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mypoisonedvine · 10 months

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𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 (part one) | neil lewis x reader

title comes from the song you already know by bombay bicycle club

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you've been best friends with neil basically your entire life, and secretly in love with him almost as long. will you ever find the courage to tell him the truth?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 10k

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut, angst, pining/unrequited love - 18+ only

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | alcohol consumption, 'kid' as a petname, reader being kind of a femcel, jonathan being kind of mvp??

Neil had asked you to make sure the Thriller section was alphabetized; sometimes you thought he was just giving you tasks to look busy, but then again, you could probably use it since the employees of Gumshoe Video never looked very busy. You spent most of the day on the couches, watching whatever old bizarre gem Neil put on— sometimes you thought he only had employees other than himself so that he could pay people to sit here and watch this stuff with him.

But, the point is, you were sorting tapes. Because everyone needs their VHS thriller movies to be in perfect alphabetical order.

There actually was a customer in the store, for once, so it was better not to be on the couch anyhow. You hadn’t really noticed him when he came in, but as he wandered around the shelves, he seemed to drift towards you.

You tried to ignore him when he stopped right beside you— and kneeling to look at the lowest shelf, he towered over you— but when you stood up he got your attention.

"Need any help, sweetheart?" he asked, leaning in a little too close. "I'm kind of a movie buff."

He had a frat guy kind of look about him— polo, boat shoes, quaffed blonde hair. He could be good-looking, you thought, if he didn’t dress like a discount Abercrombie model… and if he didn’t hit on random women at the video store. "I actually work here," you corrected, barely looking up from your task. This is why we need uniforms instead of just dressing up to promote specials…

"Oh, really?" he smirked. "What made you wanna work in a place like this?"

"My best friend owns the place," you explained, "and I'm, you know… kind of a movie buff."

"Right," he said, not seeming convinced. "You like Kubrick?"

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost choked: Wow, what a deep cut. But you kept a straight-ish face when you looked at him. "Yeah, he's pretty good. Don't care for how he treats his actors, but he was certainly a visionary."

"What are your top five favorite Kubrick movies?"

You knew this guy was a tool, but you were still a bit shocked that he actually had the gall to quiz you. "Excuse me?" you scoffed incredulously.

"Can you even name five?" he asked, looking horribly proud of himself, and you straightened up as you glared at him.

"You're heterosexual, right?" you asked him, getting a confused nod. "Can you name five women you've made come?"

Neil watched the guy storm out, Lucien cringed a bit from behind the register— and Jonathan, not seeming as if he had been paying attention at all, kept laying across the couch and tossing a ball up in the air to catch and throw again.

“Okay, that’s gotta be the third this week,” Lucien groaned. “What are you saying to these guys?”

“Nothing worse than what they’re saying to me,” you assured with a frustrated, sarcastic smile.

“Listen, don’t get me wrong,” Neil began, “that guy totally deserved it— but maybe, you know… work on your demeanor with customers?”

“Wow,” you scoffed as you crossed your arms, “do you think I should smile more, too?”

“Wha— no!” Neil denied.

“Yes,” Lucien said at the same time, though he changed his answer with an awkward cough and mumble when you both shot him a look. “No, no— you’re good— you smile too much, even…”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Neil promised. “But I think half the guys that come here are just coming here to see you! Nobody even rents movies anymore.” He groaned a little, dropping his shoulders defeatedly. “Can’t you… tell them you’ll go out with them if they rent something?”

“What?!” you squeaked. “No!”

“Sales would double,” Lucien nodded.

“No,” you said again. “I’m not letting you pimp me out to sell tapes, Neil.”

“I just mean— maybe you don’t really go out with them,” he suggested. “Just… allude to the fact that you’re only interested in guys who…”

He trailed off as he searched around the shelves for a bit, smiling when he snagged a copy of The Maltese Falcon.

“— in guys who like The Maltese Falcon,” he grinned, “you know— for example. Then they rent it to impress you and we make a few bucks.”

“I am only interested in guys who like The Maltese Falcon,” you frowned, snatching the tape away and shoving it back on the shelf. “But that’s not the point.”

“Maybe you have to be more straightforward, you know,” Jonathan butted in as he sat up, “guys are dumb.”

“Yeah!” Neil agreed a little too easily.

“Just say something about how a massive VHS collection turns you on,” Lucien suggested, and you glared at him.

“Jesus!” you protested, but Neil tried to soothe you a bit.

"C'mon, kid, can't you just… flirt a little? Get our sales up?"

He'd started calling you kid since you two watched Casablanca together— which was especially stupid as you were both twelve at the time. At first you complained because he shouldn't be calling you kid with you both being kids; then you complained because neither of you were kids; and then you gave up. You still punched Lucien for trying to call you that once… you only barely let Neil get away with it anyways.

But you let Neil get away with a lot. It was a side effect of being secretly, but massively, in love with him.

It had been an issue since middle school— that was when the two of you became such good friends. Technically, you’d known each other since first grade (where you had shared your crayons, a true test of friendship at the time), and you’d sort of had a crush on him as early as elementary school (mainly because he was the only boy you could stand at the time), but it all kicked into high gear in seventh grade. That was when you became inseparable, when you got in trouble together, when you stayed up all night watching movies, when you went through all of life’s ups and downs together: you even went to prom together, platonically of course.

As for your feelings, you’d managed to hide them this long and still be his best friend, even when it sometimes felt like letting him stomp all over your heart without even trying. Honestly, the only thing harder than being in love with Neil was trying not to be in love with Neil: you adored his sense of humor, his generosity, his sensitivity— and he’d been there for you through the things you couldn’t have imagined surviving alone. That kinda stuff bonds you to somebody… and when that somebody has the most gorgeous eyes you’ve ever seen, it’s hard not to fall in love.

“Maybe I would flirt if I knew how,” you offered. “But I’m not exactly, you know, flirty.”

“How hard could it be?” Jonathan interjected. “Just, you know—”

You stared in quiet disbelief as Jonathan attempted to push his chest together with his arms. It wasn’t quite working, of course, and the rest of you watched on as he fumbled around trying to force some cleavage. “You look like an idiot,” you finally informed him after letting him do it for a minute.

“But is he wrong?” Lucien wondered.

“So, what, you guys really think that if I just went up to customers and—” you pushed your breasts together with your arms, accentuating them significantly in your tank top.

“That would work,” all three men asserted in unison before you could even finish.

“I fucking hate you guys,” you grumbled under your breath as you walked to the back, deciding to take your break in Neil’s office until these guys got their act together.

You never stayed gone for long, though— as idiotic as they could be, your friends were certainly charming. They won you back with a promise to let you pick what tape to put on, and the four of you ended up laying on the couches watching Roman Holiday.

When the movie was almost over, you rested your head on Neil’s shoulder; you guys did stuff like that, it was normal for you, but it always made your heart skip anyways.

This time, you were all hanging out at Jonathan’s primary workplace: the club. In fact, it was a much larger crowd than just you and the guys— plenty of your local friends and loyal supporters of Gumshoe Video, all sitting around a big table while someone’s mediocre cover band took the stage.

"So, uh, me and Denise broke up," Neil said suddenly, going back in for another swig of beer right after.

The others offered their mild shock and half-hearted condolences, but you knew it was going to happen— he'd told you before he did it. You tried to tell him that paying off a waiter to spill water on her was a weird way to prove what he already knew, but you couldn't disagree with his conclusion. She was definitely difficult, and shockingly judgemental for someone who managed to date a video store owner for this long.

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” he promised, “I don’t think anybody’s too surprised, right?”

There was an awkward hesitation among the group as they wondered if they should lie, or just fess up now that he was obviously accurate. You broke the silence to suggest someone go get another round of drinks for the table, and even though that was pretty much a one-man job, nearly everyone agreed and quickly shuffled off— leaving just you, Neil, and Lucien.

“I guess tonight’s your chance to meet somebody new, don’t you think?” Lucien suggested. “Get over Denise, you know.”

“I think I’m already over Denise,” Neil decided.

“And if I told you that girl back there,” Lucien returned, pointing with the hand still holding his drink, “has been looking over here at you for the past ten minutes?”

You glanced where Lucien was pointing as well, seeing a girl in a denim mini skirt and massive hoop earrings settle her eyes on Neil before looking away quickly with a lip-gloss lacquered smile.

“I think I need some help getting over Denise,” Neil agreed suddenly, patting Lucien on the back before he left the table.

You wanted to pout, but you were used to this— he was good-looking, he got a lot of attention from women in places like this… it usually didn’t work out for him, though. Certainly not never, probably more often than most guys, but… definitely not every time.

You tried not to look over too much, you didn’t want to get caught spying or, even worse, looking a little jealous— but you noticed that every time you looked over at them, Neil was talking. That was his problem, see: he never fucking shuts up. Guys, girls, anybody who will listen— if you admit to not knowing about his favorite fifty-year-old spaghetti western or the most recent pre-Code horror comedy he watched, he’ll gladly blab to you about it for ages. The first time you glanced at them, you saw her giving him doe eyes, laughing at something he said— and the last time, those eyes had glazed over and her laugh seemed more nervous and confused; you smirked to yourself. He’s still Neil…

“So, um,” you struck up a conversation with Lucien, “what about you? Anybody here catching your eye?”

“That’s actually the perfect descriptor of my type,” he replied. “Anybody.”

You snorted. “Then you should go, you know, talk to anybody?”

He shrugged and frowned a bit, and it was a simple movement but you understood completely.

The band started to play a new song, something upbeat and energetic, and you smiled. “Wanna dance with me?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m drunk enough for that—” Lucien began to protest, but a minute later you were dragging him up by the stage. Neither of you were actually any good at dancing, mainly you were just kind of jumping and flailing around together, but it was fun and that was the point.

Eventually, more of your friends wandered in to join you; when the song ended, everyone clapped and cheered, the band bowing in gratitude. You only stole one more look over at Neil and his conversation partner, watching her interrupt his rant with a hand on his shoulder: your throat felt a little dry. You just hoped what she was saying was more like hey, my friends are leaving, I’ve gotta go and not hey, wanna come over to my place so you can keep explaining German expressionism to me?

Your heart dropped when he reached for her— what if he kissed her now? What if he wrapped her up under his arm and they walked out together? What if you had to spend the whole night thinking about him having sex with her?

“Hey, we should ask them if they know any Strokes songs!” Lucien suggested, tugging on your arm to get your attention, but your mind was elsewhere.

“Uh huh, yeah,” you mumbled blankly, and he frowned at you.

“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to look for what you were seeing; but Neil wasn’t reaching for her, he was lifting his hand to wave goodbye as she left. You beamed, even though you did feel a little bad when you saw Neil’s shoulders sink— it’s not that you wanted him to be alone forever, you were just relieved that you might have a few more moments to breathe before he got with somebody again.

“Nothing, sorry,” you answered Lucien, giving him your attention again. “What’d you say?”

“We should ask the band if they—”

And immediately, Lucien lost your focus as you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at Neil again— he was already looking at you, seeing you all on the dancefloor. You waved for him to join you, and he smiled as he made his way towards the stage. A new song began, even louder than the last, and you could blame that for not hearing Lucien’s question for the second time in a row.

Although he danced with you all for a few moments, Neil draped his arms over your and Lucien’s shoulders, nearly yelling to be heard over the music.

“You guys are coming over tonight for a movie, right?” he presumed. “Jonathan’s working ‘til late so he’s out, but—”

“Sorry, I’ve gotta be up early,” Lucien explained, “my brother and his wife are visiting, remember? We’re getting brunch and—”

“Whatever, party pooper,” Neil frowned, before suddenly smiling at you. “Guess it’s just me and you, huh, kid?”

You tried not to sigh too noticeably through your smile. “Yeah, me and you…” you agreed.

As you groggily blinked your eyes open, you found Neil staring at you, his face uncomfortably close to yours, with a big smile. “Mornin’, kid,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

You yelped and nearly jumped out of your skin while he laughed. “Jesus Christ, Neil!” you shouted, kicking off the blanket on you— and then you began to process where you were and why. “God,” you groaned as you held your head in your hands, while Neil kept laughing at you, “did I fall asleep on the couch again?”

It was sort of a rhetorical question— obviously you had, it would be much stranger if you woke up on the video store couch without having fallen asleep there. “Yeah,” he said, standing up and sighing a bit, “but you didn’t miss that much of the movie.”

“What happened at the end?” you asked, stretching your legs and snatching the blanket off the floor to fold up; Neil must have put it on you after you dozed off.

“No, we can finish it later,” he decided, walking up to the register, and you groaned.

“Seriously? Not even falling asleep gets me out of finishing The Man Who Laughs?”

He smiled a little as he started prepping the store for open. “Nope,” he said proudly, popping his lips on the p sound.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” you assured, getting up and trying to ignore the soreness in your back from sleeping on a ratty old sofa all night— you remembered helping Neil carry this thing from where he found it on the side of the road. Considering you knew where it came from, it was a wonder you ever sat on it, let alone slept on it… but this happened relatively often. Sometimes it almost felt like you slept easier here or at Neil’s apartment than your own.

You stood up and stretched your arms, sparing a glance over at him.

“Can I run home and change?” you asked, and he frowned.

“We open in ten minutes,” he noticed, “you won’t be back in time.”

“Yes, and who will serve the clamoring crowds that await our open outside?” you rolled your eyes, gesturing out the storefront to the abandoned sidewalk. “You can handle it on your own.”

“Just go to my place,” he shrugged, “it’s closer. And I think you left some jeans there anyway.”

Right— you’d borrowed a pair of his sweats to get comfy for a movie night, and forgot to take the jeans back when you left. You yourself had one of Neil’s short-sleeve button-ups at your place, when you’d both changed there for a costume party, but you let him believe it was just lost… it was too late to tell him now that you had it, ‘cause then he might ask why you kept it so long and then he might, somehow, deduce that you had been cuddling it at night from time to time…

“Right, okay,” you nodded, “but I still need a shirt.”

“Just borrow one of mine,” he said, like it was no big deal at all and didn’t make your heart skip.

For a second you wondered if you should protest— if he was still dating Denise, you probably would’ve said something. But you decided not to say anything, in case he changed his mind; you nearly bolted out of the store and down the two blocks to his apartment.

Your jeans were on the dresser, draped haphazardly in their same just-peeled-off shape you must have left them in last week. You grumbled to yourself a little about how he could’ve folded them for you so they wouldn’t be wrinkled… but then again, all his jeans were wrinkled, so he clearly didn’t know any better.

And now the fun part: picking a shirt. You smiled to yourself as you opened the drawer, perusing through t-shirts with old movie posters and semi-witty slogans… cute, sure, but those were pretty similar to what you already wore.

But the button-downs? Those were quintessential Neil, and you'd be wasting an opportunity if you didn't put one of those on.

You felt a little giddy as you opened the next drawer down and found them all folded. The first one you saw had light blue and white stripes, so you snatched it up and slipped it on.

The fit was definitely off, but you let yourself indulge in a fantasy for a moment: waking up here, in Neil's bed… in Neil's arms. You'd slip on his shirt while you went to find some breakfast, and he'd hum something about how pretty you look in his clothes, and you'd end up tangled in the sheets again not too much later.

Sighing to yourself, you buttoned the last button, leaving the two at the top undone so you didn't look too formal, and headed back to the store for opening.

Neil stared at you for a second when you walked in— at the shirt, specifically. You waited for him to say something, but he didn't. "What, should I not wear this one?" you asked, looking down at it as well, and he shook his head.

"No, no, it's fine— sorry," he mumbled, "just start sorting out last night's returns, please."

You definitely got a much stronger reaction from Jonathan, as soon as he walked in the door.

(Why was he here when he wasn't even working today? Who knows— he was just always here somehow.)

“Hey! You look even more like a lesbian than usual,” Jonathan greeted with a peppy fake-smile as he approached you, and you smirked a bit.

“Don’t blame me, it’s his shirt,” you nodded towards Neil.

“See, I told you you dress like a— wait,” Jonathan stopped mid-insult, looking back at you, then at Neil again, then at you; he pointed his fingers at each of you, crossing them back and forth. “Did… you two…?”

You narrowed your eyes, waiting for him to explain what he meant.

“Did you guys hook up?!” Jonathan accused, wide-eyed.

You felt your face getting warm, and you stammered out your denial; Neil started waving his hands in disagreement as well, but Jonathan was already on a roll.

“Oh my god!” he yelped. “The one time I miss movie night here and it gets freaky! Should’ve known better than to leave you two lovebirds alone—”

“Jonathan, we didn’t—” you choked.

“It’s not— it wasn’t—” Neil butted in. “She just borrowed my shirt! ‘Cause she— because—”

“I mean, we’ve kinda all been waiting for this to happen— but I never really thought it would,” Jonathan steamrolled along. “Well, yeah, I guess I thought it would, I just—”

“Wait wait wait, what?” Neil shook his head, stepping up closer to the two of you. “What does that mean?”

Finally, he seemed to get Jonathan’s attention, who began to nervously backtrack as both of you stared at him. “W-well, I just mean—” he started.

“And who’s ‘we all’?” Neil noticed. “This isn’t just you, thinking this?”

“I… I mean,” Jonathan scoffed, “you know— just, just some people… we thought that maybe… that since you two are so close, that you might—”

“Wow,” Neil chuckled, crossing his arms in disappointment. “You know, that’s so reductive. For a bunch of progressive, free-thinking hipsters—” he waved his hands as he said it in a mocking way— “you’re really just, like… like… you know, not! ‘Cause apparently men and women can’t really be friends?”

“No, come on, not like that,” Jonathan denied, “of course we can—”

“I mean, you’re her friend, you’re both single,” Neil noticed, gesturing between the two of you, “why don’t you two, just, you know… hook up!”

You cringed a little as Jonathan tugged at his collar nervously. “Well, I—”

“Come on, why not?” Neil went on, smiling at the suggestion even though he was clearly unamused. “I mean, she’s nice, she’s pretty, she’s got a vagina— why don’t you hit on her?”

“Hey, come on, Neil,” Jonathan sighed, “I’m well aware she’s got a vagina—”

“So what’s the problem?” Neil insisted. “Clearly you can’t just be friends with someone with a vagina—”

“I would really prefer if we didn’t talk about my vagina anymore,” you mumbled nervously.

“— how come you never hit on her, Jonny?” Neil pressed, backing him into a corner metaphorically— but also somewhat literally, he was leaning in and Jonathan was pressing his back more and more against the shelves.

“You really want me to answer that?” Jonathan replied, almost threatening. That made you furrow your brow a bit. It seemed like a rhetorical question, Neil trying to prove a point, but you didn’t expect Jonathan to have a literal answer.

“Yeah, sure,” Neil decided, “enlighten us.”

Neil glanced at you, like you were just as gung-ho about this interrogation, but you were feeling a little sick. You understood the spirit of Neil’s argument— and technically, you agreed with him— but it still stung to see him so incensed at the suggestion of you two together. You were trying not to take it personally, it wasn’t like he was disgusted by you or anything… he even said just now that you were pretty, and he’d told you that before, but… it still bothered you a little, for reasons you couldn’t quite describe and that you were sure were illogical.

“I never hit on her,” Jonathan answered, lowering his voice, “because I… I figured it would piss you off.”

That seemed to surprise you both, maybe for different reasons; you bit your lip to suppress a smile. Did Jonathan really think Neil was that protective over you? “Why would it piss me off?” Neil wondered, but he sounded a little defensive— defensive in a caught-red-handed sort of way.

“I… I don’t know,” Jonathan shrugged. “That’s just the vibe I got, okay? That she’s sorta… off-limits.”

Neil hesitated. “Well… she’s not,” he decided. “You’re grown-ups. Whatever you wanna do is none of my business— as long as you’re not being, you know, creepy or an asshole.”

“Of course,” Jonathan agreed, most of the tension settling as Neil backed up a step.

“Okay, well, ask her out then,” Neil instructed firmly.

“I didn’t say I wanted to!” Jonathan sputtered.

“Neil, Jesus!” you complained simultaneously, and he seemed to relent, shrugging as he walked back to the register.

“Sorry, sorry,” he dismissed, “just letting you know it’s… fine with me!”

You rolled your eyes a bit and looked back at Jonathan. “Sorry,” you offered him quietly, “he’s… I don’t know. He gets weird about that.”

“Oh really?” Jonathan scoffed sarcastically. “Didn’t notice.”

“The real reason you shouldn’t be hitting on me is because we’re coworkers, by the way,” you reminded him.

“Hey, I only work here part-time,” Jonathan noticed, “so I think that means it’s cool as long as we only go out part-time.”

You snorted, but he seemed to get nervous.

“You know I’m kidding, right?” he added quickly, and you nodded with a laugh.

"You know, I was thinking— we don't have many events at the store these days,” Neil mumbled around a bite of pretzel, watching you play your turn at Skee Ball. Normally he would put coins in the machine beside yours and try to beat your score, but the other machine was out of order and you decided to take a relay race approach. “What if we did, like, I don’t know… maybe a double feature for a couple bucks?”

“Neil, we show movies every night,” you sighed, “and we invite everybody, and ninety-nine percent of the time it’s just some combination of me, you, Jonathan, and Lucien.”

“Yeah, but this time we could do movies that more people like— a little easier to watch,” he suggested, “something that would get new people in the store.”

“New people don’t wanna sit on a musty old couch with strangers,” you reminded him, and he nodded as he chewed and swallowed his next bite.

“You’re right,” he agreed, holding the pretzel out towards you. “Wanna bite?”

You were trying to get through your skee balls pretty quick, so you just leaned your head over and chomped down on the end of one of the twists while he held it for you. You hummed in appreciation— it was pretty good, fresher than the last one you guys got here.

Visits to the arcade used to be your thing, back in high school (aside from watching movies, but that was a given). Then you slowed down with the trips, feeling a little old and out of place surrounded by kids— but the problem was, this place wasn’t filled with kids anymore. It hadn’t changed much at all since you were both in high school, and that was exactly the issue: it was old, run-down, a bit grimey… kids weren’t coming to arcades anymore anyways, they were all on the Internet apparently. So, while you and Neil sort of appreciated having the place to yourself, it also broke your heart knowing your old haunt couldn’t hold itself together forever… you two visited not just to recapture some old childhood joys, but to try to do your part to keep the business afloat.

You pretended to like being here— because you really did want to support the place, and Neil wanted to keep coming back— but it actually made you pretty fucking sad. Surrounded by all the neon, the noisy pinball machines, the Dig Dug machine that had a fifty-fifty chance of stealing your quarters, the photobooth (you still had some strips from that thing pinned to your wall, some so old that they’d faded from the sunlight that came in your window each day); it all felt sort of eerie now. You would’ve never known all those years ago how little this place would change, even though you never expected it to— you would’ve never known how little anything would change. Neil was still by your side, but still so far away… if you could talk to that fourteen-year-old girl now, you would warn her that no amount of time spent running around this place and playing Street Fighter was going to make Neil love her, or you.

But here you were anyways. “Woo!” you cheered when your final score came through: 50,765. “Beat that!”

Neil set the pretzel down on the bar-height table (on a pile of napkins, don’t worry, neither of you trusted those tables that much) and brushed the salt off his hands with a scoff. “Oh please, I can beat that with my eyes closed,” he assured as you crossed your arms.

As he put his quarters in and stepped up to the game, you smiled wide. “Alright, if you say so.”

You came up behind him and covered his eyes with your hands, making him jump and then laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Just keeping you honest,” you giggled, holding on tight even when he tried to move his head around so that he could see.

He did his best, usually struggling to even find where the balls were coming down more than rolling them decently— but after the first three went in the gutter without even scoring, you knew he didn’t stand a chance. He did score a few times, but when the buzzer went off and he lifted your hands from his eyes, he laughed at the pitiful 1,150 on the board.

“Ohh, that’s too bad,” you winced, “guess you’re just full of it.”

Still holding your hands away from his face, he spun around and twirled under your arms like you were dancing for a moment; it ended with him face-to-face with you, swinging your hands back and forth a bit to force you to twist with him slightly. “Wanna play Street Fighter next?” he suggested quickly. “I know I can beat you at that.”

The giddy joy of the moment dropped and shattered; if you thought about it too much, you probably could’ve cried right then. As pathetic, yet oddly aesthetically pleasing, as it would be to cry in an arcade, you swallowed down the emotion and smiled back at him. “Yeah, okay,” you agreed.

You’d been a little antsy all day— Neil seemed to notice, asking a couple times if you were okay, but you just nodded and shrugged it off. He had a sense for when you were lying; but that’s the thing, you weren’t lying, really. You just weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t sure if you should say anything. And yet, you felt a little guilty not telling him everything that was going on with you— not just guilty, but plain weird. Because you usually did tell him everything— except, you know, the thing— but you didn’t know if you should talk about this. Not that you couldn’t— but should you?

So you were sort of gnawing on your lip most of the day, keeping yourself busy with tallying late fees behind the desk, trying to keep conversation light and meaningless: thankfully, in that regard, Jonathan and Lucien made it pretty easy.

“Okay: fuck, marry, kill,” Jonathan began, “Dracula, the Mummy, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

“Dude, I can’t answer that,” Lucien refused.

“Okay, then Neil, what would you do?” Jonathan changed his target.

“Um, well,” Neil pondered, “I think I’d have to kill Dracula— spare the world from that evil, you know— and I guess I’d marry the Mummy—”

“Freud would like to have a word,” Lucien butted in.

“And I’d fuck the Creature from the Black Lagoon,” he concluded, “out of morbid curiosity.”

You snorted, but didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You come up with one that Lucien will do,” Jonathan challenged Neil.

“Alright, uhh, let’s see…” Neil stalled as he thought, looking up at the ceiling and stroking his chin dramatically. “Fuck, marry, kill: Sarah Carter, Ripley, and Trinity from Matrix.”

“Okay, see, that’s a real challenge,” Lucien affirmed. “If I marry Trinity, do I have to live in the post-apocalyptic wasteland or can she live here?”

“You’d have to live in the Matrix,” Jonathan announced, like it was obvious.

“Hm,” Lucien pondered, “do I know it’s a false reality? Does she know?”

“She knows, you don’t,” Neil decided.

“Is she gonna tell me? What if she has another guy on the side in the real world?”

“Okay, you’re overthinking this,” Jonathan groaned.

“And is this the Sarah Carter that’s already had John? ‘Cause if not, I can’t kill her, or the human revolution stands no chance— but if she has him, I can’t marry her, ‘cause I’m not ready to be a stepfather—”

“You’re useless,” Jonathan informed him flatly.

“Well, it’s easy then,” you offered, still tallying fees on the printed table. “You fuck Carter, marry Ripley and kill Trinity.”

“Yeah, I guess that works,” Lucien shrugged.

“If you’re so good at this game, you should play,” Jonathan decided. You looked up from your work for once, finding Lucien looking excited at the idea and Neil looking a little nervous but intrigued.

“I’ve got one for you,” Lucien decided, looking concerningly smug. “Fuck, marry, kill: the three of us.”

Jonathan let out a giddy ‘ooh’ and Neil raised his eyebrows. “Oh— I don’t know— that’s too weird,” you shook your head, “it’s different, you’re real—”

“Wait, wait,” Neil interrupted, “now I wanna know.”

You froze for a second, wondering if you should double down on not participating, or if you should tell him the first thing that popped in your head: am I allowed to do all three to you?

Instead, you set the clipboard down and crossed your legs, and the men seemed to straighten up as they prepared for your answer. “Alright,” you said, looking at them for a lingering moment before sighing. “I think I’d fuck Jonathan, and then kill myself.”

“Yes,” Jonathan hissed, shaking his fist triumphantly.

“Dude, really?” Lucien snapped at him. “That didn’t sound like a compliment to me.”

“Don’t care, I stopped listening after ‘fuck Jonathan’,” he replied. “Alright, Neil, you’re gonna have to make good on that ‘she’s not off-limits’ promise you made to me—”

But Neil wasn’t listening to Jonathan, he was still looking at you. “Wait— you wouldn’t marry me?” Neil interrupted, putting a hand on the desk and leaning in a bit closer— he looked half-amused and half-offended, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Um…” you started to wonder how to defend yourself from that. What did he expect you to say? Yes, I’d marry you, I’ve actually been planning our wedding since junior year.

“Hold on,” Lucien stopped you, “if she fucks you and marries you, that means I’m getting killed!”

“Yeah, so?” Jonathan smirked.

“What, you don’t think I’m marriage material?” Neil laughed… but he didn’t seem like he was really joking, per se. He didn’t seem serious either, of course, but you decided to take his question seriously since he’d dared to ask it twice.

“Well,” you mumbled, “no. I don’t.”

Then he seemed a bit more serious, adjusting his posture a bit. “Why not?”

“I mean… you’re my best friend,” you reminded him, “but… you’re not reliable.”

He nodded, pursing his lips together.

“You’re not ready for marriage,” you continued. “I mean, I think you’re just as sure of that as I am.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And honestly? You’re a great friend and all, but… if you were my husband, I don’t think I could really… you know, trust you…”

The silence seemed a little heavy— all the men were sort of frozen for a second, you wondered if you should wave your arm around to make sure time hadn’t stopped. But they did move, Neil first in fact, as he stopped leaning on the counter and nodded a little.

“I’m just surprised that you didn’t fuck Dracula,” Jonathan said to Neil in an attempt to cut the tension, “considering your massive man-crush on Bela Lugosi.”

“Hey, that reminds me, tonight’s movie is Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla,” Neil announced, apparently shaking off whatever odd energy he’d picked up just before, “you in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jonathan nodded, “should I bring drinks?”

“Uhh, yeah, why not?” Neil agreed.

“Is a six-pack enough?”

"Uh, maybe…” Neil considered, turning over his shoulder to look at you. “Kid, how many beers are you gonna want?”

You swallowed nervously. “Um, I… well, I’m not coming. I’ve got a date, actually.”

Of course it was just assumed that you would be there; you felt a little guilty admitting you wouldn’t, to the point that you almost considered just skipping said date and staying to avoid the awkwardness.

“Hey, great!” Jonathan said proudly, throwing his arms out wide.

“A date, huh?” Neil noticed, looking happily surprised. “Sorry, I— I didn’t know— you didn’t say anything—”

“No, it’s cool,” you shook your head, “it’s kind of a last minute thing… you know how they’re showing Rope at the Palace tonight? I met this, um, this guy the other day and we got to talking, and I asked him if he’d wanna come with me.”

“Rope, wow, that’s a great first date movie,” Neil nodded approvingly, “that sounds perfect.”

“Yeah— he hasn’t seen it, actually,” you admitted, smiling nervously, “so I guess how much he likes it will kinda be a good judge of if he’s worth going out again, right?”

Jonathan nodded approvingly, but Neil seemed skeptical. "Well, the showing isn't until nine— you can at least hang out until the movie starts, right?"

"I've gotta get home and get changed!" you explained

"You can't wear that to a date?" Julien wondered.

"No!" you scoffed, looking down at your ripped jeans and Dracula t-shirt. "Besides, I have this whole plan of what I'm gonna wear— remember when we did Bonnie and Clyde for Halloween?"

Neil was Bonnie and you were Clyde, in fact; he looked shockingly good in that blood-red lipstick, you tried to convince him to wear it again but he insisted it was a one-night-only situation.

"I figure if I wear my Clyde suit, I'll look kinda like James Stewart!"

"You're doing drag on a first date?" Lucien pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, lighten up, I'm just dressing up for the movie— I'll still, you know, try to look pretty," you assured. "What, I don't look good in a suit? 'Cause I got a lot of compliments on Halloween—"

"No, hey, go for it," Jonathan decided, "it's festive!"

"I think it's cool," Neil agreed. "Have fun, alright? And if he creeps you out or something, call the store number and I'll come get you."

"I'm not really worried about—"

"You know? Just call the store when you get home," Neil decided, "so I'll know you didn't get murdered."

"Dude, chill," you groaned. "We're going to the movies, not, I don't know… hiking off-trail in the middle of the night."

You never agreed to call, but you did him one better: you ended up coming back to the video store afterwards, a bit over two hours later. Of course, the guys were still on the couch— apparently the movie was over but they were watching anime (undoubtedly something Jonathan had brought as a palate cleanser after the movie).

They all looked over at you when you came in the front door and the little bell rang; they seemed excited to see you, and presumably to interrogate you about the date. You sighed, knowing you couldn't have expected anything else, but you'd come here hoping they'd let you watch something with them so you could stop thinking about the date.

“How’d it go, hot stuff?” Jonathan purred, and you rolled your eyes as Lucien wolf-whistled.

“Oh yeah, it was awesome, best first date ever— I’m at his place having sex with him right now,” you frowned as you tossed your purse down onto the couch, and Lucien chuckled while Neil looked a little defeated.

“Not that great, huh?” Neil noticed.

“Was he a creep?” Jonathan assumed.

“Did he think the movie was bad?” Lucien pressed.

“No, no, he was great,” you sighed, “he loved the movie. We talked about it for a bit afterwards and he seemed to really understand it.”

“Okay! That’s good, right?” Jonathan said optimistically.

“Yeah— so good that I asked him when we could do this again,” you recalled, “and he said that he didn’t wanna lead me on and he wasn’t interested in seeing me.”

“What?!” Jonathan yelped, while Neil winced a little.

“He said I was really cool and funny and easy to talk to,” you explained, “but that he didn’t feel any chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” Lucien repeated, confused.

“He means he’s not attracted to me,” you clarified.

“What?” Jonathan scoffed again. “Why not?”

“I don’t know!” you whined, but you did know. “I think I’m just, like, friend material. I’m just ‘one of the guys’, you know? Not somebody you actually wanna be with.”

“But isn’t that what every guy wants? To date somebody who’s just ‘one of the guys’?” Lucien noticed, and then paused when everyone gave him an inquisitive look. “That sounded way less gay in my head. You get what I mean, right?”

“As much as I would love to never let you live that down,” Jonathan smirked, “you’re not wrong— like, a chick who can hang. That’s the best.”

“Well, here I am! Hanging!” you snapped. “Where’s my harem of suitors just desperate to date one of the guys?!”

“I mean, you are wearing a suit…” Neil noticed, getting a little defensive when you groaned and dropped your head back. “No, no, you look cool! I mean, you look really great. I’m not sure what he wasn’t seeing.”

"Maybe he's got a girlfriend!" Jonathan suggested. "And he was gonna cheat but he chickened out."

"Maybe he's intimidated by strong women," Lucien added, sounding more like he was quoting a Cosmo than actually thinking that.

"Respectfully, guys aren't that complicated," you assured. "If he wanted me, he would. He doesn't. It's not that deep."

Neil looked away when you said that.

"Well, come take a seat on the losers couch," Jonathan offered, but Neil sitting next to him frowned.

"You think I'm a loser?" Neil protested.

"No, I was talking about that couch," Jonathan said as he pointed to the other one which Lucien was on.

"I'm not even offended," Lucien decided, patting the spot next to him. "I'd rather be a loser with you than a winner with anybody else."

You smiled and plopped down next to him, pulling your legs up on the old sofa and finding the best angle to see the TV from. "Okay, catch me up," you requested, bracing for the barrage of borderline nonsensical exposition about whatever obscure anime Jonathan was forcing on the group this time.

Since the store closed at eight on Tuesdays, you and Neil decided to go out for a late dinner after locking up— the nearest place you usually walked to was a little hole-in-the-wall dishing out Thai fusion, and even though there were open tables inside, you took your paper boxes outside to eat together on a bench.

You each sat up on it with your legs crossed, facing each other, while he poked at his fried rice with his fork and you stirred your noodles with the chopsticks.

“The Palace is still doing their Hitchcock screenings on Sundays,” you recalled, “I think the next one is Rear Window. We could make Lucien man the store and go see it together?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he smiled. “But we gotta sneak in the candy, that place is getting so overpriced…”

“Well, that’s a given,” you laughed. “When I went on my date there I had Sour Patch Kids in my bag, but I was kinda craving Reese’s by the time the movie started.

"That guy sounded like an ass, by the way," Neil announced with a frown.

"Oh, no, it's fine," you dismissed. "He was really nice, even when he blew me off, and I… I guess I wasn’t really expecting it to go anywhere, anyways.”

“Really?” Neil scoffed. “Then why’d you ask him out?”

Just in case. “I… I guess I’m trying to put myself out there more?”

“Huh? You’re trying to put out more?” Neil joked.

You rolled your eyes and unfolded your legs to kick him playfully. “You know what I mean,” you groaned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he admitted, “and I support it. It’s sort of insane that you’re still single.”

“Wow, thanks for the pep talk,” you rolled your eyes before shoving a thick swirl of spicy-sweet noodles in your mouth.

“No! I mean, like, I can’t believe you’re single,” he clarified, and you smiled somewhat awkwardly while chewing your mouthful. “You’re smart and fun and cool and pretty—”

Thanks to the food in your mouth, you didn’t have to worry about coming up with a way to respond to that, so you just shrugged.

“Seriously!” he insisted. “I mean, guys hit on you at the store— I wish somebody who actually deserved your attention would walk in that place.”

The guy I want is already there every day. Swallowing, you finally got a chance to talk to him again. “Thanks,” you sighed, “it’s fine, though. I mean, I’ve been single this long— I think I’ll survive.”

“Keep waiting for the right one, okay?” he encouraged, and your heart swelled.

“I will,” you promised, sounding more wistful than you meant to.

After a brief lull in the conversation, he cleared his throat and continued. “Hey, um, while we’re on the topic of Sunday, about the whole fuck-marry-kill thing—”

“I’m sorry,” you offered right away, “I shouldn’t have answered that. I wasn’t being serious, obviously.”

“No, I wanted to apologize,” he returned, “I shouldn’t have pressed you on your answer. It was funny. And it wasn’t like you could say you were gonna kill one of us.”

You snorted. “Yeah, that one was probably the worst of the three.”

“But I shouldn’t have asked you about what you would’ve done to me,” he shook his head, “I was making it weird. So, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you assured. “Did you really expect me to say I would marry you?”

“No,” he admitted, “I thought you’d say you’d fuck me, marry Lucien and kill Jonathan.”

“What?” you scoffed, though you were still smiling. “Why?”

“Well, Lucien would definitely make the best husband of the three of us,” he explained, “and Jonathan was the only one who wouldn’t have gotten butthurt about you saying you’d kill him. He probably would’ve just asked you to give him a nice send-off, y’know…”

You nodded in agreement, wondering if he was going to address the obviously missing third piece of all this… he sure was staring down into his empty fried rice container with intense focus…

“And, you know, as for me,” he began sort of thinly, “I, um… I guess I just figured, you know, you’re the most comfortable with me.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “obviously, but maybe that would make it worse? Like, at least with Jonathan, I know that if we ever did hook up or something, it probably wouldn’t mess up our friendship. ‘Cause we’re friendly and all, but it’s not so serious. But with you…”

“Uh huh, well, that’s why it’s good it’s just a game,” Neil finished for you, chucking his trash in the nearest can. “Don’t have to worry about any of that stuff. Least of all you and I being married. Talk about a disaster.”

You choked on your throat. “Yeah. No kidding…”

“Well, anyways,” he sighed, standing up from the bench and stretching for a moment, “wanna come over and see if the game’s still on?”

“Oh, um, I’m just gonna go back to my place,” you decided, throwing away the last couple bites of your food on account of your suddenly-lost appetite. “Kinda thinking I should get my sleep schedule in order.”

“That’s good,” he nodded, “I respect that. Have a good night, then, kid.”

“Yeah, you too,” you breathed, waving as he turned and walked off into the night, tucking his hands into his jean pockets.

You looked down at your lap, taking a deep breath and shutting your eyes for a second. Did he have to be so sweet just to cut you down like that? Could he have even known how it would hurt you to say that?

It’s not even like he was wrong, but you were dying to ask him why he was so sure that you and him together would be so bad. What was wrong with you that he still couldn’t see you that way?

Not interested in this repetitive thought cycle anymore, and being very familiar with where it leads, you got up and started to walk down the street. You didn’t turn to go to your apartment, though; you kept going until you heard live music— scratchy, whiny guitars and throbbing bass drums— seeping out of the club. You just needed to be somewhere familiar that wasn’t the video store or home; and, this place conveniently also had liquor.

You slipped inside— hit by a wave of sound as you entered— and took a seat at the bar, half-listening to the band that was playing, pretending to be focused at all on what was going on in the outside world rather than just spiraling into your own thoughts inside your head.

“Hey,” Jonathan nodded at you from the other side of the bar, and you nodded back. He instantly started looking for Neil— of course he would— and you deflated a bit. “You here alone?” he noticed.

“Yeah,” you shrugged.

“Wow,” he smirked, “it’s like when Peter Pan’s shadow escaped.”

You should’ve probably been offended by that, but it wasn’t worth denying— and you were more interested in getting liquored up than justifying that you did, in fact, have a life outside of Neil.

And, actually, Peter Pan was a pretty good way to describe Neil, too. Fear of commitment, leader of freaks and outcasts, daydreamer… all he needed was some green tights. “What are you drinking tonight?” Jonathan finally asked.

“What pairs well with feeling completely unattractive and unlovable?” you sighed.

“Well, that would be my drink of choice: whiskey,” he smiled, setting a bottle down in front of you. “I’ll do a shot with you.”

He poured you both a shot, and you timed it to shoot it back together; he, obviously, took it better with you, and you cringed from the acidic flavor. "Jesus, people really drink this on purpose?" you grumbled.

"Yeah, give it a few minutes," he assured, "it's gonna numb all those stupid emotions."

"I don't have a few minutes," you sighed, "do you have anything more fast-acting?"

"Yeah— a second shot," he joked, but you nodded in agreement. "Okay, shit, you're not messing around tonight."

"Nope," you agreed, watching him pour just one shot this time. "You're not doing it with me?"

"I need to pace myself, I'm here 'til two," he explained.

He slid it to you and you contemplated it for a moment, before forcing yourself to get it down as quickly as possible to avoid the burn. You still grimaced, but recovered quickly.

"Is it working yet?" he wondered.

"I guess," you answered half-heartedly.

“Well, you could always gush to the bartender about all your problems?” he offered, but you just shrugged it off. “Come on, you wouldn’t be the first tonight. And since I know you, I might actually be able to help.”

“I don’t think you can help with this one,” you assured. “This problem has been going on longer than you’ve ever been around.”

“Oh?” he pressed. “Let me guess… boy troubles?”

“Isn’t it always?” you scoffed, irritated that he saw through you that quickly— apparently your reputation of being horrible with men preceded you.

“But this is just one boy,” he presumed. “One boy who… conspicuously isn’t here tonight…”

“Is it that obvious?” you wondered with a whine, dropping your head in your hand.

“Well, if you weren’t having any issues with him, you’d be with him,” Jonathan guessed— and it wasn’t bad logic.

“But, like, does everyone know?” you wondered. “Does everyone but him know that I’m in love with him? Oh god, Jonathan, you don’t think he knows, do you?”

“Wait— love?” he repeated, and you swallowed thickly as you realized the whiskey had already gotten you to say too much. “You… you’re…”

“Okay, so I guess not everyone knows,” you mumbled.

“No, yeah, I think you managed to keep that under wraps,” he assured with a nod, eyes getting wider. “Sheesh. No, I had no clue. Now it’s even weirder that you guys aren’t together.”

“Well, he doesn’t love me,” you explained flatly.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, god no— I mean, he tells me he loves me,” you corrected, “but he doesn’t mean— we just say that, you know, like at the end of phone calls or when one of us is sad. It’s not, like… we never meant it that way.”

“Right, okay,” Jonathan nodded as he wiped a glass— the way bartenders do when they’re listening to people— but he didn’t seem to understand entirely. “So, you’re not his type?”

“I don’t think I know what his type is,” you scoffed. “I haven’t really noticed a pattern, have you?”

“You’d have to have a few more data points to really draw any connection between them,” Jonathan laughed.

“Yeah, fair,” you smiled, “he’s only had… I don’t know, maybe four girlfriends since I’ve known him? One in high school, for a month— then Eva, they weren’t even really serious, just dating for a while. And then, uh—”

“Tanisha,” he remembered.

“Right! I liked her,” you hummed.

“What happened to her again?” he wondered.

“Got back with her ex,” you recalled.

“Wow, that blows,” Jonathan sighed.

“She told me before she told him,” you admitted. “She wanted me to tell him for her, actually, but I… I couldn’t do that to him. But I came over right after, you know, and we ate ice cream from the tub and watched movies ‘til we fell asleep.”

Jonathan made a sort of face, one you couldn’t quite interpret, and you tilted your head as he seemed to mumble to himself.

“What?” you wondered.

“Nothing, it’s just… he’s kind of an idiot,” Jonathan decided. “I don’t think he gets how lucky he is.”

You wrinkled your brows together, laughing a bit. “What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m not saying he’s, like, legally obligated to fall in love with you just because you guys get along so well,” he clarified, “even if that’s what Neil accused me of thinking— I really do think it’s fine for men and women to just be friends.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I’m just saying… like, how do you have someone who cares about you that much, and you end up dating fucking Denise for almost a year?!”

“Well, nobody knows how he ended up with Denise,” you coughed. “That was a fucking disaster.”

“I mean, not to be crass, but, uh,” he stumbled a little over his words, “I’m surprised that you coming over after that breakup didn’t turn into a rebound, at least.”

“After eating that much ice cream?” you laughed. “That would’ve been awful.”

“But really, though,” he insisted. “I have a hard time believing the thought didn’t even cross his mind…”

“I can’t really be sure that it didn’t,” you admitted, “I’m just saying, nothing happened.”

“I guess he’s just known you too long to go for it with you,” Jonathan shrugged.

“It’s not just that— you know Neil, he’s kind of an adrenaline junkie,” you rolled your eyes, “or at least he thinks he is. He wants adventure, I guess— and he always talks about us doing spontaneous stuff but it never happens— and I’m just too familiar. Too comfortable.”

“Yeah, he does kinda have something against stability,” Jonathan agreed, “do you think it’s a divorced parents thing?”

“I don’t know, I stopped analyzing that a long time ago,” you groaned, “and I told myself I would stop trying to be what I thought he wanted, but I think I keep doing it.”

“Well, I know you know him better than anybody,” Jonathan countered, “but I know guys, and that guy… there’s no way he thinks of you as just a friend.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he was fucking lying when he said it wouldn’t piss him off if we hooked up,” he insisted.

“You really won’t let that go, will you?” you grinned.

“Did you see his face? He couldn’t get the image out of his head!” Jonathan assured confidently. “And then that whole ‘fuck marry kill’ thing— he started getting nervous, I think.”

“Nervous about what?”

“That something could really happen with us!”

“You really think he would care?” you frowned.

“I swear to— to Ash Williams,” he decided, “that if I walked into that fucking video store, and told him that you and I did whiskey shots and you came back to my place and we did the horizontal tango, he would beat me to death with the register.”

“You swear on Ash Williams?” you repeated with a smirk, knowing that meant more than swearing on any deity would mean.

“Him and his chainsaw hand,” Jonathan assured, putting a hand over his heart to add to the bit, and you giggled.

“Well, I don’t think Neil can pick up the register,” you decided.

“In that case, you let me know the next time you wanna get back at him for something,” he offered with a wink, and you smiled at him sympathetically.

“I know you’re trying to be nice,” you sighed, “but you don’t have to do that.”

“Hey, come on,” he frowned, “I know you’ve got this I’m insecure I’m a weirdo nobody notices me thing, but you can’t actually think it would be some kind of charity work for me to sleep with you—”

“No, I don’t mean that,” you sighed, “I know I could get laid if I wanted to—”

“But you don’t wanna get laid,” he finished for you, “you wanna be loved.”

You sighed again, even harder. “Yeah,” you nodded.

“I know,” he agreed. “And you know I love you, but—”

“But not like that,” you took your turn finishing his sentence.

His only reply was raising the bottle of whiskey with a sideways smile, a silent offer to pour another shot— for both of you this time.

“Yes, please,” you hummed, watching him fill the miniature glasses with a sigh.

part 2

#neil lewis x reader #neil lewis smut #watching the detectives #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #you know... eventually #but you have to get to part two for that lol

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 1 month

Note

Spencer Reid x Read fic. Reid and Reader are friends, like best friends. Reader is always offering Reid donuts and listening to his fun facts and info dumps. It's one of those, they both like each other, but also are convinced the other doesn't like them.

Spencer is taking care of a slightly drunk reader whose grandmother called and asked why they're not engaged when they're younger sibling is married and expecting a child. At some point Spencer makes his ever classic comment about how it's safer to kiss and drunk reader, before being able to think, kisses Spencer. I hope that made sense.

OOPS I DID EXACTLY THAT

Safer to Kiss (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 2899

Warnings: Mentions of food, drinking alcohol, mild cursing, outdated expectations of women, and lots of pining

A/N: Hi I wrote this in 2 hours and was extremely entertained, please enjoy and if you send me a fic request I'll probably do it bc this is my hyperfixation hobby right now and very much keeping the demons at bay xD @bxm-1012 thank you for dropping by my inbox! I am VERY tempted to make a part 2 of this, I hope you enjoy! c:

-----

The whole expiration date thing that women faced was, in your humble opinion, complete and utter bullshit. Here you were, slowly approaching thirty (definitely still told people you were twenty-five, when, in fact, you were actually twenty-eight), and the biological clock was ticking. No, you didn’t want kids. Not right now, anyway. Not when you were only two years into your career as a profiler for the FBI’s prestigious Behavioral Analysis Unit. Not when you still had tons of things to check off your bucket list - go to Europe, visit an independent bookstore in every state, pilot a helicopter.

And you didn’t buy into that whole ‘once a woman hits thirty, her stock plummets’ crap. Not usually, anyway.

But Nan’s phone calls always left you questioning your existence.

Back home in Ohio, your little sister, Kendra, had just announced her pregnancy. Three years younger than you (ironically, the age you told everyone you were), and married to a power plant manager, Kendra was living the dream of a woman from the 1950s. You tried your best not to look down on it, to wish for more for her - but Kendra was happy. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and you couldn’t imagine anyone better suited for the role. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife and a mother, to devoting one’s life to it. You reminded yourself of that every time you spoke to Kendra. You especially reminded yourself of it every time you spoke to Nan.

That sympathetic tone your grandmother used when she said, “Oh, Button, you’ll find someone eventually, and you’ll be just as happy as Kenny” was like nails on a chalkboard. You resisted the urge to gag into your speakerphone and simultaneously rip your grandmother a new one. You wanted so badly to explain to her that you were perfectly fulfilled with your life.

You helped lock up bad guys on a weekly basis, you wanted to remind Nan. Your brain was one of few that had been chosen for a task force that caught criminals based on their behavior. It was amazing, working for the BAU, bouncing ideas off of your colleagues, finding a family within this small group of people that spent more than forty hours a week together.

Nan didn’t see it that way. She wanted you to be just like Kendra. She wanted you to have that white picket fence in the suburbs, with a broad-shouldered husband and two little tykes running at your feet. Domestic bliss just wasn’t in the cards for you, you’d decided. And that was okay.

You were still reeling from your conversation with Nan the night before when you walked in to work on Monday morning. It was Derek who caught the raging RBF first. “Woah, pretty girl. Pump. Your. Brakes.” He said, halting you just as you entered the BAU’s bullpen, holding a hand up to stop you.

“Good morning to you, too, Derek,” You flashed him a phony grin, and he rolled his eyes.

“And you’re grumpy this morning… why, exactly?” Derek asked, turning to walk beside you, essentially escorting you to your desk.

“Because I’m allowed to be?” You proffered, shrugging your shoulders, not really wanting to talk about it with him. You loved Derek - hell, you loved all your coworkers - but he was not the person you wanted to go to with these thoughts. You didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it, actually. You just wanted to ride the cranky train until it came to a complete stop.

Emily was returning from the kitchenette with a fresh mug of coffee and decided that the conversation concerned her as well. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Y/L/N’s wearing her cranky pants this morning,” Derek filled her in.

“Oh, those so don’t match your blouse, Y/N,” Emily teased, winking at you with a smirk before looking at Derek. “Cut her some slack. No one likes Mondays.” Derek held up his palms defensively. “Alright, alright. Forgive me for being a concerned citizen.”

“It’s appreciated,” You told Derek genuinely before setting your bag down at your desk. “But unnecessary.”

It wasn’t until later in the morning, around ten, that anyone bothered you about your obvious bad mood again. This time it was Spencer, the one person you couldn’t possibly be annoyed with. He rolled on his desk chair around the partition that separated your workspaces, holding his hand out expectantly, like he usually did this time of day.

Without speaking, you opened the bottom drawer of your desk and pulled out the white bag of mini powdered donuts that you always kept in stock. They were your guilty pleasure snack, and one of the first things you and Spencer bonded over when you started at the BAU two years ago. That, and the fact that you were the closest agents in age, was how you got along so well so quickly. Over several cases, varying in degrees of intensity, you and Spencer became really great friends. Best friends, actually.

There wasn’t anyone else in your life that you trusted more than Spencer Reid.

You opened the bag of powdered donuts and shook one haphazardly into Spencer’s palm, then grabbed one for yourself. Silently, you cheers-ed your donuts together, and ate them simultaneously, making weird-but-comfortable eye contact as you did.

“Derek says you’re in a bad mood today,” Spencer pointed out with a teasing smirk on his face. A smirk, and white sugar blanketing his upper lip.

“Derek’s full of shit,” you grinned after swallowing your snack, the smile on your face totally facetious. “I’m extremely happy.”

“I can tell,” Spencer snickered as you set the powdered donuts back in your snack drawer, closing it with a clank. You watched as he brought both of his legs up into his desk chair, crossing them like a kindergartner.

The action made your stomach flutter. You’d felt strongly about Spencer for a really long time, probably a year and half, if you had to try and pinpoint it. But there was no use in going down that road with him. For one thing, he was your best friend, and you didn’t want to risk flushing the best relationship in your life down the toilet. For another thing, you knew it was one hundred percent impossible that he could feel the same way.

“What’d you do this weekend?” Spencer asked, and you could tell by the question that he was trying to discover the source of your poor attitude.

“Stayed home, caught up on chores,” You said, crossing your knees and leaning back in your seat, your expression telling him that you knew exactly what he was doing. As much fun as playing mind games with Spencer was, you decided to throw him a bone. “Spoke to my grandmother on the phone last night.”

Spencer nodded understandingly. “Say no more,” he said with a chuckle. “She gave you the whole ‘when are you going to get married’ spiel again?”

You nodded. “Unfortunately. I usually don’t let it bother me, but for some reason it’s just, like, lurking in the back of my mind today.” You shrugged your shoulders and exhaled through your nose. “What about you?” You asked.

“What about me?” Spencer arched a brow, and you rolled your eyes playfully.

“What’d you do this weekend?”

“Oh,” Spencer began, pursing his lips for a moment, like he was hesitant to tell you. “I actually went on a date.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh yeah?” You choked out, forcing a smile. “Who with?”

“That girl, Lisa, from the coffee shop, the one you told me wouldn’t stop ‘ogling my boy band hair’,” Spencer held up air quotes when he repeated your words from memory.

You recalled the cute barista from the coffee shop just down the highway from Quantico, a popular morning stop for agents on their way to work. You tried to stop the jealousy from turning your blood into fire. “How was it?” You asked, trying to resist the urge to sit on the edge of your seat, trying not to hang on his every word.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “It was okay. She was very nice, but there just wasn’t…” he trailed off, gesticulating as the words failed to come to that supercomputer brain of his.

“It was like a donut without powdered sugar on it?” You suggested with a small chuckle.

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, nodding, meeting your eyes and smiling, mildly amused. “Exactly.”

Spencer went back to his desk a few minutes later, and the rest of the day went on. It was quiet, especially for a day at the BAU. There were, weirdly enough, no open cases right now, so you spent the day catching up on paperwork, which there was always plenty of.

You caught the elevator about ten minutes after five with Spencer in tow, and you held the door open for him. It was just the two of you as you made the descent from the sixth floor, and Spencer leaned against the back wall. “Plans tonight?” He asked.

“Not really, no,” You said, shaking your head. “Why, you want to do something?” You asked.

Spencer nodded. “There’s this landscape and nature photography exhibit at one of the galleries downtown,” he said. “Might be fun. There’s this artist, Milton Harvell, who takes photos of renowned locations around the world but zooms in on an obscure detail and gives the framed photograph to the person who correctly guesses the location.”

You smiled slowly at that. You loved it when Spencer went off on one of his tangents. You found it completely adorable. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” Spencer went on, an amused tone lining his voice, making it sound lighter. “Kind of like a Where’s Waldo, but in reverse. There was this one photograph he took of the Louvre in Paris, but he zoomed in really tightly on a young boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He even went so far as to edit the photograph to make it look like it was a different time of day. The four thousand and eighth person to view the photograph was the person who guessed the correct location.” Spencer’s head bobbed and he was smiling like an idiot.

God, you were down bad.

“Was the four thousand and eighth person… you?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him scrupulously and allowing a teasing grin to cross your face.

“The photo’s hanging in my living room,” he confirmed.

You laughed softly. “Will there be alcohol at this function?” You asked him, and he nodded.

That was all you needed to hear.

— — —

You and Spencer went straight to the art gallery from work, sharing a cab rather than bothering with your cars. You immediately bought a glass of red wine, and began to follow him around the gallery. You weren’t an art aficionado, not by any means, but you enjoyed looking at beautiful things, and you especially enjoyed spending time with Spencer that wasn’t hunched over a dead body or trying to map out a killer’s comfort zone. It was a rare occurrence, so you tried to soak it all up as much as possible.

Plus, your Nan’s words were still lingering in the back of your head. It’ll happen for you someday, Button. Men just don’t find you strong, career types attractive. Maybe you should soften up your look a little.

You downed your first glass of wine within ten minutes, and caught one of the catering staff passing out champagne almost instantaneously after. The champagne fizzled down your throat as you strolled with Spencer through the art gallery, listening intently as he went on about each piece, rattling off whatever contextual knowledge he had. But you were a little bit biased; you could listen to him list different types of soil and find it interesting.

After the glass of champagne came another glass of champagne, and by the time you made it to the main exhibit Spencer wanted to see, your cheeks were flushed. It wasn’t that you couldn’t hold your alcohol; rather, it just made you a little bit silly. Your inhibitions were lowered, just like it would affect anyone. But with your arm looped through Spencer’s and your Nan’s nagging message still in the back of your mind, you were perhaps a little more loose than usual.

As Spencer examined the exhibit, you tapped your foot, unable to keep still, and scanned the open space. Your eyes landed on another patron of the gallery, a conventionally handsome man about your age, and you found yourself unlooping your arm from Spencer’s, subconsciously not wanting to appear taken.

“Are you gonna go talk to that guy?” Spencer asked, and you snapped your eyes back to his. “Because you can, if you want to. Don’t let me stop you.”

It was almost like he was daring you to. Spencer’s jaw seemed tense as you examined his expression, the way his gorgeous brown eyes darted from the man and back to you. “You don’t mind?” You asked, arching a brow, almost like a challenge.

Spencer shook his head, his lips pursed. “Not at all. I’ll wait here for you?”

You nodded, and turned towards the man. There wasn’t any harm in getting a guy’s number, right? Your feelings for Spencer were a lost cause, anyway. Plus, as Nan liked to point out, you weren’t getting any younger.

The man’s eyes locked on yours and he seemed to understand that you were about to speak with him. He met you halfway, and you shook his hand. “Malcolm Greene,” he introduced himself, and you spouted off your own name in return. “You’re not here with that guy?” He asked, jerking his chin over to Spencer. Your eyes followed Malcolm’s, and you saw Spencer with his body turned towards the photography exhibit, but his head turned to the side, as if he were keeping an eye on you with his peripheral vision.

“Yeah, I am,” you said, and Malcolm’s head inclined to the side. “I am. I’m here with that guy,” you panicked, suddenly realizing in that moment that you weren’t interested in speaking with Malcolm. No, you had absolutely no interest in spending your time with any other man but Spencer Reid. “I just, uh…” Your cheeks flushed, and you stifled an awkward laugh, anxiously trying to come up with some excuse. “I came over here to tell you that your shoe was united.”

Your eyes followed Malcolm’s down to his shoes, which were loafers. Laceless loafers. Malcolm’s mouth opened as if to point this out to you, but you managed to stammer words out first. “Ok, well, have a great night, goodbye!” You turned on your heel and marched back over to Spencer, your cheeks red as you reached out for his arm.

Spencer furrowed his brows down at you as your arm gripped his. “I need another glass of wine,” you confessed.

Twenty minutes later, after two more glasses of wine and a very watchful eye out for Malcolm, you and Spencer left the art gallery. You were awfully giggly on the cab ride back to your place, cracking puns and humming along to the radio intermittently. Spencer seemed to be amused, but more so concerned with getting you home in one piece.

As he walked you up the stairs to the door of your apartment building, he was teasing you about your conversation with Malcolm, which you still hadn’t told him completely about. “I still can’t believe you didn’t get his number. You were talking with him for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds. What, in that short of an amount of time, could have turned you off to him so quickly?” He pondered aloud, a playfully mocking tone lining his voice.

“Listen, I shook his hand! I had my fun!” You exclaimed, bursting into laughter as you leaned against the handrail of the stairs that led up to the door. “Good, clean fun!”

“You know, the number of pathogens that are passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss someone,” Spencer rattled off, and your eyes snapped to meet his.

You don’t know what took you over. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the street lamps reflected in the irises of his eyes, or how you stood just a few inches away from him. Maybe it was his stupid tweed blazer, how he looked like a tenured art history professor despite barely being thirty years old. Maybe it was the way he smelled like pine and printer ink, a combination you wouldn’t have ever thought was attractive.

But when Spencer said that, you stood up on your toes and kissed him. It was slow and innocent at first, until it passed the border into lingering, and Spencer’s hands found your hips, pulling your body closer to his. There was a cool night breeze that filtered through the space between your bodies, and by the time you pulled your lips away from Spencer’s, and slowly opened your eyes, you were completely red in the face and breathless.

No, that certainly wasn’t the safest choice you could have made.

——

read part 2 here

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #criminal minds spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!baureader

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sciencebecameouraddiction · 2 months

Note

If it's not too much I have a request, reader loves to give things they craft to the others in the hotel. They spent hours learning how to crochet from Rosie so they could give Alastor a plushie that matched his theme. A few day after giving Alastor the plushie they find it in the trash, after that they stopped giving Alastor stuff and stopped interacting with him in general. Btw love your writing, your doing a really good job.

ummmmm yes, i totally can do this! the angst, and the dedication of the reader just to have alastor possibly throw it away. maybe some miscommunication tropes??? amazing. and thank you so much!!!

crafting was something that you always enjoyed doing and it was a way that you liked to help out the hotel. so whenever something needed to be created, you were the go to person.

this evolved into any gifts that you gave your friends were crafts you made especially for them. they were trinkets or things they could use or even just little knick knacks that reminded you of them. that is why when it had slipped that alastor’s birthday was a week away, you knew you had to create something perfect. spending a day really thinking about it, you decided that a crochet plush of alastor’s prized radio would be perfect.

you set off to rosie’s wanting to see if that was a good idea and knowing the overlord knew how to crochet like no other. after rosie completely fawned over the idea, you set off learning the pattern and redoing it many times, not wanting your gift to look like it was the first one you had done. so you perfected and when his birthday came, while he was broadcasting, you snuck into his room and placed the plush next to the chair near the entrance of the forest and quickly left. making sure to leave a card with it too.

a few days passed and you didn’t hear anything from alastor about the plush, which you didn’t think was too odd, but you began to worry that you overstepped a boundary when you delivered it to his room. you were fretting, pacing your room at night when you finally decided you’d just go talk to him.

you walked to his door and saw it open. peaking in you saw alastor leaning back in his chair listening to what sounded like some 60’s music, which surprised you. what caught your eye though was the plush that was in the trash. sitting right on top was the radio plush. you gasped and ran off, not wanting to even confront alastor.

the days were long as you proceeded to avoid alastor like the plague. where he was, you made sure you weren’t. and this worked well, until one night you were feeling very upset about what happened. so, over a drink you told angel and husk.

“he did what?” angel asked, shocked.

“it was in the trash.” you shrugged. “guess it wasn’t that good.”

“no. i’m sure it was amazing! i love the plush you did of fat nuggets and the one for my keys too.” angel assured you.

“i’m not trying to play devils advocate here, but i’m the one who takes out the trash, and i haven’t seen anything like that come from alastor’s room.” husk added.

“yeah! maybe he didn’t throw it away!” angel looked enthused.

“who threw what away?” alastor’s voice appeared as he materialized behind you. you groaned and hid your face.

“smiles, they gave you a plush of a radio for your birthday. you threw it away!” angel said, staring alastor down.

“i did no such thing!” alastor looked appalled. “where did you get that idea?”

“they saw it in the trash.” angel said pointing to you. alastor looked at you and tapped your shoulder, you lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. he raised his eye brow as if asking if this was true and you nodded.

“you hadn’t said anything to me about it so i thought you were angry i left it in your room. so, i went to check and you had your door open and i saw it in the trash.” you explain, voice devoid of emotion. alastor’s eyes widen in understanding.

“come with me.” he says holding out his arm. you look at angel and husk who shrug, so you hop off your seat and grab on to alastor’s arm. “now hold on.”

he shadow traveled you to his room where you appeared in front of his desk. you shook of the initial dizziness and then looked at his desk, seeing the plush. your eyes wide as you turn to him.

“you didn’t throw it away?” you ask.

“no, it was admittedly the first birthday gift i had received in a long time.” he said. you squealed letting excitement take you over as you hugged him.

“oh my gosh! thank you! thank you! thank you!” you cried as he awkwardly pet your head and your eyes widened as you dropped him and stepped back.

“sorry. i got a little too excited.” he hummed and looked at you.

“where did you learn to crochet like that?” he asks and you excitedly start talking about how you learned from rosie, he slid around you and sat down, listening to your story and process with a fond smile on his face.

#hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x reader #alastor altruist #alastor/reader #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #alastor fanfiction #alastor hazbin #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor

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pumpkinbxtch · 3 months

Text

.・゜✭・. the code for “i like you”

— leo valdez x daughter of athena!reader

Summary: Leo likes you so much that when he has the dream opportunity to get close to you, he expresses his feelings to you, in Morse code, accidentally.

Warnings: swear words?? yeah, but like three.

A/N: English is not my first language, so sorry if it's bad.

A/N: I had so much fun doing this, i relived primary school when i used morse code to make love letters, ew. Btw enjoy.

Leo was terribly attracted to you and you, as expected, went completely oblivious about it. The boy had practically tried everything possible to get close to you; He tried to participate in the same practices as you, walking where you were or talking to those you were friends with, but he just couldn't get it.

The only thing that play in his favor was that they were both leaders of their respective cabins. So when you talked about the planes your cabin had to increase camp security during one of your regular meetings Leo immediately pulled out a favor and volunteered to help (although the guy had no choice anyway, literally his cabin was the only one that could make it)

Chiron didn't object and ended up emphasizing that the two of you would mainly have to work side by side, while he winked at the son of Hephaestus, and Leo wondered if his intentions were really that obvious. Whatever, he was happy.

— That's great, have fun, idiots — Clarisse said in a mocking tone. She patted you on the back and winked.

» Does everyone have eye problems today? « You wondered, but didn't give it much thought. You looked at Leo, and he smiled exaggeratedly at you.

You hadn't paid much attention to the guy, but of course you had him in located: he was a trouble-maker, talented, with very nice hair, in addition, - and gods forbid that anyone else should know - his jokes did seem funny to you as difference from the opinion of others. But you didn't give him many detours and smiled kindly, hiding your desire to giggle.

— See you in a bit, Valdez. I'll go get the plans. — and you left his sight again, leaving him alone in The Big House. Leo would have preferred to accompany you, but he believed that he had already spent his good luck bonus for the day, so he decided not to press. Chiron put a hand on his shoulder and sighed dreamily.

— The sweet and bitter pain of love — The centaur patted his shoulder a few more times and trotted into the house.

An hour later, Leo had tried to make bunker 9 as presentable as possible for your arrival. But the accumulated junk of several weeks was difficult to hide under a rug, so he just arranged it so that it would not get in the way and cleaned it the tables. In the name of Hephaestus, he was a nervous wreck.

By the time you crossed the door, he wanted to bury himself along with the scrap metal under his work table.

On the other hand, for you, it was impressive. Of course, you were not unfamiliar with the bunker, but looking closely at all of Leo's projects that he had in progress stimulated your brain in the same way that the largest candy store would do for third year old. You forced to keep your mouth closed and walked with the papers towards Leo, who was sitting on the other side of the huge blueprint table.

He looked apparently uncomfortable, and you did not blame him, you assumed that entering the workshop of a son of Hephaestus where his most precious creations are kept was the equivalent of grabbing Clarisse's favorite weapon to play badminton. You preferred to get to the point by spreading out the plans and go straight to the explanation of them.

Everything was fine, until after a while, Leo began to make anxious movements that did nothing but spread the feeling towards you. At first the knocking on the table while you were telling him the plans seemed meaningless to you, until you managed to distinguish a certain rhythm in them, then a hidden meaning. Your mind split in two, and you continued listening carefully while you continued explaining. How? ADHD.

Two knocks in a row, a silence, a tap and a long tap… Was that Morse code?

(.. / .-.. .. -.- /) I like…

You finally figured it out.

(.. / .-.. .. -.-/) I like…

He repeated. It was definitely Morse code.

But what did he like? Your plans?

That last thought made you falter in the conversation, and you stuttered, Leo placed his brown eyes on you attentively and touched the code again.

(.. / .-.. .. -.-/) I like (-.-- --- ..-) You

You blinked dumbfounded as you bumbled and tried to put your sentence together to return to the conversation about the security system without much success, Leo frowned softly probably wondering if you had gone crazy already. But that didn't matter because at the same moment his knuckles collided again against the wooden table making you lose total concentration.

(.. / .-.. .. -.- . / -.-- --- ..-) I like you

You were probably wondering if he was doing it on purpose or consciously, but the answer was no, Leo was a total idiot watching you explain plans and strategies. For him, it was easily like being in paradise, but his emotion tended to show itself involuntarily, and in this case, his knuckles began to encode messages that his brain spun while you continued babbling.

It was only when you stopped talking and gave him a big look of confusion that he stopped.

His blood ran cold. What had he done wrong?

—Leo? — you asked incredulously with narrowed eyes.

—Yes?— He mumbled nervously and then laughed. Leo cursed his anxious reflexes. — I'm listening, it's just a lot, and it's hard for me, you know what attention deficit is like.— He let out another laugh and his cheeks began to burn. He was just saying stupid things.

You shook your head and sat down.

—I know Morse code too, you know? We use it a lot in combat.

Leo's blood ran cold for the second time, and he thought he would burst into flames at the same time, inconsistent but possible.

— I don't think so.

And he gave himself a mental slap. Not only had he just told the girl he liked that Leo didn't think she knew Morse code, but to a daughter of Athena. ATHENA. Leo forced himself to deliver another slap.

But the question was now what the fuck had he said in Morse code? Then he heard you clinking the cap of a pen against the table.

(.. / .-.. .. -.- . / -.-- --- ..-) I like you

Shit.

—Wasn't that Morse code? You've been playing it since we were going through the forest plane.

The son of Hephaestus jumped from his chair and stiffened, beginning to babble.

— Me, no, it's just that sometimes I, no, my mom-

—Just tell me if it was true or not.

— YEAH! — Leo pressed his eyes and covered himself with his hands, seconds later a small flame caught fire above his head.

You didn't want to show your shock or how much your heart had raced, but you also got up from your chair and walked towards him. Leo was still in the same position, which almost made you laugh, but you preferred to direct your attention to the flame that was flickering in his hair. You raised your hand over him and tried to pat it out, trying not to get tangled in his curls. By the time you extinguished the flame, he was looking at you like you had just kicked his bronze dragon.

His eyes had widened in a way that you considered unnatural, this time you did let out the laugh. You cleared your throat and took a step back.

— An original way of expressing it, I have to admit — you said still with a playful look.

The boy blushed more, if that was possible.

— Sorry, I didn't want to bother you…

You frowned and shook your head.

— No, no, what I mean is… — You cleared your throat. Now you were nervous, your words would become more clumsy, so you picked up the pen cap again to knock it on the table:

.- ... -.- / -- . / ..-. --- .-. / .- / -.. .- - . (Ask me for a date)

Leo went over each tap and looked at you surprised.

You raised your hand asking for time and played one last word.

..-. --- --- .-.. (Fool)

And you smiled, satisfied that you had done it quickly, but even more so that the boy you had suggested going out with you had encoded the message in record time. How you liked smart boys!

Leo leaned towards you with a self-righteous smile, clearly feeling victorious. Yes, there was also the troublemaker, in total, he was a kind of mad genius.

—So, ma'am, would you go out with me?

— I'll see — You said as you picked up your plans. His smile faded and he began to stammer buts. — See you at dinner, Leo.

You smiled and made your way out of the bunker. Clearly, you would accept, but you would let Leo try a little harder.

#leo valdez #leo valdez x you #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #leo valdez x y/n #leo valdez x reader #percy jackson

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readychilledwine · 4 months

Note

Hi, could you write Tamlin absolutely ruining the reader. What I mean is.... reader and tam are in a relationship, he's been busy with work and reader thinks he doesn't like her anymore so tamlin shows her just how wrong she is...😏

A Hint of Corruption

Warnings - pet/own/master power play dynamics, brief rough oral, punishment play, mention of corruption, bratty behavior, reader really REALLY like fucking angry Tamlin.

"If you don't fucking have time for me anymore, just tell me." Tamlin looked at you in shock from his throne. You felt your chest tightening, eyes beginning to water as he just stared at you processing your anger.

He had not touched you in weeks. He hasn't kissed you in days. He spent hours holed up in his repaired office with other high Lords negotiating trade routes and imports. And when he wasn't there, he was in other courts doing the same thing.

"What, little dove, do you mean by that?" He stepped closer to you, setting that damned crown of antlers and thorns on the throne.

You didn't back down, staring up at him. "It's clear I've over stayed my welcome and you are tired of my presence," a dramatic statement fueled by your anger. "I have clearly served my purpose and you are done with me. So just tell me that instead of leaving me here alone constantly."

Tamlin's face fell into a further look of shock. He had told you what he was doing, that these next few months would be insane and likely lonely for both of you as he worked to reset the glory Spring once had.

Glory you were helping him bring back with your Mother blessed gifts to repair land and grow damn near anything. "Dove," he hand came to your cheek, stroking softly, "y/n, I warned you I would be busy and gone a lot this month. I have been trying to come home to you every night-"

"And yet I go to bed and wake up alone-"

He interrupted you, his pet peeve causing anger to hit him. "I was not done speaking, dove. Do we need a lesson on manners and the behavior of a Lady again?" He began backing you to the wall. "Do you need a reminder of who you belong to? Of who cares for you and this beautiful body?"

Your back hit the window, hands going flat against the glass as the throne room doors slammed shut and locked. "Tamlin-"

Green eyes flickered to yours, a mix of arousal and annoyance shining in them. "I believe you are fully aware we are past first names at this point, pet. Get on your knees."

Submission fueled your brain as he pushed down on your shoulders, gathering your hair before putting into the leather he had around his wrist. "Open your mouth," your hands were on his pant ties already focused on that task until a slap came.

You gasped loudly, eyes watering. It wasn't hard, but it still stung, and you looked up at him.

He had not had to slap you for disobedience in years. Not since he had met you, and this began. You were his good girl. His pretty little pet he constantly praised. Your lip trembled as tears fell. "Don't give me that look. Open your fucking mouth."

You sniffled, doing as you were told and waited. "There she is," two fingers gently brushed your tongue, pushing in and coating themselves in your spit. "You're going to suck my cock while I explain to you, again, what is currently happening in my court and why master is gone so much lately."

You didn't nod, eyes still watering. "You want to be my good girl. Don't you?" Tamlin pushed those two fingers into your mouth and down your throat. "Look at me." Your eyes fluttered up, breathing through your nose as he pushed further, causing you to gag. "I can't wait to fucking ruin you."

You whined around them, sucking greedily now. "No, pet, you have to listen first. You broke a rule, you have to be punished. You understand, don't you?"

Your eyes had glazed over, so focused on sucking his fingers that all you could do was nod. "That's my good girl." Tamlin untied his pants, pulling this cock out and smiled as you moaned at the sight. He had ruined you so beautifully already, but you had been so innocent, so untouched by anything when he found you that every chance to fuck you stupid was new and exciting.

He removed his fingers, using the saliva to pump his heavy cock while you watched. Your tongue was out, waiting for him to give you what you wanted, waiting for him to force you to listen. He placed the head on your tongue and nodded, giving you permission to pleasure him.

"As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me," he held you down, nose flush against his pelvis, watching as you swallowed and sucked his length. "I have been working tirelessly every damn day to be home to you every night. That means there's going to be a lot of mornings alone since I am constantly winnowing the lands to keep you and your slutty little mouth and cunt happy."

He moaned as he pulled up, watching you take a deep breath, then he slammed back in, laughing as you gagged around him. "I am not tired of you. I am not done with you. I am not planning to just toss you aside, pet. I am busy. You like your pretty dresses and jewelry, don't you? Like having a staff to pamper and wait on you? How do you think your High Lord gets you those things? Do you think they're just here and free to you since you're so damn pretty?"

He began fucking your mouth, focusing on that for awhile before abruptly pulling you off of him and ripping you up by your hair.

You moaned, walking at his pace until he threw you over the arm of the throne and held you down with a growl that warned you not to move.

A loud rip filled the room, followed by a chilly spring breeze leaving goosebumps along your body. "Such a beautiful girl," you could hear his smile as you heard his clothing hit the floor and felt a hand go to your folds. Tsmlin groaned at the wetness he found there, the sweet essence coating his hand and practically pouring out of you. He patted your clit softly, watched as you wiggled and moaned his name.

Gods, he loved you. Every inch of you. Every dip and soft curve of your body. Every laugh. Every noise you made.

How could you ever think he'd grown tired of you?

Tamlin took his now coated hand, running it along the shaft of himself as he ran the head through your folds then sat. "Beg. Beg like the good little whore you are. Beg for my forgiveness and for my cock."

"Master please," a good start. "Gods, please I am so sorry. I'll be a good pet. I'll listen and wait at home. Please just fuck me. I need you inside me, please. It's been so long."

He hummed, hand running your spine and tangling into your hair. "It has been too long, my love. Much too long. I should rectify that." He entered you in one swift thrust. The throne began digging into your hips, brushing them as he wasted no time pounding into you.

He ripped you up by your hair again, forcing your back to arch like a bow for him as he pulled the cord that was your pleasure taunt. "I love you, you spoilt little pet. You fucking know this but come in here to yell at me?" His words matched the harshness of his cock working inside of you. You could help the wetness beginning to pool more and more at each word. "I got help to be worthy of you. Signed trade deals with courts I didn't want to be able to spoil and care for you. I get one full day home this week to get ready for a High Lords' meeting, and you want to come in here running your mouth?"

He changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting that spot deep inside of you. You felt your body going pliant, and his arms moved to hold you up by your elbows, pulling you back slightly. "Tell me you're sorry and let you cum. I can tell you are right there. I can stop right fucking now."

"No!" You felt yourself crying again. The pleasure becoming too much. "I'm sorry I was so ungrateful. I'll be good. Gods, please, my mate, my High Lord, please."

Tamlin didn't stop, speed increasing as each drag stretched your now tightening walls forcing them open and swallowing his cock whole. "Cum. Scream my name for his whole court to know who owns you."

You obeyed. Your mind, soul, heart, and body were his. You were his. He had ensured that the second he started bedding you, ruining you for anyone who may wish to touch you, and he'd continue to ruin you.

He came inside of you, holding you down by your neck again and forcing you into submission as you milked him. "Do not ever come into my throne room acting like that again. I was nice, y/n. I won't be nice next time."

You smiled, looking back at him, and risked it all. "You're so easy to manipulate, Tam. I got the sex I needed just by being a brat for 5 minutes. I can't wait until you see what else I've done."

His face fell, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "You won't be leaving our bedroom tomorrow, will you pet?"

You felt him pull out, smiling as he turned you and picked you up. "Nope," you popped the last syllable before kissing his cheek.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho

@mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth

#acotar #acotar x reader #send asks #send anons #pro tamlin #tamlin x y/n #tamlin x reader #tamlin x you #tamlin acotar #tamlin

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nolita-fairytale · 8 months

Text

don't you worry, there's still time | chef luca x fem!reader, feat. marcus brooks

summary: after losing his mother, marcus searches for joy and stillness in copenhagen. you and luca, who are more than happy to host, decide to take a big next step in your relationship. a oneshot from the world of 'burn your life down.'

warnings: fluff, light angst, grief, death, light smut, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, off-canon connection to the storyline of the bear.

word count: 5.8k

listen to: the playlist

a/n: wow, i missed this world! who is ready for the reveal of chef's restaurant name?! while i don't think i have the bandwidth to write another full series (nor a linear story to tell) i'm thinking of creating a second part to 'burn your life down' where we just get to drop in and see what they're up to. thoughts??

chef luca masterlist | full masterlist

After a tumultuous holiday season, it doesn’t take long for Sydney to realize that her friend is in need of a little help. A reprieve, she so kindly explained to both Marcus and Carmy when she’d proposed the idea.

It was Sydney this time, who called Luca, knowing that she and Carmy would have to find something to do with Marcus. It wasn’t fair – that he’d lost his mom just before Thanksgiving – and they both agreed that Marcus needed to get out of dodge. Quick to act, Carmy set up a few stages in NYC for a week or so, which, while seemed to inspire Marcus, seemed to only plunge him further into a slump come Christmas. “I don’t know. I think we gotta send him on some kinda… eat, pray, love trip. The guy can only sulk on my couch for so long before I consider jumping out of the window,” Sydney says, her attempt to lighten the mood with humor still genuine. “It’s getting sad, Carm. Like… real fuckin’ sad.”

“You’re right. Uh… what about Copenhagen?” Carmy pitches with a shrug, because he knows what all consuming grief feels like.

“Again?” she asks, uncertain of whether it’s the best choice that they could make.

“Yeah,” Carmy shrugs in response. “Think he got a lot of it last time. Could be good for him to go back to somewhere familiar… work with Luca again. You don’t think it’s a-?”

“No I do! I just-,” Sydney hesitates, though she knows her business partner makes a good point. “Familiarity will be good for him. To be around people he can trust.”

“You want me to uh-,” Carmy begins to offer, figuring he’ll make the call.

“Probably best if I explain the situation. Just ‘cause, you know, I know more of what’s going on… just send me his info and I’ll call later,” Sydney interjects.

Carmy agrees with a curt nod before adding in:

“Uh… okay yeah. Yeah.”

You get plenty of time to prepare for Marcus’ visit, performing all kinds of fancy footwork to arrange a proper visit – a week’s worth of time spent staging and living in Copenhagen. When Luca finds out that the prolific houseboat, a chef retreat of sorts that’s always been an option for lodging, is booked for the week and a half that Marcus plans on visiting, you offer up your place without hesitation.

The arrangement goes as follows: while Marcus stays at yours at no cost, you’ll stay with Luca for the duration of the time.

This is how you find yourself at the massive Ikea on Dybbølsbro on a Saturday morning with Luca, in search of a set of fresh bed linens intended for guests.

“I really should host more. And Astrid said she and Lina were planning a trip out here so… why not kill two birds with one stone?” you’d reasoned to your boyfriend, making a strong case for why you and Luca should make this little shopping trip.

“What do you think of the blue?” Luca asks you, as you run your hand over a set of the display sheets, checking for softness.

“Don’t know if the blue is what I’m going for. I was thinking of something warmer. Maybe a yellow or… I don’t know. I’ve kind of been into that trendy rust color as of late,” you reply with a shrug, moving onto the warmer colors.

Luca chuckles and with a small shake of his head, he clarifies his previous questions with:

“No, I meant for me.”

“What do you mean?” you ask him curiously, his comment pulling all of your focus as you search his face for answers. “You just got new bedding.”

And expensive ones too.

But as your eyes follow his gaze, you realize that he’s not talking about sheets, focused on the XL Twin-sized duvets just above where the sheets messily fall along the shelf.

“I was thinking…” Luca trails off, checking in with you before he continues, with “... maybe it’s time I get two duvets… you know… for us.” He takes a beat, and a step towards you, and you know you’ll never stand a chance against his boyish charm as one side of his mouth turns up into a smile.

You’re no stranger to the Scandinavian duvet method – two twin duvets for one king sized bed – but it sounds like Luca’s suggestion is about way more than buying an extra duvet on this trip.

“I want you to feel at home… at my place."

“I do,” you reply, almost instantly, a warmth spreading through your belly as you take a step towards him.

“But I mean really… feel like it’s your home. Because it is. It could be. You know… if you want it to be,” Luca continues, this time with more insistence, a look of hopefulness in his deep blue eyes.

“Are you… are you asking me to move in with you?” you manage to get out, your heart skipping a beat.

“Why not? We could use this week to try it out,” he suggests so casually that you practically have to do a double take. “See how it goes while Marcus stays at your place?”

“Yeah I-... that sounds like a good plan, yeah,” you stammer out, the grin on your face undeniable as you nod enthusiastically in the middle of a goddamn furniture store.

“Besides,” Luca says, clearing his throat as his tone changes to one that’s much more playful. “You’re an absolute blanket hog and a repeat offender at that.” Luca winks your way as you roll your eyes with a laugh in response. “This could prevent some of our silly little quarrels, don’t you think, love?”

“Uh huh,” you sound, your face skeptical as you look his way again. “Preventative measures. Sure, babe.”

Luca chuckles before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, right then and there, in the Ikea bed linen section, the place you’ll now forever think of as the place your boyfriend asked you to move in with him.

Connection

When Marcus arrives in Copenhagen, you’ve arranged your home with the most comfort in mind, having already packed a week’s worth of things and left for Luca’s. You can only imagine what he must be going through, deciding that something like that – losing your mother – though inevitable, is your goddamn worst nightmare.

“Marcus,

Enjoy your stay and please reach out if you need anything. I can’t wait to meet you!”

…is the note that you leave him, along with a few morning pastries you picked up from your favorite baggeri across the street, and your number scribbled down at the bottom of the notepad.

As Marcus arrives, his eyes drawn immediately to your note and gift, Marcus smiles to himself, noticing that you left a very nice looking bottle of wine on the counter as well. He’s moved by your generosity, considering you’ve never met, and the fact that you’re willing to take so much care, extend this much kindness to a stranger, causes a wave of softness to wash over him.

Maybe, just maybe, he can find softness again – the last few months riddled with pain, grief, and numbness to get through the days.

While he came here to work, encouraged by his friends that a change of scenery may do his broken heart some good, it’s the first time Marcus has had a chance to be still. His feelings of grief sit heavier here and it catches him off guard, uncertain that he’s quite ready to sit with them yet. He pushes aside the thought, focusing on exploring your home and unpacking his bags. Marcus knows how to stay busy – he’s become an expert at it by now – reminding himself that he’s got work at 5 am sharp tomorrow.

“A little too much, chef. Take it down by about 15 grams,” Luca directs, his voice even and sure as he inspects the balls of dough that Marcus currently shapes.

“Yes, chef,” Marcus nods in understanding, plopping the ball of dough back on the scale to adjust the measurement.

The two of them work like this for the rest of the morning, Luca treading carefully while keeping things professional, while Marcus buries himself in the work – something that feels good, safe, right.

He’s missed this. While Marcus has one chef he works with directly at the restaurant, he’s the expert – the head patissier. He misses being surrounded by excellence, getting to be a student of someone who is just as driven, if not more, and inspired. It’s good, quiet, calm, yet there’s a focus and intensity in Luca’s kitchen that feels like a breath of fresh air.

His stage trip to New York has been more of a mess than beneficial. Maybe it had been the chaos of the city, or the chaos of the chefs he was working with. Maybe it was the fact that Marcus, though hungry for a distraction, hadn’t quite been ready to walk directly into the line of fire yet.

As Marcus’ practiced hands move with the dough, there’s a newfound confidence in the way that he works that's not lost on Luca. Luca watches his friend carefully, pride swelling in his chest as his mentee makes the adjustment with ease and diligence.

“Can I join you?” Luca asks, gesturing towards Marcus' workstation.

“‘Course, chef,” Marcus replies, his response short yet reverent.

As Luca joins him, finding a space to the right of Marcus, he busies his hands with rolling each perfectly measured ball of dough into mini boules, ready to proof. The two of them work quietly, side by side, the air between them heavy with words unsaid. He can feel it – the weight that lays so heavily on Marcus' heart – but Luca doesn’t want to bring it up, uninterested in forcing the conversation. Especially about something so painful, something he knows that Marcus has barely begun working through.

“Thanks, again. For uh… you know… letting me come work,” Marcus begins, momentarily checking in with Luca to gauge a reaction.

“‘Course,” Luca replies, his answer instantaneous. “You’re welcome here any time, mate.”

“Yeah?” Marcus asks, stealing a glance in Luca’s direction.

“Yeah,” Luca responds with a certain nod.

“And uh… shit. I can’t thank your girlfriend enough for letting me crash at her place,” Marcus adds, as he works through his discomfort and overwhelm from the wave of feelings that begin to bubble up in his chest.

“You can thank her yourself on Saturday,” Luca brings up, excited over the fact that Marcus will not only be meeting his girlfriend, but staging at her restaurant too. “She’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

Marcus nods slowly, his hands the only steady thing about him as he continues to focus on his work.

“I just mean-, well, she didn’t have to-. ‘S not like either of you owed it to me or anything and I-. You guys just really came through…” Marcus trails off, wanting to make his gratitude clear. It means more to him that he can articulate so instead he settles for, “So thank you. Again.”

Luca shrugs with an aplomb about him as he returns with, “We got you, mate.” He pauses before continuing, fully aware that Marcus isn’t quite comfortable with the feelings that have presented themself in this moment. “And the way I see it, I wouldn’t have met her if it weren’t for you – for our conversation the last time you were here – so we really do owe you for it.”

This time Luca makes an effort to check in with Marcus, gauging his emotional capacity as he concludes with:

“But that’s not what any of this is about: debts, who owes who what. We were both more than happy to host you. That’s what mates are for.”

It’s not till the end of the next shift that it hits him, and Marcus finds himself sitting outside of the restaurant on a bench across the street. He’s not sure whether it’s the jet lag or the exhaustion of the 5 am start time in another time zone, but it hits him all at once, like a ton of bricks. Suddenly consumed with the feelings that he’s been trying his best to avoid, all he can do is pause, completely caught off guard by the strength of them.

Quietly, Luca joins him, having spotted him on his way home, rerouting himself in Marcus’ direction instead.

All he can think of are the words you’ve asked him, and he you, time and time again – the ones that cut right to the core of you each and every time – that show you how much he cares.

“How’s your heart?” Luca asks Marcus, after a few minutes of sitting on the bench together in silence.

And how is his heart?

He’s not sure how to answer, considering it’s been a while since he’s really had a chance to check in, the crippling reality of this great loss is too much to bear alone.

His heart is broken, shattered into an infinite amount of pieces.

He, and his heart will never be the same again and he doesn’t know where or how he’ll ever put it back together.

His heart is… lost, in desperate need of finding a soft place to land.

Marcus takes a while to answer, racking his brain for any semblance of a cohesive answer.

He waits. And then he waits.

Until finally, he can answer.

“I uh… don’t know. But I’m hoping this trip will help me figure that out.”

Creativity

“do you remember the 21st night of september? love was changin' the minds of pretenders while chasin' the clouds away.” (earth, wind, and fire.)

Everything about the way you run your kitchen feels different than what he’s used to.

It’s sure as hell different from his last stage trip to New York, Marcus thinks to himself.

With Carmy and Syd, working with them, there’s a buzz of chaos that runs underneath even the most organized and efficient service. It’s something integral to what they have, gives an edge to The Bear that seems to make it hum in all the right ways. Even with Luca, who comes from fine dining and Michelin-starred restaurants, there’s a quiet and determined focus – an intensity to his work – even without the undercurrent of chaos.

But this. But you.

Your kitchen somehow teeters the line of organized chaos and reckless play so well that Marcus understands why this works – why it’s efficient.

Still, he watches as you and your staff dance – no, literally dance – around each other to the highly recognizable Earth, Wind, and Fire tune. Mathilde sings along while chopping chives for the brothy mushroom grain bowl, while, mid-phrase, manages to yell out a short command to a line cook in Danish. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus catches Jesper working the dining room, while you finish plating two more dishes, ready to be walked out.

It’s as if you find focus in the center of all the noise, somewhere between the electric energy between you, Mathilde, and your staff, and the feel-good vibes and homeyness of the restaurant that you’ve created.

You had been more than welcoming when Marcus had walked through the doors of your restaurant, Kokuore, mere hours ago. You’d given him the tour, shown him which station he’d be working this evening, then warmly introduced him to your entire team before family meal started. Marcus can’t stop moving, too afraid to be still in fear of falling apart in the presence of how comforting you’ve been.

And this? Your kitchen. It’s all joy, connection, and artistry.

It’s not hard for him to see why Luca fell in love with you.

“Marcus, feel free to take a break,” he hears you say, as you nod towards the dining room through the open kitchen.

As Marcus follows your gesture, he notices that Luca’s arrived, remembering something about a standing Saturday date.

“You sure, chef?” Marcus asks, looking to you for approval.

“Positive,” you nod, reassuringly.

Marcus nods in return to confirm, before taking his apron off and making his way over to the dining room where Luca is exchanging a few words with Jesper.

“Wassup, chef,” he greets his mentor.

“You know, you can call me Luca,” Luca reminds him with a crooked smile. “At least when we’re off the clock.”

Marcus chuckles, “Uh… yeah alright. That’s gonna take some getting used to.”

Luca chuckles in return, before Jesper shows them to his table, mentioning something about Americans being so afraid of fluidity.

“She’s brilliant isn’t she?” Luca asks, in reference to you as his eyes catch yours from across the room.

“Nah for real. Like… mad scientist vibes,” Marcus concurs with a smile. “She can throw down for sure.” He pauses as they sit down at Luca’s table. “So you come every Saturday night, huh?”

“When I can, yeah, which is… most Saturdays,” Luca replies honestly, before beginning to list why he’s kept up this routine. “But it’s nice. Keeps me inspired. I get to see my girl, walk her home at night which makes me feel better.” Luca leans back in his chair this time, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I never mind helping close down at the end of the night.”

Marcus hums in response before one of the waitstaff comes to their table, with a glass of wine in hand, on the house. They chat for a little longer before Marcus returns to the kitchen, his excitement for what you’re doing here filling him to the brim.

As dinner service comes to an end, Marcus can’t help but notice the chemistry and how unique it is as you all work together in perfect harmony. There’s a warmth to it, something different, and he begins to understand why the name of the restaurant comes from the word, heart.

Luca is quick to get up from his table, quickly finishing his glass of wine as he offers to help close down. The music volume goes from underscoring the buzz of a busy night of service, to the main attraction, as a motown throwbacks playlist begins to blare from the speakers. You all work quickly and efficiently, eager to close down, get home, and begin your weekends, but it’s when an old Otis Redding track that Luca decides to put a pause on the progress.

“Dance with me, my love,” he says, offering his hand out to you as a huge gesture that earns a few looks and giggles from some of your staff.

“Luca,” you begin to protest, looking around.

“You can take three minutes,” he offers, exchanging a look with you this time.

You nod, taking his hand as you agree with, “Okay.”

And as Luca wraps you up in his arms, engaging you in a slow dance to Otis Redding’s “That’s How Strong my Love is,” you chuckle, relaxing into him.

“Oh, get a room, you two!” Jesper calls out after you, teasingly.

“She pretends – always puts up a fight – as if they don’t do this every single week,” Mathilde adds, as an explanation to Marcus.

“Every week?” Marcus asks, a little surprised by both you and Luca’s willingness to pause and revel in a moment with each other, instead of just pushing through.

“Yeah. Romantics, they are,” Jesper chimes in.

Marcus smiles to himself. It’s a reminder of slowness – something he hasn’t let himself experience in a long time – and for just a moment, he lets himself settle into the feeling.

You don’t even mind that you woke up an hour before your alarm the moment you feel Luca’s arms wrapped around you, and his lips against your soft skin. The low rumble of his voice resonates across your shoulders, sending chills down your spine as you arch into his hands, his arms wrapped around you.

“I know we’re only a few days in… of our little trial,” Luca begins, the bass of his voice reverberating through your shoulder blade.

“Our living together trial?” you clarify with your ask, letting out a gasp as he nibbles on your shoulder gently.

“Yeah. Just wonderin’ where your mind’s at,” Luca murmurs, his eager hands beginning to explore underneath the oversized shirt you put on before bed last night.

“Well… I really like this,” you reply, the sound that comes out of your mouth somewhere between a giggle and a moan.

“Hmmmm?” Luca sounds, innocently.

“This… Waking up to you thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Luca’s name escapes your lips as his fingers gently begin to play with your nipples, his erection hard against your back as you begin to grind your hips back against.

“And the access to round the clock sex is really a bonus,” you sigh, blissfully.

“Oh yeah?” he asks you again, a large tatted hand slipping between your legs.

“Yeah… I’d even be… interested in leaning into that part… right now,” you hiss in reply to his touch. “Considering you’re distracting me with sex.”

“Hmmmmm. ‘S not just it, love. Have I told you how grateful I am for what you’ve done for Marcus?” Luca asks, his mouth back on your neck. He presses your body against him, your back to his chest as he rocks his hips against yours.

“Luca!” you protest, unable to focus on the conversation.

“It’s your kindness. Your heart… I’m in awe of it,” he continues to praise you as the two of you begin to set a rhythm between your bodies.

It’s all heat, and soft sighs of pleasure, and foreplay.

“Well, I know a little something about what he’s going through,” you answer breathlessly. You begin to impatiently push the hem of your shirt higher so that you can give Luca more access to your body.

“That’s why I love you,” Luca murmurs into your skin, his hands all over you, his focus unbroken and your mind beginning to go blank. His hands are tearing your shirt over your head as he continues to praise you. “Your heart, the way you share it.”

“You helped me get there, baby,” you gasp, turning your head so that you can kiss your boyfriend.

Instead of answering, Luca nods knowingly, before crashing his lips into yours. His mouth on yours feels like heaven, and you can’t believe that you ever fought your feelings for him.

“Ah fuck it. Let’s do it. Let’s move in together,” you surrender to him, lost in the moment.

“Yeah?” Luca pauses, pulling away, as if almost can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Yeah. I mean it, baby,” you nod, catching his gaze, certain in the way you answer. “I wanna wake up to you every morning.”

“Me too, my love,” Luca grins, before pressing his lips to yours again. “Now will you please let me fuck you, darling?”

“Fuck yes.”

Luca spends the next hour showing you just how grateful he is for you, while you in return, spend the next hour showing him just how sure you are about this decision.

And you are sure. If mornings like this are a constant for the rest of your life, you think you’ll die a happy woman.

You’ve found a home in him, and he, you. He’s the person you want to come home to at the end of the day. He’s the man that puts a smile on your face every single time he gets on his soapbox about how Beyonce is the performer of your lifetimes, and he is unequivocally the best, most unexpected thing in your life.

Luca Davies, in almost a year of knowing him, and eight months of getting to love him, has somehow become your favorite person.

By the time you and Luca are both showered and decent-for-company, you’ve begun your mise en place for brunch, completely content with the fact that you’re running a little behind schedule (and in all fairness, the sex was worth it – it’s always worth it). The smell of bacon sizzling away on your carbon steel fry pan fills the entire apartment, and you’re glad that Luca opened a window earlier. It’s not exactly window weather yet, but the air ventilation is a must when it comes to smoked meats.

While you play catch up with your brunch plan, Luca’s busy welcoming Marcus in, pouring him a cup of coffee using the extensive ten-step pour over he’s been fixated on ever since he purchased it, while they chat here and there about what else he’s explored in Denmark.

“Been too busy working, to be honest but… I don’t know. I might wander around today… see what kind of stuff I can get into,” Marcus answers frankly with a shrug.

“Ah, mate. We just had a walk at the Frederiksberg Gardens. Definitely something I’d recommend checking out,” Luca suggests, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he mentions it.

Luca continues moving through his list of recommendations, Marcus chiming in with places and things he did the last time he was here, excited to spend a few days exploring the city instead of just working.

“Wanderin’ around. I dunno. There’s something about it. ‘S good for the spirit, you know?” Luca concludes.

“Yeah,” Marcus nods in agreement, before turning his attention over to the French toast you’re working on. “Okay, I see you. What is that? Mascarpone?”

“Yeah, good eye. It’s just something new I’m working on: a mascarpone stuffed french toast. We’re actually talking about extending our hours… maybe doing weekend brunch,” you answer thoroughly, as you dip the stuffed pieces of bread into their egg batter, pre-cook.

“For real? That’s sick,” Marcus compliments, watching you carefully. “I mean… shit. You could have a whole brunch spot.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, looking up from your cutting board.

“A Brunch spot,” Marcus repeats, simply, the excitement in his eyes at the new idea, evident. “Yeah, you know. Luca could do the morning pastries. You work your magic on the rest of the menu.”

“That’s a novel idea! What do you think, my love?” Luca asks, intrigue in his voice as he searches your face for a reaction.

“I-,” you begin, looking from Luca to Marcus, then back to Luca again. “I… never thought about it like that.” You take a beat, eyeing Luca carefully. “We’ve never talked about going into business together.”

Marcus shrugs, before picking up his coffee mug, “Yo, it’s just a thought. I think you two would be unstoppable together.”

“Unstoppable, eh?” Luca asks, his eyes locked with yours.

You only hum in response, raising a quirked eyebrow in Luca’s direction before adding:

“It’s certainly one hell of an idea, Marcus.”

Kokuore

Monday afternoon, you find yourself at your restaurant with Marcus Brooks, on a day off.

“I might need a little extra help with something tomorrow. We’re closed tomorrow, but I want to get ahead on this special I’m working on. Could use the help of a pastry chef. What do you say?” you’d proposed to him, over one more espresso before he left.

To Luca’s dismay, (“ you silly Americans just can’t enjoy a day of doing nothing,” he’d teased the two of you) Marcus had given you an unwavering yes, reassuring you that he was down to learn everything he possibly could from you, especially while he was here.

And it’s true. You do need the help. But should he want someone to talk to – someone who gets it, even just a little bit – you want to offer him the space and the opportunity to do so.

“As a patissier, do you get tasked with pasta? At The Bear?” you ask Marcus, as you pleat a dumpling in hand with a speed that only comes with practice.

“Nah,” Marcus sounds, his focus on the dumpling he’s pleating too. His concentration on getting the pleats right is reverent and unbroken, even as he answers your question. “Our head chef, Carmy, he uh… he comes from an Italian American family so when we’ve done a stuffed pasta… he usually takes the lead on that.”

You nod in understanding, placing the dumpling you’ve just finished down on the full-sized sheet pan. The two of you sit across from each other, having pushed a few dining tables together as a makeshift workstation.

“Think Luca’ll take over this kinda stuff when you guys open a restaurant together?” Marcus asks, lightheartedly pushing his agenda from yesterday.

You laugh in response, your hands working quickly on yet another dumpling.

“For someone with no skin in the game, you’re really insistent on this idea,” you tease him in return.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Marcus pushes right back, his tone still light.

“I…” you sigh, trailing off as you pause your work for a moment. “You know, we just said we’d move in together. That and a restaurant? Feels fast.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… a few hours before you came over for brunch,” you elaborate, earning a whistle from Marcus. The two of you exchange a look, and a laugh, as you pick up another dumpling wrapper that you and Marcus rolled out together earlier.

“It’s a good idea though,” you add, stealing a glance his way so that he knows that you’re serious.

“Well, when you two inevitably do open a restaurant… I want ten percent,” Marcus jokes, earning another laugh from you.

“Deal,” you agree with him.

You and Marcus work like this, exchanging a few words, the conversation light, underscored by a softer acoustic soundtrack from one of your Spotify radio stations.

“So how’d you learn to cook like this?” Marcus asks you curiously.

“Uh…” you hesitate, treading carefully as you realize this conversation could open a can of worms.

“I don’t know how much Luca’s told you about me… but I was married… before him,” you begin, cautiously. “And… well, I learned a lot of this… a lot of traditional Japanese cooking from my mother-in-law.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. These are her dumplings actually – her recipe. She passed away last Fall and… well, it was important to me to celebrate her – to celebrate her life – by creating a few dishes for her,” you continue, and it’s as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “We’re bringing this one back as a special this month but um… yeah. I’m… still very much grieving and… it helps me remember her. Cooking her food helps me feel close to her, you know?”

“Yeah,” Marcus sighs, his heart heavy as he exhales.

He waits a beat.

And then another, having paused his work as he watches you pleat, head down, with expert hands.

The silence between you and Marcus is full, heavy, connected by shared experience. You wait for Marcus to say something, and when he doesn’t, you decide to continue.

“This restaurant… has so much of my heart in it: it’s got my love for Italian food from growing up in my best friend’s family’s restaurant, and it’s got my love for her – for Aiko – and everything she taught me,” you begin to explain. “And lately… it’s got a fresh perspective… inspired by the love I have with Luca, I think. Well, I know. Inspired by him… how this place brought us together.”

“The name itself is… totally made up, but means a lot to me. The Japanese word for heart is, kokoro, and the Italian word for heart is, cuore. Somehow an homage to my past… and was… Prophetic in so many ways too.”

As Marcus listens, Luca’s previous question lingers in his head:

How’s your heart?

At the time he didn’t know how to answer, and after five days in Copenhagen – after five days of doing what he loves in a place that he loves – his heart is somehow so full, yet so broken all at once. He’s filled with deep sorrow and with the spark of creativity all at the same time, and he’s just not sure how to hold all of this feeling inside of him.

Marcus waits a beat, opens his mouth, then lets the words fall out.

“It’s evident. In your food,” is all he manages to say. “It’s got soul. It’s got heart. I-, it’s inspiring. That’s for sure.”

“I made a dish. For Michael,” Marcus adds, his eyes on the dumpling he works on, but the guard on his heart beginning to fall away. “He was uh… well, he was the old owner of the restaurant, called The Beef back then. Carmy took over after he died. Felt right to honor him and his life, you know? When we reopened as The Bear.”

“Food is… it’s our art, you know?” you agree. “Sometimes it’s the only way I know how to express myself and… sometimes it’s just the thing that makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Maybe one day I can make one for my mom,” Marcus says, his voice stuck in his throat as he admits, “I don’t know if I’m ready yet. But I think… I think I’d like to eventually.”

“Of course,” you reassure him gently. “You don’t have to be ready now. You don’t have to be ready ever. But when you are, your art will always be there.”

“Thanks,” Marcus nods solemnly.

You get up this time, realizing the sheet pan is full, and ready to be placed on the baker’s rack. As you return to the table with a new empty sheet pan, lined with parchment paper, Marcus finally asks you, his eyes soft, the heartbreak in them present.

“How’d you get through? You know. Losing her? Your mother-in-law?”

You return to your chair with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll let you know when I do,” you answer, letting up a soft chuckle. “It helps to have good people and… from what Luca’s told me, you do. But… I had to let ‘em in, let ‘em help me. Let ‘em love me. And in all honesty, most days I’m still just… taking it day by day.”

“Yeah, I-. I do. I got some really good people. Back home,” Marcus drags out slowly.

“Then that’s all that matters. Your people and your heart. The rest… you just-,” you start.

“Take day by day?” Marcus interjects, pausing to catch your eyes.

You and Marcus exchange a knowing look, the recognition of each others’ pain is met with empathy.

“Yeah. I think that's all we can do.”

By the end of your work session with Marcus, you’re ready to head home so that you can spend the rest of the day with Luca.

“What’re you gonna do with the rest of your day?” you ask Marcus, curiously.

With a sigh, and then a shrug, and a heart that feels just a little lighter, he answers with:

“Think I might wander around a bit. Someone once told me it’s good for the spirit.”

#chef luca #will poulter #luca the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear headcanon #luca x reader #the bear hulu #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #chef luca x reader #pastry chef luca #burn your life down

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bellewintersroe · 10 months

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Sebastian Vettel x RBDesignEngineer Reader.

Set in 2013 during the GP, Jennifer is fresh out of uni and has made a name for herself within the F1 world. She joins Redbull-Renault as one of their engineer designers and easily fits into the team, forming friendships easily. Most of all, she captures the attention of three time world champion, Sebastian Vettel.

Part 2 - here the LINK to part 1. Warning: Jen’s bf is a controlling, toxic ASSHOLE, so mentions of abuse that may be triggering to some. Bf is a dick bcs the angst is fun to write- Seb takes an instant dislike to her bf because he just has a good eye for evil people 😈 let’s just say Sebastian slays her bday whilst her bf… is a flop.

Australia, Albert Park, March 17th. “-And I told them, you gotta look out for Sebastian’s tires, but nobody wanted to listen to me!” I explained, leaning over to speak directly into the drivers ear over the loud club music. Our first race in Australian with the RB9 went relatively good apart from a good teething issues. Teething issues that I did point out but the mechanics were happy with the tires that brought Sebastian down from pole to 3rd- still not a bad result.

“Next time, I am listening to you.” Seb slipped an arm over the back of the booth, behind me, the comment and smile he flashed me sending a rush of warmth through my chest. With Dutch courage I was able to chatter freely to Sebastian. “Well, I’m not really a mechanic.” I shrugged. “Hm?” He leaned in a little closer. My breath hitched, scanning over his face as the tipsy man leant against me slightly. “I just said, I’m not really a mechanic…” I gently spoke, eyes falling to the small gap between us. Feeling a little tense, my eyes roamed around the room, suddenly catching a glimpse of a tall, dark haired man ahead of me. The warmth that once spread through my chest was ignited into an uncomfortably hot fire. It raged deep inside of me, the sensations of panic, guilt, comfort all hitting me at once. It was my boyfriend. All the way from England. An odd sickness knocked me still, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. “Luke!” I borderline choked out, feeling Sebastian pull back slightly, eyeing up the figure with an awkwardly dirty expression. I cringed instantaneously.

“Who is that?” Sebastian questioned jusf as I was pushing myself out of the booth. “My boyfriend.” I was just as shocked, if not more than everybody else seemed to be. It wasn’t that I acted single around here, I just never told anybody about Luke, my anxieties and uncomfortable sensation that surrounded the topic was no exception in the current moment. “Hi!” I breathlessly walked over, halting in front of him. “What’re you not gonna give me a kiss? C’mere.” He pulled me, as I tripped forwards, feeling his lips on mine. The sensation felt foreign, it had been over 2 weeks since I’d last seen him, I hoped with the distance came separation- but Luke was insistent that if I took this job he would follow me. Yes- follow me.

“Oh, you’ve still got that shit on your lips.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as I stared at him, forcing a smile. It was weird, I felt nothing, nothing but a slight fear seeing the bottle of alcohol clutching in his left hand. I already had the breakup rehearsed so perfectly in my mind, ready for my next venture home. The same breakup I’d attempted four times over in a mere six months out of the eighteen we had spent together. “Sorry.” I awkwardly spoke, not loud enough so he could hear me. When he turned to the rest of my friends sat around I felt a pang in my chest knowing what he was expecting.

“This is Luke, um, here’s Christian- you know Christian, Molly, James, oh there’s Manny, that there is Sebastian-”

“Yeah, I know who Sebastian is, hun.” Luke nudged me off as a joke as I now sat across from where I previously was, unable to meet anybody’s eye. “Oh, you never mentioned a boyfriend, Jen!!” James exclaimed. “Oh, you didn’t?” There came that passive aggressive laugh from Luke’s clenched jaw. I mentally swore as James’ word. I knew he didn’t mean it to sound so bad, but I just knew there’d be an argument later that night. Across from me, I watched Sebastian’s eyes narrow towards the man before he seemed to shake it off and sip from his own drink. It was only a brief glance, sparingly looking at Luke. Maybe I was just being dramatic, but he didn’t seem too happy. And when he looked at me, he just looked purely confused. That’s pretty how much it went for the rest of the evening, Luke’s anger was becoming more and more noticeable until we got inside the hotel room. To our left, was Sebastian, and to our right was a poor Hannah, RedBull’s Senior Strategy Engineer.

I was silent when the bedroom door closed, Luke stumbled straight to the hallway, spinning around to me and spitting when the door was shut. “Yeah now you’re being so quiet, hardly happy to see me after three weeks, are you?” “I was just shocked.” I stumbled, placing my bag on the side. “It’s your birthday next week, why wouldn’t I be here?!” He snapped. “I said I was just shocked, that’s all.” I repeated, reaching over for my makeup wipes. “Don’t bother wearing all that shit on your lips next time, looks stupid anyway.”

“Luke!” I exclaimed in shock as he blew me off, stripping off his shirt and dropping himself into bed. “You and I both know why you’re wearing it.”

“Because I like it.” I defended, harshly ripping an wipe out of the packet. “I don’t… I know the other men do though.”

“Oh my god, don’t start this…” I felt borderline defeated already, standing like a lemon as I wanted to plead with the drunk to shut up. “Yeah, oh my god!” He shot back up out of bed, still jean classed. “You never fucking said how many men you were working with, now you’re dressing like this, acting like this! You don’t even tell them you have a fucking boyfriend!”

“Please be quiet, everybody’s next door-” “You think I give a fuck who’s next door?!” He hissed back as I sighed, hurrying to make my way to the bathroom. I locked myself in, feeling and hearing him slam on the door in response. I could hear the heaviness of his angered breathing from the other side of the wood. I hated when he got this intense and riled up, it struck a fear inside me then I figured it was just better to shut up rather than ignite his anger further.

“You’re the only one who gives a fuck, Jennifer! Nobody else! None of these people give a shit about you either! What, after three months you think they want to be friends with you?!” I felt complete and utter humiliation as he yelled away, I knew these hotel rooms weren’t soundproof, the thought of everybody knowing we were having a domestic after one night felt humiliating and damaging- never mind his words that hit a sensitive part deep inside of me. “A world champion, F1, fucking celebrity, wanting to be friends with you. You’re fucking kidding me, Jennifer. Get a fucking life!” That night I slept in the bathroom. It sounded absolutely pathetic, I know it was, but it was the reality of being with Luke. It’s like now he was back I felt this odd attachment to him, like without him I’d be lonely and he was my crutch to this whole world. Pathetic, again. I knew, but I couldn’t control it. I missed the separation I once had from him, and when my birthday rolled around the week after he was still there, this time, in a different country, Malaysia.

“Happy birthday! Happy, happy birthday, why didn’t you say it was your birthday?!” An all so familiar voice walked in through to where I was seated in front of my computers, I audibly gasped, feeling arms wrap around my front. It was Sebastian. “Oh!” My hands flew up to the warmth of his skin, his hands gentle as he gave me a light squeeze into his chest.

“I- thank you!” I laughed, feeling him glance over my side to give me the most adoring smile. “23?” “22. I accidentally told the camera guy the other day I was already 22.” I winced as he laughed, arm sliding off me. “No need to keep your birthday a secret though?!” Seb stood up straighter as I pushed my head phones off, gazing up to him with that fluttering feeling lingering in my chest. “I know… how did you know it was my birthday?”

“I know everything. You’ll be here until 4, right?” “5 tonight.” “Perfect.” “Why?” “Just perfect.” god knows what he meant, he was back and fourth all day, working out, chatting, checking out his car, tyres, eating, chatting some more, getting back to work and meetings. Eventually I’d wondered if nothing was to come at all from our brief conversation, it wasn’t like I expected anything, but I was just confused.

“Your boyfriend treat you to anything nice?” Hannah perked a brow, offering me an oddly knowing look. I knew she’d heard our argument back in Australia, I could tell by the way she’d look at me the next morning, ask if I was okay- I didn’t continue any further discussion about it with her.

“Yeah!” I took a deep inhale, pushing one headphone off. “Yeah.” I responded again, gathering my thoughts. Correction- lies. “What’s he got?” She responded as I awkwardly laughed, letting out a gentle exhale through my nose.

“He’s not given me it yet.” I defended, biting down on my lip and returning my attention back to my computer. My teeth were gritted together and my leg began to bounce uncomfortably from under the desk.

“He’s not got you anything has he?” She honestly spoke as I cleared my throat. “No.” The urge to get upset was creeping up on me.

“What? Did you say your boyfriends got you nothing?” This time, an Australian accent approached, Mark Webber was there, brows furrowed. “Ah- not yet.” I forced a laugh. “Well it’s a good thing we’re all-”

“Happy birthday to you…” Oh my god… “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Jeeeeeen, happy birthday to you!” I gasped in complete and utter ecstasy seeing everybody gathering, singing happy birthday. At either side of the cake stood Christian and Sebastian (of course) with a huge 22 in pink fondant spread across the cake. My heart swelled and lips immediately lifted, I almost felt tears fill my eyes as I perched on the edge of my seat, blowing out the 22 candles lit across the cake. Nobody had ever done anything like that for me before, ever… and the mastermind behind it all?? Sebastian Vettel.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, for today!” I practically threw my arms around the German man. He audibly giggled into my embrace, leaning down to kiss my cheek as I laughed, slightly tipsy from the few glasses of champagne I’d been fed. Christian told me to ‘fuck off work’ and the lot of them all enjoyed a few drinks with me. “You deserve a good birthday, everybody does, no?”

“I know but… I just didn’t expect it today, I appreciate it, thank you.”

“I would’ve gotten you a present if I knew sooner, but… hopefully your boyfriend treats you with something good.” He honestly spoke as I felt my heart pang. A sad kinda laugh escaped my lips as Sebastian cocked his head to the side with a confused expression.

“What’s funny?” “Nothing, really, just… I don’t think anything can top all that today, thank you again.” I smiled as he nodded back to me, lips stretched. He reached out, rubbing my upper back before we headed back to our rooms.

“Oh and Jen?” “Yeah?” “If he shouts at you on your birthday, I’ll come barging in…”

#Sebastian Vettel #Sebastian Vettel x reader #Sebastian Vettel x you #Sebastian Vettel x OC

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nico-di-genova · 2 months

Text

In My Mind, You are Safe

A/N: What was meant to be a one chapter drabble has spiraled out of my control and now become a fic that requires timelines and setting. Anyway, enjoy part 2 from Lawrence's POV. Registered AO3 Users can read here, if they want! :)

Lawrence thought the worst sound he could hear was that of his son’s tears – the frightened sobs when he called after his bike accident and apologized first before even explaining what had happened. He thought it would be the hitch in Lance’s breath when he asked what to do, what he should do. In reality, the worst sound is the absence of it.

He finds himself missing the simplicity of two broken wrists. Now, Lance has broken ribs, a fractured skull, a jagged line of angry red stitching that runs from lower sternum to his hip. It all makes a broken toe look juvenile. Lawrence feels stupid for even panicking over hairline fractures and a two-week recovery time. He feel stupid for putting a six year old in an unpredictable machine in the first place and letting him grow an appetite for it.

Lance’s mother pushed for golfing, tennis, swimming even at one point. Lawrence should have listened.

Lance still cannot breathe on his own, and Lawrence is already forgetting the natural sound of it – instead he has grown familiar with the steady beep of a heart monitor and the snoring habits of Fernando Alonso.

The man is curled over in a chair he is two days away from establishing residency in, head resting alongside Lance’s bruised thigh, finger looped through his son’s limp pinkie. It is a sight that Lawrence wishes wasn’t familiar. A sight that forces him to confront the truth of their relationship, not that they were doing a phenomenal job at hiding it in the first place.

Lance only smiles, genuinely smiles, at things he cares about – that he’s deemed worthy of expending the energy on. Chloe’s dog, Chloe, his mother, good food, the first snow fall in Montreal that promises decent skiing and now apparently Formula 1 veteran, Fernando Alonso. Lawrence knows his son, knows he is a bad liar because his tell is written in the very core of him. He’s spent too many years and too many billions trying to make Lance smile the way Fernando has so easily managed it.

But now Lance smiles at nothing, and Lawrence finds he doesn’t mind if Fernando beats him to it. He just wants his son back.

“His, um, his eyebrows. I think they twitched today,” he tells the nurse when he comes to check Lance’s vitals.

“They could have,” the nurse says, not dismissive, but not validating to Lawrence’s optimism either. He lifts Lance’s sheets to inspect the healing along Lance’s stomach and disturbs Fernando from his sleep in the process. Bandages and gauze are peeled away with careful fingers and then there is the sight of Lance’s mutilated abdomen, just as gruesome as the night they first wheeled him out of surgery. Pink skin, still raw and angry and raised against the stitching holding him together. Skin yellowing around the cut, only marginally better than the dark bruising that was once there. It is the visible reminder that the steering column of Lance’s car, a car Lawrence had given him and deemed safe, nearly took him away for good.

“His neurological activity has been improving since we took him off the sedatives,” the nurse says, when he glances at Lawrence and seems to see the guilt. It is meant as a piece of good fortune, instead it reminds Lawrence of the medically induced coma they are working to ease Lance out of. The coma he was in to prevent seizures caused by the swelling on his brain. Because he’d hit the wall at a top speed of nearly 200 KPH and his helmet had done an admirable job of keeping him together but could only manage so much.

“So when can the tube be removed?” Fernando asks, wiping at the sleep crusted at the corners of his eyes. He looks annoyed to be woken, like he was having a particularly wonderful dream. Lawrence envies his ability to sleep at all.

“We’re not there yet.”

Fernando grumbles something in Spanish. The nurse, unfortunately, is fluent, “If you want him to keep breathing, then yes.”

“Is choking him. He would hate it.”

“Well, he’s not really in a position to make requests.”

A strange position for both Lance and Lawrence to be in. The first instance where money does not hold sway, other than affording Lance the luxury of a private suite and all the comforts that can be provided while he remains unconscious and unmoving. It also secures a lounge that neither Fernando nor Lawrence have made much use of. Other than to make cheap cups of coffee from the Keurig and complain about the taste.

“Breakfast?” Fernando asks, once the nurse deems Lance safe and unchanged, leaving both men to sit awkwardly with Lance being the divide between them.

Lawrence shrugs, “Sure.”

“Shit coffee?”

“Is there anything else?

“Shit tea I think.”

Lawrence laughs, dry and humorless, “Coffee’s fine.”

If you put enough milk in it, it’s almost drinkable. But Lawrence doesn’t actually care about the taste, it’s more the caffeine he needs – or, more accurately, the sleep he is fighting. There is a fear in him that if he closes his eyes Lance will somehow stop breathing for good in his absence. Like he’s only still here because Lawrence’s unwavering control is willing him to be, and not the ventilator.

“You sleep yet?” Fernando asks when he returns with two steaming styrofoam cups of joe, offering one to Lawrence with the milk already added. Fourteen days is a long time to get to know someone when you’re both tied to an unconscious twenty-five year old.

Lawrence shakes his head and sips from the coffee gratefully, it’s clear he’s been here too long because the sludge has begun to go down easier. “No, not yet. Didn’t want him to wake up alone.”

It’s clear from Lance’s condition that he will not be alert anytime soon, but Lawrence doesn’t want to risk it. He hadn’t been there after Spain, had only gotten to the hospital two days later when Lance was already post-op and loopy from the pain meds.

“Hi dad,” he’d slurred, “I’m all good now.” He’d proceeded to try to give Lawrence two thumbs up, but the casts they’d cemented his wrists in were clunky and his body uncoordinated. Lawrence had spent the flight speaking with Lance’s doctor, discussing everything from cost to recovery plan. Everything had been clinical and controlled until he was faced with the sight of Lance, disheveled and clad in a hospital gown half hanging off one shoulder, that made it all hit him like a freight truck.

He can’t miss being here when Lance wakes up, not again. He had his assistant bring him his laptop and any pressing work, has Fernando bring him coffee, has his wife bring him changes of clothes and the occasional cup of decent espresso, and he sometimes dozes off in the straight-backed chair, but waking up with a crick in his neck and pain in his back is enough to keep him fighting against it. He knows it’s all starting to take a toll though. When he goes to the bathroom he is faced with the sight of a man who sits just outside of death’s door, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. Sometimes he thinks Lance might be waiting there with him, it’s not always easy to chalk that up to sleep deprivation.

“I will watch him,” Fernando says, sipping from his coffee, “Wake you up if anything changes.”

“No, no. I’m okay.”

“You will end up in a hospital bed beside him soon,” Fernando shrugs, like he’s unbothered by the thought, “If you do not rest.”

He’s right, Lawrence knows it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Besides, he is not the only one who has found it impossible to leave Lance’s side. It’s race day in Hungary and Fernando isn’t in a car. Both of the Aston drivers have been replaced by their reserves, morale in the garage has reached an all-time low. Fernando isn’t in the headspace to race though, so Lawrence doesn’t press it. He doesn’t need two drivers on life support.

“I’m okay for now.”

Fernando shrugs again, and then drops it. He is not the sort to hold someone’s hand and coax them into doing something. Lawrence thinks that’s maybe why Lance might like him. His son has always been stubborn, always pushed against those who try to guide him, or those who try to tell him he’s somewhere he does not belong. Lawrence has learned he performs best under pressure, when he has something to prove, which was why he had wanted Fernando as their second driver to begin with. The downside to Lance’s unwavering drive is that he often ignored the limit, pushed where he shouldn’t, took risks that were unneeded, and then ended up paying the price for his mistakes.

Silverstone wasn’t Lance’s first crash, it was just the first where he hadn’t managed to get out on his own. At first Lawrence hadn’t been all too worried. In the small span of time where he’d known Lance had gone off, but the cameras hadn’t found him yet, he’d been disappointed, frustrated because they both, Lance and Fernando, had been doing so well. Fernando was pushing, ignoring team orders, but Lance was responding, defending, winning. It had felt, at first, like a confirmation of all that Lawrence knew to be true. That Lance was good, great even, he just needed a fire lit under his ass and something to work for.

And then the cameras found him.

‘Stroll is in the wall!’

‘Lance? Lance are you alright? Lance. Respond. Confirm you’re alright.’

The silence had stretched on, the crackle in Lawrence’s headphones sending a chill down his spine. Lance’s race engineer had radioed him again and again, but each time the empty crackle only seemed to grow in length.

‘Lance, confirm you are alright. Confirm.’ It stopped becoming a question, but a hopeful demand.

Lawrence had watched as Fernando stumbled out of his own car, barely waiting until the vehicle had stopped moving before he was sprinting across the gravel toward where Lance’s car was crumpled against the wall. There was smoke, flames breaking out at the rear end. He turned away when Fernando pulled Lance from the wreckage, had seen the flash of blood spreading rapidly across the green of Lance’s suit and knew there would be no response.

He hasn’t thanked Fernando for saving his son, hasn’t forgiven him for the crash either. They speak around it in the same way they speak around Fernando’s finger around Lance’s pinkie. It is becoming harder as the days stretch on, harder to ignore the desperate way Fernando looks at Lance sometimes, like he is willing him back into consciousness with the same force he pulled him from the car with.

“His mother is coming by today,” he says instead, pointedly ignoring how Fernando is sipping from his coffee with one hand and holding Lance with the other.

“How long?”

“She hasn’t said, probably no more than an hour.”

Claire can’t stand to see Lance like this. Singapore had been bad enough for her, this has been her worst nightmare. She visits Lance in short bursts, where she can ensure he is still breathing, even if it’s not of his own will yet. They don’t speak, in the same way he and Fernando hardly do, too much tension that threatens to boil over and they don’t want any of it to land on Lance. People in comas can sometimes hear what’s going on around them, at least that is what Lawrence has been told, so they all play nice in hopes it will mean the kid will come back to them faster.

Claire visits, Fernando leaves. Claire leaves, Fernando returns. Lawrence sits immovable through it all and Lance remains unchanged. A system.

“I will go, text me when I can come back?”

Lawrence nods. He ignores the way Fernando casts one last look at Lance, the longing, the worry, the guilt that is imbedded there. He is mad at Fernando in the same way he is mad at himself, he blames Fernando for causing the crash, blames himself for putting Lance in the car, like they were both responsible for Lance being here in the first place. But Lance has broken two wrists biking, ruptured his eardrum wakeboarding, sprained his ankle snowboarding, and he’d returned to all of those sports without pause afterward. If time could be reversed, neither he nor Fernando could have kept Lance out of that car. Because Lance is stubborn, it’s who he is. He doesn’t give up, even when the odds are stacked against him, and that’s how Lawrence knows he will wake up. He has unwavering faith.

———————————-

“We should have cards,” Fernando says, two days later, when they’re both sitting in silence watching the third rerun of Jumanji on the tv. “Or that game, the hippo one, something to do.”

“Hungry hippos?” “That one, yes.”

Lawrence knows it, knows Lance and Chloe used to play it because he can still remember the chaotic noise of it – Lance’s frustrated yells when he lost. It used to give him a headache.

The sparsely used lounge, it turns out, has a deck of cards stored in a cabinet. Lawrence finds it when he’s searching for spare sugar for his third cup of coffee that day, since they’d exhausted the packets stocked at the coffee bar.

“Do you have a 2?” Fernando asks, leaning forward in his chair, propping his chin on one hand and his large collection of cards in the other.

“Go fish.”

Fernando groans, reaches out to grab a card from where they’ve balanced them on Lance’s knee. There’s four threes spread across his thigh and four sixes along his calf, both of them are Lawrence’s wins.

“You have a four?”

Annoyed, Fernando resignedly passes the card over Lance’s body.

—————————

On day seventeen, Lawrence sleeps. It is not entirely his choice, but rather his body’s refusal to operate any further without rest. He stands to go to the bathroom, and when he does the room spins. Fernando catches him, guides him to the couch in the lounge.

When he wakes up there’s a blanket thrown over him and a stiff pillow beneath his head. It is dark out, Lawrence is thrown by the lack of light because it had been distinctly morning when he had gone to pee. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to wipe the sleep from his eyes and blink until the room comes into focus.

Distantly, he can still hear the steady beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, the sounds that reassure him Lance did not give up while Lawrence slept soundly. It is only comforting for a moment, until he remembers the dream he had in which Lance was screaming for help and Lawrence could not reach him. The way he kept trying to claw his way through debris and rubble to reach his son, but the screams only seemed to grow further and further away until they tapered off into whimpers and then into the crushing sound of silence.

He stumbles from the couch, pulling the twisted blanket from his body as he goes, and only breathes when Lance is in his sight once more.

In the dark, the shadows of his face seems more prominent, the paleness of his skin more ghostly. Lance doesn’t tan, he goes from white to burned in the span of a few hours, but he is not normally the color of a piece of paper either. It’s eerie, discomforting, makes Lawrence think of his choked off screams from the dream.

Fernando seems to have also lost his battle with sleep, the man is passed out once more with his head pillowed on Lance’s bed. His hand rests around Lance’s wrist, an upgrade from the pinkie, fingers resting along the kid’s pulse point.

Lawrence, for the first time, truly tries to take stock of his son’s injuries. He studies the bruising on his face, the swelling that has gone down and been replaced with bruised eyes and tender skin. The yellowing marks around his neck that continue below the line of his hospital gown. The two splinted fingers of his right hand that Fernando has been so careful to avoid. It’s better than it had been, easier to look at, but still makes Lawrence taste bile at the back of his throat.

‘He’s lucky to have survived at all,’ he’d overheard one of the nurses say while Lance was still confined to the ICU. He’d been on the phone with Claire and had to physically hold himself back from saying something nasty. But he supposes, now that he really looks at Lance, they hadn’t been wrong. A skull fracture, major blunt force trauma, the g-forces he’d sustained to his body in the crash, it is a miracle he’s even still here.

Lawrence feels suddenly grateful, to God, or to Fernando, he isn’t sure which.

“Lance?” he whispers, like the boy will suddenly open his eyes. Like he’s a child asleep in his bed and Lawrence can rouse him with a gentle shake to his shoulder and a kiss to his temple. Like it’s an early morning where he can pull a groggy Lance from his bed and bring him to the track before the dew has even dried from the grass, watch him do laps in a kart that still sits on the side of too big for him.

Lance doesn’t wake up, but Lawrence is almost positive he sees his finger’s twitch, curling instinctively in his sleep. He doesn’t miss that it’s fingers from the hand Fernando is clinging to, the same pinkie the Spaniard had made his lifeline.

———————————

The next morning he proposes Fernando return to racing. Media day starts in Belgium tomorrow and they could have Fernando there in time if he left within the hour.

“No,” Fernando states, not even considering, not even bothering to have emotion in his voice.

Lawrence grinds his teeth, “We can’t keep making excuses, Fernando. There’s money tied-up in this, my money. You have a contract-.”

“And? Fuck your money. I do not care about your money, or the sponsors. Have Felipe race the rest of the season. I will not go.”

Lawrence is standing at the foot of Lance’s bed, arms crossed, anger beginning to course through him. Fernando, relaxed in his chair, with his hand around his son’s wrist looks right at home. Lawrence thinks of those same hands pulling Lance from his burning car, those hands pressing forcefully to Lance’s wound, blood coating his gloves and soaking through to his fingers. He thinks of Lance holding those hands, kissing them, knowing them because Lance has idolized Fernando since he was a child and Lawrence knows the look he gives Fernando now is not that of an awed fan but that of someone who has grown into something more.

“What are you,” Lawrence finds himself blurting out, asking not because he really wants to know, but because he needs to, “to him, what are you?”

Fernando looks at him, blinks, shrugs, “I do not know.”

The resigned honesty of it makes him even angrier.

“But more than teammates?” He demands, “More than a mentor? I know my son, Fernando, do not lie to me.” Lance once dated a girl who he was convinced he was going to marry. Took her to races, to dinners, to birthdays and parties and every family event he could conceivably sneak her into. He’d looked at her with the same wide-eyed wonder Lawrence sometimes caught him looking at Fernando with, like he couldn’t believe they would settle for someone like him. Like he was only worth settling for.

“More, yes,” Fernando concedes, but doesn’t expand.

“He loves you, I think,” Lawrence says, because he has never seen Lance look at anyone, since that girl, the way he looks at the man.

Fernando finally looks sad then, face falling, eyes filling with that familiar guilt.

“I know.”

“He’s almost half your age.”

“I know,” the guilt deepens. He finally drops Lance’s wrist, pulls away and keeps his hands curled in his lap, like he realizes this is finally the moment Lawrence stops ignoring the truth of them.

Lawrence thinks about asking him to leave, knows he could force him to go to Belgium if he wanted, bring out terms like ‘breach of contract’ and ‘lawsuit’, but Lawrence is not a cruel man, especially not where Lance is concerned. He allowed that girl into their lives, into his own birthday party that was meant only to be for close family, all because Lance had asked. And when they’d broken up, he’d put Lance back together – let him cry and scream and throw the belongings of his room around until there was no more energy left in the kid and then he’d sat Lance down and told him it would all be okay. He kept saying that. Through Formula 3 when Lance would win and still not feel like it was enough because the other boys would say he bought the trophy. When he hit Formula 1 and would go to his driver’s room instead of the media pen after a race because the tears wouldn’t stop flowing and his own frustration at himself became too much. Lawrence would be there, he would always be there. But Fernando was here now too, and he guessed that counted for something.

He uncrosses his arms, drops the fight because he’s tired and the room is too small for such arguments, “You stay now, and you better mean it.”

Fernando swallows, nods, “Okay.”

Felipe and Stoffel race in Spa on Sunday.

——————————

By week four, Lawrence is beginning to lose it. He’s become immune to the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the bland taste of the cafeteria food, the beeping of machinery that keeps Lance alive. It all becomes background noise, until he’s numb to it all, just existing. The coffee doesn’t taste bad anymore, it tastes like nothing at all.

He watches Jumanji for the sixth time and finds that the film is growing on him.

Fernando has not left.

“So how did it start?” Lawrence asks one night. He’s twirling hospital spaghetti on a fork, picking at hamburger meat listlessly with the metal prongs.

Fernando slurps one of the noodles, “Me and him?” he asks, pointing to Lance with his own silverware.

Lawrence nods. He has gone past avoiding the topic to wanting to understand it.

“Um,” Fernando starts, “Bahrain, I think.”

“This year?”

“No, uh, last.”

So when Fernando had sang Lance’s praises to the cameras. Lawrence had assumed that was all for show. He’d been warned of the drivers poor sportsmanship, his un-teammate-like behavior.

“So you weren’t trying to impress me?”

“No I was,” Fernando admits, “wanted you to think you had gotten your money’s worth at first.”

Fernando had not come cheap, but he still wasn’t as much as Newey was shaping up to be. He’d taken a good chunk from Lawrence, but not enough that he would seem like a bad investment so early on. He maybe had been laying the groundwork for a contract extension, if the car proved to be a challenger.

“So when did it-?”

“Become serious? Summer break.”

Lawrence thinks he remembers that, Lance mentioning something about a yacht, his voice lilting with obvious joy over the phone. You could hear when Lance smiled, his voice changing with the shape of it. They’d had lunch a few days later and there was an obvious mark on Lance’s neck, something he kept trying to hide with a hand when he would lean an elbow on the table and rest his neck against his palm. Lawrence didn’t care to know about his son’s sex life, in the same way he cared little about Chloe’s, he cared only that both of his kids were happy. And at the time, Lance had seemed to be. He hadn’t questioned it past that, even when he'd seen Fernando’s name pop up as a text notification on Lance’s phone and seen the way Lance blushed over his salmon and orzo.

“And you’ve talked about it, you and him? About the future? He’s young, Fernando. He can make his own choices, yes, but I don’t know if he’s thinking in the long-term yet, not really.”

He doesn’t meant to imply Fernando is old, but they’ve both been twenty-five, both known how it seems like you are weathered and just beginning all at once. Like you have the answers, you just haven’t figured out where to apply them yet.

Fernando bites at another noodle, “Yes, we have talked. Some. But it’s not- we are not- I don’t know.”

“Serious?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re here. You don’t have to be.”

“It’s serious enough for this. I need to be here, when he wakes up, not racing circles. I would be no good in the car right now. My head is-“ he motions vaguely in the air with his fork, a piece of tomato soaked hamburger falls off of it and plops onto the white linens of Lance’s sheets. Lawrence understands that. Can respect it even. He also maybe isn’t the one to judge a relationship. Not with a divorce under his belt and his own wife younger than him. He just has the inherent need to make sure Lance is safe, cared for. He’s had the same need since he first held Chloe in his arms and realized what it was to be a father.

Fernando picks up the hamburger, drops if back onto his own plate, but the red stain it leaves behind stays.

————————

Twenty-nine days after Lance’s crash Lawrence is returning from making his daily Keurig coffee, stirring the milk into the sludge with a stir stick when he looks up to see Lance blinking back at him.

The cup falls from his hands, splatters against the linoleum and spreads in a puddle across the floor. Specks of it land on his dress pants, some of it on his hands, he hardly notices the burn of it. Lance, bleary-eyed and groggy stares at him, blinks slowly.

“Lance,” Lawrence sobs. Lance’s eyebrows furrow, the movement so startling because he has been without any for so long that Lawrence cannot help the strangled sound that escapes him. The noise pulls Fernando from his sleep, he lifts his head from the bed and looks from Lawrence to Lance before letting out a cry of his own.

Lance lifts a lethargic hand to the tubing at his mouth, tries to pull it out with muddled fingers.

“Aye, no,” Fernando panics, pulling Lance’s finger away and trapping them in his own grip, “We’ll get someone, we take it out now, yes?”

Lance nods, makes a choked sound around the polyvinyl. His fingers curl around Fernando’s hand, gripping, responding to the touch. Lawrence can’t stop looking at the movement as he stumbles for the call button beside Lance’s bed. He can’t stop shaking. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” Fernando soothes, brushing Lance’s hair back from his forehead in an intimately calming gesture.

Lance’s panicked breathing through his nose worsens. He looks from Fernando to Lawrence with ever-widening eyes.

“You’re okay, son,” Lawrence tries, kneeling beside Lance’s bed and pressing a firm hand to his shoulder when Lance tries to rise against the wires and tubing keeping him down.

The coffee soaks into the knee of his pants. Lance chokes again.

“You’re okay,” they both repeat, hoping that it will be true.

#strollonso #strollonso fic #probably so many medical inaccuracies but whatever ya know #google was my friend but also probably lied to me at points #lance stroll #fernando alonso #my fic

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thewritingofspencerrose · 3 months

Text

Nico Hischier x Social Media Intern OC

"Hey, can you give my friend over there a big smile?" Jack prompts his buddie, the little boy nodding but simply continuing to smile at Jack.

The perfect photo.

"Thank you boys!" I thank, the little boy blushing brightly as I wave a little at him.

"Can I see the photo?" My buddie asks, a little girl named Audrey who has spent our time together rambling on about how she wants be just like me when she's older. Or, in other terms, stealing my heart that was already weak.

"Yeah, of course," I agree, moving the camera to be in her view where she sits crisscrossed beside me. "Here's Jack who just walked through," the explanation comes with the photo, "And before him was his brother Luke," I continue, scrolling through.

"Oh! Here's another one!" She points out, tapping my leg and pointing to where Nico walks in, holding the hand of another little girl who smiling so bright. He's already waving at Audrey and I, the largest smile on his face as he prompts his buddie to smile at me.

His smile is so bright as he looks at the little girls at our sides, the one at his side rambling on about her hockey game the other day and he's just nodding along, loving every minute of it.

They're walking slow, allowing me the chance to hand my space pocket camera to Audrey to get a few photos as well. You can see how happy is in this moment, and he looks so attractive when he's being all happy protective grizzly bear.

He'll be such a great dad.

And you can blame it on the fact that it's been a long week, that Audrey had warmed my heart up for this moment, or that I'm unfortunately ovulating.

But God I want to make him a dad. Two years in, how have we never had the kids talk.

Nico doesn't know why these thoughts have never flooded his mind before. With no other girl he's dated has he even been tempted by the idea of kids. But with Belle, all he can think as he walks in, half listening to the kids he's with talking about hockey, is how hot it is to see her doing what she loves, camera in hand, with a little girl practically curled into her side babbling about being just like her, God all he wants to do is take her home and make her a mom.

But that can't happen, he has a game to play, she has pictures to take, and they haven't even discussed having kids yet.

___

"It was so good to meet you Audrey, thank you so much for hanging out with me during the game!" I thank, returning the tight hug she's giving me as her parents and older brother stand feet away, smiling down at us.

"Thank you so much for taking her around with you, we've brought her a couple of times before to watch as birthday gifts to Eric," Audrey's mom explains, gesturing to the brother, "But she saw you running around the first game with your camera and that's all she's talked about since."

I want to cry.

Hugging her a little tighter, I pull away, smiling down. "If you ever need a reference, you know where to find me," I assure, standing up and patting the dust off my legs.

"Thank you!" She thanks, smiling brightly and running off, her parents waving with silent thanks as they walk away.

His arms wrap around my waist before I even realize that he's finished changing up, large hands resting over my stomach like he knows where my thoughts have been all night.

"Are you ready to go home, Schatz?" He low voice meets me ear, his lips meeting the point just beneath it.

"More than," unraveling his hands isn't easy, their warmth and strength wanting to remain exactly where they are, but he lets me take his left into my right, his bag resting on his shoulder. A bag he's continuously shifting, and anxious tick of his when his mind is full after a loss, but the boys won. "Neeks, whats wrong?"

His gorgeous eyes look down to me, sparkling with something I don't think I've ever seen before. Nico doesn't answer though, just smiles and pulls open the door of his car, allowing me to hoist myself into the passenger side as he rounds the car, putting his gear in the back seat on his way.

"I've just been thinking about something," He finally answers my question, kicking the car into gear.

"Are you going to key me into what that is?" Neeks is a chronic over thinker, and the last thing he needs is that kicking into gear and allowing him to be off his game.

But he's silent again, one hand moving to its usual place on my thigh and his eyes on the road. It's like this for almost our entire drive, his eyes only drifting to me every once in a while and mine doing the same.

Until the last stoplight turns red just as we approach. I can feel his eyes move to the side of my face before I slowly glance over, that same sparkle lighting up the car as his face glows red in the light.

"You're so handsome," I can't help but mumble, running my hand across his cheek, his head leaning in to my touch.

"I think we should have a baby."

He what?

"I did not mean to say it like that," His wide eyes that were once rested stare.

"Neeks, what are you talking about?"

He' s the one who removes my hand from his cheek, bringing it between his own and kissing my knuckles.

"You should have seen yourself tonight with that little girl, she loved you. Then I looked down to my buddie and heard her talking about hockey all I could think is that I wanted us to have that. A little you or a little me," Is his explanation. "I am aware we haven't talked about this -"

"Neeks all I've been thinking about tonight is that you would be an amazing father," I interrupt, and the shining in his eyes grows.

"It's not nice to joke with the man who said he wanted to put a baby in you, Schatz," those few words and his eyes are darkening.

"I'm serious Nico, you'd be an amazing father," And its as the lust lightens from his eyes that the light turns green, a honk from behind us making us both jump.

"We'll be discussing this more at home," He requests, my hand squeezing his in response.

"You'd be so hot as a girl dad," I decide to chime after a moment of silence, his hand squeezing mine again only to be followed by a low groan.

"Schatz."

as promised, the Nico fic! i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it and always be sure to send in requests if you ever have ideas!

#original character #the writing of spencer rose #nhl fanfiction #nico hischier x oc #nico hischier #social media management

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cuffmeinblack · 1 year

Text

Because you're mine

Ominis Gaunt x Sebastian Sallow / Ominis Gaunt x Garreth Weasley

3.3k words

Summary: Sebastian is alarmed by Garreth's sudden interest in Ominis and decides to remind him who he belongs to.

A/n: Okay you know I wrote that lovely wholesome Garrinis fic. Well I rewrote the whole first chapter and turned it into Sebinis smut. Erm. Enjoy. I'm so sorry, Garreth!

Ominis had noticed his change in fortunes during Potions—the ingredients he found arranged for him, the way his concoctions would mysteriously settle to a simmer after nearly boiling over, and his improving practical grades which he couldn't attribute to any sort of improvement in his ability. He thought that Sebastian must be helping him, finally growing tired of Ominis' stubborn refusal to ask for, or accept, his assistance. He didn't want to press the subject, but it irked Ominis that Sebastian would subvert his wishes, even if it ultimately benefitted him.

So it came as a surprise that Ominis' performance in Potions was particularly bad this week, and he wondered if Sebastian was distracted, or had finally decided to withdraw his help, realising that Ominis would neither ask for it or thank him directly.

"Sebastian," Ominis muttered across the table.

"Mmmm?"

"Are you angry with me?"

"What? Why would I be angry with you?" Sebastian asked.

"I've noticed you're not assisting me as much this week, my Wiggenweld potion is utter rubbish. Wish I could just replace it with one from J. Pippin's…," Ominis sighed.

"What are you talking about, Ominis?"

Ominis simply frowned and waited for Sebastian's brain to catch up. When the silence stretched on, he finally elaborated.

"I notice the little things you do to help, you know," Ominis explained.

"I don't…I mean I would, but you won't let me."

Ominis wasn't sure how to process his answer—had he imagined the whole thing, or was Sebastian lying to avoid Ominis' annoyance? He shook his head and lapsed into silence as he received another poor grade from Sharp, who appeared to be regretting his recent praise. Ominis mulled over the situation on the way to dinner after their lesson ended—what was different this week? The only difference he could think of was the absence of resident experimental potion brewer Garreth Weasley. The Gryffindor was a talented potions student but often spent his time in and out of lessons thinking up increasingly elaborate concoctions to force on unsuspecting first years in the name of science. Ominis picked at his food as he turned the thoughts over until Sebastian nudged him hard in the arm, causing him to wince.

"What's wrong with you?" Sebastian asked, his voice low.

"Just thinking about something," Ominis muttered.

"Obviously, what?"

"I've noticed things in our Potions classes, things I can't really explain."

"Does this have to do with Sharp's comment earlier?" Sebastian asked.

"Yes. I thought you were helping me because I noticed ingredients appearing near me whenever I needed them…"

"Are you sure? Maybe you'd just missed them on the desk before."

"No, I'd missed some of them in the store cupboard. And sometimes my mixture will be on the brink of boiling over and the flame will right itself before I even have a chance to react."

"Huh," Sebastian said, clearly unbelieving.

"You think I'm imagining it don't you? But this week my performance has been awful, and I can't understand what's changed."

"Maybe you're just tired, Ominis," Sebastian muttered.

"Maybe."

The following week they were brewing Edurus potion, Ominis was reading the recipe with his wand pointed at the page and privately hoping that his good luck would return soon, lest he end up with another poor grade.

"What are you up to, Weasley?" Sebastian called out next to him.

Ominis listened as Garreth muttered a reply behind him.

"What? Nothing…just the usual…don't tell Sharp."

"You know what I mean, I saw you point your wand over here," Sebastian said.

"No I didn't, what are you talking about?" Garreth spluttered.

Ominis frowned at the exchange, waiting for Garreth's explanation but it never came, and Sebastian seemed to decide he'd been mistaken as he once again fell silent next to him, but the coincidence didn't sit right with Ominis. He couldn't fathom the reason for his interference with his potion brewing, but he was determined to find it out.

Ominis found Garreth outside of the Gryffindor common room before breakfast the following day, as he leaned against the wall next to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who kept accusing him of spying on her house. Garreth stepped out of the portrait hole and thankfully spotted Ominis.

"Ominis, are you…okay?" he said as he approached.

"Ah, Garreth. May I have a word?" Ominis asked.

"Oh, yes alright. How can I help?"

"Have you been tampering with my cauldron in potions?" Ominis said, crossing his arms.

"What? No! Not tampering. I just…wanted to help," Garreth muttered in reply.

So Ominis hadn't imagined it, after all. The confusion made way for anger as he tried to control his temper.

"Fiddling with my work without my permission is called tampering, Weasley."

"I'm sorry, I just noticed Sallow wasn't helping you and you never ask…"

"There's a reason I don't ask. I'm quite capable of making my own mistakes and owning them."

"Right, of course. I'll stop, sorry."

Ominis turned to leave but stopped himself, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Why?" he asked.

"What?"

"Why are you helping me?"

Garreth sighed and shuffled his feet, moving closer to Ominis and lowering his voice.

"I like you," he whispered.

"You like me?" Ominis replied with a frown.

"Yes. You know."

"Oh. Oh." Ominis' face flushed as the meaning dawned on him.

"Sorry, I know you don't really talk to me much. But you're…very attractive."

"I wouldn't know," Ominis said, trying to fight the urge to run away.

"Surely you've been told," Garreth whispered.

"Sebastian doesn't make a habit of telling me how handsome I look funnily enough," Ominis drawled.

"Well, you are."

"Thank you. Erm, I'll talk to you later, then," Ominis said.

He turned once again to leave the corridor but more words were tumbling out of his mouth.

"Garreth?"

"Yes?"

"Will you continue to help me?"

"Only if you want me to."

"I would," Ominis said, turning to leave.

He smiled to himself as he walked back to his own common room, feeling slightly giddy—he'd been angry about the interference but after hearing the reason why, it suddenly made a lot more sense. Ominis wasn't used to being the object of anyone's desires, or at least not knowingly, and whilst he couldn't say the feeling was immediately reciprocated it was gratifying to be made aware of the attraction, and Ominis was curious to find out more.

Two days later they had their next Potions lesson, and Garreth, true to his word, immediately put his bag down next to Ominis and started setting up his cauldron.

"Hello, lads. Looking forward to brewing this Thunderbrew potion? Tricky, but I think I have a knack for it," he said brightly.

"Weasley, what are you doing here?" Sebastian asked beside him, straight to the point.

"Garreth has offered to assist me, Sebastian," Ominis said calmly.

"I can help you, Ominis," Sebastian said quietly.

"Well, Garreth offered and frankly he's better at potions than you," Ominis teased with a smirk.

"Fine," Sebastian muttered, returning to his work.

"I'll grab us all some ingredients," Garreth said brightly, brushing past Ominis' shoulder as he retreated to the store room.

"Do you really want Weasley helping you? He's insufferable," Sebastian whispered.

"Why does he irk you so, Sebastian? I've always found him agreeable enough."

"He's so desperate," he muttered, pulling away from Ominis as Garreth's footsteps approached.

Garreth returned with the shrivelfigs, bottles of stench of the dead and leech juice and divvied up the supplies between the three of them. The lesson passed with some idle chat amongst Sebastian's sarcastic remarks as Garreth helped Ominis where he needed it. He didn't need a lot of assistance, but was grateful when Garreth had stepped in to describe the colour of his concoction, Ominis then deducing correctly that he needed to add more shrivelfig—it wasn't an overbearing or coddling kind of help, and Ominis couldn't help but smile at Garreth's kindness.

"Thank you, Garreth," Ominis said at the end of the lesson.

Garreth cleared his throat awkwardly, muttering his thanks.

"Will you walk with me?" Ominis asked as they left the classroom.

"Yes," Garreth responded rather quickly.

Sebastian had already left ahead of them in a huff, and Ominis felt for Garreth's arm, making him flinch slightly as he placed a hand on his bicep.

"Where do you want to walk to?" Garreth asked quietly.

"I don't mind, somewhere quiet," Ominis responded.

Garreth led Ominis outside to the grassy area outside of the Herbology greenhouses—it was a pleasant day, but most students would still be in their lessons, and Garreth and Ominis had a free period. The pair walked slowly as they talked about their studies on the way to the greenhouses as Garreth enthusiastically relayed his love for Ominis' most despised subject, but Ominis found the passion in his voice to be endearing even if the subject matter left a lot to be desired.

Garreth led Ominis to behind an old oak tree behind the path, amongst the grass and flower borders, and stopped walking, turning towards him.

"Well, here we are. I thought it would be nice to be outside in the sun," Garreth said.

"I agree, it's a lovely day," Ominis nodded.

Ominis removed his hand from Garreth's arm and sat carefully in the grass, crossing his legs and placing his hands in his lap as Garreth sat himself next to him, facing away from the tree, their knees grazing. Ominis could practically feel the nerves radiating from him and he repressed a smile at the slightly absurd thought of him having such an effect on anyone.

"Can I ask a favour?" Ominis asked.

"Yes, of course, what is it?" Garreth responded.

"Can I…map your face?" Ominis said.

A silence passed between them and Ominis held up his hand in answer.

"Oh, you want to…yes, okay," Garreth said.

"Thank you, I've only bothered to do this with Sebastian so I'm afraid he's my only basis for comparison."

"Ah, then you might be disappointed."

Ominis smiled in reply and shuffled himself to face him, reaching out a hand slowly towards his face. Garreth stayed as still as he could as Ominis' hand found him, gently tracing his cheek, up to his temple. His thumb ran down between his eyebrows, over his nose and down towards his mouth as Ominis felt a stirring in his gut at Garreth's warm, heavy breaths against his skin. Ominis brushed his soft lips and ran his fingers along his jaw, finally pulling his hand away, satisfied with the mental image he had conjured.

"Thank you, that helps," Ominis said with a smile. "And no, I'm not disappointed."

Garreth laughed nervously and Ominis' heart fluttered slightly at the sound. He sensed Garreth's trepidation and willed himself to reach out to place his hand on his knee but overshot and gripped his thigh. Ominis felt his face burning as Garreth flinched and inhaled sharply, readying himself to pull away before Garreth caught his wrist in his hand still against his leg. Ominis smiled and once again felt Garreth's breath against his skin, this time on his mouth as he leaned forward to meet him in a kiss, Ominis' heart now ready to burst from his chest. The kiss was quick and unsure, but he wanted more—Ominis reached out to snake a hand around Garreth's neck and pulled him toward him again.

Their lips met and lingered, softly brushing together in timid exploration until Garreth's tongue ran along his lower lip, making Ominis dig his fingers into his thigh before reciprocating with his own tongue. Merlin, this felt good. The kiss deepened, Garreth now running his hands through Ominis' hair and tugging as they made quietly appreciative noises into each other's mouths. Ominis was thoroughly enjoying himself, getting lost in his soft, wet lips, his hands exploring the muscular thighs and long hair in front of him, so much so that his trousers were now uncomfortably tight. He shuffled closer towards Garreth so that he was practically sitting in his lap, his crossed legs overlapping him as Garreth moaned softly and Ominis pulled away with a sly smile.

"Definitely not disappointed," Ominis said truthfully.

Ominis returned to the common room shortly after his heated exchange of tongues with Garreth, feeling exhilarated, albeit slightly frustrated, to meet the irritated questioning of Sebastian before he had barely sat down.

"Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk with Garreth," Ominis said, settling into the plush sofa next to Sebastian.

"Oh, it's Garreth now is it? What did he want?"

"We talked, I thanked him for his assistance, and then he kissed me," Ominis replied with a smile.

A stunned silence stretched between them as Sebastian shuffled on the cushion to face Ominis.

"What?" Sebastian asked quietly.

"Mmm it was quite enjoyable. Is Garreth considered attractive? He seems to have nice lips, a good jaw, and his hair is very soft," Ominis recalled, his thoughts returning to Garreth's tongue flicking over his lips.

"Seriously?" Sebastian asked incredulously.

"And his voice is rather nice, too."

"You think his voice is nice," Sebastian repeated blankly.

Ominis nodded and smirked at Sebastian's reaction—truth be told, he'd only ever been enticed by one other voice, but it was currently scolding him rather than whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Ominis couldn't help but tease Sebastian, knowing how much it bothered him to see him interested in Garreth for whatever reason.

"So what, you're going to fuck Weasley now because he showed you a bit of attention?"

Ominis frowned at the agressive tone in his voice.

"Why are you so bothered, Sebastian?"

"Because it's him. Because…," Sebastian started but didn't finish, because his lips were otherwise occupied as they found Ominis' mouth.

Ominis hadn't been expecting it, or the hand that held his head in place, or the tongue that teased at his lips. He hadn't been expecting it but he'd wanted it, in the deepest, darkest depths of his mind lived the fantasies of frantic fumblings with his best friend, the longing urges to feel his mouth on his, and the memories of days spent pleasuring himself to the sound of his voice saying the most filthy things he could imagine. Ominis hadn't considered that Sebastian might want him back, and whether it was out of pure jealousy and hatred for Garreth or not, he didn't care much in that moment as his tongue explored Sebastian's mouth with quiet moans that were entirely inappropriate for the common room. Ominis pulled away, with great difficulty against Sebastian's steadying hand against the back of his head.

"Let's go upstairs," Sebastian said, pulling his wrist to guide him to the dormitory.

Ominis' heart pounded in his chest as they entered the room and Sebastian wasted no time in resuming their kiss, his fingers fumbling the clasp on Ominis' robe and pushing it roughly off his shoulders to the floor. He took the suggestion and did the same to Sebastian, ridding him of his numerous layers until they stood bare-chested in front of each other. Ominis ran his hands over his warm chest, the thick hair curling around his fingers as Sebastian manoeuvred them towards the bed, the back of Ominis' legs hitting the mattress and causing him to fall backwards onto it as Sebastian clambered on top of him, straddling his hips.

Ominis' cock strained uncomfortably against his waistband as his hands wandered up Sebastian's thighs to find his trouser buttons, brushing his bulge and causing him to groan with anticipation. Ominis felt dizzy as he undid Sebastian's trousers, pulling them roughly down to release his erection, taking it in his hand with a gasp at the thickness of his shaft—he was practically salivating at the thought as he panted underneath Sebastian's legs, stroking his cock to the sound of his friend's shuddering moans.

"Fuck, Ominis. Get back on the bed."

He did as he was told, shuffling back on the mattress as Sebastian urgently tugged down Ominis' trousers leaving him completely exposed until his cock was enveloped by Sebastian's hot, wet mouth. Ominis let out a gutteral moan as his tongue teased his head, his hand wrapped at the base of his shaft, gripping him firmly but completely unmoving.

"Tell me you want me," Sebastian muttered, his tongue flicking lazily on the top of his head.

"I want you," he managed to whimper.

"What do you want, Ominis?"

"I…I want…please, Sebastian I want your mouth around my cock."

Ominis all but shouted as Sebastian took him fully in his mouth, the suction unbearably pleasurable as his hand worked the bottom of his shaft that his mouth couldn't reach. His hand gripped the bedsheets underneath him and the other entangled itself in Sebastian's hair as his head bobbed up and down rhythmically, bringing Ominis closer to the edge. He was already so close, and Sebastian could sense the increasingly erratic breathing and twitching muscles and he pulled his mouth away with a pop as the suction released his head.

"He could never make you moan like that," Sebastian said in between kisses to his thighs. "Time to return the favour before I let you finish."

Ominis sat up shakily, fighting the temptation to take himself in his hand and find his release, but he knew Sebastian wouldn't allow it, so instead he groped in front of him to find Sebastian sitting with his legs spread, waiting patiently for Ominis to find his way. His fingers skimmed his tight balls eliciting a low hum from Sebastian's throat and Ominis returned to them, fondling his sack as he gripped his thick shaft and ran his tongue over his head, slick with salty precum. Ominis moaned at the taste, hungry for more as he took Sebastian's cock in his mouth, the girth filling to the sides of his hollow cheeks easily as he sucked him eagerly.

"Why would you want Weasley when you could have been sucking my cock all this time?" Sebastian breathed.

Ominis answered the question with a whine, not slowing his tempo as he sucked and lapped at Sebastian's cock as if he were starving for it—and he was, the years of filthy daydreams and nights of self pleasure had finally become a reality and Ominis wanted absolutely nothing more than to bring Sebastian to his climax, to know that he enjoyed this just as much as Ominis. Sebastian's fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging at him with every movement of his head, and his moans grew more and more loud and ragged as his hips bucked underneath him, causing his head to hit the back of Ominis' throat.

"Fuck, Ominis," were the last words he uttered before he pulled Ominis' mouth off of him, roughly shoving him sideways onto the bed before straddling his chest. Ominis' breath caught at the sudden movement and he heard the groaning above him and a whispered "open your mouth" before the warm cum hit his lips and his waiting tongue, sliding down his chin as he gasped and licked around his mouth.

He couldn't help the smirk that crept onto his face, completely giddy and yet still so frustrated, his own erection now painfully in need of stimulation. Thankfully, Sebastian granted him his wish and took him in his warm hand, stroking his length until he finally met his exquisite release, covering Sebastian's thighs as he held himself steady with shaking arms. He finally collapsed on the bed next to him as they both panted for air and Sebastian gently stroked his hair.

"You're mine, okay?" Sebastian sighed.

"Whatever you say," Ominis replied with a smile.

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