptop dimming on the coffee table, your inbox long abandoned, the silence of your apartment pressing in like static—when your phone finally buzzed.

And there it was.

Auston: Seems like the distance is working, huh. Good for you.

The words landed like a punch to the gut, sharp and casual all at once, as if he hadn’t spent the entire day saying nothing, as if he hadn’t watched the internet tear you apart without so much as blinking.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, a slow panic climbing its way up your spine. You typed. Deleted. Typed again. Something—anything—that might explain, soften, fix this. But you didn’t even know what to say.

It wasn’t what it looked like.It didn’t mean anything.I didn’t even kiss him back.

But something told you it wouldn’t matter. That Auston wasn’t texting you for an explanation. He was texting you to make a point.

Still, you tried.

You: Auston, I thought this was the idea?

Auston: it was

You: then what’s the problem? Do we need to talk about it? I mean, we’re still friends right

The typing bubble appeared for a moment—brief, taunting—before his reply landed like ice water.

Auston: What’s there to talk about? It doesn’t matter. This wasn’t anything anyway. We’re not friends and we never have been. You can kiss whoever you like. Doesn’t matter to me.

You sucked in a sharp breath, fingers trembling where they hovered above the screen, because no matter how many times you reminded yourself this wasn’t real, wasn’t supposed to be real—those words still cut.

Cold. Calculated. Final.

And you knew then, without question, that The Ice King had returned. Not the version of him you’d come to know in quiet moments and lingering touches, not the one who brushed hair from your face and kissed your neck like it meant something. No, this version was the one the media always warned about.

And even though you had told yourself from the very beginning not to get attached—this still hurt like hell.

You: can we at least talk about tomorrow?

Auston didn’t know what it was exactly, not really. Because if he were to name it—if he were to sit there and let himself actually feel it, label it, turn it over in his hands and examine it—then he’d have to admit that it was something ugly, something sharp and wild and clawing. And he didn’t want that, not when he’d spent so long telling himself this thing between the two of you didn’t matter. Maybe it was jealousy, though he wouldn’t dare say it out loud, and yeah, there was definitely frustration, a lot of it actually, thick and hot and choking in the back of his throat. And maybe, just maybe, a flicker of guilt too, though he was far too proud to let himself dwell on that for long.

But mostly, if he had to boil it down, he was pissed—pissed that the photo existed in the first place, pissed that someone had the audacity to snap it and post it. Pissed that you had been out in public letting some other guy lean into your space and brush his lips against your skin, even if it hadn’t meant anything, even if it wasn’t what it looked like. Because you were supposed to be his—not really his, not officially, not in the way that counted, but still, in this twisted, half-real way that only the two of you understood—and seeing that moment captured, frozen in time, broadcast to the world like it was some kind of headline? That made his blood boil in a way he wasn’t ready to unpack.

And sure, he had been the one who suggested the distance, who told you both it was smart to cool things off, to create some space between yourselves, to give the illusion of something less-than, because it was easier that way, cleaner, more controlled—but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see someone else in the space he’d come to consider his. And now? Now he couldn’t stop picturing it—Ryan’s lips ghosting yours, the smile on your face that probably matched the one you gave Auston, the way you tilted your head when you laughed, like you were letting this guy in, even for a second, the same way you let him in.

He hated it. Hated every part of it. Hated that you let someone else that close. Hated that the entire internet had seen it, commented on it, turned it into clickbait. But most of all, more than anything else, he hated himself—because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like betrayal.

Because Auston had learned far too early that girls always had an angle. That it was never just about him, never about who he was beneath the jersey, beneath the pay check, beneath the public persona. It was about what he could do, what doors he could open, what status he could provide. And you had played into the part no differently. You wanted credibility, attention, your name in rooms it hadn’t been in before, and he had given you that. Willingly. Because that was the deal.

So why—why the hell—did it feel like something had been taken from him?

His phone buzzed on the table beside him, screen lighting up with your message still lingering, the words staring back at him, soft and too real: like friends.

And there, just beneath it, his own response—cutting and distant and far too cruel for someone who had kissed you like he had: We’re not friends. Never have been.

Auston let out a harsh breath, dragging a hand through his already messy hair, fingers knotting at the roots as frustration pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.

And so, because he didn’t want to feel any of it—because he couldn’t—Auston did what Auston Matthews does when the thoughts got too loud and the pressure too much. He scrolled until he found someone he knew would say yes, someone who didn’t ask questions. A quick text. A quicker response. And soon she was at his door.

She was pretty—tall, brunette, confident in that practiced kind of way, the kind of woman who knew exactly how the night would go the second she walked through the door. They’d done this before. Too many times.

Auston didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. His hands were already at her waist, his mouth already against her throat, her giggle airy and sweet as she leaned into him like she belonged there. But he wasn’t listening to her laugh, wasn’t reacting to her whispered nothings. He was already somewhere else.

He undressed her quickly, efficiently, discarding lacy pieces of fabric like they were obstacles instead of accessories, pushing her onto the bed with a strength that wasn’t exactly gentle, but not cruel either—just determined. Her skin was soft beneath his palms, warm and willing, and she moaned when he kissed down her neck and trailed lower. But even then, even as she spread herself for him like she was ready to worship, Auston felt nothing.

Because it wasn’t you. And that was the point.

There was no tenderness here, no slow build-up, no smirk passed between kisses or shy glances exchanged in the dark. There was only the sound of fabric rustling, breath quickening, and the quiet hum of the city beyond his windows. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t meaningful. It wasn’t anything like what he remembered it being with you.

She was already on all four on the mattress, her hair tangled in his fingers, her lips parting as she took his length into her mouth without hesitation. He hadn’t even been sure he could hard, not with how twisted his thoughts were, how heavy everything felt—but apparently, his body was still more than capable of going through the motions.

And she tried. God, did she try. Her mouth was wet, warm, and eager, her throat swallowing around him as he pushed deeper, his grip tightening in her hair, his hips snapping forward with purpose. She moaned like it meant something, like she was doing him a favour, and maybe she was, but it didn’t matter. Because no matter how deep she went, how perfectly her lips stretched around him, how many times she gagged or whimpered or looked up at him with those glossy eyes—she still wasn’t you.

He let his eyes flutter shut, let the memory of your lips wrap around him instead, let himself recall the way your hands had trembled at first, uncertain but so determined to please him. The way you’d looked up at him, vulnerable but eager, and how he’d never wanted anything more than to ruin you in the best way possible. You had been new to it, hesitant and unsure, but when you found your rhythm? You were perfect. Fucking perfect.

Auston groaned at the memory, his hips moving of their own accord, driving forward until her nose met his skin, until her throat fluttered around him. But it still wasn’t enough.

He pulled away without a word, flipped her onto her stomach, positioned her with practiced ease. He grabbed a condom, rolled it on, lined himself up, and then—just like that—he pushed inside. She moaned, high-pitched and eager, gripping the sheets as he started to move.

It was fast. It was rough. It was mechanical. A release and nothing more.

She whimpered when his hands tightened at her hips, when he slammed into her harder, deeper. Her nails scraped the bed, her breath stuttered, her voice went high and sweet as she called out his name. But he wasn’t listening. Not really.

He thought about your body. The way it had welcomed him. The way your breath had caught, the way you’d gasped when he filled you. The way your eyes had widened, your fingers fisting in the sheets, your lips parting as he pushed you to the edge and kept you there until you cried out in pleasure.

He tried to shake it off. Tried to stay here, in this room, with this woman.

But he couldn’t.

She cried out again when he spanked her, when his pace turned punishing, when he yanked her hair back and fucked her like she was something to conquer. But it wasn’t for her. It wasn’t about her. It never had been.

He was chasing something he couldn’t name. A feeling he couldn’t reach. A ghost he couldn’t hold.

And when he came—hard, fast, sharp—it was with a groan that had your name on the edge of it, even if he didn’t let it pass his lips. His body trembled. His muscles locked. His mind went momentarily blank.

But then it ended.

And so did everything else.

He pulled out, tossed the condom, wiped a hand over his face, chest still heaving. She curled into his side like she belonged there, her lips brushing his jaw as she whispered something soft, something flirty, something sweet. “Mmm, I’ve missed you, Matty.”

He barely reacted. Reached for his phone. Scanned the screen.

Your name still wasn’t there.

He locked the screen, set it down, let his head fall back against the pillows.

“Go to sleep,” he muttered.

And she did.

But him? He stayed awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, body spent, chest hollow, and mind still circling the only thing that mattered.

You.

“Ice cracks under pressure, and from where we stand, the once-solid foundation of our royal couple is beginning to splinter.

A single photo shifted the power. Our Queen, once cherished, now faces whispers of betrayal. The Kingdom has turned. And the King? He’s gone silent.

And silence, when it comes to the Ice King, only ever means one thing—he’s calculating his next move.

Then came the sighting. Late night. A familiar brunette entering his chambers. A replacement? A decoy? A distraction from the storm?

Whatever it was, one thing’s clear—

Winter has arrived. And it’s never felt colder.

– The Benchwarmer”

Friday –

You hadn’t heard from Auston since the night before, and somehow, despite everything—despite the words that had already cut so clean and deep—you still kept hoping for something, anything, to shift. A text. A call. A moment of clarity. But the silence stretched endlessly, each hour thickening the weight that had settled in your chest, pressing down with every reminder that he had meant what he said. Or maybe, worse, that he hadn’t meant it at all—that it had been so easy for him to shut the door that you had once thought might’ve been cracked open, just slightly, for you.

You had always known what this was. Right from the beginning, you’d told yourself you understood the deal, that it was just strategic, just temporary—and yet, somewhere between the teasing remarks and the long looks and the quiet moments that didn’t make it into the public eye; somewhere between the way his hand had found yours and the way his voice softened when no one else was around, the lie had started to unravel. Thread by thread.

But then he said it.

We’re not friends. Never have been.

And that was it. That was the moment the illusion finally shattered, and you could practically hear the crack echo through your chest, that final, piercing confirmation that you had gotten it all wrong—that the person you thought you were beginning to understand had never been real to begin with. Not even a little bit.

Still, despite the ache that hadn’t let up since you read those words on your phone screen, you had a job to do. The event was tonight, the one you’d poured weeks into organising, and Auston—regardless of whatever was left or not left between you—was meant to be there. As your guest. A player. A face. And you needed him to show up, because if he didn’t… Chase would be right - everything you’d worked so hard for might actually fall apart. Because who were you without Auston?

So, ignoring every logical voice screaming inside your head, you soon found yourself in the lobby of his condo building, smiling tightly at the receptionist who barely blinked before letting you up, as if this was a perfectly normal visit, as if your heart wasn’t lodged somewhere in your throat and your nerves weren’t thrumming under your skin like electricity.

It was supposed to be simple. Just a confirmation. Just one quick conversation. That was all.

That’s what you told yourself.

And maybe you really had believed it—right up until the door opened and it wasn’t Auston.

A tall brunette stood there, bare legs, smudged mascara, and one of Auston’s hoodies hanging off her shoulders like it belonged. She blinked, surprised but not flustered. “Oh. Hi?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. The ground dropped out from under you, and every emotion you’d been trying not to feel—jealousy, hurt, betrayal—crashed into you like a wave you didn’t see coming.

“Who is it?” came Auston’s voice from inside.

And then he was there. Shirtless. Sleep-mussed. Looking every bit like a man who hadn’t expected anything to change.

His eyes landed on you, and for just a beat, you saw it—something flicker across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or guilt. Or something messier that you didn’t have the strength to name. But whatever it was, it disappeared almost as quickly as it came, replaced with something flat, careful, and unreadable.

And when he spoke, his voice didn’t waver. It didn’t crack. It didn’t sound angry or cruel or even remorseful. It just sounded… detached. “What are you doing here?”

As if you were nothing more than a misdelivered package on his doorstep. As if you hadn’t given him pieces of yourself that no one else had ever touched.

You stood taller—barely—but it was enough. Enough to make your voice steady, your chin lift, your pride snap into place like armour. “I just came to check in about the event tonight,” you said, keeping your tone brisk, businesslike, professional. “To make sure you were still coming.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded like this was nothing, like the sight of you standing in his doorway while another girl wore his clothes didn’t mean a damn thing. “I promised, didn't I,” he said simply.

And that was it. No hesitation.

So, you nodded. Once. Swallowed around the knot in your throat that threatened to rise. “Good,” you said, your voice quieter now, but still even. “See you tonight then.”

And just like that you turned. Walked away before your body could betray the way it trembled, before your voice could crack, before the tears that had been threatening since last night had a chance to slip past your lashes. You didn’t look back. You didn’t let yourself.

The elevator doors slid shut, the world going silent around you, and still—you didn’t let it show.

Not the ache. Not the fury. Not the way your chest ached like something inside it had broken open for the very last time.

Because if he didn’t care? Then you weren’t going to let him see just how much you did.

The day had already been a whirlwind in the way these kinds of days always are—non-stop motion, too many voices at once, too many things to track, all the details you’d memorised blurring together beneath the weight of expectation—and yet, somehow, you handled each moment as it came, your chin lifted with quiet determination, your hands steady even as your mind raced to stay ahead of the next request, the next change, the next minor disaster in disguise.

You looked the part, too. The dress you’d chosen was exactly right, sleek and streamlined, elegant without being loud, tailored so perfectly it might’ve been made just for you. It shimmered just enough to catch the light, the hem grazing your knees, the neckline modest but still striking. Your heels added height without tipping you into discomfort, your hair was swept and styled with delicate precision. And your makeup? Flawless—like a war paint you didn’t need but wore anyway.

And maybe, on the surface, that’s what you were—calm, composed, in control. But beneath that polished exterior, just out of sight and barely concealed beneath layers of willpower and lipstick, there was a gnawing uncertainty, something restless and sharp and anxious, something that whispered louder with every tick of the clock.

Because you didn’t know if he was going to show.

You had told Mr. Manion Auston would, of course you had, brushing off his question with a smile that felt tight around the edges and a rehearsed, breezy “He’ll be here, don’t worry,” even though part of you had worried the moment you walked away from Auston’s condo that morning—the moment you’d seen the look in his eyes and felt the strange, hollow ache settle behind your ribs like something permanent.

And now, hours later, after pacing through the event like a perfectly programmed version of yourself—smiling, networking, double-checking logistics, greeting guests like nothing in the world had shaken you—the doubt was still there, clawing at the back of your mind with increasing force, growing heavier with each passing moment as the minutes bled into hours and the entrance stayed maddeningly empty of the one person who was supposed to be yours, if only in name.

You kept moving, of course—circulating through the room with all the polish the night demanded, answering questions, cracking smiles, accepting compliments with that steady nod you’d perfected over time.

Until—

He arrived.

Of course he did.

And naturally, he made it a moment, like some perfectly orchestrated scene pulled straight from a movie you didn’t even know you’d been starring in.

Auston stepped through the grand entrance like it was built for him, the lights catching him just right, the flashes from nearby cameras bursting like fireworks the moment his figure appeared—and there he was, looking so heartbreakingly good you felt your stomach twist into knots that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the fact that no matter how hard you tried, you had never quite stopped wanting him.

He was dressed in a suit that looked like sin—deep burgundy, tailored to his frame like it had been sewn straight onto his skin, the fabric catching the light in rich, expensive ways that made it impossible not to look. His hair was styled just enough to make it clear he cared, but still tousled enough to carry that signature Auston Matthews edge of effortless cool, like he had just barely bothered and still looked better than anyone else in the room.

And when his eyes finally found yours across the crowd—no smirk, no arrogance, just the faintest echo of something…

He didn’t rush. He never did. Auston moved through the crowd slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d be watching him the entire way. Each step felt stretched out by the weight of anticipation, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat as you tried to school your features into something neutral and professional.

When he finally reached you, his gaze swept over you—your dress, your jaw, your mouth set like you were holding something back. And when he spoke, his voice was low, smooth. “You look good,” he murmured, simple but sincere.

You forced a breath out through your nose, lifting your chin and meeting his gaze with as much composure as you could manage. “So do you,” you said quietly, evenly, like the sight of him hadn’t just pulled the floor out from under you.

He chuckled, and then, without any real warning, his hand slid around your waist.

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe something deeper—but your body remembered his touch: the warmth, the weight of his hand, the way it made you feel both steadier and shakier all at once—and before you could even think to stop it, you leaned just slightly into his touch.

And then he kissed you.

Not passionately, not hungrily, not in the way you remembered from when everything had been a blur of hands and mouths and need—but softly, gently, like he was placing a period at the end of a very public sentence, like he was sealing the illusion with something that looked just real enough to fool them all.

It was a show. You knew that. A performance. A calculated moment in front of flashing cameras and curious eyes. But it didn’t stop the way something deep inside you cracked open.

Because his lips lingered just a second too long. His grip on your waist tightened, ever so slightly. And your own body betrayed you—leaning into the kiss, responding before your mind could scream no, before your logic could remind you what this was supposed to be.

And Auston felt it too.

You knew he did, because when he pulled back—barely, just enough to let the world breathe again—his gaze didn’t immediately shift away. He didn’t smile for the cameras or look for the next move. He just looked at you.

Then, quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear, he said, “I told you, boss. I always show up.”

And just like that, the world tilted sideways, and you had no idea which direction was safe anymore.

The evening unfolded with the kind of smooth, effortless rhythm that only comes from weeks of meticulous planning and practiced routine—or at least, that’s how it looked from the outside, through the lens of cameras and curated glances, because you and Auston stayed close, never too far from each other’s orbit, playing your roles with the kind of finesse that made it all seem natural, even easy. Even though everything between wasn’t real and was rehearsed.

Together, you were seamless—the soft touches, the brush of his fingers at your back, the way your bodies angled instinctively toward each other. If anyone doubted the authenticity of your relationship, they didn’t voice it. Not tonight. Not when the illusion was this convincing.

But under the surface—just beneath the polished smiles and half-laughed anecdotes—there was tension, a quiet charge humming between your bodies that neither of you dared to name aloud. It lingered in the way his gaze sometimes held yours a second too long, in the near-misses of your hands brushing, in the subtle stiffness of his posture whenever your laughter drew the attention of someone else in the room. It was there, simmering like something that wanted to boil over, but couldn’t—not yet.

The night wore on—champagne flutes, polite laughter, speeches and photo ops blurring into background noise. Through it all, you floated through the room with a professional grace you didn’t quite feel, making sure everyone else felt seen and heard and impressed. Because that was your job.

And then, somehow, somewhere between the fourth round of drinks and another passed tray of hors d’oeuvres, you found yourself tucked into a small cluster of MLSE executives and their spouses, Auston beside you like always, and just like that, the conversation shifted.

They wanted to talk about you. About him. About the two of you.

Your “relationship.”

It wasn’t surprising, really—you’d expected the questions to come at some point. You’d prepared the answers, even practiced the tone you’d use. But when it actually happened, when the words were spoken aloud by a woman in a floor-length navy gown with too much perfume and too much interest, there was a pause. A beat of silence that stretched just a little too long, one you hadn’t anticipated.

For the first time in a long while, you didn’t immediately reach for the script.

Your eyes flicked toward Auston, searching for something—maybe permission, maybe encouragement, maybe just the reassurance that you weren’t alone in this—and then you smiled, soft and just a touch shy, tilting your head slightly as if the memory had caught you off guard. “I just fell for him,” you said, your voice light, the edges of your words shaped like a joke, but something in your tone too honest to be dismissed. “Literally, actually.”

There was laughter—warm, amused—but you weren’t finished.

“And when he caught me,” you added, more quietly now, your gaze drifting toward him again, “I just… I knew.” Your smile was small but real, something aching behind it as your voice dipped into something gentler. “He was the only man I ever wanted to catch me when I fell.”

You hadn’t meant to say that part. It had slipped out, unfiltered and raw, and the second it did, you felt the atmosphere shift.

Auston’s eyes snapped to yours, and for a moment—just a moment—there was no mask, no smirk, no carefully constructed wall of indifference. Just something soft. Something almost stunned. Something like he’d felt the words in his chest the way you’d felt them in your throat.

You looked away before it could settle, before it could mean something.

But the spotlight turned to him then, and it was his turn to speak.

There was a pause—noticeable, heavy—and then Auston cleared his throat, shifting slightly, and when he finally opened his mouth, his voice was lower than usual, warmer somehow, like he was stepping into a version of himself he hadn’t quite decided he was ready for.

“She was just meant to fall into my arms,” he said, and the ease in his tone made it sound like a line, something polished and ready for public consumption, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something unsteady, something not entirely rehearsed. “Like it was fate.”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your dress.

And then he kept going.

“I never thought I could feel this way about anyone,” he said, his voice dipping into something softer now, something not meant for anyone but you, and maybe not even for you, maybe just for himself. “I’ve never really tried before. I didn’t get what people meant when they talked about love, I didn’t think I believed in it, not really. Soulmates. The one.” He hesitated, gaze fixed on yours, and when he spoke again, it felt like a confession. “Not until I met her.”

Your heart was pounding. Loud enough that it almost drowned out the music. Loud enough that it made it hard to think.

Because you knew what this was supposed to be. You knew this was just the story. The role. The part of the night where you smiled and let people believe in fairy tales.

And yet.

There was something in his voice. Something in the way he was looking at you. Something that tugged at the very centre of your chest and made you wonder—just for a second—if maybe, somehow, the lines between act and reality had blurred without either of you noticing.

And then his hand found yours.

Just barely—just the brush of his fingers at first, light and uncertain like he didn’t quite know if it would be welcome—and then more. His fingers slid between yours, warm and solid and familiar in a way that felt so stupidly intimate it nearly made you forget where you were.

The world fell quiet around you, or maybe it just didn’t matter anymore. Because for those few suspended seconds, it was just the two of you.

Auston didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. His hand was enough. His silence was enough.

You met his gaze and held it—longer than you should have, longer than was appropriate, longer than was safe—and whatever passed between you then was quiet and wordless and far too real for either of you to untangle in front of strangers.

A voice broke the moment—soft, warm, the woman beside you smiling like she’d seen the whole thing in perfect clarity. “A love like this is rare,” she said kindly. “You should be proud to have found each other.”

Neither of you answered.

Because neither of you knew if you’d found anything at all.

The event had begun to wind down in the way all things do—slowly, softly, the grand ballroom still pulsing with the faint thrum of conversation and polite laughter and the air dense with the fading warmth of spotlight attention, of practiced charm and public smiles. But your role, at least, was almost finished, and you had slipped away from the glittering main floor to find a sliver of quiet in the back hallway, away from the flash of cameras and the constant pressure to perform.

There, in the muted glow of the corridor lighting, you had your phone in hand, your fingers scrolling through final details—just one last check, one more round of logistics to ensure the night had unfolded exactly the way it was meant to. And it had, at least on the surface, because professionally, everything had gone off without a hitch—but emotionally, personally, everything still felt like it was hanging in the balance, like a question you hadn’t yet dared to ask out loud.

You exhaled slowly, allowing yourself a moment to lean against the wall, to press the back of your head gently against the cool plaster and feel it ground you, anchor you. And that was when you felt it.

Not a sound, not a footstep—just a shift in the air, a sudden awareness prickling along your skin, the kind that made the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up because you didn’t need to turn around to know he was there. Watching you, standing just far enough away that it still counted as space but close enough that you felt the burn of his presence before his voice even touched you.

When you finally did look up, there he was.

Auston.

Backlit by the soft light spilling from the ballroom behind him, the collar of his burgundy suit slightly loosened now, the line of his jaw tense, his expression unreadable but intense in that way that always made your breath catch. And for a long, drawn-out moment neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, and the silence between you expanded, stretched tight like a wire about to snap.

You parted your lips, finally willing yourself to speak, to say something, anything, his name maybe, just to break the tension. But before you could get the words out, before you could even take another breath, he was moving.

And just like that, suddenly he was there, right in front of you. Close enough that you barely registered the shift before his hands were cupping your face, strong and sure, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his fingers tangled into your styled hair, and then—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t the slow, curated kiss you’d shared earlier under the eyes of a dozen cameras and the curated fantasy of the night.

No, this was different.

This was sharp and fast and urgent. The kind of kiss that stole your breath and forced your spine to arch off the wall. The kind that made your hands scramble for purchase at the lapels of his jacket, gripping tightly as he pressed you back, his entire body anchoring you in place, flush against yours in a way that made your head spin.

He kissed you like a man starved. Like he had been waiting all night to do this. His lips slanted against yours with a hunger that bordered on reckless. And when your mouth opened to meet his, when his tongue slid against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke, the world outside this hallway ceased to exist.

You felt the pressure of his hands at your waist, felt them drift lower as he gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress. And when he finally pulled away, just slightly, his mouth trailing kisses along your jaw and down the curve of your throat, the heat of his breath against your skin sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“I want to taste you…” he rasped, voice low, strained, like the words had been torn straight from somewhere deep inside him. And though you didn’t answer, didn’t speak, didn’t say anything at all—you didn’t pull away either.

Your silence said enough.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, keeping him close, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm as he sank to his knees in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this wasn’t a public venue. Like the walls around you didn’t house a hundred colleagues and strangers and reasons why this shouldn’t be happening—but none of that mattered.

Not when he was looking up at you like that.

His hands slid along your thighs. Slow and reverent, fingers bunching the soft material of your gown, inching it up, higher and higher, exposing the smooth skin of your legs until the cool air kissed the tops of your thighs and the sheer intimacy of it had your breath catching all over again.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, steady and confident, and you gasped—half from the position, half from the sheer audacity of it—and then his mouth was pressing gentle kisses against the inside of your thigh. Each one higher than the last, his breath hot, his movements slow, deliberate, maddening.

“Auston,” you whispered, voice barely audible, half a warning, half a plea, your hands tightening in his hair. But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t even blink as he brushed your underwear aside with the ease of someone who had done it before; who remembered exactly how you tasted, how you sounded, how you came undone for him.

And then his mouth met your core.

Heat exploded through you like a fuse had been lit. Your body jolting with the first contact of his tongue—warm and firm, unrelenting—and your back hit the wall again, your breath escaping in a broken moan as he held you in place, strong hands gripping your thighs with just enough pressure to make your knees weak.

He devoured you like he meant it.

Like this was the only thing that mattered. Like he could erase the chaos, the silence, the girl in his hoodie, the game between you. Like he could make all of it disappear with nothing more than his mouth and the way he moved against you.

You gasped, your fingers fisting the shoulders of his suit, your head falling back as he worked you with torturous precision. His tongue stroking, dipping, circling, finding the rhythm he knew would unravel you. And when your body trembled and your thighs clenched and you whispered his name like a prayer, he only pressed deeper, faster, chasing the high he knew was close.

And when it finally hit—when your body shattered and your release surged through you in dizzying, desperate waves—he didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, didn’t even lift his mouth until he was sure he’d wrung every last second of pleasure from you.

He kissed the inside of your thigh once more. Softer this time, before rising to his feet, hands steadying you as you struggled to catch your breath, as you looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes and lips parted, still trembling from the force of it all.

And in the silence that followed, with his hands on your waist and your fingers still tangled in the lapel of his jacket, you stared at each other like neither of you knew how to be the first to speak. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen, and yet, it had, and now there was no taking it back.

His eyes searched yours, dark and unreadable, but something in them softened—just slightly—as if this, this moment, this act, had said everything he didn’t know how to, and maybe that was enough.

Auston wasn’t strong with words. Yet, you knew what he was silently saying.

‘We’re good.’

He exhaled, a shaky breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for far too long, and then, finally, he offered you a small, tired smile.

“See you around.”

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

Galas have a way of casting spells, don’t they? All that glitter, all those eyes watching—where whispered rumours can bloom into something far more dangerous beneath the chandeliers. And tonight? Tonight felt different. Not just polished, but personal.

Our King and Queen stood side by side, commanding the room like it was theirs by birthright. And maybe, in a way, it was. Every glance, every touch, every shared look was deliberate. A warning, perhaps. A message sent loud and clear:

No outsider threatens the throne.

Her loyalty had been questioned. His silence had been deafening. But somehow, amid scandal and speculation, they found their way back into the spotlight—not fractured, but stronger. Together.

Because tonight wasn’t just performance. Tonight, something shifted. And if there’s one thing we know about power, dear readers—it never fades quietly.

Game on royalties. Game on.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years ago

Text

Licence to Thrill || CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader Summary: You give Charles the ride of his life when he’s running late to an important event. Warnings: 18+ only, illegal driving, sexual innuendos, fluff WC: 2.7k

F1 Masterlist || Based on this request

“No, no, no, shit.” Charles’ curses woke you up and you rubbed your bleary eyes as he tossed the blankets back, cold air rushing over your skin. You immediately missed the warmth of his body where he had been spooning you all night and grabbed your phone to see the time.

“Fuck!” Charles growled as his little toe caught the corner of the bedpost, again, and you leapt up to get dressed too. “We are so late, mon amour.”

He had been looking forward to the charity football game all week and the prospect of missing the kick off made him clumsy in his rush. While you pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt he struggled to get one leg into his team’s black football shorts, falling twice as he lost his balance.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured as you curled an arm around his waist to steady him. “I shouldn’t have kept you up so late.”

He grabbed a shirt before sparing a moment to press his lips to your forehead. “Don’t be, I enjoyed myself very much.”

“Oh, I know, and I’m pretty sure my neighbours know it too,” you teased as you took your shirt from his hands and tossed him the correct shirt with his name and driver number on the back. “Come on, get that sexy ass moving.”

He laughed as you squeezed his butt when he bent down to tie his shoes. “Hands off the goods, honey, I’m not a piece of meat.”

“Keep telling yourself that, handsome,” you shot back as he made for the stairs and you locked the house behind you.

“Shit,” Charles groaned as he hit his head on the steering wheel. “I am stupid.”

“What’s wrong?” you asked, leaning over to see the dashboard. “You forgot to put petrol in again, didn’t you?”

“I was in a rush to get here last night,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’ll call Arthur to come get us.”

“I can take us.” You opened your handbag and found your keys as well as the remote for the garage door.

“Wait, you drive?”

“Of course I do,” you laughed as you climbed out of the Pista.

He quickly hopped out his side to follow. “I didn’t even know you had a licence. Why am I only just learning this now?”

“You never asked,” you said with a shrug, “and you always offer to pick me up.”

“Because I thought you didn’t drive.”

You giggled as you hit the remote and the door lifted up. “What did you think was in the garage?”

“Storage? Chérie,” he sighed as he followed you down the driveway that passed by the front door that he had a key for and he pointed to it. “I’ve never come in your backdoor, how should I know?” You cocked an eyebrow up with a smirk and he rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Well, just so you know, the garage is where I park my car.” You waved a hand to the opened door and Charles whistled as he saw the gleaming black hood catch the morning sun. He automatically started walking to the drivers side and you tutted at him. “Don’t even think about it, love. That’s my baby.”

“But-“

“No buts, if you want to make it to the match on time you ride shotgun.” You grabbed his shoulders and turned him in the direction of the other door and he grumbled as he started to walk around. “If it’s any consolation, you can pick the music.”

The door creaked open and slammed shut behind him before he groaned and you laughed as you climbed in to see him holding his phone, the Spotify app useless with the old radio. “Forgot to mention, she only takes cassette tapes.”

“You know you can update the stereo,” he pointed out as he opened the glove compartment and rifled through the stacks of old cassettes. “Fleetwood Mac. Michael Jackson. There’s nothing from this century.”

“Hey, don’t hate on them. They are classics and this is a classic car.” You turned the key and grinned as he dropped the tape at the sudden roar that was deafening in the small garage. “You might want to buckle up, baby.”

“Why are there racing harnesses in here?” he asked as he pulled the five point harness over his shoulders and bucked it in.

“You probably shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” you admitted as you shoved a random mixtape into the radio and turned the volume dial up.

The kick drum intro to Ram Jam’s Black Betty thumped from the speakers as you pushed down the clutch and put the ‘70 Dodge Charger into gear. The full force of the V8 engine drove your body back into the seat as the car hurtled forward and burst into the sunlight. Charles latched onto the handle above his door and while the other hand pressed against the dash and his knees tucked up like he was preparing for impact.

“I’m trying not to be insulted here,” you huffed as you pushed his knee down between shifting gears. “I may not have a super licence like some people, but I have never crashed.”

A terrified scream erupted as you burst out of the driveway and pulled the handbrake, kicking the back wheels out as you drifted into the quiet suburban street and took off with a trail of burnt rubber. Your neighbours wouldn’t be too happy but you didn’t care as long as you got Charles to where he needed to be on time.

You spared a glance over to your boyfriend and saw the whites of his eyes as they stared at the road ahead and his knuckles turned white from the tight gripe he held. “Chérie, road, road, cars, look, traffic, look at the road. The road!”

He turned to you wide eyed as you approached the busy intersection at full speed before hitting the brake. You held his eye contact as you shifted down the gears before coming to a gentle stop at the lines in front of the traffic light and he exhaled in relief.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said but the words were warm and his smile was one amazement as the adrenaline hit him. His hands tugged the harness until it was snug and he settled into the seat as you waited for the light to turn green. “I’m ready this time.”

“Good, because we won’t make it if I stop for every red light.”

“Wait, what?” The light changed and you put your foot to the floor as Charles chuckled nervously. “You’re joking right?”

“If it helps, sure,” you shrugged, weaving in and out of the cars and ignoring the angry honks of their horns. “Do you think I could take your car for a spin?”

“Absolutely…not.”

You narrowed your eyes as he got your hopes up and almost missed the turn that would shave a few seconds off the travel time. Any normal person would have struggled to stay upright in their seat but Charles’ line of work made it easy for him to tense his abdominals and neck so he barely moved as the mass shifted and the back wheels drifted behind the turn.

“What if I let you drive this?” you bartered as the road straightened out and you reached speeds high enough to instantly lose your licence and the car.

“Oh, mon amour,” he murmured as he chewed his bottom lip and he debated the offer before looking at his watch. “If you get me there before kick off you have a deal.”

He should have known you wouldn’t miss out on the opportunity very few people got and the smile you gave him gave him pause as he wondered what he had just got himself into.

“It’s going to be tight,” you muttered as you saw the time, just catching the hint of a smile on his face. “But doable.”

Charles watched with fascination. He saw your eyes scanning the road far ahead, making plans and contingency plans for the hazards that you might face. All the while you blindly shifted up the gears with your feet working in tandem, releasing the accelerator as you double clutched for a smoother transition.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” he chuckled in disbelief as you took a corner with enough speed that he knew there had to be some g-force working against you, but you didn’t even notice as you gripped the wheel tight and exited the apex without slowing down.

“I’m pretty sure if you were dreaming we would be doing something else, not driving.”

“I’m not sure now, I’m finding this extremely hot. You could pull over and make that dream come true?”

“And miss out on driving your baby? No way.” You shook your head with a laugh before biting your lip. “It is tempting, but I have to think of the children. They would be very disappointed if you didn’t show up for the match.”

“And Pierre, I don’t think he would forgive me.”

“I said children didn’t I. Oh, shit.” You ripped the handbrake and did a 180 as you missed the street you needed. “Stop distracting me.”

The stadium was just up ahead and you could see the parking lot on the other side of the overpass but there was only one road to get there. Unless you wanted to drive the long way around but then you would be late.

“Amour, that’s a one way street,” Charles pointed out as you headed to the underground pass. “You’re going the wrong way. There’s traffic cameras here too.”

“You’re right,” you huffed before twisting the wheel a little to the left then all the way to the right. The suspension would not like the pressure you were putting it under but she spun around and you shoved the car in reverse and draped your arm across Charles’ chair as you looked over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to get a fine.”

The engine roared inside the tunnel as you pushed the limits of the gear and you swerved through the lanes. You were grateful that it wasn’t rush hour traffic so there were only a few drivers angry with your recklessness before you burst out of the tunnel, through the intersection and into the parking lot.

The stadium was quiet since the event was only televised but there were still lots of media crews at the entrance and they all turned your way as the back of your car careened towards them. You reached the last row of empty parking spaces and pulled the handbrake, whipping the front around and coming to a stop beside the gate entrance.

“Twelve seconds to spare,” you laughed as you drummed your fingers on the steering wheel. “That will be twenty euros and a five star rating, s’il vous plaît.”

“Just enough time to change my shorts,” he joked as he pushed his door open.

“Good thing they are black this year,” you retorted with a laugh as you tossed him his boots he would have forgotten. “Go, I’ll meet you inside.”

He blew a kiss as he took off at a jog and waved to the stunned reporters who were still recording.

“Is that Y/N?” A female presenter asked her male colleague.

“Leclerc’s girlfriend?” He laughed and shook his head. “No way. This has to be some stunt.”

You drove more sedately to a spot a few spaces away where you spotted Pierre’s car and parked beside it before killing the engine and letting the silence settle. Adjusting your mirror, you saw everyone still watching, waiting to see who it was being the wheel.

“I told you,” the woman gasped as she elbowed the man. “It was her! Do you have a moment?”

“Sorry, games about to kick off,” you apologised as you rushed past and into the stadium just in time to see Charles faceplant. “Ohh,” you gasped along with the others watching before cupping your hands around your mouth. “Yellow card ref!”

“He tripped over himself,” Kika whispered as she joined you.

“Oh I know, I just thought he could use a little 15 minute rest.” You grinned as you gave her a kiss on the cheek. “He’s had a rough morning.”

“What happened?”

“He stubbed his toe.” Your phone started vibrating and you pulled it out of your pocket to see your twitter notifications blowing up. “Huh, that was quick. The devil works hard but F1 fans work harder.”

You showed her the thread which started with a short clip of your car thrashing it down the street, Charles holding on for dear life. You chuckled as you saved it to show him later, knowing he would get a kick out of it too.

“Yeah, I don’t think that was the stubbed toe, hun…” she hummed.

“Meh,” you shrugged, pocketing the device so you could concentrate on the game.

Charles and Pierre’s team won the match and you climbed over the baluster to jump down to the grass as the pair jogged over. Charles swept you up with a proud grin as he spun around.

“Well played, handsome,” you praised as you brushed his sweaty hair back into place before helping yourself to a quick kiss.

“Wouldn’t have made it without you, chérie.”

Pierre clapped him on the shoulder and nodded his head to the reporters waiting for a post match interview and he reluctantly placed your feet back on the ground.

“Well, this should be interesting,” you muttered to Kika as you waved to the camera that remained pointed at you until Charles said something.

“Just how bad was your driving?” she asked curiously.

“Bad? Oh it wasn’t bad,” you chuckled. “My driving is actually very good, if I do say so myself. It was just a little faster than he was expecting.”

She curled an eyebrow up. “He goes 200 mph for a living.”

“Yeah, funny right.”

Charles was still catching his breath when the microphone was held in front of him and could see videos of his entrance playing on the big screens around the stadium. Pierre’s eyebrows disappeared under his hair in surprise as he saw the black Charger spinning to a stop and his friend climbing out.

“No fucking way,” Pierre laughed as he looked back at you laughing with his girlfriend. “That’s awesome.”

“I know right,” Charles said with a proud smile. “You should have seen it, she was going full on sideways through these corners, it was insane.”

“So, Charles, I'm sure this comes as no surprise,” the reported began, “but we have some questions about your girlfriend, after the entrance she made.”

“You have some questions?” He threw his head back and laughed. “I have some questions! I had no idea she could drive like that.”

“Her father is a rally driver. Did you really never suspect anything?”

“My mother is a hairdresser, doesn’t mean I am good at cutting hair. Why do you think I wore a bandana during lockdown? I butchered it that’s why.” He brushed his hair back that had thankfully grown back after his terrible attempt and laughed to himself. “So no, I didn’t assume she could drive because her father can.”

The interview finally turned to the football match and then a little bit about the upcoming race before Charles was able to escape. He held up a finger and mouthed one minute as he made a detour to the few fans that had been invited. He talked with some of them, shaking hands and signing autographs.

You wolf whistled loudly as Charles took his shirt off and he grinned without even having to check who it came from before he gave it to a fan and waved goodbye. You knew you were staring as he jogged back and you knew you weren’t the only one, but he only had eyes for you as he gave you a wink and draped his arm over your shoulder.

“How cool is that shot,” he said as he looked up at the screens still playing a rotation of highlights from the game and your arrival. “There’s just one way to make it better.”

“Excuse me?” you dared him to criticise your driving but his charming smile only grew wider.

“Do it in a Ferrari.”

#charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x y/n #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 rpf #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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