#(she also seemed to know what she was doing?)
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early seasons spencer and bau reader undercover at a club and it’s just like. he is so flustered but also weirdly confident and do with this what you will
in which spencer reid and BAU fem!reader have to pose as a couple at a club. she's more than a little flirty. the conversation actually gets quite suggestive. he's cute when he gets flustered.
warnings/tags: discussions of sex, reader wears a tight dress and makeup and heels, discussions of blushing but r's skin color is not implied to be light, i just needed a reason to talk about sex flush LOL, if u don't visibly blush this will still read fine
a/n: I LOVE EARLY SEASONS SPENCER X FLIRTY READER OH MY GODDD thank you for this request angel from heaven I hope you all like this as much as I do teehee
The bass buzzes through the floor and vibrates your teeth. House music has never really been your thing. Neither have tight dresses and high heels while on the job—but you’re willing to objectify yourself just a little if it will lure yet another loser who likes to chop up young couples into the awaiting arms of the American correctional system.
Or to the wrong end of Emily's Glock. Whatever comes first.
You scan the club—it’s not your usual scene, and you can only imagine how Dr. Reid is faring. As far as you can tell this is essentially his nightmare. It’s sensory overload central even for you.
Your eyes catch on him at the bar, tucked away from the writhing crowd. He’s standing near the end, one arm resting on the surface while the other hand is jammed in his pocket. He seems completely unaware of the several women circling closer and closer. The whole earnest and dorky but still handsome thing seems to work well for him. Or, it would, if he had any interest in utilizing it. He’s dressed a little sharper than usual—no doubt styled by Morgan and Prentiss. Hell, the earnest dorkiness and the well fitted dark suit is working for you if nobody else.
Sometimes he just looks… edible.
And self-discipline doesn't always come naturally to you.
“Doctor,” you purr in greeting, grazing the forearm propped up on the bar with white-tipped nails as you insert yourself in front of him. His fingers twitch under your light touch.
Spencer doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes sink down your frame, sticking to every highlighted curve like you’re dripping honey. Or maybe he just doesn’t realize that you can see that’s what he’s doing.
“Hi. You look nice.”
“Aw,” you smile, dulling the salacious edge to your voice, “you didn’t have to say that. Someone’s improvising.”
“I meant it. That dress looks nice on you,” he says, simply, and you hate his specific brand of charm because it’s not intentional. It’s not something he puts on. It comes out of nowhere and always knocks you on your ass when it hits—even in the smallest doses. His eyes narrow and he leans closer. You can feel the energy rippling around him like a force field as he examines you. “You’re wearing more makeup than you normally do.”
“Do you like it? Penelope ordered the wrong shade of blush and gave it to me. Supposedly it’s meant to make me look like I just had an orgasm. I don’t know if I believe it.”
Much to your disappointment, Spencer leans back, scanning the crowd for your target and speaking as if he’s only half-interested.
“That’s not what you would look like. Sex flush deepens the color of your entire face and chest, not just your cheeks.”
Your brows knit as you contend with unwelcome butterflies.
“Buy me a drink before you start telling me what I’ll look like after I orgasm.”
That catches his attention, and his suddenly wide eyes snap to you. If he had a drink, he’d be choking on it.
“I wasn’t—it was a general you, I’d never—that would be inappropriate. It was. It was inappropriate. Sorry. I’m sorry.”
You lean with your back to the bar, elbows propped on black granite, and swing your hair over your shoulder. Spencer’s eyes dart back down to your décolletage and then up to the ceiling like he regrets being born. You smile wickedly. Much better. This is the way God intended for you to interact with Spencer Reid.
“I’ll consider forgiving you. And I don’t blush. Not when I orgasm, not ever.”
Admittedly, you just want to milk the whole talking about you orgasming thing to see how pink you can make him. It’s not often you’re gifted with an opportunity to be so candid about your sexuality or flirt this unabashedly. But you are supposed to be posing as a couple. Maybe you’re just feeling extra in character.
Instead of stumbling over his words some more, Spencer smiles with a degree of bemusement like he’s caught you in a white lie.
His smile is so nice. His teeth are perfect, and his lips—
“Yes you do.”
Always so convinced he’s right, this one.
It’s annoying. And kind of hot.
“Uh, I promise you I do not.”
“Everyone blushes. It's a sympathetic nervous system activation response wherein blood rushes to your face. Your blood vessels dilate when you get flustered or anxious. Your face gets hot and your undertone changes.”
You raise your brows. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was challenging you.
“Yeah? Wanna bet?”
“Actually, no,” he mutters, losing any bravado and casting his eyes downward subserviently. “You have a habit of proving me wrong.”
“That’s right,” you gloat, smiling wide. Someone bumps into you, and you turn around, highly unprofessional insult locked and loaded—but it’s just a drunk girl who apologizes and stumbles off. The encounter does, however, remind you that you’re supposed to be finding a killer. “Do you think this is the best positioning? He might not be able to find us way over here.”
“You think we should move?”
You look back at him and nod, holding your hand out. He looks at it uncertainly. You waggle your fingers and infuse your words with sugar.
“Oh, come on. I don’t want to lose you. And we’re supposed to look like a couple, remember?”
Gingerly he accepts your hand. His is bigger than you’d have thought. Not nearly as freezing as your own perpetually are. It occurs to you as you grab his hand that his bone structure really is bigger than yours. He’s… tall. He is, at the end of the day, a real life adult man. His presence is palpable behind you and you enjoy the weight of his hand in yours as you tug him through the crowd, perhaps not taking the most direct route through the throng just so you can savor being able to touch him like this for a little longer.
Miraculously you spot an empty booth and slide into it. It’s a deep alcove, shadowy and secluded at the back. That’s where you settle, against black vinyl, and where you wave at Spencer to join you.
He lingers at the edge of the table, glancing around at the groups of dancing and drinking young adults.
“I don’t know. Can you even see the dance floor from back there?”
“Part of it. But I’m sure he’ll be looking in the booths for couples. He’ll come to us.”
Spencer faces you again and sighs ruefully, a begrudging smirk playing at his lips as he slides into the booth and joins you against the back wall. His side is warm against yours. He smells nice. Clean. Almost herbal, like patchouli or vetiver.
“What? You really hate sitting next to me that much?”
Spencer’s lips part wryly before he speaks, like he almost thought better of it but decided to anyway.
“I think you just wanted a reason to get me alone and secluded so you can finally accost me.”
Your knees bump. You lean into it.
“Accost you? That seems harsh,” you pout, leaning toward him clandestinely to undo his top button.
“I don’t see how. You are literally trying to take my clothing off as we speak.”
“I’m just increasing your sex appeal. It’ll be good, trust me. Maybe you’ll even end up taking one of those girls from the bar home. Or—back to the hotel, I should say.”
Spencer covers your fussy hands with his own sweetly, like he can sense the true jealousy simmering underneath the sarcasm, and places them in your lap. The touch lingers.
“Are you always like this?” He murmurs, voice lower than you can recall ever hearing it and twisted into the shape of a smile.
“Only with you, Dr. Reid. Speaking of, how about you? Do you flirt with many other FBI agents on official business?”
“Just the one. She’s kind of a full-time job.”
“Shut up. I’m basically your babysitter. If anything, I should be paid extra for dealing with you.”
“Attempting to seduce your charge seems like a bad business model. There are definitely some ethical issues there.”
His hands still rest on yours. You lace your fingers with his and speak sweetly, meeting his eyes best you can in the dark.
“I wasn’t aware I was seducing you. Do you feel seduced?”
He’s the first to look away after a few seconds pass—pulls your hands apart gently, politely arranging them back on your lap.
“I think you’re incorrigible and a terrible influence. In all honesty, you terrify me and more often than not I walk away from our interactions a little confused.”
You clap a hand to your heart, the bare skin revealed by your low cut dress warm under your fingers.
“Spencer… that kind of turned me on.”
He just looks at you for a moment, a hint of a smile on his pretty face, long enough to make you feel a bit nervous.
Then he’s leaning forward, and unconsciously so are you, almost forgetting to breath when you’re practically pressed against him in this booth and he’s whispering so low and sweet into your ear.
“He’s watching us. Right across the floor, next to the girl in the blue dress. White button up and a leather jacket.” His hand slides over yours, fingers skimming your collarbone in the process as he interlocks your grasp once more. “Keep your hand right here and lean closer. We need to maintain his interest.”
“I don’t think I can lean any closer,” you breathe, hoping it doesn’t register as nervous as it really is. You’re supposed to be the confident one who teases him. “But if you want me to sit on your lap, just ask. I won’t say no.”
He chuckles, too loud to be amorous. It’s clearly genuine. It sounds like the way his reddened cheeks always look. It almost does more for you than the bedroom voice.
“You… you are beyond help. I don’t think you could be appropriate if your life depended on it.”
Slowly you pull back so you can look into his eyes—much closer than you normally have an excuse to. They dart wildly over your face, partially obscured by the dark which cuts shadows deep into the dramatic hollows of his bone structure. He really is so pretty.
You glance toward the man, who’s pretending not to watch you. When you focus your attention back on Spencer, sliding your hand up the curve of his jaw, you find yourself making a dangerous wish. You find yourself wishing that you didn’t have an audience. That this wasn’t all for show. That neither of you had earpieces in.
His pulse hammers under your little finger, and his lips part slightly as he doesn’t have the wherewithal to not glance at yours. He’s so unaware of how obvious he’s being. It’s cute.
You run the tips of your fingers through the hair in front of his ear, the one sans bluetooth, pushing it back, before leaning in close once more to whisper.
“Good thing we’re not going for appropriate. Actually—your hands could stand to wander a little more, Dr. Reid. Let me know if you need me to tell you where to put them.”
#spencer reid#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfic
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Hii could u do a MV1 x reader fic where Max and the reader were in a serious longterm relationship but broke up bc he wanted kids and she didn’t,, and a few months later he’s dating Kelly and is being a girldad to P when he bumps into the reader again and realises he’s not over her 🙂↕️🙂↕️ LOOOOL I hope this request makes sense!!
Loss Of My Life - Max Verstappen x Reader
Based on – “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived”, “Loml” – Taylor Swift
Hi!! Thank you so much for your submission! So I wanted to change it a little bit, hope that’s okay!! So I’ve changed it so that it was the reader who wanted kids and Max didn’t, the reader is also a singer In this one (almost like how big Taylor Swift is, imagine her like that sort of star!) Idk if you have people performing at races but just imagine you do lol.
based off of this TikTok video
send in your submissions!<3
Word count : 2.3k
You and Max had been together for 6 years, 6 long years that made you think you were going to be together forever, he had been there through everything with you. You had both been together at the start of your careers and the height of your careers, and it was amazing to see how far the two of you could go. You had a very successful career in the music industry, bringing out albums that each became the highest-selling albums of the year and Max had a very successful career as a Formula One driver, winning world championships. But after 6 years, you had decided that maybe it was time for something more, you loved touring, singing your music, meeting fans, traveling around the world, but you wanted something more, you wanted a life with Max.
Deciding it was finally time to tell Max how you were feeling, you had sat down with him in his Monaco apartment whilst you had some time off from touring to write some new songs for a new album. Sitting down for food, you had decided there was no better time, “how do you feel about having children?”
Max hadn’t looked up from his food, just shrugging. “Don’t feel anything about them, I don’t want them.” He had replied bluntly, and your shoulders sank. You and Max had talked about children before, of course, you had, you can’t be in such a long-term relationship and not talk about what you both want in the future, but when you had brought it up before, Max had just replied with, “maybe one day, when we’re older and have achieved what we’ve wanted” and that was an okay answer at the time, at the height of your careers you had wanted to achieve more, but now you’d done it.
You’d become the best-selling artist of the decade, sold millions of albums, done a multimillion-dollar tour, travelled the world, you had done it all, and now seemed like the right time for the both of you to have this discussion. But clearly, Max had felt different.
“Max, I want a baby, I want to settle down with you, you’re my everything. We’ve been together 6 years, there’s got to be a point where you want that too, right?” You had pleaded with him, to make him show that he wanted that with you, that it wasn’t all a waste of time being together for so long.
Max had got frustrated, standing up, pacing around, not understanding how you didn’t understand that he was still at the height of his career, and settling down would only set him back. “I’m winning world championships Y/N, I can’t have kids doing that, my attention is on my career, not kids.” You had sat there, shoulders sagged, not saying anything, letting Max carry on telling you just exactly why he wouldn’t have kids with you. You just sat there, knowing that this was it, Max had chosen his career over you.
You had moved out of Max’s Monaco apartment, you had focused back on your career, you had left Max, or more like he had left you. After your conversation, you had understood where Max’s priorities were, and he had made it clear that it was not you. So, you had both left, you had cried for days, the last 6 years replaying in your mind over and over again. You remembered going to the races all around the world, each time you had gone, you had practically been treated like royalty, everyone from the engineers, the team principals, the drivers, and the fans, all wanting to meet you, wanting a photo with you, to shake your hand. But none of that had mattered, because all you wanted to do was to be with Max, and you had been, you had been the first one to run up to him when he won any race, he had kissed you with such force you had forgotten there was anyone around you, you had both forgotten you were both in the public eye with reputations to uphold, none of that had mattered.
Now, all of that was gone, everywhere you went you were asked questions about Max; what had happened? Were you now going to bring out a break-up album? Had Max cheated on you? So many ridiculous questions that you completely ignored. You had blocked it out, wanting to move on, but having an ex as big as Max Verstappen, you would never get away from his name.
Not long after you had gotten a call from one of yours and Max’s friends, Daniel, an old teammate and friend of Max who you had become close with throughout your relationship with Max. Daniel was one of your closest friends, and the split between you and Max had put tension on your friendship, Daniel knew if he had taken sides with you, the tension on the grid would be at an all-time high, and you couldn’t have that happen with Daniel, and so you had kept your distance between yourself and all of yours and Max’s mutual F1 friends.
But Daniel was the first one to call, and you had answered. “Y/N, hey, I’m sorry for not calling earlier, but everyone here misses you, you must know that. Why don’t you come to the next race, as my guest, of course, just to see everyone, you won’t have to see Max if you’re at my team paddock area, I promise, I know how much you loved the races.”
After giving it some thought and telling him that you would consider it, you received a second call asking you to perform at the race. You decided to accept and would perform some of your new songs there before going to stay with Daniel until he had to leave to go race.
And now, today was the day, anxiety was coursing through your blood as you stood at the back of the stage, waiting for your queue to go on. You had seen the news stories, the gossip that Max had gotten a new girlfriend, just months after your split. You couldn’t do that, your new boyfriend was your songs, they had helped you get your emotions out about the split, they had been your healer, instead, Max had found his healing in a new woman.
“And I don't even want you back, I just want to know
If rusting my sparkling summer was the goal
And I don't miss what we had, but could someone give
A message to the smallest man who ever lived?
Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?
Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?”
Singing a song that everyone knew was about Max was dangerous, but you had made the decision to do it nevertheless. You thought that if he was going to start dating someone else so soon after you, you should express your feelings, and you should do it somewhere where most people knew him.
“Were you writing a book? Were you a sleeper cell spy?
In fifty years, will all this be declassified?
And you'll confess why you did it
And I'll say, "Good riddance"
'Cause it wasn't sexy once it wasn't forbidden
I would've died for your sins
Instead, I just died inside
And you deserve prison, but you won't get time”
As you marched down the platform, your dancers trailed after you in the style of a marching band. You turned to face the audience and noticed the racers and their families cheering you on, and then you noticed him. You could see him well; he was staring at you. You sang the song's lyrics with all of your intensity, making eye contact with him even if you didn't want to.
With his arm over her shoulders, a woman who you could have assumed was his new girlfriend was standing next to him. She definitely was a lover of the song and sang along with it, but she didn't seem to care that you were singing about her boyfriend at the time. However, she was holding a small child in her arms who was waving and yelling your name. As you performed, your heart fell; his girlfriend had a child? Reluctant to reveal that it had knocked you, you waved to the little girl. The young girl screamed and jumped, screaming that you had waved at her. She then rushed out and grabbed Max, who smiled at her before turning to face you again while wearing a guilty expression.
Walking off the stage, you took your earpieces out, taking water from one of the workers next to you, thanking them. Daniel had been waiting for you behind the stage, with a sad look on his face, as he began walking next to you as you rushed to your backstage area to get changed into different clothes before the race started. “You never told me his new girlfriend had a kid, Dan.”
Daniel just nodded, trying to keep up with you and your security. “I knew it would upset you, Y/N, I knew how much you wanted kids with Max, I didn’t know how to tell you.”
You stood still, the rest of your team standing still with you, not knowing what to do. You had turned to them, “can you just give us a minute?” The team nodded, standing away, but still needing to be close.
Daniel stood opposite you, “how can he do that Dan? Six years and for what? Now he’s a stepdad all of a sudden and he’s fine with it? We broke up because he didn’t want children, but clearly what he meant was he didn’t want children with me.”
Dan was about to reply, but your name was screamed as you turned your head to where the voice had come from. It was the same little girl you had waved to when you performed, the same little girl who had jumped into Max’s arms when you had done so, the same one who had wrapped her hands around his neck as he bounced her up and down along to the music.
“Y/N! Y/N” She had ran over to you, wearing a shirt with your album on. You knelt down to her, changing expressions from the one you had worn with Daniel, to now your stage expression, a façade you knew all too well.
Kneeling to her height, she hugged you, her reaction like many of the fans you met. “Hi, what’s your name?” You had asked her, but she still jumped up and down. Behind her, Max’s girlfriend smiled and took photos of you and the little girl.
“Penelope, but mummy and Maxie call me P.” You swallowed at the mention of Max, fighting back tears knowing the little girl now had a nickname for him. “That’s a beautiful name, Penelope, you look beautiful.” The little girl giggled, and you stood back up, making eye contact with her mother, Max’s new girlfriend.
The woman held out her hand, smiling at you. “Hi, I’m Kelly, I’m a huge fan.” You shook her hand, smiling slightly, not knowing what to say to the woman who now had everything you had wanted.
“Nice to meet you,” you smiled, looking at Daniel who just looked anywhere else but the scene before him, unable to cope with the awkwardness of the interaction. Kelly had turned her head, seeing Max in the distance, waving him over. “Babe, come and see, P just met Y/N.”
Max had looked over at you all, breathing heavily as he looked at your face, whilst you just looked at Daniel, who had wide eyes. “I’m really sorry, I-I’ve got to go.” You began walking away, rather quickly that almost looked like running. Your team was unsure of what to do as you tried to get away from Max.
“Y/N!” You heard you name called as you got as far away as you could, you knew the voice from anywhere and you spun around, anger now coursing through your veins. “What Max? Go and play happy little families with Kelly, since clearly you’ve had a complete change of heart and you’re now ready to be a dad.” You scoffed, but he grabbed your arm as you went to walk away again.
“It’s not what you think,” he tried to tell you, but your voice became choked up. “Right, it isn’t the fact that just months after ending our six-year relationship due to YOU not wanting children with you, you find someone else. And you didn’t just find someone else, you found someone else where you have to step up and become a father figure.” You told him, “I wish you all the best with your new family Max, I really do.”
Max took off the baseball cap off his head that he was wearing, pushing a hand through his hair. “I never wanted this, Y/N, I’m sorry. If I could take it all back, I would. I would never of said what I said to you, I would take everything back, just to be with you again, you were my everything and you still are.”
You couldn’t breathe, he had practically still professed his love for you still, whilst still being with Kelly. “You lost that chance, Max. I wanted you, all of you, all the good, all the bad. But you didn’t want me, and you lost me.”
“I want you back. No matter what you think I have with Kelly, I don’t, I will never have with anyone what I had with you. I have no excuse that it took all of this to make me realise, but I’m still human, and human make mistakes, and I made the mistake of loosing you, because of my selfishness.” Max practically pleaded with you, but you just shook your head.
“We almost had it all.”
“And I'll still see it until I die
You're the loss of my life”
#formula one imagine#f1 smut#f1 imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen#max verstappen imagine#taylor swift#formula 1#formula one x reader#angst#mv1#mv1 x reader#max verstappen smut#f1 x reader#the smallest man who ever lived
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like or like like ㅤ ⊹ ㅤ sim jaeyun
femreader ㅤ୨୧ㅤ 𝓒ontent . . .ㅤbest friends to lovers (kind of, they don't explicitly start dating), fluff, alcohol consumption, reader gets drunk, not proofread ㅤ──ㅤ 1.5k ( 🗒 )
“i’ve never seen her drunk before,” sunghoon points to where you’re leaning against the wall.
jake turns to look at you, watching as you talk to chaewon. you’re continously taking sips of your drink, a sleepy smile on your face as you listen to your friend’s (most likely) drunk ramblings. he can tell you’re tipsy, at the very least; your body is swaying, it seems like you’re having a hard time staying upright.
“yeah.. i’m gonna go lay her down before it gets worse. i don’t want her to wake up sick,”
sunghoon gives jake a knowing look, shrugging as he takes a sip of his own drink, “predictable,”
“what?”
“nothing,”
sunghoon grins, patting jake on the head before walking away to—jake assumes—bother his girlfriend. the older boy shakes his head, running a hand through his already messy hair, turning around once more to watch you.
this is the first time you’ve ever gotten drunk, he thinks. you’ve mentioned before that it’s because you’re scared of how you’ll act, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of them. he’s glad that you’re more comfortable now, and at least you’re only here with them, your friends, and not at some party full of strangers and weirdos.
he watches as chaewon pats your back, albeit a little forcefully, before she leaves to find someone new to bother. he also watches you attempt to follow her but give up halfway through your first step. he smiles to himself, heading over to where you’re standing—or leaning.
“oookay, no more for you. you can’t even stand straight, dude,” jake takes the red solo cup away and out of your reach, giving you an amused smile. you pout but you don’t put up a fight—you can’t, not fully anyways. if you could, though, you would tell him that he’s being dramatic; six shots and half a cup of jungle juice is hardly anything.
“c’mon, you can go lay down in my room, you look tired,”
“okay,”
you make a move to walk by yourself but jake steps behind you, placing his hands on your waist so that he can guide you away from your friends. it feels like your senses are heightened to a dangerous level because why do you get goosebumps the moment he touches you? you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your heart to calm down.
somehow you make it to his bedroom without stumbling a whole lot (this is 100% thanks to jake; you were sure that you wouldn’t have been able to do it yourself), and he taps your side, signaling for you to sit down on his bed, which you do.
he kneels down and pulls your shoes off, setting them on the floor. he pats your thigh, leaving yet another wake of goosebumps on your skin, “stay here, ‘kay? i’m gonna go get you some water,”
“i don’t want any,” you whine, “i’m tired, not thirsty,”
“yeah, well, you’ll be thirsty in a little bit,”
“no, i won’t,”
“yes, you will. you’re drunk,”
you huff, throwing yourself back on the bed, “am not. also you’re so annoying. i don’t want water, i always drink water,”
jake snorts at your antics, tucking his head away as he tries to keep from laughing too loudly. after a few seconds, he calms down and looks back at your figure, smiling fondly. you can’t see him, your eyes closed as you hum some random song that he hasn’t heard since he was ten years old.
you look so serene, he doesn’t want to disturb you. he figures he can just tell sunghoon or someone to come bring some water or he can wait for you to fall asleep.
“i’m sad,” you huff, sitting up slowly.
“why are you sad, hm?” he rests his head against your knee.
you frown at him. his words felt slightly condescending. not that you really cared, in fact it kind of made you feel dizzy. wow, he’s just terrible. looking at you all worried, taking care of you while you’re (not) drunk.
“because of you,”
he sits up at that. he looks like a dog who heard the word ‘snack’ or something. of course, he wasn’t happy. he looked more worried than before, in fact.
“me? what’d i do?”
“you’re just annoying,” you whine, “you know, i like you and it’s kinda funny ‘cause i’m, like, so obvious about it,”
“you like me? like like me?”
“well, actually, i love you,” you pause, “you’re not very smart, now that i think about it. how’d you even graduate? did you cheat? i think everyone knows but you. this is so awful, i can’t believe i had to go and like someone so oblivious. you’re lucky everything else cancels that out,”
“wait, wait, wait. you love me? that’s..” jake asks, his face flushed, completely disregarding everything you said after your confession, “yn, you’re.. you know, you’re drunk,”
“oh, okay,” you push his head away, “look, i’ll tell you tomorrow, ‘cos i really mean it and you’re so annoying and it’s, like, oh my god,” you say something else after that but he can’t tell what. not with you speaking as fast as humanly possible paired with drunken slurring.
he nods slowly, processing your words, “yeah.. okay. you can’t forget, alright?”
you grin, poking his cheek, “duh, i have an amazing memory,”
your amazing memory may be your downfall. surely, you had drank enough to wake up the next morning with zero memory. isn’t that what usually happens when someone gets so drunk they tell their best friend that they like them? not even like, you said you loved him.
and now you’re laying in his bed, face pressed into his pillow, absolutely mortified at your past self’s actions.
you’re never going to speak to him again. you’re going to get up, put your shoes on, and sneak out. yeah, it’ll seem like you’re doing the walk of shame, god forbid anyone catches you, but that’d be less embarrassing than having to talk to jake.
you don’t get the chance to attempt to escape, though, because jake walks in right as you’re weighing your options.
“hey, are you awake? it’s two in the afternoon,” you hear him place a glass on the nightstand as he sits next to you.
you could pretend that you forgot.
you feel his hand rubbing your back, “i heard you groaning, get up,”
“i don’t want to,” you mumble into the pillow, pressing your face into it harder.
“i can’t hear you, you know,”
you groan loudly, picking your head up, “i don’t want to get up,”
“why? are you embarrassed?”
“i didn’t do anything embarrassing,” yes you did.
he nods, “nah, you didn’t. i was just checking, you get embarrassed easily,”
you’re quiet for a moment after that. his hand is still rubbing your back and you can feel your heat beating against your chest. you want to pretend that you forgot about last night but for some reason you can’t. you want to bring it up despite feeling naseous at the thought of being rejected.
“i like you,”
he smiles, “yesterday you said you love me,”
you gape at him and he laughs loudly. you want to kill both him and yourself.
“i’m sorry—i’m kidding.. i like you too,” he hums, tilting his head, “no, actually, i love you,”
you frown, “you’re embarrassing me,”
he laughs again which makes you want to both laugh and hide away from him, “god, you’re so cute. i kinda wanna kiss you, is that okay?”
you almost say yes before you remember that you just woke up not even twenty minutes ago and you are not going to kiss him with bad breath. especially not when you were drinking the night before.
“i just woke up,”
he leans forward, close enough that you can just barely lift your head and you’ll be able to kiss him, “so?”
“no,” it pains you to do so but you turn your head away from him. you know he won’t kiss you if you don’t want him to but you’d probably fold and kiss him if he kept staring at you like that, “you can.. uh, later. after i brush my teeth,”
he turns you over onto your back, smiling above you brightly. you gasp at the sudden movement, your heart racing yet again (you should go to the hospital), “promise? i really wanna kiss you right now,”
you laugh, reaching your hand up to move his hair out of his face, “yeah, i promise. i really wanna kiss you too.”
#ㅤ⠀ ૮꒰ ˊᗜˋ ꒱ა ♡ ㅤ⠀#enhypen x reader#jake sim x reader#jake x reader#jake x you#jake x y/n#jake fluff#enha x reader#enha x you#enha x y/n#enha fluff#enha scenarios#enhypen x you#enhypen x y/n#enhypen fluff#enhypen headcanons#sim jaeyun x reader#jaeyun x reader#enhypen scenarios#jake headcanons#jake sim fluff#jake sim imagines
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the hot-for-teacher fantasy (ta!harry x student!y/n)**
summary: when y/n discovers her charming, handsome college teaching assistant harry styles is also a porn star, it awakens intense lust and longing. one day, harry calls her for a private study session. she wonders what he'll teach her, oblivious that harry knows everything.
words: 4k+
warnings: flirting, fluff, smut. p in v sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, kissing, dirty talk, creampie.
***
Y/N tried hard not to stare at her extremely good-looking teaching assistant during her Friday college lecture. But Harry Styles was just so hot, with his messy brown curls, bright green eyes, and perfect smile. His tight polo shirt clung to his muscular chest and shoulders. Y/N had to look away before she started imagining what he looked like without his shirt on.
"Girl, you're drooling again," her friend Liz teased in a whisper, nudging her.
Y/N blushed. "No, I'm not!"
Lately, she couldn't stop thinking dirty thoughts about the charming TA. His deep voice and confidence made it impossible for her to focus. There was something really familiar about Harry too, but she couldn't figure out what.
During the break, Harry passed back their graded essays. Y/N's breath caught when he got to her row.
"Nice work on this one," he rumbled, handing her the papers with a crooked grin and letting his fingers brush hers.
"T-thanks," she stammered, flustered by his touch and scent.
After class, Y/N rushed out, head spinning. Harry was just too much for her self-control sometimes. His flirty vibe and hints of his ripped body under his clothes made her imagination go wild.
Later that night, Y/N was scrolling online when she saw a weird tweet from her friend.
"'Who knew our former classmate had such an unexpected second career?'" she read out loud. "What does that mean?"
Curious, she clicked the link...and her jaw dropped. Short video clips played of a VERY naked Harry, putting on an X-rated show! He slowly stroked himself while staring intensely at the camera.
Y/N watched with wide eyes, feeling heated. So THAT'S why Harry seemed so familiar - he was a porn star!
For the next few weeks, Y/N tried to act normal around Harry in class while secretly reeling over his shocking second job. Every time he handed back papers or leaned across her desk, new fantasies popped into her mind of him in those porn videos.
Flashes of Harry's chiseled body and sexy pouts made Y/N shift in her seat, growing wet. She started touching herself at night while rewatching his videos, wishing his large hands were on her instead of himself.
"Hey, everything okay?" Harry asked after catching Y/N spacing out for the third time that lecture. "You seem...distracted."
Y/N snapped out of her daze, cheeks burning.
"What? Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just a little out of it today."
Harry's brow furrowed, but he let it go and continued his notes. Y/N scolded herself - she needed to be more careful or he'd suspect something!
The semester continued torturously, with Y/N longing for the sweet yet filthy TA. She devoured every new porn clip, imagining his deep groans were because of her. Harry remained perfectly charming and professional, driving Y/N crazy.
***
One evening, he asked Y/N to stay after for help studying. Her heart pounded as they were finally alone together. Harry was dressed casually in a soft t-shirt that clung to his biceps and tight jeans that left little to the imagination.
"So, what did you need help with?" Y/N asked, trying not to stare at the bulge in his crotch.
"Actually..." Harry shut the classroom door and turned to face her with a smirk. "I know what you've been up to."
Y/N paled. "W-what do you mean?"
In one swift move, Harry crowded her against the wall, hands braced on either side of her head.
"I mean, I know you've seen my...other job," he breathed, leaning so close she could smell his sandalwood cologne. "Judging by how distracted you've been, you must be a fan.I know what you've been up to," Harry said, his voice low. "In fact, I have proof."
Y/N felt her face flush. What could he possibly know? She racked her brain but came up empty.
Harry reached into his bag and pulled out Y/N's notebook from class. He flipped through the pages until he landed on one with "H ❤️" scribbled in the margins.
"This looks an awful lot like the little doodles I've seen pop up in the chat during my streams," he said with a raised eyebrow.
Y/N's heart pounded. He knew about her watching his porn! She opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut her off by capturing her lips in a searing kiss.
"Wanted to do this for ages," Harry growled between heated kisses down her neck. "Could feel you eye-fucking me every class."
"Harry..." she gasped as he palmed her breast. This had to be a dream!
Y/N instantly melted against him, whimpering into his mouth. They kissed hungrily, all the pent-up tension finally unleashing.
"You taste so fucking sweet," he groaned against her racing pulse in that smoky, ruined timbre that immediately flooded her core with fresh arousal. "Been driving me mad, pretty girl. Had to have you."
She had spent countless nights alone getting herself off to the fantasy of Harry - the casual acquaintance turned porn star she had established an embarrassingly strong fixation on. In those frenzied moments of pleasure chasing, her imagination had run wild with what it might feel like to have his large hands on her, to experience his undivided intensity and passion in the flesh.
But nothing could've prepared her for the reality. For this soft, reverent side of him she never could've pictured behind that dirty-mouthed and cocky boldness of his videos. Harry was watching her with those mossy green eyes, hooded but shining, his warm gaze flickering over her flushed face like she was the most precious thing in the world.
Y/N traced her fingertips over the sharp jut of his cheekbones, down the carved column of his throat, savouring the tickle of his rough stubble. She wanted to bottle the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne and sweat, to keep this moment perfectly preserved somehow. This exact pocket in time when Harry was focused solely on her, that made her heart swell and thighs quiver.
When she nodded mutely in response to his question, Harry leaned in to capture her lips in a slow, searing kiss. One large palm cradled the back of her skull, tilting her head for the perfect angle to lick into her mouth with slow and soft sweeps of his tongue. The other hand splayed over her ribs, fingertips trailing up to graze the underside of her breast, each pass lighting tiny sparks across her sensitive skin.
A soft keen parted Y/N's lips when Harry finally palmed her fully, the rough pads of his fingers finding her peaked nipple. His mouth instantly set to work soothing her desperate whimpers with deeper, more heated sweeps of his tongue. He continued paying homage to her breasts with laving kisses until she was writhing and panting.
"So pretty," murmured that devastatingly deep rumble. "So fucking soft and perfect for me, love."
Harry punctuated the dark praise with a sharp nip to the upper swell of one breast, soothing away the faint sting with rich swirls of his talented tongue. Y/N's back arched involuntarily, a strangled moan shuddering from her chest as the flare of pleasure echoed all the way to her clenching core which was already throbbing with need.
She grabbed at Harry's broad shoulders, tugging to seek out more delicious friction. But he seemed determined to drag this out as long as possible - their position putting her at his command as he mapped every inch of her squirming form in unhurried exploration.
His talented mouth continued blazing an open-mouthed path down her sternum, across the quivering plane of her belly, all while his callused palms held her hips in a firm, grounding hold. When his lips finally met the juncture of her parted thighs, Y/N let out a garbled keen, head thrashing against the hard floor.
Harry shushed her gently, nuzzling against her damp curls as his huge hands anchored her bucking hips in place.
"I've got you, sweetheart," he rumbled, hot breath ghosting over her sensitized flesh and dragging a desperate whine from her chest. "Be a good girl and let me take care of my pretty girl, okay?"
Y/N's chest felt fit to burst from the tangled storm of arousal, tenderness, and pure longing that seemingly came out of nowhere at Harry's husked promise to "take care of her properly."
She couldn't find the brainpower to formulate any response beyond a punched-out mewl, utterly spellbound already by the wicked promise in Harry's voice. She lay pliant and trembling as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, fully exposing her to the hot sweep of his piercing stare and the first scorching lap of his tongue against her aching slit.
What followed was a hazy, blissed-out oblivion of sensation as Harry set to work devouring her with so much focus. Focus she had only seen on him when he was in deep, grading papers. There were no more teasing licks or tantalizing nibbles - he dove in with determination, sucking at her slick folds and swirling his tongue in swirls around her throbbing bundle of nerves until Y/N was writhing and sobbing out his name like a prayer.
Her fingers twisted in those sweat-soaked chestnut curls, tugging and desperate for an anchor as the exquisite wash of sensation threatened to unravel her completely. Every breathless whine and whimper was duly rewarded with another purposeful flick of Harry's talented tongue, coaxing her higher and higher.
He lapped at her clit, one digit opening her quivering entrance to his assault. He pushed them in, while she arched her back, giving him a deeper angle. Wet noises erupted from between her legs, his two fingers perfectly anchoring inside, swiping against her sweet spot that had her whimpering like a muse.
He fucked his fingers in and out of her, the thick nerves on his arms seeming to be erupting to life. The same hands that she had imagined about, were now inside her cunt, wet and warm with how wet she was.
His other hand joined the slick heat of his mouth, cupping and kneading her bucking hips with possessive surety, it finally pushed her over the blissful edge. Y/N's whole body convulsed as her climax detonated with blinding intensity, keening gasps punched from her chest again and again on each bottomless wave of pleasure.
Through the whiteout ecstasy, she felt her hips being released. Then, powerful arms were scooping her up against Harry's solid chest, enveloping her entirely as aftershock tremors kept rippling through her frame. Her cries were instantly muffled as he kissed her, her taste lingering in their mouths as she drank him in.
"That's my girl," Harry praised, his voice almost low and aching with want. "So fucking gorgeous falling apart on my tongue like that, sweetheart."
Y/N could only whimper helplessly in response and manoeuvred herself closer to his sweat-slicked torso, shuddering at the raspiness of his voice. Large palms stroked soothingly up and down her back as she slowly came back to earth and rejoined gravity.
One calloused thumb caught a stray tear she hadn't even realised fell, swiping it away with tenderness. The gentle gesture finally focused Y/N's senses enough to really look up at Harry - and what she saw stole the breath from her lungs all over again.
His green eyes were molten and hooded, swirling with naked want but also something more profound. Harry gazed down at her with such adoration and protectiveness that another sob rose in her tight throat, heart spasming almost painfully.
"You're so beautiful," he rasped out. One large palm cradled the back of her skull as his lips found her swollen and panting mouth in a deep, searching kiss. "So fucking strong and brilliant and incredible. I've wanted you for so damn long, Y/N. Please let me..."
Y/N couldn't formulate a coherent reply. So instead she silently nodded, her assent between kissing him back with every ounce of frenetic passion burning through her and took Harry's full weight as he rolled them until she was cradled in his lap.
Their kiss turned searing and desperate as Harry skillfully discarded their remaining clothes. Y/N's strangled whimpers and whines were swallowed by his bruising mouth, her slick heat dragging against the hardness of his erection in tortuously light strokes.
Y/N instinctively sought out more of that maddening friction - rocking her hips up to meet Harry's in a desperate grind as she tangled her legs around his trim waist. The low, reverent rumble of approval he let out at her shamelessness made her entire body bloom with heat.
"So eager for me, aren't you love?" he husked against the swollen bow of her parted lips. Not waiting for a response, he sealed his mouth over hers in a lush, filthy kiss that left them both panting for air.
He teased her exactly to that tantalising edge of overwhelming bliss and sheer frustration until she was squirming and mewling into their heated embrace, nails scrabbling at the broad expanse of his sweat-dampened shoulders. At last, Harry tore away from her lips with a ragged groan, panting heavily as they pressed their foreheads together.
She was too far gone to feel self-conscious. The last threads of her self-restraint had snapped the second Harry palmed both cheeks of her ass in those huge, calloused hands and used his grip to pull her flush against the insistent jut of his straining cock.
"Wanted this for so long," he growled against her swollen lips before venturing down to scathe his stubbled jaw along the ultra-sensitive slope of her neck, leaving a stinging trail of fresh goosebumps in his wake. "Laid awake so many nights thinking about having you in my lap just like this..."
Y/N had no capacity to formulate a reply beyond a choked-off moan, hips canting of their own accord to chase that scorching friction. She wanted to whimper out, to beg him to stop teasing them both with this exquisite torment. But he didn't give her a chance, lush mouth finding her peaked nipple and suckling hard, stealing what little coherence she had left.
"Ah! ...H-Harry, please..." she panted out as sparks of both pleasure and sweetest pain lanced through her. She fisted those decadent chestnut curls tighter until he finally released her with a final teasing graze of teeth over her swollen, rosy bud.
He peered up at her with hooded, molten eyes, his pupils blown wide and inky with naked want. His mouth glistened obscenely in the low light. The sight alone nearly cleaved what little rational thought remained.
"Since you asked so sweetly..." he husked, gifting her one more searingly deep kiss before making a trail of open-mouthed licks and nibbles down the center line of her body once more. "My gorgeous girl deserves whatever she desires.Now look at me, love," he ordered, "Need to see those gorgeous eyes when I finally get to be inside my girl."
My girl.
Y/N's whole body locked up with need at his command. Their gazes crashed together in the space separating them - Harry peering down at her, mouth hanging open in blissful agony.
Holding that heated stare, he finally guided the slick blunt head of his cock to her entrance with one broad palm on her hip. They both exhaled harsh breaths in unison as he sank past that initial tight clutch, Harry's brows creasing with reverence while Y/N's mouth fell open on a choked off moan.
"You feel so good, baby, taking my cock like this," he groaned against her neck. "Wanted this pretty pussy for months."
The crude words somehow only turned Y/N on more. She matched Harry's thrusts, overwhelmed by how amazing he felt.
"You feel that, love?" he rumbled in that rasping timbre that immediately stoked the banked embers of her core back to feverish heat. "How fucking desperate you still are for me, even after falling apart so gorgeously?"
Y/N let out a helpless, pitchy noise of agreement muffled feverishly against the solid weight of his shoulder – nodding frantically as he kept up that slick, sinfully light rutting rhythm. Her entire body felt suspended in limbo, torn between too-much and not-enough with each deliberate slide of his cock spreading her wanting folds apart.
"Christ, you should see yourself right now," Harry practically purred in a haze of lust-drunk awe, swiping the pad of his thumb in a teasing circle around her revived, aching bud. When she arched into the contact with a strangled whimper, he let out a rumbling chuckle that reverberated through both their shuddering frames. "An absolute picture...and all for me."
On his final seismic stroke, the thick crown of his erection caught against Y/N's swollen, aching entrance - teasing her to the brink of shattering all over again. She let out a garbled noise that might have been Harry's name or just an incoherent plea, fingernails scrabbling at his back.
"Look at me," he ordered in a low rasp, drawing her hooded gaze up from where their damp bodies joined. Green eyes glittered with undisguised possession when their stares finally met - searing straight through her.
Holding that smoldering eye contact, Harry pressed forward with one inch at a time until Y/N thought she might combust from the sweet stretch and burn. Every shallow exhale punched from her lungs came out a choked whimper, matched by the fevered grunts rumbling from Harry's chest as he bottomed out, again and again.
Y/N's world had narrowed entirely to the joined point of their bodies, her fluttering internal walls struggling to accommodate the exquisite impalement even as fresh arousal flooded her with boneless surrender. She could only cling helplessly to Harry's sweat-slicked shoulders and lose herself in the intoxicating visuals before her - his arm muscles bunching with the strain, those ruddy, plump lips hanging open on ragged gasps.
"Fuck...f-feel so good, baby," he gritted out, words fracturing apart as his hips gave a minute involuntary roll. "Taking me so bloody well..."
A strangled cry escaped Y/N as that tiniest motion lit up every nerve-ending with bliss. Her heels dug into the small of Harry's back in a frantic bid for leverage, for friction, for anything to alleviate this keen edge between agony and rapture. He seemed to read her desperation, dropping his sweat-slicked brow to hers as he found her lips in a sloppy, uncoordinated clash of teeth and questing tongues.
Then he was pulling back in one sinuous torso-roll, finally giving Y/N what she craved as his initial retreat turned into a soul-shaking thrust that punched the air from her lungs anew. Somewhere in the spiraling vortex of sensation, she registered the harsh slam of his hips meeting her own, the strangled cry of gratification Harry loosed against her slack mouth as he set a steadily mounting cadence.
Any hope of finesse or coordination was swiftly abandoned as their shared need mounted inexorably higher. Y/N could only cling on and ride out the tide of Harry's sharp, bouncing strokes - bordering on too much even as every shuddering nerve ending begged for more, more, more...
Before long, his forehead had dropped to brace against her shuddering sternum, the rigid line of his body trembling with restrained power and exertion as his hips jackhammered with unchecked fervor. The slick, fiery noises of their joining felt loud enough to haunt Y/N's every thought from now until the end of time.
She could feel the heated pant of his breaths gusting across her neglected nipples with each punishing grind of their movements coming brutally unhinged. Every snap of his hips shoved impossibly deeper until she was seeing stars behind her screwed-shut lids, a high-pitched whine escaping with each narrow thrust mounting her up the cliff's edge.
Heat and tension built upon itself in a dizzying spiral, a thousand tingling points of rapture spiraling from Y/N's core until her entire being felt engulfed in the storm. Harry's large hand found her sweat-dampened nape and tangled in her hair, drawing her into a searing, wild kiss that only stoked things higher.
The groan he leaked into her mouth was utterly guttural and wrecked as she matched his hectic rhythm – nails dragging down the broad expanse of his quivering shoulders until her next orgasm suddenly crested with blinding force.
This time, there was no oblivion or sweet black voids of unknowing as Y/N came apart. Instead, she remained tethered to the blazing intensity coursing through every fiber, Harry's name escaping on a cracked litany as her release seemed to go on and on in pulsing waves. He swallowed each choked syllable, hips drilling her through the roaring tide until she arched clean off the desktop entirely.
Harry's broken cry of her name might have been reverent, might have been full of desperate adulation as he finally let go – thick spurts of wet heat joining the mess between their bodies as his tempo turned erratic and punishing. Y/N could only hang on with what little quavering strength remained, drifting in the bliss of euphoria.
Eventually, the high tides ebbed and they collapsed in a sweaty, ruined heap upon the desk's surface. Both of their chests heaved like they'd run a marathon, senses struggling to reboot as little aftershocks kept shuddering through their temporarily departed forms.
Incrementally, Y/N floated back into her body and surroundings – the achingly pleasant stretch and ticklish trickle of Harry's slowly softening length, the damp cling of their overheated skin, the stark scent of sweat and sex and desperation sated. She cracked heavy lids, momentarily stunned all over again at the debauched vision of the handsome man draped over and still sheathed inside her.
Harry's summer green gaze was already waiting, twin pools of blown pupils shining through a heavy-lidded swath of mussed chestnut curls. Enraptured affection and lust battled for prominence as he stared down at her, sucking in air like a drowned man breaching the surface. When she met his eyes, he opened his mouth only to release a choked exhalation – clearly as adrift in the tide of their passion as she was.
Y/N lifted one shaky hand to paw clumsily at the damp curls framing his face, caressing his flushed cheek in what she hoped came across as reassurance. Her other arm snaked around Harry's shoulders, anchoring him to her as he nuzzled into the gesture with a shuddering sigh.
This time when he found her mouth, the kiss was slow and deep and almost unbearably tender. Their heartbeats gradually realigned as they savored the languid exchange, prolonging the hazy afterglow for as long as possible.
Harry finally pulled back to mouth a reverent path along the curve of her jaw, words rasping low and ardent against the hammer of her pulse.
"You're so incredible, love," he murmured like a hallowed oath. Full of naked adoration and something deeper that made Y/N's newly reawakened heart clench and squeeze impossibly tighter. "Knew you would be...but god, you fucking ruined me just now."
His raspy chuckle carried an undercurrent of disbelief and familiar self-deprecation. Kiss-swollen lips trailed along the sloped curve of her neck and shoulder as he continued pouring out those hushed, awed confessions.
"Don't think I'll ever look at this bloody classroom the same way again...not after feeling you come apart around me so beautifully..."
After, they lay panting on the classroom floor, limbs tangled together. Y/N traced the bird tattoos on Harry's abdomen, unable to believe this had happened.
"If I had known this is what you wanted, I would've bent you over my desk ages ago," Harry laughed, still looking deliciously rumpled and debauched.
Whatever came next, whatever questions arose about the status of their relationship or the unorthodox circumstances that had brought them here, for now Y/N was content to simply bask in the warmth and connection she felt . Her wondering heart could wait until the morning.
♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡
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little baby lime | s.r. x pregnant!fem reader
“does reid have a girlfriend?” emily asked derek and jj. they both shared a quizzical look with pouted lips, taken aback by the random question.
“not since that one time thing with that lila actress,” derek mumbled. now it was emily’s turn to be thrown off by this new information, “an actress?”
“an old case,” jj informed her. “spencer doesn’t seem like the dating type, mostly. never mentioned anything that might point to it, always doing his usual routine on his days off.” the blonde shrugged off her sentence.
“why do you ask?” derek turned back to emily who jerked her chin while looking behind the two, “cause he’s hugging a girl who might also be pregnant.” an impressed smirk to her mauve lips.
derek and jj wiped their heads fast around you could hear a crack from their necks. true to emily’s words, doctor spencer reid, well know to be a germaphobe, was wrapped in a tight embrace with a shorter woman. his back was to the trio but they could see that his arms were over her shoulders and hers were snug around his torso, also noting that spencer was giving both bodies a gentle sway.
“well that’s a sight,” derek teased. then jj followed with, “why might you think she’s pregnant? we can’t see with tall boy swallowing her.”
emily tapped the side of her nose, “saw her enter just before i asked the hundred dollar question and her tank was a bit snug on her stomach and she even gave it a rub.” eyes moving to the mystery duo then back, “then when spencer went to her he, one kissed her forehead then two also touched her stomach.”
three sets of eyes honed in back to spencer and his mystery guest. you leaned apart, head leaving spencer’s chest but arms wrapped to his back. you smiled brightly at spencer’s rosie face, “you’ve gotten prettier in only a week. not fair.” pouting exaggerated as you rubbed your palms along spencer’s spine.
he smiled nervously at the compliment. “that’s statistically not true. only with time and sometimes diet does your skin start to shift and change. like your body is doing now while going through pregnancy.” a quick peck upon your oily forehead, you sweat too much and sucks that summer is rolling in.
“this little lime is slowly stretching some of my clothes out. but i’m gonna be a sexy mama, like rachel green from friends. so i expect you to defend me against anyone.” teasing spencer since you already know he’ll defend you even over an argument about clothing.
before spencer could reply there was a loud, exaggerated cough from behind. stepping out of spencer’s hold you waffled your hands together and leaned your head against his bicep. a trio of agents you haven’t met before smiled questioning spencer’s way.
“pretty boy, you didn’t tell us you had a gorgeous girl waiting for you.” a tall dark skin man teased like an older brother. he looked at you and smiled his white teeth, “derek morgan, part of the bau.”
“oh, the playboy of the unit. i’ve heard a thing or two about you.” cocking a brow while derek showed surprise but covered it with a laugh, “glad to know i always leave an impression on pretty boy.”
“and thank you for the new nickname, i will be stealing it.” causing the two women to chuckle. a petite blonde woman stuck a hand out and you automatically took it, “i’m jennifer jareau, but you can call me jj. i’m the liaison for the team, deal with media and dictate our cases.”
“and a beaut. glad i snatch up spence before you had the chance.” spencer ducked his chin to his chest while jj just raised her brows, “think it’s for the best you took him off the market first.”
“lucky for me.” pointing a manicured finger to the left of jj, “now you, sexy lady must be emily prentiss since i already know wonderful penelope garcia. if i hadn’t know spencer earlier you would’ve been on my mind twenty-four seven.” a playful wink thrown her way, she didn’t protest to your suggestive words.
“maybe we can get together and see what i’m missing out on. but also, how long have you known reid? we didn’t know you existed.” a huffed laugh.
“use to live in vegas as a kid. thirteen my freshman year to have the local boy genius, twelve year old senior tutor me in algebra. with his help i didn’t need summer school. and i didn’t see him for a while until a few years ago when he’d make visits back into town.” cartoon hearts filtered through your eyes as you recounted your love story. “been dating two and a half years and then this dolt,” a light smack to spencer’s chest, “forgot to practice safe sex and here we are.”
all three of their faces showed complete shock at your last sentence and you can understand why. “don’t worry, spencer takes very good care of me. day and night if you know what i mean.” wiggling your brows suggestively.
spencer sighed, “i think they do, sweetheart. and i wish i could forget this whole conversation.” displeased at where this headed, but still stared towards you like you were the stars in the sky. “now if you’ll excuse us, garcia would like to see her favorite person.”
“second favorite,” derek cheekily pipped in. you waved him off as spencer walked the both of you away and further in the offices. to garcia’s dungeon or lair, whatever she’s feeling that day.
with a polite nock to her closed door and a muffled, “enter traveler,” you rushed inside for her bear hug. “penny!”
“oh my gosh! how are you sexy mama?” penelope rocked you side to side, cheek pressed into her neck. you giggled at the nickname, “is bean pole taking care of you?”
“bean pole?” spencer’s voice was mumbled but an unladylike snort escaping your nose. “i do have a thing for tall, lanky boys.”
“i don’t like this conversation either.”
#erin writes#spencer reid#early seasons spencer reid#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fic#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid x pregnant!reader
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SECRET - A . DONALDSON
Sexual Content Ahead
Art Donaldson x Fem!ChubbyReader
Summary: Where you and Art are 'secretly' hooking up without your friends knowing.
Warnings: SMUT (18+), Born with barely any plot, Art is slightly pathetic in this, Reader loves a cheeky ass grab.
Note: This one is a quick one I rushed, because I'm writing a nice long Art fic for yall. So please enjoy this for now.
If you told yourself 3 years ago that you'd be sat on some bleachers watching tennis you wouldn't believe it.
You were never interested in tennis, you knew about it obviously but it was never your thing.
You came to Stanford as an international student due to the fat scholarship you recieved so you packed your bags from London to California.
That is where you met Tashi Duncan, your best friend. She introduced herself to you one day in the library after hearing you tap away to the music playing in your headphones. It was a close call, she saved you from another warning from the librarian.
Tashi and you were inseparable. Learning about eachother more you discovered she played tennis and was quite well known but you had no clue. She found this a breath of fresh air as everyone knew of her some how. She put it down to the fact your from a different country additionally to your lack of interest of the sport.
Tashi coaxed you to come watch her warm ups and games - which you did being a great friend. But you sported to opening your sketchbook and sketching out the scene infront of you additionally. Might aswell do a research project on human posing and what better sport that tennis.
After your first semester you noticed Tashi always hanging out with this tall lanky man. He seemed nice but, you'd never seen him around. She told you he was her 'thing' which made you both laugh over lunch one time. She had mentioned he will be around alot more and he has a friend and that's when you met Art Donaldson, and well. The rest is history.
It had been a good year since you met Patrick and Art and you four were now a little quad. Despite the three of them being raging tennis players and you just sat on the side line they didn't mind.
You did try to take up a sport but it just wasn't for you, after Tashi found you face down in a bush after a 100m sprint.
You were watching Art play against someone from another University - you weren't listening to their name though.
Tashi and Patrick sat beside you, gasping and groaning, cheering and whooping at what was going on in the game but you only knew so much.
In the year you've known Art, you two had a great bond and tend to.. dip into eachothers bonds from time to time. You had no clue if Tashi or Patrick knew about your occasional flings with Art, you both never aired it nor got caught it just happened sometimes.
But as of late, you can't take your eyes off him. The way his shorts ride up his muscly thighs as he jumps from one end of the court to the other. The way his hair bounces but also sticks to his forehead due to his sweat. You were slightly obsessed.
You wouldn't say you had feelings for him, it never got deep enough for that. But you craved him. You craved every single inch of him and how he'd just melt into your hand.
"COME ON!!" You jump slightly as you were ripped out of your daydream as Tashi flew up beside you screaming as you looked at Art celebrating on the court.
You smiled, standing up and clapping as you grabbed everyone's coats and bags as Tashi and Patrick dashed off to see Art.
Climbing down the stairs was tricky balancing everything but as soon as you saw Tashi and Patrick bust through the door of the court as they piled onto Art you smiled. Walking towards them as you put down the stuff.
Art turned to you smiling, walking up to you and pulling you in for a hug. It wasn't unusual just took you off guard.
"We should celebrate! Let's go out for dinner" Tashi smiled.
"I love a good dinner" You smiled as they all chuckled at you.
You got changed for the dinner into a little black dress, you can never go wrong with it. Tashi texted you earlier her and Patrick will be late - which you assumed they were fucking in his car yet again. Dinners cancelled you assumed.
You walked over to Arts dorm, knocking on the door as it swung open to reveal a slightly disheaved Art as he stared at you. Shirtless and in the tightest pair of shorts ever.
"Did you forget we are going to dinner-"
"No- I was just.. working out" He spoke slightly.
You looked him up and down, a knowing smirk on your face.
"You can't hide it from me" You laughed. Art's face contorted as he looked at you confused as you swiped your hand over the very obvious bulge in his boxers before walking past him into his room.
He doubled over, groaning as he shut the door as you laughed, sitting on his desk chair.
"I thought Tashi was taking you to the restaurant?" He dove onto his bed, laying on his stomach as he scrunched a pillow up at leaned against it looking at you. God he looked so pathetic. Ass up and everything.
"Seems she got preoccupied with Patrick, I got this" You pulled up the text and turned it around to show Art.
"We definitely won't make it to the restaurant now" He laughed.
You stood up, dropping your bag on the chair as you walked over to Art, sitting by his head as he looked up at you.
"What do you wanna do then?" You caressed his cheek, smiling down at him.
"I have a few ideas.." His head turned to kiss your palm as his lips made its way up your arm till he was on his knees infront of you.
You stared at him blankly, sucking in your bottom lip as you took in the situation. You both paused for a brief moment staring at eachother.
You leaned in, kissing him roughly as your hands dropped to his back, pulling him closer as his hands slid up the back of your dress as he squeezed your ass. One thing about Art he loved your ass.
The pair of you tumbling with one another as you yanked down his boxers slightly as the back, grabbing a chunk of his ass with his hand as you sucked onto his tongue. A soft moan leaving his lips as you yanked down his boxers completely rolling over as you caged him below you.
"Mm- want you- s'bad" You pulled at his lip as you sucked on it, grinding down against his bare cock as you reached to pull your dress off in one swift motion.
"Fuck- good girl-" He groaned as he unclasped your bra throwing it off as he pulled your neck and pulled you back into another kiss. It was passionate but needy. The way his tongue slipped in and out of your mouth had you yearning for more. You reached down to wriggle out of your panties as you kicked them off to the side before you held the base of his dick. Running it between your slit as you gasped, pulling away from the kiss.
You bit your lip, sighing as you bucked your hips against his tip. Your hands sliding up over your breasts as you peered down at him. "You piss me off how fucking hot you are. Why are you so fucking hot" You groaned, grinding down harder against him as he harshly gasped.
"Shut up" He whined lightly as he grabbed your hip, lifting you up so he could grab his cock and curve it up towards your entrance as he dropped you down against his abdomen as his cock slipped up inside of you. "Fuck-" You both yelped in unison.
You peered down at him, chuckling softly as you let out soft moans as you rocked back and forth against him. "Oh fuck-" You grit your teeth as your hand slid down his chest as you rocked back and forth. Your thighs slightly twitching as your eyes threatened to roll back.
"Such a good girl f'me aren't you" He smirked, sliding a hand up overs your stomach. This was something Art tended to do. You knew you were chubbier that other girls you'd seen him with before but he was definitely into it. His smile grew as he slid them further up to grip your breast as he squeezed and toyed with it.
You smirked down at him, leaning forward slightly, pecking his lips as your ass rebounded against his abdomen as you dropped down on him continously as you rode him.
"Good.." You spoke with breathy moans as light whines escaped Art's lips as he stared into your eyes. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. The way his eyes watched you.
His hands dropped from your breasts, gripping onto the plush of your thighs as he whined slightly, spreading his legs below you.
You could feel his hips thrusting up into your for more, as you bit your lip moaning lightly. "Yessss~ fuck. Art- s-so good" You yelped as his hands gripped your waist before flipping you onto your back. The movement shocked you but the second he got his balance he began to piston into you.
You reached back, grabbing the headboard of the bed as you yelped. Whines and moans pouring from your mouth as Art demolished you. His hips slamming into you. His balls slapping into your ass as the bed creaked below the pair of you. One of his hands, gripping at a chunk of your thigh as his thumb caressed against the skin. The other, reaching for one of yours as your fingers interlocked with one another.
You reached forward grabbing his ass harshly with your free hand, as you squeezed it, looking up at him, biting your lip.
His mouth ghosting over yours as he let out soft whines and groans - just like he does in tennis. Fuck do you love the sounds he makes when he's playing fucking tennis...
"Yes- Fuck Art please.. Harder" you groaned, your hand removing from his as they both flew to his back, your nails scratched down it as he pounded harder into you.
His groans got louder and needier, as his hands returned to your chunk sides, his fingers dug harder into your hip. His thrusts became sloppier, you knew he was close.
Art threw your legs over his shoulders as he slammed back into you. A guttural moan yelping from your throat as you shrieked, his pace quickening as you whined. Your nails digging into his shoulder as your back arched down against him as your eyes rolled back as you drew closer to your climax.
He knew you were close abd so was he. He continue to pump into you as fast as he could till you both came undone. Both cumming together, his head hung low as he watched a mixture of your releases create a ring at the bottom of his cock as he thrusted a few more times, dragging the pair of you through the high.
"Fuck-" He groaned as he pulled out, biting his lip as he leaned back on his legs as he stared down at you panting.
You looked at the disheaved boy infront of you, you couldn't help but let out a breathy chuckle as he panted.
"S'good as always" You smiled, sitting up as you pecked his lips.
Art leaned forward, kissing you deeper as his hand snaked around your neck, pulling you closer as he kissed you. You hummed softly, your tongue swiping over his lips as the kiss grew more heated.
Before the pair of you could even consider a second round a loud string of knocks banged against the door.
The two of you pulled away and froze. Your hand pressed against his chest, your other frozen as you stroked his cock. His hands cupping your face as the pair of you just stared at each other.
After a while no knocks were heard so you were going to continue till another string of loud knocks.
"Fuck" You hissed as the pair of you both stood up, grabbing your clothes as you tried to quickly dress.
Your dress nowhere to be seen amongst the large pile of clothes. "Art where the fuck is my dress-" You whispered shouted.
"Shhh!-" He quipped. You grabbed his dress shirt he was wearing off the floor and threw it on over your underwear. He was scrambling around the room looking for his shirt when he looked at you wearing it.
He quickly pulled on his trousers and opened his wardrobe for a tshirt as he stumbled to the door. You stood behind him.
You don't know what you both expected or who you expected to be behind the door. But the colour drained from both of your faces as the door revealed your two friends.
"I texted you Y/N that we were outside 10 minutes ago but I can see you were occupied" Tashi raises her eyebrow, a sickly smirk across her face.
You gulped as you stared at her, smiling awkwardly.
"Tash- did you figure out where Y/N was-" Patrick's voice could be heard down the hall as he gained closer to the door. Stopping behind Tashi as he stared at you and Art. "Fucking knew it" He laughed.
#challengers#challengers art donaldson#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art x reader#art donaldson smut#tashi duncan#patrick zweig#mike faist#angelfrombenethfics
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pairing: james potter x fem! reader
warnings: mentioned of drinks, james and peter are intoxicated (briefly mentioned!)
a/n: loosely based on this tweet! i thought it was hilarious and fit james :) also not proof read.
“are you getting married soon?” you hear your boyfriend ask as you enter the bar where he was drinking with sirius, remus and peter. you turn to the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. james has his eyebrows furrowed, looking down at a woman’s left hand who is wearing a silver ring on her middle finger.
“and do you have any suggestions for wedding venues?”
the woman slightly chokes on her drink and gives james an alarmed “what?” she’s looking at james as if he’s grown two more heads. you can’t help but laugh.
“are you getting married soon?” he yells, thinking she didn’t hear him the first time.
“no, why would i?” she seems even more confused by the question that james is asking.
“you have an engagement ring on.” he says in a bored tone, like he’s pointing out the most obvious thing. waving his hand towards the woman’s finger.
“it’s on my middle finger?”
“what-“ james shakes his head and squints his eyes. his glasses are gone.
“james?” he gasps, and turns around ignoring the woman who he was just talking to. “baby, you’re here!” you smile at your very drunk boyfriend. who opens his arms and hugs you.
“i’m sorry, he’s very drunk.” you apologize, to the woman with a small smile. “also he’s not wearing his glasses.”
“i’m going to marry her!” james smiles proudly, as he slightly stumbles over nothing.
“congratulations?” she’s still confused, and seems slightly tired talking to james about marriage. she smiles politely and makes an excuse to leave. not that james notices as he nuzzles his nose into your neck.
“james, where are your glasses?”
“with sirius!” he looks up from your neck, giving you his best smile. which is crooked, and adorable.
“and where’s sirius?”
“with remus!”
“and where is he?”
“at his apartment?” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. you’re going to kill sirius and remus.
“of course, and where’s pete?” james just smiles, pointing behind you, you turn and see your friend dancing rather awkwardly on the dance floor with no care in the world. figures, your friends are idiots.
“oh.” you continue to watch peter dance until he trips on his foot. you turn back to your boyfriend, ignoring the second hand embarrassment you’re feeling. “let’s go home, yeah?”
“what about pete?” james asks, concerned for his friend.
“he’ll be fine.” you mumble, as peter stands back up, with wobbly legs. “alright.” your turn james towards the exit.
“so, what flowers would you like for our wedding?” before you could even answer james question, he’s spitting out his suggestions. “i’m thinking tulips!”
“yeah?”
“yes, but i’m not sure which color.” he shakes his head solemnly, clearly this is the most tragic thing to happen in your boyfriend’s opinion.
“we need to pick out a color palette first.” you’re surprised james potter knows what a color palette is. you can’t help but snort out in laughter. “james you haven’t even asked me to marry you yet!”
james looks at you horrified, and yelps out a slightly high pitched “what?!” as you leave the bar laughing.
#james potter#james potter fluff#james potter x reader#james potter x reader fluff#james potter x fem!reader#james potter x y/n#james potter x you#james potter imagine#james potter fic#james potter fanfiction#remus lupin#remus lupin x platonic!reader#sirius black#sirius black x platonic!reader#peter pettigrew#peter pettigrew x platonic!reader#the marauders fandom
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say yes to heaven.
aitana bonmati x fem!reader
desc: gfs documentary made me cry so i had to write some fluff to make me feel better!!
you and aitana had been friends ever since you joined barcelona just a year ago. although the midfielder befriended and stuck with every newbie on the team until they found their closest friends, you and her instantly clicked and became best friends in no time.
what you werent expecting was for your platonic feelings for the brunette to blossom into a crush, which although you deemed would go away soon, never did and only became stronger.
you never acted on your feelings though, always too scared that she would never feel the same way, i mean you didnt even know if aitana was into girls or not, let alone whether she liked you back as well.
you had more or less successfully managed to suppress your feelings though. the multiple shots that mapi encouraged you to take at the club you and the team were at, seemed to make you temporarily forget about your tragically unrequited love for your best friend.
unfortunately, aitana wasnt the only one known in the team for not dating. and honestly, if anyone knew why you were laying off dating, they would not be able to blame you. however, as aitana wasnt one for teasing and pranking her teammates, they chose to not tease her for her inability to settle with anyone. opposite to aitana, you loved joining prank wars with vicky, jana, bruna, salma, pina and patri. which left you on the receiving end of relentless bullying about your lack of love life.
this night out in london was no exception, except this time, the group had decided to instead try help you find someone, and had now made it a contest of who could find someone for you first.
the rest of the team including aitana, who were much more mature than your group, had decided to come up to your table and sit with you all, making sure you wouldnt get into trouble. they had soon caught onto what your group was trying to do, and seeing the permanent pout on your face made it even funnier.
one person who was not amused though, was aitana herself, with her heart racing with fear every time someone pointed a random person out for you, and a scowl each time you winced when patri elbowed your ribs for saying no.
eventually it became too much for the midfielder to handle, as she told the group to grow up and stop being so immature and childish, before pulling you onto her lap.
your eyes widened in surprise and your cheeks flushed red as aitana then decided to loop her arms around your waist, her fingertips just dipping under the waistband of your skirt to rub small circles into your skin. your spine involuntarily shivered at the prospect of having aitana this close, and you blushed once again as she lent towards your ear to whisper something to you.
was this best friend behaviour in spain? honestly you werent too sure, but judging by the smirk that lucy sent your way, you were guessing that what you and aitana were doing was leaning more to the couple side of things.
most other people on the team who were sat around the table also seemed surprised and also amused at aitanas sudden behaviour. until vicky burst out laughing, interrupting everyones conversations as she said “i think i know someone whos perfect for y/n!” as she sent a very obvious wink at aitana, making you throw a cup coaster from the table at her head.
however it seemed that aitana hadnt found what vicky said amusing, as you felt her tense up behind you and her hands unravelled themselves from around your waist, before lightly shoving you off her lap onto the seat next to you, claiming she needed to use the bathroom.
you didnt see aitana for the rest of the night, she clung very closely to keira and ona much to your dismay. so to distract yourself from your crushes unusual and confusing behaviour, you decided to fully let loose. and what better way to do that than let pina and patri almost control your whole night, the duo were infamously known for their wild partying antics. so this came to a shock to everyone when you teamed up with them for the night, as you were know for your love to have a peaceful night in by yourself.
one of pina and patris dares was for you to somehow you and them free drinks, they waited at the end of the bar for you, incase they noticed you feeling uncomfortable and to also collect their drinks after. aitana and almost all of the rest of the team who had gone out that night were sat back down at the booth, all in their own little conversations.
you however had managed to find a spanish girl who looked to be in her late thirties, who you were almost certain looked easy enough to convince to get you free drinks. although your slightly tipsy state had you misunderstanding the dare, thinking they meant to get drinks for the entire table, which in theory it was almost impossible to get someone to buy that many drinks for a stranger. but you were a woman on a mission, and you didnt want to fail this dare at all, and you were determined to have a better night than aitana, who seemed to be completely ignoring you.
after talking and flirting with the woman for a bit, she offered to buy you a drink, to which you responded you were supposed to be getting your whole table drinks now. but as soon as you saw her pull a sleek black card out of her wallet, you knew you would be winning this dare. you managed to remember most peoples drinks, and glanced over to pina and patri who had looks of shock and disbelief on their faces at the number of drinks being made for you.
it was even better when she offered to take the two trays over to your booth after you claimed your arms were aching, pina and patri quickly trailed behind, curious at how exactly you had pulled that off.
as soon as she placed the trays of drinks down, her phone began to ring, as she spoke some fast, accented words in spanish to you, which your very tipsy brain couldnt comprehend, you quickly said adios to her followed with a drunken wave.
as pina and patri told the table the dare and how you had gotten it wrong, alexia, sandra, marta and irene shook their heads and lectured you for your actions, claiming that it was a stupid idea. whereas lucy clapped her hand on your back shouting “thanks mate” in your ear.
until ona spoke, drawing all the attention over to a very confused you “i cant believe she said that to you y/n”
you honestly had no idea what her words were, only comprehending the word “noche” making you guess she wished you a good night. “what do you mean ona? i didnt really understand it”
this made patri laugh “oh amiga, she said she wished she could have expanded her night with you, and said ‘preferably to get you in his bed’ you must have really been flirting with her”
upon hearing your newfound knowledge of what the woman said, aitana muttered under her breath of how she was tired and was going home, as she threw a glare your way, your stance visibly deflated and a deep frown settled on your face. you hated arguing with aitana, and it was so much worse that you had absolutely no idea what you have done.
you also excused yourself and began to follow aitana out, stumbling a few times as an effect of your ridiculously high heels and the large amount of alcohol youve had. you managed to catch up to her just as she was getting in her car, aitana hadnt had too much to drink tonight, so planned on driving herself home, even though she knew she would not be able to sleep with thoughts of you clouding her mind.
if you were sober, there was no way you would just rag open aitanas car door and fall straight on to the seat, but the drinks you had gave you the confidence and desperation you needed to to ask and find out what you did wrong.
“dios mio y/n! you terrified me, you cant just do that!” aitana shouted, your abrupt entrance had terrified the brunette, but you brushed her temporary shock to the side, a burning question on the tip of your tongue. “aitana have i upset you? why have you been ignoring me?” you asked with a frown on your face, completely averting your eyes from aitana. you were a sad drunk, often getting way too emotional, and the last thing you wanted to do was drunk cry in front of your crush.
“no, no- y/n, you havent! i- i just, im confused, okay? thats all, im not mad at you” aitana reassured, she avoided you tonight solely due to her confusion of her anger towards the people that your teammates had been picking out for you at the bar. if she knew how upset and anxious it had made you, then she would have stayed with you all night if it meant you were okay.
“do- do you want to come back to mine? or you can go to yours! thats fine too- honestly! i-” aitana noticed her rambling and cut herself of as she felt her cheeks heat up. “aita, i want to go back to yours please” you said softly to the midfielder. “vale cari, lets go” she responded.
as aitana navigated the streets of barcelona towards her apartment, you could help but laugh at her soft angered mutters of the irritating barcelona traffic and the dozens of traffic lights she had to stop at that she insisted were “unnecessary and a waste of time and money” as you approached a 24 hour food place on the side of the road, aitana moved her hand over to your thigh making your breath hitch. her question of whether you were hungry or not went unanswered, as you were too busy overthinking the hand on your thigh. as aitana pulled into a parking space she asked again however she was now met with your extremely flustered face.
this told aitana all she needed to know on whether her feelings for you were reciprocated or not, and the newfound knowledge that they were supplied her with enough confidence to lean over the centre console. aitana then grabbed your jawline softly, she noticed you glancing at her lips which gave her the confirmation she needed to press her lips onto yours.
the kiss started off slow, aitana not wanting you to feel uncomfortable and like you were rushing things. until you decided you wanted more and tangled your hands in her hair pulling her impossibly closer which prompted her to slip her tongue into your mouth, the kiss becoming rougher and more desperate. the kiss only ended when you were near to a point of gasping for air, and as you were still trying to catch your breath, aitana decided it would be a good time to ask “go on a date with me”. you couldnt tell if she had meant to demand you to go out with her, or whether she just forgot to form a question when translating what she wanted to say. either way, you didnt hesitate when responding “vale” with a small laugh at her way of asking you, as she turned to you with a smile at hearing the spanish fall from your lips.
———
yourinstagram
caption: shes not a very good driver 😇😇
liked by: alexiaputellas, lucybronze and 54,324 others.
comment:
lucybronze: i think we all know who that is..
-> yourinstagram: i think we all know who you left with last night (your not as subtle as you think you are)
fbcfemeni: is that caption really true?
-> yourinstagram: aitana get off barcelonas account 😭
-> fbcfemeni: its not aitana!!
-> yourinstagram: mentirosa 😬😬
user1: omg its a for aitana!!!
user2: has everyone seen barcas comments 😭
user3: not aita on the teams account 😭
#Spotify#woso#woso community#barcelona femeni#woso fanfics#woso x reader#barcelona femeni x reader#aitana bonmati#mapi leon#mapi león#ona batlle#alexia putellas#keira walsh#lucy bronze#aitana bonmati x reader#aitana
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You're still standing off to the side. Somehow, center stage has shifted from under your feet without you realizing, and you're standing in the wings, performing to no one.
Starring Role (Patreon)
#My art#ISaT#ISaT Spoilers#Siffrin#Loop#Technically - you know how it goes#Me when I relate to Siffrin: Oh no haha that's probably not great whoops haha#Me when I relate to Loop: Oh. Oh No.#Lenti has such a deathgrip on my ISaT opinions wtf how is she so powerful I thought my fave was Sif?? But I mean well-#Lol#Does this count as vent idk lol#It was fun to write tho :) Very easy! Done all at once!#As was drawing this! Also done all at once! And black and white is still really fun to work with hehe#I got to use some pretty cool outline/lineart tricks for this one yay :D#The original draft of the fic had a different title but ''Starring Role'' is kinda?? too perfect???#To the point where I looked around and I was like#Kinda shocked that there doesn't Seem? to be another fic with the same title?#Which is.........oddly relevantly thematic to this fic actually hahaha#Not to get too exacting about it but the whole thing of Loop feeling replaceable well#It would imply that other someones could do what they do better than them#What an odd refutation. Huh. Weird#Anyway - behind the scenes fun fact!#I actually really love the song Starring Role but I didn't think of it until after writing this#And now that I sing it to myself it's actually kinda perfect what the heck#So that's something to think about as well#Anyway if you're going to listen to it pls listen to the Axiom remix it is The version in my heart <3#The glitches and stutters are perfect.....#And the clock ticking?? Why is this song so ISaT I'm gonna think about this for a while now heck#Animatic in my head shower thought -core lol
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Hi I don't know if you write about Charles and Alexandra, but what about something based in obsessed by olivia rodrigo, in a more sapphic way, maybe reader and alex can make out or something. also if you can mix it with smau would be super cool 💕
obsessed ⋆ charles leclerc, alexandra saint mleux
pairing: charles leclerc x singer!reader (various fc) x alexandra saint mleux
warnings: some bad words for the three of them (it was for the sake of the plot, nothing to harsh)
a/n: i made her a singer to add more drama. also i loooved this idea, i've been wanting to write something like this so much, thanks for requesting it <33
Remember that requests are open 💕💕
masterlist | wattpad | letterboxd
yourusername just posted!
liked by sabrinacarpenter, charlesleclerc and 145,824 others
yourusername some visuals from the Paris music video 💜🩷💙
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user1 i felt so seen in the first verses of the song, i'm also a sucker for gossip
charlesleclerc 💜😍
user2 so dry
user3 what is someone so cool like yn dating someone so boring and simple like charles
user4 graduated in cuntology with a master in slayfication and cum laude in mother is mothering 101
sabrinacarpenter princess of glittery gel pen songs 💜💜💜💜
user5 IM SO IN LOVE
user5 that i might stop breathing
user6 yn using paris as a joke bc charles is monegasque is beyond cuteness
user7 GOALS.
user8 imagine having YN LN as a gf and NOT POSTING HER leclerc you better watch out
user9 it's giving taylor and joe
user10 THE HEARTSSS never beating bi allegations
When Y/N saw the Instagram notification, curiosity got the better of her. Just curiosity. She and Charles had been dating for almost six months, and this was the girl he had been with before her, so she simply wanted to know who she was. She scrolled through her posts, seeing the life she had after breaking up with Charles; she worked at a museum in Monaco and at the same time was an influencer.
Looking at her photos, she realized she was very beautiful. Very, very beautiful. Her hair was healthy, long, and a gorgeous dark brown, her body was perfect, the clothes fit her great, and she had a very sweet voice. She wondered why Charles had ended things with Alexandra.
Then, as she scrolled through her highlighted stories, she accidentally liked one. Y/N immediately threw her phone down. "Shit," she said, grimacing. "Shit, shit, shit." She picked up the phone again and saw the red heart on a photo of Alexandra in a bikini with a beautiful sunset in the background. Y/N stared at the photo for a moment and then removed the like.
She ran her hands over her face, feeling like an idiot. Alexandra would still see the notification, then she would see that Y/N had removed the like, and she would probably think she was weird. Or worse, she could message Charles, asking what his girlfriend was doing stalking her profile.
Charles was at the Grand Prix of Canada at that moment, she was in Monaco. The time difference was huge, and she wasn't going to bother him with this nonsense. So she decided to message Alexandra directly.
Y/N couldn't stop thinking about Alexandra for the rest of the day. She found herself a couple of times staring at her pictures, she knew that Alex lived in Monaco and that they could bump into each other anytime. That idea felt amazing. She seemed like a gorgeous person, and the little chit chat they had felt really comfortable, even when Alex was her boyfriend's ex.
Y/N didn't mention any of this to Charles, he probably just make a big deal of it and they would have a discussion. And she was too lazy to think about arguments.
So she wrote a song. For the nexts days she focused on the lyrics and when Y/N handed the papers to her producer, they loved it. As soon as they could they recorded the song.
When Charles came back from the race, he found Y/N staying after midnight in the studio so she could finish the song. And he didn't complaint, because he really thought the song was about him.
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She didn't even think it was a bad idea until she saw her. They had decided to meet at a private club in Monaco; Alex wore a black satin dress that fit her extremely well, with her hair loose as she had seen so often in photos and a sparkling gaze. Y/N felt stupid for only wearing a white top and jeans.
"You showed up," Alexandra said with a smirk.
"You thought I wouldn't come?" she asked, matching her expression. Alexandra lowered her head, saying nothing and tucking her hair behind her ear. Y/N went to the bar and ordered a round of shots, although she didn't need to get drunk to do what she was about to do.
She drank one and then watched as Alexandra imitated her.
"Where did you leave Charles?" Alexandra asked, pulling her to a sofa area. The club wasn't very crowded, but more people would start arriving soon.
Y/N clicked her tongue. "Charles is the last person I want to talk about right now, honestly."
"You're right," Alexandra agreed as she nodded. "Let's talk about the song, then."
Y/N looked at her with a silly smile, trying very hard not to feel embarrassed. Although she knew she had nothing to be embarrassed about, she could see from Alex's expression that she had liked the song.
"What did you think?" she asked, sipping her cocktail.
"I loved it. I never thought someone would write songs about me," she lowered her gaze a little and then Y/N noticed how she had the tip of her heel circling around her foot.
"Did Charles ever dedicate any of his piano songs to you?" Y/N asked, furrowing her brow a little.
"Charles never even dedicated time to me," Alexandra looked away a bit.
Y/N nodded, perfectly understanding what Alexandra was talking about. Charles was too focused on his career, and unless you asked him, he could completely ignore you for weeks or change plans you had been planning for months because he had to train. That was the kind of person Charles was. At first, it had been a dream, accompanying him to his races and spending time with him, but when you scheduled a tour to be able to attend most of his races and he didn't show up at almost any of your concerts… It affected you.
"Men," Y/N said simply, rolling her eyes.
"Exactly! They're unbelievable, in the worst sense of the word," Alex spoke, slightly laughing.
They fell silent for a few moments, not breaking eye contact. The music had been turned up, and they were bathed in purple and green lights, moving around the room. Alexandra almost glowed for Y/N's eyes; under that lighting, everything seemed unreal. She leaned toward her, but didn't make the final move, wanting Alex to take that step.
Alexandra smiled mischievously and pressed their lips together. It was a calm kiss, not too long but their lips touched enough to explore them calmly, and for Y/N to remember the slight scent of red licorice from Alex's cologne.
As they separated, Alexandra got as close as possible to Y/N, resting her head on her shoulder. "Are you drunk?" Y/N questioned, fearing for a moment that it was all an act of alcohol.
"No," she denied vehemently.
Y/N didn't think much more about it, discreetly grabbed her phone to text Charles that it was best for them to end their relationship. She and Alexandra kissed a couple more times that night.
Five months later
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FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf
Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC
Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family
A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.
The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.
I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.
Word Count: 10K
Read on AO3
1: The Two Headed Calf
“She’s been shut up in that house for goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn.
The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys.
“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”
“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”
“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house.
The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues.
Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now.
He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also.
Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now.
When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her.
Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died.
But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for.
He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say.
That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.
And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him.
Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.
The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him.
Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him.
She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back.
In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.
He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now.
Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—
—You are silent and motionless in the blue room.
Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.
He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue.
Your ankle twitches.
And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral.
Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too.
“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action.
He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched.
He should’ve fucking been here.
Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.
His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you.
Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit.
Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths.
When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you.
“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick.
His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.”
We.
Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him.
“Get out.”
“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance.
“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything.
“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt.
“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks.
Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it.
“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”
“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt.
But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”
And so he goes.
-
Your father is made small and withered in death.
One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man.
It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone.
You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for.
Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one.
The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber.
Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger.
You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell.
And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time.
The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim.
Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself.
-
The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry.
He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world.
Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime.
The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob.
And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory.
You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave.
You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat.
You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear.
There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another.
A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all.
There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday.
The birthday. Your birthday.
The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way.
He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy.
But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time.
And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year.
The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient.
He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor purposefully premeditated in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.
You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom.
He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days.
You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp.
You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.
It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph.
You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home.
Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly.
“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range.
“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him.
Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling.
“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”
“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”
“What? I didn’t know— I—”
“Why would you?”
“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”
“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”
“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”
“Please, stop.”
But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”
“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”
“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”
“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.
He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him.
-
The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone.
In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself.
Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower.
You’d always hated them.
And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved.
You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended.
You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans.
You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad.
There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?
And Joel.
A one man army of looming Joel.
So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far.
Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.
What you want?
Someone to care.
Someone to love you.
Hard to come by. Impossible to buy.
The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s.
You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling.
Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be.
Who that is? Still being decided.
You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch.
You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get.
So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else.
Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad.
And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way.
It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you.
For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god.
He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less.
Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without.
Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all.
But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped.
Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat.
“What the hell are you doing?”
You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand.
“Having a party. Would you like to join?”
“Are you drunk again?”
Tough crowd. Ugh. “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”
“You need to go inside and go to bed.”
You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.
Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so.
“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”
“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him.
“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up.
But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son.
Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.
Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you.
When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy.
“Is this how it’s going to be?”
“How?”
“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath.
“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time has been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your America twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion.
A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know.
Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Obviously not.
Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.
But the imagining is soothing.
“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good.
He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you.
When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday.
You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel.
You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now.
But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that.
Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”
He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad.
You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue.
“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”
The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along.
It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life.
“I’ve been bad.”
“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”
The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you.
His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you.
“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully.
“Both.”
You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man.
“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”
“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it.
Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.”
Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl.
“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”
You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable.
“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”
“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”
“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest.
“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours.
“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered.
“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head.
And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either.
He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”
You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains.
From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning.
Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core.
“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”
He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”
You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now.
“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”
“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”
His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”
You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”
“That’s my plan.”
“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest.
“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return.
And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned.
He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.
“Why not?”
And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.”
This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood.
Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him.
What else had you ever wanted?
And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.
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#fable of the dog fic#vic fic#joel miller fanfiction#Joel Miller x FMC#joel miller smut#Joel miller angst#the last of us AU
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Indigo Park theory
Okay, here we go.
Salem the Skunk, (if you played the arcade game), we found out they're like a villain or like a troublemaker to Rambley and his friends. They said Salem is a cunning, brilliant mind, and uses countless inventions it says on one of its posts. When you play the arcade game, Salem mentions their smokescreen works to crash Mollie's plane. They've been working on some 'potions' they have been experimenting on squirrels.
When they used it on Mollie, it made her probably into a bloodthirsty monster. "Now with none o' that "friendship" garbage stopping her from tearing you to pieces!" And what did Mollie do when our MC met her, she tears the MC into pieces.
On Rambley's Railroad, we meet his friends (And Lloyd. I'm putting on a bet he's like a cowardly lion. He acted too innocent during the game.) on the railroad tracks, but Rambley starts to glitch on Salem's track and the place is damaged into pieces and a bit of a pile of blood there too.
It shows enough proof that Rambley, Mollie, Lloyd, and all of the cast are AI-sentient. And that also includes Salem too. Every popular mascot must have a villain who wants to destroy the main character. Salem became too intelligent and aware of their surroundings. In their program and data base, their only goal is to destroy friendship. And since they can only do that behind the screen, they perhaps can make a virus.
The same virus that was created in the 'potion'. Causing the mascots, Mollie, and everything to go out of control and cause chaos. Rambley seems to be the only survivor from the virus, but when he's close to Salem's track, he can't mention them, causing him to malfunction. Salem must have done something for Rambley to be confused about why the park shut down and why all of his friends were acting strange.
Another thing I couldn't figure or it might be shown during future chapters. Rambley is the only character who doesn't have the mascot animatronic or a live mascot. We've seen Mollie and Lloyd, they're blood and flesh. Finley is probably like them too.
We know the park is definitely hiding something in there. And somehow creating all the characters into a living being. So this is probably set in the future. Mollie and Lloyd could have been friendly and fun for all children and adults for who knows how long, yet all of a sudden, something causes them to act different and vicious. All except Rambley, who also wants to figure out what happened to the park and his friends.
#Indigo Park#Indigo Park theory#game theory#long theory post#rambly raccoon#indigo park#rambley the raccoon#Salem the Skunk#rambley raccoon
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hii i was wondering if you could perhaps do a story on max x y/n. Y/n is a professional chef and sometimes she likes to live stream on instagram -LIKE FLORENCE PUGHS COOKING WITH FLO— in the the back the fans hear max screaming cus he’s on the sim or just playing games with his online team :)
Racing Hearts and Risotto Dreams - Max Verstappen x Reader
Hi! Thank you so much for your submission!! So i've tried my best on this one - i'm honestly so bad at cooking so if this is wrong blame my food tech teacher - I hope this is okay!<3
Send in your submissions!
Masterlist
Y/N stood in the bright, spacious kitchen, the stainless-steel countertops gleaming under the studio lights. A row of neatly organized spices and ingredients lined the shelves behind her, and the air was filled with the delicious aroma of a simmering sauce. The camera was positioned perfectly to capture her every move, and her followers eagerly awaited the start of her Instagram Live cooking session.
With a warm smile, Y/N adjusted the angle of her phone, making sure the view was perfect. “Hi, everyone!” she greeted her audience, her voice full of enthusiasm. “Welcome back to Cooking with Y/N! Today, we’re making a classic Italian dish—risotto alla Milanese. It’s one of my favorites and I can’t wait to share it with you!”
As she began to explain the steps, her hands moved deftly, demonstrating the precise technique required to achieve the perfect creamy texture. The comments started pouring in, fans asking questions and complimenting her on her skills. Y/N loved this interaction; it was like having a big, supportive family cheering her on.
However, in the background, there was another layer of noise. The unmistakable sound of engines roaring and tires screeching filled the air, along with occasional bursts of laughter and shouts. Y/N glanced over her shoulder, her smile widening as she spotted Max Verstappen, her boyfriend and current Formula 1 World Champion, fully immersed in his racing simulator.
Max was in the middle of an intense online race with his fellow drivers, Lando Norris and Charles Leclerc. The three of them were a formidable trio, known not just for their skills on the actual track but also for their hilarious and competitive online gaming sessions. Today was no exception.
“Max, you’re so loud!” Y/N called out, laughing softly. She turned back to the camera. “Sorry, everyone, Max is having one of his usual battles with Lando and Charles. I hope you don’t mind the background noise!”
The comments section exploded with excitement at the mention of Max and the other F1 drivers. Fans loved getting these little glimpses into their lives, the mix of professional dedication and everyday fun.
“Who’s winning?” a fan asked.
Y/N leaned towards the camera, pretending to whisper conspiratorially. “I think it’s a close call, but Max seems pretty determined today. Let’s hope he doesn’t crash into Lando again!”
As if on cue, Max’s voice boomed from the other room. “Lando, you can’t just cut across like that! What are you doing, mate?”
Y/N shook her head, chuckling. “See what I mean? It’s like this all the time. But let’s get back to our risotto. The key is to keep stirring and adding the broth gradually. You want it to be creamy but not too thick.”
She continued with her cooking demonstration, occasionally glancing over at Max’s direction. The sounds of their playful banter provided a lively backdrop to her session, making it all the more entertaining for her viewers. The combination of professional cooking tips and the casual, personal atmosphere made her streams unique.
“Y/N, ask Max who’s winning!” another comment popped up.
With an amused sigh, Y/N called out, “Max, the viewers want to know who’s winning right now!”
There was a moment of silence, then Max’s head peeked into the kitchen, his face lit up with a competitive grin. “Well, obviously me! Although Lando’s trying his best to sabotage me. Typical, right?”
Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “Alright, back to my risotto. You boys play nice.”
Max gave her a wink before disappearing back to his racing rig. The interactions were spontaneous and natural, reflecting the comfortable dynamic they shared.
As Y/N added the final touches to the dish, stirring in a generous handful of grated Parmesan cheese, she talked her viewers through the final steps. “And there you have it, risotto alla Milanese! Perfect for a cosy dinner. I hope you all try this recipe at home.”
Just as she was about to sign off, a loud cheer erupted from the other room. “Yes! Winner!” Max’s triumphant shout echoed through the apartment, followed by groans from Lando and Charles.
“Looks like Max won,” Y/N said, shaking her head with a smile. “Again. Thank you all so much for joining me today. Don’t forget to tag me in your posts if you try the recipe. See you next time!”
She ended the live stream and began tidying up the kitchen, humming softly to herself. A few moments later, Max walked in, his hair slightly tousled from the headset, and a victorious gleam in his eyes.
“I won, did you hear schat?” he said, wrapping his arms around Y/N from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder.
“I did. Congrats, champ,” she replied, leaning into his embrace. “But I think my risotto might just be the real winner today.”
Max chuckled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “It smells amazing. Can I have some?”
“Of course,” Y/N said, turning to face him. “I made plenty. And maybe you can join me on my next live stream as a guest chef?”
Max’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “As long as I don’t have to cook anything too complicated. I’m more of a taste-tester.”
“Deal,” Y/N laughed. “Now, let’s eat before it gets cold.”
They sat down at the kitchen island, enjoying the delicious meal and the comfortable, easy conversation. Despite their busy schedules and demanding careers, moments like these were precious. They were a perfect blend of passion and playfulness, support and competition.
They talked about Max’s latest race strategies, Y/N’s upcoming culinary projects, and plans for their next holiday together. The sounds of the virtual race still echoed faintly in the background, a reminder of the high-octane world they were both a part of. Yet, in this cozy kitchen, it was just the two of them, sharing a meal and making memories.
Later that evening, after the dishes were done and the kitchen was back in order, they settled on the couch, a comfortable silence enveloping them. Max scrolled through his phone, checking the highlights from their race, while Y/N flipped through a cookbook, jotting down ideas for her next live stream.
“Hey, Y/N,” Max said, breaking the silence. “You know, the fans really love it when you join my streams too. Maybe we should do a combined one sometime. Racing and cooking—what do you think?”
Y/N looked up, considering the idea. “That could be fun. You teach me some racing tips, and I’ll teach you some cooking tricks. Deal?”
“Deal,” Max agreed, leaning in for a kiss. “You’ve got yourself a co-host.”
#formula one imagine#f1 smut#f1 imagine#max verstappen#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen imagine#formula one x reader#f1 x reader#red bull f1#mv1 x reader#mv1 imagine
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Whenever I see antis saying that Zuko was rude or selfish to confront Katara about her anger towards him, I always have to roll my eyes at the attempt to make a big deal out of a conflict that was already solved in canon, and there's a lot to be said about how Zuko is actually the only one to care enough about Katara's emotional state to recognize that she needs help, and that's something the show literally spells out by having the others just sit there confused (even though they were there when Katara told them about how she felt about Zuko and his betrayal in Ba Sing Se, so it's odd that none of them seem to understand what's going on when it's quite obvious to the viewers.)
But another aspect of this is that Katara's behavior is explicitly a cry for help. A lot of her angry and dramatic reactions towards Zuko are extremely over-the-top, not to characterize Katara as unreasonable, but to show that Katara's bitterness towards Zuko is masking the hurt she felt towards him. In "The Western Air Temple," she spells this out to the gaang, telling them that she felt like he was really confused and hurt, and that she felt sorry for him, but then states that he was just pretending to be a real human being. Of course, Katara does not really believe that Zuko is not a real person with feelings, and her confrontation with him later in the episode reveals that her anger at him actually stems from knowing that he's actually all too human. Because she knows now that he's capable of making mistakes, even when his intentions are good.
The fact that Katara chooses to confront Zuko alone at the end of this episode also makes Zuko confronting her at the beginning of "The Southern Raiders" a circular part of their arc. What's that about yin and yang always circling each other?
But what's more, is that Katara continues to have these exaggerated reactions to Zuko, often going out of her way to needle him. This is not the behavior of someone who wants nothing to do with another person. It could be behavior indicative that Katara wants to hurt Zuko because he hurt her, but then you have situations like her asking to hear his tea joke, which she wouldn't do if all she wanted was for him to stay away from Aang.
Then, when Zuko saves Katara from falling rocks at the beginning of "The Southern Raiders," her reaction is immediate and accusatory at him landing on top of her. It's a very obviously romantically coded scene, and a large part of the humor is derived from Katara acting like Zuko is doing it on purpose, which of course he is not. There's no way Katara would really think that, right? So why does she accuse him of it?
I would argue that she did it for the same reason she confronted him alone in "The Western Air Temple," the same reason she makes exaggerated statements about his lack of humanity, the same reason she is constantly needling him.
Katara wants Zuko's attention. She wants him to know how she feels, all the anger, hurt, and betrayal, and thus, all the things she did feel under Ba Sing Se, when she thought it was possible that he was someone she had connected with. And she wants to know if he feels the same way, and is angry if he doesn't, or angry if he does, because that makes the betrayal even worse.
So when Katara makes another needling comment towards Zuko before stalking off, while everyone but Zuko continues to sit and puzzle over what could possibly be wrong, I'm pretty sure that some part of Katara wanted Zuko to follow her, to ask her what was wrong, to care.
The fact that she forgives him at the end of the episode is confirmation of this. Zuko is not admonished by the narrative or told that he should mind his own business, or forced to learn a lesson about how it was selfish of him to ask for forgiveness. The focus is on Zuko trying to figure out what Katara needs, recognizing that she needs something from him, and even being able to admit that he doesn't specifically know how to give it to her but letting her figure it out for herself.
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It’s Not You, It’s Them - CC
Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader
Summary: You hide your parents from Caitlin (based on THIS request)
Warnings: slight (maybe a little more than slight) angst, mentions of verbal abuse, SUPPORTIVE CC, a happy ending (because we all need it)
Word Count: 3.2k
Sweetbans Masterlist
AN:
Caitlin is the light of your life. She has been since the first day that you met her. The friendship that was built between the two of you is one that has kept you going even when everything else in the world seemed to be working against you.
The two of you met freshman year during summer training - your high school had conditioning days to help get everyone into shape before their respective seasons or pre-seasons.
You had been talking to the soccer coach and they encouraged you to go to training, talking about how varsity was very promising for your freshman year. You were one of three freshmen that they were looking at joining the varsity team.
Caitlin was one of the other girls they were looking at. The two of you were some of the first people to show up on the first day, immediately hitting it off and talking about how competitive you both are. The two of you spent the latter part of the summer suffering through training together. You thought Caitlin was insane for playing both basketball and soccer at the same time but seeing how much she enjoyed playing the game, it made sense.
She made the transition into high school bearable. Your freshman year the two of you spent most of your time at school - either in the classroom or on the field. You learned that having her as a teammate was the best possible outcome that you could have ever had.
It was the summer going into sophomore year when the two of you spent pretty much every day at her house. The two of you would keep up with your training so once pre-season workouts started you wouldn't die like the summer before.
That summer was one of the best summers you have ever had - most of it was because you spent it at hers and didn't have to be home. It was also the best because, after a night of deep life conversations, you admitted your feelings for the girl. To your delight, she reciprocated them and the two of you started dating that summer.
During the school year, you would always go watch her play basketball when you weren't both on the field for soccer. And any time the two of you hung out, it would either be doing something out and about or at Caitlin's.
It wasn't until the end of sophomore year that Caitlin questioned why she hadn't met your parents yet.
Your soccer team made it to State and it was the talk of the town. It was the first time the girl's soccer team had made it and for the championship game, the whole school was going to support.
Up to this point, Caitlin hasn't said much but knowing how excited and proud you were for this game she decided to test the waters.
"Hey babe, I have a question for you," She says as the two of you are walking out of practice.
"What's up?" You ask as you are trying to make sure your bag is closed as you juggle carrying everything you need to bring home before the game.
"Why is it whenever we hang out, it is always at my house? You have gotten to know my parents and you know they absolutely love you but I haven't met yours yet?" She asks. In her mind, the reason you haven't introduced her to them is because you were ashamed of her in some way.
You see how her shoulders slump a little and how disappointment lingers on her face. It makes you stop dead in your tracks and she stops but doesn't look at you.
You turn to face her but her eyes don't meet yours. You try to get her to look at you but she keeps avoiding your gaze.
"Hey, hey. Look at me Cait." You say as your bag comes to the ground and your hand comes up to her arm, forcing her to stay facing you. She finally gives in and makes eye contact with you.
"My parents would love you." You say. "They are just super busy all the time. I barely see them." You don't know if now is the time to dive into the whole story as to why you spend so much time at her house and not at home. Ever since you have gotten to high school - you did everything in your power to stay away from home which was easy to do with all the events and extracurriculars. You never wanted to get in their way since they made it very known any time you did.
"I just thought it was because of me or that we are dating or something like that," she says, avoiding your gaze again. "I know some parents are as supportive of the relationship we have."
"Oh babe, that's not it, I promise. When the opportunity presents itself I will introduce you. It is just hard when they are so busy." You say reassuring your girl.
Caitlin trusts you. She knows how much you love her already and has no doubts that you want her. It is just hard at times when Cait sees how much her family loves you and wants that to be reciprocated with your parents. She knows you spend most of your time at hers, whether it be after practice or spending the night but it would be nice to be able to see your home.
Cait also knows how you look for them in the crowd during games but never says anything. It is the polar opposite of her family who is at every one of her games - even pre-season. You never bring it up, nor does Cait, but she notices.
The championship game was no different. In the first half, she noticed how your eyes would scan the crowd in hopes of seeing them there. It isn't until after your team has won that hope fades from your eyes as you are congratulated by everyone except the two people who should be there. Caitlin almost misses the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes as her parents come up with flowers and a poster for you. She doesn't say anything but takes note.
You told yourselves that if your parents couldn't get themselves to come to one of the biggest games of your career thus far, then you would truly stay out of their way and just bear what you needed before heading to college.
The next time Caitlin brings it up is during junior year when she offers to pick you up for a date and you turn her down, saying you will meet her at hers.
Caitlin pushes it and insists on picking you up, suggesting that the two of you spend the night at your house this time since her parents will be throwing a dinner party with their friends.
You tell her that they can't stay yours because your parents have a project that they are working on and have taken over the house.
Cait doesn't cave and continues to bug you about it which is the cause of your first fight.
The two of you don't end up going out due to being frustrated with one another. Caitlin doesn't understand why she can't go to your house since the two of you have been together for almost two years at this point and she still hasn't met your parents. You on the other hand don’t know why Caitlin pushes so hard when everything is perfectly fine the way it is currently.
You rarely talk about your parents or home life and for good reason. You didn't lie when you said your parents were always busy but it also wasn't the complete truth.
The relationship with your parents changed drastically when your family moved to Des Moines, IA. Before the move, you were one big happy family. Your parents were super involved in school events and they were always supporting you in sports. But then your dad's job had you moving to a new city and pulling your family away from its community and everything shifted.
Your mom fell into a major depression - taking away from her being a mother. Your dad was always busy with work, making sure to provide for your family. This left you to have to fend for yourself. As you grew up you realized that the less of a burden you were the happier your parents were. They began to enjoy life again but the second you needed something or pulled them from the life that they began building without you - it was like all hell broke loose. They changed from being their happier selves and treated you like you weren't even wanted anymore.
It wasn't hard to see that your parents enjoyed life better without you so you decided to be the least of a burden as you could. Staying out late so they wouldn't have to see you and leaving really early. The less they saw you the less you had to deal with the verbal abuse.
That is why you worked so hard in school and in your sport. You needed an out and didn't want to give them any reason for them to say no. Although knowing your dad, he would pay for you to go whenever you wanted as long as it was far away. But you didn't want to owe him anything. So you poured yourself into your academics and soccer, making yourself one of the top recruits for college.
Caitlin and you made up shortly after the fight, both apologizing for what was said. The two of you decided that your relationship with each other was more important than your relationships with others.
It isn't until senior year that it comes up again but in a very different way than you would have expected.
It is signing day for seniors and you and Caitlin were both signing to Iowa to play your respective sports. Cait dropped soccer going into her junior year as basketball became her main sport. She verbally committed to the University of Iowa that year and you verbally committed to be a Hawkeye for soccer just a few months later. But today is the day the school sets up an assembly where you physically sign your papers.
Your parents are coming to the assembly, knowing the only reason they were there is because it was mandatory for them to be there. If it didn't involve you leaving, they wouldn't give it the time of day.
You are nervous as this would be the first time they are in the same building as Caitlin and her family. You know Caitlin's parents will be amazing, they always are, but for yours - you have no idea how they would react.
They know you have been dating a girl named Caitlin for a while now but never asked you about it. They could honestly care less, which is saying something considering their care for you was almost nonexistent.
You are sitting at the table, listening to your coach's speech on how proud your school is to have you go to the University of Iowa on a full scholarship to play soccer.
The ceremony ends and you see your parents talking with your principal who is showing them what they need to do. Before you know it, you see them walking out - without even a hello to you.
You run them as they walk out of the gym, catching them right on the other side of the door.
"Hey, you weren't even going to come and say hi?" You say as they just stand there looking at you. "I have a few people I want to introduce you to."
Little to your knowledge, Caitlin had run after you when she saw you go after your parents. She stopped when she heard you saying that you wanted to introduce them to people. She stayed on the other side of the gym door listening.
"You know we don't care about meeting anyone - the only reason we are here is because we were required to be in order to get you to leave come the fall." Your father says.
"This is already cutting into work day and the last thing we need is for you to take more of our time." Your mother says.
"It takes two seconds for you to meet them, that's it." You try and ration with them knowing it will only make things worse. But this is the closest you have ever been to making this happen and you know how much Caitlin wanted this.
"Oh trust us, there is no reason they would want to meet us, we have nothing to say about you.” Your mother says. "You have already caused us this headache of having to come out, now asking us to be social with people we care about less than we care about you. You should know us better than that by now to know we just don't care at all."
You swallow the anger and pain that is rising in your chest.
"Oh and about your senior night," your father begins. "Your principal mentioned that we should be there to walk you down the field but that doesn't seem important. Don't expect us to be there."
"Actually, if you could, make sure you are packed and moved out right after graduation. You're 18 and will be out of school therefore you are no longer our problem." Your mother says and it feels like you have just been stabbed in the chest.
Not that it came as a surprise to you but you didn't know where you would go or how begin to begin explaining this to Caitlin.
You just stare at them, not trusting your voice and they walk away.
You take the time you need to compose yourself - thinking through all the possibilities of where you could go after graduation. You feel like you have just been hit by a truck.
Caitlin, on the other side of the door, is now in tears. She is crying for you and hearing the words your own parents said to you. She is crying for all the times she has pushed you, trying to meet them or go and spend time at your house when really you were just protecting her from them. She is crying because she feels guilty for having such loving parents when yours are the polar opposite.
Cait knows you would be extremely embarrassed if you knew she had just heard the way your parents were talking to you so she gathers herself to the best of her ability and makes her way to her mom. Her mom notices how her little girl has broken down and asks what's wrong.
"They are terrible Mom, absolutely terrible," Caitlin begins. "They aren't going to her senior night. I doubt if they will go to her graduation and they are kicking her out the day after we graduate. How can someone's parents be so hateful towards their own child?" Caitlin is now sobbing in her mom's arms.
You finally collect yourself and enter the gym again. As you do you see Caitlin and her mom walk out. You head over to her dad as the plan was to head out to get a meal after the signing.
"Where did Cait go?" You ask as you take a seat next to him.
"Oh I think they just went to the restroom, they should be back right back," he says and you start a conversation with Caitlin's brother.
Caitlin's mom takes her out to calm her down. And they begin to plan how Caitlin and her family can help support you as your family fails to do so.
The next few days, you spend a lot of time at Caitlin's. You don't say why and Caitlin doesn't dare ask, already knowing. You don't tell her about your parents not going to your senior night, not wanting to cause any drama but as it rapidly approaches you dread it.
It wouldn't the first time a players parents were there, but you know for sure you would be the only one this season who walks out alone. Caitlin will be in the crowd and that is all that you need.
Your team gets ready and makes their way out to the field, excited to greet their parents. You are talking with some teammates as they begin to line you girls up.
The way they decided to do this senior night was by calling players by position and then finishing with captains. You would be going third to last - being the first captain called. It eases you a little knowing you will not be the last person on the field with no one walking to meet you in the center of the field.
The ceremony begins and they start calling girls names. You cheer on all of your teammates, holding your breath as you are the next one up.
Your eyes are closed as your head is down. An exhale escapes you as you hear your name called. What you heard next, gave you whiplash with how fast your head flew up.
"Our first team captain going to play for the University of Iowa on a full ride is met by parents Brent and Anne!"
Your eyes fill with tears, falling freely as you see them walk their way to meet you in the center of the field. As you walk you realize they called Caitlin's parents your own. In the seconds it takes you to walk to them, you reflect on how they have loved you and cared for you as their own. Even more so when Caitlin and you told them that you were dating. They had chosen to be your family not only in this moment, but over the last four years.
They meet you in the middle of the court, both are holding flowers for you. Caitlin's mom envelopes you into a hug and you melt into her, savoring the love of a mother's hug.
"We may not have raised you, but you are a part of this family. Today, tomorrow and always. We love you, baby," Anne says as she releases you and uses her sleeves to dry your tears.
You step over and hug Brent.
"We are so proud of you," he says with a smile. "We can't wait to watch you lead the Hawkeyes to the NCAA college cup."
You all walk down and they shake the hands of your coaches. Each one of your coaches has some sort of idea of what your parents are like thank Brent and Anne for showing up for you.
You later learn that one of your closer coaches would have walked out to greet you if the Clark's hadn't asked to do so. You don’t know how but you are incredibly thankful someone was watching out for you - a literally angel.
That night you lead your team to victory, scoring 3 goals, one of them in the last few seconds going into the half putting your team in the lead. The win was a sweet one to top off the night, not that you needed anything else to make this night better.
At the end of the game - Caitlin finds you on the field and you immediately pull her into a hug.
She holds you.
"Doesn't matter what the case, doesn't matter where you are. I got you babe. I've always got you." Caitlin says not letting you go, she refuses to let you go first and will hold you as long as you need.
AN: I hope this did your prompt justice, I thought it was cute. Let me know what you think! And as always, thank you for your love and support 🤍
#caitlin clark#caitlin clark imagine#caitlin clark x reader#caitlin clark concepts#caitlin clark masterlist#cc
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Hi, I have a smau request for Charles (based on c.ai bot lol, and the fact that I love painting), so the reader is invited by her friends to a house for vacation, her friends are all with their s/o and they also always try to set up reader with someone, that's when her and Charles meet, and reader finally gives it a chance because she knows her friends won't stop to set her up. They talk for a whole evening about what they do in life (reader is an artist/painter) and they get along really well. Eventually they get together and reader is very liked by the public, even if there will always be haters, but most fans thinks she's just very adorable (especially because of her insta/twitter posts)
CL — slip up and i call you baby
pairing(s): charles leclerc x artist!reader
summary: you love your friends, you really do. you just wish they’d stop trying so hard to set you up with random guys. [smau + written fic]
fc: faceless
word count: 5.1k
warnings: mild sexual references
a/n: this is such a cute idea! thank u so much for sending it in!! u will not believe how much this idea gripped me like i never write one shots like this its just unheard of for me if im honest. anyway i know u asked for a smau so i will be doing a second part/continuation to this that is solely an smau to make up for that. (ALSO sorry for disappearing i was super sick for the whole week and have been getting my shit back together in the aftermath😭)
(yn’s messages)
(instagram)
@ynusername just posted…
liked by @chloegarelli, @charlesleclerc and others
ynusername italy we are in u!!!
Amalfi Coast, Italy
You’ve never been particularly boy crazy. At least not the same way your friends are.
There have been a few not-quite boyfriend’s over the years, but those relationships never last long. They never really get you, or they never really get the art thing. Which means, of course, that they don’t get you and never will— and that’s fine, you’re content with that. If living for your art means you’ll never be in love then so be it and frankly, good riddance to them.
For the most part, you’ve given up trying. You go on a few dates here and there, but you never let them stick around. Even the ones that seem interested in your paintings you don’t bother with— none of them really seem to be able to grasp what art truly is to you. It isn’t just paint on a canvas, it’s living, it’s breathing. You are only yourself with a way to make art.
It’s difficult to put into words.
So you don’t. Instead, you send texts that say ‘thanks for your time but this isn’t working out’ and you keep the men your friends try to set you up with at arm's length. You placate Chloe and her partner Rowan– who collects friends like they’re Pokémon– with, “he wasn’t my type” and “I’m not looking for a relationship right now”, which you suppose is true, but also isn’t the entirety of it. Yet, every time without fail, there’s a new boy at the scene of the crime.
Chloe doesn’t get it, none of your friends get it. You don’t try to explain it to them. So, y’know, here you are again.
Anyway, here’s the thing: they’re getting closer. Inexplicably, without knowing how you really feel about it all, Chloe and Rowan are getting better and better at picking the boys who are able to tempt you. Which is a pain really, because sometimes you’re trying to have a perfectly nice vacation in Italy without the lure of a boy you can’t let yourself have. But alas, these things generally don’t go your way.
You should know that by now.
Charles Leclerc is bang on the money, he really is. He is unbearably cute, like so cute that you have to leave the room when he walks in, because you don’t trust yourself to be in close proximity to him right now. You have a hard time looking at his face when you are forced to be around him. The dimples when he smiles, the squint of his eyes even when he isn’t. If you look too long you’re liable to stare and that wouldn’t lead to anything good at all.
He’s nice as well. So nice, just like Chloe told you. You try to pretend he doesn’t exist and he still asks you questions about your job and the area of Monaco you live in— like he’s even interested, like he’ll remember you two weeks from now. You try your best to be pleasant, to answer without it being like pulling teeth, and to ask questions of him as well. You’ll probably see him again after this, so best to not to go too far and act like you hate him. It’s difficult though, toeing the line between friendly and encouraging of more. Or it feels difficult for you. Charles doesn’t make even the slightest suggestion of the two of you being set up by your nosy friends. That’s unbearable too. Part of you wishes he’d just make a clumsy pass at you so you can rebuff it and make your intentions abundantly clear. But, obviously, he doesn’t, because he’s perfect or something.
It sucks. You hate him, you think.
Or you want to.
On the second day of the trip, you’re on the villa’s private beach, laying in the hot sun. Chloe, Anaïs and Bea are there; everyone else is either still sleeping off the wine from last night or swimming in the glittering ocean. You’ve got a secondhand book, a 2B pencil and a pair of sunglasses over your eyes. You’re trying to read but you just end up doodling, drawing your friends bikini-clad bodies over the text and shading grapes into the margins. Trying desperately not to accidentally put Charles Leclerc’s dimples, messy hair, or sloped nose to paper.
“So,” Chloe says conspiratorially, as you abort an attempt at drawing a slightly squinted eye with thick lashes, “What do you think of Charles?”
You raise an eyebrow carefully at her over your sunglasses, betraying nothing of your inner turmoil, “I think nothing.”
Anaïs laughs, rolling onto her back, “That’s such shit. You practically sprint away from him everytime he comes near.”
“I do not,” you answer too quickly.
Anaïs laughs again, louder. Chloe joins in and Bea raises her eyebrows at you like you’re a fucking liar. You frown, glaring a little before stubbornly turning your head back to your book. The conversation about Charles ends there, but unfortunately your actions have spoken for themselves. A chill of something like panic chitters up your spine and into your shoulders. You have to roll them to make the feeling go away.
As the sun climbs higher in the sky you lose some people to the heat and gain others. It’s just you and Chloe sweating onto your towels when Rowan and Charles finally give up on whatever game they were playing in the ocean. Rowan collapses unceremoniously into the space between you and Chloe, kicking up sand and getting water droplets all over you like he’s a wet dog. You let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated groan as you roll away from him, landing in the sand.
“Watch it,” you cry, “You’re getting my book all wet.”
Rowan laughs, “You’re drawing in it!”
“So.”
He pulls a face at you that makes you roll your eyes; then he turns into Chloe, shoving his face into her collarbone and flinging limbs over her. You snort, leaning over to snag the book off your towel before it gets dragged into the mess that Rowan is causing. You’re about to get up and go inside until you realise Charles is still standing there. Has, in fact, been standing there since Rowan ran over. Your breath catches, heart skipping a beat as you look up to find him standing there.
“Hey,” you smile briefly at him, quickly looking away from his damp hair and bare chest (–which is difficult to do because, holy shit–) so you can gather up your towel.
“Hi,” he replies.
He might smile back. You don’t look. You’re trying to get the image of his washboard abs out of your head. This proves difficult when you clamber to your feet and find yourself face to face with him.
“Are you heading back?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
God, you want to kick yourself. You’re being so awkward, and right in front of Chloe too, who may not be watching but is absolutely listening to you make a fool of yourself in front of a guy you have very firmly said that you are not interested in. It must be clear to him too, that you’re trying very deliberately to not be interested in him. You cant tell what would be worse; if that means he’ll think you’re a weirdo or if it means he’ll take it as a sign that he should make some kind of move.
Ugh.
“I’ll come with you?”
“Hmm,” you blink yourself back into existence, seeing the questioning look on Charles’ face, “Yes, yeah. Sorry.”
You say goodbye to Chloe and Rowan who barely look away from one another, still rolling around in the sand like teenagers.
“Gross,” you say to Charles, as the two of you trudge through hot sand toward the sandstone steps that lead up to the villa.
He laughs, a breathy thing that tapers off with a sigh, “A bit, yes.”
You don’t say anything else, but you find yourself staring at his back and the way his muscles shift and move underneath his tanned skin. At the top of the stairs you part ways, he smiles at you and you offer something awkward in return, trying to pretend you hadn’t been looking at him. You don’t think he notices, but your cheeks red burn anyway.
You don’t see him watching you leave.
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chloegarelli hungover, sunkissed and lovesick
Amalfi Coast, Italy
Dinner is a huge affair, as it always is on these trips.
You, Anaïs and Chloe spend three hours in the kitchen that afternoon making chicken fricassée and about a hundred different side dishes to go with it. Everyone crowds around the dinner table to eat and drink even more wine than the night before. Piero Piccioni plays on the old record player, crackling away as you laugh and talk and tell stories with your friends well into the night. You watch the sun set through floor-to-ceiling glass windows and you wish wish wish that you had your paints right now.
You brought along a set of oil pastels and one of your art notebooks, but it doesn’t compare at all to painting. If you could get your hands on cadmium yellow in all it’s hues, maybe vermillion and a powder blue, your lack of paintbrush or canvas wouldn’t even matter. You’d use your fingers if you needed to. It bothers you so much that you get up in the middle of clearing away the meal and go to your room for the pastels and notebook. You need to get it on a page at least.
You push a few plates to the side, folding out your notebook and immediately marking the page up with a creamy white pastel. Bea teases you when she comes over to take the rest of the dirty dishes, but you just mumble something unintelligible, too engrossed with smudging the sunset into something that looks like what you’d seen out the window. When the oranges and yellows blend to your satisfaction you take the black and brown and draw in the top of your friends’ heads, not thinking about how much attention to detail you’re paying to the shape of Charles’ side profile.
When you’re finished, you’re surprised to see that the table is cleared save for a few half-full wine glasses and a fresh bottle. Only Chloe, Rowan and Charles are still sitting by you. You’re listening to another Piero Piccioni album now, or maybe just the other side of the record. You remember saying goodnight to the others and saying yes to a glass of wine, so you’ve not been totally dead to the world, but it’s all in a bit of a haze.
You think this might be part of the reason why you can’t hold down a boyfriend. The disappearing into your art like you cant breathe until it’s finished. That may as well be the case if you’re honest.
You sigh, wiping your stained fingers on the next blank page, then you take a long sip from your glass of merlot, pretending you dont notice the others’ eyes on you.
“All done?” Chloe quips, somewhere on the border of teasing and being annoyed at you.
You look at her, your eyes just narrowing enough for her to notice. She does and purses her lips. You raise an eyebrow to ask okay, what’s your fucking problem? And you see her eyes flash to Charles. You follow her gaze to see him and Rowan pretending to look disinterested in your answer. Charles is tracing the base of his wine glass and absently biting the inside of his mouth. You have to tear your eyes away.
“All done,” you answer, tone clipped, before gathering your things (including the wine glass) and leaving the room in a move you hope doesn’t come off as too rude.
At your back you hear Rowan ask Chloe, “What was that?”
Chloe means well, you think as you wind through the villa, making your way to the balcony overlooking the private beach. She wants you to be happy and she thinks you need a boyfriend to be happy. But she’d found the love of her life in Rowan after only a few years of dating around and she doesn’t quite understand that it’s never going to work like that for you. There aren’t enough people out there that understand the kind of passion you have for your art and certainly not many that would also be compatible with you. You’re fine with that, but Chloe doesn’t know what to do with it. Especially not now she’s cottoned onto the fact that you have some kind of interest in Charles. It’s killing her.
It’s irrelevant though, whatever interest you have in Charles doesn’t factor into anything. He’s cute, he’s nice, but so were the dozen boys that you’ve already dated and not continued dating. So really, Chloe needs to stop pushing it because it’s pissing you off. You’re here for a holiday, not to be forced into conversations with a guy you don’t know. If she needs to have an argument to finally understand that, then so be it. You’ve been friends for years, it’ll blow over eventually.
You flick a switch and blinking lights illuminate the balcony. Fairy lights are wound up the posts and draped on the awning, intertwining with the lush green vines that have grown up through the wood slats. The air is balmy and the breeze light as you settle into one of two cushioned chairs situated by a coffee table. It’s perfect. You spread the oil pastels out next to your glass of wine and set your open notebook on your crossed legs, listening to the sound of waves lapping against the shore.
You’re alone for what feels like a long time but is probably only an hour or two.
When the sliding door clunks open you expect it to be Chloe coming over to have it out, but it’s not. Instead, Charles slips through the gap with the rest of the wine gripped in one hand.
“Hi,” he greets, smiling at you in a way that makes dimples carve in his cheeks, and dashing any hopes you have that he’d walk right past you.
“Hey,” you forget yourself for a moment and bite your lip on a broad smile.
He holds the bottle out toward you, offering more. You lean over your notebook and hold your empy wine glass up in acceptance.
“Merci,” you say, and in a moment of weakness (and probable wine drunk-ness) you gesture at the plush chair across from you.
Charles, somewhat caught off guard, looks between your outstretched hand, the chair, and your face, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly and finally taking a seat. Despite his apparent shock, you find it hard to believe he’d come out here simply to offer you some of the last of the wine. Surely, this is Chloe and Rowan’s doing. Though, strangely, you cant quite bring yourself to care.
He sets the bottle on the coffee table, next to your oil pastels. You lean forward to place a few back in their rightful spots, snagging your wine glass as you go.
Charles eyes’ scan your face for a moment, searching for something you suppose, then he points at your notebook, “Have you been drawing?”
You nod, “Mmm.”
You think perhaps the answer is a bit obvious. He seems to realise this, you watch a blush spread onto the top of his cheeks and he flutters his eyelids slightly, almost like rolling his eyes at himself. You don’t think about his eyelashes, thick and dark as they brush against his cheekbone, and you don’t think about his eyes, the lights reflecting off them, making them sparkle.
“What are you drawing then?” he asks after a moment of collecting himself, an edge of embarrassment to his voice.
You give in easily to the strange urge you have to show him, grabbing the notebook off your lap and holding it out for him to see what you’d been scribbling in the book for the past two hours. You let him take it off your hands, ignoring the spike of anxiety. He holds it gingerly, like it's a precious artefact (of course, to you, it is), which makes something warm bloom in your chest. You take a sip of wine and gesture for him to flip through a few pages, which he seems hesitant to do without permission. The book is angled in such a way that you can see most of the page, so you’re content to let him. Or at least you are until he flips to the page you’d started when you’d first come out here.
Panic drops like a stone in your gut because he’s looking right at a fully rendered drawing of his eyes. It’s in amongst some pillars strung with lights and covered in climbing vines; your best attempt at capturing the way the beach looked earlier in the day; and, perhaps your saving grace, Chloe half asleep on her towel. But the drawing of her is haphazard, it’s half-scribbled and half-finished, whereas the one of Charles eyes’ is as detailed as the sunset scene you’d done the page before. It had been something you just needed to get out, drawn in one of those hazes of yours. You’d felt better after it was done, your hands had stopped feeling like they were itchy.
Now, you itch to snatch the notebook off him, but you fear that would be even more incriminating. So you watch him look at the page and try to sit with the panicked feeling spreading in your chest.
Eventually, he points at the page, “Is this me?”
You bite your lip, breathing slowly through your nose to try and abate the blush spreading up your neck. You don’t say anything exactly, just shrug and rock your head back and forth in a kind of confirmation that doesn’t really admit anything. Though, there’s no denying the drawing is him.
“It’s good,” he says, seemingly stumbling over the words, “It’s very good.”
You frown into your drink, “Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
You know he means it. It’s not that.
“Yes,” you put down the wine glass, looking at him but avoiding eye contact, “I know. I know it’s good. I’m just… I’m embarrassed,” you admit.
He furrows his eyebrows– or it’s more that he squints and his eyebrows fold in with it. You watch his tongue dart out to run across the top of his bottom lip and you stamp down the less than innocent thoughts that come bubbling up at that. He waves the hand that’s not still holding carefully onto your notebook about for a moment, trying to conjure up words that he doesn’t have yet.
Slowly, he says, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I– It’s–”
He’s about to say flattering, so you cut him off, not wanting to hear the tone of it, whether it be pity or something else entirely.
You try to explain yourself, “Things get stuck in my head sometimes. Like after dinner,” you reach forward and flip the page back one, to the sunset, “I have to get it onto paper. Or… or… it just runs laps in my head for the rest of eternity, I guess. I don’t stop thinking about it.”
You cringe internally. You’ve just told him that you were so consumed by thoughts of his eyes that you had to draw them immediately. That is perhaps worse than just wanting to draw him because you thought he was cute. Charles raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by your admission, but there’s perhaps also something sincere in there? You can’t pinpoint it, but it makes you feel a fraction better you think.
You sigh forlornly, “That’s weirder, huh?”
He laughs, properly laughs, and it sends some strange feeling skittering down your spine, “No. No, I get it. I don’t have any way to get it down as quickly as I’d like, but I definitely understand the feeling.”
You bite the inside of your lip, hesitant but still curious, “You understand the feeling? Really?”
“Yes,” he smiles easily now, relaxing more in the chair after he places your notebook onto the counter with a cautiousness you still don’t expect, “For me, with racing, it’s like I get an idea and I can’t sleep until I try it on track or talk about it with someone. Some of them don’t work, or aren’t possible, which is fine, but if it sounds right to me and it checks out with the people that it needs to, then, well, then it literally does run laps in my head.”
You laugh, mostly to yourself. You’re not sure yet if he understands what you’re saying, but he’s trying. That’s more than you can say for a lot of people. You try not to let that thought linger for too long.
“You think it’s similar?” you ask in a way you desperately hope comes across as curious and not accusatory.
He hums, waving his hand around again for words, “Perhaps. I think the urgency is the same. The passion is the same. Do you ever feel like something terrible will happen if you can’t–”
“Yes,” you’re a bit breathless in your haste to agree, to talk about this feeling with someone who understands, “Yes. I do. It’s like I need to put it somewhere before I lose it. Otherwise, it won’t be perfect, or it’ll be too late.”
“Exactly,” his eyes seem to light up, for a long second you watch the flickering lights reflect in them, “Exactly.”
“It’s never as good as I want it to be,” you admit, finding it easier to look him in the eye now that some strange barrier between you has been broken, “It’s never quite how I imagine it in my head.”
Charles points at your notebook, “These are very good, really. I don’t see how they could be better. But,” he shrugs, “Eh, I will win a race and still think of everything I did wrong.”
You nod eagerly in understanding as you lean back into the chair, finally relaxing into the cushions. It’s strange to have this conversation, knowing you’re talking about two entirely different careers, but feeling like they’re so similar. Maybe it’s just you and Charles that are similar, maybe your jobs have nothing to do with it? You don’t know, you just know it’s nice to feel like someone gets what you’re talking about.
Charles continues, speaking like he’ll explode if he doesn’t get this off his chest, “It’s there all the time, do you know what I mean? Maybe I’m not thinking about it every second, but it’s always there waiting for something to draw attention to it. And people ask what else is going on in my life, and of course I do other things, and I enjoy other things, but I want to be on the track. I want to be driving whenever I can.”
You nod again, more subdued now, “Mmm, right. I want to be making art all the time, and when I can’t it’s like missing a limb. To me art is– it– it’s like–”
“–breathing,” he finishes, almost the lilt of a question to it, but not really, it’s like he knows exactly what you mean… how you feel.
You exhale, long and slow, “Yeah. Like breathing.”
Both of you are quiet for a little after that. You’re trying not to stare at him, but it’s not easy. He’s looking at you almost blatantly and you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks the longer he stares. The air feels thick with some feeling you can’t place. All you know is there are butterflies in your stomach and a smile keeps pulling at the edge of your pursed lips.
The smile takes over as you catch him starry-eyed in your peripheral vision, you mutter, “Stop that. Stop looking at me.”
“Why?”
You tip your head back so you can’t see him looking at you, “Because.”
“Because?” he laughs breathily, shaking his head at you, “Okay, well, tell me if I’m misreading anything, but I’m pretty sure that drawing of me in your notebook says something, at least.”
You run a hand down your face, sighing loudly, “Yes, okay. I suppose it does. But– I–” for a moment you struggle for the right words to explain yourself, “I guess I’m not really looking to date anyone.”
He tilts his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows and looking for all intents and purposes, like a confused puppy, “You guess?”
You nod, resisting the urge to just launch over the table and grab his face. He is very cute and he is making this so hard for you.
He sucks his teeth briefly, shrugging, “I’m not really either.”
“Alright,” you say, “Good.”
As over as that should make the issue, strangely enough it doesn’t feel like you’re done with Charles Leclerc and it certainly doesn’t feel like he’s done with you either.
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Amalfi Coast, Italy
You try to avoid Charles after that, you really do, but he doesn’t quite let you.
For a few days of the holiday you give him pointed looks and purse your lips a lot when he’s around. Chloe catches on straight away and that makes it all infinitely worse until she finally realises she might need to leave you alone (yeah, shocker). When Chloe finally forces everyone to get off your back about Charles, it becomes much easier to be around him. You’re not glaring at your friends while they make eyes at you, or worrying if you’re acting weird; you’re just allowed to be.
It’s nice. He’s nice.
But you knew that already.
Neither of you are looking for a relationship so there’s no pressure for it to be anything at all. But you have this sneaking suspicion that perhaps both of you are looking for a relationship with eachother regardless. You try to ignore the thought.
On day five, you’re sitting together on an outcropping of rock that overlooks the ocean and you’re letting Charles doodle in your notebook with a ballpoint pen. The bare skin of both your arms are pressed together, they stick with sweat from the hot midday sun but neither of you seem to care. As you watch him doodle inexpertly you can smell him— salt and sweat and whatever cologne he uses masking the very faint scent of burning rubber. Your hair, still damp, brushes his forearm, you wonder if you smell of acrylic paint and mildew from all the water cups you accidentally leave out for your paintbrushes.
You reach out to trace a line he’d made, “Here, it should be more like…” you taper off, taking the pen from his hand and quickly fixing the curve of the beach before handing the utensil back.
“Hmm,” he hums, giggling a little, “I guess that looks better.”
“You guess?”
He nods, “What if I had a very specific vision?”
You raise an eyebrow in disbelief, leaning back to look him in the eye you tease, “A vision. Did you?”
He tilts his head down to look at you. You’re very close now, you can feel his breath fanning over your face. In the reflection of his sunglasses you watch your lips part slightly and your eyelids flutter. Your chest grows tight with anticipation and maybe a little bit of panic. Still, you reach out and slide his sunglasses up to settle in his hair. You’re a little careless, but you like the way his hair pokes out from them at odd angles. As he breathes out you hear it catch for a split second.
“Did you?” you repeat, knowing he won’t remember what you were talking about.
He blinks twice, still staring at you, “Hmm?”
“You said you had a vision,” you breathe.
“Oh,” as he says it, his eyes flicker down to your mouth, only for a second, but it’s long enough to you know you’re done for.
You both lean in at the same time, your noses sliding off each other in your eagerness. You breathe a kind of laugh into his mouth and you feel him try to suppress a smile against your lips. It’s slow for the first few seconds, just you and Charles figuring out how your mouths fit together. His mouth is warm and wet and so soft, and it’s easy to lose yourself in it. You move the hand that had adjusted his sunglasses, sliding it up his shoulder to the back of his muscled neck. Your fingers weave into the short hair at the base of it, your nails scratching absently there. He groans, ever so slightly into your mouth and it sends heat skittering down your spine, into the low of your gut.
The hand of his that isn’t clutching onto your notebook slips forward and winds around to press at your bare back. He pulls you closer to him as you slide your hand up to cup the back of his head, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Soon it’s a mess of tongue and teeth and Charles blindly shoving your notebook somewhere it wont slip into the water so he can grab you with both hands. He tastes like red wine and coffee and you love the way his fingers dig into your skin and the way his teeth have been grazing at your bottom lip, like he wants to sink into it.
You’re almost in his lap when you’re forced to pull away for air.
Foreheads pressed together, you breathe heavily into the space between you. Your hand is still stuck in his hair and one of his on the small of your back, the other holding your knee. The sides of your noses touch, you nudge yours against his affectionately, tempted by the proximity of his mouth.
He laughs and you feel it against your lips, intermingling with your own breath, “Alright. That was–”
“Yeah,” you finish, dipping forward to kiss him again.
You’re lost for another few minutes. Tongue and teeth and the sound of the waves crashing against the rock behind you. And his hand on your jaw and in your hair and pulling you closer closer to him.
He pulls away this time, turning his head to press your cheeks together, mouth at your ear, “So,” he drags the word out with a laugh, “are you looking for a relationship now?”
You snort unceremoniously, and tease, “Hmm. I guess I would be amenable to that.”
“You guess?” he asks— but not really needing to at all because you can feel his dimples pressing into your cheek as he smiles knowingly.
You nod, smiling too, “I guess.”
🎨 yes of course i made a playlist>> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6cAJaZjvK0V7SrmxoMosBX?si=ADlJGHxxQYKnlZ1jWFJxfw&pi=a-AI0MKbo3RTqE
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