#summer fic week 2023
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Summer Fic Week 2023 - Day 7: Take Back What You Took
Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader
Work Summary:
The season is over, and it's the resort staff party. Andy has a bone to pick.
Sequel to Leave Me In The Deep End.
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 2998
Read on AO3.
Masterlists.
Summer Fics Masterlist.
Taglist: @mrs-kai-anderson @ang3l1te @missryerye @mcximffs @noz4a2 @rottenstyx @starmansirius @xlucyintheskywithdiamondsx @lanemarvels @marrigold-2002 @kathrinchek @alternativeprincess @annocaprosmaloka @thrutheburnout
Notes:
wooooooooo day 7, give it up for day 7
warnings for alcohol, public sex, accidental exhibitionism/voyeurism, fighting, protective!pietro, protective!wanda, mentions of cheating, unprotected sex
again, i apologise to all of the people named andy out there
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As you walked into the resort for the final time that year, you were overcome by a wave of nostalgia. The season was over. All of the guests had gone home, to your great relief. Tonight was the annual staff party.
The seasonal job market was strange. You had other work lined up – waitressing at family-owned restaurant across town – but you knew you would miss the resort. You would miss working with your friends, most of all Pietro. Of course, you would be back next year, as would he. You hoped (probably fruitlessly) that Andy wouldn’t come back.
You’d been seeing Pietro for a little over a month now, and it had been going really well. He slept over at your place a lot (he shared his own apartment with his sister, and you shared yours with a cat, so the choice for him was obvious).
Andy still worked at the resort, which made things a little awkward, but you were perfectly content to keep your distance from him. Pietro had more contact with him than you did, since they were both bartenders, but they hadn’t come to blows yet.
You rolled up to the party a little early. Hardly anyone had arrived yet, but there were tables of food and drinks set up, which you took advantage of. Pietro was coming with his sister, so you were content to help Nat set up the last few decorations.
“Odds on there being a fight tonight?” she asked you as you handed her a bunch of balloons. She was standing on ladder, getting ready to pin them up by the edge of the banner.
“There won’t be a fight,” you said, sounding surer than you felt.
Aside from anything else, Andy could get belligerent when he was drunk, and Pietro could be hot-headed.
Nat gave you a sideways glance. “You sure? You know Sharon’s gonna be here, right? It’s pretty messy between her and Steve at the moment.”
Your cheeks heated up. You hadn’t even thought of the possibility of someone else getting into a fight.
“Nah, Steve’s too much of a gentleman to get into it in public.”
“If you say so.”
People started arriving in dribs and drabs. Thankfully, Andy was nowhere to be seen. You sat down on a couch with a mixed drink in your hand, listening idly to a story that Sam was telling.
The only warning you got that your boyfriend had arrived was a pair of strong arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind. You might’ve flinched, but you recognised his cologne.
“Prinţesă,” he cooed. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Piet,” you scolded, batting his hands away. Sam, Steve and Bucky were all staring at you, a variety of amused expressions on their faces.
“I only tell the truth. Drink?”
“I’ve got one,” you said, holding up your glass. “But honestly it doesn’t hold a candle to your Sex on the Beach.” As a bartender, Pietro was very good at making drinks. Andy was a bartender too, but he’d never particularly been interested in making drinks for you. He didn’t want to take work home with him, you supposed.
“I’ll be right back,” said Pietro, dropping a kiss on the top of your head.
As soon as he was gone, you felt the weight of another person sitting down on the arm of the sofa you were leaning on.
You looked up and were relieved to see that it was Wanda. She looked absolutely gorgeous in a red dress that stood out against her pale skin.
“How are you doing, dragă?” she asked. The two of you had always been friendly. You had half-expected her to dislike you after you started dating Pietro – after all, she was pretty protective of him – but thankfully, the two of you had only seemed to grow closer.
“I’m good, what about you? Excited to be done for the summer?” You knew she was going back to college soon.
“Honestly? I think I’ll miss it once I start having to write essays again.”
“Yeah, I’m glad that part of my life is over.”
A shadow loomed over you suddenly. You turned, expecting Pietro, but from the sour expression that had suddenly come over Wanda’s face, you knew it wouldn’t be.
“Hey,” said Andy. He looked a little unsteady on his feet, like he’d been pre-drinking. Who pre-drinks before a work party with an open bar?
“Hi.” You looked over at Pietro, but he’d been waylaid talking to Scott and Hope. Beside you, Wanda got to her feet. You suddenly felt very vulnerable being the only person sitting down.
“I was hoping we could talk?” He glanced at Wanda, who glared back at him.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” you said. You stood up, fully intending to go and find Pietro, but Andy threw a hand out, blocking your path.
“Don’t touch her,” Wanda hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Andy put his hand up in surrender. “Not touching. Just wanna talk.”
“She said she doesn’t want to talk.”
“Wanda, it’s okay,” you said, touching her arm. If Andy wanted to apologise, then you weren’t going to stop him.
He gave you a hard stare. “I just think it’s really funny how quickly you moved on after we broke up.”
That threw you for a loop. You looked at Wanda, who looked just as scandalised as you did.
“Excuse me?” you said, as if you could’ve possibly misheard him. “What did you just say?”
“I said I think it’s funny how quickly you moved on after we broke up.” His speech was slurred, so you knew he had been drinking. You doubted he would’ve had the balls to talk to you like this otherwise, especially not in front of people. “And you and Pietro were always so friendly, so, like-”
You looked at Wanda. “Are you hearing this?”
“The audacity of this asshole,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
You looked back over to where Pietro was, and found him staring back at you. As soon as you made eye contact, he said something to Scott, and then started walking towards you. If there was going to be a fight tonight, it was about to happen.
“I’m the asshole?” Andy scoffed.
“Yes, you’re the asshole,” you said. “You fucking cheated on me! You don’t get to have an opinion about who I sleep with after I broke up with you.”
“You know it’s not gonna last, right? I already told you that. He’ll find someone prettier, and more interesting, and-”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Wanda threw her drink in his face. He sputtered for a moment, and then moved as if to slap her, but didn’t get the chance.
Pietro had grabbed his arm and wrestled it behind his back. Andy let out a howl of pain. Pietro twisted him until he was shoved up against the wall, his arm at a painful angle behind him. The room went quiet. You didn’t have to look to know that everyone was watching.
“You think you can get away with being an asshole when I’m not there, you piece of shit?” Pietro muttered. “You think you can just say what you want to my girl without consequences? You don’t get to hurt her anymore, you prick.” His words were dripping with venom. Andy let out a muffled whimper, his face pressed into the wall.
Tentatively, you put a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. He looked at you.
“Too much?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No, that was proportional. You should let him go now, though.”
Pietro released him, and Andy spun around, clutching his arm to his chest. “You think I don’t see what you are, Pietro,” he spat. “I saw you hanging around my girlfriend, being all sweet on her, just waiting for me to make one mistake-”
Your eyes practically bulged out of your head. Pietro stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. He glared down at Andy, but his next words were addressed to you.
“Prinţesă,” he said. “Do you want to get out of here? Because if this asshole doesn’t get out of my face, then I’m gonna end up going to jail.”
“Let’s go,” you said, grabbing his arm. “You coming?” you asked Wanda, but she shook her head.
“He wouldn’t dare try anything with me now,” she said. “And this is my last chance to catch up with Nat before school starts again.”
“Alright.” You gave her a side hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Text me when you get home.”
“You too.”
Pietro gave his sister a hug, never taking his eyes off Andy. Andy was leaning against the wall, cradling his arm to his chest, looking as shrunken and pathetic as you’d ever seen him.
You waved goodbye to your coworkers, who had all been watching the scene unfold, though none of them looked particularly surprised.
As soon as you stepped out into the open air, you exhaled. “Fuck.”
“Fuck, indeed,” said Pietro, putting his arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry for ruining your night.”
“Are you kidding? You jumping in to defend me is, like, the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He gave you a wry smile. “You wanna go for a walk down the beach?”
“With you? Always.”
Once you got down the sand, you kicked off your shoes. You tried to pick them up, but Pietro got there first, flashing you a grin as he slung them over his shoulder. His other hand found your waist, keeping you pressed close to him.
“You know what’s nice?” you said idly.
“Hm?”
“I thought the shit Andy was saying would bother me, but I’m past the point of caring. Who cares if he thinks that I cheated on him with you? Who cares if he thinks you’re gonna trade me in for someone hotter?”
“If he thinks that there’s anyone hotter than you then he’s a fucking idiot, and he never deserved you.”
Warmth prickled across your skin. The moon was high in the sky, and Pietro hand was warm on your lower back.
“He’s an idiot,” you agreed. “And he doesn’t know you at all. You’re not who he thinks you are. I think it makes him feel better to think all men are assholes, because that way, it’s not his fault that he’s an asshole. The idea that you’d be good to me is so foreign to him.”
Pietro stopped walking. “Being good to you is easy. You inspire the good in me.”
Your heart stuttered. Under the moonlight, you could see the earnest expression on his face.
“Pietro…” you breathed.
I think I’m falling in love with you. Do you feel the same?
You couldn’t quite bring yourself to say the words. You weren’t drunk enough. It was too soon. Instead, you stood up on your tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.
“Sit with me?” he murmured when you separated, and you nodded.
More gracefully than you thought possible, he fell back into the sand, pulling you into his lap as he went.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His lips found a spot under your ear, sending tingles down your spine. His hand slid up under your skirt, skimming up your thigh until you shivered.
“Pietro, we’re in public,” you murmured half-heartedly.
“Do you want me to stop?” You could feel him smiling against the skin of your neck.
“No.”
“Good.”
His fingers slid past your panties, finding you wet and wanting. You let out a soft moan as he bit down on your neck, skimming his finger through your wetness.
“Piet,” you whined, threading your fingers into his curls.
“Mm?”
“I need you.”
He pulled back to grin at you, and then he turned, rolling you onto your back. Sand was getting into every fold of your clothes, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when Pietro put his head under your skirt.
He mouthed over you through your panties, dragging a strangled groan from deep within you. When he peeled them away from your pussy, you could feel that they were stuck to you.
Earlier on in your relationship, you would’ve been embarrassed, but you knew that it turned Pietro on to see how wet he could make you. You stared up at the stars above you, your free hand drawing patterns in the sand as your boyfriend got to work between your thighs.
You closed your eyes.
You could hear the ocean. You could hear your own unsteady breathing. You could hear the wet sounds as Pietro licked and sucked and kissed your pussy.
“So pretty,” he mumbled. “So fucking beautiful and all mine.” He got like this sometimes, writing love letters to your pussy with his tongue, burying his face in you until you were the sum total of his experiences of the world.
Even though neither of you had said ‘I love you’ yet, he made you feel more loved than Andy ever had.
Your thighs were trembling. The heat was building inside you, ready to tip you over the edge. You knew that Pietro could tell. He dug his fingernails into the flesh of your thigh, speeding up the ministrations of his tongue.
“Cum for me, prinţesă,” he murmured, as if he was speaking to your pussy. He sucked your clit into his mouth and you let out an unexpected high-pitched gasp, clenching around nothing.
You moaned his name, cresting the wave of your orgasm. He held you through it, his fingers and tongue making you feel pleasure that, two months ago, would’ve been inconceivable to you.
He didn’t stop immediately, and your clit was starting to hurt, so you tapped him on the shoulder. He emerged from under your skirt, bright-eyed and licking his lips. You tugged him on top of you, letting him slide his tongue into your mouth. You could taste yourself in him.
“Can I fuck you?” he panted. “I could feel how tight you got when you came and I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.”
“Please,” you groaned, your hands dropping to the button of his jeans. With his help, he pushed his jeans and boxers down to his knees and then positioned himself between your legs.
You were both still mostly clothed – you were, after all, in public – and somehow that seemed to add to the desperation of the situation. Your fingers knotted themselves in his shirt, and he was holding onto the fabric that had bunched up at your hips.
When he slid inside you, you both groaned. Even though you had been dating for a month, every time felt like the first. He stretched you out, making you whimper his name.
By now, he knew how you liked it. He knew how to nibble at your neck just right, and the angle he needed to reach your g-spot. He grabbed your thigh, hooking your ankle over his shoulder, and started to fuck you, hard and deep.
He gave you less time to adjust than usual – you were both a little drunk and it felt too good to wait – so you were sure you’d be sore in the morning. You didn’t care. All you cared about was that right now, Pietro was making you see stars.
Besides, he would be there in the morning to bring you breakfast and kiss you better. He always took care of you.
Right now, he was quite a sight to behold: on his knees, debauched, hair a mess, shirt rucked up and jeans halfway down his thighs. You had done that to him. No one else got to see him like this. Not anymore.
Evidently, he had gotten bored of not kissing you, so he readjusted his angle, hooking your leg over his hip instead, and hovered over you. His forearms were either side of your head, caging you in. He was looking into your eyes with such intensity that you almost looked away. Almost.
“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he breathed, and your pussy clenched unexpectedly. At the sudden tightness, his eyes fell closed, a moan halfway out of his mouth before he knew what was happening.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, you grabbed his face and kissed him.
He smiled against your lips, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. Lying there on the beach, he made love to you. You never wanted it to end.
Eventually, it did end. He clawed at your sides, burying his face in your neck as his thrusting sped up. You slid your hand between your thighs, rubbing your clit to try and bring you to your second peak. Pietro got there first.
He pulled out, cum splattering all over your thighs. He didn’t even take a second to catch his breath before diving back between your legs, pushing three fingers inside you and licking over your clit.
You moaned his name as you came for the second time, breathless and wet and so, so in love. This time, you had to pry him off you. Even as your legs twitched and you whimpered with overstimulation, he didn’t stop.
When you pushed him away, he rolled over onto his back, laying down beside you.
“Wow,” you breathed.
“Wow,” he agreed.
You rolled over, about to rest your head on his chest, but a movement at the edge of the beach caught your eye. Standing by the treeline that encircled the beach, mouth agape, was Andy.
When he saw you looking, he bolted. You sat up.
“What is it?” asked Pietro. “Something wrong?”
“Andy was watching us.”
He sat up, twisting around to look where you were looking.
You shook your head. “He’s gone.”
“Well… shit.”
“Shit.” You giggled.
He regarded you for a moment. “Do we care?”
“I guess not?”
“Okay, good.” He lay back on the sand, patting his chest. You took the hint, laying down half on top of him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
#pietro maximoff x reader#pietro maximoff x you#pietro maximoff x y/n#pietro maximoff smut#pietro maximoff fanfic#summer fic week 2023
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a cruel summer (with you)
heard we were talking about summer love today! fun fun fun things coming soon hehe 👀
#byler#byler week 2023#alright time to go post my summer love fic#one day this will all make sense#until then suni and thea and i will keep giggling#anyways#anyone wanna go to camp this summer?#baby's first moodboard#how'd i do#acswy
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keep it hush byler / 5.9k
Mike nods solemnly. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he says.
“No,” Will agrees, letting out a little laugh, “it’s – what, your third today?”
“Aw, you remembered,” Mike says, his hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart.
“You’re hard to forget,” Will replies, and before Mike even has the opportunity to feel some type of way over that comment, Will continues, “or, more accurately — your guests are hard to forget.”
“Right,” Mike says quickly, not at all petulantly, because of course that’s what Will meant. That’s what they’re here for, after all — their guests. Not whatever sick satisfaction Mike gets from having to come in here every forty some-odd minutes, tail between his legs, to bother Will into doing his dirty work.
Mike has had a rollercoaster of a day. All he wants is a nap.
#byler#byler fic#byler fanfic#byler fanfiction#byler ao3#byler week 2023#bylerweek2023#this is for day 4: summer love#wiseatom writes#ME STUMBLING OUT OF AO3 POST EDITOR LITERALLY COVERED IN BLOOD#n e ways. hope u ENJOY#pls lmk if any of the theme park terms are not clear i will provide a glossary lol
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Lie to me
pairing: lestappen
word count: 5.3k
rated explicit. soulmate au. 5+1. fwb. smut. day 2 of @lestappenweek
5 times they told the truth + 1 time they tried to lie
AO3 LINK
#lestappen#my fic#my writing#lestappen week summer 2023#this one took me a while to write but i hope you like it!!
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how do I love thee? - Charles/Max, 3768 words, explicit
day one of @lestappenweek 2023
prompt: first kiss | "I think I am falling in you with you."
Max has been on a tear this year, winning everything he has set his teeth in. They’re not always in the same races now, separated by more than nationality, by team. But this they share. In a moment of boldness, in rare confidence and cocksure of himself, Charles had bet that he would win at least one of the races in the series. Max sure in his own talent had barely hesitated, “You will of course lose, but always I am in.”
Now he watches with apprehension as Max comes to stand before him.
He looks small in his hoodie, hands fisted in the pocket as he curls in on himself. Charles’ stomach swoops with regret. He should have known Max wouldn’t want this, doesn’t want to kiss him moments after he lost the race.
“You had a very lovely race, Charles.” Max says and it doesn’t – there’s no distaste in his voice. Like he too had been waiting for it, wanting it so, despite the implications. “You can of course kiss me now.”
Charles doesn’t hesitate to press their lips together.
They are twelve the first time they kiss. Curious and shy as they press their lips against each other. Max’s lips dry against his, but he doesn’t mind. The tips of his fingers tingle where they fumble to grab onto Max’s waist, the fabric of his suit rough against his skin.
Some of it is spite, he knows. Max unwilling to be outdone by Alex for a second time in such a short time. But Max could have kissed anyone, and he didn’t. He chose Charles, kissed Charles.
His English is limited, constrained to racing terms and how to navigate the hospitality. But he knows what Max is asking before the words leave his mouth. Blunt, softened only by the way his lisp catches onto the end of ‘kiss’. Charles nods, cheeks warm with a blush as he drops his helmet to meet him in the middle.
With a hand on his cheek, Max kisses him.
Soft and gentle, unlike anything Charles has ever seen him do. A familiar steadiness that makes his palms grow sweaty, slipping over Max’s suit as he desperately tries to hold on. Because Max is good at this too, of course he is. The careful pressure of his lips, head titled to the side even as their noses brush clumsily.
Charles feels a shiver of nerves, and his toes curl awkwardly in his boots.
He wants to – Charles wants to kiss him back, pull him close to his chest and kiss him so it’s not just Max doing the kissing. But he feels nervous too, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. He doesn’t want to do it wrong, to make Max think he’s a bad kisser.
There’s a moment, shameful and brief as Max begins to pull back, where Charles thinks, ‘This is what I am meant to do’. The faraway dream of Formula One pushed to the back of his mind at the thought of kissing Max again, of keeping him in his arms where they’re neither friends nor foes, but a wonderful third thing Charles doesn’t dare name.
Max smacks his lips, once, twice, and wipes them on the back of his hand.
“This was of course very lovely,” Max says. His eyes impossibly blue as he looks at Charles, the same intense stare that belongs on the podium, in the kart, now focused on Charles. It makes him feel insane, hands desperately fisted by Max’s waist. “Did you think it was good also?”
“It was – I liked it, yes.” Charles says, licks his lips and doesn’t remember until after why he shouldn’t. “It was a very good kiss.”
Max’s face is bright red, and Charles’ fingers twitch to reach out to, to touch. But he doesn’t, knows it wouldn’t end well for either of them.
“Good,” Max says and takes a step back. Charles watches how his hands fall to his side, watches Max bend down to pick up his helmet, zip his suit to the top. “I will see you next week then. For the race?”
“Yes,” Charles says, voice faint. His lips are buzzing still, head dizzy with leftover emotion. “I will of course be there.”
Max nods, turns, and leaves.
They’re fifteen, and Charles does the impossible.
Max has been on a tear this year, winning everything he has set his teeth in. They’re not always in the same races now, separated by more than nationality, by team. But this they share. In a moment of boldness, in rare confidence and cocksure of himself, Charles had bet that he would win at least one of the races in the series. Max sure in his own talent had barely hesitated, “You will of course lose, but always I am in.”
Now he watches with apprehension as Max comes to stand before him.
He looks small in his hoodie, hands fisted in the pocket as he curls in on himself. Charles’ stomach swoops with regret. He should have known Max wouldn’t want this, doesn’t want to kiss him moments after he lost the race.
He feels stupid. He feels dumb and foolish – like a child. Like Arthur when he doesn’t get his way and throws a tantrum instead. He wants to tell him so, but he chokes on the words. His voice nothing but an awkward crack as he tries to explain.
But Max just shakes his head, eyes determined as he pulls him in by the wrist.
“You had a very lovely race, Charles.” Max says and it doesn’t – there’s no distaste in his voice. Resignation, sure. But this close, Charles can see how the end of his mouth curls up in the tiniest of smiles. Like he too had been waiting for it, wanting it so, despite the implications. “You can of course kiss me now.”
Charles doesn’t hesitate to press their lips together.
Max’s lips are soft against his. It’s almost enough to make him pause, the abrupt contrast of it. He hasn’t kissed anyone else since, doesn’t think Max has either. But it feels good, feels nice – nicer than what he remembers from before.
Max must think so too, because he leans into it, curls a hand in the collar of Charles’ shirt and parts his lips.
They haven’t done it like this before, but Charles feels it now. The excitement of how Max responds to the kiss, pressing against his chest eagerly, persistently, until Charles stumbles back, drags Max with him as he hits the wall.
Charles slips his tongue into Max’s mouth, heart pounding loudly in his chest as Max’s hips stutter into his. It’s too much, too little, and not enough at the same time. He feels insane at the thought of having Max like this, desperate and wild in his arms.
He tastes faintly of energy drink, of the stuff they make them chug after a race – too young and stupid to think about dehydration. Charles hates the taste of artificial citrus, but he wants to drown in it, drown in Max, until the only breath he needs is the one from Max’s lips.
There’s a knock on the door, and then Lorenzo’s stupid voice calls for him to get his shit and meet them by the car.
It startles them both, Max stepping back as Charles’ head knocks against the wall with a loud thud. “Yeah, I’m comi – I’ll be there in five, go away!” He yells back, hopes desperately Max’s French is still shit.
Max’s chest is heaving, cheeks flushed an angry red, but there’s no anger to be found in his eyes. A hint of annoyance, but Charles thinks – hopes desperately – that it may be directed towards his brother. His hands are still stretched towards Charles, but he doesn’t reach for him.
“Congratulations on the race again,” Max says, voice soft. He kicks their feet together, a faint smile on his lips as he steps back towards the door. “It will of course be the win you will have, but it was good also.”
“Good luck with the championship, Max.” Charles says, hand raised in an awkward wave as he watches him leave.
His head knocks against the door, Max’s body warm against his chest.
“Fuck, Max. Please,” he whines, hand curled in Max’s hair as his lips press against Charles’ throat.
“This was of course supposed to be for me, no?” Max pants, breath warm against his skin. He has a hand in Charles’ pants, long fingers wrapped around his dick as they barely move. “Always, I am the one with the Formula One seat, Charles. But still, you are here, desperate for me.”
It’s been months since they’ve seen each other, even longer since their last kiss. Someone had thrown a party, close enough to their birthdays that it had felt dumb to not go – Max’s confirmation loud in his inbox.
Charles barely finishes his shots before Max walks in, handsome in jeans and a tight shirt. There’s a gaudy watch on his wrist, the awkward jut of the bone as he takes him by the hand and pulls him into the back room.
“I missed you,” Charles says instead, pulls him by the hair until he can press their lips together. It’s good, always better than the last time because he’s allowed to do it again, and Charles never not wants to kiss Max. “Please Max, did you miss me too?”
Max huffs, kisses him desperately. Charles likes the bite of his teeth, the tug on his lip and how Max eases it with his tongue. The girls he’s kissed are too soft, too gentle with him. The boys even worse. No one handles him like Max, no one kisses him like he does.
“Always I miss you, Charles.” Max says, squeezes his dick. He kisses Charles again, sloppy, and wet in a way that leaves his mouth dripping with wet. He pulls away too fast, sucks his fingers into his mouth instead and makes Charles pull his jeans to his knees. “You should of course hurry up and get a seat so we can do this always.”
Charles chokes down a whine, buries his head in the crook of Max’s neck, sucks at the skin until it’s tender and bruised. Max doesn’t waste any time, wraps his hand around Charles’ dick and gets him off in slow, confident strokes.
Charles doesn’t remember the last time he came from just a handjob, but he does now. He curls his hands around Max’s waist, holds him close as his hips stutter into the tight grip of Max’s hand. He comes with his mouth pressed against Max’s cheek, teeth teasing over the bone of his jaw until the tension leaves his body.
“Fuck, Max.” He whines, kisses him again. He watches him lick the come from his hand, the drops on his wrist, before he wipes it on the blazer Charles had brought but didn’t wear. “I want you so much.”
Max moans and leans into the kiss, lets Charles open him up with his tongue, keep him in place with the grip on his hips. “Show me,” he says faintly, breath hitching as Charles drops to his knees.
It’s the numbness Charles doesn’t expect.
He’s known pain and sorrow before, befriended depression and led it on its way again. But the numbness comes as a surprise. The rest of his family doesn’t feel the same. It’s natural, he knows, the processing of grief. Arthur hasn’t stopped crying since the funeral, but Charles doesn’t think he has another tear in him.
Not for this, not even for his father.
“Charles,” someone says. It sounds wrong, the name too harsh on his ears, the pronunciation all wrong. “You should of course look at me, so I know you are alright,” they say again, so Charles does. Turns his head and blinks his eyes open to look at Max, who is dressed beautifully in a black suit.
“I thought of course the funeral was today,” he says softly. “Always, I would have come if –“
“You did not have to come,” Charles tells him. He doesn’t know how to make it sound less mean, reaches for his hand to ease the sting of it. “But I am very happy you are here. Thank you, Max.”
There are fingers in his hair, Max’s neat fingernails rubbing along his head. He leans into it, stretches his neck, and forces his eyes open from where they must have fallen shut. It feels like too much having to look at him, to meet Max’s stare head-on and somehow not feel like he’s drowning in emotion.
“Charles,” Max begs as his hand falls to his cheek, tilting his face up until their foreheads bump together.
Charles doesn’t cry but his cheeks feel wet. Max pretends not to see, rubs at his eyes until the skin feels raw. He chases the salt on his tongue with a kiss, presses his lips against Max’s until nothing else feels real, anchored by Max’s touch alone.
“This is of course very bad to say now,” Max says. He sits in Charles’ lap, curls an arm around his shoulders, and holds him close until Charles’s breath returns to him, face smushed into the crook of Max’s neck. “But always I want you to know I think I am falling in love with you.”
Charles is drifting again, but he knows he’s supposed to say something, to acknowledge Max’s confession. But he can’t, doesn’t know what to say to keep everything the same, to make Max stay and not have someone else leave him.
“I cannot, Max.” He begs. His hands are twisted desperately in the suit jacket he still wears, his lips brushing over Max’s jaw because maybe if he kisses him again then Max won't – “Not right now, please Max.”
But Max doesn’t leave. His nod is barely a movement, but he hugs him tighter, meets Charles for another kiss, before he says, “Of course, Charles. If this is what you need, always I will give it to you.”
Charles waits until Max is alone at the bar before he approaches.
“Hello Max,” he says softly and watches him turn around. The smile on his lips falls, transforms into something smaller, sharper than before. “Congratulations again, of course. You had a beautiful race.”
Max’s eyes twitch, crinkle in the corner. “Thank you, Charles.” He says cautiously, leans in when Charles reaches for a hug. “It has of course been a very nice season. The car has been very lovely, I think, so next year should be good also.”
Charles nods, tightens the hand he has on Max’s waist. Neither of them has stepped back, and Charles won’t be the first. Max orders another gin and tonic, a shot of vodka and a Red Bull to chase it with. It makes Charles’ teeth ache, but he accepts the can when Max pushes it into his hand, the dregs of the shot still in the glass.
“Could we – when we are back in Monaco, I would like for us to talk,” Charles says, digs his fingers into Max’s hips when it feels like he might twist away from him. But Max only turns towards him, their feet bumping awkwardly against each other in the sea of bar stools. “If you have the time, of course.”
“We are talking now,” Max says, bites at the straw of his drink.
Charles’ chest feels tight, his palms sweaty. But Max doesn’t seem as drunk as he should be, as he was last year in Abu Dhabi. Like Charles thinks he would be if he had been the one to win the championship. He’s tipsy at best, happy and loose the way he is on the best nights.
“Yes, but I do not want – this isyour night, Max. I do not want to ruin it.”
“Nothing you will say now can of course do this,” Max says, blunt.
Charles rocks on his heels. He can feel the eyes on them: the group of Red Bull employees waiting impatiently for their champion by their booth, the lone girls who hope they’re going to get lucky – whether it be him or Max, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care to know. But it won’t matter after tonight.
Charles takes a deep breath, “If you are still interested, I would like to ask you out sometime –“
“Okay.”
“I know that I said before that we could not do it, but we are different now. I am different,” Charles says, insists. “Ferrari wants to already start on my contract, and I have told my agent and lawyers that this was possible, to make sure they could not do anything. I do not know what will happen next year –“
“Okay.”
“But I want to be with you, Max. I want to try to make this work, so we do not have to –“
“Charles, shut the fuck up.” Max says, shoves at his chest until Charles stumbles back. He grabs his hand and drags him out of the bar and into the bathroom, yells at the poor guy still standing by the sink. “I of course want to be with you also. Always, you are just a little bit slower than me.”
“Hey,” Charles whines, but it’s faint.
He leans in for a kiss, chaste and loved, like a man starved, and he was, is: starved for Max. The kiss doesn’t stay like that for long, twisting into something far deeper, impatient, and insistent. His teeth tug at Max’s lip, teases a moan from his mouth as he pushes him against the sink. Max is hard against his hip, grinding desperately against him, and Charles feels it in kind. The want to be closer, the need to show him how much he loves him, how sorry he’s been –
“You should fuck me,” Max demands, their lips barely an inch apart. “Now, Charles.”
Charles’ hips stutter, mouth agape as a string of spit escapes him. “Max, bébé. I cannot fuck you in a bathroom. It has been so long, so many hours in the car today. Let’s go to your hotel, no?”
Max bristles, steals another kiss before he nudges Charles backwards. He shoves his jeans – too tight, on the ass, on his thighs, everywhere Charles cannot help but look – down to his knees and turns to bend over the sink. “There are lube and condoms in my back pocket.”
Charles chokes, bends down to pick it up.
Max is already wet, loose enough for Charles to give him two fingers at once. He doesn’t dare think who Max had done this for, thought he was fucking tonight – if he had wanted it to be Charles. Forces out any emotion but the gratitude that he will be inside Max sooner.
At three fingers, Charles makes him turn around, refuses to fuck him without seeing him for the first time in years. He nudges him onto the sink, wraps Max’s long legs around him and fucks into him with deep, steady thrusts.
Max has always been easily like this, needy and loud, and the best Charles has ever fucked. Charles loves him the most all the time, but Max in the throes of pleasure is something special, something he’s cherished over time, coveted desperately when he couldn’t have it.
Max comes quick. Charles a close second as he collapses into Max’s chest.
Max turns his face for a kiss, whines when Charles doesn’t find his lips immediately, “Charles, please.” It’s soft, barely a kiss even, made clumsy by their post-orgasm minds. Like they’re twelve again and know nothing but how to kiss each other silly.
Charles tries to pull back, to stand so they can clean up, but Max tightens his body around him, the gorilla grip of his legs around Charles’ waist and the nails biting into the skin of his shoulders keeping him close.
“You cannot leave,” Max says, hisses it. “We cannot do this if – Charles, I will not let you leave me again.”
“I was only going to –“ Charles says gently, kisses his cheek when Max remains tense in his arms. “I will not leave, Max. I promise. I will stay with you always if that is what you want.”
Max nods, tight and stern. He relaxes his thighs and lets Charles step back, wipe off the come on his stomach. “Good, Charles. Always this is what I want.”
“Always then, Max. I promise.”
It’s a small ceremony, just close friends and family.
They’re on a beach on the coast of Monaco, Max in a beautiful white linen suit as his mother walks him down the aisle. There’s a bouquet of tulips in his hands, and Charles promised himself he wouldn’t cry, but he does, cannot help it with the way his husband looks.
His brother presses a hand to his side, slides him a handkerchief with a smirk and a quick kiss to his cheek. “He looks handsome, you’re a lucky man,” he whispers, teases.
Charles laughs, soft and wet, as he wipes the tears away. He preens under the praise, nudges an elbow into his brother’s side and turns back to smile at Max who leads Sophie to her chair before he comes to stand by him.
“Hello love,” he says, takes Max’s hand and brings it to his lips.
“Charles,” he says, cheeks flushed. “You of course look very handsome.”
Sebastian clears his throat, takes a step forward to touch their elbows, checking in quickly before he turns to the small crowd. “We are gathered here today to unite Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen in marriage.”
It’s not the last someone will call him that, but it is the last time it will be correct. Max has been using Verstappen-Leclerc for most of the last year, but Charles is still racing, has to keep it consistent for at least another year or two before he will let himself retire.
The tiny girl in his mother’s arms bears it too, has been since she had come into their life just a handful of months ago. Her tiny, chubby cheeks and full head of blonde hair looking so much like her dad Charles could not help but fall in love with her all over again.
“So I ask you, Charles, do you take Max to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” Charles says, the words rushed by truth, by love.
“And do you, Max, take Charles to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
There is no need for it, Charles knows this. But he still holds his breath, his chest tight even as Max looks at him with the most beautiful of smiles. “Always I do.”
“Max,” He says, awed.
“May I have the rings, please?” Sebastian asks, watches as Max’s tiniest nephew toddles forward with the rings clenched between chubby fingers. “Charles and Max have chosen rings to exchange as a symbol of their unending love. As you place this ring on Max’s finger, please repeat after me: ‘With this ring, I thee wed and pledge you my love now and forever.’”
Charles does, his voice shaky as he places the ring on Max’s hand. Max trembles too, pushes the ring onto Charles’ finger and doesn’t let go.
“With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may now seal your vows with a kiss.”
Charles smiles, takes Max’s face in his hands, and kisses his husband.
#lestappen#lestappen fic#my fic#fic#my writing#lestappen fic#lestappen week summer 2023#lsw23#day one
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The Summer Before
Sneak Peek of Chpt 4- Jersey Giant
Jonerys Sultry Summer 2023: Day 5- Free Choice
Sneak Peek below the cut!
“Fine, Dany. I love you. I have loved you since I first saw you and you dropped a $20 dollar bill in my tip jar which was more than I made in tips a night for the rest of the summer. And you smiled back at me when you were on your way out the door and you still had braces and you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I loved you when I rambled about stars for way too long because you’re so smart and I couldn’t think of anything else to say to impress you.”
She laughed, tears streaming down her face, because she had been so impressed by his knowledge of the stars. And she didn’t even think he remembered her from the first summer. They’d never talked about it. Only laughed about what was really their second meeting when she had stalked to the stage and critiqued his singing and wrote her number on a five-dollar bill.
“Then we made love last summer and I didn’t think I could love you more. I couldn't stop loving you, even if I tried. And I did try for some time. But it didn't work.”
His eyes were glassy and even through her blurry vision she could see how he shook from his confession. So she cried. She didn’t know what else to do but cry and mourn the months of separation and the months they could have been loving each other instead of trying to be normal teenagers who went on dates with other people and kissed and had sex with other people.
“I wish I never said I’d be your friend,’ she sniffed.
“You’re a shitty friend, Dany,” he laughed. Her lips trembled, but laughter poured out anyways. He was right.
Read the first 3 chapters here on AO3!
#for the people worried about happy endings#no promises on when I’ll write the rest#but these two little lovebirds did steal my heart the last few weeks#snowxstormworld#jonerys sultry summer 2023#day 5: free choice#jonerys fanfic#my fic#jon x dany#moodboard#high school au#summer romance au#is it even schmoopy/trope-y high school au without a big declaration of love???
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what would you do?
what would you do? (AO3)
written for @thegobletofweasleys's Jily Week 2023 day one (it's still technically july 31st where I am, I swear)! fluff/angst day, because this fandom needs a laugh every now and then.
gifted to the lovely lovely @kay-elle-cee <3
playlist here!
James has always thought that Lily Evans looks exceptionally breathtaking when she’s angry.
It’s the sort of thought that he keeps shamefully locked-away in a crevice of his mind with all his other foolish Evans-induced blatherings. He wouldn’t dare say it aloud in front of his own mates, let alone Evans herself. After all, he hardly needs to hand her more reasons to dislike him. The post-OWLs incident sends a miserable shiver down his spine every time he recalls it.
Right now, the intensity in Lily’s bright green eyes, staring him down with enough force to bore a hole through his Quidditch gear, reminds him of the fiery expressions she’d worn that were precursors to all their fights last year.
They would all begin this way: he, a bumbling prat desperate for her attention, would say something thoughtless to garner a reaction from her. Evans, prouder than a Hippogriff and sharper than a Basilisk fang, would take the bait immediately, eyes flashing with affront, and volley a creative insult his way. James would comfort himself with the thought that she never seemed to mean her insults seriously; every so often he'd catch her hiding a smile as they parted, and sometimes he could coax the occasional laugh out of her.
But since the beginning of their sixth year, things have been different between him and Lily Evans. They’re friendly, sort of, and rarely argue these days, but it’s tenuous. Fracturable. He inevitably seems to screw up every normal conversation they have and leave an awkward tension in his wake.
Today, as Lily stares him down with an intensity he hasn't seen from her in months, James hasn't a clue what he said to garner such a strong reaction from her.
He had been heading to the Quidditch locker room for a quick shower post-practice when Evans — an occasional spectator at their team drills, thanks to her friendship with the Gryffindor Beater, Marlene — had fallen into step with him. He immediately straightened to his full height, hyper-aware of her presence beside him.
James, as always, is desperate to impress her.
Thankfully, she hadn't seemed to notice his apprehension. She struck up a conversation about their assignments, which soon devolved into James waxing poetic on NEWT-level Transfiguration theorems. It marked the longest civil conversation he’d had with Lily Evans in ages, and he’d thought it was going swimmingly — he was just starting to tell her about tutoring younger kids in remedial Transfiguration essentials — when she abruptly stopped walking, placed her hands on her hips, and fixed him with that fiery, indignant look he’s come to both yearn for and shrink from over the years.
Now, James gulps. Shit. What had he done now?
“You know, Potter,” Evans begins innocuously, but her eyes flash in his direction and James knows he’s in seriously deep water. “Sometimes I have no idea what to make of you.”
James stares blankly.
“You can be such a prat, you know, when you go around hexing people for the fun of it and acting like you’re the king of the castle. Sometimes I want to—” and here she starts getting agitated, her pale cheeks reddening rapidly: “—to shove your head down a toilet and leave you there until all that arrogance seeps out of your stupidly large skull.”
His heart drops instantly. He’s only half-aware that the rest of the team is long-gone into the showers, and that it’s been only him and Evans for several minutes now.
He thinks: arrogant, bullying toe-rag.
“But sometimes,” Lily continues in a way that he can’t describe in any way other than heated, and then says: “Sometimes I want to cut off all your air circulation.”
That’s typical, James thinks, picturing her hands locked around his throat, staring him down with that scorching stare as he slowly perishes.
Then: “With my mouth on your mouth.”
His brain flatlines.
continue reading
#jily week 2023#james potter#lily evans#jily#jily fanfiction#jily fic#kat recs#my stuff#extremely self-indulgent fluff i've got for you today fam#this summer has been fun and i wrote a surprisingly decent amount BUT#don't know how much more i can write consistently because shit has hit the fan and i am Busy
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hello hi, here's my super late addition to @lestappenweek. i know my timeline is off but i loved the prompts n wanted to write something for them so bad so. Here we are, day number 1's prompt, "i think i'm in love with you".
Title: do i have a shrek kink?
Relationship: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Chapters: 1/1
Summary:
There are so many other times that Charles could've slipped up and confessed his love for Max. Maybe while in bed, just woken up, blue eyes looking into his. Or when he is watching Max be terribly adorable with the cats. Or even when Max is stressing over how to cook a simple pasta because he knows that Charles has had a bad day and wants to make him feel better.
So many better times that would make for a perfect romance movie moment.
But of course, because Charles is Charles, that isn't how his love confession plays out.
This, this is how it plays out:
Read on Ao3
#lestappen week#i dont think i even know the right tags for this sorry#lestappen week summer 2023#lestappen#my fic#lestappen fic#max verstappen#charles leclerc#f1 fic#f1 fic rec#f1 rpf
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All the Stars We Cannot See (Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, 9.8k words, oneshot)
Sitting on his roof, bathed in wintery silence, Max prayed to be rescued. To whom, he wasn’t sure. Maybe the force that branded his wrist, the universal power that decided who to tie him with forever. Perfectly. Something like fate.
Max prayed to fate, then.
“Am I interrupting something?” The man’s accent was French, his tone unusually assertive for a question of intrusion.
“It’s not my roof,” Max shrugged, hopping back onto the ledge.
Read Here!
Possible TWs: incredibly vague allusions to chronic illness, physical harm to a child, and a non graphic racing crash.
My contribution for Day 2 of @lestappenweek: Soulmates!
I tweaked the prompt quote slightly, but it's still on theme! Maybe!
#all the stars we cannot see#f1#formula 1#f1 fanfic#lestappen fanfic#lestappen fic#lestappen#Lestappen Week Summer 2023#ao3#archive of our own
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Summer Fic Week 2023 - Day 1: Going Down Swinging
Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader
Work Summary: It's the hottest day of the year, you're exhausted from a mission, and all you want is your bed. Unfortunately, the elevator in Avengers' tower throws a spanner in the works.
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 5373
Read on AO3.
Masterlists.
Summer Fics Masterlist.
Taglist: @kittimbo @mcximffs @noz4a2 @rottenstyx @xlucyintheskywithdiamondsx @lanemarvels @marrigold-2002 @kathrinchek @alternativeprincess @annocaprosmaloka @thrutheburnout @mrs-kai-anderson @ang3l1te @missryerye
Taglist info.
Notes:
Hello and welcome to my week of summer themed fics! I'll be posting a fic every day for a week.
warnings for unprotected sex, creampie, hate-fucking, pietro is a lech, ankle injury, trapped in an elevator, reader has an IUD, oral (both receiving), reader and pietro are both switches, teasing, sweating, heatwave, teensy bit of angst
---
You were exhausted. It was a hundred degrees, and you’d spent the better part of the day fighting some freshly superpowered men on the streets of New York.
Your mission had had two parts: neutralise and bring in the powered people; and retrieve the stolen alien tech they’d used to give themselves the power to manipulate and control energy.
Your foes’ inexperience had been a gift and a curse. On one hand, you outstripped them in every sense: physically, mentally and tactically. On the other, they were unpredictable, with powers barely in their control. That made them very dangerous, especially on the crowded streets of New York City in summertime.
You and the rest of your team – Clint, Natasha, Steve, Wanda and Pietro – had all made it back in one piece. There had been a few civilian injuries but no casualties. Two of the men you’d been fighting, however, had died in the process. Their powers had overcome them and they’d exploded before you could subdue them.
That was the trouble with messing around with alien tech. You never knew what it would do to a human body.
Of course, you had to feel sorry for them. There but for the grace of God…
You had received your powers from dangerous alien tech as well, though through no fault of your own. You had been a junior scientist working for a brilliant xenobiologist, but a lab accident had left him dead and you with the ability to move objects with your mind.
When SHIELD had found you, you’d been out of control and terrified out of your mind. They had brought you in, though, with zero casualties. That you were forever grateful for. You weren’t sure how you could live with yourself otherwise.
You had been an Avenger for several years before a couple more enhanced test subjects had joined the team: the Maximoff twins. Wanda was withdrawn and unsociable, but Pietro was unbearable. He was arrogant, he was cruel and he always found ways to push your buttons.
You were sick to death of Pietro Maximoff, and his pretty eyes, and his toned body, and the way he would leer at you when you stared for half a second too long, because he knew. He always knew.
When you had realised that you would be on a mission with him today, you had groaned, but you knew it made sense. You had experienced being on the other side of this situation. So had the twins. It was also a good opportunity to train up the Maximoffs, who were the newest recruits to the Avengers.
So you had bit your tongue and fought alongside them, and stayed the hell away from Pietro.
Now, as your half-unzipped costume hung from your shoulders, boots in your hands as your bare feet padded across the cool tiled floor, all you wanted was to shower and get into bed.
That wasn’t entirely true. You were hungry too, but too exhausted to even think about eating. You wondered who would be the most likely person to bring you food if you asked. You reckoned that Steve would do it, gentleman that he was.
You were almost home. You stepped into an elevator in Avengers’ tower and hit the button for your floor. The doors were sliding closed when a familiar silver-blue blur shot in between them. You groaned internally as another button lit up, and then Pietro Maximoff was standing next to you, grinning at you with that unbearably boyishly charming smile.
The door closed behind him before you could even think about escape.
“Boy, it’s hot in here,” he said in his smooth, Sokovian accent, and then, without another word, he pulled the shirt of his costume off over his head.
He did it slowly for him, at a normal pace for anyone else, which was how you knew it was for your benefit. If he really wanted to, he could be naked in milliseconds, but he did slowly to put on a show. Your cheeks heated up at the thought, and you looked away from him, but it was too late. You could see him smirking at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Can’t you wait until you’re in your room before you start stripping?” you snapped.
He didn’t seem bothered at all by your anger. He never was. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. The elevator began to move, giving you an uncomfortable turn in your stomach that you were sure had nothing to do with the way Pietro was staring at you.
“Come on, prinţesă,” he practically cooed. It was a nickname that he knew you hated.
“I’m not your princessa-”
“Prinţesă,” he corrected. You had once asked him why he called you that, and he’d responded, “because you’re beautiful but you’re such a priss.” You had almost slapped him. Almost.
“I know you’re used to women falling at your feet, Pietro, but I don’t know why you bother with me. It’s never going to happen.”
“We’ll see,” he said in that unbelievably cocky tone. “In the meantime, you’re cute when you’re angry.” He reached out towards you, and you knew what he was going to do because he’d done it before. Before he could ping your bra strap, you slapped his hand away, glaring at him.
“You’re so-”
You were cut off by a horrible screech, and then a mechanical groaning sound. The lights flickered and the elevator came to a sudden, jarring halt, knocking you off balance. You fell back against the wall, and the red emergency lights came on.
“What the-” said Pietro, but you had already gone over to the wall panel hit the emergency call button.
“The elevator is broken, obviously.” The call button crackled. “Hello?” No response. “Hello?” There was a buzzing, and then it sputtered out and the entire panel went dark. “Shit.”
Instinctively, you patted where your pockets should be, but of course, your phone was in your room. Pietro’s suit didn’t have pockets either, and you’d both handed over your earpieces when you’d arrived back after the mission.
“Here, let me try.” He moved past you to get to the panel.
You glared at the side of his face. “All you do is press the button. It’s not like I did it wrong.” He ignored you, jabbing at the button several times in quick succession. “That’s not gonna-”
“Shut up,” he snapped, and you took a step back. Pietro might’ve been an asshole, but he wasn’t usually openly hostile to you. He preferred to annoy you in more subtle ways.
You stared at him. For the first time, you noticed that his hand was shaking. He was nervous.
“There’s a hatch,” you said, not quite apologising (why should you apologise?) but almost making amends. “If you give me a boost up there, I can see if I can climb up to the next floor and get the doors open.”
For once, he didn’t argue with you. He laced his fingers together and let you step into his hand, and, when you were ready, pushed you up towards the ceiling.
You had to put your hand on his head to keep your balance, uncomfortably aware of how close his face was to the vulnerable flesh of your stomach. Not that he would do anything. Still. You managed to pull the lever to open the hatch.
“Higher,” you said, and he grunted in response, lifting you up further. You were glad you couldn’t see him right now. You’d seen him working out in the gym, and exerting himself on the field. The way his muscles flexed always got you a little hot under the collar, and that was the last thing you needed right now.
You managed to grab onto the edge of the hatch and, with Pietro’s help, pushed yourself up onto the top of the elevator.
You stared up into the shaft above you, but it was very dark. You couldn’t see the doors for the floor above. With your hands on the wall, you looked for a ladder, but there was no sign of one.
“Any luck?” Pietro called out to you.
“Can’t see much.”
You did have an idea about how you could see a little more. You couldn’t fly, but with your telekinesis, you could hover a little. Projecting yourself into the air, you tried to get closer to where you thought the door might be. There was only more darkness.
Letting out a frustrated noise, you pushed yourself further up. Your body was trembling with the effort, sweat beading at your brow. High above you, you could make out lights. If that was the inside of the door, then you were a lot further away from it than you thought.
You tried to push yourself a little bit further, just to check if the door was truly what you were seeing, and faltered. As if your slick-sweat body had slid across a surface, your hold on yourself failed and you tumbled out of the air, landing hard on your ankle.
“Fuck.”
Pietro called out your name. He never called you by your name. You felt dazed.
“Are you okay?” he shouted.
“Yeah, I’m…” Your voice had come out high-pitched and wobbly as you choked on the pain in your ankle. You cleared your throat. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay. Come back down.”
You didn’t fancy trying to climb back down right now. All you wanted to do was stay in one place.
“I’m alright, I’m gonna stay up here for a bit.”
“You can’t stay on top of the elevator!”
You didn’t respond to that. After a few moments, you heard him call out your name again, and when you stayed silent, you heard a grunt, a clang, and then Pietro’s hands appeared at the edge of the hatch.
You were about to lean forward to help him up, but you didn’t have to. He pulled himself up onto the roof of the elevator beside you in an impressive display of upper body strength.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “It sounded like you fell.” It was much darker up here, so you couldn’t see his expression, which unnerved you, because for the first time since you’d known him, he actually sounded sincere.
“I did fall, but it’s okay.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“… I landed awkwardly on my ankle.”
He tutted, but for once, it didn’t sound patronising. It sounded worried. “Let me look at it.”
“It’s dark.”
“Well, let me help you back into the elevator, and then look at it.”
“I’m not going back in. We need to get up to the doors.” You pointed vaguely upwards.
You saw Pietro’s silhouette shift as he looked where you were pointing. “There’s no way we’re making it up there. We need to go back in and wait for rescue. Someone will notice the elevator is out eventually.”
You groaned loudly. “I can’t imagine anything worse than being stuck in an elevator with you.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a barrel of laughs either, prinţesă.”
“Stop calling me that!”
He ignored you. “I’m going to climb back in, and then you’re going to lower yourself back down.”
“I’ll fall.”
“I will catch you. Come on.” His tone left no space to argue. He climbed back down into the hatch and landed back inside with a light thump. He was agile, like a cat. You were envious of that right now.
You swung your legs over so you were sitting on the edge of the hatch, your legs dangling into the elevator. You could see Pietro properly now, bathed in the red emergency lighting.
“Come on,” he repeated, holding up his arms. “I’ll catch you.”
“Are you sure?” An edge of nervousness was creeping into your tone.
He chuckled. “I have superspeed, prinţesă. I promise I won’t let you fall. Now drop down. I will catch you.”
He was watching you. That only made you more nervous. You had to close your eyes and shuffle forward. A hand, strong and strangely comforting, grabbed your calf.
“Just a little further, prinţesă.”
Squeezing your lips together, you edged closer. Pietro had a firmer grip on both of your legs now. Putting your life into your hands – or, to be honest, Pietro’s – you shoved yourself off the ledge.
Pietro’s hands let go of your calves and caught you around the waist. You clung to his shoulders as he held you there, feet dangling a foot off the ground.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said. “I’m going to lay you down, alright? Let’s have a look at your ankle.” Swallowing, you nodded.
Carefully, he lowered you to the ground. You held on tight to him until you were firmly sitting down, at which point you released each other. He hooked his hand under your calf again, gently lifting it up so he could get a closer look.
“It looks a little swollen,” he said. “Maybe you sprained it.”
“Maybe.”
“You should get some ice on it when we get out of here. And maybe see a medic, just in case.”
“… Thanks.”
“Here.” He picked up his shirt, which he had discarded at the corner of the elevator. He bunched it up and then placed it under your ankle. It didn’t do much to elevate it, but at least it cushioned it from the ground.
You leant back against the wall, stomach swirling. Pietro stood up and crossed the room, mirroring your position against the wall opposite. You closed your eyes, trying to think of some way to pass the time when you heard the sound of unzipping.
Your eyes flew open to find Pietro with his trousers halfway down his thighs. He was wearing black boxers underneath, which were sleek and strangely pretty.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax, prinţesă. I’m not going to take my underwear off.”
“Put your pants back on,” you hissed, and he rolled his eyes.
“It’s hot. My costume is too tight. I have no idea how long we’re going to be stuck here. I’ll boil alive if I keep it on.”
You huffed and looked away from him. You had to admit he had a point. It was very hot. You wriggled fully out of the top half of your costume, which had already been hanging off you. You were wearing a vest underneath, so at least you were more modest than Pietro, who was now sitting in his boxers with his costume in his lap. There was no way you were taking off the bottom half, no matter how hot it got in here.
A bead of sweat rolled down your neck, and you felt it heading for your cleavage. You grimaced. You’d kill for a bottle of water right now. And ice. For your ankle and for everywhere else.
You glanced back at Pietro and found him staring at your chest.
“You’re shameless, you know that?” you said, no heat behind your voice. You were too sweaty and exhausted to fight anymore.
“I can’t help myself, prinţesă. You have a great rack. It draws the eye.”
It was one of the cruder Americanisms that he’d picked up since he moved to New York.
“Fuck off, Pietro. I’m not begging to be ogled, unlike you. I mean, you were practically doing a striptease earlier.”
A grin spread across his face. “Did you like it?”
You rolled your eyes. “I was just trying to get back to my room to sleep. I wasn’t expecting to have to deal with…” You gestured at him. “All of this.”
He cocked his head to the side, resting his chin on his palm. “What are you dealing with, prinţesă?”
“You!” you snapped. You shoved yourself onto your knees, your costume flapping around your waist. “I’m so sick of you!” You wobbled to your feet, but thankfully your ankle seemed to be able to support your weight.
As you stalked towards him, you were pretty sure you were actually gonna hit him this time, and from the look on his face, you could tell he thought so too.
“Careful,” he warned, on his feet in a split second. “Your ankle-”
You barrelled into him, grasping his chin with one hand and dragging him down to your level. His eyes went very wide, but you were already kissing him.
Wait.
Kissing him?
You were supposed to be hitting him!
His hands dropped to your waist, smoothing over the fabric of your vest, and you leant into him, letting him take the weight off your ankle.
“You’re so,” kiss, “fucking,” kiss, “annoying,” you muttered, and you felt him smile against your lips. “I hate you,” you snarled, pulling away from him, but he held you in position.
“No, you don’t,” he said fondly.
“You’re, ugh-” Your words stuttered to a halt as he pressed a kiss to the spot below your ear, and then one further down at the column of your throat.
“You seem tense,” he said, sounding smug. “Let me help with that.”
Despite yourself, you pressed against him, and then leant back to look at him suddenly. “Are you hard?”
“Honestly? I’ve had a semi since you took your top off.”
You let out a growl of frustration, pushing him back. That shouldn’t have turned you on nearly as much as it did. You cupped him through his boxers and watched the smug smile disappear. His lips parted and he exhaled hard. That was much better.
“Take these off,” you said.
“Feisty,” he said, but dutifully removed his boxers. He was moderately well-endowed, and the thatch of hair around the base of his cock was brown, not platinum blonde. It was something you had wondered about, on hot lonely nights when he’d pushed your buttons just a little too hard during the day.
You wrapped your hand around his cock and squeezed, watching the expression on his face change. He swore quietly, his hands going to your waist, gripping your vest. You swatted his hands away.
“Lie down.”
He arched an eyebrow at you, but did as he was told. He sat down on the ground in one fluid motion, and then lay back, hands behind his head. He was stupidly, unfairly, annoyingly attractive. You knelt down in front of him.
“Shut up,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Well, continue not saying anything.”
He ignored you. “You know I’m completely naked and you’re still wearing most of your clothes. How is that fair?”
You huffed out a mirthless laughed. “Only because you decided toget practically naked before we even got started. How is that my fault?”
He shrugged, which was a slightly awkward motion in the position he was in. “That doesn’t matter. I want to see you.”
Lips pressed tightly together, you pulled off your vest and then your bra in quick succession. His eyes went wide and he reached for you, but again, you pushed him away.
“Hands to yourself.” And then you bent forward and wrapped your lips around his cock. He swore loudly. You supposed that was a good sign.
He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Pietro was a naturally fidgety person, so they twitched by his sides, trying to find something to hold onto.
You pulled back, letting your cock fall out of his mouth. “What are you doing?”
“You said to keep my hands to myself!”
“Well, this,” you gestured to the motions his hands were making, “is offputting.”
“What do I-” You grabbed both his hands in yours and guided them up to your hair.
“Better?”
He gulped and nodded. You leant forward again and licked a stripe up his cock. His grip tightened, pulling hard enough to hurt, but the pain sent a sizzling sensation through your body.
Still, you wouldn’t let him set the pace, as much as he was trying to. You bobbed your head up and down, swirling your tongue around him. He groaned deeply.
“Prinţesă, maybe you should stop. I’m not gonna last very long if you keep- Fuck.”
You ignored him, continuing to push. Your hand came up to fondle his balls, thumbing over the crease between them. His fingers tightened in your hair, not pulling you off him, but warning.
“I’m gonna- Fuck.”
The hot, salty taste of his cum hit the back of your tongue. You swallowed it, taking pride in the way he whimpered as you sucked him clean.
“Prinţesă, baby, I…” He sounded wrecked. You relinquished your hold on him pulling back and letting him breathe. His eyes were glassy as he stared back at you. “That was… Fuck.”
“You said that already.”
He sat up suddenly, crowding into your space. You were ready to tell him to fuck off again, but then he kissed you, his tongue pressing insistently into your mouth. It was like he was trying to taste himself on you. Maybe he was. He was a narcissist, after all.
When you’d both run out of breath, he pulled back. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright and shiny with excitement.
“Can I touch you?” He said the words in a low voice that sent tingles down your spine. Here was the flirty, seductive Pietro you knew. You wondered how many women he’d used this voice on. You wondered if it worked every time. It was working on you. You nodded.
His hands were uncharacteristically clumsy as he tugged at your costume, trying to get the bottom half off. You loosened the straps and lifted your hips up so that he could pull them off you.
Now, in just your panties, you were feeling pretty exposed. Sensing your nervousness, he kissed you again. Gentle, insistent hands pushed you until you were lying flat on your back. He moved with you, covering you with his body.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured into the skin of your neck. Every breath across your skin left goosebumps in its wake. You trembled, and you were sure he felt it, but for once, he didn’t seem all that smug about it.
You were worried he might try to give you a hickey, but his lips continued to press soft kisses against your skin, persistently kissing and licking, not sucking. You carded your hands through his hair, breathing in time with him.
He moved lower until his mouth found a nipple. You twitched, almost pushing away out of instinct – you were very sensitive – but he held you still with one hand on your shoulder, the other on your hip. His eyes flickered up to yours as he sucked, and his lip quirked up into that annoying (sexy) smirk.
“I was right,” he mused as he nosed his way along the valley between your breasts, lazily looking for your other nipple.
“About what?” Your question came out breathless. He’d just found it and bitten gently down.
“You do have a great rack.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” This time, he said it in a sing-song voice as he travelled further down, laying kisses along your stomach that made your muscles jump. “In fact,” he said, lips grazing over the waistband of your panties. “I think you like me.”
“I do not.”
“Hmm.” He hummed, his lips hovering over your clothed pussy. He was right there, where you wanted him most, but he wasn’t moving anymore. Instead, he was very gently nuzzling at you through the fabric.
You let out a huff of frustration. “Stop teasing me.”
“I’ll stop teasing when you admit you like me.”
You snapped your mouth shut, glaring down at him. He stared back up at you with amusement in his eyes, kissing along your inner thigh. It was torture.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You like it.”
“Fine!” you snapped. “I fucking like it! I like you! Is that what you wanted to hear?”
You barely heard his response because your heart was beating so loudly. The blood was rushing in your ears. What were you doing?
“That’s good,” he said, tugging down your panties. “Because I like you too.”
That was all the warning you got before he dove into your pussy. His hands came up, parting your lips so that he could explore your folds with his tongue. The noises that were falling from your lips were frankly embarrassing. You tried to cover your mouth, but Pietro slowed down.
“If you don’t let me hear those god damn moans, I swear I won’t let you cum,” he said. You glared at him, but removed your hands.
He held you down, one hand resting flat against your belly button. His tongue danced over your clit, moving in patterns so fast you couldn’t follow them. It was like his tongue was a vibrator, and you felt a telltale warmth building inside you.
“Pietro!” you moaned, unable to hold back any longer. You grabbed a handful of his hair, holding him as tight to you as you could. You ground down against him, riding your orgasm out on his face.
In the immediate aftermath, you felt too good to be embarrassed. He slid his fingers inside you, filling you with a fresh sensation of pleasure.
“I, uh… Don’t have any condoms,” he said.
You let out a grunt of frustration. “I don’t care.” And then, as an afterthought, “I have an IUD.”
“I get tested regularly.” That made sense. From what you knew, he was a bit of a player.
“I haven’t had sex since my last test.”
“So I can…?”
“Just fuck me, Pietro.”
He hooked a hand under your hip and flipped you over onto your hands and knees. You let out an undignified squeak, which quickly turned into a moan when he pressed against you from behind.
At first, he put just the tip inside you, until you whined and pushed back against him. He slid in further, and you exhaled. It was a strange relief, having him fill you up like that. It was as though, from the moment you’d met, the two of you had been heading for this moment. Now he was inside of you and you were sprawled out underneath him, you felt fuzzy and warm.
As he slid all the way inside you, you leant your forearms on the ground and rested your forehead on your hands. The metal floor was cool against your skin, which was nice because you felt like you were burning up everywhere that Pietro was touching you.
After a moment, you said, “you can move.” He let out a groan of relief.
His movements started slow. He was exceptionally consistent, thrusting in a perfectly even rhythm, hitting just the right spot inside you every time. You wondered if it was practise, or if his powers helped. He certainly had stamina.
“You feel so good, pretty girl,” he murmured, stroking your hip. “So tight around my cock.”
You felt your walls clench involuntarily, which drew a choked out groan from Pietro, making his rhythm falter for the first time. He regained his composure quickly, sliding a hand into your hair as he began to speed up.
Your g-spot was being pummelled, and every thrust pushed the air out of your lungs, forcing you into a gasping rhythm of ‘ah, ah, ah’s.
As his movements grew more desperate, Pietro’s hands were everywhere, lightly scratching down your back, squeezing your breasts, anchoring himself on your hips. When his hand finally found his way down between your legs, you knew it was over for you.
With his fingers on your clit, breast squeezed tight in his other hand, hot breath in your ear, you came with a gasp.
“Shit,” he hissed, and you could tell he was close. You continued to clench around him, even after the aftershocks of your orgasm, trying to push him over the edge. Still, he kept going.
You looked back at him over your shoulder and his eyes met yours, pupils blown with lust. You smiled at him, and he swore under his breath. He clung to you, spilling his cum inside you.
You felt cold as soon as he pulled out of you. There was a gnawing feeling in your gut. Regret. You shouldn’t have done this. He was your coworker. You hated each other.
(No you didn’t)
You rolled over into a sitting position, wincing as you felt his cum dripping out of you. You grabbed your discarded costume and shuffled over to the wall.
Pietro was sitting back on his heels, watching you. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
You shook your head, but you felt tears prickling at your eyes. He leant forwards, putting what was supposed to be a comforting hand on your knee. You flinched. He pulled back like he’d been burnt.
“Was I too rough?” There was an earnest expression in his eyes. “Did I hurt you? Is it your ankle?”
“No,” you said, your voice thick. “It was good.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“We’re still stuck here. What do we do now?”
Pietro was about to answer, but he was interrupted by your stomach rumbling loudly. He regarded you for a moment, and then scooted over to where the trousers of his costume were discarded. He dug around in them for a moment, and then produced a granola bar, which he slid across the floor towards you.
“Here,” he said. “Eat this.
“Where were you hiding that?” you asked, picking it up and unwrapping it.
He grinned at you, boyish charm back in full force. “Secret pocket.”
“You have a secret snack pocket in your suit?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
You knew he wasn’t joking. He had to eat a lot. Something about his metabolism. You had seen him at mealtimes, loading up his plate. It made sense that he kept emergency snacks on him.
Right now, you were very grateful for them. You felt your anxiety draining away as you ate.
“Next time, I’ll buy you a real dinner.”
You paused. “Next time?”
“Yeah. If you want to.”
You opened your mouth, but at that moment, the main lights flickered back on. There was a moment of silence, and then the elevator juddered to life. It was moving upwards again.
You had the sudden, horrifying realisation that you were naked, with Pietro’s cum dripping out of you.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.” You fumbled with your panties, but changed your mind at the last second. Trousers were more important. As you struggled to pull them up, Pietro put his boxers and trousers back on in half a second flat.
Your vision went white. You blinked, and you realised you were wearing your vest. Pietro must’ve put it on you.
Meeting your eyes, he slipped your panties into his pocket. “I’ll be holding onto these.” He winked at you. Your cheeks burned.
DING.
The doors of the elevator opened and you scrambled to your feet. Steve and Sam were standing on the other side of the doors, staring at you both. Steve looked horrified, but Sam looked more amused.
You quickly tucked your bra under the shirt of your costume, which was hanging over your arm.
“Hey guys,” you said, trying to sound casual. “The elevator got stuck.”
“There was a power cut,” said Sam. “But I don’t wanna know what you two got up to in here. I’m taking the other elevator until this one has been thoroughly sterilised.” He turned and walked away. Steve stole one last shocked glance at you, before following him.
You looked at Pietro, and found him looking back at you. Sudden, uncontrollable, laughter bubbled up from your chest. Pietro began to laugh too, which only made you laugh harder. You grabbed onto his arm to keep your balance.
“Did you see Steve’s face?” asked Pietro between gasps, and you doubled over, hands over your stomach.
You laughed until there was no more breath in your lungs.
When you had both finally got over your fit of hysterics, you realised that you were leaning on each other. Instead of stepping away, Pietro leant down, pressing your foreheads together. It was a brief touch. He pulled away and you found yourself wishing he hadn’t.
“Next time?” he asked, a tinge of hope in his voice.
You swallowed. “Next time.”
---
Notes:
Preview of tomorrow's fic: sharing a tent with Steve Harrington.
#pietro maximoff x reader#pietro maximoff smut#pietro maximoff x you#pietro maximoff x y/n#summer fic week 2023
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red bull's golden puppy
(charles/max, 1.4k, completed)
READ HERE
snippet:
In a memory box tucked away deep in their minds, Charles, Max and Chloe Leclerc-Verstappen, share their biggest memories and photographs. Adopting a pet named after the original Red Bull golden boy Sebastian Vettel would soon join that club.
prompt: August 12: "Just one more kiss."
written for @lestappenweek!
#lestappen#lestappen fic#f1 fic#my writing#my posts#max verstappen#charles leclerc#f1blr#f1 fandom#f1 rpf#f1#formula 1#lestappen week#lestappen week summer 2023#1633#lestappen fic rec#f1 fic rec#my creation
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so yes I know this is late but...here is my entry for ShuMako Slice Of Summer 2023! Each chapter will correspond to a prompt :)
(reblogs very much appreciated! please tell me what you think :D)
#mintea fics#persona 5#shumako#makoto niijima#ren amamiya#shumako slice of summer 2023#shumako week 2023
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2023 Summer Rundown
☆ Watched...
[Movie]
→ Onward
→ Spiderverse I (rewatch)
→ Spiderverse II
→ Barbie
→ Epic Tails
→ The Tunnel to Summer, the Exit of Goodbyes
→ SASAGEYO Mutant Mayhem
→ Elemental
→ The Little Mermaid
→ Ruby Gillman
→ The Book of Life
→ Puss in Boots I
→ The Rescuers Down Under
→ Pinocchio
→ The Mitchells vs the Machines
→ Sailor Moon Eternal
→ The Garden of Words (rewatch)
→ RotTMNT movie (rewatch)
[Series and Others]
→ Finished DT17
→ AIR
→ Violet Evergarden (collection)
→ Usagi Chronicles
→ The Rhino and the Redbill
→ A Fox in Space
→ SABA
→ Lackadaisy
#This is actually a part of my 2023 Summer (Vacation) Rundown#which is basically a list of what I have done#Of course I didn't only just watch movies cartoons and anime's#But the other stuff are either personal life stuff or stuff that no one would know#(Like the list of Skyrim quest mods I have finished lol)#(Also a list of fics I have read but it's not that many)#infodump#(if you see anything you don't know in the list just ignore it i am too embarrassed to explain ahhhh)#Also the list starts after the beginning of my summer vacation#And ends when I started school again#So there are some movies that are left out#Like I watched the Mario Movie like a week before the summer vacation#And also watched another movie just last week#So...uh...feel free to discuss any of these with me (I guess)
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give yourself up to me
pairing: lestappen
word count: 1.5k
rated teen. royalty au. conflict. negotiations. first kiss. day 6 of @lestappenweek
For the safety of his people, Crown Prince Charles is willing to do anything.
Anything.
AO3 LINK
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and I'm afraid it's you - Charles/Max, 2194 words, gen
day two of @lestappenweek 2023
prompt: soulmate au
“Charles? Are you coming down too, mate?”
But Charles doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to get any closer to the goose, briefly considers following that guy over the side of the boat. “Are we even sure that it is not a regular goose?” He yells back and tries not to flinch when the goose shifts. “Maybe we should call animal control, no?”
“Why don’t you come down and find out?”
Fuck off, Charles wants to say, wants to flip him off and see how far this celebrity thing really gets him. But there’s no time.
The goose flaps its wings, once, twice, and lands gracefully on the railing he had been leaning on.
It honks softly, waddles down to sit on the bench instead. Fuck.
The goose appears on the lower deck of the boat, with a honk and a waddle as it finds its footing on the slippery surface.
“Fuck no,” someone says and jumps over the side of the boat, the splash of water drowned out by the goose’s honking somehow on beat to the music. The goose doesn’t follow him, waddles past another group to get to the small staircase.
Charles has only seen a handful of soulmate geese. Romantic creatures with little to no chasing involved, nudging their person along until it could take flight again – a job well done. This does not look anything like that.
The stairs are too steep for the goose’s legs, the edge of the steps catches on its feet and forces it back on deck. The long neck tenses, bill opened to let out a loud honk at another failed try. It bleeds frustration, and Charles almost feels bad for it. But he’s only twenty-three, he doesn’t need his entire life decided for him already. Someone else must fall on the sword today.
He goes up another flight of stairs, watches as the goose snaps its teeth when someone attempts to approach.
“It doesn’t want any help,” she says with a frown. She tries again with her palms upturned, tongue clicking awkwardly like she’s catching a chicken and not a beast of a goose. “Is there another way up?”
“It’s a goose,” someone else says. Charles only knows three people on the boat, and now he’s trapped here with a bunch of strangers and a fucking goose. He really shouldn’t have come. “Can’t it just fly if it wants to come up here?”
“Or maybe you all could just come down here so we can get this over with,” Marc yells back. He nudges the goose up with his foot, but that’s as far as it gets. Its stomach protrudes and bumps into the next step, forces it back down on deck. “I’m not gonna spend my day doing this. Get down or get off my boat, yeah?”
People come down in groups, skip the last few steps to make it to safety far away from the stairs. But the goose doesn’t move, keeps watch by the step. Charles tries to imagine it in one of those bearskin hats the royal guards wear, long neck swallowed by dark fur until there’s nothing left by a wide feathered body.
The crowd is thinning, and the goose still honks. If he squints really hard, he can almost believe the goose isn’t staring at him. Maybe the goose needs glasses too.
“Charles? Are you coming down too, mate?”
Charles knows he’s special. A lot of people want to be friends with Formula One drivers, Ferrari even more so. He knows if he was anyone else, he would probably already have been thrown out, with or without a goose under the arm.
But Charles doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to get any closer to the goose, briefly considers following that guy over the side of the boat. “Are we even sure that it is not a regular goose?” He yells back and tries not to flinch when the goose shifts. “Maybe we should call animal control, no?”
“Why don’t you come down and find out?”
Fuck off, Charles wants to say, wants to flip him off and see how far this celebrity thing really gets him. But there’s no time. The goose flaps its wings, once, twice, and lands gracefully on the railing he had been leaning on.
It honks softly, waddles down to sit on the bench instead. Fuck.
Upon closer inspection, the goose is kind of cute.
Its feathers are ruffled from the previous tantrum, and Charles is all too aware of the teeth occupying its mouth and tongue. But there is something charming about the way it waddles between his legs, the slap of webbed feet as it follows him around.
No one has approached the upper deck since the goose had landed, but Charles doesn’t mind. The sun is hot on his skin, and the cooler is still full of beer. He can have his own party.
The peace doesn’t last, abruptly ended by the goose honking fucking murder.
“Hey uh, maybe you should go home, mate.” Marc says. He hasn’t touched the second staircase, staying safely on the first deck. “You know with the goose and such.”
“It’s doing fine, I think.” Charles says, strokes its long neck and only narrowly avoids getting napped. “Maybe if you have some water for it? Of course, it will go for a dip if it gets too hot, but –“
“Mate, the vibes up here are rancid,” Marc says, winces. “A few of the birds thought you were gonna come say hello, figured maybe they would have a shot with the goose here and all. But you’re just up here drinking alone. It’s pathetic, mate.”
Charles chokes. He feels the goose by his side tense up, readying another honk.
But Charles feels exhausted, burnt out and useless. He wants to call his mother, ask her to come pick him up, knows he cannot. Knows she would be disappointed with how he’s acted today, towards the goose and otherwise.
So he stands, with whatever dignity he has left, and takes the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t turn to see if the goose is following, hears the patter of feet on his heels and knows he won’t be alone tonight. Doesn’t fully hate the idea of it, of someone else in his empty apartment. Even if it is a fucking goose.
His mother is predictably mad that he broke quarantine, barely cares about how the goose hasn’t stopped honking since he let it into his apartment.
“You cannot do this, Charles.” She says, terse and scary-quiet. “You are being selfish and a dumb, foolish boy. It is not only you. You cannot see anyone now, not until we know that you are not sick. Not your brothers, your friends, me. You cannot!”
“Maman, please!” He begs, ignores how the goose has been pecking at his collections of helmets. “I met my goose today,” he says instead, dizzy with relief when she takes the bait.
Sandra from PR invites him to a Zoom meeting with his agent and an FIA representative who is half asleep the entire call. It’s a watered-down version of what he probably deserves, of what the FIA would have done if he wasn’t who he is, from a team with the legacy it has.
“We’re counting on you to make this right, Charles.” Sandra says in curt Italian. “Do not let us down.”
Charles won’t, couldn’t even if he wanted to. He has a goose now.
Charles doesn’t pretend to know anything about viruses or zoonoses – the transmissions of disease between animals and humans, he learns – but he cannot risk infecting his goose. He’s spent too long reading articles about zoonotic COVID, of the mink suspected to be infected.
He clicks his tongue and the goose whips around, feathers ruffled and neck lurching. “Mink and geese are not the same. Of course, you will not become sick,” he promises, rubs along the feather of its neck.
The honk is soft this time, the goose wrapping its neck around his shoulders.
Charles comes back from his grocery run to a ruined apartment.
“You cannot come!” He had begged, blocking the door so the goose wouldn’t follow him out. “You cannot wear a mask, so you cannot come to the store! You will become sick.”
The goose had cared little, tearing apart the pillows of his couch and knocking over the helmets it had been pecking at. Now, the goose sits on a nest of shredded clothes, a moat of trophies built around it.
“Oison, that is not for you! Bad goose,” he says and reaches for the trophies, puts them away safely. He grabs what looks to be his prize from Austria but flinches back when the goose lets out an ear-piercing screech, body trembling with anger. “You cannot keep that, it is mine. I won it.” But the goose does not stop, lets out another demonic sound as it continues to stand guard over the trophy.
His sanity is already half gone from self-containment, and the goose only makes it worse.
It cannot go outside even if it must, to lead him to his soulmate. It gives chase in the tiny hallway of his apartment, but it too must realise Charles has nowhere to go but in circles. It frustrates them both, but Charles cannot risk it.
The goose takes to patrol the front door, pecking nonsense into the wood like Charles is somehow going to comply with its terms. Instead, he spends most of the day barricaded in the bathroom. Water-resistant earphones deep in his ear as he tries to drown out the honks.
Charles has to take out the earphones to dry his hair, rubbing the towel over his head.
He’s almost dressed when he pauses in his step. There are no honks, no pecks, or screeches of frustration from being cooped up, nothing but peaceful silence. It makes Charles’ heart seize in his throat.
“Oison? What are you doing, stupid animal?” He yells and runs to the living room. His mind flashes with imagines of opened windows, of doors left agape. All the ways the goose could have escaped. But instead of a prison break, the goose is curled up in the safe arms of Max Verstappen. “Max?”
“Hello Charles,” Max says and strokes a hand down the long neck of the goose. One of his bandanas is tied around it, a neat bowtie making the goose looks fancier than it should. “This is of course a lovely goose you have.”
“What are you doing here?” He cannot help but ask, ignores the beady-eyed stare the goose turns on him. “I did not know you were still in Monaco.”
Max smiles, bends down to kiss the top of its head. “Pierre was of course worried that you were not picking up your phone. His girlfriend has symptoms, so always he could not come himself. But he knew I was staying alone in the apartment.”
At some point, his phone had made it into the nest of the beast. Charles had been too much of a coward to get it back.
Now he sinks to his knees opposite Max, watches with sweaty palms how Max handles the goose with ease. “You are really good at that,” he says, swallows when Max turns to frown at him. “Goose handling, handling the goose, I mean.”
“I think he likes me,” Max says.
Charles shrugs, “You can have him. He is very loud.”
Max looks at the goose, curled up in his lap like it hadn’t been acting a fool for the past week. “Do you know who your soulmate is?”
Charles chokes, and then shakes his head. “Of course, it cannot go outside. I would not know what to do if it got sick, the doctors would not care, and then I would never know.”
Max stares up at him, and Charles cannot breathe. Because it cannot be –
“You think we would not know if we were soulmates?”
“Always, the goose is correct,” Max says with the same steadfast confidence that he does everything with. It makes Charles dizzy. Delirious, delusional too. “If the goose says we are soulmates, I think, of course this must be true.”
“You are not joking?”
Max shrugs. He moves the goose to the couch, makes sure it has a view of the space between them. “We have of course already done it, so it should not matter. This way we will know for sure.”
“Know what?” Charles asks, licks his lips.
Max kisses him softly, and Charles knows then that he is correct.
He meets him halfway, pulls him closer to his chest until Max has to crawl into his lap, curl his arms around him to keep him close. It’s wonderful and great, and Charles never wants it to end. But then, it doesn’t have to. Max is mandated to kiss him now, to be by his side and probably eventually like, love him with all his heart.
It makes Charles dizzy all over again.
The goose is gone when he opens his eyes again, the window agape where Max must have opened it. Must have known how this would end.
Max kisses his cheek and gets to his feet, says, “You should pack your bags, and then we will go to my apartment.”
“What?”
“I have of course my cats. It will be easier for you to come to us than for them to get used to a new place,” Max elaborates. He picks up the lone trophy still in the abandoned nest and smiles. “Unless you of course want to be here alone still.”
Charles swallows, shakes his head. “You want me to move in with you?”
“We are of course going to be together forever, Charles. Always, we should start now.”
Charles laughs, takes the hand Max offers to help him up. “Yes, of course, Max.”
#lestappen#lestappen fic#my fic#fic#my writing#lestappen week 2023#lsw23#day two#soulmate au#lestappen week summer 2023
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i want it to be you (and other such lies)
A/N: Happy Aro week everyone!! Take some Fitz angst <3 In a universe where for some reason in some way Sophie registers and she’s not unmatchable. Find it on ao3!!!!
Summary: Sophie thrusts her own list in his hands, and he unrolls it to see his name at the top of hers. Fitz Vacker. He hates cruel jokes, especially ones the universe plays on him.
TW: internalized arophobia... don’t think there’s much else
Taglist: @steppingonshatteredglass @sunset-telepath @stardustanddaffodils @jaxtheoraliestanner @song-tam @turquoise-skyyyy @carcinized @skylilac @wu-marcy @saintashes @rune-and-rising @lavender-and-rainy-days @confusedamphibian @hellomyfriends @cadence-talle @kai-i-guess @callas-starkflower-stew @a-harmless-poison @professionalwhalewatcher @theogony @gay-otlc @countingthestarsaboveourheads @confuzzled-fox @almostfullnerd @athenswrites @synonymroll648 @squishmallow36 @xanadaus
Fitz looks at the number one result on the top of his match list and thinks about wanting it to be her.
Not that he's trying to convince himself that he wants this, but more like he knows there is no hope of knowing, truly knowing whether the thought of this—of this life, stretching out into the horizon as far as he can see—makes him happy or disgusted.
Breathe, Biana's voice echoes in his head, and he rolls his shoulders like that'll stop his throat from aching. Take another breath. That's it. Let the world stop spinning. There's a sour taste on his tongue. He hasn't had time to brush his teeth since Alden woke him up by delivering the first match list to his door.
So here it is.
I want it to be you. He told her that and believed it, once upon a time (in a fairytale), before it became real.
It's real now. It's terrifyingly, solidly, unbearably real now. It's so certain that there's a pit growing in his stomach, a watermelon seed that he swallowed five years ago come back for revenge. It crushes against his lungs, pushing gusts of air out of his nose in pants.
Breathe, Fitz. That's it. The world tilts around him and he clenches his fists so hard his nails dig into his skin.
Fitz rolls the scroll back up and throws it carelessly onto his desk, letting it bump against a schoolbook he was supposed to use to finish homework. Dropping onto his bed, he curls up onto his side and buries his hands in his hair, tugging at the roots so hard it hurts.
A tear leaks from the corner of his eye.
...
This is the part where he thinks about a moment in his childhood when everything fit into place.
When he watched Alden twirl Della under a chandelier in the entrance hall, when Marella tucked Biana's hair behind her ear, when Edaline brushed a soft tear from Grady's eye: that should've been It.
(It: the moment when he thinks ah... that's what I want.)
But he can't find anything like that. Nothing that clicks, nothing moving with precision, made the way it's supposed to be. If normal is made of a thousand tiny gears and screws, then he's missing a few. He's a building listing slightly to the side like the Tower of Pisa.
Fitz traces his finger along his bedspread, soft cushioning continuing past his head until he reaches the wall. It's cold against his palm as he presses his hand flat against it, letting the chill cut through him.
There are so many wants stacked up in his head. Sophie is buried there somewhere, shouting from the bottom of the list of priorities even if she's at the top of his matches. He guesses that's the reason he can't stand the thought of a Winnowing Gala: he has other things to worry about.
Things like building this world from the bottom up. Things like Alden's expectations ("You'd make a good councillor someday, Fitz, don't you think?") and the Elite Levels coming up after the break and how to deal with Keefe fitting back into his life as if he'd never fucking left in the first place.
Things like going back to normal when Fitz doesn't think he knows how to.
Or maybe something has emerged, this pit in his stomach, keeping him from sitting still, from getting a full night's sleep. He feels like he's in the Princess and the Pea story that Sophie had told him one day for some trust exercise, only there's no Prince Charming to marry him later and rescue him, tell him it was all a trick. Tell him it's not his fault that the pea was under there, and it makes him better, special to be in a place where his feet don't touch the ground and he would still lose sleep over a rock in his shoe.
But the idea of Prince Charming just makes the pit grow a little larger.
...
Fitz opens the door and immediately wishes he'd kept it closed.
"Hey..." he says as if he hasn't been avoiding her for a week. His eyes dart to her right hand, where she grips a scroll so tightly her knuckles turn white. Fitz winces. "How are you?"
"Great," she snaps, and pushes past him into the room. His eyes widen with shock as she goes into his desk and finds what she's looking for immediately in the top drawer. He's unrolled it so many times that it comes open without her having to hold it there.
And there it is: Sophie Foster, right at the top. His number one match. Laid bare.
She thrusts her own list into his hands, and he unrolls it to see his name at the top of hers. Fitz Vacker. The handwriting matches on both papers. He hates cruel jokes, especially ones the universe plays on him.
"So this is why you've been avoiding me," Sophie says, hands on her hips. But her eyes flicker, stuck in her own internal battle, and he can't help but wonder whether he's the only one reconsidering. The only difference is that she doesn't allow herself the chance to think before she decides what she wants.
"I didn't..." He hesitates. Then, only lying a little, "I wanted to wait until you got yours."
"What, were you hoping it might be a mistake?" she scoffs, and despite the confidence she's grown into as a leader over the past year of fighting the Neverseen, her voice falters.
"I mean..." Fitz takes a step closer, and she searches his eyes with her own. "I want this. I told you I want it to be you. That—" (is this what I want?) his voice shudders— "hasn't changed. Has it changed for you?"
And she pauses. Right there, by the way she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, reaching up and then forcing her hand away from her eyelashes, he knows that she's lying when she says, "It hasn't changed for me. I do want this."
Breathe, Fitz. The world keeps spinning. Biana is a room away from him but her words, her comfort can't reach him right now. He's dizzy, out of control, maybe a little reckless.
So he reaches for Sophie's hand. She lets him take it, lets him pull apart her clenched fists to thread their fingers together. She stares at it for a moment: dark skin to pale, the freckles on the back of her hand and his ragged nails bitten down to the quick. Fitz's hands shake slightly, and he hopes she doesn't notice as he takes another step.
"Can I kiss you, then?" The words spill out before he can stop them. He wants this. He wants— what does he want?
A leader, Alden tells him constantly, is not indecisive.
I want it to be you.
Sophie swallows. Her palm is sweaty in his, her gaze shifting away so she doesn't meet his eyes. "Yes. And—" Her fingers twitch at her sides— "you definitely want this, too?"
"Yes," he says. She takes in a breath and nods.
So he does what he's supposed to.
He cups her cheek with nervous fingers and leans in close, close enough that her breath warms his cheeks and he starts thinking about lips and how close they are to touching but he wants this, he's wanted this since Alluveterre, since cognates began meaning more, since Keefe started the jokes about staring into each other's eyes and he realized that Sophie did have pretty eyes, and her hair was kind of nice and he liked the way her smile brightened her face and crinkled her forehead and— why does he need convincing?
Why have they stopped moving? Why are they frozen like this, close and far, right and wrong, fixed and broken?
Sophie backs out first, their lips half an inch away from touching. Her cheeks are flushed and she stumbles away from Fitz's fingers with a stunned, almost disappointed look on her face even though she was the one who said yes and now she's the one saying no, repeating it over and over again. "Oh, god," she mumbles. Then, louder, "What the hell am I doing?"
Fitz waits to feel the sting of rejection.
But instead, much more painful: relief?
"I thought you wanted to?" he has to ask, letting his hand that had been warm against her cheek fall back to his side. He stuffs it into his pocket.
"Maybe I don't know what I want," she whispers.
It is easy, he thinks in the haze of his mind, to be hated and loved at the same time. But it is significantly harder to hate someone for what they represent and love who they are at the same time.
And he does.
He's supposed to love her.
Fitz wants things back to golden. He hates this shade of gray as much as he hates the stupid lists sitting on his desk.
Battles are so much easier when blood is spilled instead of feelings. He's supposed to be so much better at this, at loving her, at saying what he thinks. "I want it to be you." He says it again, repeats it a third time like that'll make it any more true.
Sophie shakes her head and takes a step back. "You don't mean that."
"Who else could I want?" he asks instead of the question that's been swimming around in his head since he first saw her name at the top, in the ideal.
Who else could I want? he says, instead of What if I don't want anyone at all?
#summer's writing#kotlc#keeper of the lost cities#fitz vacker#sophie foster#kotlc aromantic week 2023#kotlc aro week 2023#pspspsps everyone!#aromantic!fitz#aromantic!sophie#kotlc fic#kotlc writing#internalized arophobia tw
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