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ginax0916 · 25 days

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hii could u do sturniolo triplets x fem reader where they treat her like one of them and toss shit at her but then they accidentally hurt her and they all panic. (maybe one of them have a secret crush on her up to u?)

★‧𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭‧★

Sturniolo Triplets x fem!bsf

Genre: Fluff

Synopsis: Filming a car goes wrong when a small accident happens.

Warning: Blood mentioned.

*this is gonna be just platonic so they’re just besties*

I love this request by the way, tysm! 🫶🏻

⭑ ⋆ ⭑ ⋆ ⭑

I’ve been friends with the triplets for longer than I can remember. They practically call me their sister now. So it isn’t unusual for me to appear in their videos. I’m usually in the vlogs just because I think they’re funner to film than car videos.

We are all currently sitting on their couch watching random videos on YouTube eating ice pops.

“Guys I’m bored” Chris says.

“Ok then what do you wanna do?” I ask.

“I don’t know but something other than whatever this is” Chris lays back on the couch sighing.

“How about we start filming the car video for Friday?” Nick says.

“But it’s literally Sunday” Matt says looking at Nick.

“Yea but we already have our Wednesday video filmed, and if we film our Friday video today we can have the rest of the week free” Nick explains.

“That’s a good idea” I say.

“Would you be in it y/n?” Matt asks.

“I’ve got nothing better to do so yea” I chuckle.

“Ok then let’s go!” Chris jumps up from the couch with a sudden outburst of energy.

“Look over there it’s all empty” Nick points to an empty part of the Walgreens parking lot where we chose to film.

“Ok that’s good, Chris start getting the camera ready” Matt says, driving to the spot farthest away from people.

Either way it is 12 am so there weren’t much people out anyway.

“Do we even have a topic?” I ask.

“No but we can just start speaking and see where it gets us” Nick replies.

“Do you guys want anything from Walgreens before we start?” Matt questions as he looks at Nick and I from the rearview mirror.

“Yes I want candy and a drink” Nick says.

“Me too” I say looking at Matt.

“Alright I’ll go get it” He answers while unbuckling his seat belt.

“I’ll go with you” I quickly say.

“Yea same you never get me the right candy” Chris rolls his eyes.

“Ok well I guess I have to go too now” Nick sighs.

We all got our candy and drinks except for Nick who couldn’t decide what he wanted to drink. Per usual.

“For the love of god Nick fucking choose” Chris groans.

“But there’s so many options!! I can’t do this” Nick replies grabbing his hair in frustration.

“Nick if you don’t choose something in the next 20 seconds we’re leaving” Matt sternly says.

“Oh my god look” Nick gasps.

“What” I say confused.

“They have glass bottles of coke!” Nick exclaims grabbing one from the fridge.

“Why the fuck would you want a glass bottle of coke? Just get the can” Chris comments.

“No I’m getting this. What if it tastes better in a glass bottle than in a can?” Nick questions.

“Just give me the damn thing so I can pay and go film the video for fucks sake” Matt says annoyed at his brother, as he walks to the check out.

“Mamas mad” I joke causing Chris and Nick to laugh.

“What the fuck is up YouTube! Welcome back to this week’s Friday video that we happen to be filming on a Sunday” Chris screams as soon as the camera starts recording, causing us all to flinch.

“Chris stop being so loud” I say grabbing his arm.

“Well we have to have a memorable intro no?” He answers, turning his body to look at me in the backseat.

“Well yea but don’t yell” I chuckle.

“Guys is it just me or did this car shrink” Nick says moving around swinging the bottle of coke in his hands.

“Nick stop you’re gonna hit me” I say shielding my face in case he does hit me.

“I hope he hits you and you break your nose” Matt says with no emotion on his face.

“Damn alright Matthew very sweet of you” I sarcastically say.

“Did you guys know that every star you see in the night sky is bigger and brighter than our sun” Chris randomly says.

“That’s not fucking true” Matt argues.

“IT IS TRUE SEARCH IT UP” Chris yells.

“Chris how many times do I have to tell you to stop screaming!” I raise my voice at him.

“Well he’s doubting my facts!” He argues back.

“Well Matt did you search it up?” Chris smirks.

“Shut up” Matt smiles.

“I told you soooo” Chris laughs.

“I finished my coke” Nick burps.

“You’re gross” I scrunch my face.

“Yea dude stop fucking burping everywhere you’re turning into Chris” Matt replies going off what I said.

“What did you say to me? I am most definitely not turning into Chris. In fact I’m better” Nick starts to argue still swinging the bottle around as he moves his arms.

“Hey! What did I do!” Chris complains.

“Oh my god” I sigh knowing they’re all about to fight.

“Oh shut up Chris sit down” Matt says in Chris’s face.

“You sit down tough guy get out of my face” Chris argues back.

“Can ya’ll just shut up please” I say rubbing my temples.

“Sorry sorry” Nick says exhaling as he rests his head on the head rest of Matt seat.

“Here I’m done with my Pepsi” Chris throws his empty can at me.

“Do I look like a trash can to you” I say annoyed.

“I’m done with my sprite too” Matt says throwing his empty spite bottle in my face.

“Oh my god why am I being attacked” I laugh.

“Wait this was from yesterday I’m done with it too” Chris adds on, throwing an empty Fanta bottle at my face again while laughing.

“That’s so gross” I laugh at him.

“Oh take this one too” Matt laughs throwing another empty soda bottle in my face which I attempt to shield.

“How dirty is your fucking car” I giggle.

“Here take mine too” Nick says throwing his glass bottle at my face, forgetting it’s glass.

“Ow Nick what the fuck that’s glass!” I raise my voice grabbing my nose as I feel a burning sensation.

“Oh shit I forgot it’s glass oh my god” Nick gasps.

“Nick why the fuck would you do that! You ok y/n?” Chris yells at Nick then turns to me.

“No not really” I quietly say trying to hold back tears.

“Lift your head up y/n” Matt softly says grabbing my chin to lift my face.

Their eyes all widen as they see blood coming out of my nose.

“Oh fuck” Chris says getting out of the car and opening the door to my side.

“Y/n im so sorry oh my god” Nick freaks out.

“Nick apologize later right now to into Walgreens and buy tissues or paper towels and some Advil for the pain. A bottle of water too” Matt says to Nick then rushing to where Chris had pulled me out of the car so I wouldn’t get blood on the seats.

“C’mere sit down and tilt your head up” Chris softly says pulling me to the ground and gently grabbing my head and tilting it back.

“I’m gonna have a panic attack I hate blood” I say as my breathing picks up and tears slowly slide down my face.

“Hey hey shh. It’s ok me and Chris are right here with you and Nick is getting some stuff to help you ok? It’s okay” Matt comforts me and pinches the bridge of my nose to help stop the flow of the blood and rubs on of my shoulder with his other hand.

“Does it hurt?” Chris asks while he rubs my knee.

“Mhm” I mumble closing my eyes.

“Here I got the stuff. Fuck I’m so so sorry please don’t die” Nick freaks out.

“Nick she’s not gonna die don’t say shit like that calm down” Chris replies.

“It’s okay Nick it was an accident I forgive you” I quietly say trying not to move my head much.

“Alright here hold that there” Matt puts some paper towels under my nose to soak the blood which was starting to become less.

“Can you swallow a pill?” Nick questions.

“Mhm” I nod.

“Open” Chris taps the side of my cheek indicating me to open my mouth, and so I do.

“Here’s water” Chris softly says, handing me water to swallow the pill he put in my mouth.

“How’s your nose sweetheart?” Matt asks, moving hair out of my face.

“It’s better and the blood stopped” I answer moving the paper towel away to see that there was no more blooding come out.

“Y/n I’m so sorry please forgive me” Nick engulfs me in a hug.

“It’s ok Nick I promise. I’m not mad it was just an accident” I say forgiving him and hugging him back.

“Alright c’mon let’s just go back home and order food and watch a movie how does that sound?” Chris asks me as he helps me up so we can all get back into the car.

“Mhm sounds good” I mumble.

“I kinda jinxed this whole situation I said I hope he hits you” Matt laughs as he starts the car.

“You really did jinx it Matt” I say.

“Guys the camera was recording the whole time” Chris points out.

“Well then this a hell of a video” Nick laughs.

⭑ ⋆ ⭑ ⋆ ⭑

Tried my best 🤗😛

#y/n #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #happy friday #walgreens

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luverboychris · 4 months

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𝑩𝑨𝑩𝒀𝑺𝑨𝑻 𝑷𝑻. 1 | 𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑶

IN WHICH.. the boy your older sister used to babysit for when he was a little kid is now all grown up— and you are too. never been touched before except for his own two hands until you finally show him what pleasure really feels like. but, don’t you dare think he’s not dirty minded…

sub!chris x fem reader, fluff aw!!!, losing virginity, riding

note: im such a slut for shy chris like pls bby come here & relax. also this is part 1 because trust this story be juicy asf.

— 3.2k words

chris has always been the quiet kid. sitting in the back of the class, knowing the answer but too scared to raise his hand. feeling the sweat forming on his forehead ready to drip down due to worrying if the teacher is going to call on him.

he thought maybe as he got older, grew more mature, he would finally get out of it. perhaps it was a phase. but he was now twenty.. and still the same shy kid from middle school.

he just didn’t get it. he knew his thoughts had so much potential to show his true personality and colors but it was like he had a wall that stopped them from spilling out.

chris drives into the walgreens parking lot, finding the nearest open spot. he gets out of the car and walks inside. he was in desperate need of a refill of his anxiety medication and he was rushing.

but just when the pharmacy was making his prescription, he wanders through the aisles of the store and grabs a snack and of course, a pepsi. chris isn't chris without a pepsi in his hand. he shuts the fridge door and turns his head, seeing a girl.

but he thought she looked familiar, squinting his eyes a tad thinking that would zoom in his vision. she turns her head a little more and thats when he realizes he does know her.

it was his old babysitter, how could he forget? she turns her head back and starts walking out of the aisle he was in.

“w-wait!” he shouts. her hair flips back, snapping her head towards the shouting boy.

“oh my- what the?! chris?” she exclaims. she makes her way towards him as he does nothing but stand in the same spot and smile.

“you’re all grown up, i’m freaking out right now.” your sister says. she pulls him in a hug and he lets her. he appreciated your sister so much. not having a sister of his own yet he felt like she was his big sister in a way.

she always helped him. wether it was when she would pick him up from school and he was covered in bruises from getting beaten up by the kids in his class. or, always reassuring him that everything will be okay in the end. he truly admired her.

but another thing that chris absolutely loved about her, was her little sister that was in his class at the time. and that was you. you were nothing but sweet to him. you hated how people treated him in middle school.

after middle school, you guys went your separate ways since he went to a private school, and you didn’t see him since.

when he saw your big sister, he instantly had you in mind. wondering what you were doing in life, what you look like now, if you still have the same interests as you did in middle school. and the most he was thinking about.. how your love life was.

of course his was non-existent. and he was kind of okay with it, he learned to accept it. girls never looked his way, and no way in hell would he make the first move.

you obviously didn’t know of this, but chris had the utter most biggest crush on you throughout middle school. he basically thought you were an angel sent from heaven to protect him.

chris scratches the back of his neck, “so, uh hows y/n?” he asks. he was in shock he had the balls to even ask that— but he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he walked out of the store without knowing.

your sister laughs, “she’s good! really good..” she says, “well except for the fact she just got out of a long relationship. fuck that guy, he was an asshole.” she adds. chris lets out a little laugh, your sister always overshared and he liked it.

turns out it was one of the boys that used to bully chris. fuck, did he hate that guy. and no wonder you guys didn’t end up working out, you needed a sweet boy— he thought to himself.

“she’s going to be very happy when i tell her i ran into you!” she says, “would you want her number? maybe catch up. i’m sure she would love that chris.”

his eyes widened, without making it seem like he was a nervous wreck after those words came out of your sister’s mouth. with everything in him, he wanted your number.. but he was scared. what would he say to you? would you respond? what if you block him after he presses send to the first text?

“c’mon chris.. she will love to hear from you. just say yes.” she giggles. your sister knew chris too well, always was able to read him like a book. he swore she was some type of mind reader.

“i, uh.. okay. please. yes, can i have her number?” he practically begs. she nods her head and grabs her phone, giving chris your contact. he thanks her and pulls her into a hug before saying goodbye.

but now he was home.. laying in his bed with his face up towards the ceiling. his phone right by the side of him. it was like his phone was taunting him and calling him names for being an absolute pussy. calling him out for not just turning his damn phone on and texting you already.

thoughts rolling around in his head. should he do it now? or is it too soon since he basically just got back home from catching into your sister.

should he do it later? like late at night? but no, it would look like he is hitting you up in a sexual way if its too late. he didn’t know what the fuck to do.

he lets out a big sigh. finally forcing himself to overcome his anxious thoughts and concerns as he lifts his phone up to his face. should he call you instead of text? he would be a stuttering mess if he called you— he thought to himself. but something in him did it anyway.

his hands begin to feel sweaty, the grip on his phone tightening as he presses the tip of his finger on his screen and tapping on your number.

the sound of the phone dialing, which felt like centuries for chris started to make him worry. what if you don't answer because a random fucking number is calling you? please.. please answer. —he thought to himself.

"hello..?" your voice so soft and delicate, with confusion laced in your vocals. even though chris hasn't heard your voice in years, he still instantly just felt at ease. he closes his eyes and smiles to himself.

"h-hi.." he clears his throat and tries again, "hey y/n, it's chris... sturniolo." he quitely slaps his forehead, feeling like he sounds like an absolute nerd.

"oh my go- chris? my sister was just texting me how she bumped into you at the store. damn i kind of regret not going with her now." you say. that sentence alone was enough for his cheeks to flush up in color.

he let out a nervous laugh that bounced through his speaker to your ear. "really?" he mumbles, "anyway, how are you? it's been a while, and oh.. i am sorry to hear about your breakup.." he adds.

"what the fuck? my sister told you about that? i'm going to fucking kill her i swear.. always telling people my buisness." you groan, "but, thank you chris that means a lot." he fidgets in place, knowing he shouldn't have said that to you.

"i, uh sorry.. that's my fault." he mutters.

you drag your fingers across the desk in your bedroom, holding the phone against your ear with your free hand. "hahah, no chris. i was kidding.. kind of. it's okay, that's on her not you." you catch yourself basically blabbering and you feel awkward.

"you know.. i love that you called me but i feel like we have so much to catch up on in eachother's lives." you say, "why don't you come over instead of talking back and fourth on the phone? it'd be nice to see you all grown up too." you add.

chris sits on the edge of his bed now, his hand covering his mouth to not make a single sound because fuck how much your words felt like flirting to him. even if those weren't your intentions, he loved you were at least making an effort to see him in person.

"t-that, that sounds nice yeah." he replies, "i'm free all night."

"you're in luck mr. sturniolo because i also am free all night. come to my apartment?" you ask. he takes a big gulp. he thought you would maybe ask to go to the mall, or go get ice cream. but, going over to your apartment? alone.. he was scared but no way he was letting this offer down.

"y-you sure?" he asks. he didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, but you were far from it. you were actually excited.

"of course. why don't you come around ten-ish, huh? i'll give you my address. i'll see you then." you reply. chris gets up from his bed, looking at himself in the mirror and catches himself with the most child like grin.

he repeats your words, "see you then." and you hang up the phone. it took him a few moments until he actually removed his phone from his ear. fuck.. was he so happy. he didn't know him picking up his anxiety medication a little later than usual would end up with him being able to see you.

—that night, at your place

chris didn't feel like this was real, standing outside your door with flowers in his hand. a rush of nerves squirm throughout his body as he builds the encouragement to bring his knuckles against your apartment door.

he knocks, and he hears you rummaging on the other side of the door walking towards your entrance. you snap the door open, you look down to the floor straight up to him meeting up with his eyes.

you were not expecting him to look that cute.. yes, he was always an adorable boy in your class but now he was tall, his jawline clenched and just his whole appearance together was insanely attractive.

you lower your gaze to meet with the flowers in his hand, "flowers?" you say, "what is this? a date chris?" you laugh.

his face immediately goes red, "n-no, i, no i know this isn't a date." he replys rather quickly, "my mom just always says to bring a girl flowers.. i'm sorry."

you pull him into your apartment, "aw no chris, don't worry. i was only kidding. i love these flowers and that's very thoughtful." you almost forgot how you needed to tone it down a little with the jokes because he was a sensitive boy. "they are beautiful." you take them from his hands and walk towards your kitchen counter and gently putting them down.

you were so caught up in the flowers, while chris was doing nothing but admiring you. he always thought you were the most beautiful girl in middle school, but how did you grow up to be even more perfect in his eyes? it made him stunned.

you weren't wearing anything fancy though, just lounge wear with your hair pulled up. he stands still, staying in the exact spot you made him go in the first place. which was right by your apartment door. you turn around from the kitchen to him, "don't be shy chris. you can walk around." you say.

he snaps back, realizing he was just thinking about how good you looked without any dash of effort. he clears his throat, "right.. sorry." he says as he walks towards your couch.

"chris you know.. you don't need to apologize after everything." you mutter.

he finally gets comfortable on the couch, "you're right sorry." he says. you walk to the couch, his eyes looking up at you while you're standing right above him giving him a 'really?' look.

"i-it’s a bad habit of mine.." he whispers. your heart shattered a little when he said that, he barely said it out loud but it was enough for you to hear.

you pout at him, now sitting next to him on your couch. "you're cute, you know that?" you say. you rest your face on your hand. he tried maintaining eye contact with you but after you just threw that compliment in the air, there was no way he could.

he swallowed, "i'm cute?" he mumbles. you inch yourself just a little closer to him, now your thighs touching each other.

"oh you know you're cute." you say. he finally is brave enough to look at you now, but then looked down to your glossed lips.

"no i don't. i don't think i'm cute." he replies.

even though this was your first time seeing him in years, it already felt like you guys were back in the third period, lab partners and not paying attention to the lesson because you and chris would just talk, talk, talk.

you were always his partner in class, because no one else would. since nick and matt weren’t in the same classes.

"well you should." you snap back. you knew he needed the validation, and you didn't mind showering him with all the compliments in the world.

chris felt like he was doing a good job with keeping his composure, but he really was deteriorating on the inside. his heart rate going up through the roof and he felt a zoo of butterflies flying around in his stomach.

"i'll try my best to think that.." he mutters. you let out a giggle before unzipping your jacket completely, taking it off and letting your arms be exposed with the tank top you were wearing underneath.

"i'm sorry.. my apartment is so hot right now. i love summer but fuck am i dying of heat right now." you moan out, fanning yourself with your hand. he did everything in his power to keep his eyes focused on your face, and not let them wander to your body.

you stand up a little, your knees on the couch as you reach for the thermostat that's right next to you on the wall. you didn't even mean to, but you were completely bent over in front of chris and now he has failed. his eyes burning into your lower half. your shorts a little too short for his liking because the right amount of your ass was being revealed to him.

you were teasing the fuck out of him without even knowing it. you lower the temperature, going back to sitting right next to chris. "ahh, okay it'll get colder in here soon." you say. he just nods, trying his best not to replay the image of you bent down in front of him over and over in his head.

but his hormones didn't let him, resulting in his dick to grow underneath his boxers and shorts. fuck.. the last thing he wanted to happen was to get hard by you infront of you. he began to feel embarrased, making sure you wouldn't notice.

he looks down at his boner for a split second then back up to you, pulling his hands to cover his area in a nonchalant way. but no girl is stupid.. and they can always tell when a guy is trying to cover up a boner.

he readjusts himself on the couch as you guys are talking back and fourth about your life. you catch him fidgeting his legs, "chris.. are you okay?" you ask.

"wha-? oh, y-yeah. i'm fine." he says. here comes the stuttering.

"it doesn't look like you're fine." you reply. usually he would keep denying it, but he trusts you.

"if you want me to be honest.. and i'm sorry before i say this if it makes you uncomfortable.." he says, "i'm hard and i was trying to make sure you didn't see."

his hands part away, now letting you see his dick poking through his shorts. you feel yourself become warm, and it wasn't because your apartment was.

a brush of horniness absorbs into your skin as you keep looking down, him looking at you with innocent and guilty eyes.

"oh, uh it׳s okay.." you mumble out. he felt like you were disgusted by him, grabbing a hold on your arm.

"n-no fuck! i'm sorry, i really am. i didn't mean to make you grossed out i swear." he pleads. you look down at the grip he has on your arm and then look back at him.

"chris, seriously don't worry.. do you know how many times a girl gets wet from something and has no control over it? it's not your fault that for guys you can physically see when something riles you up." you say with all honestly. that relieved him, instantly making him feel better.

"besides, it's kind of hot." you blurt out. your words make his head snap back towards you, a wave of shock hitting him.

"wait uh, w-what?" he says. you shrug your shoulders, as you clench your thighs together.

"you got hard from thinking about me. it's hot. you have a problem with that?" you ask. he shakes his head ‘no’ so much, his head almost fell off.

"n-no. i don't have a problem with that." he says, "i just am not used to this. i haven't been alone in a room with a girl."

"chris what?! does that mean you're a virgin? wait.. have you even kissed a girl?" you ask. you know he was shy and innocent.. but not that innocent.

his face turns red, attempting to cover his face with his right hand. "yes, im a virgin. and no i haven’t kissed anyone.." he mumbles into his hand.

his pureness was honestly attractive to you.

"wow." you say, "but have you atleast touched yourself?"

the truth was, he touched himself a little too much. the amount of times he has watched porn and jerked off was an unhealthy amount. or even just using his imagination. and, there was no way he was going to admit to you that you have crossed his mind while he was stroking himself.. picturing what you looked like all grown up.

and you fit his description perfectly, as you were now sitting right next to him.

"yeah, i have.." he mumbles, "hey listen.. just because i'm a prude doesn't mean i don't have a d-dirty mind." he adds. you raise your eyebrows at him, shocked that he said that to you.

"dirty mind? i don't believe you chris." you smirk. he didn't even know he slipped that out, his breathing becoming uneven.

"yeah." he says, "i know when the time comes, i will make my girl feel really good." suddenly confidence was rushing through his veins. and it was making you bite your lip at him.

"oh yeah? you will make your girl feel good? i don't know.. i can't believe that." you reply, teasing him.

"i swear!" he softly yells out. you were trying not to get wet at the sneaky plan you were thinking in your head.

"care to prove it?" you snap back. and that's when his confidence that was building up inside him disappears. his palms are sweaty again and his cock was just growing by the second.

“mhm..” he says with a shaky tone.

go read—> press here part 2

─── aid speaks ᝰ.ᐟ ───

╰┈ ⌞₊˚ est. jan 23 2024🗒 ˎˊ˗ ⌝

okay this is lowk long and i want the smut to be in part 2 or else this will be as long as a harry potter novel ong. hope u enjoyed it i love u guys so much?! like thank you for reading my other story, i cant believe it hit 100 likes im stunned. here are tags of people who i wanna marry so badly bruh

@mattslolita @gamermattsgf @plasticferal @m4ttslvr @mattybsbitch @recklessmatt @sturniololol @angelic-sturniolos111 @mattshands @sugrhigh @imwetforyourmom @sturnspoison

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #smut #matt sturniolo #sturniolo #fluff

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dizzyizzystiddies · 2 years

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Oh my god I just did an actual work day for the first time in my life and I hurt so much.

#I had pokedon training from 11:30-2:30 and Walgreens training from 4:00-10:00 #got the same on Thursday #can’t even sleep in tommorow cause I got 10:00am PT and an audiology appointment #I was looking for a job and then and found a job….you know #wednesday talks #I just wanted to work the stop and go like Cas but they didn’t call back so now I have 3 part times

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gutsby · 6 months

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Pregnant Pause

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Babymaking is a bit trickier than anticipated, and months have passed with no sign of pregnancy. When your period finally doesn’t show up on time, you and Daryl act fast and head straight for the pharmacy—and get a little caught up along the way.

Warnings: NSFW. Unprotected p-in-v (duh). Daddy Daryl + daddy!kink Daryl. Difficulties trying to conceive.

Note: Part 2 to Grow a Uterus and We’ll Talk. I fully blame @murdadixon and the Blood Ties series for all the pregnancy-related one shots lately - veryyyy much in my Daddy Daryl era now 🫣💓💘

If trying to get knocked up was an Olympic sport, you would’ve won the gold.

On the merits of your efforts alone you and Daryl probably should’ve had several hundred babies under your belt by now. Thousands. The past six months had been nothing but babymaking, a steady stream of rawdog bedroom rodeos and two-person pushups being your primary form of sustenance. But, try as you might, there wasn’t so much as a whiff of a kid in sight after all this time. You were starting to lose hope.

When, one month, your period didn’t make its usual appearance two days after the time it was meant to, you were over the moon with excitement.

Swinging one leg over Daryl’s sleeping form to straddle him in bed, you leaned down and shook him hard.

“Daryl!” you hissed, pinching him under his shirt.

The man below you grunted, shuffled, and blinked uncertainly up at you before slowly raking his eyes over your body and starting to smirk.

“Climb on, cowgirl,” he purred, already starting to tug your panties down.

Your hands quickly covered his and stalled their movements, a giggle bubbling up in your throat.

“Not that, not that!” you whispered, “I’m late.”

“Fer what?” Glancing over at the clock on the nightstand.

“My period.”

Daryl’s gaze darted back to yours. A beat as he processed what you meant.

“No shit?”

“Shit.” You were nodding, beaming.

Daryl hauled himself to his feet in a second, taking you with him. Then he slipped you onto the floor and raced you to the door, practically fighting you through the threshold of the bathroom to get to the cupboards first.

Together, you flung cabinet doors open far and wide and went foraging for little blue boxes in somewhat of a frenzy. Daryl was chucking pads and tampons and rolls of toilet paper over his shoulder while you stuck yourself waist-deep in another stuffy wooden space, searching in earnest for that stupid Clearblue logo.

“Got it!” Daryl chirped. You almost smacked your head on the sink coming out so fast.

“Yeah?!”

Daryl thrust a blue-and-white stick in your direction, grinning with pride.

Your eyes narrowed just a little. Your stomach sank.

“Daryl, that’s a thermometer.”

Your boyfriend’s mouth hung slightly ajar in an ‘o’ shape, and you couldn’t even be mad at his attempt.

Trying to hide your dismay, you sighed and told him to keep looking. You crawled back over to the cupboard and felt a gentle coil just then start to take shape in your stomach—whether that might’ve been a real-life baby or another burst of anxious nerves, you couldn’t be sure. You and Daryl continued to comb over the boxes and bottles lined across your shelves.

That was how your day had started. It continued, at present, outside a largely dilapidated Target Superstore, with your hands on your hips and your eyes scanning a sea of the undead that occupied its front entrance. Shit was worse than any Black Friday crowd you’d ever seen.

“You sure you don’t wanna check the Walgreens?” you asked, tightening your grip on the rifle in your hands.

“Place was overrun last time I checked. Got a camp of military types stationed nearby too. Best ta leave ‘em be,” Daryl answered.

You suspected if anyone came across the two of you now they’d be put off just the same—with the AK-47 in your arms and the crossbow/M4 Carbine combo on Daryl’s person, you probably looked every bit as lethal as you’d ever been.

All for an itty bitty pee stick and some snacks.

You sat down on one of the red cement balls to your left and crossed your arms. You watched the herd. If there was just some way to slip in, sight unseen, and sneak past their rotting bodies to get to the Sexual Wellness section, maybe rappel from the ceiling and drop dead on the spot, go in guns blazing or else just—”

“Mask it,” Daryl said, suddenly.

You raised an eyebrow but quickly had your curiosity quelled when Daryl nodded toward a throng of walkers down the way.

There were four or five of them stacked together, crushed between shopping carts and pinned, interminably, in place as they stood, hissed, and clawed in your general direction.

Daryl had a hatchet in hand in a second. You watched, enthralled, as he made lightning quick work of the walkers, hacking off their arms, dismantling their jaws, and slinging rope around their bodies like they were little more than a miniature herd of cattle. He came back smiling, probably thinking to himself how proud Michonne would be if she could see him now.

“Here,” he hummed. He passed over the rope attached to two jawless walkers like they were pets on a leash.

You accepted it and joined him as he walked, eyeing your newly-tripled group with a curious look.

“Should we—” you started.

“Not naming them,” Daryl said before you could finish.

The six of you trudged along a path of broken glass and steered toward one of the semi-shattered doors. Your stomach started to twist when the sounds of the groaning walkers within reached your ears.

“’S’okay. Nothin’s gonna hurt us with these ugly fucks around,” Daryl murmured to you, glancing back at the doe-eyed, mutilated geeks at your rear.

You nodded silently and followed his lead. The pair of you were practically halfway through the entrance now, making your way past piles of debris and gradually drawing closer to the hissing mob inside. You eyed the looming horde, chewed the inside of your cheek, and yanked your brand new friends a little closer.

And, like magic, the herd hardly stirred when you approached the perimeter. A few parted ways enough to give you entry and, when you’d stepped inside, proceeded to close right back around as if you were one of their own. Not a single snarling mouth or clouded eye turned your way as you and Daryl shuffled ahead, mimicking their moans and hisses and occasionally trading looks as if to say, ‘No fucking way this is working.’

You carried on. Followed by sight where streams of light went pouring in through the caved-in ceiling. Even looked to a couple worn and faded aisle numbers and quickly learned you were much closer than you thought.

You slowed your pace.

“Condoms, 2:00,” you whispered, trying to direct Daryl’s attention to the right.

The pregnancy tests were always stationed somewhere near the condoms—like a warning, you thought. You never could’ve imagined you’d be so happy to see that silent admonition in your life, now, as you and Daryl sidled over to the scattered rows of sexual wellness products and took a closer look.

Daryl reached down, seized a box, and held it up to you.

“Nope. Ovulation test,” you shook your head.

Another.

“Pantyliners.”

“Goddamn, how many pussy products do y’all need?” Daryl groaned, stepping aside to let you check the shelves yourself.

You found a pregnancy test in four seconds flat. You chucked the box his way and grabbed half a dozen more.

Internally, you would’ve loved to celebrate this momentous occasion, but rationally, you knew there were several hundred flesh-eating horrors just waiting for you to fuck up and serve yourselves on a platter a stone’s throw away. Moreover, you were ill at ease—almost fearful—of the result you might get from the tests. After six months of setbacks and cyclic, habitual frustration, you almost didn’t want to know one way or another. You weren’t fit to face another disappointment.

When your gaze flitted to Daryl’s, you saw his expression had softened. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms and cradled your head to his chest.

“Don’t matter what the test says,” he murmured into your hair, stroking it softly, “’m gonna put a damn baby in ya if it’s the last thing I do.”

You surprised yourself by bursting into laughter, not tears, on his front, trying to stifle the sounds in his shirt as he hugged you tighter. You squeezed him back, held him close, and almost forgot your four drooling companions and the many more still prowling about the store. You turned your head up to Daryl.

“I love you,” you said.

“I love you too.”

Daryl leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips.

He probably meant it to be a peck, nothing more than a second or two, but when you pulled him in and really kissed him back, he didn’t mind at all.

He walked you back into a shelf, pushed your body as careful as he could so as not to disturb any items behind you. You brought a hand to his hair and threaded it tight through your fingers, prompting the smallest of groans between you. Daryl stepped a little closer.

The second your tongue breached the seal of his lips, you felt a hand slide down to your backside and nudge you up a little, so you jumped and wrapped your legs around his waist. Your tongues delved deeper, hands roamed further, and moans took on a volume that likely wasn’t safe at all for your current surroundings. Your four gummy-mouthed comrades stood as silent and still as ever.

“Wanna— have another go for good measure?” you muttered against Daryl’s lips. Hips grinding with his against all your better judgment.

“Couldn’t...hurt,” Daryl groaned in return.

Undoubtedly, it could do more than just hurt you—if those walkers sniffed you out, they’d kill you—but, as it was, neither of your hormone-charged bodies had the presence of mind to say any differently. You and Daryl shed clothes quicker than either of you could comprehend and, within a minute, were back on each other with another flurry of quick, frantic kisses.

Daryl gripped your bare hips, pinned them to the shelf, and almost cursed in your mouth when the whole damn thing threatened to give way.

In a blink, he’d grabbed the metal behind you and was slowly, desperately trying to yank it back while you cast a look around you.

Nothing roaming nearby. At least as far as you could see.

You shifted as though you were going to slide out of Daryl’s arms, but he just drew you closer. Once he’d righted the shelf, he secured his arm underneath you and grinned.

“Wanna take this someplace a little more private?”

You nodded and motioned toward the big ‘Rx’ sign at the end of the aisle. Daryl followed your gaze.

The pharmacy counter would have to do.

You were propped up against the cool surface in no time at all—right after Daryl had tied the walkers to a nearby pole—and suddenly you felt warmth all around. In spite of your nearly stark naked stature, you were enveloped by Daryl’s body, pressed flush against the counter and feeling his touch run every which way he pleased. He kissed, licked, and sucked every supple inch of your skin and acted like it was the first time he’d tasted you in ages. Like it wasn’t last night, and the morning before that, and every day preceding that he’d gotten his fill.

Daryl watched with eyes that drank you in like a novelty, and somewhere deep within you both, you knew you needed this now.

You hardly had a moment’s time to think before Daryl was thrusting inside you. Laying you flat on your back and fucking you hard against the counter with your legs draped over either one of his shoulders.

Daryl fought back a moan when your walls first welcomed him, slow at first, but maddening all the same. You felt a hand drift to your neck and seize it at the base, saw Daryl lean in a little and say, through gritted teeth,

“Tha’s my good girl— take daddy’s cock.”

You whimpered in response, feeling him rut his hips even harder. Daryl squeezed your throat as he did, and, seeing how much you loved it, held it there as long as you could take it before you came gasping for air.

He’d fill you to the hilt, pull out, and do it all again, quietly moaning your name as he pumped in and out.

“Fuck, Daryl, I— fuck,” you tried, and failed, to speak a coherent sentence as the archer picked up speed.

“Wha’s’at, honey? Ya say sumn’?” Daryl pried, pretending like he wasn’t already sending you straight to the brink of orgasm with the force of each stroke.

You hummed in an effort to conceal your moan but ended up letting loose an even louder sound, punctuated by something of a shriek when Daryl delivered a particularly hard blow. You clamped a hand over your mouth and watched Daryl shoot a look over his shoulder. Then he turned back, smirking.

“Didn’t quite catch tha’, honey,” he managed between ragged thrusts, “Wanna moan a little louder so the whole fuckin’ store can hear?”

You shot him a look as if to say, ‘Get fucked’—then pulled him even deeper with your fingers wrapped fast around his forearms. Daryl hardly seemed fazed, simply dropping a hand between your legs and offering another shit-eating grin when your body jolted under his touch.

“Feel good, baby?” he hummed.

You nodded and whimpered. Couldn’t help but clench when he leaned forward and angled your legs higher. Daryl let out a throaty moan.

“Gonna cum f’me?”

Before you could answer, he lowered himself even closer, ‘til your legs were all the way up by your ears and your body was chock-full of pleasure, all but brimming with tears. You tried to nod, found that you could scarcely move, and felt Daryl cup your face in his hand as he continued to fuck you, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip,

“Cum fer daddy, then. Cum all over this cock.”

Daryl knew he didn’t need to tell you twice. In a matter of seconds he felt you come undone beneath him, hands gripping him tight and walls clenching even harder. He caught your lips in a sloppy kiss, tried to quiet your moans, but found himself chasing that high not too long after. He spilled his seed inside you and watched your face contort with pleasure—not from your climax alone, but that pure, primal feel of his warmth spreading out deep within you.

The two of you parted, panted, and grinned in each other’s faces like that wasn’t the single dumbest, and most dangerous, fuck you’d had in your entire lives.

You didn’t need to exchange a word; you knew you shared identical thoughts. Daryl squeezed your thigh.

Twenty minutes later, with your walker quartet in tow, you paced a nervous path back and forth before your car in the parking lot. On the hood sat half a dozen, urine-soaked pregnancy tests with the screens facing down. You stopped and turned to Daryl, eyes locking on his.

“Ready?”

“Flip ‘em.”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon one shot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl x reader #the walking dead #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #twd imagine #smut

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olive-fics · 9 months

Text

Abby Anderson comforting you on your period *giggles and twirls hair*

VERY SMALL NSFW JOKE AT END NOT PROOF READ IM SLEEPY!

-Simple Abby headcannons and how she would comfort you on your period. Fluff

-Mention of blood ofc don't act surprised.

For the girls and the gays, Men DNI !!!!!!! (Please)

-Abby is the type of girl to come over at any given time of the day just because you texted her you feel sick from your period. "Abby,My cramps hurt so bad-” “On my way princess.” anything. JHFDJKGHNDF.

-Abby would tell you a time she’d be there and end up late, why? Because she was looking for one of her hoodies you enjoy so much and she was at the local Walgreen’s picking up your favorite snacks, drinks, tylenol (cramp relief meds), pajamas or a throw blanket for you. (Walgreens is a drugstore btw!)

-Comforting Abby would let you sit on her lap, lay on her, anything. She wanted you to be comfy.

-Abby could handle blood unlike many who find it gross. Abby thought that was ignorant and rude and she wants you to always be comfy around her. She adored you. <3

-As much as Abby always gives you her full attention, she always makes sure to give you more attention when aching like this. She knows how needy or clingy you can get, Abby would shower you with kisses, hugs, and sometimes gifts.

-Omfg I feel like Abby would give the best like back rubs or scalp massages with her muscular fingers. Abby wouldn’t stop after like 5 min either with the lame excuse of like “My hands are tired..” She would keep going until you either fell asleep or told her enough.

-Abby would carry you literally everywhere, bathroom, Bedroom, Kitchen too if you didn't already make Abby get you everything.

-Abby didn’t mind your mood swings if you even got them around her, she would take them calmly, never yell back and always let you come back when you’re ready. (Idk if that makes sense but like she’s giving u time and that’s hot LOL)

-Back to the Abby not minding the blood, If you mentioned any concern about bleeding on her or in her bed she would shush you so fast. “shh..Shh..Shhh..I don’t care My love.” or something sappy to make you giggle.

-Abby knew your attention span on your period was VERY limited so to keep you happy Abby always brought her Nintendo switch to play Mario kart. (duh.) every time you and Abby played Mario Kart it was like sports to you two. Abby normally picks Dry bones or Bowser.. But guess who also did? You. It was like a damn race alone to just see who could pick it first. Of course you both could be the same character but you liked to see the different characters plastered across the screen. In desperate times like this though? Abby would always ‘accidentally’ miss-click so you could always win and get the character you wanted, Abby just loved to see you laugh at her.

-Yk how Abby said she would do anything for you? She meant literally any type of relief to ease your pain.. even if that meant-🧛

My friend gave me this idea and it made me think..so..

Reblogs are appreciated!

I have anonymous requests in my bio! Send me SFW. requests! Head-cannons on TLOU characters or smth idk LOL.

Okay Drink water girls. <3

#fanfic #tlou fic #the last of us #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #tlou fanfiction #fanfiction #menstruation #comfort #headcanon #muscle mommy #lesbian #wlw #sfw interaction only #abby anderson fluff #abby anderson x female reader

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itsthestutterforme · 4 months

Text

Say That Again? (Alpha!Ari x omega!reader)

Summary: You have a hormone imbalance that makes your heat different from other omegas. Very different.

Notes: GIF is not mine, this isn’t a beta’d read, A/B/O dynamics, reader is an absolute brat (as per usual 💅🏾), sexual themes (pussy slapping, oral sex, rough sex), MINORS DNI

“Fuck this shit!” You exclaim, gripping your sheets for dear life as you heeled over the side of the bed.

The cramp started on the right side of your abdomen slowly traveling downwards like a hot, freshly sharpened knife carving your insides

“Just stop already! Shit!” You yelled out, cursing your entire existence for needing such a deranged sign to tell you that you weren’t pregnant.

You barely had time to build your nest with Ari’s flannels and Henley shirts and your favorite plush pillows.

The nest was only a quarter done when the cramps started and you’ve been withering in pain ever since this morning.

Letting out a shaky sigh when the cramp finally subsided, Ari walks back into the room with a bag from Walgreens.

He bought all sorts of things for you. He had found a list on Pinterest listed ‘The Ultimate Period Care Package’.

He frantically tossed pills, tampons (although you didn’t need those), heating pads and countless other things on the list into the basket, hating the idea of leaving you alone in his house during your heat.

He even bought some things for his rut in case he were to sync with you. Although he desperately wishes that didn’t happen.

This was your first heat since the two of you bonded and it was nothing like he expected. With most omegas in heat, they were sensitive and clingy with their alphas.

But you? You wanted to clawed his face for even being in the same room as you.

You released a low whine when you noticed his presence. “How you feeling, rebel?”

“Like I want to jump off a bridge,” you grunted out, rolling on your side and curling into a tight ball.

“I uh, I got some Midol for you. But if you didn’t want that, I got Naproxen because I read that it works better than regular Tylenol.” He explains.

He takes a cautious step towards your nest and you snapped at him, a low growl erupting in your chest.

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me near you, baby.” Ari pleads. “Your presence makes it worse,” you groaned, your body trembling as another cramp rips its way through your body.

“I’m your Alpha. It shouldn’t make things worse. My scent should be helping you,”

Yelling into the pillow, you slapped the wooden pillar on the headboard harder every second it took for the cramp to subside.

The crease in Ari’s brow deepened, his hands rested on his hips as he watched you writhing around in his bed.

He sighs, turning away from you and reaching into the bag. He takes the blanket into his hand and opened it up before draping it over your trembling frame.

The wind from the blanket landing, brushed Ari’s scent in your general direction. A quiet purr left your lips and Ari freezes at the soft sound, cautiously taking off his shoes before sliding into the space next to you.

When you turned to face him, he opened his arm to you and you buried your face in between the pecks of his chest.

His chest vibrates as he purrs, his own body relaxing when you purred in response. The stomach relaxed when the cramps slackened.

“Has your heat always been like this?” He asked, you gripped the fabric of his shirt anxiously.

You hummed in response and he rubbed circles on your back. “Ever since I hit puberty,” you explained.

“Yeah. Apparently I have a hormone imbalance. My body produces more estrogen than the DES-hormone.” You started.

“Which is why you needed scent blockers,” he concludes.

“Yes but they were more than just blocking my scent. They were practically suppressing the DES-hormone until it was nonexistent. I could almost pass for a regular human. Hence why my heat is like a menstrual cycle without the blood, ”

“That’s.. I couldn’t imagine how it was for you in your teen years,” “It wasn’t for the weak,” you said with a soft chuckle.

“It had its perks. I was more aggressive than the typical omega so I was barely approached.” You added, smoothing your hand over his chest.

“And when you were?” “I had a cousin who was an Alpha-“ his body tensed at the thought of another Alpha interacting with you.

“And he defended me from persistent Alphas,” you continued, noticing his hand gripping your side.

“Any of them knot you?” “Ari, seriously?” You huffed, another cramp threatening your stomach.

Lifting your head to turn away from him, he pulls you back down on his chest.

“I’m serious, omega. Did any of them knot you?” “Why does that matter, Ari? It was nine years ago. I don’t ask about the omegas you hooked up with before we got together.”

Goosebumps erupted all over your skin when Ari growls at you. All in on motion, he sits up against the headboard and planted you in his lap.

He gripped your chin harshly and bared his teeth at you. “So I take that as a yes?” He questioned.

“I’ve hooked up with an Alpha before yes. Once. Then he tried to stake a claim on me. When I refused, he started stalking me-“ he waited until you finished, wanting to know as much about you as possible.

“I don’t want you to talk about other Alphas during your heat. I don’t want you to talking about other Alphas at all. I don’t even want you thinking about anything else besides my knot during your heat. Understand?”

“If you even think about knotting me during my heat, I will tear it off.”

He taps your cheek with his index finger, tongue in cheek as he processed what you just said

He nodded gently, as if he made something up in his mind. He brings his hand down your to neck and shoved you on your back before you could try to catch yourself.

He sits up on his knees, tearing your fleece shorts down your legs. “Hey!” You start.

He pushed you back down, tearing your tank top down the middle so you were completely exposed.

You bet he enjoyed the power trip of you naked under him while he was fully clothed

“I’m still trying to figure out who you were talking to earlier,” his hand rests on your collar bone as a silent threat to watch your tone.

“You would rip my knot off? The same knot you use to fuck yourself stupid every chance you get? That knot?”

“A-Ari, I’m,” he pried your legs open. You lifted your head to see what was going on when he pushed you back down again and sent a harsh slap to your bare pussy.

Your tried to close your legs around his hand but he sent a warning slap to your thighs, forcing you to hold them open.

He continued to slap your pussy each one harder than the last. “Ari, please.” “Stay,” he commanded, your body took his word as gospel and didn’t move an inch.

Smack!

“Ari,” you croak and he stops his assault on your pussy. He leans over you until your noses were touching.

“You aren’t just an ordinary woman. You’re an omega. You’re my omega. Act like it.” “I’m sorry, Ari.”

Smack!

“Say that again?” “I’m sorry Alpha!” You croaked, tears staining your cheeks. Your body relaxed once he lifted the Alpha command.

“I thought we were past this, omega. I was going to let the growls slide because of your heat but you just had to push it didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” he tsked at you, his eyes scanning your figure now covered in a thin sheet of sweat.

His gaze stopped at your pulsing core, your slick sliding down your thighs. “You going to be good for me?”

“ Y-yes, Alpha.” You let out a soft moan when he gathered your slick on his fingers and bringing them up to his mouth.

Humming at your taste, he slid down your frame until he was level with your core. “I shouldn’t even be doing this because of your behavior,” he starts, ghosting his lips over your core.

“But you taste so sweet. Such a pretty, brown pussy.”

He spreads your folds with his fingers, sucking harshly on your sensitive clit. “A-Ari,” you groaned, your body twitching as you were already neared your orgasm.

His slaps brought you just close enough to the edge but not to the point of an orgasm.

Alternating between sucking your clit and kitten licking your folds, the sense of euphoria washed over you.

Your body tenses and twists around in his grip as he continues to lick you through your orgasm. When you sat up on your elbows, you met his dominating gaze from in between your thighs.

He propped your legs over your shoulders, rubbing your clit with the tip of his nose as he licked up the broad stripe skillfully.

Creating a suction with his lips, your head dropped back down on the bed. Your shaky hand touched his soft locs, your hips slowly moving against his face until your body seized with another orgasm.

He let you catch your breath, pulling off his tshirt stained with your slick. He set the shirt gingerly in the nest you partially made.

Leaning on one hand, he kissed you warmly. You hummed at your own taste on his lips. He unzips his jeans and kicked them off his legs.

You mewled when you felt his tip smooth over your slick folds.

You rolled onto your stomach, lifting your hips so you were presenting for him but he turned you around so were on your back once again.

Sliding between your legs, he grinds his hard cock against you, occasionally nipping at your neck.

Your hands found his hair and gave it a tug, spurring him on as he left hickeys across your chest.

Lifting one of your legs over his waist, he slowly sunk into you. He cursed when your walls flexed around him, he pushed into you until he bottomed out.

“Still wanna rip my knot off, omega?” He rolls his hips in slow, deep thrusts, moving the leg from his waist to his shoulder for a deeper stretch.

“Hm?” He continues. “No, Alpha.” You whimpered, moaning when his thrusts quickened. His massive hand presses onto your stomach to hold you still so he could drill into you hard and deep.

“Fuuck,” he groans when your walls fluttered against him. You scratched down his back like a crazed woman, gasping when he arches his back as he spears into you.

Your body jolted upwards with every thrust. A strand of his hair brushed against his cheek as he gazed to where your bodies met.

Pins and needles erupted across your chest when his lips brushed against your painfully throbbing mating gland.

“Do it. Please.” You whimpered, wailing his name when his teeth pierced the previously claimed skin.

Lust burned under your skin as you scratched down his arms frantically, your third orgasm of the night washing over you.

Ari hissed when your nails break skin, eyes fluttering closed as your walls clenched around his cock.

“Shit,” he cursed when he knot swells, bringing your bodies closer in primal union.

You felt him soften inside of you, sighing in relief when your body relaxed from the constantly flexing.

The cramps were long forgotten. It was as if they never happened. “Everything okay? I wasn’t too harsh was I?” Ari asks breathlessly from above you.

“I’m okay,” “Okay,” he kisses you warmly, tongue swiping across your bottom lip. “M’sorry about what I said,” he sighs, pulling you flushes against his chest.

He slipped out of you when you hiked a leg across his abdomen, some of his spend leaking down your legs and onto the bed sheets.

“I understand. I wouldn’t be myself if I went through that kind of pain either.” “But watch it next time,” he pats your ass as a warning. “Yes, Alpha.” You purred.

A comfortable silence fell over you, his fingers drawing patterns on your skin and occasionally pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I think my heat broke,” you admitted softly. “Well that didn’t take long,” he says with a chuckle. You met his gaze, heart fluttering when you noticed his irises dilating at the sight of you.

“I love you, rebel.” He starts, smiling as you pondered at the nickname. “I love you too, baby.”

#black!reader #alpha! ari levinson #ari levinson x black!reader #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson #omega!reader #a/b/o dynamics

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incorrectbatfam · 1 year

Note

Batfam’s Father’s Day plans

(also on Ao3)

"Morning, Bruce."

The way Stephanie says that instantly makes him look up. She traces her socked toe on the right angles of the tile, looking down.

"Morning, Steph." Bruce puts his coffee down. "Something wrong?"

"Huh?" She perks up in realization. "No, not at all. I actually just have something for you. I stopped by Walgreens on patrol last night 'cause I ran out of antiseptic, and I saw something that reminded me of you."

She hands him a dark blue greeting card with a cartoon fruit bat and Comic Sans text reading: You drive me batty, but I love you.

"Get it? 'Cause it's a bat, and you're the Batman." She scratches the back of her neck. "Not trying to make it weird or anything, you're just a cool mentor and whatnot. But also, it's nice to have someone who you can mess around with. My old man was always talking business even when he was at home—you kinda do that too, but in a good way 'cause anything's better than being a D-list villain, y'know. Plus, unlike him, you're working on striking a balance. Sometimes you even have a sense of humor." She chuckles awkwardly. "Anyway, I'm going on a jog. Text me if you need anything."

Before he processes her rambling, she grabs a granola bar and races out the door. He opens the card and out falls out a handful of purple confetti plus an ever-rare two-dollar bill. Smiling, he brushes the confetti up and puts it in his shirt pocket.

Bruce checks his watch. Everyone else is already out, except for Cass. She was out late last night on that Clayface mission, but even she should be up by this time. He fixes her a bowl of cereal with the package instructions and brings it upstairs.

"Cass?" He knocks. "Are you up yet? It's past 9:30."

He hears the duvet crunch like a candy wrapper as she shuffles around. A moment later, the door swings open as a messy-haired Cass yawns.

"I'll leave this up here for you," he says, putting the bowl on the dresser. "Any big plans today?"

She shakes her head. "Write reports. And relax."

"Well, you deserve a break. Great job on the stakeout, Princess." He plants a quick kiss on her forehead.

"Love," she says.

"Huh?"

"Favorite thing you do. Love."

He laughs softly. "I try. Now go get dressed."

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Despite it being Sunday, he still has a meeting scheduled with some Singaporean investors on their timezone. By eleven, he and some other executives are gathered around the long conference table as the video call drones on, and it's not until over an hour later that they're finally let out. Bruce loosens his tie and Tim does the same, sighing in relief and exhaustion.

Bruce asks, "Did you have lunch yet?"

"Oh, I forgot that's a thing," Tim says, stretching. "Hey, remember that ice cream place on 32nd?"

"You want ice cream for lunch?"

"I'd break your no killing rule for their M&M cookie sundae, okay?" he says. "Besides, remember when you took my friends and I there even though we massively bombed our first off-world fight? I might still be a massive perfectionist but that made me get a little more comfortable with failing. Anyway, I thought it'd be cool to stroll down memory lane—and have junk food as a meal without Alfred knowing. Unless you're busy, which I totally get."

"Not at all," Bruce replies, putting an arm around Tim's shoulders. "Duke and Damian will be at the arcade all day and I don't have any urgent side business."

And so, instead of calling Alfred for a ride, they journey through the Gotham subways with Tim's camera capturing the Grammy-worthy saga of a billionaire CEO battling a common turnstyle. They get a few side-glances in the sparse train car, but besides a teenager asking for Tim's autograph, the civilians leave them alone. Pretty soon, they're at a 1950s-themed ice cream parlor, where the waitress slides their orders down the long chromium bar.

"Why do they call it a banana split?" Bruce asks, grabbing the cocoa powder shaker.

Tim pauses mid-bite of his cookie. "...Because they split the banana in half?"

"Really?"

He moves the whipped cream aside to reveal the cut banana in Bruce's dish.

"How would it sound if I said I never noticed that?"

He smirks. "That's why I'm the brains of this operation."

"Indeed you are." Bruce ruffles his hair. "Though this head of yours could use some shampoo."

"Will saying I love you get me a free pass out of it?"

"No." He laughs. "But I love you too, son."

Alfred catches on to their little dessert escapade and picks them up from the parlor, though not without commenting on the strawberry stain on Bruce's jacket. As Tim plugs his music into the car, Bruce takes the time to listen to the voicemails he got during their lunch break.

"Hiya Bruce," Clark's voice plays. "I hope today's going swell for you. I just want you to know that I'm glad I can call you my pard'ner." Bruce snickers at the country twang.

Next is Diana. "Bruce, I apologize if I must keep this brief since I have a curator's convention today. However, I wish to tell you that you are an invaluable teammate and even more remarkable friend."

"Hey Batman, I gave you a shoutout to the Central City press for your help taking down Weather Wizard," Barry says. "Also, thanks for letting me borrow your communicator. I can always count on you to be overprepared. Have a good one!"

"Bats, tell your kid to quit taking my yogurt from the fridge." Ah, good old Hal. "Also, today's all about guys like you, so... yeah. I admit, you could be worse."

Finally, there's one from Zatanna. "Afternoon, Bruce! I'd tell you in person if I wasn't caught up in Kahndaq, but I hope today is extra special for you. I know how much the birds mean to you, and I know they're gonna treat you well."

(There's also one from Ollie, but he's just asking if he can use the communicator after Barry. In the background, Dinah is is clearly ordering food.)

After dropping Tim and Alfred home and switching to a more discreet vehicle, Bruce makes his way to pick two of his other kids up from the arcade.

"Did you guys have fun?" Bruce asks as they climb in.

"We decimated every game," Damian says, "and won you the finest specimen as a trophy."

He plops a five-foot Snorlax into the front seat and buckles the seatbelt.

"This is for me?" Bruce asks.

"Tt, who else would it be for?"

"I didn't win as many tickets," Duke says, "but I also got you a spider ring and a Chinese finger trap." He puts them in the cupholder.

"Why are you giving me all your prizes?"

"Again, who else would we give them to?" Damian asks.

Duke says, "I think what he means is that you do a lot for us, so this is a thanks from us."

As silly as it might seem, Bruce is genuinely touched.

Pre-patrol dinner is a quiet affair, with Kate stopping by because she apparently forgot to go grocery shopping. She takes a fingerling potato off his plate.

"Um, you're welcome?" he says.

"Bruce, we're family. It's what we do." She takes a bite.

He takes a piece of asparagus from her. "I wish all of us were here, though. Too bad Dick and Jason have that Penguin stakeout. Hopefully they're being safe."

"Even if things go wrong, they were taught by the best. You should trust them more." Selina gets up and places a peck on his cheek before going to get a drink.

"I do," he mumbles into his meal. "It's the world I don't trust."

As he puts on his cowl, he asks Barbara for an update on the evening. So far, Duke is handling a carjacking, the girls are preoccupied with a strip mall hostage situation, Damian is patrolling Metropolis with Jon, and Kate is kicking off her shift with a car chase against Two-Face. Tim and Selina are staying back to catch up on some overdue reports, but other than that, the cave is quiet.

"Before you go," Barbara says, "my dad was cleaning out the attic and found something you might like."

From her bag, she pulls out a blue mug that says: World's Okayest Dad.

"My brother got it for him a long time ago, but... you know. It's all yours now, if you want it."

He takes it, running his thumb along the words.

"It suits you," she says before turning back to relay something to Stephanie.

The route laid out for him tonight gives him the perfect opportunity to swing by and check on two of his boys. He lands on the rooftop silently, where Nightwing and Red Hood have already set up camp. Evidently, they don't notice him as they keep going with their conversation.

"Did you get dropped on your head as a baby?" Jason asks. "Sour cream and Greek yogurt are not the same thing."

"They totally are, change my mind." Dick glances through his binoculars. "No sign of Cobblepot yet."

A moment goes by as Jason not-so-covertly steals some of his brother's patrol snacks.

"So how'd family therapy go yesterday?" Jason asks. "Did the old bat finally show an emotion?"

"It was pretty insightful, at least on my part." Dick lowers his binoculars. "I think I realized where Bruce's persistence comes from. It's annoying as hell, but I think that's how he maintains hope. And who knows, maybe it's his love language."

Jason scoffs.

"I'm serious," he says. "I know none of us are stellar at this family thing, but we care about each other. You can't deny that. We just gotta... refine how we express it."

"Count me out."

"Jaybird."

"Codenames, Dickhead."

Dick snickers. "You love us, admit it. All of us."

Jason mutters a string of curses under his breath before saying, "If you tell him, I'm filling your mattress with sour cream."

Bruce smiles and leaps to the next building.

At the end of the night, Bruce finds Alfred brewing tea in the kitchen and takes the kettle from him.

"I got this," he says. "Why don't you go relax in the living room? I think they added your favorite detective movie to Netflix."

"This is a pleasant surprise." Alfred raises an eyebrow. "What brought it on?"

"It's Father's Day, of course," he replies, pouring the cups of tea. "You know you've always been a second dad to me."

"You made that clear with last year's breakfast surprise," Alfred says. "Care to join me?"

"Always," Bruce says. "By the way, do the kids seem different to you today?"

622 notes · View notes

formulaforza · 1 year

Text

miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—01. all american girl —word count: 6.4k —warnings: none :) —a/n: this is queued so I'm sound asleep right now but trust when I wake... I will be throwing up about having posted this

It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and the kindergarteners at Robinson Elementary are getting picked up from the gymnasium and taken to their classroom to start their day. It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and their teacher, Chris Elliott, is running four minutes late to the first day of the U.S Grand Prix. Her fingers flatten down stray flyaways, working in tandem with the extra strength hairspray she found in the back of the Walgreens beauty aisle last night. Her makeup is strewn about in chaos atop the stark white marble countertops, a single folded piece of toilet paper in the trash can, remnants of her lipstick kissed onto the fibers.

She played it safe on the outfit today, still hasn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what the dress code for this race is supposed to be. Her Dad has been no help–he can get away with wearing jeans and a short-sleeve button-up just about anywhere he goes. More is expected from her, though. Three days, three outfits, always walking the line between casual streetwear and Kentucky Derby without a fascinator. She settled for something painfully classic and American, figured a European sport would be eating up the concept of everything being bigger in Texas. Levi’s, a white tank top, and a beat up pair of cowboy boots should do a good enough job at letting anyone curious know she’s authentically American, without screaming out for attention. That’s the goal for the weekend; blend in and keep Dad company.

Dad, who is not-so patiently tapping his foot against the floor, watching pre-race coverage of the Dixie Vodka 400 on his iPhone 7, is a guest of honor for Ferrari this weekend. It was a classic Bill Elliott commitment, one he makes and then forgets about until he’s getting sent an email a month ago to remind him. One he makes when he forgets his son is racing the same weekend. That’s how Chris ended up here with him, instead of her Mom or instead of Chase or Chandler. They’re all in Florida for the Cup Series. Well–Chandler isn’t. Chandler’s at her hot-shot job in the big city living her life blissfully away from racing.

She can count on a single hand the amount of times her dad has missed a Cup Series race in the years since his retirement. Even if he’s moved on from driving the track, racing is in Elliott blood. It comes easier to them than breathing does. Chris won’t be the first to admit it, but she's the NASCAR nepotism equivalent of a Baldwin baby. She’s no Kennedy, the first-families of NASCAR are closer to the Petty’s and the Earnhardt’s, but, you ask a NASCAR fan about the Elliott Clan and you’re sure to get an earful. Champion, Hall-of-Fame inductee father, supergenius transmission and engine mechanic uncles, and a superstar fan-favorite older brother, the Elliott family racing history spans generations of fans.

Never the Danica Patrick-type, Chris has always preferred to watch the races rather than compete in them, but she still grew up at the track and was always up for a trip to visit her dad at the auto-shop.

“Mums,” her dad says, peeking his head around the corner into the hotel bathroom. It’s a stupid nickname, Mums, Chrysanthemum. She’d roll her eyes if it was anyone but Bill still calling her by it. “We gotta go, darlin’.” Chris nods at him in the mirror, flattens her hands along her thigh and tucks one final strand of her bang behind her ear, and then they’re finally leaving the hotel for the track.

It’s a strange kind of first for Chris, in that it’s not really a first at all. She’s been to COTA before, multiple times. Hell, she watched in the garage when Chase won the inaugural Cup Series race here in May last season. She’s even been to the U.S Grand Prix before, back when it was still in Indianapolis, when Chris was too young to remember if it was big or if she was just little. She’s used to the crowds, spends almost every weekend with upwards of fifty-thousand people, but this? This is the kind of crowd she can’t fathom being among, and it’s only Friday. If it takes them an hour and a half to get through traffic on a practice day, she can only imagine what the next two mornings have in store for her.

“No antics today,” Bill tells her in the car. “They’re not like us. Trust me, I know.”

Last time you went to one of these races, you were still a driver, she wants to tell him, but doesn’t. He doesn’t take well to the implication he’s an old man. Walking into the paddock with a yellow pass hung around her neck, FERRARI-GUEST-17 and a picture of the team logo popping up on the screens at the turnstiles, she’s beyond taken back by the pomp and circumstance of it all. She’s barely through the entrance and she’s already spotted half a dozen people who could buy her without it making a dent in their pockets. It’s nothing like walking around a NASCAR track. There isn’t a single Bud Light knight or backs sunburnt into American flags or t-shirts turned muscle tanks. It’s just… rich people. Lots and lots of rich people.

In the Paddock Club tent, Bill manages to find a couple of his old buddies. Guys he raced with back in the day who’ve turned up for whatever with whoever this weekend. It’s unsurprising, stock car racing is nowhere near as exclusive a club as Formula One. They aren’t any of the guys Chris remembers being a part of her childhood, none of them pseudo-uncles in the way some other drivers were. You’re all grown up, they tell her, note her height and her features and one of them even asks if she’s in college yet. She plays along, pretends she remembers them fondly and that they haven’t been on the recipient list for the annual Elliott family Christmas newsletter for the past thirty or so years. His buddies are much more comfortable talking about Chase, anyways, about his racing and his fiancee and his little boy than they’ve ever been talking about Chris or Chandler. The concept of a quote-en-quote girl dad wasn’t such a thing in the nineties.

Chris makes small talk with one of the wives. They can’t be that far apart in age, she’s definitely of a different generation than her husband. Gross. Chris lets the woman lead the conversation; she talks about the polka dots on her skirt and Chris’ cowboy boots that are, apparently, perfectly authentic.

They separate from the group of former NASCAR drivers and their child brides within the hour. Bill has to be in Ferrari hospitality by one o’clock for a special meeting. He’s still not sure what he did to get selected for this specific group of people who get to do a hot lap with one of the Ferrari drivers, but he isn’t about to ask any questions that might get him out of it. He sets off to hospitality and Chris sneaks out of the paddock and into the rest of the track.

There’s only so much to see inside the paddock. Hospitality after hospitality after hospitality, just in different colors with different modern structures with pictures of different cars. She wants to experience the event, not just the rich people who can pay their way into the upper echelon of the pinnacle of motorsport. If she’s going to be on her own for an hour and a half, she might as well be fully and truly on her own.

She ends up in the beer garden. More specifically, the bar tent. You can’t separate a NASCAR fan from the Natty Light. The pass around her neck gets her into the VIP area of the tent, which… feels like an antithesis of itself. Her phone buzzes in her back pocket when she’s waiting on her bottle from the bartender. It’s her dad.

Brad Pitt is here. Crazy.

She makes quick acquaintances with a couple who looks about her age. She compliments the girl’s denim jacket and then she’s in. The DJ is playing country music with a techno backtrack at the other side of the tent and they all three spend a good fifteen minutes trying to decide if they love or hate the set. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” the guy says.

“It’s definitely not the best, though,” Chris winces, spots a Ferrari pass hanging with the VIP one around the girlfriend’s neck. “Are you guys here with Ferrari?” She asks.

“Oh, “ she says, looks down at the pass and fiddles with it for a moment. “Yeah, Will’s a golfer and they invited him for a tour and to do this golf event with ESPN.”

“Oh, that’s sick!” Chris nods. “Have you guys ever been here, or is this your first time?”

“We’ve come every year for…” Will starts, looks to his girlfriend for the rest of his sentence.

“Four years,” she nods. “What about you?”

“This is my first time,” Chris explains, leaves out the technicalities because she barely cares about them, doesn’t expect a stranger to even half-care. “My dad’s here with Ferrari, and I’m here to babysit my dad.” She laughs.

The woman nods, makes a quiet ah sound. Will asks for clarification. “You guys lose each other, or something?”

Chris nods. “Or something.”

Charles sees her before he hears her. She appears in his peripheral on the top floor of Ferrari Hospitality, moving swiftly through the groups of strangers with a confidence that makes you think she owns the place. He half-prepares to excuse himself from his current conversation–not that he’s understanding more than forty-percent of the words coming out of this guy’s mouth–to take a photo with the short brunette bee-lining it over to him.

“Excu–”

“I think I saw Brad Pitt on my way here,” she says, and the man he’s been talking to for fifteen minutes laughs. Oh, he thinks, that’s mortifying. She’s not here to intrude on his conversation and ask for a picture. She’s here with this guy.

“This is my Chris,” Bill says.

“Hi,” Chris says. Chris. Chris. Chris is a woman. A woman extending her hand, thin and well manicured with a single ruby ring, for him to shake. “Chris.”

“Charles,” he says, hesitates. “You are not what I was expecting.”

There wasn’t much he understood from Bill Elliott during their hot lap, not that Bill didn’t talk. Charles just didn’t have the focusing capabilities to drive the car in an entertaining way while also deciphering the thick southern drawl of the man sat in the passenger seat. It was thick, heavy, and sounded like maybe he’d smoked a pack a day for a few years. That, or he was straight-up making up words in a bit that only he was in on. One thing he did understand, though, was the kids’ names. I have three, he’d said, Chandler, Chase, and Chris. He’d assumed all boys. Chandler, Chase, and Christopher. Christian. Cristiano. The last thing he was expecting was a beautiful girl with a firm handshake.

“You were expecting me?” She asks, and her voice is a million times easier to understand than her father’s.

“No, no. He just,” He gestures absently to Bill. Chris doesn’t break eye contact. She has wonderful eyes. “I thought Chandler, Chase, and Chris are three brothers.”

“Oh,” She laughs like it’s not even close to the first time she’s had to follow behind her dad and correct the miscommunication, and a piece of her bangs falls loose from its tucked position behind her ear. She fixes it without thought. “Well, you’re one for three.”

She asks Bill about the hot lap, asks if he had fun and he laughs. They’re very laugh-oriented people, he’s noticed. Laughy and almost intimidatingly good at holding eye contact. He’d always heard Americans had an issue with eye contact, and if that really is the case, these two practice their active-listening skills enough for the rest of the country. Their kindness is in their expressions, soft eyes and small smiles that keep you from feeling like an intrusion on the conversation. He notes all of his findings internally, categorizes them together as if he’s spent the last ten minutes looking at anyone but her.

She’s horrendously his type. It’s painfully apparent with every passing moment. The hair and the face and the build and the smile. Just, God.

“Why didn’t you do one?” He asks, “A lap?”

“The need-for-speed bug skipped the women in my family, unfortunately.” She tucks her hair again. He wonders if she’s growing it out or if she always keeps it at such a length that it’s just too short to stay where she wants it to.

“We could go slow,” he offers and she chuckles, closing her eyes long enough to roll them without him actually seeing them roll.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’ll be fun, I promise.” He’s never been good at flirting, always found it off-putting in the beginning, trying to walk the line between what one person finds fun and another person finds horribly uncomfortable. Once the dust settles, he can manage, but making those first few moves? He might as well be a deer in headlights. Semi-truck headlights.

“I don’t know,” she says, drags out the vowel sounds and he’s oblivious to whether or not she can tell he’s only making this offer as a chance to spend more time with her. He’ll get an earful for it, no doubt, but if she agrees it’ll be worth it. Bill chimes in, eggs her on with a guilt trip. You should do it, don’t be a party-pooper. Charles wonders if Bill can tell he’s flirting with his daughter. Probably not, he’d bet. “Okay,” she says, and his stomach does a celebratory flip. Before he can say anything more, Mia is pulling him off somewhere. He hadn’t even seen her coming, but he fills her in on the walk.

“Domani c'è un'aggiunta al programma dei giri veloci.” There’s an addition to the hot laps schedule tomorrow, he says. Mia glares at him and he pretends not to notice, flashes her a toothy-grin as an unapologetic apology.

When she’d agreed to do a hot lap with the gorgeous racing driver standing a foot away from her, she assumed it would be forgotten the moment he stepped away from the conversation. She never would have agreed to it if she actually thought it was going to happen. Chris was sorely mistaken though, when later that afternoon, a man dressed head-to-toe in Ferrari red finds her to gather her information. 1:10, he tells her through a thick Italian accent, be in hospitality at 1:10.

It was wonderful, really. Perfect, fantastic, great, legendary. This is an amazing opportunity. She isn’t going to regret agreeing to this, no chance. Even for the queen of optimism, this one is hard to put a positive spin on.

There is no underestimating just how much Chris hates going fast. She’s never liked it, spent the majority of her childhood getting carsick in a vehicle maxing out at forty miles an hour. Her sister and brother used to think she was faking it just so she could always ride shotgun. She’s not even allowed to drive the car if she’s with her dad or her brother because they can’t bear it. To her, a speed limit is just that, a limit. To everyone else, it’s a minimum.

Her only hope is that she doesn’t vomit all over an expensive supercar at 1:10 tomorrow afternoon, or worse–the cute guy driving the car.

In the meantime, she can distract herself with the Green Day performance and remind herself that only so much can happen in five minutes. Anyone can survive five minutes.

– – –

They eat the continental breakfast at the hotel the next morning. Bill has pancakes and Chris has cereal because, as she’ll tell anyone, there’s just something about cereal from a plastic container. She’s also three coffees ahead of where she was this time the day before, all of her nerves personifying themselves as desperation for caffeine. She’s responding to a work email on her phone while Bill has a call with Chase.

Somewhere on a race track in Florida, Chase is calling between practice and qualifying sessions. They talk every day during a race weekend–Bill and Chase–and it’s almost never about racing. Her dad might drop an occasional that’s not what I would’ve done or a well, that looked like fun, but that’s usually the end of race-talk. They used to fight like cats and dogs about driving when Chase was younger, so much so that Chris’ mom banned them from talking about racing inside the house for three straight years. The who of them are better now, now that Bill’s been able to let Chase find his own way and go through his own racing journey.

“Your sister is doing a Hot Lap today,” Bill says, and Chris can hear Chase’s laughter from the muffled speaker.

Bill and Chris are driven to the track on Saturday because traffic is so bad. It’s hot and windy and Chris has her window rolled down the entire drive, her fingers dancing through the dry air. She’s always loved the heat, the sun shining down on her skin, kissing her in a million different places all at the same time. She loves the heat, and the heat loves her.

The morning flies by. They start the day with a tour of the Ferrari garage, where they’re introduced, or re-introduced, to their drivers. They end up with a couple other very important people hunched over Charles’ car while he explains how much pressure needs to be applied to the brake pedal for the car to actually brake. Bill eats the semantics up, cars and their mechanics run thick in his blood, braided deeply into his DNA. Chris, however, has always enjoyed the more delicate things in life; the pink hair bows and the dollar store makeup kits and spinning herself dizzy in a flowy summer dress. She never spent exorbitant amounts of time at Dad’s engine shop or Grandpa’s Ford Dealership, it just wasn’t in her lane of interests. She sips another coffee–her fifth of the day–and listens attentively to Charles talk, bites her smile at his wild gesticulations. He’d make a good kindergarten teacher, she thinks, with his huge personality.

When the whole tour group is being shuffled out of the garage to be replaced by a new set of prying eyes, Charles makes a passing comment. See you later for the world’s slowest hot lap, he remarked, put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze as he moved past her.

She doesn’t know why, but she’d convinced herself that it wouldn’t actually be him she would be doing the lap with. It was qualifying day, after all. Surely, he had about a million and one better things to be doing than driving a random girl around a track a few times. She figured it would be a driver, but not one of the drivers.

After lunch, she makes her way back to Ferrari hospitality, to where she was told to be waiting at 1:10. She’s the only person who looks like they’re here on instruction. Nobody else is nervously picking at their cuticles or vibrating in place as a reaction to their seven coffees that morning.

She spent the night before grilling her dad about his experience, forcing him to give her a moment-by-moment breakdown of everything he remembered happening, from the safety briefing to the conversation afterwards. But, when it came time for Chris to actually do hers, there was no safety briefing warning her about the million different ways she could die. Instead, the same man who’d tracked her down the day before escorted her from the top floor of hospitality to the bottom, out the back into what she can best compare to an alleyway, and then to a red supercharged Ferrari.

Charles is there, talking to what appears to be a personal photographer and another man dressed in Ferrari garb. She re-introduces herself for a third time in twenty four hours. “I know your name, Chris,” Charles says, smiles and shakes her hand anyway. She doesn’t like the way her brain reacts to him saying her name like it belongs on his lips.

“Duh,” she laughs, “sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Right,” she nods. “Yeah, sorry.” Charles laughs out a sigh, cocks his head and smiles. Chris bites her tongue not to apologize again. It’s a reflex. She puffs out her laugh and shrugs.

If she manages to make it out of these couple laps with her life and the contents of her stomach still intact, she’s sure to still look like a clown–a fact she realizes as she pulls the tight helmet over her head. She’s worn racing helmets a handful of times, but it’s not muscle memory to her in the way it is to him. It takes her a minute to tighten the chin strap just right and despite his genuine offer to help her, Chris turns him down and blindly works her fingers under her neck until it’s just right.

“Why don’t you get a fun Hot Laps helmet?” She asks while she fights with the strap.

Charles knocks on the side of his helmet with his knuckle. “Custom fit. Safety reasons.”

Chris knows, she was just messing with him. She nods like she never could’ve guessed that was the reason. “My safety doesn’t matter?” She comments, pulls the strap tight for the final time.

“You think I’m going to crash?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I would never crash with Chris Elliott in the car.” There he goes again, saying her name all annoyingly French and nice and easy.

“Whatever,” she says, turns away so he can’t see her squished cheeks flush pink against the polyester. He opens the passenger side door for her, knocks his knuckle on her helmet this time, and horribly mocks both her words and accent before shutting the door behind her.

Chris has her seatbelt buckled before he can get around the front of the car and into his seat. Her leg bounces anxiously against the floor mat. Charles starts the car and moves to shift into drive, but stops short. “Are you scared?” he asks, and in a moment of vulnerable honesty, she nods. She’s more than scared. She’s terrified, and despite his brief attempt to reassure her that it’s going to be fun, her leg is still bouncing when they peel off from the group already awaiting his return.

A hot lap, she’d come to learn in the last day or so, would be more accurately referred to as hot laps–plural, multiple, several. Three, to be exact. One out lap, one push lap, and one cool down lap. Three laps. Hot laps. They should really start referring to it as a plural.

The best thing she can compare it to is a roller coaster. The turns share the feeling you get at the tipping point, right before your body thinks you’re free falling. Her stomach is left behind three turns back and it never really catches up to the car once they start. The straights are like that first hill, fast and crazy in a way that pulls from her lips screams she hears before she consciously chooses to release. It’s like a roller coaster, if the person sitting next to you is completely unaffected by the ride and spends the entire time trying to carry out a conversation with you between your screams and their giggles. It’s like a roller coaster, if the cart never leaves the ground.

On the cool down lap, when they’re going at a speed that allows Chris to pick up her soul when they drive through turn four, he asks her if she’s single. It comes at her from left field.

“Are you flirting with me?”

He laughs, takes a hand off the wheel and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes!”

“Oh,” she says softly. If he notices the surprise in her tone, he doesn’t mention it. “I am.”

“Can I get your number?” She swears that his fingers are shakier than before as they hover over the paddle shift. They were sure-footed just minutes earlier, she’s sure of it. She’s sure of it, but there’s no way it’s a genuine observation. There’s no way she’s making him nervous.

She laughs, because what on God’s green Earth is a European Formula One driver going to do with a small town American girl’s phone number?

“I’m not abandoning my dad for a hookup,” she says, and he rolls his eyes, repeats the question. “Why do you want it?”

“Because, Chris Elliott,” she wants to scrape the way he says her name out of his voice box and pin it in a scrapbook. It’s like a tick, the way it burrows into her skin. Nobody should be allowed to make her name sound like that. “You are a very beautiful girl, and when a guy sees a beautiful girl, they act like an idiot and ask for her number.”

“Oh, my God,” she giggles, shakes her head and looks out the window like it might ground her, or like it might reveal that she really is in some fever dream state and none of this is real. She’s not even in Texas, maybe. That’s how insane this whole conversation is to her.

“Too cheesy?” He asks, grimaces. She shakes her head, holds her hand out for his phone.

“Just cheesy enough.”

When they get back to where they started, someone asks Chris if she’d had a good time. She nods, flattens down the static-electricity charged flyaways on her head and tells them yes, even if she’ll be just a little bit nauseous for the rest of the day. It’s not a lie, either, she did have fun. She was scared out of her mind, but in a way that makes her happy she did it.

They pose for a photo together in front of the car, the picture snapped by the only guy with a camera around his neck, the only one besides Chris not covered head to toe in Ferrari branding. When they pose, Charles’ arm wraps around her lower back and, almost like he remembers himself in the middle of the action, his hand doesn’t close around her side. Instead, it hovers just beyond her body, open and stiff and flat. How gentlemanly. “Good luck tomorrow,” she says.

He nods his thanks, “I hope I see you around this weekend,” he adds, and then they go their separate ways. Good thing, too, because she’s still blushing over it when she gets back to her dad in the Champion’s club. Bill is too distracted by the live feed on Chase’s qualifying laps on his tiny phone screen to notice Chris’ presence, much less the coloring of her cheeks. He qualifies third and they celebrate quietly with drinks from the bar and FP3 on the big screens.

They stumble into more NASCAR old-timers while in the Champion’s Club and Chris spends the time fifth-wheeling their conversations about Chase and watching the second half of qualifying on one of the TVs.

She doesn’t really understand the format of the weekend. In theory, she understands the basics, didn’t have to read Formula One for Dummies on the plane ride over, but the intricacies of it are beyond her. In NASCAR, drivers are split into two groups and then are only given, at max, two laps to set their qualifying times. It varies depending on the track that weekend, but it always hits some of the same points. From what she can gather from the low-volume televisions mounted on every surface around her, F1 is definitely different.

They head back to the hotel directly after qualifying to ‘beat the traffic’ which is code for Chris is still nauseous and they’re both feeling a little too heat exhausted. They stop for dinner on the way back, at a barbeque place right by their hotel. Bill orders the chopped brisket with potato salad and Chris gets the pulled pork sandwich with a tomato zucchini salad.

Chris has been really busy with work, with settling into the new routine with her new group of students, and Bill wants to hear all about it. She always struggles in September and October, feels inadequate every time the other teachers find their footing with their new class weeks before she does. It’s the first time alotta ‘em have been in a school, Bill reminds her and she shrugs it off, tries to find something more upbeat to talk about.

Chris and Bill have really gotten close over the past couple years. Growing up, she and her sister Chandler were massive daddy’s girls, had him wrapped around their little fingers from the moment they came into the world. But, when Chase started to really take racing seriously, the girls lost a lot of their dad to their brother and spent the majority, if not all, of their time with their Mom. As a teenager, Chris did what all sixteen year old girls do and rebelled against any and every rule in the book. While Chandler was touring colleges and getting 1550s on her SAT and singing in the church choir, Chris had other plans. Whether it was stubbornly refusing to clean her half of the shared room with her big sister, ratting Chase out for coming home at 2am drunk, or sneaking out of the second-story window to go out with her all-too-old boyfriend, she tested all of the waters. It wasn’t until college, until she moved away to Athens and was out of the house for the first time in her life that she realized just how important family was to her. She’s been attempting to make up for lost time since.

That night when she plugs her phone into the charger and shuts it off for the night, she realizes she’d been half expecting a late night text from Charles. It didn’t come, and disappointed isn’t the right word for the tiny little pit in her stomach because she wasn’t really expecting anything to come from typing her number into his contacts. It’s not disappointment, it’s something closer to acceptance or rejection, maybe. It’s not like he would’ve been searching out anything but a hookup, anyways, and Chris made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t into that idea.

She would never hear from him again, and that’s how it should be. The whole interaction turning into anything but a story she can tell in a couple months when she’s drunk would be entirely too complicated of an outcome.

She doesn’t let herself think about it any longer, leaves her phone face down on the side table and tucks herself into bed.

– – –

Traffic on race day is true-crime inducing. They’re driven, again, escorted and still spend an hour and a half in the backseat of an SUV. Bill and Chris watch from the VIP stands and Chris has never seen anything like this, especially not at COTA. Even Talladega and Daytona barely hold a candle to this spectacle.

If she has one critique, it’s that F1 should really hire some B-List at best celebrity to scream drivers, start your engines! At the start of the race like they do in NASCAR. It would really add some flare, she thinks.

She and Bill share Chris’ airpods, one in each of their ears listening to the NASCAR broadcast. Charles starts twelfth, for whatever reason. She can’t be bothered to look into it, knows it’ll probably be a penalty she doesn’t understand and she’ll be tumbling down a rabbit hole before she knows what’s happened to her.

While it’s not Chase’s best race–he finishes fourteenth with a single sigh from Bill–Charles puts on a show, fights his tires all the way up into third.

They watch the podium celebrations on the TV screens and nobody looks happy to be up there. They look miserable, almost, and she understands it to an extent. It’s hard to have energy after a race, she’s witnessed it first hand more times than she can count. It’s hard, especially at the end of the season. Burn-out is real, but still. They look bored. She didn’t know spraying champagne could look so tired.

Bill grumpily flies them home to Georgia late Sunday night. He’d wanted to wait until Monday morning, after all the billionaires and their super-jets take off right after the race, but Chris refused to miss another day of work this early in the school year, not when she was already going to be missing time in December for her brother’s wedding.

Bill’s been flying planes since before any of his kids were born. His most recent purchase is a Cessna Conquest II that he uses to fly the family around for short distances. In another gene that skipped the females in the family, Chandler, Chris, and their mom all prefer to be passengers. Chase, however, followed in Dad’s footsteps once more in becoming an avid aviation fan.

By the time they take off, any thought Chris had of getting a text from Charles has faded far into obscurity. He’d probably gotten dozens of numbers from girls this weekend. He was probably at a club somewhere right now still pulling women. Women more his type, probably. He seems like he’d be more into the refined type, the girls without the ‘cheap’ accents who were all worldly and spoke seventeen languages fluently and had long legs that carried them down runways across Europe every other weekend.

Little southern girls get texts from little southern boys, that’s how it goes. That's how it’s always gone, and Chris is beyond naive to think anything different for even a moment.

She grades papers on the flight home. Purple pen, because she thinks that color is fun and red is too cruel to grade with. Puffy stickers for everyone, even the kids who aren’t anywhere near the right track because she doesn’t want anyone to feel less than just because they struggle a bit more. Chris has always been a firm believer that the student is never the problem. If someone isn’t learning what she’s teaching, she needs to adjust the way she teaches it to cater to their learning style.

It’s her job to teach them, not their job to learn.

Joris has been laughing at Charles from the hotel room armchair for fifteen minutes now, beyond entertained by his best friend’s restless pacing, providing absolutely zero aid to his current predicament. This act has been going on for some time now. Charles, pacing for five minutes before pulling out his phone and typing up an opening message to Chris. Each time, he starts to read it out to Joris and then stops himself short, deletes it, and paces for five more minutes.

Hey, Chris. This is Ch–no, that’s stupid.

Sorry it took me a minute to text–absolutely not.

What’s up? It’s Charles, how–someone should just stop him from speaking to women all together.

There’s half a dozen renditions before Joris breaks. “Mate? What is your problem?” He finally asks. “It’s just a girl.”

“I know,” Charles sighs, “I know.”

“Then why can’t you send her a text?”

“Because.” He doesn’t really know why he can’t land on a message, why everything he types sounds entirely too casual or formal or nothing at all like what he would say to another human being. This isn’t a problem that he’s used to having. It’s the in-person flirting that fucks him up, not the texts and DMs and comments. She was just… he doesn’t know what she was. She was just. End of sentence.

It’s no help that he doesn’t know American texting culture, unfamiliar with how long he’s supposed to wait to send a message or what he’s supposed to say in the opening text.

“Here,” Joris says, holds his hand out for the phone. “I’ve got the perfect text.”

“Don’t send it,” Charles warns, but passes the phone to his friend.

“I… won’t,” Joris says slowly, struggling to multi-task. He doesn’t type for more than a few seconds and then hands the phone back to Charles, with the message already sent. Charles’ look of sheer panic is met with a smile and a chef’s kiss from Joris.

She turns her phone off while Bill is shutting the plane engine down in the hangar. Because of his love of aviation, Bill had bought some land out in the woods a couple decades ago and turned it into the family’s private airstrip for their planes. Elliott Field, they coined it, stored all their extra vehicles out on the property. She slips it into her back pocket as her and Bill disembark and lock up the place, and the entire time she can feel it vibrating, the notifications from the hour and a half flight catching up now that she’s on the ground again.

It’s not until she’s in her car that she checks them, pulls her phone out to plug it into the aux and play some music for the drive back to her house. Right at the top of the dozens of notifications is a message from an unknown number with an unfamiliar area code.

[one unread message] the notification reads. She unlocks her phone to check the message.

She closes the messages app on her phone and opens up Spotify, shuffles her favorite playlist. She doesn’t reply to his text, doesn’t know if she wants to or even what she might say back. She’s sleepy, more than ready for bed after a long weekend in the sun, excited to be back with her students bright and early tomorrow morning.

The text from the cute race car driver can wait for another day. An issue for tomorrow, maybe.

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