#and it will maybe take two weeks or so to get it out
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Welcome to Miami
Lando Norris x Messi!Reader
Summary: a crazy weekend in Miami leaves Lando with his first Formula 1 win, one very pissed off football legend, and a baby-shaped surprise set to arrive in just about nine months
Warnings: 18+ content and unplanned pregnancy
Note: based on a request by @glitterquadricorn that I may have ended up going a little overboard with
You wake up with a pounding headache, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the hotel room window. As you blink your eyes into focus, you realize you’re not in your own bed. The sheets are unfamiliar, the decor is generic and impersonal.
Panic starts to set in as you try to reconstruct the previous night’s events.
The space next to you is still warm, indented from where someone else was recently lying. You glance down at your lack of clothes and tousled hair. Yep, definitely had a one-night stand.
Wracking your brain, you vaguely recall meeting a charming stranger at the club, letting him buy you drinks until everything became a blur of flirtatious banter and wandering hands.
Your phone is on the nightstand and you grab it, hoping for some clues. A new contact catches your eye: “Lando 🍆”. You snort at the stupid name and obvious (if cringey) innuendo. At least he has a sense of humor.
You wonder what kind of guy calls himself Lando these days.
As you get dressed and leave the hotel, already trying to put the awkward walk of shame behind you, fragments of the night come back in flashes. Lando’s warm blue-green eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. His skilled hands roaming over your body. The way he whispered filthy praises in your ear between searing kisses.
You shiver, feeling an unexpected pang of disappointment that you’ll never see him again. But a one-night stand is just that — one night. No need to dwell on the best sex you’ve had in … well, maybe ever.
When you arrive home in the early afternoon, your dad greets you at the door with a knowing smirk.
“Have a good night, mija?” Leo teases, taking in your mussed appearance.
You roll your eyes, not wanting to give him any details. “It was fine.”
He chuckles. “If you say so. I’m just glad you’re home safe.”
Over the next few weeks, you put Lando out of your mind completely. Your life goes on as normal — training with the University of Miami’s football team, doing promotional appearances, and spending time with family and friends.
But then one morning about a month later, you wake up feeling nauseous. You brush it off as a stomach bug at first.
When the queasiness persists for several days along with strange cravings and bouts of fatigue, a nagging suspicion forms in your mind. You dig through your bathroom cabinets until you find an old pregnancy test leftover from a scare last year.
Your hands are shaking as you wait for the result. This can’t be happening. You were so careful with Lando, you’re almost certain … but maybe not careful enough.
The little plastic wand displays two solid pink lines. Positive.
“Oh shit,” you whisper, feeling like the ground has dropped out from underneath you.
How could you have been so stupid? Getting knocked up from a drunken one-night stand with a guy you can’t even remember properly. What are you going to do? How will you tell your parents? What about your athletic career?
A million thoughts race through your panic-stricken mind as you try to process this massive, life-altering situation. You want to call your best friend and cry, but you’re almost too overwhelmed to formulate words.
Part of you wants to be furious at Lando, that reckless idiot who came inside you so carelessly. But you know you’re just as much to blame. You obviously consented, you just can’t recollect the exact circumstances.
God, why did you let yourself get so sloppy drunk and make such terrible decisions?
You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself. Okay, first things first — you need to confirm this with a visit to the doctor. And if it’s still positive, you’ll have to figure out your next steps. Tell your family, decide whether to keep the baby or not. That’s still your choice, at least.
Your mind keeps drifting back to Lando, wishing you knew more about him than just a stupid contact name. Was that even his real name? What did he do for a living? Where was he from? Was he ready for the responsibility of being a father? Not that it mattered — you barely knew him. For all you knew, he could be married or secretly twisted.
No, you reason with yourself, trying to shut down that line of thinking, he seemed like a good guy. At least in the moment. Even through your tequila-soaked haze, you got a feeling of genuine warmth and kindness from him. Maybe you’re both just a couple of random people who made a reckless mistake after having too much fun together.
You take another breath and stand up, your mind made up. First, you’ll go to the doctor and get an official test. Then you’ll deal with everything else from there. There’s no use panicking until you confirm this is actually happening.
But deep down, you know this cheap little test is accurate. You’re pregnant with a virtual stranger’s baby. And in that moment, feeling so lost and overwhelmed and terrified, you can’t help but wonder — who the hell is Lando?
***
You sit on the couch, hands trembling as you clutch the results of your blood test. Tears stream down your face as the weight of the situation crushes down on you.
How could you have been so reckless? So stupid? You’re supposed to be a role model, setting an example for young girls. And now you’re pregnant from a one-night stand with some random guy.
The shame and fear swirl inside you until you can barely breathe. You need to tell your dad. He’ll be so disappointed in you. But you can’t keep this a secret, it will only get harder as your belly grows.
You hear the front door open and your dad’s familiar footsteps. Bracing yourself, you call out in a shaky voice, “Papa? Can you come here please?”
Leo wanders into the living room, his expression turning to immediate concern when he sees your tear-stained face. “Mija, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, bottom lip trembling as you try to find the words. “I … I’m pregnant,” you finally choke out.
His eyes go wide with shock. “Pregnant? How …” Realization dawns on his face. “Was this from that night you came home ...” He doesn’t need to finish the question.
You nod miserably, a fresh wave of tears falling. “I’m so sorry, Papa. I was drunk and stupid and … and I don’t even know who the father is, not really.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Just some guy I met at a club, his name was Lando or something. I barely remember anything!”
To your surprise, your dad’s expression softens into something like sympathy instead of the anger or disappointment you expected. He moves to sit beside you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders.
“Shh, it’s alright mija. I’m not happy about this situation, but I’m not angry at you either. We all make mistakes.” He pauses, seeming to think something over. “This Lando guy … was it around the time of the Miami Grand Prix in early May?”
You nod again, not understanding the connection. “I think so, why?”
A look of recognition crosses your dad’s face. “There’s a young driver in Formula 1. I’m a bit of a fan actually, been following his career when I have the chance. It’s not the most common name.”
Your breath catches in your throat as the pieces fall into place. The drunk recollections of warm color-changing eyes and a charming smile. The weird name followed by that stupid eggplant emoji in your contacts.
It all fits.
“Oh my god … you think the father is Lando Norris? Like, the Formula 1 driver?” Part of you wants to dismiss the idea as ridiculous, but another part feels an undeniable certainty that your dad has hit the nail on the head.
Leo nods firmly. “I think it’s highly likely. He was in Miami for the race that weekend. Reckless kid probably went out partying after finally managing to win.”
There’s a hard edge to your dad’s voice at that last part. You can’t really blame his protectiveness — finding out your daughter is pregnant from a one-night stand, especially with a relative celebrity, can’t be easy for any father.
“What am I going to do?” You whisper, scared all over again at the massive upheaval your life is facing.
But your dad just pulls you into a tighter hug, his touch reassuring and strong. “We’ll figure it out together, mija. Don’t worry. If this Lando character is the father, he’ll damn well take responsibility. I’ll make sure of it.”
You let out a shaky breath, letting your dad’s words soothe you. He’s right — you’re not in this alone. And if Lando Norris really is the father, well, he signed up for this whether he knew it or not.
“Thank you, Papa. I was so scared to tell you, but I shouldn’t have been. I’m lucky to have you.” You hug him fiercely, fresh tears spilling but this time born of reassurance instead of fear.
Leo just holds you close, his embrace full of fatherly love and protection. “Always, mija. I’ve got your back, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”
After a few moments, he pulls back, his expression turning more stern. “And as for this Lando kid, he better step up and be a man about this situation. Because if he tries to abandon you or this baby ...” He lets the implied threat hang in the air.
You can’t help but give a watery laugh. “I have a feeling he won’t want to mess with you. Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
Your dad allows a small smile at that. “Smart boy. Now, do you have a way to contact him? I’m sure someone can get us his information if not.”
You think for a moment, then remember — your phone contacts. You grab your cell and pull up the fateful entry.
“Here, just this number with the stupid eggplant emoji.” Your cheeks flush a little as you say it.
Leo arches an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes out his own phone and dials the number, his expression hardening with determination.
“Right, listen up, Lando Norris ...” he begins, leaving no room for argument.
You take a steadying breath as your dad starts laying down the law to the man who knocked up his precious daughter. For the first time since staring at those two pink lines, you feel a tiny kernel of hope taking root.
No matter what happens, you’re not alone in this. Your dad has your back, and Lando — well, Lando better prepare himself. Because when Leo Messi demands you take responsibility for your actions, you don’t dare say no.
***
Lando jolts awake to the harsh buzz of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He blinks blearily at the harsh red numbers of the alarm clock — 2:51 am. Who the hell is calling at this ungodly hour?
He fumbles for the phone, squinting at the unknown number with a +1 country code. Probably a spam call from across the pond. He’s tempted to just silence it, but something makes him swipe to answer with a groggy “Hello?”
“Lando Norris?” The deep voice on the other end is vaguely familiar, but Lando can’t quite place it in his sleep-addled state.
“Yeah, this is him. Who’s this?” He tries and fails to smoother a huge yawn.
“This is Lionel Messi.”
Lando’s eyes shoot wide open, any lingering drowsiness evaporating like he’s been doused with ice water. Leo freaking Messi is on the phone with him? His brain scrambles to comprehend what’s happening.
“I … uh … Mr. Messi, sir. This is … I mean … wow. What an honor!” He cringes at his own stammering, feeling very much like a star-struck fanboy rather than a fellow professional athlete.
Messi’s voice remains calm but firm. “I’ll get right to the point. Do you remember a young woman you slept with recently? The night of the Miami Grand Prix a few months ago?”
Lando feels his stomach drop out. Suddenly this phone call is taking on a very different context than just a casual chat with a sports legend. He racks his brain, trying to recall the handful of women he’d casually hooked up with around that time.
There was that petite blonde from the club after sprint qualifying … no, she was just a make-out in the back alley behind the valet. The pair of Brazilian bombshell twins he’d brought back to his hotel room on Saturday … no, they made him get tested after that escapade just to be safe.
Then it clicks into place — the gorgeous young woman with a killer smile that he’d met at the LIV Nightclub afterparty. They had danced and drank together all night until everything descended into a sweaty, semi-public grope fest in one of the VIP booths before he convinced her to come back to his suite.
He remembers her gasping and whimpering his name as he pounded into her from behind. Remembers the way her nails raked down his back when he made her come apart with his tongue. Remembers being too drunk and worked up to put on a condom before sinking back into her tight, wet heat and ...
Oh shit.
“I … yes, sir. I think I know who you’re referring to,” Lando forces out, his mouth incredibly dry.
“Good. Then you’ll remember getting my daughter pregnant that night as well.”
Lando actually feels the blood drain from his face, a rushing sound filling his ears. He must have misheard, right? There’s no way Leo freaking Messi just said Lando got his daughter pregnant!
“I … I’m sorry … your what?” He sputters out dumbly.
Messi’s tone takes on a steely edge. “My daughter. The young woman you slept with, she’s my daughter. And now she’s pregnant with your child.”
The room starts to spin. Lando tries to force air into his lungs, feeling like he might actually pass out. “Oh my god, I … I had no idea! We were both so drunk, I never would have … oh fuck, I’m so sorry, sir!”
“Sorry doesn’t really fix this, does it?” Messi’s voice is like sharpened steel. “You got my little girl pregnant from some drunken fling and now she has to deal with all of this.”
“I … yes, you’re right. Completely right.” Lando presses trembling fingers to his throbbing temples. This can’t actually be happening, right? “What … what do you want me to do? I’ll do anything, whatever you need!”
There’s a weighted pause on the line before Messi speaks again, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“First, you’re going to meet with me and my daughter in person so we can discuss this situation. Then you’re going to take responsibility and be a part of this child’s life, understood? Step up and be a man about it.”
“Yes! Yes, absolutely, of course!” Lando is nearly shouting into the phone, desperation and panic clawing at his throat. “Whatever you want, sir. I’ll be there. Just tell me when and where.”
“Good. I’ll have my people set it up and send the details to your team.” There’s a hint of grudging approval in Messi’s voice now, like he’s satisfied Lando appears to be taking this seriously. “I suggest you get some sleep, you’re going to need it.”
The line goes dead before Lando can respond. He stares dumbly at the silent phone in his hand for several long moments, trying to process everything.
Leo Messi’s daughter.
Pregnant.
With his baby.
Holy shit, what has he done? What is he going to do? How did one reckless, drunken night blow up into such a massive catastrophe?
His head is spinning and he can feel his overtaxed body starting to shut down from the shock and stress of the harrowing phone call. He tries to take a deep breath, pushing away the panic and leaning back against the pillows.
Sleep. Right. He needs sleep if he has any hope of dealing with … with all of this. But how can he possibly rest now?
Lando’s eyes start to drift closed despite his whirling thoughts. His body has other plans, sucking him under into blessed unconsciousness as he slumps fully back onto the mattress.
The last thing he’s dimly aware of is his phone slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor, followed by his own body going entirely limp.
When Lando finally does manage to sleep, it’s to the terrifying vision of Leo Messi’s furious face snarling “you got my daughter pregnant” over and over again behind his closed eyelids.
***
The flight from Nice to Miami feels like it takes an eternity, but also happens in a terrifying blur. Lando can barely remember booking the first available ticket, throwing some clothes into an overnight bag, or making his way to the airport in a daze. He runs on autopilot, his mind spinning in frantic circles.
He got Leo Messi’s daughter pregnant. How is this his life?
A private chauffeur is waiting at the baggage claim when Lando deplanes in Miami, holding up a printed sign with his name. Of course Messi would have people to handle something like this.
Lando swallows hard and approaches the stern-faced driver. “I’m Lando Norris. Uh, Mr. Messi is expecting me?”
The chauffeur gives him an appraising look but doesn’t respond beyond a curt nod. He turns on his heel, expecting Lando to follow.
The drive to the Messis’ palatial Miami mansion is silent and tense. Lando fights the urge to fidget anxiously, his knee bouncing until he forces himself still.
Get it together, man. This is it.
All too soon, they’re pulling through an immaculate gate onto perfectly manicured grounds surrounding the huge home. Lando takes a steadying breath as the driver gets his bag from the trunk.
Then the front door is swinging open and there’s Leo Messi himself, looking as intimidating as Lando has ever seen the football icon. His expression is stony, jaw clenched tight as he measures Lando up.
Before Lando can even open his mouth, Messi beats him to it, tone leaving no room for argument.
“I don’t like you.”
The words are like a kick to the gut. Lando forces himself to hold the steely gaze, giving a small nod.
“I understand, sir. I’ve made a terrible mistake and you have every right to be angry with me. I’ll accept whatever consequences I have to.” His voice is strong, despite the way his heart is jack-hammering in his chest.
Messi holds the intense eye contact a moment more before giving a short nod of what might be begrudging respect. He turns and heads inside, clearly expecting Lando to follow.
The foyer opens into an elegant living room where a familiar woman is sitting on one of the plush couches.
You.
Lando’s breath catches in his throat as memories from that hazy night come rushing back. Your skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat as you moved rhythmically to the music. Your throaty laugh and sparkling eyes as you flirted shamelessly over your fourth … no fifth … mojito. The velvet silk of your hair brushing his face as you ground down against his lap.
He swallows hard, trying not to stare. The situation is awkward enough without dwelling on the admittedly incredible sex that caused this whole mess. Though he can’t deny the sharp spike of pure physical want that hits his gut at the sight of you.
Your eyes are wide and nervous as you take him in. “Um … hi.”
“Hi,” he replies simply, feeling incredibly self-conscious under the weighty stare of your legendary father.
An agonizing beat of silence stretches between the three of you.
“Well?” Leo prompts impatiently, making you both jump. “You got my daughter pregnant. What do you plan to do about it?”
The blunt words make Lando’s face flush hot, but he forces himself to meet your father’s stern gaze head-on.
“Whatever I need to do, sir. I’ll take full responsibility. Financially, emotionally, being there for the child … anything you need from me.” He pauses, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “That is … if the mother wants me to be involved as well?”
He looks at you then, trying to convey his sincerity. Despite the casual nature of your hook-up, he meant what he said — he will step up and do the right thing for this kid.
His kid.
You seem to consider his words for a long moment before giving a small nod. “Yes … yes, I’d like you to be involved if you’re willing. This is as much my responsibility as yours. We … we can figure this out. Together?”
The uncertain note in your voice tugs at something in Lando’s chest. For all your father’s bluster, you just sound like a young woman in a scary, overwhelming situation. Just like him.
“Together,” he agrees firmly, returning your nod. “We’ll, ah, we’ll be good co-parents. For the baby.”
The words feel strange leaving his lips, but also fill him with a sense of resolve and determination.
Leo watches the exchange between you both like a hawk, his expression unreadable. When he speaks again, his words are measured but dismissive.
“Get it sorted out then. Find a way to make this work. I don’t care about the details as long as you two take care of my grandchild properly.”
With that, he gives a curt nod and turns to exit the room, leaving you and Lando to your own devices. The sudden lack of his intimidating presence seems to deflate the tension somewhat.
You let out a long, shaky breath, shooting Lando a wry look. “He’s … taking this about as well as could be expected, all things considered.”
Lando can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh at that, some of the nervous knot in his stomach loosening slightly. “Yeah, I’ll say. Your dad is legitimately terrifying, you know that?”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” you say with a small smile.
An odd sense of camaraderie falls over you both then — two young people bonding over how Lando quite literally knocked you up. It’s almost enough for him to relax a bit.
Then you glance down at your still-flat stomach and all humor drains away. “So … co-parents, huh? You really want to do this?”
Lando doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course. It’s my kid too, yeah? My responsibility, like I said.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s not exactly how I pictured becoming a father, but … I’m in this all the way. For the little one’s sake.”
Something in your expression softens at his words and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thank you, Lando. That … that really means a lot to hear.”
Before he can think better of it, Lando closes the distance between you and pulls you into an impulsive hug. You stiffen for just a moment before relaxing against him.
“Hey, we’re gonna be okay, you and me,” he murmurs as he holds you close. “We’ve got this, baby mama.”
You stiffen again and pull back sharply at the words, a look of mortification on your face. Lando frowns in confusion until a familiar gravelly voice cuts through the room.
“Lando Norris, I swear if you ever call my daughter that again, they’ll never find your body.”
Leo Messi is back, leveling Lando with a look that would liquefy steel. The driver nearly swallows his tongue, flushing scarlet.
“Y-yes, sir! Of course, sir! It, ah, it won’t happen again!” He stammers out, mentally making a note to permanently delete those words from his vocabulary.
Messi just grunts in response, apparently satisfied, before retreating from the room once more.
You’re staring at Lando with wide eyes and badly-suppressed laughter. He groans, dropping his face into his hands.
“Why did I say that? God, I’m an idiot.”
“It’s okay,” you assure him, that smile breaking free. “This is just … all a bit surreal, isn’t it?”
Lando peeks through his fingers to meet your gaze, unable to stop the rueful grin that spreads across his own face.
“Just a bit, yeah.” He drops his hands with a defeated chuckle. “But your dad’s right — we’ve got to take this seriously for the little one.”
You nod, smile fading into a look of grim determination. “We do. Which means you can’t call me baby mama if you actually want to stay alive to see your child.”
“Deal,” Lando agrees readily, feeling lighter than he has since your father first called to drop that bomb on him.
Maybe co-parenting won’t be easy, but somehow he gets the sense you two just might be able to figure it out. And with the entire weight of Leo freaking Messi’s protective rage motivating him, Lando is damn sure going to try his best.
***
Ten Months Later
The vibrant Miami sun beams down on you as you carefully lift Maia out of her stroller, cradling the bundle of joy in your arms. Your daughter’s wide, curious eyes dart around, taking in all the sights and sounds of the paddock for the first time.
“There they are! My two favorite girls,” Lando’s voice rings out as he jogs over, already wearing his team gear in preparation for the drivers parade. He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before turning his attention to Maia. “And how’s my little princess doing today?”
Maia lets out a delighted squeal and you can’t help but smile at the pure adoration on Lando’s face as he gently brushes a finger over her chubby cheek. “She’s been an angel all morning. I think she knows this is a big day for her first race.”
“That’s my girl,” Lando grins. “Going to be a little racer before we know it.”
“Lando! There you are, mate.” The Aussie accent cuts through the paddock as Lando’s teammate bounds over. “I’ve been looking everywhere for … oh wow, is that her?”
Oscar’s eyes go wide as they land on Maia, taking in her tiny features with an almost comical look of awe. “She’s … she’s so small,” he says dumbly.
“What did you expect, she’s a baby,” Lando scoffs with a roll of his eyes, though his tone is good-natured. “Do you want to hold her?”
“Can I?” Oscar asks eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited puppy.
You laugh and carefully transfer Maia into Oscar’s waiting arms, guiding his hands to properly support her head. “Just watch the grabby hands. She’s got a pretty strong grip these days.”
Oscar nods rapidly, looking a bit intimidated as he gingerly cradles Maia against his chest. But the instant she lets out a little gurgling coo, his face splits into the biggest, most boyish grin you’ve ever seen.
“Hey there, little Norris,” he murmurs softly, instantly transfixed. “I’m your favorite Uncle Oscar.”
“Oi, who said you get to be the favorite uncle?” Another voice cuts in as Carlos saunters over, immediately zeroing in on the form in Oscar’s arms. “Is that her? Dios mio, she’s gorgeous!”
Without hesitation, Carlos plucks Maia right out of Oscar’s hold, completely ignoring the other driver’s sputtering. “Well hello there, princesa. Don’t worry, your Tío Carlos has got you.”
Maia blinks up at the new face peering down at her, tiny fists waving as if to grab at the Spaniard’s perfectly coiffed hair. Carlos simply grins and nuzzles his nose against her cheek, seemingly not caring one bit about any damage the squirming infant in his arms can do.
“Are you seeing this?” Lando mock-whispers to you, looping an arm around your waist and leaning in conspiratorially. “How are we supposed to get her back now?”
You stifle a giggle behind your hand, watching in amusement as Carlos and Oscar descend into bickering over who Maia’s favorite uncle will be — only to be interrupted as another figure appears beside them.
“What do we have here?” Daniel Ricciardo pipes up with a wide grin, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “Don’t tell me you two are fighting over babysitting duties already?”
“Something like that, mate,” Lando chuckles, reaching out to clap Daniel on the shoulder in greeting. “Up for putting your name in the hat too?”
“You know it!” Daniel agrees easily, quickly sidestepping Carlos to peer down at Maia with a wide smile. “Hey there, little monkey. Look at you all bright-eyed and curious.”
Amazingly, Maia seems entirely unperturbed by all the fussing going on around her. She simply blinks placidly up at each new face, soaking it all in like a tiny sponge. At one point, she even lets out a delighted squeal and flails her arms — prompting a fresh round of cooing from the three drivers clustered around her.
“Aw, I think she likes me best already,” Daniel declares with a wink, gently booping Maia’s button nose and making her giggle.
You shake your head in fond exasperation even as Lando tugs you tighter against his side, completely content to bask in the scene. That is, until Daniel’s next words nearly make you choke.
“So just how old is this little angel?” He asks idly, eyes still trained on Maia’s sweet face. “Four months now?”
“Three months and one week,” Lando answers automatically — only to tense a split second later, mouth falling open in realization. “Oh. Oh.”
The smug grin that slowly spreads across Daniel’s face is borderline devlish as it clicks into place for everyone exactly when Maia would have been … well, conceived. A heavy silence falls over the group, disturbed only by Maia’s happy gurgling as she remains oblivious to the sudden shift.
“Well, well, well,” Daniel drawls, dark eyes dancing with mirth as he bounces Maia playfully in his arms. “I think someone got a little overexcited celebrating his win last year, didn’t he?”
The only response is a strangled squawk from Lando as his face flushes bright red — no doubt remembering exactly how the two of you celebrated his first time on top of the Formula 1 podium. Meanwhile, Carlos and Oscar openly gape at the revelation, eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls.
“Don’t you dare,” Lando manages to choke out, stabbing an accusatory finger in Daniel’s direction. “We are not having this conversation here.”
“Why not?” Daniel shrugs blithely, gently jostling Maia to the crook of his elbow in a way that has her giggling. “It’s a perfectly natural thing, nothing to be ashamed about. That must’ve been one hell of a victory lap!”
The innuendo hangs heavily in the air, made all the more mortifying by the lecherous waggle of Daniel’s eyebrows. Lando, meanwhile, looks like he’s two seconds away from spontaneously combusting on the spot.
“I’m going to kill you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, dragging a hand over his rapidly reddening face.
Before Daniel can respond with another quip, however, you quickly step in — scooping Maia out of his arms with a stern glare. “That’s enough of that, I think.”
Daniel wisely snaps his mouth shut at the warning in your tone, offering a cheeky salute instead. “I’ll lay off … for now.”
With a wink and a last jaunty grin towards a still-sputtering Lando, he bids the group farewell and heads off to prepare for the race. Oscar, seemingly remembering you’re all congregating in a very public place, manages to pick his jaw up off the ground long enough to clear his throat awkwardly.
“Right, well … I need to go, you know, do driver things,” he mumbles before beating a hasty retreat, stumbling over his own feet in his haste.
Carlos, for his part, has the audacity to start outright cackling the second Oscar is out of earshot.
“You never fail to entertain,” he manages between wheezing gasps, wiping away mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.
Lando flushes even deeper, if possible, and shoots you a helpless look. You simply raise an eyebrow, letting him squirm for a moment before taking pity.
“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” you chide Carlos lightly, shifting Maia higher on your hip. “Unless you want to be the one explaining the birds and the bees to her when the time comes?”
That seems to sober Carlos up somewhat, his laughter trailing off into a few more chuckles as he waves a hand dismissively. “You wound me, amiga. As if I would corrupt the ears of such an innocent little one.”
You give him a pointed look and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m done.”
With a roguish wink, Carlos reaches out to gently pinch Maia’s cheek — earning a bright smile from the bubbly infant.
“You’ll learn soon enough that your papá can be un poco loco sometimes, princesa.”
“She really doesn’t need to learn that at all, thanks,” Lando grumbles, shooting his friend an exasperated glare.
You can’t help but shake your head fondly at the pair of them, even as Lando tucks you snugly against his side. For all their bickering, it’s abundantly clear just how enamored all the drivers are with Maia already.
The tender moment is interrupted, however, by a voice calling out for your boyfriend from across the paddock.
“Lando, we need you over in the garage. The parade will be starting any minute now,” a press officer arrives to herd him away.
Lando exhales a put-upon sigh, dropping a kiss to the top of Maia’s head before meeting your gaze apologetically. “Duty calls, I suppose. You’ll be okay here with my littlest fan club?”
You wave him off with a warm smile. “We’ll be fine. Just focus on having a good race, yeah? Maia and I will be cheering you on.”
The brilliant grin Lando flashes you is enough to make your heart flutter. “How could I do anything else with my two favorite cheerleaders?”
With one last lingering kiss, he tears himself away — offering a half-hearted wave to Carlos before disappearing through the paddock. An oddly serene quiet falls in his absence, the crowd breaking up to get settled before the race.
Carlos seems to sense your pensive mood, stepping up beside you to gently bump his shoulder against yours.
“You know, he really has changed since becoming a papá,” the older driver muses, casting a fond look down at Maia. “Far as I can tell, it’s done wonders for him.”
You smile softly, bouncing Maia gently as you watch Lando’s retreating back weave through the controlled chaos of the paddock. “He’s been … amazing. And he loves Maia more than life itself. My father complains that he has run out of things to threaten Lando over, which is the biggest compliment coming from him.”
Your daughter simply blinks at the two of you for a long moment before that sunny smile you’ve grown to adore stretches across her face, little fists waving happily in the air. You can’t help but chuckle at her antics, brushing a knuckle over her soft cheek.
As the bright Miami sun shines down and anticipation slowly builds in the background, you feel a surge of nearly overwhelming contentment. No matter what twists and turns life throws your way from here, you decide, you’ll always be able to find your way back to moments like this.
So much has changed in the course of a year, but you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even if Lando still can’t quite look your father in the eye.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#lando norris#ln4#lando norris imagine#lando norris x reader#lando norris x you#lando norris fic#lando norris fluff#lando norris fanfic#lando norris blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#miami gp 2024#f1 x female reader#lando norris x female reader#lando norris x y/n#mclaren#lando norris one shot
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Sukuna with clingy concubine 🛐🛐 like hella clingy, always clinging to sukuna, sitting on his lap and just following sukuna like a lost puppy
𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. true form!sukuna x concubine! female reader. fluff. little bit suggestive. size difference. reader is clingy, a bit of an airhead ig. reader gets called ‘girl, brat’.
“y’re annoying me, girl,” sukuna grumbles as he walks to the courtyard. you had magically appeared behind him the moment he stepped out of his room to get some fresh air.
you flash him an apologetic smile “i’m sorry, my lord.” you’re not sorry, sukuna knows, though he doesn’t comment on it. it’s been like this ever since a week or two ago. he cannot recall why you’re suddenly so much more affectionate.
he doesn’t wait on you, however, and takes big strides towards the courtyard. if your little legs can’t keep up, that isn’t his problem. you frown and take on the challenge that’s been thrown your way.
you increase your pace and nearly run after sukuna. you have to lift your kimono a little to make sure you wouldn’t trip over the fabric. it doesn’t seem like you’ll give up any time soon as you follow him with that same content expression on your face.
sukuna can’t believe that a human like you dares to even be in his presence for so long. he didn’t call for you, so why are you adamant on staying with him? he concludes that something must be up, “what’d you want from me?”
there hangs a silence between you two afterwards. sukuna’s slow yet heavy footsteps reverberate through the hallway, followed by your quick and light ones. you pout as you notice that the king of curses isn’t even sparing you a glance, “nothing at all. i just like to be with you.”
you add the latter as an afterthought. you don’t expect sukuna to react to that, so you continue to trail behind him into the courtyard. “tch,” you hear him scoff in annoyance. you’re sure he doesn’t mean any actual harm by that, so you don’t take it personally.
sukuna eventually sits down on the engawa, where the servants have placed the comfy zabuton cushions. there’s always one for you as well—right next to sukuna’s. it’s become a habit for the maids to include you in sukuna’s daily routines since you’re always with him.
you eye your own cushion, though don’t make an effort to actually sit down on it. sukuna stares ahead, not bothered to notice you at the moment. you look down at his lap, recalling just how perfectly you can fit on it.
you don’t waste any more time and plop down on his thick thighs, your back against his chest. sukuna’s brow twitches at the sudden contact. his bottom pair of eyes look down at you whilst the upper ones keep looking at the nature in front of you both.
“get off me,” the king of curses commands through a low tone. he doesn’t push you off, however. that alone should tell you enough; he’s tolerating your behaviour as per usual. or perhaps he secretly likes your proximity.
you shall never discover which of the two it actually is.
“nooooooo,” you exaggerate with a whine. you don’t want to. you wrap both of your arms around one of sukuna’s—clinging onto him like your life depends on it. he simply responds by sighing.
you know sukuna’s able to grab you by the collar and force you to sit down on the cushion beside him, but he doesn’t. your heart flutters every time sukuna shows some tolerance to your clingy behavior. it means that maybe—just maybe—he’s opening up to the idea of being more affectionate with you.
“such a fuckin’ brat,” sukuna simply puts one hand on your waist, the others supporting his weight on the engawa. he grumbles, but there are clear signs of him relaxing with you in his presence.
you chuckle at the realisation and swing your legs in excitement. sukuna unexpectedly bites your ear in response to your increased activity on his lap, “stay still or i’ll kick you off.”
you let out a small whimper as you feel his fangs gently sick into your earlobe. you jolt back and rub the skin with your hand, looking up at sukuna with a playful frown before teasing him back. you roll your eyes and answer him with a firm yet mocking, “sir yes, sir!”
sukuna clicks his tongue at your tease. you answer him like he’s some general in the military. that’s not the kind of relationship he has with you—it’s more than that. even though he knows you’re joking, he dislikes it when you call him anything other than ‘my lord’, ‘my king’, or just his name.
he finds great satisfaction in the way you refer to him as such. you’re the only one who can make sukuna grin each time you remind him of his status and the power he has over you.
the power dynamic; it’s addictive.
he needs more of it.
sukuna reaches out to grab your face with one hand, but you’re quick to pull your head back the moment you see that intimidatingly big hand coming down onto your vision. you clear your throat and apologise, “i mean—yes, my lord.”
the king of curses hums in content. that title is exactly what he had been looking for. he retracts his hand and settles it back down on your waist, patting your sides twice to show his satisfaction with your obedience.
you stop squirming around in his lap and simply lay back down in his arms. you close your eyes and nearly fall asleep because of the comfortable atmosphere. the slight breeze against your face is relaxing and perfectly compliments the warmth from sukuna’s body.
what a perfect way to spend your day.
#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader#jjk fluff#sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna x reader#sukuna fluff#jjk x you#jjk x y/n#sukuna x you#sukuna x y/n#jjk imagines
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no words needed
words: 1.1k
warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, established relationship, rough-ish sex (like not really by tumblr standards lol), lingerie
you admire yourself in the mirror, turning around to make sure every strap is in place across your back.
it's not quite your two year anniversary with rafe, it's about a week away, but when you got the lingerie in the mail, you couldn't wait to put it on and surprise him with it.
you take a sip of water as you meander around the upstairs, waiting for your boyfriend to return home.
the second you hear the door open, you rush back into your bedroom, placing yourself on the edge of the bed, back pin straight and chest pushed forward, showing off your barely covered chest, nipples poking through the lace.
you can hear rafes heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, not immediately calling out for you like he normally does. it's the first sign that something is wrong.
“rafey-” you pout when he comes into the doorway, his large figure taking up most of the space, a scowl on his face, hands clenched tight in fists.
“im-im sorry.” you shake your head, trying to cover yourself the best you can. “clearly you had a bad day at work and this was stupid of me-”
rafe cuts you off, suddenly tearing off his jacket and stomping the rest of the way to you. you can feel his scowl still on his face as he kisses you, hot and hard.
his hands begin to explore, not gentle, gliding touches, but grabs and squeezes, feeling up your chest before dropping down to your ass.
you gasp when he delivers a sudden smack to your bum, but rafe just uses your open mouth as an opportunity to plunge his tongue between your lips.
rafe doesn't need to use his words for you to know what he needs at this moment. work clearly sucked, or maybe something happened with barry or his sister. you'll talk about it later. use your words to comfort him, but right now, what he needs is to seek relief in your body.
rafe pulls away from your lips, leaving you panting. he pauses for just a moment, allowing you to blink up at him, a look of pure innocence on your face opposed to his firm set brow and down turned lips.
after that moment is over, rafe begins to move quickly again, flipping you over and pushing you down face first onto the bed.
your pretty lace thong is quickly torn away, rafes large palms pushing your thighs open, viewing both your holes.
“you have while i get undressed to prepare yourself.” it's the first words rafe has spoken since you got home.
you hear him begin to undress, unbuttoning his shirt as your hand reaches down. the shirt falls to the floor as you begin to rub your clit, getting yourself wet and ready for him as he takes his belt off next.
you're significantly wetter once the last of rafes clothes have been discarded as he lines up behind him, pulling your ass right to the edge of the bed so he can remain standing, the tall mattress at a perfect height for him as his cock runs through your folds just twice before pressing against your entrance.
rafe is usually soft and sweet in this moment, slowly pushing in, pressing kisses to your skin as he tells you how good you feel, but he is not his usual self today. he plunges his cock into you in one quick motion, immediately setting a fast pace as his hips begin to thrust.
“oh fuck!” you squeal out, gripping onto the bedsheets with both hands, crying out as he obliterates you, going as deep into your cunt as your body allows.
rafe grips onto your ass, squeezing it and using your plump flesh as a hold on your body as he ravages you, focused completely on getting his sick feelings out, to put him in a better mood, a mood that allows him to kiss you gently goodnight and hold you while you sleep.
usually just looking at you would calm rafe down, but all the shit going wrong with his dealing with barry has overwhelmed him to the point of explosion.
rafe chases that relief in your pussy, grunting aggressively as he tries to move even faster, sweat dripping down his front, cresting the peak of his chest before dribbling down the contours of his abs.
rafes hands move to your thighs, lifting them up as you fall forward onto your face, moaning into the mattress as rafe groans out, your pussy feeling even tighter around his cock at this angle.
one of rafes hands runs lower down your thigh until it reaches your white knee sock, pulling the fabric back until it thwacks back against your skin, a smirk on his face.
his perfect girl, always understanding and strong, the only reason you've lasted the two years with rafe. and now, dressed up just for him.
rafe slows his hips momentarily, bending down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades. “thank you.” he manages to whisper, voice sounding vulnerable even to his ears, but it doesn't last for long as he straightens back out and picks up the pace.
you know you're close, but you're determined to hold out until rafe cums, needing your body to stay pliable and ready for however long he needs to get every drop of anger out.
rafes hands are squeezing your thighs so tightly they're sure to leave bruises in the morning. bruises that will cause your friends to giggle when you're tanning by the pool and the old ladies at the country club to gasp and whisper to each other when you don your short tennis skirt.
you don't need rafe to warn you that he's close, you can feel the way his cock begins to swell inside of your cunt, pushing further against your walls, that he's about to burst.
you allow your own orgasm to breech, screaming and moaning rafes names into the sheets as your pussy clenches around his cock.
rafe swears he sees stars from how hard his orgasm hits, body folding over yours as he cums, putting as much weight as he can into holding you down, flooding you with cum.
you both remain still as your highs work through your body until rafe slumps against you and rolls to the side.
you take another minute before picking your head up, realizing rafes eyes are closed, looking far more peaceful than when he entered.
“wanna talk about it?” you ask softly.
“in the morning.” rafe mumbles.
you watch his face, the way his pink lips are slightly parted as he breathes, the perfect slope of his nose, his tanned skin and defined cheekbones.
“we should take a bath.” rafe says, making you blink and realize his eyes are now open, staring at you expectantly.
“yeah, sure.” you nod. “whatever you want.”
rafe gets up slowly, but not before pausing to press a soft kiss against your lips. “seriously.” he whispers. “thank you.”
you smile up at him, no words needed.
#rafe smut#rafe cameron smut#obx smut#outer banks smut#rafe fic#rafe fanfic#rafe fanfiction#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron fanfic#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe x you#rafe x y/n#rafe x oc#rafe x reader#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x oc#rafe cameron x reader#rafe imagine#rafe blurb#rafe drabble#rafe one shot#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron drabble#rafe cameron one shot#rafe cameron x female reader
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suguru had an effect on you; anything he did, you were always infatuated with, and one of those things was his tongue piercing. once you felt it on your pussy, you became obsessed, but a question appeared in your mind.
what reaction would suguru have if you slid the cold metal over the tip of his dick? what would he do? would he freeze up? whine? whimper? you needed to know; you needed to give suguru that same godly experience you had whenever he was fingers deep inside of you and the small little that sat on his tongue ran over your clit.
it was an impulsive decision, but you didn't regret it one bit. the healing process was killing you, but you knew there was a reward at the end of all your agony. a little over two months went by with you just sitting on the fun you were going to be having with that little ball all in your mouth. the time finally came. there was no more pain or stinging; after a while, you forgot it was in there, your mouth salivating at the thought of his dick in your mouth again.
it wasn't until his dick was actually in your mouth that you remembered how much you liked sucking it; it was so thick yet so easy to suck and make you cum. he never gave you a hard time when his dick was in your mouth until now. he was twitching nonstop, his hand resting on the top of your head as you continued to lick the tip.
suguru was just as surprised as you were. he didn't know why he was twitching so much or why he felt so good until he saw the little silver ball in your mouth once you held out your tongue, forgetting that you had one. it made him ten times more sensitive than he ever was. he knew you were good at making him finish with your mouth, but at this rate, he was going to cum in the two minutes. sliding his other hand down and placing it on your cheek as he places his other hand on the side of your cheek, trying to stay still as you continue.
the battle between him trying not to finish and you still teasing his tip didn't go on for long, he came right down your throat. embarrassment coating his cheeks as he turned bright red. thinking that was the last of his humiliation until you were sucking his dick more times in a week, then he could count on two hands.
he thought to himself, maybe it would be a good thing for you to suck him off so many times so he could create tolerance and wouldn't have to hide his embarrassment whenever he finished in under five minutes, but it only made things worse. instead of finishing in under five minutes, it was more like two, telling you to take your time and not suck so hard, but truthfully, you couldn't help it. the taste that lingered on your tongue from his dick could fill you up for a lifetime, plus the face he made after he came into your mouth was so cute.
this is exactly what you expected; he was so sensitive to the silver little ball and could barely think; the only thing coming out of his mouth was blabbering and soft little "stops." as you continued. his words were never articulated well when your throat was hugging the tip of his dick, but it definitely wasn't until now that his dick got more and more sensitive the more you made him cum.
this alone made you want to recommend everyone get tongue piercings so they could get reactions from their partners. his knees getting weak as you hollow out your cheeks, then slide up to rub your tongue over the tip of his dick, his legs moving and his toes curling as you did this. more protests of him whimpering and whining for you to slow down, but it only made you go faster, his face as he looked at you do it, his eye twitching and closing as he cums down your throat.
his cum leaking all over your wet tongue and covering the small ball in your mouth, sucking it up and swallowing it. as much as he got embarrassed and whined for you to slow down and stop, he never expressed his dislike for it; he fucking loved it. he loved how cold to the touch it was and how instant pleasure would shoot through him when you rubbed your tongue back and forth on his tip.
this was the best decision you've ever made.
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jujustsu kaisen x reader#x reader#jjk suguru#jjk geto#suguru geto#geto suguru#jujutsu geto#geto x reader#geto smut#getou suguru#jujutsu kaisen geto#getou suguru x reader#jujutsu kaisen suguru#suguru geto smut#geto
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summer heat, so sweet
fem!reader x best friend!eddie munson
story summary: a lazy, hot summer day and a first kiss or two (maybe three).
tags: best friends to lovers, tooth aching fluff, sweet eddie munson, pet names, pining, flirting, first kiss. no smut but a tad suggestive, so 18+ only please.
w/c: 2.2k(ish)
~♡~
Eddie was only six-years-old when he fell in love with you.
It was the summer, and you had just moved into the trailer park, all starry-eyed with that childish wonder, face glowing with a toothless, over-stretched smile once you caught sight of him digging a hole in the ground. You waved at him, hand flapping about, but he quickly shied away, retreating into his uncle’s trailer for safety and to scrub away the dirt under his fingernails and the pinky blush staining his cheeks.
Needless to say, you were the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
Which was why he decided it was best if he never left his trailer again.
It was only after a week of self-detainment and too many Mountain Dews Wayne had thrown Eddie outside and locked the door. Not out of malice, of course. He loved his nephew. But all that pent up energy and sugar rushing through his veins had made Eddie wild. A firework exploding. He needed some peace and quiet, just for a little while.
“Holler if you need anything,” Wayne said, flicking his cigarette and patting Eddie on the back. “There’s water for ya on the porch.”
Eddie nodded, pouting. “Okay.”
“I’ll come get you for lunch. Be good.”
“Can you make PB&J’s?” Eddie asked.
Wayne smiled and ruffled his nephew’s hair. “Whatever you want.”
“I want two of ‘em with barbecue chips. And, and, some Dew—”
“No,” Wayne protested, but not unkindly. “No more Dew. Water only. Lord knows you’ve had enough to turn your blood into sugar. Now go play.”
Eddie swallowed. What did that mean? That he had sugar for blood? Was that even possible? Before he could ask, Wayne was closing the door, leaving Eddie alone to bask in the summer sun and wonder if his blood tasted as sweet as Mountain Dew. He hoped it did, cause that would be sick.
He’d set up shop behind the trailer, deciding he was going to build a castle out of whatever twigs and leaves he found lying around. Normally, he’d use his slingshot and shoot at some cans and bottles, but after he accidentally launched a rock into the window, shattering the glass, Wayne confiscated it. Which was lame, duh, but if Eddie was good enough, he’d get it back, and it didn’t take much for Wayne to cave.
Eddie began stabbing a few sticks into the ground, thankful it was soft enough from the day’s previous rain, when he heard a voice, small and sweet, slither up behind him. He startled and whipped around to see you standing there, clad in denim skimmer shorts, a t-shirt embroidered with a butterfly, and jelly shoes, your smile as bright as the sun.
“Hi!” you chirped.
Eddie blinked. Silent.
You took a step forward, trying to peer over his shoulder. Curious. “Whatcha doing?”
Eddie blinked again, assessing you like you were some tiny, unidentifiable insect. “B-building a castle.”
“Cool! Do you want help?”
"Okay."
And that’s how you and Eddie came to be. It had been fifteen years since that day, and here you were now. Stretched out beside him on his bed in your sundress, sucking on the remnants of your popsicle, book propped on your stomach, hair clinging to the sweat on your forehead, lips glossy and stained blue from your icy treat, a sight for sore eyes. Even to this day, the prettiest girl Eddie had ever seen. His best friend. His everything.
If only you knew how much he loved you. Then maybe things wouldn’t be so torturous.
“S’fucking hot,” he said, tossing his half-torn D&D notebook. Between the sweltering summer heat and the way your hip was searing against his, it was hard to focus on anything else. Hawkins had reached a record high, this heatwave showing no signs of letting up. The two of you had made plans to go down to Lovers Lake to cool off, but given how hot it was, the lake was more like a swamp, and the pool was closed.
Eddie’s trailer was the next best thing. The sun wasn’t as brutal as it was in yours, the porch ceiling acting as a barrier and preventing the sun’s rays from penetrating inside. Unfortunately, his air conditioner was on the fritz, and the fan you brought over only stirred the hot air around the room, but it was better than nothing.
You finished off your popsicle and tossed the stick onto Eddie’s nightstand along with your book. You turned to look at him, your cheek smushed against your shoulder, eyes soft, blue-stained lips poised with a question.
God, he could kiss you right now. It would be so easy. All he would have to do was lean over a few inches and press his lips to yours. He imagined them to be soft. Sticky sweet, like your popsicle. He imagined you’d like it gentle and the noises you would make as he split the seam of your lips open with his tongue. He’d hold you close, his arms a protective cage around you, fingers slipping beneath your dress and over the swell of your ass, giving it a playful squeeze before tracing the ridges of your spine, telling you how beautiful you are between kisses. You’d shiver against him. Tangle your fingers in his hair and tug in a silent plea for more. And, of course, Eddie would oblige. (Shit, he’d give you anything you wanted. He’d give you the fucking moon and the stars if he could). He’d bite your lip, suckle on it like the sweetest, candied berry before leaving a trail of love along your jaw and to your pulse point, where he would tattoo you with a wine colored bruise. Maybe two wine colored bruises if you let him, and in his fantasy, you did.
In his fantasy, you were his.
“You ever feel like you’re not a real person?”
“What?” Eddie said, blinking out of his daydream. He was suddenly very, very hot. Even more so than before.
“Do you ever feel like you’re not a real person?” you repeated with a bit more vigor. You wiggled your fingers and made a fist before flexing your hand. “Cause sometimes it feels like I’m a ghost. Like I exist, but in an alternate dimension or something.”
Eddie laughed softly and without judgment. “I think the heats getting to your head, sweetheart.”
You pouted, pushing his shoulder. “I’m serious, Ed’s! S’really weird. Sometimes I wonder if any of this is even real. If you’re real. If I’m even real.”
Eddie grew thoughtful. Reflective. Your words planted themselves like seeds in a garden, sprouting and blooming. He understood what you meant. Understood you completely. That feeling of being detached from yourself—mind, body, and soul—as if you’re living in a dream. Eddie was no expert. He wanted to comfort you, but the words just seemed to escape him, falling into a dark abyss.
He needed to get you out of your head, the place you resided the most, and though he never had the perfect remedy for these situations, he knew of at least one way to make you feel better, even if it was only temporary.
“Hm, there’s one way to test if you’re real or not.”
“How?” you asked, eyes wide and hopeful as your fingers came to latch onto the collar of his shirt. You were so close to him, and it was even more suffocating than the heat.
He smiled something wicked. Your eyes went wide, but not in the way they had before. In the way that knew Eddie was about to do something evil.
And like a hawk hunting its prey, Eddie swooped in.
“Eddie!” you squealed, giggling as he blew raspberries against your cheek. Your clammy hands cradled his face and you half-heartedly tried to pry him off. You squirmed, limbs tangling, your laughter vibrating through his body as his hands grew brave and his fingers began to skate and tickle across your stomach. It was childish, Eddie knew that, but what a wonderful thing it was to make you laugh. That was his favorite sound. Golden and sunny. Melting his heart into a puddle of goo.
He stopped, resting his forehead against yours, eyes flickering across your face. “I don’t know. I think you’re pretty real to me.”
You rolled your eyes, still giggling despite your feigned exasperation. “Dork.”
Eddie smiled. His lips were salty, but you looked sweeter than ever. “What about me? Am I real?”
There was a breath of silence as your hand came to his face, brushing back his dampened bangs to examine him. “God,” you said, a soft gasp escaping you. “Your forehead is massive.”
Eddie laughed and grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together. “You’re such a dick.”
“I’m just teasing, Ed’s,” you said softly, almost apologetically. Which shocked him because normally you’d have something witty to say. You’d never back down from a good jest. Instead, you were staring up at him, pensive, almost conflicting. Your hands came back to cradle his face, thumb gently pressing into the soft muscle of his cheek. It made his chest ache.
“Sweetheart—”
The rest of his words were lost when you kissed him.
Eddie’s heart stopped.
You kissed him.
Close-lipped, a chaste peck and hot all the same, made worse by the lovely little noise you made when your hips bumped into his. His arms were shaking as he tried to hold himself up, resolute in being a gentleman as his head began spinning, letting you take the lead. Because holy shit, you were kissing him. You were kissing him and his brain was short-circuiting and his heart was rabbiting in his chest and he couldn’t taste you the way he wanted to, but there was an undercurrent of sugar and salt that clung to his lips and he was already addicted and royally fucked.
He hummed, and that was what shook you back to reality, separating with a dry click and a rueful look pinching your face.
You flushed bright red, panting. You began to trip over your words. "I, I'm, I'm sorry. I don't know why—"
"Shhhh," Eddie soothed, nudging your nose with his. "It's okay. It's okay..."
Your mouth was a flower and he was the bee. He stung you sweetly and his lips moved like honey, slow, savoring you. You didn't protest, your body seeking him out and pulling him closer until his full weight was pressing you into the bed. He was gentle with you, a tenderness only reserved for you, and you shivered just like he imagined when his tongue split you open like a fig, lapping at your sweetness and resting his hand against your chest, feeling the frantic beat of your heart beneath his palm. Memorizing it. You let out a heady sigh and he became dizzy with it.
There was too much heat trapped between your bodies, sweat pooling between your chests, but you only pulled him closer, fingers scratching his scalp, mouths and tongues speaking a language only the two of you could understand. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth and nipped. You moaned in tandem and you returned the sentiment and Eddie couldn't help but smile against your lips, breaking the kiss.
"How 'bout now? Is this real enough for you?" he whispered, brushing his lips against yours.
You swallowed, eyes wild. "Yeah. Oh my god, yeah."
"I've been wanting to do that for a long time," Eddie admitted, head still soaring above the clouds.
"Yeah?" you asked, breathless.
"Yeah, sweetheart. Fucking crazy about you. Always have been."
Your lips curled into a big smile. The same one he fell in love with fifteen years ago. "I'm crazy about you too, Eddie."
Eddie laughed under his breath. He couldn't believe this was happening. "We're gonna need to talk about this, huh?"
“Only if you promise to kiss me again.”
Eddie’s hand smoothed up the column of your throat, his fingers resting against your pulse point as his thumb made gentle strokes that had you shivering, skin hot. “Bribing me now, are we?”
“If I were bribing you, I’d at least offer to show you my tits.”
The cool guy attitude Eddie was putting quickly dissolved and he was choking on his words like he was a fumbling virgin all over again. “Christ. You can’t just say shit like that to me, baby. Are you trying to kill me?”
You giggled. Oh, you were evil. “Don’t be coy, Edward. I know you think about what they look like. I see you staring and—”
Before you could say anything more to embarrass him, he swooped down and captured your lips in his. A sealing of your fate. It was easy as breathing, kissing you, and he would be stupid if he was gonna pass up the opportunity to steal your lips and make them his. To love them the way he loved you.
When he woefully pulled away, your eyes fluttered open, cheeks singed and loveburnt. The blue popsicle stain had been kissed away and your chest heaved and bumped into his as you took in a deep breath. Safe to say, you were a goner.
“You were saying?” Eddie said with a teasing lilt, lips tingling with the taste of you.
You swallowed roughly, hands tucking themselves behind his neck. “Kiss me like that again and we’ll never leave this room.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, baby.”
Heat pooled in Eddie’s stomach when you brought your mouth to his ear, voice dulcet and sinful as you whispered: “Don't worry, I’ll make it worth your while, pretty boy.”
-
thanks for reading xx
#eddie munson#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson drabble#eddie munson oneshot#best friend eddie munson
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casual~ c. sturniolo x reader
four times y/n was “okay” with “just casual” with chris, one time she told truth + one time he realized what he’d lost.
“my friends call me a loser
cause i’m still hanging around
i’ve heard so many rumors
that i’m just the girl that you bang on your couch”
“i just will never understand you guys,” one of y/n’s friends say, popping a chip in her mouth. “like, why are you sitting around waiting for chris?”
“because she’s obsessed with him, stupid.” another one interjects. they’re all sitting around y/n’s apartment, music playing from the t.v, snacks and drinks littering the table in front of them.
the four girls were waiting for the guys to finish setting up beer pong in the kitchen, and somehow it had turned into conversation about y/n’s less than conventional relationship with chris. go figure.
“i’m not obsessed with him,” she rolls her eyes. “and i’m not waiting for shit. we’re just casual, despite whatever you guys want to think.”
“right,” the third says, dragging out the ‘i’. she gives her a pointed look. “cause spending every waking moment together, sleeping at his house three times a week and looking at each other how you do screams casual.”
y/n laughs then, shaking her head. “it’s not that serious. can’t two people just enjoy each others times- and beds- without a relationship?”
“sure,” her best friend agrees. “two people can. you and chris though? i don’t buy it.”
“alright, fuck you guys.” y/n stands up from her place on the couch, throwing a pillow at one of her friends with a smile. “i’m going to check on what’s taking them so long.”
the walk to the kitchen is interesting, because honestly, it’s the first time y/n has really thought about her… whatever this thing with chris was from an outside perspective. it’d been a constantly changing few months, and she’d never stopped to think about how she felt in all of it.
sure, sometimes chris says stuff to her that has meaning underneath. sure, sometimes she calls him after a bad day because he always knows what to say. and sure, maybe the sex had gone from fun and wild to slightly intimate with eye contact that sometimes knocked the wind out of her. but that didn’t mean it had to mean anything different than what they wanted.
when she gets to the wall separating the hallway and the kitchen, she hears her name and freezes. “chris, bro, what the fuck is going on with you and y/n? i swear you guys are attached at the fucking hip.”
“basically his fucking girlfriend at this point,” matt, his brother, says and she can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
the girl in question finds herself waiting with bated breath for chris to answer. “fuck off, matt,” she imagines he flips him off. “she’s not my fucking girlfriend.”
it takes her by surprise the way it cracks her just a tiny bit. she knew he’d say it, knew that there was no revelation that would leave his lips. that was expected. what wasn’t expected, was how it made her feel. “we’re just fucking around. she’s a cool girl, but that’s about it.”
y/n thinks that bothers her even more than the previous answer. the words wedge their way into her stomach, wiggling around and filling her with a new, uncomfortable feeling. she thinks it may be disappointment, but she refuses to acknowledge it. chris finds her in the hallway before she can anyway.
“hey, we just finished setting up,” he sends her the most beautiful smile, one that her brain suddenly tells her he doesn’t mean. “i was just coming to find you.”
as soon as he’s in her space his hands are on her, snaking around her waist and pulling her in. he kisses her then, soft and sinfully slow. she throws the weird feelings into the fire and kisses him back just as deep.
when he pulls away, his eyebrows furrow slightly, and he gives her a concerned look. “you good?”
she’s surprised he can tell that something was bothering her. surprised he can read her face that well. it confuses her, which in turn brings those discomforting feelings right back. she looks at him, running her eyes all over him, taking him in. his bright blue eyes, the stubble framing his perfect jawline, the faded acne scar on his cheek. the moment is good, and she’s happy with them exactly as they are.
so, y/n runs her hands through his soft hair, placing a searing kiss on his lips. “i’m great. now let’s go. you’re about to get your ass kicked.”
she pulls him towards the kitchen as he laughs, stamping down the pesky voice in her head that tells her that something about this day will come back to haunt her.
-
“you said, “baby, no attachment.” but
we’re knee deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out
is it casual now?”
“fuck, chris,” y/n throws her head back, fisting her hands into chris’s scalp as his tongue works against her. the rubber band in her stomach feels like its about to snap, and she knows she can’t hold on much longer.
“so good for me, baby.” chris purrs, voice sending shocks through her core. “no one could ever know you like me. no one ever will.”
he holds her hips down as she tries to wiggle away from the feeling, her finish clawing through her. “no one.” she babbles, basically slurring from the pleasure.
“only me, ma.” his fingers are pumping unforgivingly, making her black spots appear in her vision. “say it.”
“just you, chris- jesusfuckingchrist,” her words keep sticking to each other as they basically fly from her mouth, and when he flattens his tongue on her, the rubber band explodes. “only you.”
he doesn’t stop lapping at her until she comes down from her high, and she’s a shaking mess in his front seat. he’s whispering praises to her, telling her how good she is to him, tells her how she’s never looked prettier than when she’s coming for him, and tells her he could never find anyone better than her.
when everything is said and done and chris is back in the driver’s seat, raking his hands through his hair incessantly, y/n feels an ugly feeling creeping into her gut. it’s red hot and thick, turning her cheeks warm.
she looks at chris, who’s already looking at her. “you okay? need anything?”
her heart clenches a little. because how can they be “just fucking around” when he looks at her like that?
“yeah,” she says, despite her better judgement. “just tired.”
chris nods, leaning across the middle console and plays with a stray curl. she presses her cheek into his hand, kissing it softly. the look in his eyes sends electricity through her veins.
“well, can’t have my girl unrested.” he rubs her chin between his thumb and pointer finger affectionately. “mine or yours?”
the action makes her sick with feelings. “mine.”
and it’s all she has to say before he’s pulling out of the parking lot like a man on a mission.
fuck.
-
“dumb love
i love being stupid
dream of us in a year
maybe we’d have an apartment
and you’d show me off to your friends at the pier”
the light filters through the curtains of the bedroom, causing y/n to blink her eyes open. she stretches slightly, only to find herself wrapped up in someone’s arms.
chris snores softly, lashes kissing his cheeks. his hair is everywhere, falling in pretty tendrils on the pillow. in her sleepy state, the girl reaches out, raking her hands through them.
he groans slightly, pushing his head into her hand. “that feels nice.”
she scrapes her nails in his scalp slightly, warmth filling her at his gruff voice. “good morning.”
he finally opens his eyes,which are a pretty dark blue, coated in sleep. “it is now.” the smile he gives her is blinding.
chris’s hold on her tightens. there’s no physical way for them to get any closer, but he’s trying anyway. his right hand is rubbing her back while his left sits on the swell of her ass, playing with the band of her underwear. the touches make her melt into him further.
they lay there for what seems like forever, although if you asked them, it would never be long enough. when they do finally leave the warmth of their bed, y/n is watching from the doorframe as chris brushes his teeth.
“how come you aren’t ready?” he asks through white foam, spraying it forward. he giggles at that, shrugging.
she raises an eyebrow. “ready for what?”
chris rinses his mouth, patting his face dry. “i told you that my friends from back home are here. we’re going out with them.”
“no, you said you were going out with them,” there’s confusion etched into his face as you continue. “i didn’t think that meant i was coming.”
“why the hell not?”
the surprise she feels is jarring. “you want me to meet your friends from home?”
chris gives her a look like she just shot him. he walks up to her, ducking his head down and connecting their eyes. “first of all, i want you with me literally everywhere i go.” he kisses her chastely. “second, ‘course i do. i want everyone to know you’re mine.”
it feels like the world opens up then. there’s a faint hum going through her body, like chris had single handedly brought her back to life.
the smile that paints her face is so radiant, you’d think the sun had risen right here in this room. “okay. i’ll get ready now.”
before she leaves the room, chris smacks her ass, making them both laugh. she feels the hardwood beneath her feet, feels the kisses from this morning on her skin and feels the peace all around her-
y/n’s woken up by the sound of her phone going off. she’s disoriented, wiping away the sleep with stiff hands. when she comes to fully, she’s in her bedroom, alone, with a longing that threatens to knock her right back out.
that was new. dreaming of chris like that. the way every single touch, every single kiss and every single feeling was so painfully real. it was getting self destructive now, the way that she was coming to realize her feelings, but ignoring them every time.
she picks up her phone to look at the time, 1:47 AM, and the texts that cover her screen.
chris <3
1:04 am
wyd
chris <3
1:17 am
come over
chris <3
1:32 am
need you here
there’s something different in the way she feels while reading them. there’s no excitement, no thrill or pleasure that runs up her spine. there’s nothing but a hollow pit in her stomach, making her nauseous.
her mind reminds her ruthlessly of her dream; the way he held her so tight. the way he called her his, and the way it felt to be wanted by him. she knew that this was no longer casual, the way she wanted to be next to him all the time. they way she found herself right there whenever he asked. the way her heart sped up whenever he looked at her. it felt like she was in fucking quicksand, with every time she tried to ignore and drown out her constantly growing feelings for chris, the deeper she sank.
she wants to say no. she wants to turn around and go right back to sleep. to finally admit that this is hurting her way worse than she’s made herself believe. but she’d be kidding herself to believe that there was ever a way for her to deny anything chris wanted. he might not be hers, but she damn sure was his.
was asleep. give me 15 n i’m on my way.
she tries to convince herself she’s fine the entire drive over there.
-
“two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
is it casual now?
…and i try to be the chill girl
that holds her tongue and gives you space
i try to be the chill girl
but honestly, i’m not.”
“i’m sorry?”
there’s a deafening silence in y/n’s head when the the words come out of chris’ moms mouth. like the loud buzz and click when turning off a static screen television.
she wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten into this situation. when chris brought it up to her, she was gobsmacked the exact same as now, mouth floundering helplessly.
“my parents are coming next week.” chris says from his place in front of the open fridge. he was rooting around for the last of the soda you kept in there specifically for him.
“i’m glad. i know you said you were missing them recently.” y/n is cooking dinner for the two of them, pasta, cause chris was craving it. she tries not to think of the implications of the scene.
“yeah, i was.”
he’s behind her now, looking over her shoulder at what she’s doing. “can you come over one night? i want you to meet them.”
y/n nearly chucks the pot off the stove with how quick she moves. “you want me to what?”
“holy shit.” chris backs up as she faces him. “you scared the fuck out of me.” he laughs, but she doesn’t return it. she’s just staring at him with wide eyes. something akin to hope blooms in her chest.
“why do you want me to meet your parents?”
chris looks at her like she just asked him to streak. his eyebrows are knitted together, and his eyes are searching hers. “why wouldn’t i?” he shrugs.
she thinks he can’t possibly know what he’s asking. he’s speaking about it so casually that she thinks she might explode. might crumble to the floor beneath his feet. as always.
“i dunno,” she says carefully. trying to find any indication in his face that they were more than she thought from his perspective. “i didn’t know that we were there yet is all.”
chris’ face flashes in recognition then. “ohhhh. no, no,” he laughs like she just told the most hilarious joke in the fucking world. “not like… not like that.”
the words actually make her start to lose consciousness a little. “like that?”
“yeah. not like as a girlfriend or anything.” he has no idea that he’s killing her slowly. “i meant because you’re one of my closest friends. like i know we’re doing this lowkey thing or whatever, but we’re still friends right?”
it would’ve hurt less if he shot her at point blank range.
she nods then, forcing herself to smile. the hope has been smothered just as quick as it started to grow. “yeah, of course. i’d love to.”
he kisses her sweetly before asking if she needs any help cooking for the sixth time today. she says no, and he tells her he’d be in her living room watching TV until she’s done.
it’s only when he left the room did she let herself fall apart.
she feels eerily similar to that moment right now. confused and slightly afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“i said, we’re going on vacation soon and we would love it if you came!” his mom repeats, her smile full and unwavering. “chris never shuts up about you, and you’ve been an absolutely light to be around tonight. we’d love to have you.”
“mom—“, chris groans from next to her in the couch, cheeks turning pink. matt and nick are laughing at him. “quit it. you’re scaring her.”
he didn’t protest. he didn’t shut it down. what the fuck does that mean?
“i wouldn’t want to impose—“ y/n starts, stuttering slightly. her palms are sweating and she feels nervousness pooling in her stomach.
“as if,” nick says. “it would be even better with you there.” matt silently agrees, nodding his head.
she has no idea what to do and chris is looking at her with the most indescribable look she’s ever seen in her god damn life. so she relents. “i’d love to. let me just make sure i’m free.”
his mom’s smile only grows, mirroring chris completely. she turns to nick to talk about something after it’s decided, and y/n’s head is left reeling. chris leans into her ear.
“you don’t have to go, you know.” he says. slowly, she turns her head to him. their faces are close, and she searches his eyes for anything to make her feel better.
“do you want me to?”
his answer is immediate. “of course.”
she knows the next question is heavy, for her at least, so she plasters a small smirk on her lips, raising her eyebrows. “catching feelings, christopher?”
he chuckles, tightening his arm around her shoulders. she envies his ability to go with the flow. to take things as they are. she can’t.
“you wish.”
it shatters her then, but she nuzzles further down into his side anyway. she laughs at the jokes the boys make, the stories his parents tell and the embarrassed blush on chris’s’ neck.
she asks questions when she should, nods and smiles at him when he looks at her. she does it all. for the rest of the night, she acts just like she should, plays her role as the nonchalant, down for whatever friends-with-benefits/situationship/casual relationship girl.
in reality though, she can tell it’s time. can tell by the way her heart constricts when he laughs. by the way she never wants to be away from him. by the way the thought of him wanting her to be so involved in his life is something she craves so bad. she loves him, and its hurting her.
it’s no longer casual, and it’s time to accept it.
-
“i hate that i let this drag on so long, now i hate myself
hate that i let this drag on so long, you can go to hell.”
“chris?” y/n walks out the bathroom in one of his shirts and her underwear, towel drying her hair. the boy in question looks up from his phone. “have you seen my red bra with the lace trim?”
he raises his eyebrow. “i thought you had on a black one tonight?���
she rolls her eyes, throwing the towel into the laundry basket. “yes, christopher, i did. but you know the red one’s my favorite and i haven’t seen it in a while.”
he shrugs, pointing at his dresser. “oh yeah. you left it here when you were over here, one time. it’s in the dresser.”
for some reason, the words hit her like a freight train. she pauses, completely unknown to chris who’s still very much into his phone. when she gets to the dresser, she opens it, and sure enough, there it is.
something about it makes hysteria build in her body. she feels like screaming, feels like sinking into the ground to never be seen again. everything inside her that had been simmering inside her the last five months had finally bubbled over. she couldn’t take it anymore.
“what i am to you, chris?”
she didn’t mean for it to come out, but she’s glad it did. glad that she was finally done denying herself the truth that she rightfully deserved.
his head snaps to hers instantly, eyes wide. “what?”
“you heard me,” y/n walks to her bag that’s sitting on his desk chair. she shoves her legs through her shorts, standing straight and looking chris dead in the eye. “what the fuck are we doing here?”
for a moment, there’s nothing. she can tell the cogs in his head are moving a hundred miles an hour by the way his eyes are scanning her face. “we’re what we’ve always been. we’re hanging out. we’re friends.”
“friends,” she mutters bitterly. “right.”
chris sits up finally, turning his entire body towards her. his phone is tossed and forgotten. “where the hell is this coming from?”
“you just had me meet your fucking parents.” she says slowly, enunciating every word. “they fucking invited on vacation with your family,” the room is spinning for her. running past her in a flurry of color and heartbreak, “you keep my favorite fucking bra in your dresser, and you expect me to be okay with “we’re friends?””
chris can tell that something is wrong. sure anyone with functioning social awareness could tell, but he knows something is really, really wrong.
he stands, rounding the bed, coming face to face with her. he reaches out to touch her, and it’s the first time in the history of their entanglement that she steps away. the hurt on his face is palpable. but for once, y/n doesn’t care about how chris feels. or what chris wants.
“come here.” he says.
“no,” she shakes her head. she looks at him then, really looks. slides her eyes over the fluffiness of his drying hair, straight out the shower. the way his eyes sink in just a bit, contrasting with the bright blue they usually possess. the way his nose slopes and perfectly frames his face. the way his mouth, which has been so good to her, naturally leans upward and to the right, always faintly smirking. she takes in everything about him, snapping a photo in her mind so she can remember it after this moment.
y/n takes a deep breath. one she’s needed for a while. “i’m done with this.”
“what are you talking about?” she tries to convince herself it isn’t panic she hears. “stop being ridiculous and talk to me.”
“i am talking, chris. you’re just choosing not to listen.”
she walks to her bag, grabbing the things that she can see are hers. she spots her tank top on the ground, snatching it up and turning her back to chris quickly, stripping off her- his shirt. she thrusts it into his chest.
“i can’t pretend to be okay with this anymore. i tried, i really did. but it hurts. and i refuse to keep ignoring what i need to be what you do.”
the words smack chris right in the center of his forehead, the way it seems. that look, the one she can never fucking figure out, is right back on his face. it’s not her problem anymore.
he can’t think of anything to say. he’s terrified, but he doesn’t know how to fix this. so what comes out is, “you said you were okay with this. that this is what you wanted.”
y/n’s movements cease and she stares at him. they may be right in front of each other, yet there’s nothing between them but space.
“i was,” she admits. “but now i’m not. so i need you to look me in face right now and tell me what you want. cause i can’t do casual anymore, chris.”
when he doesn’t speak, her words fill the space. “i can’t wake up in your bed five nights of the week with you wrapped around me and call it casual. can’t hear you call me ‘your girl’ and pretend that when we fuck it’s casual. you can’t continuously treat me like your world and then back out when i expect it from you.”
she wishes he would say something, anything. instead, he stands in front of her, desperation haunting his features. she wants to give in, to tell him it’s okay. but she can’t. she won’t.
“i can’t give you a relationship, if that’s what you’re saying.” he runs his hair through his hair. he looks about as stressed as she feels. “i like you, but i’m not ready for that.”
y/n scoffs. it feels like a severed connection. like he just cut the tether between them with a hacksaw. “you can, but you won’t.” she smiles sadly, “and that’s okay. i don’t want you to do something that makes you unhappy.”
she walks to him then, gently placing her hand on his cheek. despite the cavity that’s being carved in place of her heart, she loves him. “i hope, on that at least, you feel the same.”
there’s really nothing else she needs to say, and she doesn’t really think there’s much else she can stomach to hear. so she removes herself from his space, and begins to try to remove him from hers.
he doesn’t try to stop her as she leaves. she doesn’t expect him to. she thinks that tells her everything.
-
y/n groans as she pulls into her unofficial, official parking spot in front of her apartment complex after work. her entire body aches, and she can’t wait to collapse in her bed.
her phone pings loudly, making her jump. she has that momentary adrenaline rush that she always does when she hears it, even after nearly a month. she wouldn’t say she was holding on to hope that he would text her, but the thought still lives in the back of her head.
it dies as quickly as it always does when she checks, though. her mom had sent her a link to some new recipe she wanted to try. she doesn’t even have the energy to heart the message.
she grabs her bag, trudging up the insane amount of stairs, grumbling about how she can’t wait for her lease to be up. it’s only when she turns the corner to the hallway leading to her apartment that she stops dead in her fucking tracks, body going numb.
there, in all his unfortunately sexy glory, is chris. he’s sitting on the ground outside her door, arms hanging off his knees. through the darkness, y/n can see him in her favorite jacket that he owns, a dark blue and white flannel type, and black, loose jeans hanging off his slouched frame.
she has no idea how long she stands there, unmoving and not uttering a word, but eventually, chris looks up.
he basically jumps up, straightening his clothes. “hi.”
she pushes her feet to move, but they don’t. “hi?”
chris scratches the back of his neck nervously. “sorry to just show up like this- fuck this is probably weird, right?- i just-“ he sucks in a breath. “i wanted to talk to you.”
“oh.” she says dumbly, eyes still wide. “yeah. okay.”
neither of them know what to say, or what to do. they’re just standing ten feet apart, staring like they’ve both seen a ghost. it’s only when y/n’s neighbor comes out of their apartment and she has to get out of the way does she move.
her feet carry her on autopilot, mind blank as she walks to her door. she’s so acutely aware of chris behind her as she opens it. it’s a funny thing, falling in love with someone. your body never forgets how they made you feel. she feels like chris must have a magnet underneath his clothes, the way she’s being pulled towards him.
once they’re inside and the lights are on, she sets her stuff down on the dining room table. she takes in a deep breath, steeling her heart before turning to him.
“so what’s up-“
“i miss you.”
they speak at the same time, but chris doesn’t falter when she gapes at him. “i’m sorry for being a fucking idiot. i’m sorry for hurting you.”
there’s not enough time for her to process anything before he’s walking towards her, slowly, like she might disappear if he makes a sudden move.
“what the fuck?”
it makes him smile slightly. he looks down for a second before closing the remaining space between them. he’s right in front of her now, and feels every hair on her body raise. his eyes are so honest, so open that it kind of takes her breath away. there’s a tiredness to him. like he hadn’t been sleeping well. his eye bags are deeper than before, eyes a little more sunken in. his facial hair is more grown out than she’s ever seen it, pronounced five o’clock shadow that makes him look well beyond his years.
“i always wanted more. i think i was just being a pussy. do you remember when i asked you to meet my parents?” she nods. how could she forget? “that night, i’d been watching you in the kitchen, dancing around and cooking. asking me to try the sauce every time you added something. kicking me out when i got too close or when i asked you if you wanted help again.”
he chuckles, like he’s thinking about his favorite memory. “i was looking at you and i knew that i was in love with you. it hit me like a fucking bus. so i asked you to meet my parents.”
y/n physically can’t do anything but stare at him like he’s telling her the secrets of the universe.
“when you said you “didn’t think we were there yet”…” he trails off, pink tinting his cheeks. “well, it scared the shit out of me. for so many reasons. i thought that meant you didn’t feel the same. then i got scared because i thought i was falling for you and this was still something you could replace.”
she doesn’t know what to say at the confession. doesn’t know how to feel either. it seemed beyond her comprehension that there was ever a time, during their entire relationship, that chris thought his feelings were unrequited.
“why the fuck didn’t you say something when i left that night?” she says incredulously. “you let me walk out of your house thinking you didn’t feel the same. do you know how bad that hurt?”
chris cringes at the reminder. “i know, and i’m so fucking sorry. i’ve replayed that night over in my head literally a million times wishing i could change it.” when he knows she won’t back away, he puts a hand on the space between her cheek and neck. “i do feel the same way, y/n. i always have. i’m sorry i was too chicken shit to tell you. and i’m sorry that you ever felt like you had to keep hurting yourself to make me happy.”
y/n feels her resolve slipping. looking at chris, standing in her apartment after a month of missing him, of wishing he would do exactly what he’s doing now, has her heart beating a thousand miles an hour. that pesky little hope fly, the one she’d thought she squished and smothered, rears its ugly head again.
above all though, she’s cautious. her heart is still tender from the break it took, and she can’t do that again. she gives him a lost look, like despite all he said, she’s still missing something.
he gets closer, lips a hair away. “ask me again.”
“ask you what?”
“what you asked me that night.” he snakes a hand up her hips to her waist. it’s searing, leaving fire in its trace. “ask me again.”
she thinks back, when she realizes, her eyes soften. “what am i to you, chris?” her voice is nothing but a whisper, scared to burst the bubble around them. the moment is so sensitive and soft, the juxtaposition of the original harshness of the question definitely not lost on her.
“you’re everything to me. you’ve been my girlfriend since probably the third week we started this thing,” her breath hitches. “you’re someone i never want to lose again.”
and when he kisses her, cause he just knows, y/n feels herself exhale. feels the pieces of her heart click back in place. it’s like finding a lost puzzle piece under a couch cushion. like the first sip of ice cold water on a scorching day.
she grabs on to him tightly, losing herself in it completely. his lips chase her every way she moves, not standing to be disconnected. it’s messy and beautiful and right. it’s all the miscommunication, fear of the unknown and doubt circling down the metaphorical drain.
she pulls away to speak, but chris doesn’t let her up. she gives him one, two, three kisses back to back before she turns her head, laughing relentlessly. “chris!”
he doesn’t stop smothering her, placing his lips on the corner of her mouth, her neck, her cheek— everywhere he can reach.
“it’s been so long. you can’t expect me to not want you close, baby.”
her heart swells ten times in size, filling her ribcage beautifully. she grabs his face in her hands, raising a stern eyebrow. “i have to say something.” chris pouts slightly, and because she’s waited so long for this, and he’s looking at her like he could never live a second without her, she places one more lingering kiss to his full lips.
“i love you, too, by the way.”
the way his face lights up has even the brightest star withering in envy. he wraps his arms all the way around her body, pulling her impossibly closer.
who knows how long they stay there, heart to heart, finally, finally exactly where they should’ve been all along.
and when they lay close in y/n’s bed that night, skin to skin and deliriously happy, they both have the same thought.
fuck casual.
TAG LIST:
@cottoncandyswisherz @peachmels @sugrhigh @tastesousweet @rootbeerworshiper @hollandsangel @55sturn @greatooglymooglyyy @sturnolio-luvs @mattsobvimyfav @misscocodiorsblog @pepsiboyy @braindead4l @mxqdii @fawnchives @hearts4chriss @certifiednatelover @nmegamett20 @imaslut4kehlani @dominicfikue @wovenribbons @streamermattsgf @pr1ncessmatt @pinksturniolo @yourfavoritefangirl @nickmillersn1gf @freshxsturniolo @sturniolobltch @mattspolitank @lookingformyromeo @alorsxsturn @imwetforyourmom @kiarastromboli @sleepysturnss @mattscoquette @sturncakez @inkyray @simply-a-simper @lanas-doll @wh0resstuff @chrryclouds @hypnotizedsturn @riowritesitall @kitaysworld @h3arts4harry @fikefries @conspiracy-ash @matty-bear @always-reading @thehighgrounds
a/n: jesus fuck this shit took me FOREVER. i hope yall like it cause i spent so long tweaking it and rewriting some parts cause i wanted it to be perfect. this song also is embedded in my bones and i’m obsessed with it so bad. how we feeling cherrie nation!!!
also yes before y’all start… number neighbor!ten will be up with in the hour!! i wanted to post a bunch cause i’ve been working so fucking much and finally had a real day off. back at it tomorrow doe </3
anyways love yall so bad i hope u like it 🥹
#matt sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#christopher sturniolo#chris sturniolo#nick sturniolo#nicolas sturniolo#sturniolo edit#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo imagine#matt sturniolo imagine#matt sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo x reader#matthew sturniolo#sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo headcanon#chris sturniolo texts#chris sturniolo fanfic#christopher sturniolo x reader#matt stuniolo fanfic#matt sturniolo texts#matt sturniolo headcanon#matt sturniolo x you#matt sturniolo fluff#chris sturniolo x you#Spotify
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omg hi!! hope ur doing well i love ur writing btw, (play fake is one of my fav fics ive EVER read!!)
could u do a fic where rafe and reader are like best friends, and they’ve always both kinda liked each other but they dont really act upon it, until rafe gets a buzzcut and reader starts acting like real shy and clumsy around him bcs she’s shocked abt how he could get even MORE attractive, and then he gets linda confused so he asks her why she’s acting so different and then she tells him? make it as smutty and fluffy as u want! 🫶🫶
first off, ily 🥹 and omg, YES!! i've been thinking about this ever since i got your req in my inbox, so here's my very earnest attempt at doing it justice 🩷
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
pairing rafe cameron x bsf!female reader
reader type kook, spontaneous, loves adventure, hates silence, loves noises, doesn't exactly like her reality, and friends with topper and kelce, but is only close to rafe!
content (5.3k words) 18+, fluff, smut, soft!rafe to reader only, protected p in v, f receiving oral, lots of banter!, nicknames used: baby and wildflower.
dedication to @mintforadollar for helping me with the nickname and for @erwinsvow for her lovely fic, which i drew inspiration from and i've been obsessing over for the past two weeks <3
lıllılı Wildflower by 5 Seconds of Summer
‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
"I want to run away."
It takes a moment for Rafe to register your confession and his response is a drowsy laugh. "Buy a guy dinner first."
You let out a groan, slumping against your wrinkled sheets and abundant pillows spread across your bed. "I'm being serious, Rafe. I'm tired of this house. It's too empty and quiet. I can't stand it. At night, I think I can hear my skin buzzing."
Rafe is accustomed to your sporadic calls regarding whatever issues you had with the world. Last week, it was about the insufficient amount of family portraits that frame the halls of your mansion.
"Maybe you just need to change your sheets."
"Stop!" You chastise. Rafe chokes up with another beat of laughter, low and rich with the deep timbre of his voice. The sound temporarily draws you away from your rant, igniting a small ember in your stomach. You brush away those tingly thoughts. "You're not listening to me."
"I think I'm listening to you perfectly fine, wildflower." He reassures, the solemnity of his tone takes you off the edge. Rafe shuffles on the other line, moving to a sitting position against his headboard. "What do you want? Do you want me to come pick you up?"
You cower from his offer, tucking one of your pillows under your chin. "You don't have to..."
"Don't get all shy with me now. You can't act this way when you're waking me up in the dead of night to report about your getaway plans."
"I feel bad."
Rafe sighs, getting off his bed. He knows the outcome of this conversation and rather prepares himself for the short drive. "I'm heading over."
"I could walk."
"It's freezing outside."
"Your house is down the block. I can survive."
"I'm already out the door. Just stay put." Rafe announces and before he's about to disconnect the call, he adds. "I'm serious."
He arrives in record time. Honking his truck with no regards for the nearby neighbors and you pad downstairs with a bag, descending down the driveway to the passenger side of his truck. A little shiver travels down your spine at the cool North Carolina weather.
"God, what did I tell you?" He scolds, noticing your lack of outwear, and reaches for the blanket in the backseats he keeps just for you. He throws it at your face, suffocating your air with a fluffy white fleece. You roll your eyes, covering your shoulders with it as Rafe reverses. "Where do you want to go?"
"Thought I'm supposed to buy you a meal first."
He doesn't bother entertaining your retort with a glance and flicks the side of your head with his fingers. You giggle. "We're not running away."
"Who said you're included in this adventure? I remember it being a one-person job."
Rafe scoffs. "You can't run away. You'd miss me too much."
"No, you'd miss me too much." You tease back, watching his lips pull to an upward curve at your words. It makes your heart flutters, knowing you always manage to get this side of Rafe. To the rest of Outer Banks, Rafe is seen as a precarious, self-absorbed playboy, but to you, he's your best friend.
And a little more.
The truck parks on the roadside of Tannyhill, the silhouettes of the estate surrounded by shadowy oak trees and a deep reflection of the moon on their waterfront view. Rafe doesn't make a move to leave, nor turn off the engine, before he turns to you.
"You okay?" He asks gravely, all humor stripped off his handsome features. You feel the air of your lungs stolen, at the amount of attention he's paying you, and the atmospheric change turns you to a bashful version of yourself.
"Fine." You answer, looking to your lap. "You know..."
Despite your house being a near-identical model to Rafe's, you hate yours. It's nothing about the architecture but rather the emptiness of the hallways. The cold floors sweep with minimalist decors. The echoes in the chambers where you can hear every little whirl in the air conditioner and creaks in the pipes. You'd rather be at Tannyhill.
Rafe doesn't say anything for the next few moments, observing you, before conceding a sigh. "Tell you what. I'll take you out on the Druthers tomorrow. We'll go bright and early, sail out for a couple of hours, watch the sunrise and it'll be something."
You lift your head, eyes lit up. "Is this our escape?"
"We gotta come back, though."
You frown but the offer remains enticing. It's better than nothing.
"Okay, deal." You nod, holding out your pinkie finger. Rafe scoffs at your gesture, but nonetheless, returns it. "Don't look so glum. You get to hang out with me."
"You do realize we have about three hours of sleep?"
You glance at the clock on his dashboard. He's right. But, you don't want to hold it off till another day. "I can go by myself. Just give me the keys for tomorrow."
He rolls his eyes, as if he would even consider that suggestion, and shakes his head. "I'm coming with you."
"Aren't you afraid you won't get your beauty sleep?"
"Shut up and get in the house."
You laugh and hop out of his truck. When you enter through his bedroom, you throw your bag to a random corner and stroll over to his closet in search for one of Rafe's tees to sleep in.
When you settle on something, you strip out of your clothes—in the middle of his bedroom, just as Rafe enters—and exchange it for his shirt. He had little regard for your act, having grown accustomed to you changing in front of him and vice versa.
All Rafe does is pull off his own shirt, because he likes to sleep naked, and turns back to you. Unlike him, you're never going to get used to seeing him naked—the defined muscles of his chest, the toned planes of his abs, all those hours spent at the gym are clearly not wasted.
You flush, realizing you're ogling him longer than appropriate, and lift your gaze to find a smirk curving his lips. "Oh, shut it," you push his shoulders, causing him to laugh. He takes the opportunity to capture your hand, pulling the both of you onto his mattress, and you yelp.
Rafe changes your position so you're facing him, an arm sprawls over your waist, and there's about a couple of inches of space between the two of you. Here, in the low streams of the moonlight glistening through the veiled curtains and the faint aroma of his cologne on his pillows, you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears.
You say nothing. He says nothing, You stare into his cerulean eyes, knowing all this little emotions you're feeling all over—the light pricks on your skin where he touches you, the lapse in your breathing from how attentive he is, and the sharp incline of your heart rate pulsing through your veins—is because of him.
His voice is low when he says, "you know you're my best friend, right?"
You couldn't find it in you to answer. You just nod.
Rafe swallows hard, not having the ability to string together the next sentence. Instead, all he does is nod along, leaning forward to place a light kiss on your forehead, before falling asleep.
The next morning, just an hour before the sunrise, Rafe and you head to the ports to board the Druthers. Despite the lack of adequate sleep, you were giddily and strumming with high energy. He holds out his hand to guide you up the stairs, afraid your enthusiasm would cause you to miss a step.
When the Druthers is far enough from shore, it pulls to a halt, gently bobbing on the ocean waves of the tame morning. You settle on the deck and Rafe slides into the spot next to you. Here, you have the perfect view of the sun slowly rising from the horizon, painting the sky in a palette of red, orange and yellow.
You're grinning. You're feeling much better, especially after your melodramatic episode. Your head rests on Rafe's chest, observing the skyline until the sun reaches its acme, while he watches you. Something about you, happy, content, and with him brings a warmth no one can replicate.
"We have to go swimming." You announce suddenly, twisting your head to look at him with excitement bubbling on your features, doe eyes pleading with a want.
His expression is flat, trying to contain his emotions. "It's seven in the morning."
"So? When has that stopped me before?"
"It's freezing cold."
"That's your excuse for everything." You scoff, before tilting your head in a challenge. "Are you scared of a little water, Rafe Cameron?"
There's a twinkle in your eyes, something about the way you talk to him, he would never allow from anyone else. It's just you. He had to look away, pretending to shake his head from the idea but knowing, at the end, he lost.
With a long dip into the ocean, you swim around the Druthers with light splashes thrown in his face, causing Rafe to chase after you for your little stunt. When the pair of you returned to the boat, dripping wet on the floor deck, laughter exchanging at the break of dawn.
"You cheated!" You accuse, grinning.
"I did not. You're just slow."
When you change out of your bikini and Rafe changes out of his swim trunks, you return to the cockpit where Rafe dons a new attire: khaki pants, a polo shirt, and his backward baseball cap. The air shifts, a more solemn expression on his face.
"You had enough now, wildflower?" He tips his head to your direction, as you approach him. "Ready to return back to the real world?"
You groan. "What's so special about that place?"
"Nothing that matters to you," he declares, "but I have a couple of errands I have to run today. I have to get back, but I won't leave until you're feeling better."
"Hm." You consider your satisfaction. Standing before Rafe, you watch as his lips curl in amusement at the way you're mauling through the finer details. The itinerary of your day and whether it was enough. When your eyes lock with his, you offer him a sweet smile, albeit a little reluctant.
"What?"
You don't answer him, reaching for his hat and taking it off his head, before plopping it over your own as a keepsake souvenir. "Now, I am."
—
After spending your afternoon with Topper and Kelce at the Country Club, distracting them from their tee time with your commentary about their swings, Rafe finally arrives to join you.
But it's different.
When Rafe said he had a couple of errands to run, you didn't ask for their specifics. He just said he'll join you later and you were content with that assumption.
You should've prepared yourself.
Rafe got a new haircut; a buzz that took away his dirty blond locks and a clean fade on the sides. For some reason, it makes your heart accelerate. Your breath shortens. Rafe has always been attractive before but now, you couldn't even look at him.
When he tries to approach you in greeting, you dip out of the way and return to Topper and Kelce. However, in the middle of your path, you nearly tripped over some hazardously-abandoned golf club one of the boys threw out, but Rafe caught you. A hand on your elbow, his brows drawn together in concern.
"You good?" He asks. You can't help but let your eyes stray up to his hairline, finding it voided of the curtain bangs it previously occupies and the strands you like to mess with. Your gaze instantly drops to the ground.
"I'm–I'm fine." You stutter, heat rising to your cheeks from the embarrassing fact that you couldn't even make a clean getaway. Rafe helps you find your balance and you slip out of his grasp as you excuse yourself back to the other Kooks.
That's how the rest of the evening went. Through another round of golf and a dinner at the restaurant inside the Country Club, you try to ignore Rafe to the best of your abilities. It was a difficult task but a necessary one. Your emotions were fuzzy and harder to control. You couldn't even look at your best friend without flushing or revealing everything on your face.
You thought you could wait it out till you get home.
"Come on, wildflower." Rafe grabs your wrist, just as you're about to join Topper in his car, and you turn to face his contempt expression. Annoyance written over his features. "I'm driving you home."
"No, it's fine. Top said he can give me a ride—"
"We live nearby each other. There's no point for Top to do all that. Right?" Rafe cuts a hard look to the blond in the driver seat, to whom easily backs off with two hands raised in surrender. Coward. Rafe turns back to you. "Let's go."
You end up in the passenger seat of his truck. On the long drive back to Figure Eight, you were uncharacteristically quiet. Often, you would fidget with the stereo, messing with Rafe's presets on country and rap stations, to which he always has to swat your hands away. Today, you sat obediently in your seat, hands tucked between your thighs, looking anywhere but Rafe.
"You're not going to listen to music?" He asks, trying to cut the silence. You shake your head.
"I'm not feeling it."
You try to count the seconds. You try to distract yourself by looking out the window and listening to the chirps of crickets coming out, but all you can focus on is the sound of yours and Rafe's breathing. The acute awareness of something in the air. The amount of space between the two of you. The way something deep in you changed about him.
It isn't his fault. Whatsoever. It's all yours. All those times spent at Tannyhill, stealing his shirts to wear to sleep, cuddling up in his bed after sneaking out of your estate, running around with Rafe doing god-knows-what. You developed something for him. A crush. An inkling.
You always told yourself you could control it. It's natural for best friends to like each other at one point. It'll fade away eventually.
But, unfortunately for you, that isn't the case. it got worse. It grew more desperate. With each inching territory into something else means a larger consequence it can have on your friendship.
You can't lose him.
"Hey." Rafe calls out, his voice softens considerably from the aggression he used with Topper a while back. You don't turn to face him, despite that being his sole objective, and you respond back with a light hum. "Am I driving you home or Tannyhill?"
To you, those are the same things. Home is where Tannyhill is, where Rafe is. But, you knew what he was referring to.
"Tannyhill." You answer in a chipped tone. "I forgot my bag."
"Of course, you did." He teases, trying to break the tension with some lightheartedness. It doesn't work. You don't answer, too lost in resisting the urge to look at him.
Rafe sighs when you refuse to acknowledge him and turns back to the road. That's when you spare a glance from the corner of your peripheral; just a small peek.
And there he is: Rafe with the fresh shave that is such a strange yet welcomed sight. It brings out a clearer definition of his handsome features, the planes of his sharp profile, the cut of his jawline and the wrinkles around his eyes you always adore. It's too much for you.
You can't let him know that.
He's your best friend.
When he reaches Tannyhill, you leap out of the moving vehicle and race up the porch. You take the hidden key from under the mat and turn the lock, slipping into the familiar foyer and up the large stairwell.
Racing against an internal clock, once you enter the bedroom, you search for your bag, but you can't seem to pinpoint its location. When you manage to miraculously find it underneath the covers, you throw it over your shoulders and sprint to the exit.
Only for Rafe to block it.
"Why are you in such a rush?" He asks, his brows furrowed together as he examines you. You quickly drop your gaze to the ground, pretending to be interested in the patterns on the marble.
"I just..." You stammer for an excuse. "I just got to get home."
"Why? You hate your house."
"I don't hate it." You lie. The conversation tips into an awkward tension—the exact thing you were trying to avoid. You think you need to spend a day, or two, or a whole week, to collect yourself and force yourself back to normal. Back to when you can look at him without revealing everything on your face.
"God, what is it? You don't like it?" Rafe laughs with an ounce of nervousness and the sound takes you back. You look up, finding him running a hand over his buzzcut. "It's my hair, isn't it?"
He didn't know why he decided to buzz it off. He just did. He didn't care if his father didn't approve or if Wheezie would make fun of him for the sudden change in appearance. That didn't matter to him.
But your opinions did.
"What?" Your lips part. Were you that obvious? "I never said that."
"You didn't need to. This entire evening, you've barely looked at me."
He's right.
"I was busy."
"Playing golf with Top? You hate that shit." He retorts, dropping his hand to his side, clenching them into whiten knuckles. "And when we were at the restaurant. You were sitting with Kelce. Why the fuck were you sitting with him instead of me?"
You swallow hard. Your throat is tightening with all the words you can't reveal.
"Maybe I just want to change it up. I am friends with them too—"
"But you're my friend first."
You scoff. "Possessive much?"
"Very." He answers nonchalantly. Your heart skips a beat. He can't say that; it's not fair. "And knowing you for so long, I know what you're telling me is complete and total bullshit."
His hand slides under your jaw, lifting your gaze to meet his, and you can't help but feel your walls crumbling. You're afraid. You're so afraid.
"Come on, wildflower." He murmurs softly, swiping his thumb across your cheek. "Tell me the truth."
You have always been able to do that. In ways. When Rafe asks something of you, you're always able to tell him straight. It's one of the qualities he likes about you. Now is the first time you're going against your nature. Because it's too close, too real, that it can change everything.
Your throat grows dry and you lick your bottom lip, causing Rafe to glance down.
"I..." You begin, trying to string together a coherent sentence that won't damage everything. He raises a brow, waiting. "Sometimes it's hard for me to look at you."
You close your eyes after the confession. Your heart is in his hands.
All the air in the room stills, as if the air conditioner turns off and you're all left with a tense, palpable silence. You can't bear it. At least, at your house, you can blast your speakers on full-volume to create some level of noise and block it out. Here, all you can hear is the thumping of your heart in your ears.
"Say something." You urge.
"Sometimes it's hard for me to look at you too."
Your heart drops. You think he doesn't understand. He thinks you can't stand him physically, especially after his haircut, and this is a similar sentiment shared by him about you.
He doesn't feel the same way.
"Oh."
You open your eyes, trying hard not to cry. You can feel them swelling with hot tears but you blink fast, trying to not let Rafe see.
He immediately recognizes the look, drawing back his hand. That’s not what he meant. "Don't cry."
You're not doing a good job at hiding anything today. "No, it's okay," you say with a crack voice, "you don't have to—"
"No, fuck," he swears, "what I mean is that, sometimes, when you look at me, I just—" He couldn't explain himself, not in time, not in the way he wants, that he covers your eyes, flooding your vision with darkness and heightening every other sense.
Rafe releases a deep exhale, collecting himself. "Those eyes..." He mumbles, the resonance of his voice so close, it's as if he's right beside you. You feel his breathing fanning against the curve of your neck, raising goosebumps. "They drive me fucking insane."
Then, he kisses your neck.
The act jolts you by surprise.
"Everything about you drives me insane." He confesses against your heated skin, the vibration of his words sending straight tingles through your body. "I can't go a day without thinking about you. About wanting you."
Not just as a best friend, but as a whole. Everything about you he needs. In his life; forever. Sometimes, he can't believe you exist.
You're overwhelmed with all these new emotions. Your heart is swelling. "Rafe..."
"You're my best friend, right?" He muses, delivering kisses up the column of your throat to the underside of your jaw, and making his way closer to your lips. "But you're also the only one for me."
Before he gets to your mouth, you grab his wrist, the one holding you blindfolded. He stops in place—afraid this is your time to reject him.
"Rafe." You breathe out. "Can I see you?"
He slowly removes his hand, allowing your vision to flood back with his presence. This time, the sight of Rafe doesn't push you into overdrive. There's a new sense of clarity and calm, an elated comfort you don't share with anyone else.
You take your time drinking him in. From his face, to his lips, to the fresh haircut you're feeling entirely too grateful for. You do it all without fear.
"What?" He demands, his insecurities skyrocketing through the roof. "Don't like it?"
"I love you."
His heart lunges in his chest. He couldn't believe the words coming from your lips. When it completely registers that this is not some sweet, wet dream he's going to wake up from, his hands reach forward to cup either side of your face and he finally kisses you.
His force pushes you back against his bed and you land on the mattress with a soft thump. You laugh into his mouth and Rafe grins against your lips.
"Eager, much?"
"I wanted to hear you say that for so long." He admits, his hand travels down your waist to grab your hips and pull you closer. Rafe deepens the kiss, swallowing the little sounds you're making, until you have to pull away to catch your breath.
You can't believe this is happening.
"I didn't know you were such a good kisser."
"Yeah? You wanna know what else I'm good at?"
Your eyes drop to his pants, seeing the subtle outline of his erection straining against his zipper, and he chuckles lowly. "You want it tonight?"
You nod timidly. Your eyes dropping to your lap again, but this time, Rafe doesn't allow you to do such things.
He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to his. "Don't do that, baby. You know how I feel about you getting shy from asking what you want. Use your words."
The new nickname is making you lightheaded. You can't believe this is real. "I want you, Rafe."
Sweetest goddamn words he ever heard.
He tips his head to your clothes. "Take it off."
"You first."
He laughs at your competitiveness, always trying to challenge him, but he doesn't resist. He pushes himself off the mattress, pulling off his shirt and removing his pants. All that is left is his boxer-briefs, which reveals the outline of his bulge. "Your turn."
You take off your shirt and your shorts and decide, last minute, to go the extra mile and unclasp your bra too. It falls over your shoulders and you throw it out onto the floor.
Rafe takes his time, staring at your tits. He has seen you naked before, the consequence of your intimate relationship that pushes the boundaries into blurred lines and the inevitable collision of morning showers in his ensuite and drunken exchanges after parties.
But this time, it's different. This time, it's a sight that's intentional—just for him.
"Do you know how long I've waited for this?"
You gawk at him, the words send a thrill down your spine. "Do you know how long I waited for this?" You gesture back to him, at his naked frame, and he smirks.
"You got an eyeful last night."
"Oh, shut up," you use your leg to kick him, but Rafe catches your ankle in the process. Your eyes widen as he uses the opportunity to spread your legs apart, sinking between your thighs. His gaze finds your soaked panties.
His thumb traces across your panties, drawing out your wetness against the fabric and collecting your arousal. You whimper, aching into his touch.
"Rafe, please." You beg. His eyes lifts to find yours in a self-satisfied grin. He loves knowing you're this desperate for him, only him, that his fingers hook under the band of your panties.
"Lift your hips for me." He commands and you obey. He pulls off your panties and hauls you to the ledge of his bed. With that, his fingers caress your wet slit, drawing out a low moan from you. "Fuck."
He has imagined that sound a thousand times over, but it's incomparable to the real thing. To know you're feeling this way because of him. He feels himself growing harder, straining against the thin fabric and begging to be inside of you.
But he wants to pleasure you first.
Rafe lowers himself and covers your clit with his mouth. He proceeds to suck, his fingers grazing your entrance before plunging a thick digit inside.
You tip your head against the mattress, reveling in the feel of his tongue against your swollen nub, the way he thrusts into you with a steady pace and the additive finger. Your legs drape over his shoulders, closing him in.
"Fuck, baby, you taste so sweet," Rafe mumbles against you, the vibration of his words stirring something inside of you. "I can't believe I haven't been tasting you every single fucking night."
You draw out with a breathy moan, feeling yourself clench at his words. "We have all the time now."
"I bet I can make you come on my face fast, though."
You don't get a chance to entertain the response before Rafe sucks harder, pumping inside of you with a determined speed that causes you to arch off the mattress and claw at his sheets.
"Shit," you whimper, squeezing your thighs together at the intense pleasure, forcing Rafe to use his free hand to push your legs apart. You feel your climax rapidly approaching. "Oh, god, oh, god."
You come on his face, as promised, and you slump back against the bed, catching your breath. Rafe removes his hand from your cunt, the emptiness causes a little whine.
"What?" He looks at you.
"Nothing," you mumble, "I just want you inside me."
He laughs. "God, you're needy," he teases, causing heat to rise to your cheeks. "Don't worry, baby, you'll get it soon."
He goes to his nightstand and pulls out a condom. Just as he's about to tear it open, he glances down at you, extending the small square. "Want to do it?"
You nod, pushing yourself upright and taking it from his hands. You rip it open, as Rafe removes his boxers, and his cock springs free, red and swollen with a bit of precum. You smile, glancing up at him with your doe eyes. "Is that because of me?"
"Shut up."
You giggle, rolling the latex over his length, taking your time to admire his size. He's big and perfect, the tip of his cock dripping with his precum that you almost wish you could take him inside your mouth instead. However, despite the recent orgasm, your body wants him inside.
"Lay back." He commands thickly. "Spread your legs."
You do as he says, throbbing from the control he has in the room. Rafe sinks his knees into his mattress, approaching you as he pushes your thighs apart and lines his tip against your entrance, causing your breath to shorten.
"Come on, wildflower, breathe with me."
You nod shakily, closing your eyes for a moment to inhale a calming breath before he plunges deep inside you, filling you to the hilt. A gasp escapes you, his girth stretching you out, but it soon fades into a pleasure unlike any others.
"God, you feel good," he mumbles, lowering himself to your mouth and capturing your lips into a hot kiss. Your hand drapes over his shoulders as he begins to thrust inside of you. "Too fucking good."
You feel perfect. All of this is too perfect. The way you press against him, your fingernails scraping his back, the way your pussy grips him with the ideal amount of pressure, and the way your lips sync with his as if you were made for him.
The air fills with your whimpers and mewls, increasing in volume with each thrusts that enters and leaves you, while Rafe is heaving in breathy grunts and moans. He pushes your legs back, forcing the new position to grant him deeper access into your sweet cunt.
He's hitting new spots you didn't know were possible. It's making your eyes roll to the back of your head, your cries coming out with desperate pleas, that he had to cover your mouth with his to swallow all the noises.
When you feel yourself reaching a familiar high, the buzz tingling between your legs, you grip his shoulders tight. Rafe feels your walls fluttering around him, and he quickened his pace, sweat breaking across his forehead.
Your breath is heavy, your heart is racing, and as you ascend into your peak, you moan out Rafe's name with such euphoric satisfaction, he comes with you, emptying into the condom.
When he finishes, he falls into the space next to you. His breathing is rough, trying to catch his own breath, that you can't help but turn your gaze to his, examining him under this new light.
Rafe catches you staring, the way your eyes lift to his hairline, and he reassures with a soft brush against your jaw. "It'll grow back, I promise."
"it's not that." You declare, dropping your gaze down to his face. You still can't believe the embarrassment you still feel by how attractive he is. "I like it."
"You do?"
"Why else would I hide from you?"
Rafe scoffs, shaking his head with a ghost of a smile on his lips. His hand drops to your waist, pulling you closer to him until you're skin-to-skin, your breasts pressing against his chest.
"You couldn't tell me the whole time?" He mumbles, kissing your nose. You giggle.
"If I did, we wouldn't be here having sex."
He takes a moment to consider your words, before finding some merit in them. "Fair." He declares, just as his eyes find yours again. This time, he can look at you, knowing you're his. "I guess next time I get a new haircut, I can propose, huh?"
Your heart drops. Your smile fades from surprise. "What?"
He laughs at your expression. "You think I'm letting you go after this? It's either us or nothing."
Maybe reality isn’t too bad.
#rafe cameron#rafe obx#rafe x reader#rafe outer banks#rafe imagine#rafe smut#rafe fic#rafe x you#rafe fanfiction#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron smut#obx fanfiction#obx fic#obx x reader#obx smut#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x y/n#obx#rafe cameron x female reader#outer banks#rafe fluff#rafe cameron fluff
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the alchemy | ln
where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me.
lando norris x gender-neutral!reader
word count: ~0.9k
warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, sexual innuendo at the end
note: i had two similar requests in my inbox (one & two) so two birds, one stone! the first one it’s been sitting on my inbox for a couple of weeks now and it was one of the first things i thought of after processing the race. i love writing taylor inspired things so thank you for sending these <3
also! i know i’ve never celebrated milestones but we’re close to 1k and i was wondering if you guys would like for me to do a little celebration or something like that. if you have any ideas of what you’d like to see then maybe send then to me cause i’m so bad at these things :( much love, n
“lando norris wins for the first time in formula one. it’s victory in miami, for norris and mclaren!”
the words kept ringing in your ears as you ran down the pitlane, a sea of papaya around you. you had been holding your breath for the last thirty minutes; the uncertainty of what the outcome would be had you anxiously bouncing your leg from where you were sitting in the mclaren garage.
it wasn’t unusual for you to attend races; after all, lando had been your friend for some time now, and he liked to have you around. however, it was quite the sight, seeing him finally cross the finish line first.
one for the history books.
you watched as he took his helmet off, carefully placing it on the floor before running to where his team was, only a few meters away from you. your smile grew wider as you saw him jumping into them, the mechanics patting his back in excitement before lifting him in the air. you were mesmerized by the sight of him, he was glowing; the smile on his lips brighter than ever. few hugs and words of praised were exchanged until he finally found you in the crowd.
as you watched him walk over to you, eyes sparkling and most charming smile you had ever lied your eyes on, you couldn’t help but think about how lucky you were. not just to be there, but to have him.
“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me.”
you opened your arms to welcome him into an embrace, but he had other plans in mind. it all happened so fast, his hands cupping your cheeks before his lips crashed into yours, your heart skipped a beat as all the cameras flashed around you. but before you could even process what had happened, he pulled away.
“fuck. sorry, the adrenaline,” he chuckled nervously, his gaze fixed on yours nevertheless as his hands dropped from where he was holding your face.
“i’m proud of you,” you brushed it off immediately, giving him a smile and wiping the proud tears that still rolled down your cheeks. “you deserve this.”
he smiled and nodded before walking to his post-race interview, leaving you hot-faced and with a knot forming in your stomach.
you watched the celebrations from afar, letting him enjoy his moment; and most importantly, not wanting to get drenched in champagne. everyone chanted his name and your eyes followed him everywhere, but you couldn’t get that kiss out of your mind.
maybe it was a little silly, he had said it was just the adrenaline. but it wasn’t a secret to any of you that lando used to have a crush on you when you first met; perhaps that spot in his heart was still yours.
but the butterflies in your stomach started fluttering again when you saw him taking his trophy in his arms before making his way to you once the celebrations were over.
silence settled between the both of you as you made your way back to his driver’s room. it wasn’t uncomfortable, it never was with him; and the smiles in both your faces said enough.
“i’m sorry for that,” he said right after the door closed behind you. “i don’t know why i did it, i was too high in adrenaline and…”
“lando,” you tried to cut him off, miserably failing as he kept talking over you.
“i wasn’t really thinking, i hope you’re not mad at me and it doesn’t change anything between us, i would hate to…”
“lando,” you took a step closer to him, one of your hands reaching to cup his cheek, but it didn’t seem to calm his nerves.
“lose you over it, you’re one of my best friends and…” you sighed, he was completely ignoring you as he kept rambling.
not wanting to hear anymore of that, you decided to act on it instead; he wasn’t gonna listen to you, anyway.
your hand slipped to the back of his head and you pulled him closer to you, your lips meetings for the second time as he finally stopped talking.
he felt his heart racing, and he swore you could even hear it. he pulled away only a few seconds later, looking at you perplexed.
“what was that?” he sounded breathless.
“i don’t know,” your cheeks felt hot again, maybe he did mean it when he said it only was the adrenaline. “but it feels right.”
at your words he smiled and sealed the gap between your mouths, this time daring to slip his tongue between your lips, deepening the kiss as he wrapped his arms around your waist.
“took you long enough to realize,” he whispered in between kisses, making you chuckle.
“you knew i’m not into losers,” you sassed, making him roll his eyes.
“i hate you,” he poked your side, earning a giggle from you.
“sure you do, norris. now go take a shower, we need to keep celebrating,” your hand softly squeezed his arm, the smile on his lips growing wider.
“i guess i’m not the only one coming first tonight, then?”
cocky.
“you’re an idiot,” you sighed, shaking your head. “we’ll see about that.”
he just smiled, pecking your lips before leaving you to gather your thoughts while he got ready.
you sighed. the chemistry between the both of you had always been undeniably strong. and after all that time, all the wait had paid off in the end.
“honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?”
#lando norris#lando norris fluff#lando norris smut#lando norris drabble#lando norris blurb#lando norris fanfic#lando norris imagine#lando norris x reader#lando norris x you#f1 x reader#ln4#ln4 imagine#ln4 fic#ln4 x reader#ln4 fluff#ln4 smut
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LN4 | don't leave me
some pinterest pictures and the middle is jamie chadwick
summary: they were childhood friends. at some point, the relationship takes a toll - because of racing? or because there was something more?
warnings: angst, some fluff maybe, written in 3rd person but name not mentioned, not much of it is proofread
word count: 2.6k
She had been 4 years old when she had first gotten in a kart – which was his. Her father had worked for Lando’s father, and even though they were at different ends of the tax bracket, became close friends.
At the time, she didn’t know that they would become best friends – or more – but she knew she didn’t want to get out of the go-kart. Her father worked overtime to get her first kart that same Christmas. At 10, they were competing for regional karting championships together. This was the first-time karting got between them. Lando had pushed her too far off the track. He watched as she almost flew out of the kart in front of him. He unbuckled himself quickly, calling out her name. “Hey – are you okay?”
She shook her head, trying to get rid of the ringing. “You! Why did you push me off the track?”
He shrugged. “You do what you need to do to win.”
She stood up, red faced, and shoved him – hard. “You did not need to do that to win – you did that to stop me from winning! I can’t believe you!”
“Hey, I was faster, and I was going to win – you swerved into me.”
She snorted angrily, “No, I was 100% faster than you, and you just didn’t want me to get ahead.”
He rolled his eyes. “You were not going to win.”
“I was too.”
“Was not.”
“I was!”
“Was not!” Her father came over to check on both and put a stop to their shouting match.
“Okay guys let’s get back home. It was an accident, it was no one’s fault, okay?”
She glared at Lando, who glared back. “I’m not getting in a car with him. He crashed into me!” with that, she spun round and walked to the car.
“I’m not talking to you.” Lando shouted after her. She made a rude gesture over her shoulder – which would definitely get her in trouble later, “I’m not either!”
Her father had told her on the way home, as she continued to frown out the window, picking at her nail beds until they bled. “You two have to make up to each other. You know it wasn’t on purpose, and he probably feels bad about it now – don’t make racing your whole life. Don’t lose your friends because of a bad result.”
His words were met with silence, because she knew they were right – but also because she didn’t want to admit it.
“Stop doing that please, you’re going to hurt yourself. Also, we need to talk about that hand thing – where did you learn that from?”
She smiles slightly but continues to pick at her nails. “Lando.”
A few days went by with no contact from either end. Usually, they would meet up during the week to go to the park, or just to gossip. Life was boring without talking to him. She wanted him back in her life, but she was too stubborn to say so. Luckily, it was Lando who had come by first with two Capri-Suns and a sheepish look on his face. They sat in for a while before Lando was the first to say, “I’m sorry.”
She nudges him with her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”
“Promise we’ll never be this upset over a race again? It’s boring not talking to you.”
“I know, I’m your best friend.”
He rolls his eyes at this but laughs, “I guess, yeah.”
“It was pretty boring without you too.”
“I can tell, look at your hands – they look horrible.” He makes a face which makes her look down at her hands, where she had torn up the skin around her fingers, anxious at the upcoming race and at the prospect of losing her best friend.
“It’s not that bad.”
“It is. Please do something about it.”
“Okay, then I also promise to stop biting my nails – if you promise to buy me capri-suns every race weekend.”
“Pinky promise?”
They linked their fingers, grinning at each other. Even though it was Lando who came out first that weekend, she had no problem with it. She knew they were okay now – and because she knew that she would get him the next round. Which she did.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
By the time they went off to middle school, she and Lando were tussling over 1st place every weekend. They would travel together to get to the races and go karting together on the weekends. Even when her father had moved to a different job, they remained close family friends. After each race, they would share Capri-Suns together, laughing about their heated moments on track. Sure, there was still competition between them – they were the two best drivers on track; but after that first crash, they didn’t let it meddle with their friendship.
“That overtake on James was crazy – that shit was risky.”
“Risky good? Risky bad?”
“Obviously risky good.”
When she needed new tires for her kart but felt bad for asking her father for a new set, he would lend her his spare ones.
“I can’t take them, Lan, they’re expensive.”
“I promise, I don’t need them. They don’t fit on my new kart anymore, please just take it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! I’m sure. I’ve been telling you I’m sure for 10 minutes now.”
“Thank you,” she hugged him tightly, “I’ll pay you back when I get my allowance.”
“Don’t – just get your own drinks from now on.”
But even after that, he would still bring her two juice packets.
It was around this time she became aware of her financial situation. She became aware of her father’s multiple jobs, his tight smile, and his hidden sighs. She became aware of her mother’s worry lines, her teary eyes, her shaking hands. She knew they were short on money – that they probably could never afford going further than this. It pained her whenever she needed new tires. Crashing out of a race hurt her mentally more than physically because she knew it may be the last time doing so. Lando had never had problems financing his driving career. He was moving on to world championships, with the best karts and best teams they could find, while she spent hours writing emails and letters every day, reaching out to sponsors and teams, praying that they would notice her.
Stressing about money was not something Lando was familiar with. He offered to pay for her expenses multiple times, but she always declined. She took to taking part-time jobs, leaving her with little time between school, homework, her job, and her karting.
“You don’t hang out with me anymore.” He groaned when she declined his invitation for a movie night – again. “This is the third time this month. I want my friend back.”
She smiled tightly, feeling bad. “I’m sorry, I miss you too. Life sucks.”
He grabs her hand, spinning her around. “Let’s make it not suck, let’s have a movie night.”
“No Lan, I have an essay due Friday, but have work tomorrow so I need to do this tonight. Stop making those puppy eyes! I’m not looking!”
He pouts, “Please?”
She tries to hold a straight face but gives in. “Alright. But I get to choose.”
“Yes!” He picks her up over his shoulder and she squeals. “Let me down! Lando!” They fall into a pile on the ground as she starts to chase after him. She could be just a girl around Lando. No need to worry about money, work, school, or anything. He was her safe space. She was his.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
At 16, when she knew that it would be the last ever season competing in karts, Red Bull reached out to sponsor her. Red Bull junior team was notorious for being a tough, competitive program, where they were expected to perform week in, week out. But she had no choice but to accept. They were willing to pay for all karting and racing expenses, and she might get a seat in F1. It was a small price to pay.
The following years were harrowing. Moving up from F4 and through Formula Regional, she didn’t get to see Lando much. He had gone through the same steps a year before. They still texted and wrote often; falling asleep on the phone had become a new normal for them. She would tell him about her season, how her car felt, and he would give her advice before telling her about his life in F3 or F2.
More sponsorships followed her ascent through the feeder series. The first female winner, the first female champion. However, most attention directed towards her didn’t shine her in a good light. They discredited her performance, how her presence in the team was only for show and that she didn’t deserve her seat. That there was no room for women in motorsport. She knew that they were wrong, but it felt so unfair. It was unfair that she had to be drug tested every two races because the FIA ‘randomly’ chose her name every time, and it was unfair that she had to have a clause in her contract to ban her dating because ‘being promiscuous’ was not going to help the team. It was unfair she was the one constantly performing but that her seat was the one in danger of losing. She had called Lando, angry tears in her eyes, after the team had told her to break up with her then boyfriend, Dave, because she had to focus on her racing.
“This isn’t fair – I do everything for the team – I’m the best driver – Why do I have to be punished for having a personal life?”
“I know. It’s not fair.”
“You have a girlfriend, why can’t I have one?”
“I – What? I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“You do! The blond pretty girl.”
“She’s the boss’s daughter. I’m not dating her.” He laughs, as if the notion of him dating someone else was hilarious.
“She sure as hell seems interested then.”
“I’m not interested, so that doesn’t matter.”
“Why not? She’s pretty and she seems nice.”
“Well, I’m not into her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like – Because I’m not interested. And we’re not talking about my dating life, we’re talking about yours.”
“Oh, so you like someone?”
“I’m not talking.”
She remained silent, surprised at how relieved she felt that Lando wasn’t dating anyone, pondering who it might be that had caught Lando’s eye.
“Hey, Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Thanks. I – I think someone’s calling for me. I’ll call you back though.”
She hung up before Lando could reply, heart thudding in her chest. Dave – she had to be upset that she was breaking up with her boyfriend – right? But somehow, her thumping heart didn’t seem to be that upset about Dave at all.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
She pushed her emotions away. Whoever it was that her heart was beating for, it didn’t matter because she couldn’t date anyway; what’s the point?
Through F4 and Formula Regional, she dominated the other boys who had first seen her as a pushover, winning back-to-back championships. As years went by in the Red Bull Driver Development Program, she saw new faces every season and parted with so many of her old friends, being kicked out of the program for ‘under-delivering.’ It was a stressful environment, but she thrived under pressure. She had Lando, Lando had her. They pushed each other to be better, all while being each other’s biggest supporters.
They met again in F3, Lando in his championship winning year. They shared the podium often, and more attention was drawn to the two young and talented drivers who seemed to be more than just friends. They were quick to assure their teams, their fellow drivers, and the media that they were no more than that. A part of her didn’t want to be so decisive about where their relationship might lead, but there was no way she could tell everyone about her confused feelings towards her best friend. Unbeknownst to her, a part of him felt the same. But these feelings would have to wait. To wait, until they both had their futures secured in.
The day Lando cinched the F3 Championship title and announced he would be driving in F2 with Carin next year, he stood on the top step and looked down into her face, shining with pride and clapping the loudest of them all.
They celebrated with two capri-suns, splayed together on his hotel room couch, with her legs crossed comfortably in his lap.
Lando hands her drink over with the straw. “When you win next year, I’ll get you something better than Capri-Suns.”
“Why? I like them.”
“You deserve better than Capri-Suns though.”
“Nah, I like this. It’s our thing, you know?”
“Cheers to that.” Chuckling, they raise their drinks to a toast before taking a sip.
Lando sighs as he lays back, absently drawing circles on her knees. “What do you think comes next?”
“Next what?”
“Formula 2, then what?”
“Formula 1, of course.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’m good enough to be… One of them, you know?”
“Dude. You just won the F3 European Championship. I’m sure if there’s someone who’s good enough for this, it’s you. You’re too hard on yourself.” She shakes her Capri-Sun at him. “Stop doubting yourself! I can see it in your face. You’ll be amazing.”
He laughs. “Stop spraying me with orange juice!” She persists, making them both laugh harder. “If you get to F1, which team do you want to drive for?”
“I mean – Red Bull, obviously.” She points to the team logo on her jersey grinning wide, “I’ll be the second Sebastian Vettel. You?”
“McLaren.”
“Fair. You’ll get in, I’m sure.”
“Same to you. What do you think life will be like when you’re in F1?”
“Rich – definitely. Um… Lots more stress, more pressure, but lots of fun I guess. Definitely more dating opportunities there.” She wiggles her eyebrows over at him. “You’ll have some good fun, yeah? Not too much I hope.”
He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m really not interested.”
She sits up straighter. “Come on – don’t tell me you’ve never dated anyone.”
“I haven’t. You’ve known me my entire life, I’m sure if I’d had a girlfriend, you would know. My mom would have told you.”
She laughs. “That’s true. But I’m sure there are lots of girls waiting in line, if you’ll take a chance on them.”
He shrugs, “Maybe.”
“What’s your type?”
“What type?”
“You know, girls you like? Blonde? Short? Tall? Skinny? Cute?”
“Why? Are you trying to set me up?”
“If you want, sure.”
His grey eyes look straight into hers as he says, “Fine. My type? Great driver, athletic, nice smile, loud laugh, stubborn and competitive as hell. She likes Capri-Suns. Call me if you find her, will you?”
She doesn’t look away, even when she could hear her heart beating in her ears. In a whisper barely loud enough to hear, she says, “I – will.”
Her eyes flickers to his lips and back. She could tell that he noticed, by the way he licked his lips and a blush started to creep up his neck. She could still feel his fingers tracing her knees. She shivers involuntarily, but not because of the cold.
“You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
The silence stretches, until a knock is heard on the door, and making them jump apart. His mother’s voice carries through the room. “Lando? Your sister came in on the first flight here! Come say hi.”
With a last look, he goes to open the door.
a/n:
clearing out some stuff I had written down, so here's another one for Lando's first win :)
hope u enjoy if u do pls tell me (i am desperate for validation) also pt2?
#f1 fic#LN4 x reader#Lando Norris x reader#Lando fic#LN4 fluff#LN4 angst#f1 imagine#formula one imagines#lando x reader#f1 x reader
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macchiato over ice for frankie 🥺 (the rest is up to you!) 🩵
you should know better than to unleash me & set me loose with my thots when it comes to frankie but you did it anyway & I love you for it
I just wanna talk about the fact that frank definitely talks you through it so let's discuss
as a reminder over ice means it's spicy! (minors dni)
headcannon below the cut
frank castle talks you through it
the first piece of evidence i'd like to submit to support this theory is how many times we hear him say "attagirl"
the rest of the evidence i'm submitting is just bc I fucking said so
maybe you know you have a praise kink, or maybe you figure it out the first time he whispers "attagirl" when you're about to come for him. maybe it's all just contingent on frank but he definitely does not miss the way you react to it, & he decides to experiment with just how much you like it
he starts testing the waters one night when he's got you pinned to the bed beneath him, fucking you slowly bc he's missed you & he wants to feel you wrapped around him as long as possible after weeks away
"feel so fuckin' good baby, so perfect for me."
the way your cunt clenches around his cock when he whispers that into your ear lets him know he's definitely onto something
the next time he tests his theory, he's got you on his lap with your back pressed against his chest, your legs spread wide open with your thighs draped over his, & his hand in your panties, kissing your neck sensually while rubbing your clit with his thumb & slowly fingering you with his index & middle finger
"love how wet you get for me, pretty girl. look at you, makin' such a mess on my fingers. that feel good, baby, hm?"
frank enjoys praising you just as much as you enjoy receiving it. any chance he gets to worship you & your body he's absolutely going to take advantage of
he wants you to know how pretty he thinks you are, how perfect he thinks you are for him, how good you make him feel, how much he loves every single inch of you inside & out, how lucky he feels to get to be the one that gets to come home to you
he's got his head buried between your thighs, his rough hands gripping them tightly to keep them over his shoulders, his cock rock hard in his jeans at the way you're rolling your hips against his face & chanting his name to the heavens
he pauses only for a moment, just to get a good look at you above him, his voice rough with pure desire when he speaks
"taste so fuckin' sweet, baby. you gonna be a good girl and come for me?"
the way you moan when he calls you a good girl for the first time & how your fingers tighten their grip on his dark hair makes his lips split in a huge grin of pride
"yeah you are. that's my good girl. c'mon baby, let me have it."
he doesn't even bother trying to hide that he's gotten you all figured out now, & you sure as hell don't mind either. you look forward to hearing his praise every time the two of you are intimate. it doesn't just get you aroused, it also makes you feel good about yourself. it makes you see yourself the way frank sees you, even if only for a little while
frank is in heaven when he watches you writhe on top of him, rolling your hips in a steady rhythm as you ride him. his hands are everywhere, not an inch of your skin left untouched. they're gliding up your soft thighs, gripping your hips tightly, grabbing your breasts & squeezing them, wrapping his hand around your throat in a way that makes your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head
all the while he's gazing up at you like you're the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen, bc you are, & all he wants to do is please you
"attagirl, just like that. god, you take me so well, sweetheart. look so fuckin' pretty ridin' my cock like this. want you to come for me, sweetheart. c'mon...you can do it, baby...I know ya can. you're such a good girl for me, yeah? c'mon pretty girl, come all over my cock for me."
when he feels your pussy start to clench around his cock, he knows he's about to witness the most magnificent sight of you getting overwhelmed with gratification. gripping onto your waist tightly, he starts to thrust upwards to match your pace, desperately wanting to watch you fall apart above him
"attagirl, there we go. that's it...that's fuckin' it, baby...just like that. c'mon pretty girl, ride me harder. you're so close, yeah? I know baby, I know...I can feel it. c'mon, be a good girl for me and come."
frank doesn't stop just because the two of you are finished and spent. when he's got you wrapped up in his arms, relaxing in the afterglow, he's still whispering soft & sweet praises into your ear
"you were so good, baby. always so good for me. my girl...my perfect, pretty girl. love you so goddamn much, ya know that, right?"
in conclusion I need to be put down like a rabid dog
#court's 4k followers celebration#court's 4k friends celebration#court's cafe#frank castle#frank castle x you#frank castle x female reader#frank castle x fem!reader#frank castle x f!reader#frank castle headcannon#frank castle request#frank castle smut#the punisher#the punisher headcannon#the punisher request#the punisher smut
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Boothill Romantic Headcanons.🍓☽。･:*:･
Just a quick heads up: This character had their history and dialogues leaked, if you haven't seen the leaks and don't to be spoiled by the character backstory: Please, save this to read for later!
Stay safe!
Also, as always: I will always try to make this as neutral as possible. Informations that could potentially be Canon x OC are NOT there (Such as your region, what you work with and etc.)
And also, I use He/them for Boothill as I headcanon him as nbmasc!
Fandom: Honkai Star rail.
Character: Boothill
Idea: "How would the characters be as romantical partners?"
TW: SPOILERS!
🍓☽。･:*:･
Boothill
Falling in Love.
Who fell in love first?
He fell first.
If you saw the leaks you know… This man can’t cry, this man lost everything that he once owned. His planet was considered uncivilized from the IPC, he lost everyone he cared about in one day.
He became “Boothill”, a cyborg that hated the IPC… And, so, there’s the question: How did you fall for him? He can’t catch this. He doesn’t understand WHY or, better, HOW someone could ever love him. He wasn’t even HUMAN anymore, how could someone love “something” like that?
Yet, you came. As a breeze in the summer, as a sweet taste in an unknown mix… You weren’t supposed to have his heart in your hands… But you have. Maybe it was the way you kept on talking to him, kept on helping him out whenever and anywhere.
You two started to form some sort of alliance and have someone so pretty, such a pretty pal… Was not okay with his mechanical heart.
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How do they notice they have fallen in love?
He couldn’t understand WHY or HOW he fell in love. But, he realized that when he was talking to you and he started to feel some heat when he saw your smile, heard your laugh or just held your hand, he felt like he could combust.
This was enough for him to realize that he liked you, but… Not that he was falling in love. He wasn’t stupid, he knew the details - he knew when he was in love with someone, even if he never felt it so deeply like this.
But, even then, it was too early. You had known each other only for a few weeks, he decided to wait… And when he noticed some action on your part or even something that he could be delusional over you liking him back… ONLY THEN, he would confess.
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Confession.
Who confessed first?
It depends.
Now, we came into a difficult subject. Even if I said that he would confess… If he never saw something that could clarify his head and to make sure you like him back, he wouldn’t confess.
Now, the reasoning: He already lost so much. Somewhere in his head, being with another person can mean a lot of things… And one of them is feeling, he doesn’t know how he will handle not being able to cry, not being able to feel you with all his body.
He doesn’t want to make you suffer…
So, if he doesn’t see anything: He wouldn’t confess.
━────━━────━━────━━────━━────━
And there he was, overthinking every single little thing that happened in those couple of weeks… And he couldn’t get his head in the problem that he built.
Do you love him or not?
He was asking himself this question over every communication that you guys had, he would do anything to try to prove to himself that you don’t. Every action you take, everything that you do… Oh, those little things that he loved.
Every single movement was put into his hard drive, his memory wouldn’t let him know how much he loves you… And, just like that…
You don’t know how surprised he was when those words came out of your mouth. He would ask you to repeat your confession, again, again and again… IF only he could cry while listening to you, pouring your heart out to him…. Oh, darling, he loves you way too much.
He would immediately hold you and spin you around, he wants you to feel what he can’t… To feel his loving hands holding you just like the awesome, pretty and important lil’ thing.
“Hah, Doll… Didn’t expect ya’ to be so forward… Are my actions not enough answer? I want ya’ too. I love ya’… And I don’t think I will ever feel something like this again.” - He said, his words were sugarsweet and held a sincerity that no one could ever see before.
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Now… What if he confesses first? What could potentially happen if Boothill decides: “Fudge this! Let’s do it”?
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You knew something was happening when Boothill was not looking directly at you. They seemed to be a bit off today, holding a box that he seemed to grip a bit too strongly while they guided you to a private place.
It was one of the calmest day in your life… For once, you could enjoy their company happily. You two were alone, sitting close to the hill while looking at the sky… It was already night, but, somehow, you didn’t feel tired.
“Darlin’...” - They called, seemed to be thinking a bit too much before they let the box right in your lap - “Juss’ wanna make sure you… Understand it.”
When you opened the box, it had everything you talked to them about. Every item you liked, every item you told them you would love to receive from a boyfriend… For a second, you thought they misunderstood you until you reached for a letter, it had their black lipstick and just a simple phrase: “Wanna be my partner forever?” with a silly doodle of them.
They, seeing your reaction, would say; “Just to make sure: It’s romantical alright? I wouldn’t do this kind of thing for some friend… Just for you.”
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Language of Love.
What's their language of love?
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Quality of Time, Gifts and Words of Affirmation.
Now, HEAR. ME. OUT. This dude, this bro, this cowboy bebop!!!!! They want NOTHING but you to be happy, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU WANT: YOU GET! THEY DON’T SEE REASONS OR ANY ARGUMENT FOR NOT MAKE YOU THEIR QUEENIE/KINGIE/ROYAL!
The truth is: Boothill feels like his words, his time and gifts are the only thing that he can do to make things “better”. He can’t… Feel you the way he wants, he can’t cry for you, he can’t provide you with those things - so he provides you with things he can.
He can tell you how pretty you are, how amazing you are, how everything you do is incredible.
He can gift you - He can give you anything you want, he can go into an adventure and come back with so many gifts that your house gets flooded with them. He normally comes home with a lot of gifts, so: When you pull for him, remember that!
He also makes sure to spend lots and lots of time with you. Always making sure for you to feel loved and unmatchable!
“Ma doll, didn’t expect you to be here so soon! Well, look at the goods I got ya. Hm, hm… Yeah, I know that it’s too much, but all of them remind me of ya’ pretty face. Especially those lil’ cat cakes thingies.” - They would chuckle as he saw your reaction… It was those moments that made him sure: He may have lost his family but he found a new one.
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Reaction of your language of love.
Lemme tell you one thing: He doesn’t care, he is gonna take all of your love like the greedy robocop he is. He says he doesn’t have a preference and he is going to love everything you give to him, but the truth is: NOTHING shows him more love than you just being yourself.
Not you trying to make him feel loved or anything, just you being you. You doing things you love, you talking to people about your favorite things… All those little situations are enough for him. He loves it.
But, being honest here… I think he loves the way you touch his face - THIS MAN IS TOUCH STARVED - it’s actually the only place he can feel. He feels like - for just a moment - you two could be a normal couple.
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As boyfriend/partner.
How do they treat you?
Do I need to repeat myself? HE LOOOVES YOU SO SO MUCH! He is 100% one to take you out to many different places just because he wants to see you smiling for a bit.
When you two start dating, he seems to be on cloud 9 for the first time in forever… He is still asking you to repeat those three words that make his mechanical heart plump as if it was human's. He still asks you to accompany you instead of asking you for a date.
Give him a bit of time, he’s still understanding that you truly accepted his confession and that you didn’t leave him behind.
Sometimes, when you two sleep close or together he stops everything he’s doing just to observe you, to have every moment with you in his memory card. In those moments, he normally notices: “You are real, THIS is real.”
You would receive double the care on those moments, being treated just like the sweet lil’ thing you are. He would say some corny shit, I will admit.
He is the type to make jokes just to crack a smile on you, he is also always trying to make you feel lighter - feel like you have no such thing as a sad day and to make you… Feel like you could fly, be free for once.
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Jealous.
I’ll tell you: I THINK HE’S A JELLY GUY!
Boothill gets jealous more to think: “You are going to leave him for someone that CAN feel you.” and he just can’t let that happen, right? He wants to be with you and he is scared that, maybe, you will come to the realization that you aren’t interested in this mess anymore.
He is a scared man, scared of losing the only family he has left.
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Resume.
As a boyfriend, Boothill is a sweet and loving one. Yeah, you guys can have REALLY nasty discussions that can only result in both of you getting hurt, but, HE IS ALWAYS THE ONE to come up to you - telling you that you two need to talk without fighting.
He is also someone who will cherish you.
As I’m married to him I can assure you: He is going to be a perfect hubby… You just need patience!
#x reader#reader insert#genderneutral reader#gender neutral reader#headcanon#gn reader#boothill x reader#boothill#boothill hsr#hsr boothill#honkai star rail x reader#honkai star rail#hsr x reader#hsr x you#hsr imagines#hsr headcanons
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Hi! I hope you feel better soon!
This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!
Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭
Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.
The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G
Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.
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Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.
The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.
When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.
He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.
Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.
“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”
“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”
“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”
Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.
Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.
“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”
---
Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.
Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.
“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”
“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”
Before you decide to adopt him too.
Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.
“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”
It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”
---
When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.
Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.
Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.
He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.
The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?
Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.
So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.
---
A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.
“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”
Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”
Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.
“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”
“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.
Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.
They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.
“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”
Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.
Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”
“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”
Charles waggled his eyebrows.
“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”
“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”
Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”
Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”
Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.
“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.
“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”
“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.
“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”
Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”
---
Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.
He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.
“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.
Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.
Their cheeks both looked wet.
Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.
“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.
“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.
Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.
---
It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.
I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.
And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.
#asks#the sandman#dead boy detectives#fic#crossover? fusion? i guess? who is to say! not me!#dreamling#perhaps some notes of chedwin#(a fabulous ship name btw. i may not get cob but i WILL get chedwin)#author wrote this while sick as dog so please excuse errors :')#might put on ao3 later if i have a chance to clean it up and expand on it a little!#my writing#me yesterday: 'i really don't see the appeal of blending both stories beyond doing it for the sake of it'#me today: 'no you don't understand they NEED each other here is my chart of the interpersonal dynamics and a list of all the ways hob can h#accidentally writing the new inn reunion scene i'd always dreamed of oops
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1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]
Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count: 8.7k
Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰
💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜
“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”
“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.
Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”
“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.
“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”
“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”
“How many pills?” you ask.
“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”
“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.
“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”
All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.
“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”
“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”
You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”
“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”
“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.
“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”
“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”
“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”
His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”
“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.
What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.
Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”
“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.
“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.
Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.
“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”
Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”
Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”
“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”
Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”
Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.
“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”
Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.
Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”
Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”
“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.
Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.
Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”
The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”
“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”
The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”
Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.
As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”
“What?” Fosco asks.
“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.
“The first thing I remember knowin’
Was a lonesome whistle blowin’
And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride
On a freight train leavin’ town
Not knowin’ where I'm bound
And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”
Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.
“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.
“One and only rebel child
From a family meek and mild
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store
Despite all my Sunday learnin’
Towards the bad I kept on turnin’
‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”
At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.
“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole
No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied
That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”
Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.
“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.
Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”
“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”
You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”
“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”
“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”
“Honey—”
“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”
“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”
“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”
Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”
You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.
Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.
“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.
“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”
You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.
“What the hell are you doing—?!”
“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.
“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”
He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”
“Ask for what?”
“You know.”
If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”
“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”
“You’re a fucking coward.”
“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”
“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”
Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.
“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.
“I’m aware.”
“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”
“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.
In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.
“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City
You’d better detour around my town
‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head
And I’ll lift you off of the ground
I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t
And that he won’t cat around with a kitty
I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man
If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”
You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!
You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.
You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.
~~~~~~~~~~
“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”
Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”
Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”
“Well, he was there.”
“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”
Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.
Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”
“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.
“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”
“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”
Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.
“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.
“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.
Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.
The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.
“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”
“I can’t.”
Ludwika stares at you. “What?”
“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”
“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.
“I can’t,” you whimper.
They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.
He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.
“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”
“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.
The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.
“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.
People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.
Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.
Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”
You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”
“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”
A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!
In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.
“Dio mio, what happened?”
“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.
“Are you sure—?”
“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”
“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.
It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.
There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.
There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”
“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”
“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”
Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.
“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”
You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.
“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”
“No it’s not.”
“Whatever it is, I can help.”
“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”
“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.
“No one else knew him.”
“I did. I was there the whole time.”
“Only because Aemond made you stay.”
“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”
“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.
“And I’m still here now.”
Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”
“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”
You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.
“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”
“You can ask.”
“Do you want more children?”
More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”
Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”
“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”
Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”
“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”
“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”
“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”
“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”
You stare at him. “The roof?”
“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”
The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.
Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”
“Probably married to someone worse.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”
You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”
Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”
“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”
“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”
I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”
“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”
“I think you matter, old man.”
“Really?”
“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.
“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”
You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”
“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”
“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”
“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”
Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”
“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”
You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.
He asks: “You think I could make that?”
“No.”
“Should I try?”
“You definitely shouldn’t.”
“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”
You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”
“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”
“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.
“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.
~~~~~~~~~~
Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”
You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.
“For you.”
“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”
“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”
“How did you get these?”
“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”
“Maybe they are.”
You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”
“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”
“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.
In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.
“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.
“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.
Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”
“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”
Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”
“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”
“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”
“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”
“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.
“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.
There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.
“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”
You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”
Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”
You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.
“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”
Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.
Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.
“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.
“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”
Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.
“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”
“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”
“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.
#aegon ii targaryen#aegon targaryen#aegon targaryen ii#aegon ii#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon x reader#aegon ii x y/n#aegon ii x you#aegon ii targaryen x reader#aegon ii x reader#aegon ii fic#aegon targaryen x you#aegon targaryen ii x you
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HURT/COMFORT PROMPTS YOU SAY *pulls out giant scroll* okay what about (probably human) trans chronically ill dream dealing with a health crisis and hob is trying to support him through it? bonus points: maybe dream's parents are being shitheads so dream and hob have to get _married_ to make sure dream's wishes in hospital or wherever are respected?
(from meadow. i am not having feelings about anything in particular, Why would you Ask.)
@meadowziplines this was supposed to be angsty but it just ended up kind of wholesome tbh. that's the opposite of what usually happens to me
you've seen married for tax purposes before, now see married for next of kin legal rights
--
Hob knew he wanted to marry Dream within two weeks of their first date, but he tried to be reasonable about it. Dream was shy and guarded his hard-won independence closely, and Hob felt that just declaring his eternal love too quickly was a sure way to scare him off. So he didn't.
Now he's regretting it, because hell, it would have made this so much easier. That's not how he wants to think about marrying Dream, about it making being in a hospital easier, but here they are. And he is.
And it's why he's hiding around a corner as Dream's parents are "visiting"--more like being complete assholes--his hospital room. God, Hob hates them. This whole situation is the only reason he's even met them--Dream doesn't talk to them anymore, and for good reason, but the moment they caught wind of vulnerability they pounced on the chance to regain control.
Dream is an adult and can make his own decisions, but Mr. and Mrs. Cunt have proven very slippery and manipulative and have played the 'Hob's not family, we're family' card at every possible turn to get him kicked out of the room. Hob's gotten a couple of the nurses on his side on account of not being a complete asshole but he still doesn't like his chances duking it out in front of hospital administration over who gets to make Dream's medical decisions if he's incapacitated.
Dream's fought so hard to have control over his own life. Hob won't let him lose it.
Which is why he's currently hiding behind the vending machines until they leave, rather than going in there and telling them where to shove it.
He waits with bated breath until they're gone, then scrambles out, rushing down the hall with his paperwork and slipping into Dream's room. He feels like a criminal. Which is exactly why he's doing all this.
"Hob," Dream breathes, as Hob closes the door behind him. He looks exhausted. Terrible parents who insist on disrespecting you are not good for fragile health. "I thought you left."
Hob flashes him a grin, but feels how it wobbles. "Never. Just had to go get something."
He's so nervous about how Dream will react to this. It feels so likely to go wrong.
He sits in the chair by the bed so he's on Dream's level, takes his hand. "Listen, baby. This-- this really isn't how I wanted to do this. But I just-- I really don't want things to go wrong, you know? And if they do go wrong, I want us to be able to do something about it. I want to be in your corner."
His anxious rambling makes Dream's face start to fall. "Hob..."
Hob thrusts the paperwork at him. "Will you marry me?"
He had something so much more romantic in his head for the moment he finally asked Dream to marry him. He would have swept him off his feet and made him feel special. If only it could have been different.
Dream picks up the papers, seemingly in shock. "This is..."
"I did all the paperwork already, it just needs signatures," Hob tells him. "And I bribed one of the nurses to let us out for an hour to go to the registrar's office. If. If you want."
Dream keeps staring at the papers in silence. Hob doesn't want him to think this was just some act of desperation, even if it kind of was, at least timing-wise. God, this isn't what he wanted at all.
"I wanted to marry you anyway," he says, shifting nervously in his chair. "But now it's just-- I don't want you to be scared that something will go wrong with the surgery but I want you to know that someone will have your back and do what you want. Not--"
"--my terrible, terrible parents?" Dream finishes, lips finally quirking up in a half-smile.
"...Yeah." He swallows hard to calm himself. It's a lot, what he's asking, in a sense. All the legal rights it creates. But. "If you can trust me with this, then I'll protect you. I promise."
"You have already," Dream says. "As you did with the hospital admin. I think they hate you now." He seems quietly delighted about it.
Hob's always known he can be a bit annoying at times but this experience has taught him how truly annoying it is possible to be. When they got there, none of Dream's chart info was under the right name or gender, and nobody seemed particularly inclined to update it. At least not until Hob pestered them, and pestered them, and pestered them.
So yeah, they kind of hate him, but he got to be Dream's hero so it was all worth it in the end.
It's another reason he needs to get this legal shield in place now. Between Dream's slick parents and their money, and Hob who's being a continual nuisance, he thinks he knows who'll come out on top with the administration.
"...So?" he says. "Will you marry me?"
Dream starts tearing up, and Hob thinks, oh god, oh god, I've ruined it-- then Dream pulls him close and throws his arms around him. "Yes," he breathes. "I will. I-- I wanted to for so long."
That makes idiots of the both of them, then.
But Hob doesn't dwell on it for long. He hugs Dream back, then kisses him, pressing his face between his hands. Now that the stress of asking is over, the real feeling bubbles up inside him. Joy. Elation. He's marrying Dream.
"I love you," he says, and Dream smiles. "Now let's get out of here."
--
Their makeshift ceremony at the registrar's office is very emotional despite being completely spontaneous. It's just them, plus Death who Hob got to come along as their witness, and they don't yet have rings to exchange--but at the end of it, Dream is his husband.
Truthfully, Dream deserves better, he deserves a lavish romantic ceremony with flowers and fine clothes and desserts and anything he could possibly want. But... Hob is his husband now. He can give him better, later. And what a joy is that.
Dream is exhausted by the time Hob gets him back to his room, but seems happy nevertheless. He takes a nap while Hob goes to show a copy of the marriage license to hospital admin and gets them to update their records. The next time someone tries to kick him out of Dream's room it's fucking on.
And he doesn't have to wait long. He gets one peaceful day of being able to sit in Dream's room unimpeded, reading to him and just generally being able to enjoy his company without hiding behind the vending machines, before Dream's parents come back.
Dream tenses at the knock on the door, and Hob's never felt more powerful than when he stands up and says, "Don't worry, I'll tell them to leave."
"You needn't--" Dream starts, but Hob shakes his head.
"Oh, no, I'm looking forward to this."
He opens the door with a grin to find Dream's mother on the other side, and stands conveniently in the doorway, blocking her view of Dream. "Hey."
Hob can practically see her blood pressure rise at the sight of him. "You. I thought we had dealt with you."
"I'm hard to deal with," Hob says. "Sorry." He's not sorry.
She tries to push forward. "Out of my way."
Hob blocks her, and can't help a rather vicious smile. "Dream wants you to leave."
"You have no right to even be in here, never mind to tell me to leave," snaps Dream's mother.
Hob hands her a copy of the marriage certificate. He's got several. "On the contrary."
She stares at it, and is, for a moment, completely speechless.
"As Dream's husband," he says, and oh the words are delicious, "I'm telling you to leave. And I think you should do it before I call security on you." An echo of what she and Dream's father had said to him in the past.
Her jaw clenches and she shoves the paper back at him. "That they even let people like you marry in this country is an abomination. You are perverting the sanctity of marriage."
"That's my absolute favorite thing to do," Hob says, and shuts the door in her face.
"I think you enjoyed that far too much, Hob," Dream says as Hob turns back to him. Then he starts giggling. "Did you notice?"
"What?"
"Mother finally agreed that I am a man so she could be homophobic about it," Dream says, and dissolves into giggles once again. "She always said I needed to find a husband; I can't imagine why she isn't happy that I have."
"'Apologies, Mother,'" Hob says, doing his best imitation of Dream's posh accent as he sits down beside him again, "'I know you would have preferred that I marry a respectable young heir from the polo club but I'm afraid I'm shacking up with the guy running the local tavern. In lieu of a gift please just don't attend the wedding.'"
Dream laughs again, then says, "Will there be a proper wedding?"
"You want there to be?"
Hesitantly, Dream nods.
"Then there will be."
Dream smiles, and Hob takes his hand, squeezes it. "And think on what sort of ring you want," Hob says. "By the time you get out of surgery next week, I'll have it for you."
"I do love you," Dream sighs.
"Not regretting not marrying Lord Whoever from polo club?"
"There was no polo club," Dream says. "There was croquet, however--"
"Oh my God--"
"--however, you are the one I want to be married to."
Hob smiles. "Good." He kisses Dream's hand. "And you know, right? You know I wanted to marry you anyway? This was just a-- a timing thing."
"I know. But, I admit, I've found this all far more entertaining than I'd have thought." He smiles up at Hob. There's nothing better in the world than that clever smile. "You are a gallant husband."
If Hob can get Dream to keep looking at him like that, he thinks he'll be happy for the rest of his life.
"Promised to protect you, didn't I?" he says. "And so I will."
#hob said 'dream identifies as a man and you better respect it. as for me? i identify as a PROBLEM'#i think he should get to be super annoying as a treat#dreamling#my writing#ask#meadowziplines#hob's like ask me not about my dreams of being a knight in shining armor ok. don't even ask#cw homophobia
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Hi, can I get something w the prompt 30? Maybe w Damian.
If it's friends to lovers-
Idk, I just want some inocent fluff and jokes.
I‼️ Need‼️ Sweetness‼️
Prompt #30: laying their head on the other’s shoulder
Today was an exhausting day, both at school and doing your vigilante work. Luckily, before you left back to your place Damian had invited you over, and how could you refuse?
Your bags were taken upon entrance by Alfred and then you were led deeper into Wayne Manor. Damian led you to the living room, or in other words- one of them.
It was a place to just relax and it’s not like any of the other residents were going to intrude so you and Damian whipped out snacks that you both bought on the way and some that were already here.
Not to mention how he had prepared a blanket and sat on the couch next to you…
The plan? It was to watch of movie of course! I mean it was already deep into the night and as much tired as you were- you just couldn’t sleep.
The same could be said about Damian, he was up right alongside you. It was kind of him to.
I mean, it had hardly been a few weeks that you were only friends now turned lovers. Things were bound to get awkward or lovey- or both, eventually.
Well a voice brought you out of your thoughts and back to reality. “So, you know what you want to watch or am I gonna choose?” Damian was standing by you on the couch facing the tv as he scrolled through Netflix.
“Um no I don’t know, how about you decide?” Best to cover up the fact you weren’t paying attention by forcing the question back at him.
“Alright then…” his tone was obviously suspicious but he went along without a fuss and chose a random movie that you weren’t familiar with but knew he enjoyed.
After, he snuck under the covers and sat by your side as the movie began. Throughout the movie you could tell from your peripheral vision that Damian was looking at you to gauge your reaction at certain scenes but you pretended to be none the wiser.
Since the movie was 2 hours long you got a bit lost in keeping track of time. You searched for your phone under the covers and once you found and read the screen you made a mental note of it being 12:00
One more hour to go… which you miserably failed. You were struggling to stay awake and the only thing that snapped you back to reality was a sudden weight on your shoulder.
You turned to face whatever it was, I mean were you really so off guard that this snuck pass your defenses?
Well much to your not so much surprise, it was Damian. His head was rested against your right shoulder and his eyes were closed and you took note of the gentle rising and falling of his chest.
He was so cute and looked peaceful as he slept. You sort of felt an ego boost at the thought of Damian feeling so safe around you that he could not only fall asleep but also let you touch him without rousing him awake.
Which is something you found out when you glided your fingers through his soft hair and gently pushed aside any stray ones from his face.
Maybe it was because of how late it was, maybe because of the lack of light, or maybe just the urge to cuddle with Damian but you let out a breath and let your head go limp and rest on top of Damian’s.
What’s the worse that could happen?
Well not anything particularly bad in your opinion. Luckily it was the weekend so you didn’t worry as much once you awoke but what really bothered you was the snickering sounds surrounding you.
Once you opened your eyes and saw Damian, his usual cool demeanor was gone. His face was flushed to the nines and you soon found out why.
Three of his siblings Dick, Todd, and Tim had found you sleeping there and thought I’d be cute to take a picture.
That wasn’t so bad but you knew Damian so him reacting this way wasn’t so bad.
Until Tim revealed that although he found you all that way, he left and returned with the other two to find Damian planting a kiss to your cheek.
You were shocked and turned to Damian as your cheeks filled with red. “Is that true?!?”
Your question fell on deaf ears and despite that you knew your answer when Damian turned away and refused to make eye contact.
Let’s just say it was an awkward family breakfast, leaving Damian with everything but his honor and dignity.
#fanfic#gn reader#male reader#fluff#fanfic fluff#female reader#damian wayne x male reader#damian wayne al ghul#dc fanfic#damian wayne fanfiction#damian robin#dc robin#damian wayne imagine#damian wayne x reader#damian wayne fluff#damian wayne headcanon#robin damian
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𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬
𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘮
𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: this is real old and angsty like not for fake. it’s short though. also i grew up catholic so u gotta bear w the lil references and shit. trigger warning religious talk kinda
She couldn’t remember much of the year if she was being honest.
She could remember her best friends’ wedding.
She could remember Valentine’s day.
She could remember March and April breezing past her, a mixture of Easter and celebrating her friend’s birthday.
She could remember the drowsiness that overcame her in May. She could remember how it followed her well into June.
She could remember her friend’s baby being born, and she could remember smiling down at his tiny squished face.
And she was happy for them, she was. But, when she found herself in her newly quiet home at the end of the day, the reality remained that she was alone. Utterly alone. No one to turn to. No one to rely on. Alone. She felt that this was her fault.
When her friend called and cried to her about new motherhood delivering a swift kick to her backside, she accepted the opportunity to stay with her friends for a few days, maybe even weeks— however long it would take for her friend to get back on her feet with a new addition to the household.
The record was three weeks. July was almost over. Amelie, ever-grateful, had even told her that she could go back home if she wanted. The woman, not wanting to overstay her welcome, accepted that as well.
She had been accepting a lot of things, it seemed. She would leave the following week, after the event that was planned meticulously for the baby.
It was when she was getting ready to go to sleep early— the baby had a habit of scream-crying at the break of dawn and she liked being up with him— that she received a knock at the guest bedroom door. Curious, she tip-toed across the room and found herself opening the door to reveal her tired friend whose smile grew as she rocked her fast-asleep son. [y/n] invited them in and grabbed the baby at once, sitting on the bed with his little body cradled in her arms.
“Okay, I wanted to tell you so that you weren’t, like, bombarded with this,” Amelie began after a small chat about how the baby had just done something cute.
She involuntarily put pressure on her eyebrows, furrowing them together.
Amelie folded her hands in her lap. “You know his baptism is next week and you know you’re his Godmother, of course... I tried to talk Trent out of it, but he’s going to make you know who his Godfather.”
She could feel herself gasp at the mention of you know who. She definitely knew who.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I get it. And I get it if you’re not ready to see him. I can have someone else step in as his Godmother for the ceremony if you can’t do it. You don’t have to go to the party. What are you feeling?” Amelie asked.
She bit the skin of her bottom lip. She looked down at the almost two-month-old who looked so much like her friends that it was crazy. He was blinking up at her with his bottom lip poked out, looking scandalized. She laughed and rubbed the pad of her finger over his dark waves.
“I’m feeling a little overwhelmed… But I can do it. I don’t care about him. This is for my Godbaby. Right? This is for my Godson,” she cooed to the baby who half-smiled.
“You’re sure?”
“Sure. Yes. Yeah.” She was trying to convince herself more than anything and she knew it. “No one cares about that man, anyway. It’s just Rayan’s day..” The baby smiled as if he knew what they were talking about, and the women fussed over him a bit more. When the familiar weight pressed itself against her shoulders, She sighed. “I need a drink.”
“Go raid Trent’s cabinet, girl. You know he’s not shy about Don Julio,” her friend joked about her husband.
There was a painful twang in her chest at once. Her husband. Her friend was joking about her husband. A man who she shared a child, a home, and a life with.
She could taste iron. She would later realize that she had bit the inside of her cheek open. For now, she chopped the stinging sensation up to the of moths fumbling about in her stomach.
Her friend took her Godson and she was left alone once more. She laid her head on the linen pillow and stared blankly at the room before her. Wistfully, she imagined Amelie and Trent embracing each other at the end of the very long day. She imagined them nuzzling against the other as they gazed down at their sleeping baby boy. Then, she imagined everything that could have been.
She fell into a slumber with remnants of saline tears on her cheeks, and she woke up days later wearing a crisp white blouse and her best earrings. Rayan’s baptism.
He barely left his mother’s arms that day. He was tiny and it was a big day for him and he was wearing a long, pristine white dress that used to be his grandfather’s when he was that small. So Rayan slept, and she tried not to kick open the church doors and run as far as her legs could take her.
She knew he was in the room. She could feel it. If she opened her mouth to speak, she could taste it. If she inhaled too deeply, she could smell it. His presence was the sustenance that her soul had been missing for far too long and she was being punished for it. Her hands were shaking. She slipped off to the bathroom three times before she realized that her issues could affect the day. Being unreliable or looking flaky was the last thing she’d wanted to do after making it so far through the day. When she sat back down in the pews, she crossed her hands extra tight in her lap and kept her neck arched high. She would shake it off. This was for Rayan.
After some time she stood with her friends and made her way to the front of the church. She could feel him behind her. Then beside her. She willed herself not to look at him and focused solely on swearing to remain a key figure in the baby’s life.
For you, I’ll do my best.
He made his pledges after her. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. He was so close to her. She could feel the echo of his baritone in her feet. She could taste iron, far more pronounced this time.
The baby was placed in her arms, and the metallic flavor dissipated at once. She secured her arm around his head and tugged his gown down. He whined, only to stop a second later when his mother kissed his hand.
The priest asked the Godparents to move closer. She stepped forward and nodded when appropriate. The priest said something that she didn’t really catch. She had been too busy making sure Rayan was comfortable. Brown hands came forward and untied the loose strings around the baby’s neck. He pulled the baby’s hat off. She could hear the ocean in her head.
She leaned forward and lowered her elbow an inch. The priest placed his hands in the tub of water before him and her. He poured water on the baby’s dark tufts of hair. One hand, then two, then another for good measure. Rayan let out a short cry from the temperature of the water.
“It’s okay, honey, you did great,” she whispered to her Godson when it was all over. She held him tighter, closer to her face.
“Maybe he’s cold,” the familiar voice said. “Here, let me put his hat back on.” Brown hands came into view and she watched him make the loose loop-the-loop. Rayan calmed down.
Rayan’s parents came and uttered softly to their son. His mother fought tears. His father let them glide down his cheeks freely, rubbing the top of the baby’s bonnet with a thumb.
“Hey,” the Godfather’s low voice was saying. He was not whispering. Anyone could have heard him. Though, when she thinks back on the moment, she can remember the soft, whispering tickle of his breath hitting her ear. She wanted him to be whispering.
She greeted him back weakly and she did not try to hide it. With everyone focused on Rayan, the awkward encounter would just be their own and she could not muster the strength to make it anything but.
The corner of his mouth quirked up, weakly too, and he said, “You look really nice.”
All at once, she could hear the ocean. She could hear volcanoes erupting. She could feel the familiar sharp chill of ice, and she could smell the smoke of paper burning.
She could not remember what her response was, or if she even responded at all. She could only remember the pain of living without the only man she had loved for months after being together for so long.
Through the fog, a voice prompted, “Let’s get a pic with the Godparents.”
She craned her head and found herself staring at a man that she had gone to school with. Kareem was known for being tall, charismatic, and a photographer. Therefore, she was not surprised that her friend had invited him to the gathering. Though she wished that someone would have filled him in on the current situation before he suggested such things.
Rayan’s parents moved away. She took a half step closer to Rayan’s Godfather. Rayan’s Godfather took a half step closer to her.
For the first time in months, they were pressed against each other.
Her chest felt hollow. Icy. It burned to inhale. It took too much effort to exhale. She lifted the baby so that he was perfectly between them. A brown hand fixed the baby’s dress. Fingertips grazed fingertips. She could taste iron pooling just behind her teeth, and then she smiled.
Her first tear fell when the camera shuttered for the last time. The people were emotional, too. They spoke to the baby in whispers. The Godfather left her side to go gawk at his Godson.
It was only her in the center of that stage. She was alone. There was no one in her corner anymore.
She had no husband. No new baby to baptize. No boyfriend to envision her future with.
She felt as if she was going to drown. She sucked in a burning breath.
She tasted the iron.
#jude bellingham x black reader#jude bellingham angst#jude bellingham x oc#jude bellingham x you#x black fem reader#x black reader#trent alexander arnold x black reader#trent alexander arnold#jude bellingham one shot#jude bellingham x reader#jude bellingham imagine
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