#britta curl

[hyenabeanz]

guess I'm rooting for team Canada in IIHF women's worlds because team USA was like "yeah, Britta Curl can have one of these very coveted spots even though she's a known public transphobe."

Cool cool cool.

I'm worried she will be drafted next season in the PWHL.

I'm terrifed PWHL Minnesota might be the one to do it. I feel like the Canadian teams are less likely to put up with that, and Minnesota has the least queer rep in influential spots. Our GM and Coyne have all played and worked with the Lamoureux twins. I'd like to think they don't support their shitty views, especially Coyne, but who knows. And I've met Minnesota hockey culture. As much as I love the game, the reality is we didn't have popular mean football starts and cheerleaders. We had popular mean hockey players at my school. 😬 That was.... A while ago, but I'm not sure much has changed.

hope I'm wrong and the league realizes she will alienate a bunch of their fans, and she is snubbed at the draft. I'm not sure I want to see her banned from the draft because that's fuel for fire... But being allowed to do so, and told six times over "no one wants you because your hateful views" would be the way to go.

I'm also tired of all the straight hockey fans telling me "it can be a learning opportunity for her!" Fuck off, how long to trans people, players and fans, have to set aside our well-being for ~learning moments.~

#Hockey rambling #Worry worry worry #Britta curl #Hockey #PWHL #woho #Transphobia #Queer sports #Iihf #team usa

[puck-drop]

Meg with the kids😂

#britta curl #megan keller #tessa janecke #hannah bilka #lacey eden #uswnt hockey #women's hockey

[grapefruit-personified]

I’ve seen some people say Britta Curl is problematic but do you know why they say that? Genuinely curious - I haven’t really seen exactly what she’s said or done

I’ll be honest I had to google her to confirm she was who I thought she was. I’ll also be honest in saying I know very little about her or if she is problematic or not. I don’t follow the badgers that closely and I looked on twitter and haven’t seen anyone saying anything. But if any of my followers or friends know more then me please she cause I have nothing to

#ask and ye shall be answered #woho #britta curl

[bbqhooligan]

you first look at abed and its impossible to ignore his long, skinny face, forehead thats a little too wide and the VoiceTM so Sheldon allegations are going strong but then "your eyes are too gentle and mysterious" line is dropped and its all you can ever think about

#mypost #his little lips. curling in the prettiest smile. lord im jealous him and britta were sleeping curled into each other holding hands. him the #small spoon #WHY COULDNT IT BE ME #I WANNA HOLD HIM #huge brown eyes king. huge giant lovely eyes KING #i wanna hold you in your sleep please please please please please #the trust of him is worht everything to me. BRITTA THAT WAS YOUR BIGGEST ACCOMPLISHMENT ALL 2 SEASONS. #when theyre cramming for the spanish exam and fall asleep for anyone wondering. its adorable

[edmundspevensea]

𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐒, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘

in which luke witnesses your shot at the national championship.

warnings; none that i can think of (may upset some wisconsin fans, sorry if this is too soon)

If you could tell the hockey gods to go to hell at this moment, you would not hesitate.

March 24, 2024. Whittemore Center Arena, University of New Hampshire. The University of Wisconsin vs. The Ohio State University. 2 vs. 1. A little over eight minutes left in the game. The score? 0-0.

Despite outshooting Wisconsin throughout the entire game, you had not scored a single goal. You had had a few close chances, sliding in past Wisconsin’s defensemen a few times, but just couldn’t convert. At this point, you were thanking Raygan for her outstanding performance in goal. But most definitely not the hockey gods.

The voice of Coach Muzerall fluttered through your ears as she told you all to give it everything you got. You were sure Mark Johnson was giving the same speech to his girls at the opposing bench, but honestly, you were too nervous to care. Your eyes wandered around the arena in hopes of finding the only person who could offer any comfort at the moment — Luke.

Unfortunately, Luke had missed the past few games of the NCAA tournament — even your earlier Frozen Four game against Clarkson — because of his schedule with the Preds. Luckily for you, the team was rewarded with a complete off day after their win over Detroit last night. So Luke did the only he could think of. He bought a plane ticket to Durham as soon as he landed in Nashville, and ubered to the arena in order to see you play. You woke up to a text saying that he’d be there, and were beyond excited (and relieved).

As you skated onto the ice in preparation to resume the game, you were able to locate him about halfway up in the stands. He was on his feet, decked up in his scarlet and gray apparel, with a buckeye necklace hanging around his neck. In his hands was a sign that read ‘BUCKEYES > BUCKY’. A small smile crept its way onto your face, wondering where he would have even gotten the materials to make it, but you didn’t care. His support meant everything.

After moving your eyes off of Luke, you focused on Cayla Barnes, who was stationed off to the right of you. She gave you a quick nod, and you knew she meant business. Just as you focused your attention back on the ice, the puck had dropped, with the Badgers winning the draw.

You quickly moved into your own zone, parking yourself in front of the nearest Wisconsin player, which happened to be Britta Curl. The puck passed back and forth between a few of the players before Laila Edwards ended up taking a shot. Raygan managed to kick save it out of your zone as most of your teammates went to make a line change.

They weren’t quick enough, however. Wisconsin had managed to quickly pass the puck out of their zone to center ice, where Curl was waiting patiently with her stick. The puck fell into line perfectly as she entered your zone. You rushed back as fast as you could as you saw Raygan prepare for a wrist shot, and somehow managed to poke the puck away as you tangled up with her. This time, the puck landed right on Cayla’s stick.

Cayla quickly rushed up ice as you let out a small breath. You followed suit, backing her up in case a Wisconsin player managed to steal the puck back. It didn’t take long, however, for Cayla to find Hannah Bilka at center ice, with Joy Dunne on her tail.

You held your breath as the puck landed on Joy Dunne’s stick. If there was one person who wasn’t going to fail you, it was her. She was your team’s leading point scorer with 38 points on the year (23 of which were goals), the WCHA Rookie of the Year, and the NCAA Rookie of the Year. Almost immediately, she sent the puck flying right past McNaughton’s glove and into the goal.

Cheers erupted from the ice, bench, and stands as you were swallowed up into a team huddle by the glass. Joy excitedly made an “O-H” with her hands before embracing you all and making her way to the bench. You smiled softly and looked up at the clock — 7:13 left in the third. You skated off the ice and Stephanie Markowski took your place by center ice.

Locating Luke again, a bright smile was plastered wide across his face as he watched the replay. He had met Joy, who you embraced as a little sister, when he had come to campus to visit you earlier during the all star break. Needless to say, he was proud of her, as anyone should be. What you didn’t know, however, is just how proud he was of you. Your defensive poke-check set the scoring play into motion and here you were just over seven minutes away from winning the national championship.

Time couldn’t have passed more slowly for you as the clock wound down. Wisconsin had created many more scoring opportunities, but just couldn’t convert (you had to thank Raygan once again). You were back on the ice with two minutes to go, scrambling back into the defensive zone as the Badgers pulled McNaughton in order to gain an extra attacker. Your heart raced as you saw Casey O’Brien rush onto the ice, skating swiftly towards your goal.

You knew nothing good was going to happen if you couldn’t calm down. So, as the puck was passed to Ava Murphy, you took a deep breath and raced in front of her as she wound up for a slap shot. As she let go of the puck, you dove in front of it, the puck redirecting off of your ankle and into neutral territory.

Man, did that hurt like a motherfucker. The crowd simultaneously grimaced and cheered for you as you recollected yourself off of the ice. You swear you could hear Luke’s voice yelling your name out of the entire crowd, telling you to get up and kick ass.

The puck was quickly regathered by Caroline Harvey as she circled through neutral ice, waiting for her teammates to reenter the zone. Once completed, the puck was passed to Lacey Eden as Emma Peschel tried to poke it away, but in vain. Caroline passed it to Charla Edwards, who lined up to take a shot from the blue line. None of your teammates were guarding her, so you did what you had to do. You once again skated up and prepared your body to be hit with a hard piece of vulcanized rubber. When it did, you fell to the ground, but got right back up as cheers erupted once again.

“Let’s go, Y/N!” Quinn Kuntz yelled from the bench, and you struggled to skate, but the puck had bounced right back to Edwards. Instead of trying to move around you, she wound up for another slap shot, but that one didn’t get past you either. The puck once again hit your body as you blocked the shot, falling to the ice once again. Finally, Emma was able to clear the zone as the puck raced towards the other end of the ice.

At that moment, you used your stick to propel you towards the bench. You knew you weren’t seriously injured — you’d just have a few bad bruises here and there — but your body hurt like a bitch from taking all of those shots. You were greeted with pats on the back from all your teammates on the bench as Hannah jumped back on in your place. You smiled softly as a response, focusing on the jumbotron to see the time left in the game.

One minute. If you could hold off Wisconsin for one minute, you would be a national champion. You watched anxiously as your teammates tried to clear the zone towards the now empty net of Wisconsin, but to no avail. Finally, Joy had managed to send it down the length of the ice, which forced a quick line change. You hopped on the ice with around 30 seconds left and made your way into the defensive zone yet again.

Since McNaughton was pulled, the Badgers had an extra attacker, which made it harder to defend your goal than usual. You weren’t going to give up that easily, however. The puck was passed back in forth between the six Badgers on the ice, each one of them waiting for the perfect shot. The clock wound down as the puck finally landed on Sophie Hegleson’s stick.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. You could hear nothing as you once again forced yourself to skate in front of her, knowing that this goal would change the trajectory of the game. Your teammates were counting on you, so you were going to give it your all. You braced yourself for impact as the puck hit your back, your body sacrificing itself for the win exactly as the buzzer went off.

The game was over. You were officially a national champion. The sounds of your teammates yelling filled your ears as you let your body collapse to the ice, both in pain and in shock. You took your helmet off to gather yourself as a small smile made its way across your face. You had done it.

Emma skated over to you and pulled you up off of the ice, and you both rushed over to join the dog pile of your teammates on top of Raygan. Although you couldn’t see him, Luke was smiling down at you, a look of immense pride present on his face. He fumbled with the buckeye necklace hanging around his neck as he couldn’t contain his excitement, knowing that you were a national champion.

After you all had settled down and received your medals (but not before shaking hands and congratulating Wisconsin on their tremendous effort), you were allowed to bring family members and friends onto the ice to take pictures. As Luke made his way onto the ice, you excitedly skated over to him, and his arms were wide open to catch you. You smiled widely, your eyes shining brightly, “I did it, Luke. I really did it.”

He cupped your face with his hands, nodding his head in agreement, “You did it, my love. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

You smiled brightly up at him again, your eyes swelling with tears. Luke pulled you into another hug, gently kissing the top of your head, “Go celebrate with your teammates. I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re done.” He reassured, giving you a soft smile as he wiped away some stray tears that had fallen with the pads of his thumbs. You nodded, skating over and joining Joy. When you were finally given the trophy after she did, you hoisted it high up into the air, ready to show it off to the entire world.

After all, it’s always been Ohio against the world.

liked by lukevangelista, kentjohnson.13, and others

youruser: ohio against the world ❤️🩶

view top comments

ohiostatewhky: THAT’S OUR NATIONAL CHAMPION

lukevangelista: BUCK YEAH 🌰

lukevangelista: THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND

maxmccuee: gross

lukevangelista: my girlfriend just won a national championship, what did yours do?

maxmccuee: go fuck yourself evangelista

youruser: hey now let’s stop arguing (and max i’m the only one who gets to do that with my boyfriend ☺️)

luca.fantilli: OH MY GOD

user1: y/n’s iconic lmfao

user2: LUCA 😭😭

quinnkuntz: yeah, we did that

matthewknies: how are your shins

youruser: i’m not sure you wanna know

matthewknies: fair enough have a good day

colemcward: buckeyes > badgers

_alexturcotte: cole that’s not nice

colemcward: truth hurts buddy, but keep your head up! i’m sure it’ll get better soon 😚

joyv_dunne: HELL YEAH

emmapeschel: always been ohio against the world!!!

kentjohnson.13: check the record books

youruser: hey kj you might want to focus on your 24-50 record first!

kentjohnson.13: it’s actually 24-38-12, thank you very much

youruser: so we’re actually the only team bringing honor to cbus rn, but if you keep it up maybe you can too!!

lhughes_06: HOLY SHIT

adamfantilli: unfortunately can’t argue with that so pipe down kj

kentjohnson.13: okay i’m sorry

user3: pls y/n is so funny 💀

user4: SHE’S DATING LUKE?!

youruser: …surprise?

lukevangelista: something about our friendship being firm idrk

user5: i wanna be y/n when i grow up

ncaaicehockey: honestly same

user6: ncaa what are you doing here 💀

_connorbedard: congrats!!!

alex.vlasic: connor’s big social media debut folks! be nice to him he’s a little shy

adamfantilli: CONNOR CAME OUT OF HIDING

_willsmith2: DID SOMEONE SAY CONNOR BEDARD

youruser: okay let’s take bets, if connor sees his shadow (these comments) it’s six more weeks of his social media hiatus, but if he doesn’t then we’re all blessed by his presence

youruser: (thanks connor)

nickmoldenhaur: six more weeks of winter for sure 😔

user7: i didn’t realize how funny y/n actually is she’s hilarious

brandtclarke55: nah i’m hopeful for an early spring

_connorbedard: you guys are mean

brandtclarke55: …soooo does that count as an early spring or no?

a/n; hope you all enjoy!!! i had fun with this one (also not sure why two of my imagines have revolved around ohio state but this was convenient hahaha), thanks so much for reading!!

#luke evangelista #nhl #luke evangelista imagines #le77 #luke evangelista imagine #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nashville predators #connor bedard #luke hughes #kent johnson #adam fantilli #luca fantilli #nick moldenhauer #brandt clarke #will smith #cole mcward #max mccue #alex turcotte #matthew knies #alex vlasic #umich hockey #new jersey devils #nhl hockey #nhl x reader #columbus blue jackets #vancover canucks #matty knies

[rosyjuly]

“I saw a video of you,” Seb says just as Mick lowers himself into the water, careful enough to not slosh too much out of the tub. When he looks over his shoulder, Seb’s grinning at him, the roots of his hair damp like he ran a hand through it already. “Where you compared yourself to a chihuahua.”

Mick laughs, can’t help it; Seb’s waggling his brows like he’s saying something suggestive. he lets Seb tug him closer, leans against his chest slowly. He's usually on the other side of this configuration, but Sebastian was already sprawled out in the steaming water when he finally entered the bathroom. He can’t remember the last time someone held him with such self-evidence. Maybe Seb, last year, when both of them were still on the grid, before—

 “You’re becoming very tech savvy,” Mick says, peering back at him again, just because he can. Seb’s eyes are glinting under his golden lashes. “Next thing I know you’re going to be doing brand deals on your Instagram.”

Sebastian hums. He rests his hands on Mick’s shoulders, warm and damp from the water and entirely distracting as they knead his muscles. “Yes, well, we’re looking into that with Britta— but anyway, your video.”

“What about it?” 

“You’re doing yourself a disservice,” Sebastian says. His hands slide down to curl around the swell of his bicep, his thumb tracing the edge of the muscle. Mick flexes his arm almost on autopilot, the old need to show off for Seb flaring up again, incurable and pointless. 

“Why is that?” Mick asks, trying to keep his voice even as Sebastian strokes his chest, his thumb caressing his nipple until it’s all pebbled up. There are new calluses on the pads of his fingers from working with wood all week, all these new parts to him that Mick hasn’t had the chance to discover before. 

“Saying that you’re quite small,” Sebastian murmurs in a voice that could be teasing if he wasn’t curling his fingers around Mick, thumb rubbing against the head of his cock. It’s embarrassing, how easy Mick is for him, hard after barely a minute. “Did not feel small to me– what’s the time? An hour or so ago,” Sebastian says as he tightens his grip.

#sebmick #little fic #ideally this would be One Scene in a big sebzuka fic but ya know #your girl does not deal in longfic sadly #anyway mick offers to get him back afterwards and seb's like darling not all of us are twenty four #etc etc #my fic #wow i haven't posted tumblr fic in ages either huh

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

Wedding-seasonal depression.

Quick summary: What if Pierce actually did get married to Wu Mei way back when in the second season? You and Jeff are both struggling to come to terms with the fact that this is Pierce’s eighth time getting married, while you’re both still sad and single and alone. You decide to take your frustrations out on each other.

Word count: 7.8K

Warnings: SMUT (you have been warned, this is essentially porn with a lil’ plot), but it's not like super kinky; lots of swearing; first time writing second-person, so buckle up, I guess; kind of angsty (??); many suppressed feels.

A/N: Hey, guys, what’s up 😃🌈🦶! Uhhhh, I know this fic is a little random, but I’ve literally had this story in my drafts for six months. Since then, I have finished the entire Community show and have brought you this gem of a smut fic for Jeff Winger (particularly Jeff Winger with a fuckin’ beard 😩😩😩 he’s such an asshole). Please excuse my horrible attempts at dirty talk. Also, this is the first fic I’ve written in second person, soooooo I’m sorry if it’s, like, bad. Okay, enjoy!! :)))

***

You know, the wedding is perfectly nice. You have nothing against weddings. Apart from the strangely sexist ceremonies (as Britta will agree), the giving away of the daughter to her new owner kind of thing, the virginal unveiling thing, they’re perfectly fine. There’s free alcohol, free food, dancing, friends – sounds pretty nice at first, doesn’t it? Yeah, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? Except, now, the only kind of enjoyment you can feel is the pleasure of yet another scotch burning its way down your throat. You’ve had three, now, and it’s only a matter of time before they start to kick in. And you don’t come to weddings just to get drunk, okay? Your friend is getting married today, and no matter how blatantly racist and sexist and homophobic he is on a daily basis, you want to support his happiness (Annie forced you to come).

The fact that it’s Pierce getting married (again) hasn’t really hit you yet. Pierce. Pierce who talks about women like they’re objects, who treats them like they have a fucking expiry date, who has had his shot at marriage several times before, is now at the altar again, having another wedding while some of you are left to wallow in your own self-pity and loneliness until the night’s end.

You ask the bartender for another scotch.

You swivel in your stool to survey the venue – tables are dotted all throughout the hotel’s expansive ballroom, swathed with elegant white tablecloths, with elaborate centrepieces of white lilies and tulips and curling ferns to adorn. The ceiling reaches up, up, up, and intricate moulding compliments and fills its area, leading to the elevated centre where a glimmering, twisting chandelier dangles, its large gems scattering rainbow light here and there around the room. It’s pretty – the bride knew what she was doing. Pierce had refused to get involved in any of the wedding preparation because, and you quote, “it’s a woman’s job”. When you asked him what a man’s job was, he had looked at you condescendingly, as if it were as plain as day, and said, “To attend the bachelor party, of course.” You didn’t blink or breathe for a whole ten, fifteen seconds, you believe – you thought he was joking at first. But you shouldn’t’ve underestimated Pierce and his miraculous ability to infuriate you. Lord knows why anyone would want to marry him.

Your table – the study group’s table – is right in the corner of the room. The location is a little questionable (you’re all pretty sure the bride detests you for being more important than she is to Pierce, and you don’t blame her at all—but, you know, she could’ve sat you a little closer to the snack bar is all you’re saying), and it’s not close to the altar, it’s not close to the buffet, or the bar, or the toilets, or the band. But, of course, the group has found its own way to keep everyone entertained. Abed and Troy have napkin hats placed on their heads, acting out some movie scene, you’re sure, and Britta’s well on her way to becoming black-out drunk by the time the vows start, and Shirley’s trying to figure out the recipe of the cheesecake Annie ordered, reaching over the table for another forkful and another and another, face scrunched up in deathly concentration as she tries to identify the ingredients by taste. Poor Annie, you think to yourself, but you’re smiling.

Your eyes immediately start searching for Jeff. It’s an unconscious thing that you do every time you enter a room. You just want to make sure he hasn’t done anything stupid yet. And if you know anything at all about him, he’s going to be glowering the whole night away, rolling around in his bitterness, torn between his jealousy that Pierce gets to be married (again) and between his fiery disdain of weddings. He’s just a little bit too much like you – that’s how you can foresee his scowl when he approaches the bar, how you just know his hands will be shoved childishly in his pockets, and that he’ll roll his eyes when some bridesmaid will stop him and ask how he knows the groom. It happens just like clockwork. Jeff thinks he’s some wildcard, but, in reality, he’s so predictable.

“I’m actually the head of what used to be his favourite escort business. He was one of my best customers, but, uh—” he hisses cynically, “—you can’t win ‘em all, can you?”

You smile. He’s predictable until he opens his mouth.

The bridesmaid looks absolutely horrified. She leaves promptly with wide eyes and an open mouth, trying to stifle a laugh for the sake of her friendship with the bride.

A self-satisfied look overcomes Jeff’s face – he’s probably laughing internally at one of his own jokes again – and then his attention shifts up over to you, and his gleaming eyes grace themselves upon yours. He’s such an ass.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” you snort, turning back to the bar and digging your nail back into this narrow groove in its mahogany surface – maybe, if you’re patient enough, you’’ll soon be able to carve your initials into it forever. Jeff steps up onto the platform that perimeters the bar, sighing from deep within his chest as he slumps himself forward in the viridian, velvet-cushioned stool beside you. “You could have at least pretended to be nice for a few seconds.” While your manner is joking, there’s an underlying seriousness to your words. He needs to stop introducing himself as a prick to everyone – it’s off-putting.

But he just grins over at you – it’s hard not to smile back. “That was me being nice, I’ll have you know,” he says meaningfully, “and it just kills me—” he slaps a hand right across his heart, “—to know you don’t think I’m genuine.”

“She looked abhorred, Jeff. Abhorred.”

He scoffs violently. “Don’t say she looked abhorred, okay? She did not look abhorred.” Then, a pause. Then, “What does ‘abhorred’ mean?”

Oh, Jeff. You’d think that, what with his lawyer days (or rather, his days faking a law degree), he’d have a better vocabulary than he actually does. You’re pretty sure he looks up fancy words in his free time, just to impress people, most of which he doesn’t even know. You can just picture it: Him, sitting in the armchair of his ridiculously clean apartment, a dictionary in his lap, a thesaurus to the side, trying to comprehend what “sporadically” means so that he can use it in class the day after. You haven’t proven this theory yet, and Jeff always avoids the question, but you’re 100% convinced that this act is entirely true.

“It means horrified, Jeff,” you deadpan. You watch him make a mental note to use that in conversation later.

He hums lowly, and you let out a long sigh. Wordlessly, the both of you turn your heads to look back at your table. There are a few, special moments in life where someone will resonate so much with another’s feelings that they feel as if the two of them have become melded together. The borders of their mind will collapse, and that shared emotion will just mingle between the two of them like a strange, little ghost. It’s like that now, with you. It’s a melancholy type of feeling. You both can’t quite place the sadness, even as you’re looking on at the happy study group, and you can say that, with confidence, Jeff feels lonely. Just like you. You can feel the ache in his heart.

But, as quick as the intimacy came, it disappears again. Jeff swallows hard and frowns down at the counter, clearing his throat before commenting drily, “So, this sucks, huh? The wedding and everything.”

You nod.

“I just don’t get why Pierce is the one who gets to get married. Like, why not one of us or something? It’s just kind of unfair.” And then he stops abruptly, inhaling sharply like he’s just broken some kind of code. You nudge him and ask if he’s alright, to which he responds with, “You’re not gonna tell any of the others about this, are you? I don’t want Pierce finding out and having one of his little tantrums again.”

“He wouldn’t throw a tantrum,” you smile, completely missing the trust he’s putting in you right now. “If anything, he’d gloat about how you, the Jeff Winger, are jealous of him.”

He scoffs exaggeratedly. “I am not jealous of Pierce.” Jeff doesn’t admit to being jealous of anyone, but it’s always obvious when he is – his sarcasm will somehow double, his face will squint up into a semi-permanent, sour expression, and his voice will up an octave or two if he’s feeling extra shitty. It’s always funny to see him try to keep it together. That man’s got an ego like no other. Under his breath, he finishes, “No more jealous than you are.”

Damn.

Truth is, even though you’re fucking bitter as can be about Pierce getting married, you know that you have no actual desire to ever enter matrimony. It’s not a Britta “fuck marriage as a whole” type of thing; it’s a “wow, someone is achieving something, and you are achieving nothing” kind of situation. What can you say?—it’s your toxic trait. Anyone “beating” you at anything is enough to discourage you from that sector as a whole. If you’re not naturally gifted, what’s the point? Not to say that Pierce is gifted at relationships. No, he’s just rich. It takes everything in you not to strangle him whenever he opens his goddamn mouth. But you just suck at navigating true, meaningful romantic connections with people, and having to watch Pierce enjoy a pretty party and tick off that milestone (again) is just a kick straight to the fucking vagina.

But you’re not going to say all that to Jeff Winger of all people. So, you suck it up, deepen your scowl, and say, “Ah, yes, ever since I was a foetus, my one goal in life has been to wed a person half my age so that they can drain me of my non-existent fortune and give me pity sex for the rest of my shrivelled-up, little life.”

“Can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not, ‘cause that actually has been my goal since I was a foetus,” Jeff whips back, and you snort. His grin widens.

Stupid Jeff Winger and his stupid Jeff-Winger smile. You hate it when he does that with his fuckin’ face. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. You always feel it tugging at your stomach adamantly whenever you’re in his proximity and he does that, and it’s unsettling. Could be annoyance, could be something else. You’re not ready to explore that.

“Anyway, you wanna go find a back room and fuck?”

The words are so swift and casual that you have to take a moment to realise that that is not something normal people say when attending their friend’s wedding and having a conversation at the bar with their completely platonic other friend who has never before made any hints towards attraction.

You turn and blink hard at Jeff, your lungs buffering in your chest.

“What?” you stress to him.

He darts his eyes away from the great hall and shuffles them back to you like he has all the time in the world, like he hasn’t just said what he just said. He raises his eyebrows innocently and politely continues, “Oh, sorry, I just thought that was where this conversation was going.”

The commotion of the party, to your surprise, carries on as usual.

Your wrists are numb with shock, and they’re sparking with what you think might actually be excitement. Did Jeff really just say those words out loud? Are you angry about it? You can’t fucking tell.

Instead of addressing the problem, you swallow thickly, hoping he won’t notice, and ask through an incredulous scoff, “Is this how you get people to have sex with you?” Would you be mad about that? About the fact that he’s just asked, essentially, to sleep with you, right to your face, right in public, at Pierce’s wedding, where there are people that you know and that can see you clearly from where they’re sitting? God, do you look as thrown-off as you feel right now? You would hope to die before looking thrown-off in front of Jeff Winger. The very Jeff Winger that’s finishing your drink off for you and watching you amusedly from over the rim of the glass, smiling his fucking smile to himself as he watches you glitch and hesitate like a browser with too many tabs open.

“Don’t say the s-word,” he hisses patronisingly, narrowing his gaze, leaning closer to you, glancing warily around the room. “There are children.”

“You just said fuck.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. And also, would you like to?”

He’s analysing your expression with fond eyes, you see from your peripheral vision, setting your glass back on the counter gently as he waits, all patient, for your answer, for your reaction. This is probably the most patient he’s ever been in his life. It’s certainly the most patient you’ve ever seen him, and you’ve seen him through a lot.

You tell him (a little breathlessly), “You’re fuckin’ crazy.”

He lowers his voice. “Did I read the situation wrong?”

There’s a silence that’s far too long to be salvageable. Then, a flustered, “No.”

Jeff raises his eyebrows, like he’s impressed with himself, and he looks smugly up at the ceiling. Damn him, you think to yourself. And, sweet Jesus, he has pretty nice hands. You also think to yourself that he has—he has pretty nice hands. Nice hands fixing the cuffs of his shirt and jacket. Nice hands scratching at that awful thing he calls a beard. Nice hands shoved in his pockets all nice-like. Nice hands that you’re sure can do a lot of—nice—things. Jeff clears his throat, and your attention snaps back to where it belongs.

“So,” he drawls. “Back room?”

And just like that, his pick-up somehow works for you. Somehow, you end up stumbling into the janitor’s closest, and you’re shushing each other and telling each other to be quiet as he helps you on top of the wobbly desk. It’s clumsy and fast and you’re both more than a little drunk. “Ow!” he exclaims when you accidentally elbow him in the ribs. Maybe it’s that you’re both just extremely lonely at this wedding – you’ve both kind of realised that you may just have to spend forever alone, that Pierce has a better chance of getting married than you do, that happiness might not be for you after all. And that’s always a nice thing to hear. You just want solace, and both of you are fighting for that by getting it on in a barely sanitary janitor’s room. Think of it—as a favour for a friend. Yeah. You think, with Jeff, the Jeff who blunders over a bucket when he tries to kiss you, it’s just pheromones and genetics doing their thing. Skin-deep. That’s your excuse as you grab him by the tie and press your lips to his as he positions his arms either side of you to keep himself from falling. “Your hair smells kinda nice,” he tells you before he helps zip down your dress, and you slide down your underwear.

He goes down on you first, after you both mock each other about who you bet is gonna finish first. “Oh, I’ve spoken with Britta about you,” you’d said lowly, smiling, and his eyes filled with sweet, sweet defeat. “Yeah, she told me everything—One-Minute Wonder.”

And this had gotten little, insecure Jeff all riled up. “Alright,” he huffed, voice scraping against his throat like he hadn’t had anything to drink for a week. “Alright, we’ll see who cums first, then, huh, doll?” And instead giving you one of those classic Winger smiles, he whispered a request for permission to use his mouth on you. You didn’t even have a response to that. He kneeled down in front of you, hands eagerly spread on your thighs, and his breathing was slightly uneven as he awaited your answer. It made you feel some type of way. You gave a quick nod and shuffled forward to meet his hot mouth. When his tongue delved deep inside your cunt, all coherent thoughts went straight out the door, and now you’re weeping into the back of your hand and clenching down your teeth down on your fingers, trying your best not to cry out.

Now, there are a few things you do to try and stop yourself from finishing immediately: you try clenching your legs together, but this only makes Jeff moan right into your pussy, and that doesn’t do you any good at all; you pull lightly at his hair and scratch at his back and his neck and his arms, holding on for dear life, but he only grows more enthusiastic; and you try insulting him under your breath (“twat”, “asshole”), but he just chuckles into you, and you have to bite down on your knuckles all over again, wrestling with that increasingly violent fluttering feeling in your legs.

Near the end of it, you just give up that bet with Jeff; you’ll cum, you’ll finish first, you’ll lose the bet, and you’ll do whatever you can to get to it. You grind shyly, and then shamelessly, against Jeff’s face, finding a delicious friction with his beard, a lovely contrast to the soft, velvet slickness of his tongue – that is, until he uses his hands to press your hips firmly back down onto the table, rendering you powerless to his actions.

You’re just about to finish when he pulls away. You think it’s a mistake at first, trying to lower him back down onto you with your hand cradling his head, but then you catch sight of a shit-eating grin wanting to take over his face, and you whine out, “Jesus Christ, Jeff, don’t be mean!”

“C’mon, honey, I thought the point of the bet was to not cum. You don’t wanna lose, do you?” His chin is still slick with you and he’s talking to you like you’re not hot and flustered and half-naked for him in a fucking supply room, on the brink of an orgasm, legs shaking like there’s no tomorrow. What a fucking prick, you think to yourself. You’re still gonna fuck him, of course, but he’s still a prick to you, and nothing will ever change that. “What? Can’t talk anymore?”

“I’m about this close—” you narrow my index finger and thumb down to a microscopic space between, “—to leaving you alone in here with blue balls, Winger. You hear me?”

He stands up and massages your legs gently, almost tenderly, and makes you forget, just for a second, that you’re probably another one of his escapades, another one-night stand, just another girl for him to forget in the morning. “Aw, just look at you,” Jeff taunts, twisting his face up in mock-sympathy as you scramble to regain control. “You’re cute when you’re angry, you know that?” His nose brushes up against yours. He comes in real close and whispers against the shell of your ear, “You know, I think you just might get us caught, sweets. I think you’re gonna be crying out my name by the time we’re done, and all those wedding guests are gonna be shocked at the dirty things I’ve done to you and you’ve done to me. You think you’re gonna be able to walk right when they ask us to come out this room? Or do you think everyone’s gonna know how hard I fucked you in here, how I fucked you senseless, how I fucked you so good that you can barely sit down without thinkin’ ‘bout how my cock felt up inside of you?” Your clit throbs painfully. How can it not? You try to snake your own hand between your legs, but Jeff softly moves it away and kisses your shoulder. “Hmm? So, which is it?”

“I think I want you inside of me,” you say breathlessly, needily. Yes, you knew that Jeff likes to sleep around a lot, you knew that he was experienced, you knew that he knows how to get someone hot—but you didn’t really prepare for this. How many other girls has he had in the janitor’s room? How many other girls has he had at a wedding?

“I think I want to play with you for a little while longer,” he replies huskily, and you very nearly finish right on the table. You take his hand and guide it between your glistening thighs, taking him through the way you like to be touched, and he soon takes control, finding out what makes you squirm and what makes you bite into his shoulder and scratch at his back. Jeff has always been a person who loves knowing that he’s good at something, that he’s in charge, that he’s in control – it’s not hard to figure out he loves praise. So, when you tell him, “You’re doing so well,” and he kisses you roughly, hand in your hair, and pinches your clit, you take satisfaction again in his predictability. You yelp right into his mouth, brimming with smugness. Then, he dips a finger into your cunt, and maybe the attitude is punched out of you, but you lose a little respect for yourself with how eagerly you sigh out. After a while, he asks if he can add another, and you agree, grinding against the heel of his palm.

What you’re really scared of is that he won’t let you cum again, that he’s into edging, and that you’re going to be denied the sweet release you’ve been craving for what seems like years, now. “Let me cum, please,” you say, kissing his neck. “I’ll go down on you later, but just please don’t edge me again.” Ew. You hate how desperate you sound. You’re usually a little more dignified than this. Jeff’s there, quick-witted and sharp-tongued as always, and you’re sitting here, tongue-tied and helpless. This is sort of the most bottom you’ve ever been, give or take. With sex with other people, there was a mutual bond rather than a power dynamic, but, here, there’s a very clear distinction. It makes you a little uncomfortable. You’d feel, oh, so much better if it were you saying all those dirty things to Jeff, making him sweat with his cock on your tongue, being the one he asks for permission to cum. But you’re saving that fantasy for another time – you don’t have the willpower to do anything like that today, not when Jeff wants to be in charge right now.

And maybe it’s your imagination, but he grows just that little bit harder at the desperation in your voice. Maybe he should let you cum, since you asked so nicely.  “You don’t have to go down on me,” he says, even though he’d definitely love to see your pretty, little mouth wrapped around his cock. Instead, he reaches down and starts to kiss and lick and suck and bite at your breasts, making sure to linger at the swell of them – he has an odd thing for that area between your side and your breast, that little swell, you both learn, and he strokes that area tenderly with one hand as he continues to fuck you with his fingers.

When you finish around his fingers, he licks them clean and wipes the rest on the little square handkerchief in his pocket. He’s going to save that for later, he decides. Say he gets hard at night thinking about you and needs the smell of you to get off—or maybe he’ll just tease you at the post-vows dinner and make eye contact when he presses the damp fabric against his nose, just to see you clench your thighs together. Who knows? You, on the other hand, are only just realising that he’s still fully clothed. You are as naked as the day you were born, and he’s still prim and smart and handsome in that navy-blue suit and tie.

Pulling him closer to you by his belt, you fumble with the buckle as you tell him, “I’ll go down on you.” You just want a grasp of control after him having seen you so bare, so vulnerable. You don’t know if you’ll be able to face him after this if you just don’t get his dick in your mouth right now – it’s a strange logic, yes, but there’s no stopping you.

Jeff watches you passively as you frantically undo his belt, somewhat enjoying seeing you so flustered and out of control. It doesn’t only feed into his desire and lust, but it also adds to that weird, warm feeling in his gut, one that he hasn’t really experienced before. He can’t quite figure out what it is – heartburn, maybe; indigestion? – but he’s not stupid, and he’s a little suspicious, so before his tipsy subconscious can come to that terrifying conclusion, he tells you, “Can you spread your legs for me?” At your surprise, he adds, “Please?” Just to be nice.

“So fucking demanding, aren’t you?” you huff, but you do as you’re told, gut wriggling with apprehension.

He kisses you nice and slow, storing this memory in his mind carefully for later, trying to be the most genuine he can because, at the end of the day, you’re his friend, his good friend, and he would never do anything to harm or lose you. If he’s going to fuck you, he’s going to do it nicely, the way you’d fuck a friend (I don’t know). You remove his jacket as he loosens his tie, and he unbuttons his shirt as you tug down his trousers and his underwear. He rifles through his wallet for a condom, and you make fun of him for carrying a condom in his wallet (“You’re such a skeez, Jeff.”; “Hey, you’re fucking this skeez!”).

You both have a brief moment, a brief pause, of should-they-shouldn’t-they – after all, you’re going to have to see each other practically every day after this, at school, at the study group, at lunch, at hangouts. But then, you tell him, “Well, get on with it, then,” and he e-e-eases into you, taking his goddamn sweet time with it, letting you grasp at his arms and his back and his waist and his neck and hair and face and chest. He loves how handsy you are. You try not to be so vocal – you don’t want his ego growing any bigger than it currently is – but your touchiness always gives you away. And it makes him feel special as well – you’re not the most affectionate person usually, and you rarely give out hugs and touches and pats like some of the other members of the study group, so the fact that you’re touching him so much and so freely makes him feel blessed.

When he thrusts up into you, you bite into his shoulder again, and he nearly loses it. There’s a sinful, explicit, wet noise that’s made when he moves in and out of you, and it’s almost enough to make him cum on the spot. He’s suppressing his moans, now, trying to do well for you, trying to be good, be strong, be satisfying enough for you.

“Good girl,” he chokes out when you whine high in your throat for him – he says it more to himself than to you, feeling the need to give praise after receiving it, wanting to make you feel as good as he is (say what you will about Jeff, but he’s respectful when he wants to be). But little does he know that you love being called that. Some weird insecurity issue is probably to blame, but you whimper for him and clench around his length, making his hips stutter and his pace falter. He decides to play around a bit, just to see how far he can push you while you’re sedated like this – usually, you’d be up to speed, quick and sharp-tongued and tough and sickly sweet, but, now, he has you a mess in his hands. “Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” he chuckles darkly. “You’re such a good girl for me. Such a good—” he thrusts harder, “—little—” harder, “—girl.”

All you can do is gasp and try to take it well. You can barely form words – it’s like you’re drunk. Well, you are drunk. Of course, you know you’ll have a hard time getting rid of this picture – this picture of him panting and sweating, of his mischievously glinting eyes, of his large hands digging right into your hips and thighs and waist – and you’re probably going to get yourself hot later just thinking about it. You blame him. You blame him for all of it. He’ll probably forget about it in a heartbeat, you think to yourself. He’s Jeff Winger, after all – ladies’ man, professional man-whore, completely indifferent to everything all of the time. You try to plan ahead, try to plan for later when you’re sad and alone and hating your body and hating your life choices, but then Jeff moans breathily into your ear, and you’re right back in the moment. You curl your legs tightly around his waist, letting your head fall back as he takes further control.

“You know, I think this is the first time you haven’t had some comeback ready to go, isn’t it, hon?” he says, then softly biting your earlobe. You can only choke out a moan. “Thank you for that addition.”

You groan and roll your eyes. “I fuckin’ hate you,” you say in a feeble attempt to put up your guard again.

“No, you’re just fucking me, actually.”

You sob dryly into his shoulder, and Jeff starts to encourage you a little, probably the kindest he’s ever been during sex: “Come on, darlin’, why don’t you cum for me? You’re doing so well, you know that?” And that just sets you over the edge. You finish, body quivering, exhausted, and slump right forward onto Jeff’s chest. He somehow manages to hold on – he’s not done yet, and he’s going to want to drag this out for as long as he can, that much he knows. He plants his hands on the table, either side of you, and rests his head forwards on your shoulder, panting.

“Nice one, Jeff,” you say to him awkwardly. What does one say to the friend they’ve just fucked? There’s no right thing, of course, but you know straight away that that was definitely a wrong thing.

But he laughs. “We just fucked the shit out of each other, and that’s what you’ve got to say to me?”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?”

“I dunno,” he tells you, and he genuinely doesn’t.

You stay like that for a while, him laying light kisses on your shoulder and neck, you running your hand gently through his hair, both confused as to what to do now. That is, until you point out, “You’re still hard, huh?” You can feel him throbbing painfully inside of you. This must be torture for him – you’ve finished twice, now, and him none.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I was gonna wait for a better time, but.”

“I don’t think there is a better time in this situation.”

Jeff swallows thickly, throat suddenly dry as he pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. His dick twitches inside you when you grin up at him, and you pretend not to notice (but, oh, you’ll definitely remember it the next time you smile at him). He’s quite nervous, and he can’t pinpoint why. His brain’s just still a little too fuzzy to really process any coherent thoughts, even despite that sobering experience just then, but, again, he isn’t stupid – he knows what that knotted feeling in his chest probably is – so, before he has the chance to figure out what he already knows, he asks you, “Can you turn around? Bet you feel real good when I have you bent over this desk.”

“What a charmer,” you mumble under your breath. You know that’s about as sweet as he gets. You’re about to turn around for him when he surprises you:

“Of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He strokes your arms nicely. “We can go back to the party if that’s what you’d prefer, have a few more drinks, make fun of Pierce a little. Or we could try something you decide on. Got a favourite position? I’m sure we could make do with the space we have in here – maybe move a few buckets and boxes around, and we’re good. What do you like?”

Your mind goes completely blank, except for one very clear thought: “You’re what I like.” Not out loud, of course. You’d probably do anything he wanted right about now. You half-expect him to pull a 180 and say something snarky or sarcastic, but he doesn’t. He just kisses your cheek sweetly and waits for your answer. What do you like? You don’t even know anymore, and yet you’re getting wetter than ever before. Your breath is picking up, now. “You know,” you mumble, trying to contain your nerves, “the usual: a little light asphyxiation, a bit of hair pulling. I dunno. What else is there? I guess overstimulation can be nice sometimes. And, you know, I liked it—” a blush starts to form on your cheeks, “—I liked it when you...”

“Liked it when I what?”

“You know,” you huff frustratedly. “Said all those nice things to me.”

Jeff raises his eyebrows. “Praise?” Internally, he smiles to himself – he likes that he shares that in common with you. “Don’t worry, I like it, too.”

“Nice to know.” You maintain a neutral expression, but your clit is fucking beating right now, and your cunt is dripping wet. Your efforts not to clench around Jeff are herculean.

“Well, how do you want it?” he asks you brazenly, the usual Winger way. Okay, now, you squeeze tight around him, and Jeff presses his hands around your thighs in response—but, outwardly, the two of you are perfectly normal about this. “I can dial it back a little if you wanna take charge.” His eyes darken just slightly. “I don’t mind.” And that’s genuine enough – he certainly doesn’t mind the mental image of you with your fingers wrapped around his cock, teasing him as he whimpered and begged for a release, completely submissive to you in the moment. He wouldn’t mind that at all.

You grip the edge of the table and run a tongue over your teeth briefly. “I can turn around.”

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I want to.”

“Alright then,” he says, smiling. “Better get to it. We don’t want the others realising we’re gone, now, do we?” And you shake your head in response. Now that Jeff’s a little nicer, you’re more comfortable around him. He realises it, too, and so he allows himself to do the things he normally wouldn’t, brushing your hair out of your face for you and really looking into your eyes. Sex sort of became meaningless for him sometime along his life, full of emptiness and loneliness even in that intimate act – that’s the trouble he gets for sleeping his way out of his problems. And so, looking in his partner’s eyes has always brought him some type of shame – he’d always close his eyes and power through it. But you’re nice. You’re familiar. You’re safe and warm and soft. It might be a little to do with the friend thing, but, even when he was with Britta, he never felt this type of comfort, this okay-ness, this general acceptance. It was nice to have, for once: a friend.

He carefully pulls out of you, and then you turn around and bend over the table. Jeff almost stops breathing at the sight in front of him. And it’s not bad, don’t worry – he’s just a bit dramatic. “Jesus Christ,” he curses, and he moves his hands to massage gently at your hips. “You’re so fuckin’ wet.” And it’s true. Slick spills down your thighs, some of it slathered across the table and a fair amount dripping down onto the ground below them. That’s the type of stuff you see in pornos, he thinks amusedly to himself, and he continues to stare in awe at your cunt. Now, what Jeff really wants to do is to kneel down and lay his tongue flat against you. But he controls himself, and, instead, just sucks it up and praises you for it; “Keep that sort of energy up, yeah?”

“You sound like you’re a key-note speaker addressing an assembly of seven year-olds,” you say to him as he places his hands on your ass, spreading the sides apart slightly, his dick straining when he catches a better view of your aching cunt, and then he runs two fingers along your slit – he grows silent for a few heartbeats, amazed at how easily you drip down the length of his fingers and onto his wrist. You then turn back to see him place those fingers in his mouth, and you turn back around, blushing, before he can notice.

“Ah, so you’re into role-play?” he teases, lining himself up with your entrance.

“Sh—” but Jeff is already pushing into you, heavy and strong and thick; you try to continue your sentence without your voice shaking, “—shut u-up.”

He continues all the way to the hilt, and both of you use your hands to hold onto something for stability, his on your hips, and yours flat on the table. “You know,” he says as he bends over you, chest against your back, one hand coming to rest on the wall by your head, coaxing a pant or two out of you as he does so, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Role-play’s good once in a while.”

“Uh-huh,” you manage breathily. “You sound like you’re covering up a deeply concerning fantasy, there.”

“Don’t shame me.”

“We all know what it stands for, Jeff. ‘Role-play’s good once in a while.’ Really? Show me where you hid the goddamn body.”

He exhales amusedly through his nose. “I feel like you’re just trying to ease in with your officer-perp kink.” And he’s just casually gri-i-i-in-ding up against you, carefully pushing you back down so that your stomach is flat against the table, his lips pressing kisses into your hair and upon your shoulder blades as he starts to find a pace.

“It’s h-hot, okay?” you stutter out, trying to continue the conversation. It’s true enough – police officers can be hot when they want to be, and Jeff would certainly make for an interesting experience in that sector. Not that you were planning to sleep with him again. Fantasies are what’s discussed between a couple – it’s not really something you tell a one-night stand, especially if that one-night stand happens to be one of your closest friends who would never let you forget anything embarrassing you did—ever.

“Really?” Jeff says through a smile, though, now, even he’s having trouble composing himself. He should’ve cum when he could’ve – he feels like he’s about to give way any second, but he, oh, so wants to finish inside of you while you crumble apart around him. “Hands—” his breath catches, “—above your head.”

“I’m literally bent over a table in front of you.”

“Could still apply to some other positions, though.” And, with that, he begins to slowly pull out and push into you, nice and gentle at first, very controlled, but, as I said, Jeff was very quickly losing control, so one can imagine the animalistic desperation that soon kicked in for not just him, but for both parties. You buck up against him feverishly, letting out whines and suppressed, breathy moans and little, desperate whispers of his name (he absolutely loves those), and he just goes at it with all his energy. Who cares if he looks like absolute shit at the party later on? That’s a lot coming from him, he’ll have you know. As long as this memory is playing in his head, he doesn’t care about his hair or his suit anymore (the suit might be a stretch). He tells you breathlessly, “You know, you look good like this. Such a pretty girl.”

There’s the praise that you love. You squeeze around him and pant, “Take a picture—” and Jeff slides a hand between your legs, rubbing at that golden spot, and you have to choose between pressing into his cock or into his hand; the indecision makes your head reel, and the continuation of your sentence is twisted high and quiet, “—it’ll la-ast long-e-er.”

“Is that an invitation, doll? ‘Cause I’m not exactly against it.”

He pounds and pounds into you, nice and firm and precise, until you’re mewling and whining for him. “Be quiet, now,” he whispers against your ear – there are people chattering outside the room, passing through the exit after the party. But you can’t exactly keep it in. You try to hold your breath, you really do, but you end up grunting out when Jeff kneads at one of your breasts. “What?—d’you want those people to hear you or something? You wanna get caught?” You whine suppressedly again. “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Dirty girl.”

You clench once again, so fucking close to cumming, and he asks, “Can I try something?” And you nod frantically, alongside giving him a rushed, weak verbal affirmation. “I want you to prop yourself up a little more, hands on the wall – can you do that for me?”

“Uh-huh,” you mutter, adjusting yourself, and, with your movement, Jeff groans and grips your hips tightly.

“Good girl,” he praises, kissing the place behind your ear. And he continues thrusting, and then swiftly lifts one of your legs right up into the bend of his arm, leaving you to press the side of your face into the wall, your entire body swaying with the sheer force of the rutting of his hips. You feel so full like this, and he’s reaching that heavenly spot inside of you. Your knee gently brushes against his corresponding shoulder whenever he moves into you, out of you.

“Shit,” you curses sharply when he roughens his pace. “Jeff.” His name comes out as an awfully high-pitched sigh.

He huffs, “Yup, that’s me, doll.”

“You’re such a prick.”

“You could at least wait until I’m not inside of you to insult me.”

“Tell me something nice.”

“Something nice? I dunno if I can muster it up – all the things I’m thinking aren’t exactly nice. Definitely not things I’d say to anyone’s grandma.”

“Well, then, be mean,” you chuckle, and he jerks inside of you. “I don’t care.”

“You like getting off on my voice, do you?” His voice is nice and low and gravelly, and it practically grates against your pussy in some magical way, and your whole body shudders beneath him. He keeps at that perfect pace, pressure, and you commend him for his technique, you have to say. “You ever think about me when you touch yourself?” You nod. “Such a perfect, little girl. Fucking perfect.”

And he’s got a good-ish look at your face from this angle. Your eyes are closed in ecstasy, mouth open in silent pleasure, and you’re chasing, chasing that feeling. He can’t help it. He cums. And you follow immediately after – your fists screw up uselessly against the wall, and your legs quake and quake, and you squeeze so impossibly tight around him that he lets out a choked moan at how good it feels. He continues sloppily thrusting up into you, helping you ride out your orgasm while also riding out his own. “God, you’re hot,” he mutters, smiling.

You grin back at him, and his cock twitches again – it’s instinctive, he swears. “You’re not so bad either,” you reply, eyes shimmering in the dim light. Those eyes flutter shut again when he carefully pulls out of you with a sinful, wet noise.

Shit, he thinks to himself as you slip your soaked underwear and your pretty, green dress back on.

Shit, he loves you, doesn’t he?

After he’s put his suit back on, you help to adjust his tie, and he has to try his very, very hardest not to blush. He’s pretty sure you notices anyway, but it’s the effort that counts, right? He really, really wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t know if he should. The one-night stand is over, right?

“Call me tonight?” you ask after a brief pause. Was that the correct thing to do? You and Jeff call sometimes, obviously, when he’s at the store and wants to ask if you want anything, or when you want to order a pizza for yourself but get too nervous and ask for his help—but this’ll clearly be different. Are you still friends? Of course, you know you’re still friends, sure, but is it still the same?

And his heart rate has picked up significantly. You want him to call you. You want to talk to him later. “So you can get off to my voice?” You laugh. He made you laugh. He just made you laugh. The sound is like music to his ears. “I’m not a phone sex line, you know. Not a free one, anyway. If you want my services, you’re gonna have to pay.”

You’re smiling. “What’s your price?”

“$100, give or take.” He neatly folds his pocket square back up and places it into his breast pocket. Like he said, he wants to save it for later. He’s not sure for what, but it seems important to him now. And then, what he bumbles out next is said on a whim – the words are quiet and shy. Yes, shy. Jeff Winger is shy. He’s blushing. His stomach is full of butterflies. “Can I come visit your room instead?”

“Yeah, but it’ll cost you $100, give or take.”

Jeff approaches the door, and you line up behind him. “Ready?” he asks you. And you grab a fistful of his suit jacket from behind, going up on your toes, and kiss him lightly on the corner of his mouth in response.

He doesn’t even notice that you wrinkled his suit. He just closes his eyes and turns around for another kiss.

(Spoiler alert: You don’t end up seeing each other in your hotel room because Britta gets black-out drunk and nearly starts a vodka fire on the bride’s dress, so Jeff has to take her to get her fucking stomach pumped. But he gives you a call, and you come, and you sit together by Britta’s bedside as she sleeps. You talk about weird hospital experiences you’ve had, and then you fall asleep. He lets you rest your head on his shoulder.)

#jeff winger x reader smut #jeff winger x reader #jeff winger #community #pierce hawthorne #abed nadir #troy barnes #britta perry #shirley bennett #annie edison #have fun with this #i have no idea why i wrote this #but i do love it #also i’m very proud of the title

[bwoahtastic]

I had some more cute thoughts for stepmom Nico if you don't mind

- mousy learning to swim. obviously both Seb and nico are very good swimmers and mousy likes splashing around too. they spend lots of time in the pool, and mousy even has special floatie armbands to help him, and they're in a tiger print so that he can be just like seb

- nico, tonio, checo, and valtteri having a girls' night out? they go out to a bar, drink margaritas, and dance. Toto and Kimi have an entire house full of pups and it is chaos as they try to wrangle them all but it's also incredibly sweet to see them all curled up together

- all of the pups going trick or treating. Seb is very serious about his Halloween candy and devises a plan to get as much as possible for them all. He, Britta, and Dan have a list of the best houses from last year and he comes up with a route to follow, using the cuteness of Nicky and the younger pups to get as much candy as possible. At the end of the night they all pour their little buckets into one pile and Seb divides it all up evenly

- when it snows both pups are so delighted. Nico and Toto often have to chase them around trying to get hats and scarves and gloves on them before they go outside otherwise they would just wander out. Nicky loves making snow angels, especially with momma because his feathers make the best shape, while Seb and some of the Pallas kittens engage in snowball warfare. Seb also really wants to make an igloo, and toto and Nico spend hours trying to work out how to make one. they do actually manage it, and seb is so delighted that he declares he's going to live in it

- Plss nico and seb swimming and papa Toto is teaching pinky! Toto supporting the little mousy, letting him splash on his tummy with his floaties on and Nicky is giggling happily! Seb is diving and doing tricks ans making momma do competitions with him!

- plss Nico would be so giddy when he gets asked on the girls night! He never had many friends besides Kimi and he is so excited to go! Kimi coming over to help Toto and maybe Nico asks Keke if he wants to help? Cos it's a lot of pups, just the pallas kitties alone is an army and then there is seb, nicky and little maxy maybe too! Its definitely chaos for the alphas but once the pups conk out its cute!

- pls seb setting up a plan for the trick or treat because he is determined to get the most candy ever! He has the route,planned out eith Britta and Dan and picks the best costume! And he has nicky and the kittens come cos they are small and cute and give baby eyes for more candy hehe

- plss it snowing snd nicky anf seb are instsntly eith their noses pressed against the window and beg to go out! It's a little challenge trying to dress them and put their gloves and ear muffs on before they zoom outside! Nicky making snow angels while Seb throws snowball fights at some of the bigger pallas kitties (the smallest are snuggled into the warmth of Checo's tail!)

#asks #stepmom nico

[grantmentis]

hey, i really really appreciate this blog, it's been super helpful for getting newbies like me into the pwhl/woho.

you seem to know a lot about woho, so i wanted to ask: is there any "problematic" (for a lack of a better term) pwhl players we should avoid? i just want to make sure i don't become a fan of a player whose opinions are Not Great lol

tysm 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

As a disclaimer I'm not the best at like instagram/twitter so if someone i didnt mention posted something wild and i missed it my bad. Admittedly, im also american and know more about the american players than canadian.

in general id say a lot of women's hockey falls into like center-liberal white liberal politics, so you some tone deaf statements and on a whole a lot of players are less likely to be outspoken politically compared to their counterparts in women's soccer or basketball, but I don't recall anyone who's currently rostered in the PWHL posting anything wild or pulling tony deangelo esque shenanigans. luckily a lot of the openly bigoted players from the last few seasons have retired or do not play in this league right now. This is not to say it is all sushine and rainbows, there's been players like both Lamoureux twins who've campaigned for transphobic legislation and no players have spoken out against them despite many working with them in the past, Kelli Stack who's been repeatedly racist but a lot of the team usa girls from 2014-2018 hang with her, or players like Rebecca Russo and Kelly Babstock who engaged in anti-black racism back in 2021 and had a lot of teammates at the time stand with them or not call them out.

In short, there's a lot of people who have failed to speak out when the moment has called for it, and a larger cultural problem in women's hockey with enabling especially when it comes to racism ad transphobia, but no one currently who has said anything explicitly horrible to my knowledge

That said, we'll probably see britta curl next year who is a top college player/wisconsin captain and she has shared a lot of vilely racist and transphobic stuff. On that note, the PWHL also doesn't have a gender inclusion policy, which should be concerning.

#asks #anonymous

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

sister I'm trying to hold off the lightning (and help you escape from your head) (Jeffbritta finale fic)

Title is from "Deep End" by Holly Humberstone. Finale character study of Jeff Winger. Crossposted on ao3.

Jeff and Britta, at the end.

---

At the end of it all, as Season 7 dawns, there are only two souls left from the beginning to make their way to the study room table. The two who started it all, end it all, remain at all.

Two lonely souls, alone at last.

Annie and Abed have left. Shirley left for that detective that Jeff's pretty sure she ended up marrying- there's an opened and unanswered invitation sitting sadly on his kitchen counter. Troy abandoned them all for the high seas long ago. Pierce died.

Frankie and the Dean and Chang are all still here, and they matter, but they didn't sit here at the study table on that fateful night where the closest thing that Jeff has ever had to a family began.

Abed would love the symmetry. But Abed is gone. Someone more sentimental than Jeff might even say that Abed's heart left long ago, dying in the lava floes beneath the school. 

Jeff takes a gulp of his beer, his thumb smoothing over label of whatever discount brand the local gas station provided. He's years, lifetimes, away from the expensive bottles of brandy his old law firm provided.

It's been years, but the bitter taste of ambition still tastes stronger than the sour sting of the beer in his hands. He'd entered this school and this study group with two goals: get his bachelor's as quickly as possible, and fuck the blonde in his Spanish class. 

He's accomplished both, and look where it's landed him. As alcoholic as he once was, a teacher at a school that chewed him up and spat him out a better man with a far more broken heart than he entered with.

The door creaks open. A familiar face beneath darker hair enters. This season, this year, Britta's traded out her leather jackets for sweatshirts, her bleach-blonde curls for the natural darkening of the years. She's lost some of that natural intensity that once attracted her to him, more often to be found with eye crinkles than pouty lips.

She's grown up. Matured, but also softened. Let the years wear her away as firmly as they have him.

They have eroded, here. Weathered away into sand. Become older and more brittle and more nuanced.

"Last ones left," Britta says, as if she can read his mind. That's what intimacy is, Jeff supposes- years of close quarters and paintball fights and quick fucks and teasing and supporting and screaming boiled down to, at the end of the day, the kind of telepathy that aches because the person in front of you is more mirror than anything else.

Jeff tilts his bottle to her. She toasts him with her own glass of amber liquid as she sits down in her seat, forever next to him, forever around a corner from him. 

The table is empty around them. The seats hold ghosts, taken away by airplanes and boats and Buddhist funeral ceremonies and the sands of time.

Jeff's maudlin. He knows it. His Season 7 pitch was never what he truly wanted. Who needs a bunch of hot redheads when his family is gone?

He wants them back. He wants everything, their flaws, their strengths, their babbling voices, their annoying quirks. He wants their round pegs to fill the square hole in his heart.

But they've all grown up. They've all left. 

And he's been left behind.

Britta's hand settles on the table, palm up, an offering.

Jeff looks past her hand at the table. At the one they built together, when the old one was smashed to pieces. This one has no notches. They have not christened it with paint and dirty talk and sweat.

An old dilemma from Jeff's questionably-taught Philosophy 101 class filters back to him: the Ship of Theseus. If you replace every part of a ship, is still the same ship? Or is it something completely new?

The table is new. The study group is almost completely replaced.

But at the center of it all, Britta and Jeff remain. They are still here. 

Jeff looks back up at Britta. There is a kindness in Britta's eyes that has always been there, even beneath the snark and intensity that he first met her with. She's always wanted the best for others. It's why she paid for Abed's first film class with money she didn't quite have, why she pursued a psychology degree, why she has always been first unto the breach and the last one to retreat.

Britta Perry is is bitten-down finger nails and eye crinkles and snarky comments and bad analogies. She is stubborn and bright and flawed and passionate and a buzzkill and a failed therapist and a lapsed anarchist.

She is, at the end of it all, Jeff's best friend. Not by circumstance, not by artifice, but by choice.

She deserves to have someone choose her in return.

He hasn't been left behind. Not quite. The rest of the group left him, yes, but not because of him- because of themselves. Because of what they need for themselves. Self-discovery, their own lives, their own dreams.

Jeff wants to believe that someday, they'll be back. He'll get to see them all again, wrap his arms around them all, pull them into a group hug full of laughter and old jokes and new happiness.

But for now, he still has friends, both old and new. He has Frankie and the Dean and Chang, in all of their messy, crazy glory.

And he has Britta. He has Britta Perry, so different and so similar to the woman he started this study group with.

Jeff reaches out and takes Britta's hand, curling her familiar fingers between his own.

"Last ones out," he says, and it feels like a promise. An oath. A vow.

Jeff smiles, and Britta smiles right back.

#fanfic #community #crossposted on ao3 #jeff winger #jeffbritta #britta perry #finale #bittersweet #emotional consequences of broadcast television #character study #introspection #jeff winger has issues #britta x jeff #britta & jeff #aletterinthenameofsanity #deep end #holly humberstone

[puck-drop]

#hilary knight #abbey murphy #kelly pannek #kendall coyne schofield #tessa janecke #joy dunne #i feel carpy #uswnt hockey #us hockey #cayla barnes #britta curl

[mwebber]

tagged by @cuetheviolins @meova101 and @vettelsbitch to do a lil fic game! thank u sm for the tag!! <3333

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3. (Sort by date posted.) If you have less than 10 fics posted, post what you have.

1 - ask me no questions (and i'll tell you no lies)

When Mark agreed to drinks after work with DC, he didn’t quite envision himself in a bar fight for a stranger’s honour, but it seems like that’s the way the cookie crumbles these days.

2 - take a picture, it'll last longer

In packing up their apartment, Mark’s come to realize just how much trash he’s accumulated over the years. It’s endless, and he’d be impressed by the amount if he didn’t also wonder how much more storage they could have had, if they’d cleaned up earlier.

3 - the ground of the ordinary mind

When Sebastian Vettel finally commits the sin of killing another human being, he is sixteen years old.

4 - whether a parting be forever

There are only a few thoughts that run through Sebastian’s Moon-addled brain when he succumbs to the disease.

5 - nobody asks you questions when you say you're a software engineer

When the accounting firm’s Unofficial-End-of-Year-Holiday-Party-Seriously-Don’t-Say-Anything-to-Andreas-Please-RSVP invite comes in the mail, Mark is already adamant that he will not be in attendance.

6 - and an and, and an and, and the end

Seb is going to do something so unbelievably stupid, Christian would probably pop a vein from the rocketing levels of cortisol in his blood alone.

7 - the first taste

“Britta told me about what you said earlier.”

8 - nobody asks you questions when you say you're an accountant

Mark Webber is, among other things, absolutely certain that the asshole who botched his hit is one Sebastian Vettel. He’d know those dirty blonde curls and ergonomically small hands anywhere. 

9 - started with a spark

Mark’s Porsche is sacred ground. Holy. Untouched by anything other than the pure thrill of racing. 

10 - every time you come, you leave me blue

When the chequered flag falls on Saturday qualifying, Mark gets up from his cushy spot in the Channel 4 kiosk and dials Seb’s family-and-friends number, ducking into one of the many storage areas surrounding the paddock.

no pressure tags! @sebrrari @antimonyandthyme @cedobols @rainbowintheskyf1 @thermocrying @saintdevote

#tag game #'when' this 'when' that. note 2 self get more original goddamn 💀

[antimonyandthyme]

Martian word vomit, y’all knew this was coming today.

There’s steak and wine and everyone’s smiling, and after a rough start it’s finally starting to look like they’re taking a step in the right direction. He’s older now, old enough to only be cautiously optimistic, but it was a good result, and he can allow himself to feel happy. Mikey’s tucked into his side, and Seb grins at something he says. He’s so fond of this team. He’s so fond of them all.

It’s fondness that softens the edges of the world as he steps away from the dinner. His eyes are crinkled up, and objects float a little at the periphery. He knows his cheeks are rosy-red. Mike gives him a look, like, You good?

Seb nods. He thinks longingly of bed, slipping under the covers, satisfied and at ease. But he has just one more thing on the agenda.

Did you mean it?

He tries not to check his phone obsessively as he walks back to the hotel. The night air is crisp against his wine-warmed skin. A memory: Mark telling him in the dredges of an ending career in Ferrari, Know your limits. Back in 2020 Seb was prone to error and misconception, and all he heard was I don’t believe in you.

And now Mark says, You’re a legend, and Seb wants to know, which one is it?

Is that an awkward thing to want to ask someone face to face? Goddamn Mark for always putting him on the spot. He’s lounging in front of Seb’s door when Seb finally stumbles back.

“What,” he says. Then, “How?”

“Britta.”

“And she told you?” Seb can’t decide if he should be pleased or alarmed.

Mark shrugs. “Maybe in 2013 she would’ve set me on fire if I asked.”

“And now?”

“Don’t think she blinked twice.” Mark gives him a pointed look. “That has to count for something, right?”

Ah. Maybe Mark’s a little more nervous than Seb’s giving him credit for. Seb fumbles with his card key, drops it in his haste, swipes it up from the floor frantically, and fights with the door in his scramble to open it and let Mark in. By the end of the spectacle, any tension held in Mark’s shoulders has drained out, and all that’s left is amusement. And fondness. All that fondness Seb doesn’t know what to do with.

“Well,” he demands, when they’re both safely locked away, and can no further embarrass themselves to the world. “Did you mean it?”

“It pains me that you have to ask,” Mark says, bone-dry, like that comment thrown so casually doesn’t mean what Seb thinks it means, like it doesn’t unearth a history comparable to sedimentary rock, good-year-bad-year-half-good-year-worst-year-ever-recovery-year then year-in-which-Seb-isn’t-really-sure-where-they-stand, laid upon each other with the weight of past knowledge and hurts and intimacy compressing it all down, like the comment doesn’t take that and peel everything apart until Seb is raw with all the feelings exhumed.

“Mark,” Seb says, because he just wants to know. He glances up at Mark with his red cheeks. He must seem a sight. Does Mark look at him now and still see a child? “Did you mean it?”

“It pains me,” Mark says again, quieter this time, more solemn this time, “that you have to ask.”

“You must understand,” Seb says, because he’s still so dreadfully unsure. “Back then, you said. You said—”

“I said, know your limits. And you hated me for it.”

“Not hate,” Seb says, dismayed. “Mark, I never did.”

“Alright,” Mark soothes. “You were angry for it. You loved them still. But all I saw was what they did to you. I said, know your limits. I meant—for them.”

The world gets aggressively blurrier. Mark’s face shifts behind his eyelids. The exhale he lets out is wounded, and Mark’s hands curl around his cheeks, steady and grounding.

“Seb,” he says, soft like his voice could caress the name. “You still don’t believe me?”

“I do,” Seb mumbles into Mark’s palm. If he hides a kiss there, well, who’s to know? “Sorry I’m being so silly about it.” He’s thirty-four, for Christ’s sake. And here he is, demanding reassurance from a man who he sometimes feels exists in the fuzzy, peripheral edge of his vision, there but not exactly there, and yet still so annoyingly important.

“Some things don’t change,” Mark says. He leans down and kisses Seb’s nose. Seb makes a displeased noise. Like, That’s it?

Layers and layers of debris and intimacy. Mark knows what he sounds like when he wants more. Hand on Seb’s hip, thumb on his cheekbone. Mark kisses him deeply, thoroughly, just the way he likes it. Seb soaks up the feeling, up on his tiptoes, drinking in the affection and reassurance that he longed so desperately to physically grasp when Lee informed him, Mark Webber, just describing, you’re a legend.

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #martian #a finished product #just in time for martian monday #the best martian monday the circus is experiencing #i'm living #every second of it #mark saying you're a legend #and you thought i wouldn't write for it #you thought!

[sansebastinae]

i can't write a story so instead i will. write the idea down horribly like the digital version of writing on a napkin, because I know it will disappear. and draw something to make a point

pretend this was barcelona or whatever and i'll just leave it hanging because i dont know how to connect 5 (for 14 haha badumtss)

The red carnation is said to be the national flower of Spain. Fernando is unconvinced, because he’s from the North and maybe he's not heard of it, and maybe that flower is a more Southern Spain thing. Either way, he's somehow gotten a hold of one, because today he woke up with one goal, everything else be damned : put this flower on Sebastian's hair.

He's shit at romantic gestures, he knows that, and he would rather marathon cycle from Portugal all the way to, dunno, the Finnish Lapland than deal with the reality that is Cupid's hammer. Yes, hammer, because the realisation that he liked Sebastian for a while hit him quite hard in the face.

Right now, he is dealing with it. first step to admitting and all that. except he's not that poetic regarding personal relationships. sure he could recite the right calculations and bends of a tricky painful track like Singapore. how do you convince the World's Most Loved Driver that you sincerely like him, when there's seven billion other people who could do it better ? To the media, he's always seem annoyed at everything he's done. now you say you love him? Yeah, right.

Even worse, how would you string your words together, when he realises he's somehow made his way straight to the Aston Martin hospitality building, without remembering a single moment of it? Somehow tell Britta who is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, like he was up to no good, that he would want to meet him personally. now they're both standing right in front of the door to Seb's room, somehow.

well, too late for that. she's knocked on the door and gone off, and he's met a pair of sleepy but curious blue eyes that are looking right at him. the same beautiful eyes that has never changed even from 15 years back.

the way Seb simply looks at him, sunlight from the window illuminating his golden curls, makes the flower pale as a gift. Fernando thinks maybe he really should've just cycled those feelings away.

#i cannot write #but. i must #writing #sebastian vettel #fernando alonso

[rosyjuly]

I’m BACK sebmick + summer plz

me unearthing a prompt from literally two months ago because i'm in the mood to write something in the SoW au? it's more likely than you think. i had a long conversation with @antimonyandthyme today about this and it just begged to be written down.

A jubilee feast, however unnecessarily fanciful, is also an occasion to open the castle, to hand out gifts and blessings for young parents, should they wish so. And they are not without entertainment, this year, either. Heikki has trained promising youngsters for the archery competition. It was marvelous to see one of them victorious – Sebastian will have to ask if he would want to become a squire. And of course, the highlight of the day: Kimi and Rocky have outdone themselves with the sparring tournament, the crowd ecstatic to see the swirling blades, their screams of delight louder than the colliding swords. 

It is no surprise that Mick has claimed victory and thus the seat at Sebastian’s table at the evening feast. With the free flow of wine and good conversation, old friends making the journey to the castle, Sebastian feels a warm glow spreading in his chest. 

When Britta retires for the evening, citing that she’s had quite enough of Sebastian’s anecdotes that she must have heard a hundred times by now, Mick is quick to take the chair she’s just vacated. 

“May I?” he asks, curling his hands around the intricate carvings of the backrest.

Sebastian waves at him lazily. “It would be my pleasure,” he says, quiet enough that Mick knows that it was intended for his ears mostly. 

Mick sits. He places his goblet on the table again, tracing the stem of it with an idle finger. 

“Are you enjoying yourself, your Majesty?” he asks. 

“Quite,” Sebastian hums. The blood in his veins has turned syrupy. “Yet I seem to remember to have told you to call me Sebastian.”

The tiny hitch in Mick’s breath is exhilarating. Mick swallows and tilts his head, sweeping his eyes through the guests at the table. Sebastian need not bother. He can feel the weight of Kimi’s gaze, has felt it ever since he clasped Mick’s hand after his victory. 

“Not in company, though,” Mick says, leaning in closer to avoid being overheard. “Your majesty,” he adds, and now it must be deliberate, because Sebastian can feel the warm puff of his breath on his cheek.

#spoils of war #little fics #sebmick #rosy.ask #this must have been like. a three of five sentences prompt game #and it is NEITHER :)

[captainnameless]

just seen this tiktok https://www.tiktok.com/@f1addiction2/video/7212638397276458283?_t=8bkKE2iJH1m&_r=1 and i feel like we don’t talk about Seb and Lando enough, could we get a little interaction with them after this situation maybe? thank you !!

There’s few things that really piss him off these days. Not many things that’ll make him lose his temper but Sebastian feels himself shaking with anger while he walks.

“What did I say? What did I say? I told them!” He gestures wildly despite his quick pace, voice bleeding frustration.

“You did, I’m sorry Seb.” Britta answers, trying to keep up.

“It wasn’t safe. I told them!” He repeats. “It’s so unnecessary. What if he got seriously hurt?” Sebastian stops abruptly, nearly tripping his PR manager over. “I-.” He has to take a deep breath to keep his emotions at bay. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Medical, probably. He’s out the car, Seb.” Britta answers, extending a hand to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “He’s okay. He’s gonna be.”

Sebastian sighs again, long and exasperated, one of his hands rubs over his face then through his hair. “Maybe I could.. Can I-”

“See him?” Britta finished for him, followed by another squeeze and a reassuring smile. “I’ll ask around. Find out where he is.”

“Please.”

- - -

It’s Carlos who opens the door for him, not that it came as a surprise when he was told Carlos was already with him. He gathered together all his patience when he was told to wait, that there were too many people around Lando right now and he still needed the all-clear. After what felt like an eternity he gets Carlos’ text with a location, and can’t get there fast enough.

Lando’s bundled up on the couch on the far right, pout etched into his features at what Sebastian suspects is the fact that Carlos left to open the door. It softens when they make eye contact, and Lando wriggles his arm out of the blanket, winches then reaches out with what can only be described as grabby hands.

“Seb.”

It fills Sebastian’s chest with something he cannot really put into words and rushes over like some sort of magnetic pull breathing out a “Hey Bud.” as he sits down on the couch next to Lando.

There’s a whine indicating he’s done something wrong, and he figures out quickly enough what is it when Lando’s trying to fit himself into his lap, tangled up in the blanket Carlos probably put him in.

Sebastian helps him get untangled, gently wrapping both his arms around the younger lad as he allows his heart beat to slow down for the first time since he’s seen the red flag. Lando’s ok.

Except Lando’s suddenly crying, face buried into Sebastian’s chest, body shaking as hands curled into the back of his shirt. He mindlessly tightens his hold, tries to make a comforting sound but panics a bit nonetheless as he looks for Carlos who’s still stood a couple feet away.

“Just hold him, he’s been asking for you.” Carlos somewhat whispers, and so Sebastian obeys; holds Lando close, gently rubbing a hand down his back and whispering soft reassurance into the mop of curls.

Lando cries about the scary crash for a bit, clinging to Sebastian before pulling back and moving his hands to Sebastian’s chest, catching his eyes. There’s a watery sound that comes out of Lando’s mouth. “You came.”

Sebastian’s gaze softens, hand coming up to thumb away the tears, resting it there and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Of course, sweet boy. I’ll always come.”

#littlef1adventures #i miss my seb ): #lf1a.minific