#business larry fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

be-my-ally · 11 months

Text

Paradise: Old Army Uniform Style

A late midweek (although I suppose it’s the end of the week now) treat for everyone - finally; my fill for the prompt “Army Elvis”.

pairing: fem!reader x 1964-6 Elvis.

summary: reader walks in on Elvis trying on an old outfit in the midst of his struggles with his body image - she takes the initiative to try and convince him he’s still hot af.

I tried, i really tried. I wrote 156 words for an ‘army elvis’ fic where he’s actually in the army but I spent the whole time thinking nope I hate it I can’t get the words right, I don’t know enough…etc etc. Maybe one day I’ll finish the alternative fic I had started but for now, please enjoy how I managed to fit late 1964-6 Elvis into this prompt.

warnings: 18+, use of the term ‘fat’ as both an adjective and a derogatory term for elvis to describe himself, but briefly and very gently. Insecure Elvis, oral (p receiving).

wc: for how long this took me to get out - an embarrassingly small 3.2k

as always thank you for the help + encouragement to the girlies @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @missmaywemeetagain, @ellie-24, @from-memphis-with-love, @powerofelvis

“Fuckin’ hell.” You can hear a clamour from the dressing room off the side of the bedroom when you walk in, clothing strewn about and Elvis swearing. What the hell is he doing.

“El?” You tentatively creep around the doorframe, he’d stormed up here a little while ago, furious about something that had been said to him on the phone during a ‘business meeting’ - shouting that he was “Gettin’ ready to leave - gonna leave y’all here if you ain’t ready when I come down.”

He was meant to be getting ready for the Memphian, like he had been every evening this past week and you’d wondered what was taking him so long since, despite his warning, he’d been up here a while. Of course, you’re in no hurry - the shows don’t start until Elvis turns up whatever time of the night or morning that may be and the boys were happy (and expected) to entertain themselves downstairs until he reappeared.

You round the corner, blinking at the sight in front of you, trying to make sense of the trail of clothing, the mismatch of the fabrics surrounding Elvis in the centre. Your eyes finally manage to focus on him and you wince a little as you see what he’s found. He’s staring at himself in the large mirror, twisting and turning. You try not to draw attention to yourself, yet, wanting to try and decipher his feelings before making yourself known.

You know he’s struggling at the moment - to find the right things to wear. It hasn’t helped his confidence none being shafted by the wardrobe departments. The worst offender being that god-awful brown shirt and pants he has to wear for Hawaiian Paradise; the beige supposedly slimming but everyone seems to be aware it’s having the opposite effect. Any attempt at suggesting a different costume had been put down - arguing that the costuming reflects the character, it’s apparently integral to make it clear he's a pilot. Regardless of the fact that the plot makes it clear Rick has limited professionalism and would, therefore, as a private pilot be unlikely to wear such a thing. It’s worse than that too - you know, Elvis knows, Larry knows, wardrobe knows, hell everyone knows that that outfit, and the way he’s being purposefully shielded from the cameras topless, how even swimming they refuse to film him from the front is all on orders from on high.

Orders that revolve around ‘the state’ of him at the moment, of his ‘hefty weight’ as that one Variety reviewer referred to him. Scarcely could you read a review without some discussion of his recent weight gain or the word ‘pudgy’ being used to describe some part of him. Elvis himself has become a little preoccupied with these comments - he wouldn’t allow them to film him naked from the waist up even if they’d tried in what he felt was his ‘current condition’.

You think - just for a second, looking at him now, that he’s in that uniform although why he’d have brought it home from set and all the way to Tennessee you couldn’t imagine. Before you realise that it was in fact the tan of his summer chino uniform. One of his old army uniforms - perhaps the oldest judging from the badge on his arm. You can see, as he twists and turns in the mirror, tugging at the fabric, that the pants gape at the waist - too tight to zip closed, and the shirt buttons are closed but faintly straining. It’s immediately clear it doesn’t fit. But it’s also clear that it’s not far off, and you dread to think how you would look trying to fit in a dress from five or six years ago - the difference between your very early twenties and being basically thirty seems like quite the jump.

You can see he’s miserable. His hair’s undone and flopping forward - a relief from his recent desire to have it gelled into an unmoving coif - working to hide his face from yours in the mirror, but with every jerking pull of the fabric, accompanied by the swearing spilling out of his mouth, you can tell he’s feeling awful. You repeat yourself from before, interrupting him this time -

“El? You alright?” He stills, glancing up at you in the mirror. There’s a pause that feels longer than it probably is as he makes eye contact before looking away, a flush creeping up his neck.

“‘m fat.” He mumbles it, almost as if not wanting you to hear it, you can’t help but roll your eyes - you appreciate he feels this way but it all feels a bit ridiculous considering you’re looking at him all day every day, and sure there is a difference but hardly to the extent he’s claiming.

“You’re not fat.” He whirls around to look at you properly,

“I am.”

“You’re not. And if you are, god only knows what you’d call me.” You gesture down yourself, he winces - if there’s one thing he’s learnt it’s to never comment on a women’s weight -

“Well it’s, it’s not the same thing at all. It’s different for you - w’men are meant, meant to be soft, ‘m ‘m not. I’ve got,” he gestures to his hips, “handles” You frown, resting your hands in the soft dip of your waist on top of the swell of your own hips.

“So do I.” You flare your fingers out to illustrate your point. He throws his hands in the air, as high as he can with the shirtsleeves too tight on his armpits.

“Don’t know why I bother trying to ‘splain - you ain’t listenin’ to me -“ He sounds it out, “You’re. Meant. To.” You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that he’s just upset and that’s why he’s behaving like a bit of a dick.

“If you weren’t meant to be - You wouldn’t be.” You believe that for him and yourself - wholeheartedly. He huffs,

“Don’t know why I even tried.” He starts angrily unbuttoning the shirt and you wince at his roughness - it might be useless, and it might be impossible to wear but it still feels emblematic of a part of him. “Stupid idea. This is why all ‘m doing is them shitty films. Won’t be getting any Jimmy Dean comparisons lookin’ like this.” He starts to tug at the pants, it would be comical the way he has to attempt to wriggle them off of his, admittedly thick, ass if you couldn’t see the waistband scraping him on the way down, little red marks being left.

“You’re being overdramatic. I promise, babe, no one cares whether you can fit in your old uniform.” He lets out a hollow laugh, sitting on the occasional chair in the corner, shoving the pants to his thighs.

“No honey, they do. That’s what - what the Colonel was ringin’ about, wanted to tell me they won’t be using me as I am now on the albums for the film - gonna use, use some from Acapulco ‘stead.” He can’t get the pants down any further and you have to stifle a laugh - you feel sorry for him, you truly do, but he just looks so ridiculous sat there with his pants bunched around his thighs, shirt open, pouting.

“Babe - I, I don’t know why this bothers you so much - they’re assholes!” He shakes his head, crossing his arms and looking to the side.

“They might be, but they’re right. Soon enough no-one’s gonna want to buy anything from me. I’ll be a fat old man. ‘s just like Germany all over again, ‘m terrified everyone’s gonna move on without me.” He looks affronted when you do laugh at him this time,

“Sweetheart, you’re not anywhere near old yet, and uh, well, you might have put on a little bit of weight, but you’re not out of shape and you’re not - honestly it’s ridiculous I’m having to tell you this. You’re not unattractive.” He sighs at this, like he thinks you’re just placating him, thumping his arm on the chair like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Want me to go grab a couple of the girls from outside?” You giggle, he kicks a foot out. “Bet they’d show you how you still are.” His eyebrows are still pulled together, but you can see his frown relaxing, as if he wants to laugh but still refuses to.

“Or, you just want me to make you feel better? Show you how much I want you still?” He looks you up and down, as if assessing the offer, you smile at him when his eyes linger on your bare thighs for a second. He goes soft for a second, quiet,

“I just thought maybe, maybe I’d fit and-and it would prove that I wasn’t getting all pudgy - hefty. Like they keep puttin’ it.” You don’t know what to say, it’s not altogether untrue - it would just be untrue to say that he doesn’t look good, that the few extra pounds haven’t gone straight to his meaty thighs and stomach making you want to sink your teeth into them, haven’t rounded some of his clean lines to look even better than before; manly, rugged. Even with the hollywood styling.

“What,” You pause, worrying that this is going to be the wrong thing to say, that it will make the spiral worse, “What made you try that particular outfit though?” He huffs again, frown back on his face. Before he seems to come to some sort of decision and sits up, leaning forward,

“I dunno, I just felt real similar to how I did then, and I know I looked good bythe time I was meeting with Sinatra, I was fit and, I don’t know really. I jus’ wanted to be home the whole time I was over there… and now, now I’d do anything to go back.”

“Hmm.” You’re non-committal in your response, you know he wouldn’t like to go back to Germany, back to the army, at all. You remember vividly how homesick he was, how much he hated being away, how miserable he was for those first few months after Gladys’ death. You’re pretty sure he’s just had a bad meeting that’s weighing heavily on him - and that if you can cajole him out the door for a night of fun he’ll be, not fully okay but, at least more balanced or rational about it all by tomorrow. You take a step forward, he’s forced to tilt his chin up to maintain eye contact with you. “I think maybe I just need-ta show you how gorgeous you are?” He frowns, but this time you’re not letting him distract you again, cupping his face in your hands.

You have to bend to meet his lips, and he has to strain up a little, his hands coming up to grip your thighs. It’s like a switch has been turned on. You swear you can feel his pulse through his fingertips, spreading from where he’s gripping your skin, travelling straight up to meet your own heartbeat that’s starting to thump between your legs. By the time your lips even touch you’re openmouthed, practically begging him to lick into you. You kiss him, soundly, controlling the movement in a way he very rarely allows unless he was feeling particularly vulnerable. You can feel in the way he sinks into you that you made the right choice, the way his cheek rests heavy in your palm, the feel of his eyelashes as they flutter against your cheekbones.

“C’mon Sergeant let’s get this off of you,” You tug at his shirtsleeves, pleased when he shrugs the shirt off the rest of the way while still trying to chase your mouth. “Now these.” You push at his trousers, they’d been stuck before, only a hint of the dark thatch of hair appearing just above the open waistband, but with your insistent motion they start to come down further, he lifts his hips to allow for them to come fully off and you can’t help but smile as you’re faced with him in total nakedness. “There now. That’s better.” He looks up at you, from under his lashes, where you’re still hovering over him. “Now. Where was I.” You start to sink down, between his thighs, your hands trailing over his shoulders. He grabs a wrist,

“Don’t - you don’t gotta do this, don’t, don’t want you to pretend none, honey,” You pull your wrist out from his grip, situating yourself firmly on the floor but kneeling up far enough that your head was at chest height. You look up at him,

“I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you. I’m not pretending, I swear baby,” You brush your fingers down his chest, skimming the side of his tummy, poking a little at his waist, he jerks away, ticklish, and you giggle as you can’t help but do it again,

“No-oo! Honey, no, not,” He’s laughing himself now, unable to stop as you jab your fingers into the soft sides of him, “Not there, stop!” You ease off, stroking where you’d been prodding, at the faint flush of red from the rough contact.

“I love this.” You prod him a final time for good measure, leaning in to kiss the fat on the side. “Love this, my perfect man.”

“Don’t -“ He flinches, turning his head away from you again, tucking it into his neck.

“Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t tell you that I like the look of you any which way? Don’t tell you that I think anyone who says otherwise must be blind. Don’t show you,” You let your hands continue their journey down brushing over his hips, over the dimples just below before coming to rest on his thighs. “How much I love how you look?” You look up at him, sinking back onto your heels, “Let me show you Elvie baby, let me show you how much I love all of you.” You make eye contact, waiting for him to nod, before turning your full attention to what had really brought you to your knees.

He’s still only half-hard, and you pause, looking at him considering for a moment. “Watch me baby.” You take your hand under your dress, pushing into through the leg band of your panties, gathering some of the growing slick wetness onto your fingers, just enough for them to be a little slippery. You pull them out, watching Elvis track you with burning eyes, never moving from your fingers. You reach up to gently grasp his cock, your slick providing just enough lubrication. It jumps when you touch it, and he throws his head back as you move your hand gently but firmly, playing with him until he’s fully chubbed up. Only then do you remove your sticky hand, resting it on his thigh. You look up at him, determined to keep eye contact as he turns back to face you. You sink forward, lapping at his head, little kitten licks as you allow yourself to fall into the blue of his eyes. His hands are staying on the arms of the chair, as if he can tell you’re in charge right now even without you having to say it. You feel his thighs clench after a moment, and you take that as invitation to sink down properly.

The warm wet heat of your mouth causes him to swear violently, and when you glance down at his lips they’re open, parting as he pants a little. You push yourself on, taking him as deeply as you possibly could before pulling back and sinking back down. He can’t seem to still his hips completely moving then back and forth forcing you to chase him back down - to have to try to ensure he doesn’t slip all the way out. You start to pull out all of the tricks, your spare hand coming up to stroke his balls, a gentle encouragement of sorts, while you begin to hum any tune that comes into your mind, causing his hips to circle, a “Goddamn baby.” to spill out of his mouth and his hand to come to rest on your head. You open your throat, pushing all the way onto him, forcing you to break eye contact with how your nose bumps his famous pelvis once he’s fully situated. He’s making little breathy whines and moans as you rock your throat back and forth on him, swallowing occasionally to clear your mouth of his precum and because every time you do you can feel him twitch. You pull all the way off, circling his head with your tongue on the way, he whines as you do, a bereft noise, while you take a few deep, gulping, breaths.

You watch how Little Elvis is left rosy and standing at attention, how when you exhale he twitches from the force of your blow. You capture him in your mouth again, returning to the task at hand. It’s not long, with you using every trick of your tongue that you have, before his grip tightens on your head, hand fisting in your hair. You swallow, and he moves your head himself once, twice, before his hips stutter and he spills down your throat. You glance back up at him, peering past his tummy as best you could, watching his face contort as he grunts out an “Oh f-f-fuck.” His pouty lips parted, eyes shut. You pull back, licking his tip clean, before pressing a kiss to his thigh.

“That make you feel any better?” He smiles as he opens his eyes and you get to see the sparkle in them again.

“God, Jesus. How’re you so good at that.” You shrug, kneeling back,

“God-given talent for me to use on pretty men I guess.” He chuckles, stroking a finger down your face, this time he’s the one cupping your chin.

“`Thank you darlin’. You’re gorgeous baby.” You tilt your head as if conceding, lifting up a finger to poke him again.

“Even so, regardless of all of this, it’s whats on the inside that counts.” You mean it earnestly but he looks back at you, a glint in his eye as he traces a finger over your lips,

“Certainly is doll. What’s inside that counts.” He winks, and you gulp almost choking on your own spit in surprise at his double entendre. He grins, standing up to grab the pants on the back of the chair, finally actually getting ready to go out. You sit back on your heels content to simply watch him go about his routine.

You giggle a little, watching him tuck his shirt into his pants. A thought pops into your head - one that you’re not willing to say out loud and spoil his newfound good mood, remind him of his status that should, somehow, ease the human insecurities he feels, you know he’d hate it. But you can’t stop yourself from thinking it; I can’t believe I’ve just had to spend half an hour telling Elvis Presley he’s a stud still.

#elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis x reader #be-my-ally #elvis x you #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley x reader #writing prompt game

227 notes · View notes

heliads · 5 months

Note

Your other Strollonso fic was AWESOME so can I request a Strollonso mafia!AU maybe? Like maybe it’s an arranged marriage so mob boss Nando can keep his alliance with Larry Stroll and they’re super awkward around each other at first but get closer and then Lance gets kidnapped and hurt by a rival and Nando just flips his shit and tears apart the city to find him and they have a really nice lil kiss once Lance is safe and ok? Thanks so much 💕💕

'not just one of your many toys' - fernando x lance

masterlist

It is Fernando Alonso’s own wedding day, and he’s already half an hour late. It’s not a good look, certainly, but no one in their right minds would ever say that the head of the Spanish mob has ever been good, so, according to Fernando, this just fits right in with the rest of his grim reputation. It’s all about appearances, isn’t it?

Today, though, it’s not beyond Fernando to admit that he should have done better. Today matters. Fernando is not stupid enough to have actually fallen in love with someone, so he doesn’t have to worry about disappointing a heartsick fiancée. Besides, if he wanted someone like that, he would have managed to twist his way inside their mind enough that they would forgive him for this tardiness the second he asked.

No, today isn’t a matter of love. Rumor has it that the Spanish mob had their hearts cut out in an expensive procedure when they turned eighteen, and although that’s an obvious fabrication since they’re all still bleeding rich red, it’s true enough by emotional standards. If you love, you die. Fernando Alonso does not accept weakness. If he ever fell in love, he would kill the object of his desires first so they could never drag him down again.

This, then, is yet another business transaction. Fernando has been courting the Stroll family for years now, eyeing their billions ever since they made their first killing, but now, he’s finally managed to force his way in. A young man is waiting on an altar somewhere across the city; Lawrence Stroll’s only son, Lance. Fernando and Lawrence cut this deal a month ago, and it took far too many pulled strings for Fernando to fuck it up like this now. If he were smart, he would have been there early.

Instead, his knife is halfway inside another man’s chest cavity, and Fernando is no closer to wrapping this up than he had been fifteen minutes ago when he realized he was late in the first place. He can’t afford to rush this, though. Traitors never flourish in the mob, least of all with Fernando’s men. Fernando has a reputation to uphold, his marital status be damned. If he doesn’t make this guy a prime example of what happens when you cross Fernando Alonso, his whole business will be riddled with holes until it all comes crashing down.

Still, Fernando can’t afford to piss off the Strolls more than he has already. Jerking his knife out of a partially deflated lung with a hiss of annoyance, Fernando turns to his second in command, Carlos Sainz. The younger, that is. The father is somewhere getting rich off of his son’s bloodlust, as all dutiful parents should be. “You’ll have to carry on with the rest. I was needed thirty minutes ago.”

Carlos swears under his breath. “Shit, I forgot about the wedding. I can make Alguersuari take over if you want me there. It can’t hurt to have backup, I don’t trust the fucking Canadians not to pull some shit.”

Fernando shakes his head. “Stay, I need a guarantee this is handled properly. Besides, I’ll have others there. This isn’t the day that I die.”

Carlos doesn’t look convinced. “You’re going into their stronghold. All of their guys will be there.”

Fernando chuckles. “It’s not a death trap, Carlos, it’s a church. Even Lawrence isn’t bloodthirsty enough to off me en una iglesia.”

Carlos makes a snorting sound that lets Fernando know just what he thinks of that, but one sharp look from Fernando silences the last of his objections. Carlos is a good kid, and Fernando trusts him the most out of anyone here, but in the end, it’s Fernando’s show, and he’s got to make sure none of his men are bashing his soon-to-be husband’s father any more than absolutely necessary.

Fernando cleans off his hands with a rag, grimacing at the spots of purple and green already starting to flower over his knuckles. Bruises on his hands don’t exactly add to the wedding atmosphere, but everyone there already knows what he’s capable of, so this should be no surprise. He exits the building and directs his driver to the church. They get there as fast as they can, but, judging by the stony expression on Lawrence Stroll when Fernando arrives at last, it wasn’t fast enough. He’s only thirty-five minutes late, though. By all accounts, it’s not even that bad.

Lawrence takes him by the arm, leading him casually yet forcefully to one of the small rooms in the back of the church used for the wedding party to prepare themselves before the big event.

“Where have you been?” Lawrence glowers the second the door closes.

“Traffic,” Fernando muses. “It’s terrible in these parts.”

Lawrence arches a silver brow. “You have blood on your cuffs.”

Fernando glances down at his sleeves and fights a wince. It’s only a few drops, but the copper stains still manage to stand out against the fine material. “Really bad traffic. Tourists should have their licenses revoked if they go more than ten below the limit.”

Lawrence doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes, which is good, because neither is Fernando. None of them like this deal, but they have no better options, so here they are. “Do not forget what rests upon this agreement,” Lawrence intones. “This is not some pretty spring wedding. I must admit, I was relieved when I signed my son over to you because I thought you of all people would understand everything that depends on this. And then you showed up late.”

Fernando tilts his head to the side slightly. “I know exactly what this means. I signed the contract. Let me be the first to assure you that I have no second thoughts. I was merely handling business.”

The air in the prep room is damn near icy. Lawrence is good at the scary act, but Fernando has been inspiring fear in the hearts of better mob men for decades now, and he isn’t the type to back down. Fernando may have coveted the Stroll money, but Lawrence wanted something too, or he never would have agreed to this in the first place. Fernando has had a long and bloody climb to the top of the Spanish mob, and Lawrence wants the notoriety and security of being forever associated with that kind of success. What tie could be better than a marriage? Lawrence had already married off his daughter to a lesser gun of the Bulls, but, well, there was always the other heir.

The legalization of gay marriage did a lot for mob patriarchs. One piece of paper, one actual legal thing about their whole enterprise, could genuinely complete an union between two families. Now, when searching for tenuous threads on which to conduct alliances, wealthy fathers with bloody hands wouldn’t just have to pray for daughters, they could also marry off their useless sons.

Fernando knows for a fact that there’s been talk of Charles Leclerc from the Chevaux Rouges getting married off to one of the other dime-a-dozen Frenchmen. Pierre Gasly’s father has been pushing that agenda since both young men were boys, but Fernando also knows the way that one of his own best men, Carlos, has been eyeing the Monegasque, so maybe the deal wasn’t yet set in stone after all. Fernando should get after Carlos for that. Pretty boys aren’t worth toppling alliances. He’ll get himself in trouble faster than a sports car can accelerate.

After all, this was supposed to be about politics, not actual affection. Fernando is the perfect example of this. He could count the times he’s seen Lance Stroll on one hand. The boy lingers in the back of his father’s meetings, pulling exaggerated faces when he’s certain nobody can see him, but Fernando isn’t even sure he’s actually talked to him more than forced interactions conducted in an effort to make it seem like Fernando is a team player. Then again, he doesn’t actually have to enjoy Lance’s company. He just needs his hand in marriage.

One of Lawrence’s men hurries into the room, holding his phone aloft. “A body was just discovered across town. Strung up by the church spire.”

Lawrence eyes Fernando coolly. “Traffic?”

Fernando just sinks his teeth into a matching icy grin. “Traffic,” he agrees.

Lawrence reaches forward, taking hold of Fernando’s hands like he’s praying the rosary. “Do not put any further stains upon my family,” he intones. “Waste the money I give you, fine. Kill your enemies on my own dime. But do not misuse my son. And do not keep him waiting any longer.”

Lawrence squeezes abruptly, causing the rapidly forming bruises on Fernando’s knuckles to twinge with fresh pain, then pulls away. Fernando follows him into the sanctuary of the church. Men in varying shades of black suits watch him like hawks from both sides of the aisle, women most of them probably don’t know lingering on their arms. At the front, Lance’s best man eyes Fernando with particular hatred, but Esteban Ocon has despised Fernando ever since a certain deal went south last year, so Fernando doesn’t pay him much attention. It’s very easy to ignore the Frenchman, which makes Esteban even more irate.

Fernando studies his fiancé. He’s not even certain that Lance was in the room when Lawrence and Fernando agreed on the marriage union, but it’s not like it would have mattered anyway. Lawrence makes the decisions for the Strolls. In a way, Fernando feels like he’s been courting the Stroll patriarch more than his son, but it’s all in the interest of a pawn to move around. Both Lawrence and Fernando can agree on that, apparently.

Lance considers Fernando with vague interest, eyeing him up and down with a lifted brow. He’s not bad to look at, all things considered. He supposes it could have been worse; for a while, that Russian upstart, Mazepin, was thought to be someone to coerce into a marriage, but then his family was revealed to be a bunch of rats and were subsequently driven out of the business. Fernando feels he dodged a bullet there.

The ceremony is conducted without much difficulty. Lawrence insisted on an extravagant reception so they can at least pretend this is a wedding and not just a job reassignment, and Fernando has been dreading this part all day. Carlos turns up an hour into the reception, matching bruises dotting his knuckles. Fernando tells him to enjoy himself as a reward for his good work, but not to have too much fun. Drunkenness and debauchery on a night like this would condemn Fernando even more than showing up late to his own wedding.

Fernando completes circuit after circuit of the event hall, shaking hands with Stroll associates and hearing congratulations from his associates. Many mob men are here as a sign of respect; Esteban brought Pierre as well, so the French are adequately represented, plus young Mick from the Germans.

Nico Rosberg usually turns up to these sorts of things, so Fernando is sort of surprised that he didn’t show, but then he notices Lewis Hamilton talking with his fellow Silver Arrow George Russell by the bar and the pieces click together again. Now that had been a split to remember. Lewis and Nico had run things together since they were kids, but when Lewis switched sides overnight, Nico had been left without a right hand man when he was about to consider a major deal. It was a stab in the back from the one person Rosberg had thought was his most loyal ally. All of the informants had been simmering for ages afterwards. Talk about a scandal.

After greeting both Arrows, Fernando has to steer Carlos away from the Chevaux Rouges again– he’ll have to have a conversation with the younger man about that later, it does no good to make it so easy to tell what you want– and spoken to Charles Leclerc once he was alone again. Lawrence Stroll has been satisfied by the turnout, so he’s actually in a good mood when he and Fernando talk lightly about business later on.

By the end of the reception, Fernando has managed to have a conversation with everyone but his new husband. When the lights are turned off at the end, they’re both in the same car heading to Fernando’s mansion, but Fernando has to take another half dozen quick calls from regretful allies who were otherwise occupied tonight, so they don’t say a word until they arrive at the door.

Fernando lets them in, muttering something under his breath about needing to get Lance a set of keys. He gives Lance a rough tour of the estate, essentially just enough to know where to sleep, work, and take meals, but when he’s done talking, Lance still stands there expectantly in front of the door to Fernando’s office.

At first, Fernando hardly even notices that he remains. He would have assumed the younger man would want to go to bed. It’s late, and although Fernando still has plenty of work to be done, Lance is likely used to a life of comfort, so he’d want to catch up on sleep. It isn’t until he starts grabbing files from a cabinet at the far side of the room that Lance coughs pointedly.

Fernando glances up as he stacks papers on his desk. Now that he’s got access to Lance’s funds, he’ll need to go over potential expenditures for the coming months. There are a couple of business ventures he’s been waiting to accelerate until this windfall, but now he can race towards whatever he pleases. So long as it turns a good profit, of course.

“Do you need something? There should be servants down the hall if you require anything.” He says, glancing back down at the files in his hands.

Lance shakes his head. “No, I was waiting for you.”

Fernando frowns. “Whatever for?”

It’s strange to see someone so high up in the mob who still hasn’t yet learned the value of a good poker face. Fernando can actually see the incredulity appear in Lance’s eyes and spread to his dropped-jaw stare. “It’s our wedding night, Fernando.”

“I am aware,” Fernando says. “I was there at the wedding.”

Lance scoffs. “Yes, but– come on, man, do I have to say it?”

Fernando looks Lance dead in the eyes for what might be the first night all evening. “You don’t have to say anything, Lance. I’m not oblivious, even if you seem to be. This is not a normal marriage. We are wed in name and fortune but nothing else. If your bed is cold, turn up the heat or imagine someone else is there. I have work to do.”

Lance’s brow furrows with indignation, but when he speaks again, his words are tight and controlled. So he can manage his anger, at least. That’s a start. “I see. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” Fernando says, just barely managing to keep his mouth from twitching into a disbelieving smile when he says it. Are they children? Should he offer Lance a nightlight? Wishing him goodnight. Please. Fernando is a professional killer. They do not tell each other soft goodbyes when they wipe out entire bloodlines.

Fernando has no idea what his husband ends up doing, but he stays up late to sift through more ledgers. The second his mind begins to cloud from exhaustion, he goes straight to bed, and wakes respectably early into the morning. He works out with the same base routine he’s used since he first entered the business, of course adding a few repetitions or new drills here and there where he can sense the weakness in his muscles.

By the time he’s showered, dressed, and entered the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast, Lance has just begun to stumble downstairs, hair flattened by his pillow and half sticking up. He’s still in his pajamas, which consist of sweats and a shirt for some tennis player Fernando doesn’t recognize.

Fernando arches a brow at him. “Sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” Lance grumbles, the syllables turning into a yawn halfway through.

Again, Fernando feels the need to swallow a laugh. He doesn’t think anyone’s spoken to him without an undercurrent of fear in a very long time, yet here Lance Stroll is, oversleeping and walking around his mansion in leisure wear. Technically, it is Lance’s mansion as well now, but still. Fernando doesn’t even think his sister dared to wear anything other than business casual when she visited.

Fernando does need Lance to feel valued, though. The last thing he needs is Lance complaining to his father that Fernando keeps judging him or something, then this whole thing could go up in flames. Fernando can be a dutiful husband even if it kills him.

“Would you like something to eat?” Fernando asks politely. “We have fruit, eggs, anything. Our chef can make it.”

“A bagel, maybe?” Lance says, yawning again.

Fernando nods. “I’ll ask the chef to prepare some.”

Although Fernando does his best to keep his true emotions in check, Lance, apparently, is beyond the same need to not laugh at his spouse. “Dude, it’s a bagel. One ingredient. Surely you don’t need the chef.”

Fernando scowls. “I just wanted to ask him what types we had in stock. I am aware that bagels are a simple food to serve.”

Lance chuckles again. “You’re telling me the head of the Spanish mob knows every one of his enemies but not every one of his bagels? Terrible priorities, man.”

Fernando is starting to realize that marriage might be difficult. See, if Lance could just be properly nervous around him like every other son of a mob boss Fernando has met, they wouldn’t have to have this terrible interaction, but no, Lance seems immune to everything. Delightful.

He extends a hand towards the extensive pantry. “Feel free to check by yourself. I’m sure it’s incredibly important for the sons of mob bosses to be able to verify their own information. Even on bagels.”

Lance grins sarcastically. “Technically, I’m not just the son of a mob boss, but the husband of one, too. If you’re going to mock me like everyone else, at least do it well.”

Fernando frowns. “I’m not trying to mock you.”

Lance spares a disbelieving glance towards Fernando, then turns back to his search for breakfast. “Really? Is that why this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to me since you realized you could get my dad’s money by marriage?”

Fernando can’t entirely argue with that, so he doesn’t. “You don’t have to hate me, Lance.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Lance says cheerfully. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Seeing as we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, I would advise you to do the same. And in case you were curious, you have both plain bagels and cinnamon raisin.”

With that, Lance breezes back out of the kitchen, carbohydrate prize secured. Seconds later, Carlos files into the kitchen, glancing curiously back in the direction Lance had gone. “Sorry to bother you, I just had the information on Verstappen that you wanted. What the hell happened there? And since when have you had bagels in the house?”

“No idea,” Fernando says tiredly. It answers both questions well enough.

Lance Stroll proves himself to be more and more of an enigma as the days go by. He joins Fernando for meals only when Fernando asks, but then he seems disappointed that they don’t do anything else together. He zones out when Fernando talks business, then always gets annoyed when Fernando so much as alludes to the conditions leading to their marriage. Fernando can’t decide if Lance is actually happy with the arrangement– or, as Fernando is beginning to suspect, if he had any say in the matter at all. Strange for the heir to the Stroll legacy to have grown up with so little sway over his father’s business. It is as if Lawrence expected to live forever, so he never bothered teaching Lance the ropes.

Fernando tries to make it work. A little. Not enough. He’s busy, that’s all, he doesn’t have time to babysit a husband who seems compelled to fuck with him on each and every turn. It’s like Lance gets joy from being a nuisance. And yeah, sometimes when Lance’s attitude is directed towards Carlos or anyone who isn’t Fernando, it is pretty funny, but Fernando has not made a career of getting laughed at and he doesn’t intend to start now.

Once, Lance insists that his room is far too cold to be slept in, so he’ll just have to sleep in Fernando’s room instead. Fernando personally walks into Lance’s room to check it out himself, but it’s actually freezing in there despite adjusting the thermostat, and Lance refuses any other solution, so they spend a silent night on polar opposite sides of Fernando’s bed. The next day, Fernando is informed by the staff that a wrench was discovered in the heater that led to Lance’s room, jammed perfectly so that the temperature could not be changed. Neither of them mention it again, and Lance goes back to sleeping in his own room.

Carlos asked him once why he puts up with it– Lance’s teasing, his sarcasm, everything– but it’s not like he has any choice. If Fernando truly gets desperate, he goes to the printouts of his bank account and just stares at the numbers. Solace can be found in deposits of numbers followed by many, many zeroes.

Over time, the good moments start to crop up like a five o’clock shadow. Fernando takes Lance on a drive to visit some allies and they drive through glorious countryside in a sports car more expensive than any of the land as far as the eye can see. They play a couple of rounds of tennis in a court on Fernando’s estate. Lance’s sister visits and everyone’s in a good mood.

Somehow, though, something always happens to sour each and every small win. Lance squirms in the passenger seat of the car Fernando bought with his father’s money and picks a fight about missing Sebastian, who was the second best marriage candidate until Fernando put his name in the ring. When they’re out on the courts, Fernando asks why Lance seems far more passionate about tennis than business; Lance doesn’t realize it’s a joke and asks how long until Fernando gives up on him, just like Lawrence. Fernando is walking through his mansion late at night when he overhears Lance talking to Chloe in hushed voices about what she did to make Scotty like her, as if Lance needs coaching to even handle Fernando at all.

They fight and they make tentative peace. The ground gets shakier before it solidifies. Eventually, they manage to keep a respectable truce that varies throughout the week. They drink together, they talk together. Lance keeps lingering at the door of his room in a way that makes Fernando want to do something he regrets, but he never commits. Somehow, he knows that even one mistake is all it will take to destroy him forever.

Fernando is in between conference calls one day when Lance pops into his office. “I’m going to be back late tonight,” he announces. “Meeting Esteban.”

Fernando nods. “Want me to drive?”

“You’re in meetings,” Lance points out.

Fernando shrugs. “I can skip them.”

This makes Lance grin triumphantly, like he’s somehow proved himself far more valuable than even Fernando’s beloved ledgers and printouts. “That’s so unlike you, I’m charmed. I’ll be fine, we’re just grabbing drinks. See you later.”

Fernando lifts a hand in farewell when Lance does the same, and watches the man disappear back down the hall. Although it seems strange to say, Fernando swears the mansion seems emptier that evening. It’s just one person gone, he reminds himself, and besides, he and Lance don’t see each other all that often anyway. Too busy. Still, Fernando feels like his steps echo up and down the hallways in a way that they haven’t in a long time. Since before the wedding, perhaps. Since before he got used to having someone else around.

Fernando hadn’t intended to wait up for Lance, but he’d also assumed that the man would be back before too long. A few hours past midnight, Lance still hasn’t returned, but this probably doesn't mean anything. Maybe Lance is on a hell of a bender and he’ll find his way downstairs the next morning in even more disarray than usual. The thought makes Fernando smile.

Fernando wakes up the next day and decides to check that Lance had actually made it back, just in case. A bit of paranoia, but that’s how he’s made it this far, hasn’t he? Fernando drifts by Lance’s room, but the door is wide open, revealing– an empty bed, the sheets untouched. Wasn’t even slept in. Ignoring the skip in his heart rate, Fernando pokes his head inside, but he doesn’t see any evidence that Lance had been there.

Maybe he was drunk and passed out downstairs. Fernando can’t pretend like he hasn’t pulled that move before. However, after conducting an extensive sweep of the mansion, Fernando still can’t locate Lance. The questioning text sent to Lance’s phone goes unanswered. Fernando gives it five minutes before giving into his panic and calling him. Three times, it goes unanswered. By the final ring, Fernando is genuinely starting to panic.

Esteban does not sound happy to have Fernando calling him, even though it’s not even that early in the morning, all things considered. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Lance?” Fernando asks, abandoning all pretense.

Esteban sounds confused. “What do you mean?”

Fernando wants to throttle him. “He was out with you last night and he hasn’t come back. Is he with you or not?”

There’s a pause over the line, and when Esteban speaks again, his words are very deliberate. “What are you talking about? Lance was never with me.”

Fernando feels his heart drop. “That makes no sense. Lance told me he was meeting up with you for drinks. Did he never show up?”

“No,” Esteban says, and finally he sounds just as nervous as Fernando feels, “I never texted him at all. It must have been someone else impersonating me.”

Fernando swears. “Who? The Strolls have plenty of enemies, but who would go to the trouble of luring him out of my estate just to take him?”

Esteban is silent for a while, and then he speaks again in a rush of static. “Do you remember the BWT incident?”

Fernando lets out a low breath. “Of course I do. It’s half the reason I considered the Strolls in the first place.”

BWT was a sizable mob family of their own back in the day. Although they’d never been at the forefront like the Spanish, the Chevaux Rouges, or, hell, even the Bulls, they’d been there, and that’s more than most wannabes can say. Then Lawrence Stroll had gone and fucking bought them out. It’s unthinkable. Imagine having the money to purchase an entire black market ring. The Strolls were on the up-and-up, but after that, they solidified their place among the elite. That’s when Fernando had started looking at them in earnest.

“Nice one,” Esteban harrumphes. “Way to appreciate Lance.”

“I do,” Fernando insists, which feels strange. He’s never bothered to defend himself against Esteban’s feckless complaints, but he has the overwhelming need to exonerate himself from this one.

Esteban sighs. “I know Otmar Szafnauer signed the deal to give the Strolls control over BWT, but his right hand man, Sergio Pérez, was furious about it. He never forgave Otmar, and he’s had it out for Lawrence ever since. Everyone else in this goddamn city wouldn’t pick a fight with Lance, especially not so recently after they were all at the wedding, but Pérez wouldn’t care about something like that.”

“He’s probably been biding his time for a while now,” Fernando realizes. “Waiting until he could get back at Lawrence. This was his chance.” He stands up, signaling to one of his servants to rally his men. “Where is he? I need an address.”

Esteban tells him the location of his estate after some searching then hangs up, but not before reminding Fernando to get Lance as soon as possible, a sentiment that Fernando has no problem following. Carlos shows up just in time, the best killers under their employ with them. He starts to ask Fernando what the plan is, but Fernando silences him with a single glance. There is no plan. Fernando’s only want is to get Lance then burn the whole damn place to the ground.

Fernando Alonso is no stranger to killing. This is not the first time he’s gone after a rival. Still, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it like this in a very long while. Every bullet in the head of one of Pérez’s guards is one closer to getting Lance back. From the moment Fernando’s cars show up at Pérez’s property, he hopes the man is terrified.

They break down the gate, smash through the double doors, and everything goes to hell. The constant ricochet of bullets is like a drumbeat in Fernando’s ears. He is methodical, tactical, going from room to room. There will be no survivors. Blood starts to coat his shoes, his clothes, but Fernando does not care.

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing at all until he breaks into a locked room somewhere in the basement and he finds a figure tied to a chair.

Lance.

The guards don’t stand a chance; they fall before they even get a chance to fire their guns. Fernando races to Lance’s side, undoing the bonds. Lines of dried blood arc across Lance’s face, his arms, and Fernando feels a bout of rage descend upon him, even stronger than when he first found out that Lance had been kidnapped.

“I’ll kill him,” Fernando pledges, “I’ll kill him, and I’ll make it long. He’ll be begging for mercy at the end, but I won’t give it to him. Not when he did this to you.”

Lance reaches up a trembling hand. Fernando catches it at once, pressing it between his two palms. “Fernando?” He asks uncertainly.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s me. You’re alright, Lance. I’m so sorry.”

Lance shakes his head. “Not your fault. I should have seen through it.”

“No,” Fernando insists. “He tricked all of us. I’ll put a bullet in his mouth to stop his lies.”

Lance stands up slowly, unevenly. Fernando catches him, helping him to the door. “I just want to go home,” Lance tells him. “You got your revenge. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” Fernando says. “Let’s go home.”

On the way out, he passes Carlos, who tells him in terse Spanish that they have Pérez waiting for him. Usually, Fernando would insist on handling the matter himself, but Lance looks up at him and Fernando knows he can’t put this off any longer. He tells Carlos to handle it quickly, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

They get into a car together, Fernando driving and Lance in the passenger seat. The low light from occasional street lights shines on Lance’s face, reflecting the dim planes of his countenance.

Lance catches him looking and smiles softly. “I’m alright, Fernando.”

Fernando still isn’t entirely convinced. “I’ll get a doctor to look at you. I wouldn’t put anything past that coward. And I’ll get more guards on the estate, just in case. Around the clock.”

Lance scoffs. “We don’t need that. He’ll never touch us again. And besides, I know you’ll handle him if he does.”

Fernando is well used to being a source of fear, a reason not to attack. Hearing Lance’s sincere trust in him, though, even after being kidnapped, makes his frantic nerves finally start to settle. “Why would you have such faith in me?” He asks quietly as he parks the car in his garage, sitting in the stillness of the car now that the engine is off.

Lance actually smiles. “Let me prove it to you,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Fernando.

It explains a lot.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

all tags list: @wordsarelife

135 notes · View notes

imogenleewriter · 1 year

Text

You Can Hear It In The Silence - Imogenlee Complete - 235,000 words.

You read that correctly. Complete. It's complete.

When Harry Styles received acceptance into a post-grad degree, he knew he could no longer afford his flat, leaving him with three options:

1) Moving back into student halls. 2) Becoming homeless. 3) Moving in with his best (and only) friend, Niall, and three of Niall's other friends. He ended up choosing the third option. But it was a close race. Shame one of his new housemates reminded him why he only has one friend. If Louis Tomlinson had to choose one thing couldn't stand, it would be pretentious tossers, having grown up around enough of them. If he had to choose something he couldn't live without, it would be his friends. So he was proper thrilled to move in with his best mates and a couple of other lads. That was until he discovered one of them was the archetype for a pretentious tosser.

In the interest of seeing out the twelve-month lease without killing each other, they both try (debatable) to get along despite believing they were opposite in almost every conceivable way, each having the communication skills of a cucumber, and secrets that had no business be kept secret.

I have a fair few shout out's I want to give, because of course I do. Please excuse my Award Ceremony-esque speech. Obviously, without a doubt, I am so, so, SO thankful for everyone who has read it. The fact it was ever clicked on is incredible, so the fact that we're at 23k hits for a 10 week old WIP is mind-blowing. Thank you for everyone who has commented. If you sort every ao3 Larry fic ever written by comments, and go to page 3 out of 2100 you will find this little fic. As a 10 week old WIP, it was 42nd most commented on fic and nestled in between fics that are so (rightly) adored and I honestly don't understand it. Thank you for the kudos, and the bookmarks and subs.

Thank you for the stupid amount of people who went out of their way to rec it! I remember the first time I stumbled across a post where someone had sent in an anon to recommend it and I was in awe. And then it happened more and more often. I'd find them here, and on tiktok, and two days ago someone told me I'd been recc'd on twitter and I searched and found some. That's honestly mindblowing. And in the same vein, thank you @allwaswell16 and @twopoppies for sharing the anons they got (if other people did as well, thank you! I just never saw them). And honestly, a super massive thank you for @twopoppies because for a while there I was worried I was going to have to pay her for answering all the anons she got about it. Thank you to EVERYONE who ever reblogged or shared or liked anything here And thank you to the discord group who has put up with me having meltdowns every second night for the last month or sprinting with me every twenty minutes forever. It meant a lot. I'm worried I'm going to forget people (honestly DM and call me out if I do) but @enchantedlandcoffee @hellolovers13 @lunarheslwt @nooradeservedbetter @larry-hiatus @beardyboyzx @hereforh @faithinwalls369 @onlythebravest @zanniscaramouche @alwaysxlarrie @justanothershadeofblue @petitefleurlouis @larryatendoftheday @huggieshalo @paranormalbabydoll @loveislarryislove @paranormalbabydoll @larrysballetslippers @the-larry-way @goldenkinglouis @finelinelarents @thinlinez @thebreadvansstuff @justahappycloud @parmahamlarrie (Did you know I wrote my last chapter this week)

262 notes · View notes

cc-horan28 · 5 months

Text

INTRO POST Y'ALL (FINALLY)

Hello! I don't know how you ended up in my little corner of the internet but you're very welcome!

I'm CC! You can call me anything I don't really mind.

Extra-Extroverted, ENTJ, Bi, Rainbows Personified.

Here are the masterlists for my fics & wallpapers! <3

I post random shit.

I am in too many fandoms to even try and remember them all but heres a sample :

Music : One Direction, Nicki Minaj, Ariana Grande, Ross Lynch (TDE+ R5), Queen

Books/Movies/TV Shows : Supernatural, Good Omens, Doctor Who, MCU, Riordanverse,Harry Potter (F*CK jkr tho), anything disney!

💕Love making new Mooties 💕 and I am permanently bored (read: attention deficit); so send me asks and things to do!

I love punctuation can you tell!?

NEGATIVITY HAS NO PLACE HERE!

I paint. I write. I'm always busy tho so there's no schedule (read: in university).

Mooties and blinkies under the cut <333

LOVELY MOOTIES:

(sorry if I missed any of yall I'll keep updating!)

@niallermybabe : 🍓

@ravenclawdirectioner : 🍎

@surrowndedbylights : 🥑

@heartstopperlarrie : 🍑

@annamiasworld : 🍋

@theydopissmeoffavocados : 🌶️

@enchantedlandcoffee : 🦆 (i understand duck is not food (im vegetarian please) but nothing else is even remotely acceptable.)

@idontwanttobeabuzzkill : 🥧

@bidamonalbarn : 🍝

@medicinelarrie : 🧀

@savebylou : 🌮

@wemadethishome : 🍪

@justmeinatree: 🌳

@skeelly : 🥥

@just-sarah-xx : 🍍

@keeganisabluegreener : 🥝

@tiredflowercrown : 🥦

@a-portal-to-nowhere : 🍄

@silly-goose-beans : 🫘

@waitingforthesunrise : 🥭

@lovemyniallerrr-2028 : 🍇

@mickeywheeler : 🍒

@dandelions-fly-in-summer-skies : 🍉

@sleepinginmygrave : 🫐

@opheliaweeps : 🍐

@stvrlighhttt : 🥒

@urbanflorals : 🥕

@someones-name-insterted-here : 🥔

@felicitylemon : 🍠

@fillthedarkvoid : 🧄

@roundagaininanemotionalblender : 🥜

@srldesigns6277 : 🍈

@holesofmy-sweater : 🌽

@definitely-not-a-plant : 🥬

@dobry-slimak : 🐌

@royally-sea-green : 🥞

@mqstermindswift : 🍿

@tinadablackthorn: 🐸

I'll keep updating as I go 💕

DNI: literally all creeps, homophobes, Transphobes, Racists, TERFS, NAZIS, NSFW accounts, oh also anti-larries.

ok byeeeeeeer

#intro post

56 notes · View notes

pokenimagines · 1 year

Note

SFW Grusha fic, could we have him with a burnt out champion s/o? Like the s/o has been utterly overworking themself and choosing their pokemon's wellbeing over theirs?

Bro let's go; burnt out reader. I'm sure 90% of us have dealt with serious burn out and it sucks ass.

Rules | Discord Server (16+)

SFW Grusha: Burnt Out

"So this is it? You're just quitting?" Grusha asked, as you hummed. The bags under your eyes had never been so prominent in your life; you let out a huge yawn, as you looked over at Grusha. You were just hanging out when you decided to tell him the news.

"Yup, I'm all done. I don't think I can do it anymore. I might battle on occasion, but...I'm kinda just...done." You admitted. You had been one of the youngest champions in the region, and with that came a lot of responsibility.

Nobody told you becoming a Champion meant that you'd be doing so much league work. You were always running around for the Chairwoman, going form gym to gym to test their strength, or even dealing with random disturbances. Free time was lost on you...hell most of your childhood and early twenties were now lost. That isn't even taking account for your team...

"You can't just quit..." Grusha grumbled, getting a bit pissed, "I thought you loved battling."

"I do...I really do but...Grusha how many gym challengers do you face every week?" You asked, turning to him.

"Maybe two a week, sometimes three. During the Treasure Hunt I can get up to ten a week." Grusha said and you hummed.

"Wanna know what I did yesterday?" You asked and he was quiet, "Seven black crystals popped up. Nemona was busy, so I had to go across half the region to take them down. Took twelve hours. My team is still sleeping." You commented.

"You took down...seven of them?" Grusha asked.

"Orders from the Chairwoman. Next week I'm going to all the gyms to fight everyone. I got a solid three days to fight all of you guys. Then the week after, I need to check in on the training camps. The chairwoman told me this morning, that tomorrow I need to deal with one of the titans that's acting up, so gotta deal with that as well." You explained. Grusha was silent for a few moments.

"What about Nemona?" Grusha asked and you shrugged.

"She's got her own things going on. Especially since she's leaving the region soon, so she can try her hand at Galar's gym challenge. Once she's gone I can only imagine the workload I'll be receiving." You said with a huff.

"What about a vacation then? Set some boundaries with the chairwoman as well. You and your team are burnt out." Grusha said; finally understanding. When he used to do snowboarding professionally, there were a few times that he debated quitting for the same reasons. He loved it, but everything got to be too much.

"Think that'll work?" You asked, turning to him.

"La Primera isn't ruthless...I don't think. She's just capable of lots of work and expects that of everyone else. She probably doesn't realize what she's doing." Grusha finally said.

"Man...she's gonna turn me into Larry 2.0 at this rate." You chuckled and Grusha groaned, hitting your side.

"Don't even joke about that." Grusha said, a bit annoyed, "I can't be seen with someone so lame."

"Whatever...fine...I'll ask her for vacation as well as work condition changes...but you're coming with." You said, as you decided you'd be doing that right now.

"Wait...why?" Grusha said, eyes widening a fraction.

"It was your idea, obviously. Now let's go!"

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Thank you for reading! Did you know we have a discord? It has everything from RPs, General Discussions, and even an 18+ area to go hog wild in! We even do announcements early for when the inbox is opening for requests, as well as other events! Come in and join us!

#Pokemon Scarvio #Pokemon Scarlet #Pokemon Violet #Pokemon Scarlet and Violet #Pokemon Scarlet and Violet x Reader #Pokemon Scarlet x Reader #Pokemon Violet x Reader #Pokemon Scarvio x Reader #Scarlet Salts #Grusha x Reader #Grusha #Pokemon Grusha #Reader x Grusha #Grusha Fic #Grusha Fanfic #Pokemon Grusha x Reader

297 notes · View notes

ao3feed-larry · 1 year

Text

Business of Misery

by tarashouse

Harry gradually slows down, kissing the side of his mouth, his jaw, and his neck. The man’s mouth is hanging open and breathing heavily while Harry works on kissing, licking, and sucking his skin. He works his way up his neck to his ear. Tugging his ear lobe between his teeth, he whispers, “I’m Harry.”

He can feel the shiver as the man relaxes further into Harry’s hold, still grabbing his arse. The man huffs a chuckle, still out of breath, and whispers into Harry’s ear, “Louis.”

“Lou-ie” Harry annunciates into this ear with a teasing tone. The stranger he now knows as Louis giggles into his ear while wrapping both hands around Harry’s neck. “Wanna get out of here?”

Words: 2840, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: One Direction (Band)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles, Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Original Characters

Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Financial Issues, Smut, Fluff, Pining, One Night Stands, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Cheating, Bottom Louis Tomlinson, Top Harry Styles

via AO3 works tagged 'Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson' https://ift.tt/R2APz6j

#author #larry stylinson #larry fic #ao3 feed larry #Business of Misery #<p>by <a rel= href="/users/tar

4 notes · View notes

allwaswell16 · 1 year

Text

One Direction friends to lovers fics where one of the characters is having a sexuality crisis as requested in this ask. You can find all my other fic recs here. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! Happy reading!

—Harry/Louis—

⊹ Learning to Breathe by youcomecrash / @drunkharrystyles-blog

(E, 110k, uni au) He’s playing football at one of the top universities in England and he should love everything about his life right now, but instead he’s moving backwards.

⊹ Heading for Limbo by @kingsofeverything

(E, 100k, famous/not famous) When Harry discovers some life-changing things about himself, Louis is there for him, however he needs. But it’s all temporary because Louis has plans that will move his life from New York all the way to L.A. and the distance isn’t the only thing between them.

⊹ Follow Your Arrow by Anonymous

(E, 78k, high school) It's senior year and everything is about to change.

⊹Passing By by Larry_you_know / @larryyouknow

(E, 48k, vacation) the one where Harry doesn't even know he's into guys until he meets Louis on a boat trip. There's something more to their friendship but it ain't gonna be smooth sailing.

That's What I'm Here For by @taggiecb

(E, 46k, farm au) Louis needs help running his business but has no idea where to even start looking.

⊹ And Touch Me Like You Never by runaway_train / @runaway-train-works

(E, 35k, roommates) The one where Harry and Louis agree to be each other's New Year's kiss and it ends up being a lot more than they bargained for.

⊹ Follow Your Heart by dimpled_halo / @comebackassholes

(E, 32k, fake relationship) “We think it would be best to market you guys as a couple,” Simon tells them. The tone in his voice makes Louis think there’s no wiggle room to even try to argue about it.

⊹ others i've seen might never be mean (but they would never do) by @cherrylouvol6

(M, 20k, girl direction) a When Harry Met Sally AU in which Louis says all the wrong things and Harry always feels one step behind.

⊹ Supposed to Be by kikikryslee / @flamboyantommo

(M, 26k, high school au) the Geek Charming AU where Harry's a film geek, Louis' a popular jock, and they both need each other to get what they want.

⊹ Blush by orphan_account

(M, 15k, girl direction) the Christmas FxF Larry fic in which Louis is 99.5% sure she's straight and Harry likes to walk around shirtless and watch lesbian films

⊹ Waiting for Wonderful by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(M, 13k, pining) Harry is willing to wait as long as he needs to for his best friend to realise that they're supposed to be together, but it kills him to watch Louis struggle in his relationship with Mackenzie.

⊹ Nobody compares to you by fallenflowercrowns / @headband-husbands

(T, 10k, tumblr au) the one where Harry falls in love twice, Louis is just incredibly sweet and supportive, and Al from tumblr is super nice but also really secretive about his identity - not that Harry can blame him, considering his own blog is run under false pretences, too.

⊹ Elle Me Dit by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(M, 3k, girl direction) On the night of her bachelorette party she and her best friend/Maid of Honor, Harry, get drunk and wonder what they're missing out on.

—Rare Pairs—

⊹ You Don't Care About Me (One More Night) by @lululawrence

(NR, 60k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) the one where Louis pines for Harry and Nick helps ease his way into figuring himself out through a friends with benefits sort of arrangement. Things quickly turn complicated.

⊹ we're still the kings of the Friday nights by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed

(T, 22k, Zayn/Louis) Zayn’s been everything, for so long now. His moral compass, his partner in crime, his ride or die. And as of tonight, the first boy Louis has ever kissed.

⊹ The Stories They're Not In by abrighteryellow / @a-brighter-yellow

(E, 10k, Niall/Shawn Mendes) An AU inspired by Niall Horan's "San Francisco," the movie Rocketman, and Elton John and Bernie Taupin's real-life relationship (except more gay).

#ficrec #1dficvillage #trackinghome #trackinghappily #tracksintheam #1dsource

155 notes · View notes

enchantedlandcoffee · 7 months

Text

September Fic Recs

Hey guys! This is a belated fic rec list for some of the fics I've read in September 2023.

holding on to you (please, don't go) by @wemadethishome

Zayn Malik/Liam Payne | General Audiences | 1.3k | Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Zayn Malik Leaves One Direction

"I don't– I don't want you to go," Liam muttered, his tone seeming almost urgent as he held tightly onto Zayn. "I know, Liam, I know," Zayn whispered, his breath hot against Liam's cheek. "I don't want to go, but I have to." Or Zayn always knew goodbye would be hard, but he never knew it would be this hard.

Devil's In The Detail series by @babyhoneyheslt

General Audiences, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Angel Harry Styles, Devil Louis Tomlinson The Tower There's something strange going on in Heaven. Bored Angel Harry can't help but investigate. The Fool After making a deal with the devil, Harry has to forge a new life for himself alongside Louis on Earth. The Devil Harry has grown to love being on Earth, but his absence in heaven and the company he keeps, hasn't gone unnoticed.

Disenchanted series by @hellolovers13

Mature | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson Witch Harry is just trying to live his life. Then there's Louis. The Potion or, Harry is a witch minding his own business, Louis is a nuisance. The Escape Harry is still minding his own business, Louis is still annoying. Well, fine. Maybe he is the tiniest bit helpful, too. The Healer Harry is trying to- Louis is- He's going to make it. Harry will make sure of that. The Curse Time for Harry to confront his past. Or not? The Heart True love isn't something that was ever going to be in the cards for Harry. It finds him anyway.

You were in my dream by staybeautiful / @harruandlou

Explicit | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 59k | Acquaintances to Lovers, Fluff, Smut

or Louis woke up after having a sexy dream about his best friend's boyfriend's best friend resolved to never think about it again. He hardly knew Harry, so what difference would it make? Bust when they are thrown together only a few days later, Louis had to admit, subconscious might have been onto something.

Those Early Mornings by @wishingforloushair

Explicit | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 4.7k | Top Louis Tomlinson, Mild Kink, Fluff and Smut, Teacher Harry Styles

Harry can set his clock by the beaten up red car that drives past his house every morning - in fact he basically has. But one morning he realises the car hasn’t come, and he’s now running late. In his rush to get out the door for work, he crashes into the owner of the red car, a record shop owner called Louis, who begs him for a lift to the station as his car has broken down. The initial attraction is undeniable.

Love Is In The Air by @justahappycloud

General Audiences | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 3.7k | Airports, Christmas, Musician Louis Tomlinson, Non-Famous

When Louis gets stuck in an airport during a snow storm, he mentally prepared for his already bad day to turn into something even worse. What he wasn't counting on was a certain green-eyed boy who would come to light candles in the dark of his bad mood.

Fly To You by @babyhoneyheslt

General Audiences | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 1.8k | Cute, Pilot Louis Tomlinson, Nervous Flyer Harry, Honeymoon

On the way to their honeymoon, Harry and Louis find out the pilot is ill. With Louis being a pilot, he offers to fly the plane there, and it turns out to make the start of their honeymoon extra special.

Bluer than velvet were her eyes (and softer than satin were her thighs) by @thebreadvansstuff / thebreadvan

Explicit | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson; Liam Payne/Original Male Character(s) | 12.3k | Girl Direction, fem!larry, Five Times Plus One

Or, Harry should probably stop obsessing over her customer's boobs, but fate can't keep her away from Louis.

Wordplay series by @red-pandaaa

Daffodils Explicit | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | Established Relationship, Fluff, Smut Or, Harry comes home to Louis reciting poetry. Orange Blossoms Teen and Up Audiences | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | cute boyfriends, Domestic Fluff Or, Louis runs Harry a bath "I Wanna Marry You" General Audiences | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | Established Relationship, Fluff, Domestic Fluff Or, Harry has something he wants to talk to Louis about Key Cards & Kindness Teen and Up Audiences | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | Flashbacks, Established Relationship, Hotels Or, Louis stays in a hotel for a teacher training course. Harry is the receptionist. That'll Be Us General Audiences | Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | Weddings, NOT Louis and Harry, Established Relationship, Fluff Or, Harry has to find a pair of lost wedding rings, Louis carries a handkerchief, and one day, it'll be them.

#28th appreciation #trackinghappily #trackinghome #tracksintheam #hlsource #hlcreators #1dsource #yourlarrysource #1d source #one direction #ao3 feed larry #larry fanfiction #fic recs #fic rec #september fic rec

45 notes · View notes

hlficlibrary · 9 months

Note

Hii, do you've any larry fic suggestions where they're forced to marry for business convenience but end up falling for each other?

Hi, anon! Here are some that I think fit what you're looking for. If you want a full rec, check out the "Suggestion Box" link on the pinned post!

put the stars in our eyes by pinkgelpen (crybaby)

Louis is set to inherit the family farm after the death of his father, but after finding out that he needs to be married in order to do so, purchasing a nineteen year-old, mail-order husband named Harry Styles seems to be the easiest answer.

And I’d Marry You Harry (Because You Forced Me) by @2tiedships2

Louis had blindly followed Harry back to his office, closing the door behind him.

“I’m slightly confused,” Louis said. “Actually I’m very confused.”

“About what?”

“What just happened upstairs? Did you forget that you told your boss that we were engaged? Because the last time I checked we are very much not engaged. At all. No offense, but we never will be.”

“It’s really not that complicated,” Harry explained. “We get married and in a year or so we can file for divorce. No big deal. It’s not like you can’t wait a little while to find someone else anyway.”

Louis was going to pay a bus driver to accidentally run into Harry. A concussion would be fine. Obviously a couple broken limbs. That’s something that’s not complicated.

Or The Proposal AU featuring Harry as Sandra Bullock, Louis as Ryan Reynolds, and all the fun a fake relationship and forced engagement can bring.

kiss me on the mouth (and set me free) by tempolarriefics / @tempolarriefix

Harry, being his endlessly patient self, asks with a wry smile, “And who am I going to spontaneously marry for financial aid?”

He clearly intends for it to be a rhetorical question, for it to shoot down Louis’ ridiculous marriage idea. But Louis answers easily, “Me. You’ll marry me."

aka the not-so fake marriage AU in which Harry and Louis get married to keep Harry from dropping out of uni (and if they discover that they’re in love along the way, well, that’s neither here nor there).

#ask #anon #ficrec #tempolarriefics #2tiedships2 #crybaby #pinkgelpen

123 notes · View notes

larrysmomfics · 9 months

Text

Stranger Than Larry Fiction

By Larrysmomfics

90k | Mature | Canon-divergent

An AU where Harry and Louis read Larry fanfiction

It's been twelve years since Harry met Louis on TXF, became best mates with him, eventually falling head over heels in love with him. Six years post One Direction deciding to go on hiatus and now everyone is doing their own thing. All the boys have solo careers, some are touring, and with their busy lives in play, Harry and Louis have sort of grown apart. Harry's been filling the Louis void by devouring Larry fanfics, giving himself a chance to love Louis from afar in his own way. So far it's worked for him and he's content with his love of Louis being of the unrequited variety.

That all changes, however, when Harry reads a particularly emotional and classic fic in the fandom, and he simply can't help but call Louis despite his sobs to tell him all about it, inadvertently sending Louis down the Larry fic rabbit hole as well.

#ficreferences #Larry reading fics #thelarriefics #hlficlibrary #my fic #fic rec #larry fic #newfic #larry stylinson fics

75 notes · View notes

pleasuretrade · 21 days

Text

hi here's the very rough(!) first chapter of a fic that i'm not done with.

if anyone wants to beta or just offer feedback i would be grateful :') but i'm writing this very slowly and don't plan on seeing it done for at least a few more months

March x Healy

Summary: 1980. March and Healy take your classic "reunite me with my estranged adult child" case and may or may not wind up getting involved with a cult, irritating 80's toys, shady business, gardening, and drugs. Oh, and they're pretending to be boyfriends because that's totally a perfect cover??

Rating: 18+ for the eventual porn

Length: I'm gonna guess 30k? I'm at 15k rn and we're maybe halfway through. frankly i got no idea

Tags that aren't exhaustive and mostly aren't applicable to this first chapter, but just a sneak peek: pretending to be boyfriends and there's only one fucking bed anyway bitch, March wearing jeans

The thing about kitsch dolls was that they were supposed to be cute. In abundance they became disturbing. An uncanny noise of soft pastel abstraction, dotted with innumerable eyes, staring at you from living room walls and display cabinets. It didn’t help that almost all of them were religious; angels with halos, praying children, robed biblical figures. March felt like he might combust if he made direct eye contact with the teeming mass of holy ceramic.

“March, did you write that down?”

Holland whipped his head toward Healy, and then at their client, and then at his open, empty notepad. See, you shouldn’t have that many dolls in one room, it’s distracting. It’s weird. “Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

“Benjamin Larry Hooper. We called him Benny.”

“Bejamin….L… Hooper… Benny.” March mumbled, pen dashing across the page with a show of gumption.

Mrs. Hooper nodded at him, all patterned dress and curled hair, hands placed politely on top of their respective thighs. “He was fifteen when he left, he’ll be twenty-six now. Tall for his age, I’m sure he’s giant by now.”

Holland wrote in big block letters: DOB 1953 TALL

“This is my most recent picture of him, just a few months before he left.” Mrs. Hooper, Francis, reached across her doilied coffee table to hand Healy a framed photograph. It was obviously some kind of family reunion, the photo lined with folks like a tin of sardines. “That’s Benny.” she said, tapping a young man sitting cross legged in the very front row.

Benny Hooper looked like any other fifteen year old at a family reunion, irritated or bored or both. He had a great mop of hair, a downright halo of pitch black curls reaching every direction. The slacks and short sleeved button-down were probably not his normal choice of attire, so that wouldn’t be helpful even if the kid had disappeared less than a decade ago. The shot was too wide to memorize the details of someone’s face on top of being old. The Benny in the photo hadn’t even finished puberty yet. Overall, the photo wasn’t great.

“Very helpful, thank you. We could use any other photographs you have, too.” Healy smiled pleasantly the way he did. It was freakish, the way the guy could go from deadpan bruiser to soft-eyed teddybear in an instant.

Holland smiled along, ignoring the everpresent eyes of Mrs. Hooper's kitsch, even though he knew that there was no chance in hell they were finding Benny Hooper.

“There’s no chance in hell, man.” March lit his cigarette in the passenger seat and donned his sunglasses.

Healy tapped his fingers where he rested his arm in the open window. “We have a lead.”

“If you wanna call maybe seeing a glimpse of someone you haven’t seen in eleven years driving a truck a couple of times a lead, sure, we have a great lead. Can we stop at Hammy’s? Told Holly I’d bring home dinner.”

“Y’know, I bet I could count on two hands the number of times you’ve gone proper grocery shopping since I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true, you went grocery shopping with us like two weeks ago.”

“And you bought eggs, bread, a gallon of neon colored juice, a gallon of whiskey, and five frozen pizzas.”

“Are those not groceries? Is that not sustenance?” March waved his cigarette for emphasis.

“Anyway,” Healy redirected, taking the turn toward Hammy’s, “all we have to do is stake out the spot she saw the truck, right?”

“If everything worked out just that easy we’d be out of a job, Jack.” March took a drag from his cigarette, thanking the stars that loaded, aging ladies were willing to shill out for the most unfeasible asks imaginable time and time again. Healy let it sit because he knew it was true by now, well over two years down the line as a PI.

“Why do you think the kid really left?” Healy asked after a while, expertly flat when Holland had figured out eons ago that the guy really was invested in each case, even the small ones.

“I don’t know, too many doilies? An aversion to puce colored carpet? I wouldn’t stay long either.”

Healy ignored him. “I find it hard to believe he just up and left for no reason.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hooper’s chicken is dry.” Healy purposefully hit the curb pulling into Hammy’s, jostling March’s cigarette nearly out of his hand. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. Even if we find the kid, he’s not comin’ back. Ten fuckin’ years. Remember that girl, Arrow or Rainbow or whatever she named herself?”

Healy grunted in reluctant remembrance. They’d found her after a long, boring two months and by the end of it all she’d had to say was ‘thanks for letting me know my family's looking for me, you can go now.’ Not that it mattered much to Holland. They made out with enough money to take a couple of weeks off so they could take Holly to Catalina Island. She got food poisoning on the first day but still claims it was the best trip they’d been on in years (which wasn’t very meaningful considering they’d gone on maybe three of them since she was little).

“Guess you’re right.” Healy parked the car in the crowded parking lot. The line at Hammy’s was always so damn long. “Not getting paid to psychoanalyze the guy.” He sounded reluctant. Any time Healy couldn’t slip in one more act of Good it made him feel like a failure. It was something March secretly admired, however harebrained it was. He glanced a punch off Healy’s shoulder before getting out of the car. “That’s the spirit.”

“So why do you think he really left?” Holly asked through a mouthful of burger.

“Jesus, you two should become shrinks.” March grumbled.

Healy sat comfortably sunken into the couch, a March sitting cross legged on the floor on either side of him. “It might be useful to know.” he added.

“Right. Like maybe you’ll be able to narrow down what kinds of places he’d go if you knew.” Holly agreed.

“Our only lead is a truck. Anyone can drive a truck. I don’t care why he’s driving it. All we have to do is follow.”

“So you admit, it’s a lead.” Healy pointed at him with a french fry.

“It’s a crumb of a lead. It’s the suggestion of a lead. It’s a lingering scent of maybe a lead.”

“Says the guy with no sense of smell.” Healy winked at Holly, who bit her lip to stop her smile from blooming. “A lead’s a lead.”

“Did you notice anything about Mrs. Hooper’s house? Like, anything that might make someone want to run away?” Holly was fifteen and already putting in more work than March.

“Yeah, puce carpet.”

Healy nudged March with a socked foot. “She seemed nice. Boring, maybe. Said her husband died a few years ago and her other kid’s off at college somewhere, so the house was pretty quiet.”

“Boredom could drive someone away.” Holly said thoughtfully.

“And if it did that still gives us absolutely nothing to go on. Some kids just hate their parents, alright? Guy probably just hitchhiked to New York or something.” March said.

“Sounds nice.” Holly murmured under her breath. Healy nudged her with his other foot.

March, begrudgingly, loved the gentle way Healy mediated. Fatherhood was something Holland hadn’t really been prepared for, much less being the single dad of a teenager. It didn’t help that he was a big time fuckup or that Holly was too smart for her own good. Having another person in their lives— having Healy in their lives— was a saving grace.

Recently, Holly had started dating her first boyfriend. Or at least the first that she’d admitted to when she’d lost all plausible deniability after that time they’d picked her up from school and seen her drop some young punk’s hand like a hot iron. It was a point of contention now, between Holly and Holland. Boys were pigs, and Holland would know, he used to be one. It was one of the endless number of things Healy had become referee over, but also something Holly had adopted a near constant attitude because of.

“So when are you starting the stakeout?” Holly asked, fiddling with the cracked straw of her milkshake. March looked at Healy for an answer. He was always better at managing their schedule. Unlike March, he usually remembered what day of the week it was. Healy looked back at him and shrugged. Wasn't like they had another case on, much to the dismay of their wallets. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

Holly got that look on her face. “Can I come?” Tomorrow was a Saturday.

March shook his head. “Don’t you have normal teenage things to do? Shouldn’t you be like sneaking vodka out of someone’s mom’s cabinet on a Saturday?”

Healy chimed in before she could argue. “It’s gonna be boring anyway, Holl. You’ll be sitting in the backseat twiddling your thumbs all day.” She knew that. She’d been on stakeouts with them before. But Healy’s say was more valuable to her than her dad’s, apparently, so she dropped it.

It was late when Healy headed home, agreeing on the asscrack of dawn to reconvene and start their stakeout.

“Why doesn’t he just live here? You guys spend every day together anyway.”

March wandered into the dimly lit kitchen for a glass of rye. Their (second) rental, real house unbuilt as ever, was always so still when Healy left. Another item on the laundry list of things March tried not to think about. “Because he’s a grown man, Holly, with his own house.”

“I wouldn’t call that dump a house, and anyway it’s an apartment. He should be sleeping here and not in an attic with a laughtrack that plays until two in the morning.”

“Well then you can invite him to stay for a sleepover next time. You guys can paint nails and read magazines.” Holland wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t really what girls’ sleepovers were like. One time he’d walked in on Holly and her friend eating donuts and saying such depraved things about Joe Strummer that he’d vowed to not open the door without knocking ever again. He never looked at that Clash poster on her wall the same way.

Holly scoffed in time with the ice tinkling into Holland’s tumbler.

The sun shone way too brightly for Holland. When he’d woken up he’d still been a little drunk, but now out of the house and into Healy’s car a hangover had eagerly seeped in. They’d agreed to start the stakeout before the sun came up, but March had skillfully convinced Healy to take him through a drive-thru breakfast and they were running late. He now nursed a coffee as the sun rose into the perfectly wrong spot in the sky. They watched cars zip lazily by from the corner of a parking lot.

“I just think it would be good to have a dog around.” They’d had this discussion every other day for a month now. March wanted a dog in the house for the very logical reason of alerting them to intruders, Healy nay-sayed because he was a killjoy with no imagination.

“I’m telling you, March, putting in a doggy door just isn’t gonna be enough for a German Shepherd. And we all know you’re not gonna walk it.”

“Why do you even care so much, man? It would be my dog.” And more importantly, why did Healy even have a say in whether or not they got a dog?

“I care because I’d somehow get stuck taking it out half the time. And your sorry ass wouldn’t train it. We’d have an untrained, overpriced menace tearing around the house.” The house. Not Holland and Holly’s house, but The House.

“Well, whatever, even if that was true it’d make a good guard dog, right? No one’s getting past a pent up, feral German Shepherd. Might shit on the carpet but it’ll take a guy’s dick off. Balls too.”

“You should really consider a shrink. I think you’ve lost your damn mind.” Healy shook his head, but Holland caught his smile.

“You taking new patients, doc? I’ve been told by my teenager that I’m a headcase.”

“I could make some room in my busy schedule. Gonna cost you about the same as a purebred German Shepherd, though.”

March smiled and leaned back into his seat. Absolutely nothing of interest was happening outside at all, which was just fine now but give March three or so more hours and he’d start going stir crazy and the headache wasn't helping.

Mrs. Hooper had seen the truck twice, once in the morning and once in the early evening, which gave them an unfortunately broad window of time. She’d described it as a white, short cab semitruck, maybe a GMC, with a small trailer on it, which narrowed it down almost not at all. It sounded like every third short haul semi chugging around Los Angeles, of which there were many. Very many.

The only thing they had to go off of was that the second time around she’d seen what she thought was some kind of blocky hand-lettering on the driver’s side door, done in “nearly illegible” multicolor. When Healy had asked what she meant by “multicolor” Mrs. Hooper had only elaborated as “horribly garish.” So at least there was that.

The odds that the guy driving the bespoke truck was this Benny person were essentially zero. That was about half their cases these days, desperate longshots funded by desperate rich people. The other half was still taking photographs of idiots who fuck with the curtains open. It was wearing a little thin. Couldn't people invent more important problems to investigate? Whatever. A job’s a job’s a job.

The coffee in March’s cup had gone cold just in time to meet the creeping heat from outside. He downed the tepid sludge before wrenching the little metal fan out of the back seat and plugging it in. It whirred to life gracelessly.

“Hey.” Healy tapped him on the arm, which startled and excited Holland enough that he flung his empty coffee cup onto the floorboards.

“What—what, you see something?”

A short cab semi puttered toward them from a distance, aiming for a perfectly timed red light. Healy pulled up the binoculars and squinted through them, waiting for the cab to pull into view enough to see the driver’s door. March’s breathing was shallow in anticipation.

The truck moved, and Healy tutted, and March could see the glaringly blank door even without the binoculars. “Driver’s blonde. Ginger beard.” Healy said, still staring through the eye pieces like the truck and driver might magically change. “False alarm.”

“They’re all gonna be false alarms. This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack, only the needle was never in the haystack to begin with.”

Finally, Healy let the binoculars fall into his lap. “I ever told you how much I love your optimism?”

#the nice guys #the nice guys fanfiction #march x healy #healy x march #nice guys #holland march #jackson healy

14 notes · View notes