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criminalamnesia · 3 months

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Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

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authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

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buckyalpine · 7 months

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Bucky can’t stand you

Smuttay Smuttay. Imagine Bucky finding you to be the most infuriating person he's ever met in his entire life. He used to strongly believe you should never hit a woman. Being a man from the 40's, he believed that with his entire heart and soul because he was one of the few who hated the way some women were treated by their husbands.

That was until he met you.

God, he was ready to beat your ass.

"Didn't you say you'd never hit a woman" Sam snorted while Bucky's jaw ticked, having complained about you for half an hour straight while you went off the plan completely, taking the mission into your own hands.

"That's not a woman, that's the devil spawn" Bucky said incredulously, watching you make your way to the target with a flirty smirk on your face "How and why is she like this"

"Shut up" you hissed through the coms, your hips swaying as you walked away. "

You pissed him off and you made his cock hard.

You ran your mouth to no end and you made him leak.

You had such an attitude and he'd masturbated d to you more times than he could count.

He hated you.

He hated you so much.

"You're gonna screw this mission up if you keep acting like a desperate whore" Bucky growled as you slinked onto the targets lap, effortlessly pocketing the pen drive from his blazer while skimming your hands all over him. The man was none the wiser, groping your ass, the action making Bucky's blood pressure boil.

You whispered something in his ear before hopping off, throwing a wink over your shoulder before disappearing through the exit of the bar and into the getaway car, signaling to Sam and Bucky that you were successful.

He doesn't breathe a word to you until you were all a the safehouse, glaring at you the entire time while pouring himself a drink.

"Try not to kill each other, I'm going to bed" Sam threw his hands up in defeat, seeing as the both of you would never reach a truce. You shrugged, rolling your eyes at the soldier, making your way to your room instead. Bucky down the dark liquid that burned his throat before following you, his brooding figure brushing your back as you entered your room.

"There a problem Barnes?" You sassed, gasping when he gripped your hair and yanked you back, shoving you against the wall. His metal arm wrapped around your throat, squeezing the sides just enough to make your breaths lighter, his pupils dilated to 100.

"You have a real problem, you know that?" He growled lowly making your stomach flip, your pulse racing a the scent of his cologne when he stood so close to you.

"Yeah? And whats that" your attitude faltered as he pressed his chest against yours, his warm breath fanning on your face.

"You. Never. Listen. It's infuriating. So tell me. What should I do" It took everything in him not to push you down onto your knees, forcing your into submission for once. "You're a brat" He hissed, eyes growing wide when he could smell your arousal which you tried to hide, your thighs squeezing together giving you away.

"Fuck this" Bucky tossed you onto the bed, pulling out the switch blade he had in his pocket. Your dress was sliced off before you could blink, your lingerie torn off next.

"Bucky, what-

Before you could say anything else, he gripped your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together, making you pout with a needy whimper. He gave you a satisfied smirk, running the handle of the knife through your folds, gathering your slick before licking it clean off with a groan.

"M'gonna fuck you and you're gonna take it, then you're gonna thank your Sargent for fucking the brat out of you, understand?"

You nodded, yelping when he smacked your cheek, shaking his head.

"Use your words, kitten"

"Yes, Sargent" You whispered, your heart hammering out of your chest as he started to undress himself, his belt buckle hitting the floor. A new wave of arousal pooled between your legs as he stood naked before you, his cock standing tall and proud. He cocked an eye brow at the way you stared at him, practically drooling as he pumped his length a few times.

He crawled onto the bed, shoving your legs apart, flicking his cock through your folds and slamming into you without warning, making you take all of him at once.

You cried out in pleasure, your arms and legs wrapping around him to ground yourself some how, your cunt fluttering and struggling to accommodate for his girth.

"Buck-Sargent-too-s'too thick" You moaned as he drew his hips back and started to pound into you, snarling with pleasure at the feelings of your nails raking down his back. "SARGENT PLEASE"

"Thats right, beg your Sargent to stop baby, cry when I ruin you with my fat cock" He sat back on his heels, throwing your legs over his shoulders to get even deeper angle, your eyes rolling back until they nearly crossed. "Lookit you going all dumb on my cock baby, such a needy little pussy"

You didn't get a chance to respond, squeaking when he manhandled you till your face was pushed against the mattress with your ass in the air. He spanked your ass raw, shoving his cock back in, setting in a brutal pace.

"Always acting so sassy, making my dick so hard with those stupid skimpy outfits of yours. You're a little slut but you're my slut, understand kitten?"

"Y-Yes-yes-yes-so-good don'on god don't stop" You slurred out, as he rammed into your pussy, the headboard denting the wall with each thrust, slamming your hips back against him.

"That's it. Fucking take it, Nast little slut, sitting in any mans lap, now look at you, huh. Look whose cock you're crying over lil mama, tell me whose cock your all soaked for"

"Yours sargent! all for-you" You panted while his sinful fingers moved to rub your clit, his pace growing sloppy, blinding pleasure starting to consume you both.

"OH FUCKKK I'm gonna cum!!" You cried out, wailing into the sheets, the vulgar sounds of skin on skin carrying through the room. Bucky moaned, fucking you harder, his head thrown back feeling your pussy suck him in deeper.

"Cum, cum on my dick, c'mon baby, give it to me, thats it lil mama, milk my cock-shit-i'm cumming!" Bucky let out a guttural moan feeling you squeeze and pulse around his cock, stilling his hips as he throbbed ropes of his spend into you. You both collapsed onto the bed, blindly reaching for each other with out saying another word, letting soft kisses and cuddles throughout the night do the rest of the talking.

"Morning Sam-

"You both owe me money for therapy"

"Sam-

"You shut up before I pawn a piece of that arm"

"Sam-

"You went at it like rabbits"

"Sam-

"I think the bed almost broke into my room"

"Sam-

"I'm never calling you Sargent again, you've tainted the word for me"

"Sam-

"My ears have never been so violated"

Bucky smirked, wrapping his arm around your waist, holding you together. You giggled while Sam gagged in the background again (he 100% approves of you two together but he'll never tell Bucky that).

"Nasty fucks"

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shotmrmiller · 4 months

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Inspired by @rookiesbookies Capt. MacTavish & Soap fic

So, imagine going to sleep as 09 Ghost's widow only to wake up next to reboot Ghost.

It's agony. The face of your late husband stares at you with a murderous glint in his eye holding a sharp knife to your neck.

"Who the hell are you?"

He digs the knife into your skin when you tell him that you're his wife and try to prove it.

You say his full name. Birthday. What kind of tea he likes, and how he takes it. Favorite food. His shoe size. But he doesn't believe you.

Anyone can find out information like that.

So you tell him that his late older brother was named Tommy. His wife was named Beth. He almost slices your throat when you tell him of his capture and torture.

Simon's vicious, cruel. Literally drags you by your hair across the base, straight to Price's office. You've met him before too, but seeing what giving out too much information got you, you opt to stay quiet instead.

You only answer the questions he asks, never giving anything more.

No, you don't know why you're here.

No, you obviously mean no harm.

Yes, in your time, Simon Ghost is your husband. Was.

When Price asks what you mean by that, you tell him that he was killed in the line of duty, serving his country.

He solemnly gazes at you and gives you a small apology you don't respond to, then looks at Ghost, ordering him to keep you in his room.

You try to hide your quivering lip when Ghost sneers, "I don't want her anywhere near me." It's hard to remember that this isn't your late husband when it's his voice saying those harsh words.

And harsh he is. He forcefully takes you by the arm with a bruising grip, and throws you into his quarters- letting you fall onto the hard floor.

"Look at me," he firmly commands.

Trying to hold back your tears, you do as he says, and he scoffs at your somber countenance.

"You will remember tha' you don't know me." He approaches you and squats down to be at your eye level.

"I am not your husband," he gruffly says, "And I intend to keep it tha' way."

He leaves you on the ground in his cold room, and you finally shed the tears you've been holding back.

You desperately wish to wake up from this nightmare, because your dead Simon is a better alternative to this one.

part 2

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #dimension travel #?#cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley #simon riley x reader #drabble

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htchnr · 1 month

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♰ dyin' for a taste ༻ C. HOWARD.*ೃ˚

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

CW ➻ unprotected sex ⋆ rough sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ knife kink ⋆ cutting ⋆ blood kink ⋆ blood consumption ⋆ slight overstimulation ⋆ Cooper might wanna eat you whole ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

SUMMARY ➻ you two stay in a hotelroom to get some good shut eye, but instead you find yourselves finally working through the heavy tension the only way you know how to. WC ➻ 1K~.

"oh fuck-" you moaned, eyes rolling back as he plowed into you relentlessly. the cold metal of the sharp knife pressed to your throat and the cold counter you were seated on only adding to the pleasure somehow.

you tilted your head up a little, almost subconsciously trying to get away from the knife— despite knowing he wouldn't harm you with it. he wouldn't, would he?

the way his half lidded eyes are fixed on the knife against your throat, you weren't entirely sure. but the way his cock was slamming into you blurred any fear you had— you felt like you could die fine like this, with his cock bullying your insides, and a rough hand holding your waist bruisingly.

"come on darl'," he rasped against your ear. "bet your blood tastes as sweet as your lips." he grins sickly, his yellow teeth on full display.

his voice almost makes you want to give in— lean into the knife as he slits your throat, fucking you into hell as he laps at the fountain of blood— the way he's fucking you almost has you dreaming for it to happen.

your back arches as his aching head brushes against your cervix, throat pressing ever more into the knife. a whimper leaves your lips as you feel the knife ever so slightly slice your skin. blood almost immediately starts to slowly drip down, his eyes practically lighting up at the sight.

"would you look at that, want me to taste you that bad sweetheart?" he groans, his pace faltering slightly.

you whimpered, clenching around him erratically— you didn't want to be this turned on, but my god did you want to give him anything he'd ask for.

you nodded, the knife only digging into the small wound more, more blood dripping from it and dripping onto your breasts. he has never seen a more beautiful sight than that.

he groans, eyes still glued to the wound, reluctantly pulling the bloodied knife from your throat, dropping it beside you as his now free hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in closer by it. you let out a high pitched moan as his pace slows down and gets deeper.

you're almost embarrassed by the sound that escapes you when his radiation thinned lips attached to your chest, sucking up the the spilled blood. you're almost even more embarrassed of how much the moan he lets out turns you on— the sound so pleasured, as if he's just tasted the best thing in existence.

"if only you could taste yourself darl', sweet 'n rich. you might be my new favourite flavour." he moans against your chest, tongue lapping up the small stream of blood all the way up your throat until he reaches the source.

you didn't even see your climax coming until it hit you— the sensation of his cock rearranging your guts and his almost none existent lips painfully sucking on the wound like his life depends on it have you crashing over the edge so violently you almost see stars.

"that's it darlin', mm that's it." he coaxes in a groan, hips stuttering from the way you're pulsing around him.

he's not far behind— the way your walls are suffocating him and the way your blood drips down his throat has him fucking into you in a frenzied state. hip bones thudding into yours in a dull, almost pleasurable pain.

"i wish i could taste you all day, suffocate in your sickly sweet taste, drown in it." he rasped against your throat, his voice strained as he plows into you.

"please Cooper," you cry, thighs trembling and your head feeling light headed. "please please please," you didn't even know what you were pleading for at this point— your head swimming with pleasure and overstimulation as tears rolled down your cheeks and joined the blood on your chest.

"aw, look at my darlin' cryin' so sweetly for me," he groaned, thin bloody lips kissing the tears away— leaving bloody lip stains across your skin. if only you could see yourself like this— bloody lips all over your cheeks like a sick painting.

his hips stuttered and you knew he was close. your fingers digging into his scarred biceps as he his pace sped up, pathetic whimpers and cries leaving you as you shook against him— clinging on to him.

"gonna fill you up, fuck i might suck you dry while i'm at it my sweet sugar." he lapped at your throat, his hips stuttering before they come to a halt— slamming into you for the final time as he cums.

his thin lips wrapped around the wound as he paints your walls white with his cum, slowly fucking it into you as he laps up the blood around his lips as he savors it.

he pulls away from your throat and you fall over into his arms, head laying on his shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. he holds you against him, savouring the blood on his teeth as he breathes in and out deeply.

the hotelroom is almost entirely silent besides the sound of heavy breathing, you've collapsed almost entirely against him, panting and fighting the slight lightheaded feeling.

after some time he pulls you off him, holding your face. "darlin'?" he asks, angling your face to look at him. "we doin' okay?" you blinked slowly, sluggishly nodding. he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours. you tiredly moan at the coppery taste invading your senses as his tongue swirls around yours.

he pulls away, thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. "let's get cleaned up, yeah?" you nod, your head swimming as you're trying to focus on him.

he snakes an arm around your waist, the other resting under your ass when he picks you up— walking over to wnat looked like a bathroom with some rags for towels still hanging around, your blood smearing across his thickly scarred chest in a way he hopes to never forget.

TAGLIST : @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy @marina-and-the-memes @p4rsuade @anonymous-creep @likoplays

#⋆୨🩷©2024 htchnr #⋆୨⭐️cooper howard #cooper howard x fem!reader #cooper howard oneshot #cooper howard imagine #cooper howard smut #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul oneshot #the ghoul imagine #the ghoul smut #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul x reader #fallout tv #fallout tv series #walton goggins #walton ghoulgins

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citrusdarling7 · 3 months

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The Bloodline

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description- as a highly trained sister of the Bene Gesserit, you were prepared to do your part in carrying on the selective genetic material of this generation. however, a change of plans are made, and you are told that you must secure the bloodline of the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the dangerous young heir to Geidi Prime

warnings- unprotected intercourse, p-in-v sex, fingering (f! receiving,) sort of knife-play, blood, violence via gladiator fighting (but not too descriptive,) BG propaganda, slightly inaccurate Dune technology, feyd-rautha has black cum (credit to @valeskafics for that one<3)

word count- 1,857

a/n- wow, it's been a while. haven't published anything on this site in like over a year I think, but I hope at least someone will enjoy this sick little piece I wrote instead of doing my homework :)

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It was never supposed to be him.

You were supposed to be paired with the heir of Caladan, Paul Atriedes, and you had been told this since your first day of training. Yet, the Atreides' had all been killed on Arrakis at the hands of the Harkonnens, and your Reverend Mother decided that the duty of continuing another selective bloodline would fall upon you. The na-Baron Feyd-Rautha may have been the result of 90 generations of predetermined genetic material, but that didn’t make him any less psychotic. Nor any less intriguing.

The bright sun of Geidi Prime was high today, and the air was sticky with humidity. Cheers erupted from the crowds as a young Harkonnen warrior gutted a slave in the pit below, and you found yourself growing bored of the spectacle. One of the ladies to your right let out a shriek at the gruesome scene, drawing your attention.

“How is one supposed to stomach this brutality for an entire day?” She exasperated.

“It is tradition for the Harkonnens’, Lady Clarissa. They value strength, and what better way to prove it than in the gladiator pits?” Your Bene Gesserit training consisted of much time studying the histories, and you pride yourself on your knowledge of the cultures of all the Great Houses. Lady Clarissa grimaced before adjusting her hairpiece and fixing her mouth back to a pout.

“It is deplorable, but I suppose you would have no issue with that sort of thing,” she remarked. You paid her no attention; the Bene Gesserit were not well liked by many nobles, Lady Clarissa’s family included. Her discontent mattered little to you, although you felt yourself wishing you had at least one other Sister here with you.

Unfortunately, your Reverend Mother had sent you on this mission hastily, claiming that the upcoming celebration of the na-Baron’s birthday would be the perfect time for you to carry out the task. Coming from a Great House yourself, it was not abnormal for you to attend such an event, but the marks of the Sisterhood followed you wherever you went. Although controlling your mind was usually an easy task, you found yourself slightly anxious after waiting hours to finally get a glimpse of your target.

It felt as if years had passed before the announcer finally declared that the young na-Baron would now display his bravo in a fight against three slaves, supposedly the last remaining members of the Atreides household. You perked up in your seat, pulling the binoculars close to your eyes as the crowd bellowed.

Feyd-Rautha strided out to the center of the pit and bowed before the Baron, giving you a good look at the young heir. He was pale, so pale that the sun seemed to reflect off of his skin. The black fighting suit he wore drew your attention to his muscled torso, his sculpted abs peeking out from beneath the hem. His face was stern, although a smile stretched from his lips as one of the slaves began to stagger towards him. As you watched him slice open the other man’s throat, you found your heartbeat begin to race. You were intrigued.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The interior of the Harkonnen palace was grim, as you had expected it to be. You walked through the fortress slowly, counting your steps as a way to calm your breathing. After the spectacle in the gladiator pits, you were immeasurably more nervous than you had been when arriving on the planet. Feyd Rautha was brutal, vicious, and likely insane. Yet, you could not deny your attraction towards him. It was stupid, immature, and dangerous. You were a trained sister of the Bene Gesserit, and this was your duty. To conceive a child with the na-Baron, and ensure the bloodline is secure.

You were not supposed to be on this side of the palace, yet no one questioned as you walked by. Your gown swept across the floor as you moved and your hairpiece tickled your bare shoulders. The na-Baron’s chambers were ahead to your left, and you noted the absence of guards, as well as the faint sound of approaching footsteps. A rather ghastly portrait of a late Baroness served as an excuse for your attention, although you struggled to prevent your eyes from wandering to the dark form approaching.

“Well, what do we have here? Are you lost, little pet?” His voice was deep and raspy, and you found your mind faltering once again.

“ My Lord na-Baron.” You restrained from bowing your head as you turned from the painting, staring directly into the man’s eyes as you sweetened your gaze. “I believe I may have wandered too far from the guest’s hall. Mayhaps I have wandered into a trap?”

“You should not be here.” He stepped closer, and began to stride around you in a circular fashion, like that of a predator stalking its prey. He watches you with hunger in his eyes, imagining what pleasure it would bring him to tear the dress from your body and take you right against the wall.

The Reverend Mother had been right; sexually vulnerable.

“Perhaps, I am in exactly the right place. I wished to congratulate you on your triumphs in the fighting today, it was truly a spectacle to remember.” You approached him swiftly, and the smell of steel and musk filled your nose. “I have heard many tales of your strength and bravery, but none measure up to what I have witnessed today. You will be a fearsome Baron, just like your uncle.” At the mention of the Baron, Feyd’s eyes lit up and his hand snapped around your neck.

“So you must be the gift my uncle has promised. He must have bought you Off-World, for I have never seen a Harkonnen slave as beautiful as you. I will enjoy ravishing you.”

Your heart beat sky-rocketed as he tightened his grip on your throat, making you lose control.

“Release me,” you commanded with the Voice, out of instinct rather than fear. The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, and Feyd obeys. The grin on his face falters as you stumble backwards, realizing that you may have just destroyed generations of planning, with only two words. Thankfully, Feyd does not seem discouraged.

“Ah, not a gift then, but I will have fun with you all the same, witch.” With a sudden movement, he pushed you against the wall and captured your lips in a harsh kiss. Feyd’s hips pressed hard against yours as he claimed your mouth with his tongue. His scent was overpowering in a way that made your head spin and seemed to subdue your thoughts. Your thighs clenched in anticipation as the na-Baron grabbed at your neck once more.

“Tell me, witch, what do they say of me in your homeworld? Are all you little witches so eager to please?” Feyd’s threatening gaze made your knees falter as you looked up to him with a soft smile.

“Not all of us, my lord. But I must admit, I have found myself rather allured by the temptations of your beautiful planet.” His hand dropped from your throat, and vanished to his side before reappearing a split-second later, with a curved blade in his grip. The tip of the knife rested against your skin, the cold steel making you shiver. Feyd swiped his other palm across the wall, causing it to unlock in a strange clicking pattern. His eyes burning into yours, he led you backwards into what you presumed to be his bedquarters, the blade at your neck guiding you in the way he wanted.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you allowed yourself to be pressed onto it. His blade was thrown aside, allowing his hands to roughly tear at your gown, ripping the bodice straight in half. You let out a gasp as you felt cold fingers slip between your undergarments.

“What a brazen little slut you are, showing up outside my chambers so wet and wanting.” He thrust two digits inside of you, finally satiating the ache that had been present from the moment you laid eyes on him in the arena. He fucked you roughly with his fingers, setting an excruciating pace that had you whimpering and writhing against the bed in mere minutes.

“Please, my lord. I want you inside of me,” you begged, reaching up to run your hand along his torso, stopping when you felt the bulge of his manhood straining against the confines of his pants.

Feyd eagerly obliged, tugging off his pants and stroking his thick cock rapidly to prepare himself for you. He lined his tip up with your entrance and wasted no more time teasing you. The na-Baron thrusted into you, hard, making you clench at the bedsheets and thrash your head to the side in an attempt to stifle your moans.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight, little witch,” he grunted, grabbing at your wrists and pinning them above your head. His dark eyes burned into yours as you tried your very best to keep quiet, not wanting to alert any servant that might have been lurking outside. He met your lips with his once again, in a ravenous kiss that had your teeth clashing against his. Feyd bit down on your bottom lip, drawing blood that he hastily licked up before moving on to attack your neck.

You were so full with his cock inside of you, and you had never been more aroused in your entire life. The metallic smell of blood seemed to radiate from the man, and his fingers left delicious bruises wherever they ventured. You felt your toes begin to curl and your stomach tighten; the agonizing pace at which he was fucking you had you close to the edge of bliss once again. He could feel you begin to clench around him, your walls gripping his cock like a vice.

“Is the little witch going to cum for me? Go ahead, you’re mine now,” He finally released your hands, and you immediately gripped at his muscled shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “My uncle may not have intended you for me, but fate has. No one else will ever have you.” You nodded desperately, not caring about the words coming from his mouth but rather the immense pleasure he was giving you.

Finally, a wave of bliss overtook your body, making you shake and scream as Feyd continued to roughly fuck you. You lost control of your mind once again, seeing stars as you came.

Feyd was close behind you, and the aftershocks of your orgasm had him rutting his hips against yours, letting out a deep groan as he emptied his seed into you.

It took you a few moments to regain your senses, to finally realize that you had successfully completed your mission. His black seed leaked out of you, a sickly sight that made your face flush. He had left his distinctive Harkonnen mark on you, and the bloodline was secure. It was never supposed to be him, but you were very pleased with the way things had worked out.

#dune part 2 #feyd rautha #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune #dune smut #feyd x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha oneshot #feyd rautha fic

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moonstruckme · 3 months

Note

Hey I don’t know if you’re taking requests but if not just ignore this :) but if so could you write a poly!emt marauders fic where readers sick or something’s wrong but she doesn’t tell them or anyone until she gets semi seriously hurt

FYI your fics are literally my favorites they are so good I’ve been binging all your marauders fics <33

Thank you gorgeous!

cw: fainting, nausea, mention of skipping a meal

(also note: I used celsius because they’re british, but for my american homies 39.5 is just over 103 degrees fahrenheit)

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

Your day has been hazy. You knew you were off before you even left the house, the lazy sluggishness of sleep not wearing off the way it normally does, but you couldn’t afford to pay it any mind. Your work had gotten done slower than usual, frustrating for all the effort you put into it. The thought of lunch made your stomach churn, so you had mint tea during your break instead. The joints in your fingers ached from typing. Even now, sitting on the barstool at your kitchen counter while you try and finish up an assignment that really should have been done hours ago, your back seems stiffer than usual. Your bones hurt.

“That’s far too much onion,” Sirius comments from the stool beside you, leaning across the counter to scrutinize James and Remus’ work in the kitchen.

Remus pauses in dumping a cutting board full of chopped onion into the pan on the stove. You see him look at James in your periphery, and even without paying proper attention you know something passes between them. James takes the cutting board from Remus, scraping the remainder of the onion in with a knife.

“Overruled,” he decrees.

Sirius scoffs, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Have fun kissing me tonight.”

“I’d think if we’re all eating it, we’ll be on fairly equal footing in that regard,” Remus points out.

“Yes, equally foul-smelling. So romantic.”

“Angel,” James says as he starts slicing up bell peppers, “do you plan on working on that all night?”

“Almost done,” you murmur, trying to ignore how nauseous the smell of all the food makes you. You squint into the brightness of your laptop, typing as quick as you can think. Which is to say, not impressively fast.

It’s your boyfriends’ day off, and they’ve decided to celebrate the rare occurrence of none of them being scheduled to work by going to the cinema. James and Remus are making dinner first, but the film’s in just under two hours. You know you’re sacrificing some time with them now, but it’s only so you can enjoy the main event later. Plus, if you stop working, you’re not sure you’ll be able to pick up the momentum to start again. You have a creeping sense that at the first opportunity for rest, you’ll lie down and never get up.

James says something encouraging, and then the conversation goes on without you. You lock into your laptop screen, fingers pressing down upon the keyboard like an extension of your brain, and gradually the sensation of being outside of yourself, your body moving on autopilot while your mind simply fuzzes over, envelops you. Slowly, the world just…slips.

An odd sound leaves Sirius as he lunges for you, like an alarm that went off without him telling it to. He catches you but not quite, one hand wrapping around your arm and the other fisting in the material of your shirt, stopping you from tipping over only temporarily. James runs from behind the counter to help. Accompanied by a steady stream of curses from both of his boyfriends, he eases you out of your stool and onto the floor. You’re already coming to.

“Is she okay?” Remus asks from the kitchen, and Sirius hears the sound of the stove flicking off.

“She’s hot,” James says, one hand cushioning your head from the floor while the other feels about your face and neck.

The quip comes to Sirius naturally—as usual—but he’s in no mood to deliver it. Though he trusts James’ assessment, he touches the backs of his fingers to your forehead anyway, hissing at the heat that meets them. It’s a wonder he didn’t feel it emanating from you in the barstool next to him.

“Angel,” James’ voice is a coo, gentleness coming naturally to him whereas Sirius’ panic feels hot and dangerous beneath his skin, “do you feel alright?”

You hum, though it sounds more like a grunt. “Mhm.”

Sirius almost laughs. “Come on,” he says, “be straight with us.” He works two fingers into your wrist to get your pulse, rubbing his free hand up your arm cajolingly. “You did just pass out, so we know you’re not fine.”

Remus sets a hand on Sirius’ back as he lowers himself to the ground by your legs. A support for them both.

“I…” You blink for a couple of seconds, and they wait, knowing you’re probably still out of it. “I guess I feel a little sick.”

James cracks a smile, though it’s tinged with worry. “A little?” he asks, smoothing down the baby hairs at your temple. “You’ve got a horrid fever.”

You sigh. “I figured.”

“You figured?” Sirius is aghast. He suddenly has a very clear picture of how your day has gone, and it unnerves him. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

You look wary, and Remus’ hand runs the length of Sirius’ back quickly as he stands. “Alright, let’s move you somewhere more comfortable, yeah dovey?”

You relax a bit at the affection in his tone, and Sirius feels bad about ever making you miss it. This is something he’s never been able to quell about himself. His love almost always manifests roughly. For the most part, you all know how to interpret it, but when you’re vulnerable like this and he can feel you feeling the gnashing teeth of his worry, Sirius wishes he were gentler.

James won’t let you walk yourself the short distance to the couch, lifting you in a bridal carry and setting you down with such carefulness it makes Sirius’ chest ache. Remus goes to get the thermometer. Sirius steals the spot beside your head selfishly. Thankfully, there’s no lingering timidity in your gaze as he combs his fingers through your hair, pushing it away from your ear and trailing his touch down your neck.

“You’ve been feeling unwell for a while,” he says, softer this time, “haven’t you.”

You look more guilty than anything, eyes going big and doe-like. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say?” James asks, lifting your legs so he can scooch underneath. He rubs the skin above your knees fondly, a small furrow between his brows.

“I just,” you sigh as though disappointed, “wasn’t ready.”

“Wasn’t ready for what?”

“To be sick.”

The scratchy, delightful sound of Remus’ laugh comes into the room with him. “Well that’s silly,” he says, reaching over Sirius to settle the thermometer in your ear. “It doesn’t seem to be waiting on you, does it?”

“Guess not,” you mutter. Sirius strokes your jaw with his thumb.

When the thermometer goes off, both he and James lean in to see, but Remus forsakes them, bringing it up near his face where he can read it. He hums.

“What is it?” James asks.

“Thirty nine point five.”

They all frown. Sirius touches your forehead again, just to be sure. Unfortunately, it seems accurate.

“What are your symptoms, sweetheart?” Remus asks you, settling on the floor beside Sirius with his knees bent in front of him. “Does anything hurt?”

“I feel sick—like nauseous, and sort of achey.” A little notch appears between your brows, and Sirius had the impression that you’re finally letting yourself acknowledge your own misery. His gut twists with sympathy. “My stomach is starting to hurt, but I’m not sure if that’s just because I skipped lunch.”

None of your boyfriends even have to say anything. You look abashed enough by their expressions.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” you say in a small voice.

James breaks easily, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth for a firm kiss. “Can’t believe you went all day feeling this poorly and didn’t say anything,” he chides lovingly. “What did you think was going to happen, hm?”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Your gaze flitters about the room, landing on Sirius’ eyes for a fraction of a second before it’s dropping shyly to the couch cushion. “It was dumb.”

“So long as you know,” Remus agrees with a brief eye-roll. “It sounds like the stomach flu, so at least it should be better in a couple of days, but there’s not much to do other than rest.”

Your face pinches unhappily. “I’m sorry for messing up your big night too,” you say, and you look like you’d curl up in misery if James weren’t currently using your legs as a blanket. Sirius’ heart gives a little throb.

“Don’t be,” James says. “We’re still with you, aren’t we? And if we get sick, too, that’s just more days off!”

It’s clearly a joke, but you look extra guilty anyways. Your features tighten in a slight wince. Sirius works a hand between your face and the couch cushion, leaning forward to kiss the space between your brows.

“Don’t worry about it, darling,” he says. “Better when we can be with you than when we’re busy helping some other poor sap, yeah?”

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buckyseternal · 15 days

Text

part two to this angsty beauty - enjoy 🖤

Your head pounded when you woke up, sunlight filtering through the curtains in your shared bedroom. Well, in your bedroom now. Who knows if you’d even be able to keep the apartment – would he want to stay here or would you? He said he’d be here today to pick up his things, so maybe he was letting you keep it. Maybe you’d surprise him with an empty apartment when he came to collect his things, and you’d be long gone.

Gone, that’s where you wished you could go. What did that even mean..?

It didn’t matter.

You got up and cleaned your face, throwing on some workout clothes and stepping out into the cold air. It was winter in New York City, and everyone else was bundled up with long coats and scarves, boots and their fuzzy socks peeking up at the top. You walked the five miles to the Avengers tower in some leggings, running shoes, and a light hoodie, not even bothering to put the hood on.

You slipped into the meeting just as it was starting, taking a spot next to Natasha this time instead of your usual one. There was an empty chair next to your ex-fiancé, everyone taking notice of it but not mentioning it more than a quiet glance amongst each other. Bucky listened with intent as if nothing had happened – you stared at the small scratch in the glass table until your eyes went fuzzy.

“I know we just finished one mission up – seriously, great job, you two-” he gestured to you and Bucky. Clearly not reading the room, he continued. “Truly a dream team, you two work great together.”

You could hear Bucky huff out a sarcastic laugh and you just rolled your eyes. How he had the audacity to sit there and act like he hadn’t just shattered your entire world last night, you would never know. It’s always been fucking hard to be with you. His harsh voice rang in your ears, flashbacks from last night hitting you like a train.

“Tony, could you..?” Natasha motioned for Tony to continue with his agenda and stop lingering.

“Right.” His voice was drowned out by the blood rushing through your ears, and you could barely hear what he was saying anymore, starting to zone out again.

Natasha nudged you, and everything came back into focus.

“Solo mission, Canada. Rumlow’s back.” She whispered it over to you as indiscreetly as possible, the details that Tony had just gone over, but without all of his theatrics.

You looked over at her. Rumlow? You mouthed. She nodded her head grimly.

“I can do it. I have the most experience dealing with him-” Bucky piped up finally, acting as some sort of martyr.

“I’ll go.”

All heads turn to you, finally having spoken up and looked up from the scratch on the table.

“Are you out of your mind?” Bucky’s words sliced through the silence. You locked eyes with him and there was nothing but fury and heartbreak in yours. You could see where his hands were in fists below the table, balled up and trying to keep his composure.

You looked at Tony. “I’ll go. Rumlow doesn’t know me. Even if he had files on each of us, you know mine is sealed. I’ve only been on covert missions that didn’t deal with the public-”

“Tony, you can’t let her go on this mission!” Bucky tried to speak over you. You could tell he was getting mad.

“-and because of that, my identity has never been known. To him, I’m just a random girl. Send me. I’ll get it done.”

It was silent in the room, and you could cut the tension with a knife. But Tony had made up his mind.

“Those are all…excellent points. Meet me in 20 in my office and we’ll go over it. You leave tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes, a feeling of relief washing over you. The meeting ended and you got up to leave, managing to round the corner before you felt a grip on your arm, stopping you dead in your tracks.

“You can’t go on that mission alone, he will kill you,” Bucky said through his gritted teeth. You tried to keep walking but his grasp on your arm was too strong. You knew you could never overpower him. “I’m going instead.”

“You know what you can fucking do-” you turned around in his arms and managed to shake out of his hold. By this time, the people who were left after the meeting were all silent and watching. You barely took note of them as you felt your vision cloud with rage.

“Hey, guys-” Steve tried to step in, tapping Bucky on the shoulder. It was no use. Your eyes brimmed with tears of rage.

“No, you go back to wherever the fuck you went last night and leave me ALONE!” you yelled at him, whipping around and starting to storm off. Before you got too far though, you turned back around and threw your engagement ring at his feet and let it clatter around the tile floors for everyone to see. “Sorry if I’m too hard for you to deal with right now, but I’m going on that mission alone and I hope that when I’m done, I can fucking stay up there away from you.”

He watched as you walked down the hallway and turned into Tony’s office, the door shutting behind you. He stood there in silence, the audience behind him in utter shock. They all began to dissipate, going in their own directions, until it was just him left.

I'll probably turn this into a multi-part fic, what do y'all think?

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #mcu #mcu masterlist

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newtkive · 4 months

Text

practice - carmen berzatto

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader, mentioned platonic marcus x reader

summary: The sudden changes at your work prove to be a lot to keep up with, but Carmy notices your efforts where you think he’s just a tough boss. He proves to be more than that when he finds you pulling an all-nighter at the restaurant.

wordcount: 3.8k

warnings: none really, anxious reader, ooc!carmen (he would never let mistakes fly like this lmao), kinda fluff at the end

a/n: this is basically how i would react working there bc i almost have an anxiety attack every ep watching carmy yell at everyone. sorry for any typos!

The fast moving pace that Carmen Berzatto brought to The Beef was something extraordinary. The skill of his professional chef background was carried over into the small hole in the wall that otherwise would have never changed if it wasn’t for him.

His drive was contagious, even infecting the staff you knew like the back of your hand. You never would have thought your coworkers, ever comfortable with a stagnant pace, would become accustomed to such change around their second home.

It was great to see your favorite people quickly see their own potential thanks to Carmy’s vision. The only problem was you.

You were falling behind, and quickly.

You tried to convince yourself you could keep up as things changed. But your mind was faster than your barely skilled hands and you were terrible at cutting ingredients evenly during a rush and you always somehow got sliced or burnt and your eyes always stung from the onions you were stuck prepping because that was the one job you couldn’t fuck up but hated— to put it simply, you sucked.

The faces of your coworkers reflected what you feared every time you turned around to take a breath, heels of your hands rubbing tears from your eyes as Carmy screamed profanities at the crew. Tina’s eyes would linger on you, brows raised and silently asking if you were okay. You would nod and blink the tears away before jumping back in. By the end of every shift Ebraheim would pat you on the back before leaving, and Sydney would send you a small, sympathetic smile and wave while you tied your shoes on the bench near the locker.

Each time you could see the sympathy in their eyes and it made you hate yourself even more.

You were used to sandwiches; assembling simple ingredients between a hoagie bun on a slow Sunday surrounded by the people you called family. Cracking jokes here and there, no pressure to make things completely perfect, which ended up making things perfect. So much so that regulars even seemed disappointed to see you up at the register some days instead of in the kitchen assembling their lunch.

Carmy wasn’t blind, he could see exactly what was going on, which was why he didn’t pick on you as much as he did when he first arrived.

The first couples of weeks that Carmy was there he noticed the difference in your station compared to everyone else’s. Organized, cohesive, clean—save for the multiple drinks you always had. You worked at your own pace, not slow but definitely not up to par with Carmen’s standards. You made it work though, cutting ingredients almost perfectly and whipping up sandwiches and other specialties not a second too late.

The change happened when Carmy upped the stakes and encouraged—or yelled at—everyone to be as quick as they possibly could. His yelling was off putting, and you didn’t respond well to much other than positive reinforcement.

The chef didn’t notice until the uneven bread and too-thin tomato slices lead back to you. He was quick, marching over to you with a purpose; if it was a cartoon, his hair would be alight with fire. “Chef!” His voice was hard and urgent, because he didn’t have time to deal with this.

As he approached, he noticed your hands shaking as you held the dull shitty knife, head whipping up and cheeks red, all but heaving from the pressure. So much pressure.

“Yes Chef?” You asked attentively, waiting for him to explode.

Carmen had all intentions to do just that, tear you a new one, tell you that you’ve been here long enough to know how to cut a fuckin’ tomato the right way but he paused. The look in your eye was wild and scared. His face fell, obvious turmoil behind his blue eyes causing a change in his decision. You waited with bated breath, but what you were expecting never came.

Instead, Carmen did his best to be calm and set his hand on the counter, leaning a bit. “I want you to show me how to slice that tomato.” He said.

“What?” You were confused and it was clearly written on your face. So were your nosy coworkers who exchanged looks and shrugged, expecting the young man to wail on you with his words.

Looking over your shoulder at the others, you tried to exchange weary looks with anyone but Carmy pulled you back in with his words. “Don’t worry about their shit. C’mon, show me.” He said again, motioning to the tomato sitting on the cutting board, looking at you expectantly.

After a beat of weariness you did what he asked. With an exhale your knife pierced the red skin and cut it, your wrist dragging it back and forth to cut all the way through. You gave a few more slices, doing your best to ignore his scrutinizing gaze.

Reviewing your slices, you mentally pat yourself on the back at the sight of them perfectly even and a fairly thin. You turned to look at Carmy, and he seemed to have an epiphany as he stood there holding his chin. Eyes flickering up to you, he nodded. “You know what that showed me?” He asked, and before you could answer he continued. “You’re competent, you did that shit with a dull knife. Don’t cut ‘em too thick or too thin, you have no excuses.”

He should feel ridiculous, like he was coaching a baby how to do the easiest job in the world, but for some reason Carmen was able to swallow his irritation and try to guide you.

You nodded, back straightening and hands sweaty. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmy was about to walk off but stopped himself, turning back around, eyes boring into yours as he grew more serious. “You hear me yelling, you listen, but I need you to focus, Chef. You can do this shit, I’ve seen you pull through before. Don’t let my mouth get to your fuckin’ head.” He said low enough just for the both of you to hear.

He was close, blue eyes staring right at you, the smell of the kitchen clinging onto his apron. It should’ve been intimidating, and it was a little, but you knew this was his version of offering comfort and maybe even some sort of apology.

“Heard, Chef.” You said just as quietly back.

There was a second of him staring, before he simply walked away without another word, leaving you to your own devices. Whatever he said seemed to put some perspective into your work, because you didn’t have anys setbacks for the rest of the day.

On the way home, sitting on the train with headphones in your ears and a jacket wrapping you up tight, Carmy’s words swirled in your head. You knew you could do this, and you could somewhat see in Carmy’s eyes that he had faith in you too. It was just a new world you were all suddenly thrown into and it was hard finding your place. On days where you felt like a baby fawn standing on shaky legs, wobbling and failing to find your footing, you had to keep going.

A single word rang in your mind.

Practice.

Your apartment was pretty small and shared with a roommate, so you lacked the accommodations and tools to really do all you wanted. Aside from that, you didn’t want to be the rude roomie who clashed pans in the kitchen all night long. So, as you made your way off the train you didn’t leave the station. Instead, you waited for the next ride to the city and headed straight for The Beef.

The sun set as you approached the back door, humming a tune as you pulled out a spare key—one that definitley would be confiscated once Carmy found out about it, probably clambering about it not being safe in the foreseeable future—from under the fuse box outside and unlocked the door.

You entered the kitchen, brows immediately raising as you saw all of the kitchen lights on. Slowly moving forward, a sense of anxiety grew as you knew no one would usually be here except for Carmy, and you really did not want to get a talking to from him right now.

Turning the corner, you sighed in relief when you saw the familiar stature that belong to Marcus. He had his phone out, recipe pulled up in front of him and a song playing softly from the speakers that he sang along to. You chuckled softly, alerting him of your presence. Head snapping up at the sound, he almost looked like a deer in the headlights as he met your eyes.

Similarly to you, he let out a relieved sigh and sent you a smile. “Scared me, Y/N.” He laughed softly, hands whisking again.

“Sorry.” You apologized, tugging your coat off. “What’re you doing here, man?” You asked as you headed over to the lockers and shoved your stuff away.

Marcus shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“Practice.” You said simply, shrugging and tying your apron around your waist. Approaching the kitchen, you started gathering a few clean pots to start your work.

Humming and nodding, Marcus gave you a knowing grin. “Same here.” There was a beat of comfortable silence as you gathered a knife, cutting board, and an onion before washing your hands. “I actually stay here sometimes overnight. It’s easier, that way I won’t waste time going back and forth from home.” Marcus explained.

Surprise filled your features and you sent him an impressed look. “Wow, no wonder you’re getting better fast.”

He chuckles bashfully, filling another mixing bowl with flour and whatever else he desired. “Eh, I guess.” The shrug of his shoulders made you laugh before you turned back to your own work.

With one last question of Marcus asking if you minded his music, and you affirming that you didn’t mind at all, he turned the dial on his bluetooth radio up and you both fell into a comfortable rhythm; Marcus in his corner and you on the stovetop.

By the end of the evening you prepared a vibrant beef braciole dish that a few of the others had been practicing since Carmy introduced it. You brought it to one of the stainless steel counters with two forks, setting it next to the two pieces of cake Marcus had sliced up from his recipe of the evening.

You both dug in, humming in satisfaction as you tasted each other’s creations, sharing impressed and ‘holy shit’ expressions that made the other laugh.

“This is fantastic.” Marcus said, another mouthful of beef being added to his mouth.

You laughed and shook your head, muttering a thank you, trying to swallow down your surprise. Marcus could tell, because he doubled down. “No, really, Y/N. This is the best one I’ve tasted yet, aside from the big Chef.” He said with a grin.

Shaking your head, you gave him your appreciation. “Thank you, Chef. I can say the same thing from you.” You motioned with your fork to the cake. In truth, his words pushed you and affected you more than you lead on.

The both of you fell into a rhythm, whipping up treats and savory meals almost every day after work. Marcus playing music at his own station, you timing yourself relentlessly to try and replicate the fast pace of the open hours of the restaurant. You sometimes even found yourself staying overnight, taking turns with Marcus to use his sleeping bag—he insisted where you didn't want to overstep, but sleep called you and his pillow was comfy.

Relentless practice proved to keep you on track and up to pace with everyone else, slowly but surely. The impressed glances shared between Tina and Sydney every time you had them taste a dish or were quicker than usual were enough, but Carmen was ever the critic. A new menu soon graced The Beef alongside their regular sandwiches, and it was a tough menu to master. You almost had them all down pat, practicing relentlessly for almost four weeks now after work.

However, every time you presented a steaming spoonful of stew, or a perfect bite of chicken piccata that everyone else in the kitchen seemed to love, Carmen would bite into it, hum, and shake his head. "Good." He said every time.

"Good like.. good good? Or good but start over, it's trash, throw it away?" You would ask, clearly waiting with baited breath on a slow day.

Carmy shook his head again. "It's not ready yet, Chef." And then he would be off to collect more expo receipts and leave you there disappointed, shoulders deflating in defeat.

"I think it's great, Chef." Marcus would smile, hands busy working on dough for his unmastered donuts. You would offer a sad smile in return, marching off to assemble another hoagie and handing your failed dish to a waiting Richie in exchange for an appreciative rub of his hands together. The negative feedback only spurred you to improve your craft as much as you could.

It was a rare occasion that Marcus didn't stay at the restaurant overnight. He left early in a frenzy after a phone call, muttering something about his mom's nurse needing him. Offering comfort wasn't your strongest suit, so you bid him luck and made a mental note to bring him his favorite coffee during work later in hopes to cheer him up.

At the same time you were plating what felt like your dozenth chicken piccata of the week, soft footsteps approached the kitchen. As soon as the timer went off behind you, you whipped around and hit the top, a harsh exhale and wipe of your forehead following the silence. You felt proud, plating and finishing your dish in record time without any hiccups.

A soft chuckle brought you out of your stupor, head snapping up to meet bright blue eyes from across the kitchen. There stood Carmy with his unruly curls, white tee and brown jacket he was beginning to pull off. In place of his usual stoic face was an amused expression, clearly not expecting to see someone in the kitchen at this hour.

You froze at the sight of him, but his soft smile eased your shoulders a bit. “Smells good.” Carmy said as if it was the most casual thing, hanging his jacket by the lapels on a hook. He sat on the bench, beginning to change his shoes into nonslip ones.

Stuttering, your cheeks turned pink. “O-oh, uhhh, thanks.”

“You’re here early.” He said back, standing now and readying to tug on his apron.

Brows furrowed, you looked above him to glance at the kitchen clock. Big red numbers read 6:15 AM and your brows raised in shock. Before you had a chance to respond, he walked closer, beginning to talk again. “I’ve noticed you and Marcus are always here before anyone else.”

You shrugged, nervous smile gracing your lips as they upturned slightly. “Ah, yeah. We both wanted to practice. Y’know, catch up with everyone else.” You explained. Conveniently, you decided to not mention the instances of spending the night, figuring it would be a little to embarrassing or earn you a talking to.

Carmy was now approaching the other side of the counter where you stood, hands tapping the steel. His little smug smile didn’t leave his lips as he nodded. “I also noticed a few things missing from our inventory.” His words were clearly teasing, but they made your face run pale.

“Fuck, I'm sorry, Chef. Take it from my paycheck, please—I didn’t even consider—“ The rambling was embarrassing, and his head shake cut you off.

“No, stop, Y/N. I'm teasing you.” Carmy laughed softly with a small smile, clearly endeared. The use of your name made you bashful.

A beat of silence followed, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. Carmy glanced behind you at the dish that laid perfectly plated, motioning to it with his hands. “Let’s see if your hard work is paying off.”

Blinking in surprise, you obediently nodded and turned to grab the dish. Sliding it in front of him, you gathered a fork and knife. Carmy grasped the utensils with a ‘thank you’, fingers brushing yours. It didn’t take long for the chef to dig in, eyes immediately closing once the first bite hit his taste buds.

“So.. what do you think?” You plucked up the courage to ask after he swallowed.

Carmy looked up at you, lips curling upwards and a proud look dawning his features. “Great, as usual.”

Usually those words would make you excited, but Carmy had a habit of complimenting your dishes before declaring how they weren’t good enough just yet. You simply nodded, swallowing thickly as he took another bite and savored the taste. “What should I change?” You asked, straightening your back in preparation for the inevitable criticism.

Humming, Carmy shook his head, the same amused look as before coming back. “Nothing, Chef. It’s perfect.” He said firmly. Those words made your breath leave your lungs, hands becoming clammy, and before you knew it you were grinning.

“Really?” You asked, not able to keep your excitement together.

Carmy let out a full laugh at that. “Really.” He confirmed.

You clapped your hands together before covering your face, hiding the grin as best you could. It had been awhile since you felt so elated due to cooking, and you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. You felt like the whole month of dedicating your time to cooking was culminating to this moment. Carmen watched you with soft eyes, taking in how happy his words made you. You turned back to him, giving up hiding how ecstatic you were. “I braised it differently this time, could you tell? Well, obviously you could if it’s good this time.” You rambled on, a bit of a giggle in your voice.

“It’s always this good, Y/N.” Carmy suddenly said. His words had you pausing, tilting your head playfully. Hand trailing along the counter, he rounded it to stand next to you.

"What do you mean?" You asked, smile falling a bit. The man's words echoed in your head and you looked around the room as if to try and find meaning from his statement. Surely he didn't have you remake the dish for no reason, right? But Carmy's strong posture and raised brows, waiting for you to figure it out yourself, made you think that's exactly what he did. Sobering up, you scoffed and crossed your arms as you sent him a look. "Are you serious? This whole time..." You trailed off.

"Yes, this whole time." He said, leaning on the counter with one hand, eyes not leaving you. "I needed you to bust your ass, Chef. I knew you needed the practice, so I gave you the motive." Carmy explained. The scrunch of your nose made his chest hum with something warm, akin to looking at a kicked puppy that he wanted to scoop up and reassure. Guilt washed over him a little bit as he feared he was acting more and more like his old Chef, but he pushed those feelings down as best he could. He did this for the right reasons, unlike that dickhead in New York did to him. There was no berating and preying on insecurities, just some tough love.

Sighing, you were torn between being angry and feeling grateful that Carmy saw this potential in you. You didn't know what to say, so you blurted out exactly how you felt. "I'm embarrassed."

Carmy frowned, ducking his head to catch your eyes where you looked down a bit. "Why are you embarrassed?" His voice was soft, tiptoeing as to not make you more upset.

Allowing him to meet your eyes, you curled into yourself at the attention. "Because I've made a fool of myself these past few months." You murmured, spilling your guts to your new boss for some reason that you didn't know. Maybe it was the quiet kitchen, or the sudden defeat you felt, but your mouth was faster than your mind.

A small 'no, no, no' left Carmy and he shook his head, reaching a hand out to place on your shoulder. "Don't be. I came in and turned shit upside down, it just took you a bit more practice to get the hang of things." His hand started to rub your arm comfortingly, leaving heat where he touched. You knew this must have been a form of an apology in his own way. The words didn't come easy to Carmen, but he tried to convey it the best he could.

Leaning forward, Carmy mustered his best stern expression, wanting to keep your gaze so you couldn't look away and distract yourself from his next words. Your breath caught in your throat, not used to this proximity. "I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourself too."

Heat encapsulated your cheeks and you nodded, spurring him to nod as well. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

As soon as Carmy saw your shy smile he gave one right back to you. Still close, he radiated heat that made it all the more difficult to calm the butterflies growing in your stomach. Eyes never leaving each other's, the air grew tense as the dust settled. Unlike the usual sandwich smell, an aroma of a clean linen scent came off of him as you realized he must have showered before coming here. Carmy never would admit it, but your perfume filled the air for him, making him linger longer than he should have. The blink of your stare looking up at him made Carmy's chest tighten, and he immediately pulled himself out of whatever trance he was in.

Clearing his throat, Carmy let go of your shoulder and backed up a bit. "No more all-nighter's here. Okay, Chef?" He tried to seem playful to rid himself of awkwardness and whatever that just was.

Mouth falling open, you gaped at him. "How did you know?!"

Hands up in surrender, Carmy just shrugged. "A Chef never tells his secrets," He began, heading over to the drying rack to busy himself, playfully adding, "And someone kept leaving the spare key out, so I figured." The smirk he sent you made you grin and roll your eyes.

Carmy would never tell you he knew because that's what he used to do. Before he got the hang of things in his earlier days as a chef, late nights in the restaurant kitchen and a half hour of sleep was the norm for him. As you began cleaning up your work the chef's gaze lingered on you, blue eyes studying your form with a thoughtful look. Carmy shook his head, smiling to himself and starting his work. He reckoned he saw himself in you more than ever.

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #the bear imagine #carmy berzatto imagine #x reader #carmen berzatto imagine

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elia-the-bibliophile · 4 days

Text

Tangled Love (Charles Leclerc x Female Reader)

Genre: Angst, Smut Word count: 6,5k

Picture this: Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc. The Main Driver for Scuderia Ferrari. Il Predestinato (The Predestined). Probably one of the hottest dudes on this spinning sphere we call Earth.

But here's the kicker: the only woman he's got eyes for? Yeah, she's got a ring on it. And not just any ring, mind you – it's a rock big enough to make even the Pope do a double take. Like a neon sign flashing “off-limits” in bright, blazing letters. Charles, the man who's used to getting what he wants with the flick of a wrist and the bat of an eye, finds himself at a loss. Irony, thy name is Charles Leclerc.

The atmosphere in the Scuderia Ferrari briefing room crackled with tension, like the air before a lightning storm. Y/N, the PR powerhouse, stood at the front of the room, her aura radiating authority.

“Alright, team, listen up!” Y/N's voice sliced through the tension like a hot knife through butter. “We're in a pickle, folks. The whole world's losing its marbles over Lewis Hamilton joining us, and poor Carlos is feeling more tossed aside than a soggy pizza crust.”

But as Y/N laid out the game plan, Charles found himself in his own world – a world where Y/N was the main attraction. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her, his mind drifting into a fantasy where they rode off into the sunset in his Daytona.

Y/N's voice snapped him back to reality, and he quickly tried to focus on what she was saying. “Charles!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Charles! We're counting on you to deliver the right story here.”

Charles blinked, realizing he'd been caught red-handed – or rather, red-faced – ogling over Y/N instead of paying attention. “Uh, right, sorry!” he stammered, cheeks burning.

But try as he might, Charles just couldn't shake the image of Y/N from his mind. Every word she spoke seemed to dance around him, his brain too busy composing love sonnets to focus on the task at hand.

As Y/N outlined the key points for the press conference, Charles tries nodding along. On one hand, he knew he had a job to do, a role to play in shaping the team's narrative. On the other hand, there was Y/N, with her captivating smile and her hair that seemed to shimmer like the sunlight bouncing off a Ferrari's hood.

It was like a battle between his head and his heart, with Y/N emerging as the clear winner every time. But as the briefing came to an end and the team began to disperse, Charles couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. He knew he had let his feelings get the best of him, but somehow, in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

After all, who could blame him for being distracted by the most beautiful woman in the room?

Just as Charles was lost in his Y/N-induced daydream, a sudden rush of hot breath against his cheek snapped him back to reality. He blinked in surprise, finding Y/N standing inches from his face, her eyes boring into his with laser-like intensity.

“You have no idea what you're supposed to say, do you?” Y/N's voice was a mixture of amusement and exasperation, like a teacher addressing a particularly clueless student.

Charles felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. It was like being caught playing with his mother’s professional scissor back when he was just a little boy.

“Um, well, you see...” Charles began, his words stumbling over each other.

But Y/N cut him off with a wave of her hand, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Save it, Charles. We both know you've been distracted this whole time.”

Charles felt like shrinking into his seat, wishing he could disappear into the plush upholstery. It was bad enough to be caught ogling over Y/N like a lovesick teenager, but to be called out by that very same person? It was enough to make him want to bury his head in his helmet and never come out.

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh. “Alright, Charles,” she said, “if you can't get it together, you're going to have to redo media training with me. And trust me, you do not want that.”

Charles felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought of spending more time with Y/N, but in a different context – one where he was the one on the hot seat, being grilled like a sausage at a barbecue. It was enough to make him contemplate deliberately messing up just for the chance to have some one-on-one time with her.

But as Y/N shot him a warning glance, he quickly pushed the thought aside. He couldn't risk sabotaging the team's efforts just to satisfy his own selfish desires – no matter how tempting the prospect might be.

“Got it,” Charles replied, his voice a tad too eager as he tried to shake off the distracting thoughts swirling around in his head. “I'll make sure to keep it together.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow skeptically, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “You better,” she said, her lips quirking up into a half-smile. “Or else you'll be stuck in media training purgatory with me.”

_________________________________________

In the midst of the chaotic press conference, with journalists firing questions like they were in line of fire, Charles found himself sitting front and center, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. Thankfully, Fred was beside him, fielding most of the questions like a pro.

Charles let his gaze wander to the back of the room, where Y/N sat perched like a hawk, her eyes darting back and forth as she made notes here and there.

As if sensing his gaze, Y/N looked up and their eyes locked. Charles felt a surge of warmth spread through him as he watched her expression soften, her lips curving into a supportive smile. She mouthed “You're doing great” to him, accompanied by a thumbs up, and suddenly, Charles felt like he was on cloud nine.

Her simple gesture was like a shot of adrenaline straight to his ego, making him preen like a peacock and sit up straighter in his seat. If Y/N thought he was doing great, then by golly, he was going to knock this press conference out of the park – or at least, avoid striking out like a rookie at bat.

With renewed confidence, Charles turned his attention back to the journalists, ready to face whatever curveballs they threw his way. After all, with Y/N's encouragement spurring him on, there was nothing he couldn't handle – not even a room full of nosy reporters with more questions than a toddler on a road trip.

Just as Charles was basking in the glow of Y/N's encouragement, a journalist launched a question at him. “Charles, how do you feel about Lewis joining Ferrari? Are you excited to have him as a teammate, or are you secretly relieved to see Carlos go?”

Charles felt a nervous chuckle bubble up inside him, threatening to escape. He quickly clamped down on it, plastering on his best poker face as he searched for the perfect diplomatic response.

“Well, you know,” Charles began, his voice smooth as silk but his mind secretly racing, "I think having Lewis join the team is a fantastic opportunity for all of us at Ferrari. He's a proven champion, and I'm sure we'll all benefit from his experience and expertise.”

Beside him, Fred shot him a surprised glance, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. Charles couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his own performance – who knew he had it in him to spin a diplomatic answer faster than his pit crew when changing his tires?

“But,” Charles continued, his tone carefully neutral, “I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge Carlos's contributions to the team. He's been a formidable teammate, and I wish him all the best in his future endeavors.”

The journalists nodded along, seemingly satisfied with his response, and Charles felt a wave of relief wash over him like a cold drink on a hot day.

But of course luck would try him again.

Another journalist decided to put him on the spot once more, “Charles, in your opinion, how would Lewis fit into Ferrari since he has been with Mercedes for so long?”

Charles blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. It was like being thrown a curveball when he was expecting a straight shot down the middle – unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.

“I think Lewis will bring a fresh perspective to the team, having been with Mercedes for so long. His experience and expertise will undoubtedly be valuable assets as we work to push Ferrari to new heights.”

He paused, trying to gather his thoughts before continuing. “But,” he added, his tone becoming more animated, “I also think it's important to remember that Ferrari has its own unique culture and traditions. Lewis will need to adapt to our way of doing things, just as we will need to adapt to having him as part of the team.”

Beside him, Fred nodded approvingly. He may not have all the answers, but he was determined to make the most of this opportunity – for himself, for the team, and maybe even for Y/N, who was watching him with pride.

_________________________________________

Y/N sat at her desk, scrolling through the social media updates about the press conference. Just as she was about to dive into the latest Twitter thread, she heard a knock at her office door.

“Come in,” Y/N called, her attention shifting from her screen to the doorway.

In shuffled Charles. “Hey, Y/N,” he said timidly.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking up into a wry smile. “What can I do for you, Charles?” she asked, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Charles hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting around the room. Finally, he took a seat opposite Y/N, his gaze drifting once again to the glinting diamond ring on her finger.

He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I just, you know, hang out here for a bit?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Hang out here? Why?” she asked.

Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I, uh, I'm just trying to avoid... well, everyone, really. With this whole Lewis-Carlos fiasco, it feels like everyone's out to get me.”

Y/N couldn't help but laugh at his candid admission, the sound echoing through the office. “You're not wrong there,” she said, her smile warm and reassuring. “But don't worry, Charles. You're safe here. No one's going to hunt you down in my office.”

Charles let out a sigh of relief, sinking back into his seat. “Thanks, Y/N,” he said, a grateful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You're a lifesaver.”

Y/N waved him off with a casual flick of her hand. “No problem, Charles,” she said, her tone light and breezy.

Charles found his gaze drawn to the framed pictures adorning her office walls. Among them, a picture caught his eye – Y/N and her husband, captured in a moment of bliss. It’s a holiday picture taken during winter break. Courchevel, if Charles has to guess.

Jealousy seized his heart like no one’s business. He scoffed, mind racing to find a way to ease his own insecurities. “Pfft,” he muttered to himself, “what does he have that I don't?”

Charles began to mentally compare himself to Y/N's husband. “Sure, he's a good looking man with an excellent career in Finance," he mused, “but has he ever won a Grand Prix? I don't think so.”

As he continued his self-evaluation, Charles couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of his own thoughts. Who was he to compare himself to Y/N's husband? After all, they were two entirely different people – one a world-class racer, the other a... well, a guy with nice hair and green eyes.

With a final shake of his head and a rueful grin, Charles turned his attention back to Y/N. After all, he may not be perfect, but he was Charles Leclerc – and that was pretty fucking close.

He mustered up the courage to break the silence with a seemingly innocent question. “So, how's the husband?” he asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Y/N's head snapped up. “Pardon?” she exclaimed, confused by the sudden interest.

Charles scrambled to play it off with a nervous chuckle. “Nathaniel, right? I was looking at your holiday picture, you know, the one with the... snow. Was that in Courchevel?”

Y/N wasn't buying it but she answered anyway. A small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “You have a good eye,” she said. “That one was in Courchevel. Nate's family has a chalet there – we try to go skiing whenever we can.”

Charles continue the conversation, his curiosity getting the better of him. “So, how did you two meet?” he asked.

Y/N's eyes took on a nostalgic gleam as she reminisced. “We actually met back in university.”

Charles felt a wave of relief wash over him – at least it wasn't some epic romance straight out of a Hollywood movie. But his relief was short-lived as Y/N continued her story.

“We both attended King's College,” Y/N explained, her voice tinged with fondness. “I was majoring in Digital Media & Culture, and Nate was studying Economics.”

Charles felt his stomach churn uncomfortably, a sour taste rising in the back of his throat. Digital Media & Culture? Economics? It was like the universe was conspiring against him.

As Y/N continued to recall about her university days, Charles struggled to maintain his composure. “That's, uh, fascinating,” he managed to choke out. “He is a proper smart dude, isn’t he?”

He fought to suppress the urge to vomit – both figuratively and, unfortunately, literally – Charles couldn't help but wonder whether he could do something to make Nate disappear of the face of the earth so that he could take his place.

“Why have I never seen him coming to any of the races?” he asked again.

Y/N shrugged, “His job keeps him pretty busy. And truthfully, Nate's not really into motorsport. He's more of a... horse guy.”

“Horse guy?” Charles echoed.

Y/N nodded, “Yeah,” she confirmed, “he much rather attend the Royal Ascot. You know, where he can watch horse racing and hobnob with royalty.”

He felt a surge of disbelief wash over him – Nate was more interested in horse racing than Formula 1 races? It was like finding out that the Pope preferred pizza to communion wafers.

Charles couldn't help but chuckle at the image of Nate, decked out in his finest attire, sipping champagne and placing bets on which horse had the fastest trot.

“But hey,” Y/N continued, her voice light-hearted, “to each their own, right? As long as he's happy, that's all that matters.”

Charles nodded in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. “Fair enough.”

_________________________________________

Charles had just wrapped up a strategy training session. His mind buzzed with new tactics and race scenarios as he made his way down the dimly lit hallway toward the exit. He was eager to get home, unwind, and perhaps indulge in a quiet evening of solitude.

As he neared the fire exit, Charles noticed a lone figure standing against the wall. The dim lighting cast soft shadows on her face, but he recognized her immediately. It was Y/N. Her eyes were closed, and the tension in her mouth was detectable, even from a distance.

He hesitated, debating whether to make his presence known. He didn't want to intrude on what seemed like a rare private moment for her. But just as he was about to turn away, Y/N's eyes fluttered open and found his. For a moment, neither of them moved

Charles took a tentative step forward. “Y/N?” he called softly.

She straightened up, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Hey, Charles. Done for the day?”

He nodded, studying her face. “Yeah. Just about to head home. Are you okay?”

Y/N let out a small, humorless laugh. “Fine, just… decompressing a bit.”

Charles walked closer, his concern growing. “You look like you could use a break.”

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. “It's been a long day. The whole Lewis and Carlos situation is more complicated than I expected. And handling all the PR fallout… it's exhausting.”

He leaned against the wall next to her, their shoulders almost touching. “I can imagine. You’ve been doing an incredible job, though.”

Y/N turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face for sincerity. Finding it, she offered a genuine, albeit weary, smile. “Thanks, Charles. That means a lot.”

There was a comfortable silence between them for a moment before Y/N suddenly spoke up, her voice bitter. “You know, I was actually supposed to grab a bite with Nate tonight. We had reservations and everything.”

Charles looked at her, concern etching his features. “What happened?”

“He cancelled. Sent me a text saying he has a new project that requires overtime. Typical, right?”

Charles frowned. “That sounds frustrating. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Yeah, well, I should be used to it by now. Nate’s job always comes first. Guess I’m just second place in that race.”

Charles felt anger on her behalf. He hated seeing her like this, feeling so undervalued. He saw an opening to comfort her, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

“Y/N,” he began softly, “you deserve better than that. You’re an incredible person, and anyone who doesn’t see that is a fool.”

YN's eyes glistened with sadness, something that Charles does not see often because of how good she is at doing her job. “Thanks, Charles. But it’s hard not to feel… I don’t know, insignificant sometimes.”

Charles took a step closer, he position himself a good distance beside her. “You are anything but insignificant. You hold this team together, and you make a difference every single day. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise. Even your own husband.”

Y/N looked down. “I'm so sorry, I don't know why I am burdening you with all this.”

He offered her a reassuring smile. “Please, don't worry about that. I am just happy that you trust me enough to tell me this.”

Charles wanted to do more for her, to show her how she is supposed to be treated. “Well, since Nate’s busy, why don’t we make the most of that reservation? I promise you’ll have a great time.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then a genuine smile spread across her face. “Are you really offering?” and Charles gives her a confident nod before offering his arm.

Charles could see the tension in her shoulders easing, and it made him happy to know he had helped. His heart doing somersault as she slowly latched her hand onto his arm.

_________________________________________

As the evening progressed, Charles couldn’t help but notice how her smile became more genuine, her laughter more frequent. He reveled in the sound, determined to keep it going.

“Thank you, Charles,” she said, her voice soft as they finished their meal. “I really needed this.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. “Anytime, Y/N. You deserve to be happy. Don’t forget that.”

She squeezed his hand in return. “I won’t. And thank you for reminding me.”

When dinner is done, Charles and Y/N stepped out of the restaurant, the night air cool against their skin. They walked towards his Pista, laughing about the evening's conversation and enjoying the light-heartedness that had replaced the earlier tension.

Of course Charles has also offered to drive her home.

When they arrived at her building, Charles parked the car and turned to her. “Home sweet home,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks again for tonight, Charles. It was really… wonderful,” she replied, her voice soft.

He felt a surge of warmth at her words. “Anytime, Y/N. Seriously.”

They both got out of the car, and as Y/N reached for her keys, Charles decided to take a sip from his water bottle. In his typical smooth style, he attempted to do it with one hand while holding the car door with the other. Unfortunately, his coordination failed him spectacularly.

Water splashed all over his face, drenching his shirt and even a good part of his pants. He stood there, dripping wet, his mouth open in surprise.

Y/N turned around at the sound of his splutter. Her eyes widened, and then she burst into laughter. “Oh my God, Charles! What did you do?”

Charles, now looking like a drowned cat, tried to laugh it off. “Just thought I'd cool off a bit,” he said, attempting to wring out his shirt with little success.

Y/N walked over, still giggling. “You look like you’ve been caught in a rainstorm.” She took in his soaked appearance, biting her lip to suppress more laughter. “You can’t drive home like that. Come on, I’ll lend you something of Nate’s.”

Charles hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude…”

“Nonsense. I’m not letting you go home looking like this,” she insisted, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the building.

Inside her apartment, Y/N led him to the living room and handed him a towel. “Stay here, I’ll find you something dry to wear,” she said, disappearing down the hallway.

Charles toweled off as best he could, chuckling at the absurdity of the situation. When Y/N returned, she was holding a pair of Nate’s sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Here, these should fit you.”

He took the clothes gratefully. “Thanks, Y/N. I owe you one.”

She waved off his thanks. “No problem. The bathroom’s right there if you want to change.”

Charles made his way to the bathroom, taking a moment to appreciate the decor of Y/N’s apartment. He quickly changed into the dry clothes, which were a bit too big but infinitely more comfortable than his drenched attire.

When he returned to the living room, Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him in Nate’s oversized clothes. “You look… comfortable.”

Charles struck a pose, attempting to look suave despite the baggy clothes. “I make anything look good, don’t I?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Sure, if you say so.”

They both sat down on the couch, and Y/N handed him a cup of tea. “Figured you might want something warm after your little… mishap.”

Charles accepted the tea with a grin. “You’re too good to me, Y/N.”

They sipped their tea in companionable silence for a few moments. “You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “this turned out to be one of the best nights I’ve had in a while. Even with the water incident.”

Y/N smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Me too, Charles. Me too.”

As they hold each other's gaze, the room seemed to heat up. Y/N watched as Charles's gaze dropped to her lips, sending an electrifying thrill through her. They both hesitated, caught in a moment of uncertainty, as if waiting for the other to make the first move.

Charles saw Y/N start to pull back, and he couldn't let the moment slip away. He put his cup down and gently took hers from her hand, placing it on the table. He moved closer, watching for any sign of rejection, but found none. Her body language spoke volumes—she was gravitating towards him, drawn in by the same irresistible force.

“Y/N,” Charles whispered, his voice a seductive murmur. He traced gentle circles on the inside of her hand, deliberately avoiding her wedding ring, as if weaving a spell around her. He was so close to fulfilling the dreams that had haunted him for so long. Just a few more steps and she would be his.

Y/N's breath hitched as Charles's warm breath fanned across her face. The intimacy of the moment was intoxicating, the world outside fading into oblivion. Charles leaned in, his lips a mere whisper away from hers.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice low and filled with longing.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat. "Charles, I'm married. We shouldn't be doing this."

Charles, ever the confident bastard, smirked. “Then where is your husband, Y/N? I don’t see him anywhere.”

She hesitated, the bitterness from earlier returning. “He’s not here.”

“Exactly,” Charles murmured, his thumb tracing her jawline. “He’s not here, but I am. He’s the one who’s missing out on you, not me.”

Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine at his words. The way he looked at her, the intensity in his eyes, it was hard to resist. “Charles…”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear. Peppering her with butterfly kisses that makes her toes curl.

His words were like a drug, intoxicating and hard to resist. Her resolve wavered, her heart and mind at war. “This is wrong,” she whispered, but even as she said it, she found herself leaning closer to him.

Charles’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “It doesn’t feel wrong, does it? It feels right. Like this is where we’re supposed to be.”

She closed her eyes, the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his voice overwhelming her senses. “Charles…”

“Let me make you feel good, Y/N,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over hers. “Let me remind you what it’s like to be wanted. Just give me one night, that's all I ask for.”

The last of her resistance crumbling. She leaned in, her lips finally meeting his in a kiss. Charles moaned and deepened the kiss, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice filled with adoration. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Charles chuckled softly. “Believe it, Y/N. Tonight, you’re mine.”

They kissed again, this time with more urgency, their bodies pressing against each other. Charles's hands greedily roamed her back, pulling her even closer. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, matching the frantic rhythm of his own.

Charles pulled back just enough to whisper breathily, "Ask me to stay, Y/N. Tell me how much you want this."

Y/N moaned deliciously between kisses, her hands clutching at his shoulders. "I'm going to hell for this," she murmured, her voice a mix of guilt and desire. "But God, I want this so bad. I want you so bad, Charles."

Her words were like a spark to dry kindling, igniting a fierce blaze within him. He kissed her again, more fervently, his hands tangling in her hair. “Then let me give you what you want,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me leave my marks on you.”

Y/N's breath rattled, her body arching towards him. She felt his lips trail down her neck, nipping and sucking, leaving a path of fire in their wake. Her fingers digging into his shoulders as she surrendered to the heavenly sensation.

Charles’s hands moved to the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly as his lips continued their descent. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire.

Y/N shivered at his words, her skin tingling wherever he touched. “Charles,” she breathed, her voice a plea. “Please.”

He pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it aside before capturing her lips again. He is a starved man, and her the forbidden apple. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve, every inch of her skin. Y/N’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips as he kissed down her collarbone. Leaving behind a few love marks that she would discover the next morning.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against hers. Charles helped her, shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it aside. Bodies now pressed together.

Charles' hands slide down to her hips, pulling her closer. “Tell me how much you want this,” he demanded against her lips, his voice rough with desire.

“I want this, Charles. I want you,” she breathed, her voice trembling with need. “Leave your marks on me. Make me yours.”

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in them. “How sweet of you to beg, chérie. Such music to my ears.”

The bedroom was dimly lit, casting a soft glow over the tangled sheets and the entwined figures upon them. Y/N’s moans filled the room, mingling with his breathy groans, their need for each other driving them to the brink.

The realization of where they were flashed through Charles's mind briefly, but it was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming need pulsing through his veins. He wanted her, needed her, and nothing else mattered in that moment. Nate be damned.

Charles descended with a trail of kisses along her body. Using only his teeth, he playfully removed her panties, drawing a gasp of delight from her. With a devilish grin, he looked up at her before tracing a long, tantalizing lick along her pussy.

Y/N's body twitched as Charles's tongue sent jolts of pleasure coursing through her body. "Fuck, Charles," she gasped, her voice desperate, "please that feels so good…"

"Please what, mon ange?" he teased, his voice a low murmur against her skin. "Tell me what you want."

Her fingers tightened on the sheets, her nails digging into the fabric as she arched her back, seeking more of his touch. "I want… I need…"

With each flick of his tongue, each teasing nip of his teeth, she grew more desperate, her body humming with anticipation. "I want to come, please," she screamed out, her voice a breathless plea. "I need you to make me come."

Driven by her urgent plea, he zeroed in on the spot that elicited the most delicious responses from her, his touch deliberate and calculated to push her to the brink. He slipped a finger inside her, the sensation sending her into a frenzy and got her seeing stars. He whispered words of encouragement, his breath hot against her skin, promising to take her higher, to make her lose herself completely in the pleasure he offered.

Each thrust of his finger pushed her closer to the edge, her world narrowing down to the delicious ache of desire burning within her.

As Charles felt her climax building, he intensified his movements. And then, with a shuddering cry, she shattered, her release washing over her in a powerful wave of sensation that left her gasping for air.

Charles watched in awe as she squirt, her body trembling as she released a torrent of fluid, coating his hand in her essence. The sight only fueled his desire further, igniting a primal hunger within him.

He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting her with a hunger that bordered on reverence. Savoring the sweet taste of her on his tongue. He can feel his own cock twitching.

Y/N's eyes remained closed in a state of bliss, her senses overwhelmed by the lingering waves of pleasure still coursing through her. But suddenly, the sound of Charles unzipping his pants and discarding them carelessly snapped her back to earth. With a sense of urgency, she forced her eyes open, her gaze fixing on him.

The sight before her sent another jolt of desire coursing through her veins. Charles stood before her, his cock on full display, his skin flushed with arousal. With each pulse, each throb, his desire seemed to ooze from him. Pre cum dripping down, taunting her to have a taste.

With wide eyes reminiscent of a doe's, she crawled towards him, determination shining through her gaze. "Let me return the favor now," she murmured.

Charles's pupil widened in anticipation as she took him slowly into her mouth. She circled the tip with her tongue, each touch drawing out guttural moans of pleasure from deep within him.

"Merde," he cursed under his breath, the words spilling out in a fervent stream of French expletives as ecstasy washed over him in waves.

"Yeah, chérie, right there." Charles encourages, his voice strained as he thrust into her mouth. Forcing her to take more and more of him.

Her hands explored every inch of him, fingers trailing along the firmness of his cock before delicately cupping his balls. With a gentle yet firm grip, she massaged him, reveling in the way his breath hitched and his hips arched in response to her touch.

Charles's head fell back, his eyes closed in blissful surrender, as waves of pleasure surged through him. The intensity of her ministrations was intoxicating. He has never felt anything like it. And Charles knew that he is doomed from this moment on. Nothing would ever compare.

"God, how did Nate ever pry himself from this bed?" Charles muttered with disbelief. "You're like a dream, Y/N. A damn heavenly dream."

Y/N's laughter reverberated on his cock, drawing yet another loud moan from him. He is putty in her hands, or in this case, in her mouth.

As the tension built within him, Charles's fingers instinctively tangled in Y/N's hair, gently guiding her away from his throbbing length. Y/N's puzzled gaze met his, confusion evident in the furrow of her brow as she searched his eyes for answers.

"Why… why did you stop?" she queried, her voice a soft whisper laced with uncertainty, her lips still tingling.

With a tender smile, Charles shifted his position, maneuvering Y/N until she lay beneath him, her body flush against the sheets, awaiting his touch.

"I want to feel you," he confessed, his voice husky with desire as he positioned himself above her, aligning his cock with her pussy. "I want to come inside you."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat, her heart racing at his words.

With a wicked gleam in his eyes, Charles teased the slick folds of Y/N's aching center with the swollen head of his cock, relishing in the way her breath hitched with each teasing stroke.

"You want me to fill you up, mon ange?" His voice, thick with desire, dripped like molten honey as he toyed with her, his grin wolfish.

Y/N's body writhed beneath him, her hips arching in desperate need to meet his.

"Fuck, Charles, please," she gasped, her voice raw as she pleaded for him to take her.

With a low growl, Charles surged forward, burying himself deep inside her with a harsh thrust that stole her breath away. Not even giving her time to adjust to his size because he knows that she is already a dripping mess. Her pussy would accommodate his cock just fine.

Slick with sweat, Charles's muscles flexed with each powerful thrust. The intoxicating scent of sex filled the air as he relentlessly pounded into her, his cock hitting all the right spots with unerring accuracy.

Tears of ecstasy welled in her eyes as she surrendered herself to him. Desperate for more, Y/N's trembling hand found its way between her thighs, her fingers slick with her own arousal. With a gasp, she circled her swollen clit, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her already overstimulated body.

"Fucking hell, chérie, you like that? You like it when I fuck you like this?". With each thrust, he drove her closer to the edge, relishing in the way her body quivered beneath him.

"Yes, Charles, God, fuck me harder," she moaned, her voice fueled his desire even further.

With a madman grin, Charles's hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close as he whispered into her ear, his words dripping with sinful intent. "You want it rough? You want me to ravage you until you're begging for mercy?"

Y/N whimpered in response. "Yes, Charles, please, fill me up with your cum." she begged. She rubbed her clit furiously, desperate for a release.

Charles's hands suddenly gripped Y/N's hips, lifting her effortlessly and spinning her around to face a mirror. Their eyes locked in the reflection as he continued to pound into her with unrelenting force. Y/N moaned loudly as she watched his cock going in and out of her.

"You like watching yourself get fucked, huh, princess?"

Y/N can only vigorously nod in reply, her capacity for coherent speech vanished. Her mind consumed by sex.

Charles senses her pussy tightening, a telltale sign that she's teetering on the brink of cumming. Gazing into her eyes, he murmurs, "Come for me, beautiful," he commanded. Swiftly, he replaces her hands with his own, his touch assertive yet tender as he relentlessly stimulates her clit. With each skillful stroke, he sends her closer to the precipice of pleasure until finally, she shatters into a powerful climax, her body trembling with the intensity of her release.

A satisfied grin dances across Charles' lips as another squirt cascades out of her, dampening the sheets beneath them. Charles persists in his ministrations on her clit, his touch unwavering, even as she keeps on squirting uncontrollably.

"Please," she gasps between ragged breaths, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure, "stop, Charles."

He pauses, his fingers lingering tantalizingly close to her clit. "You sure, mon ange? I was rather enjoying the show," he teases.

"Please," she repeats, her tone more desperate this time, "I can't take it anymore."

Chuckling softly, he relents, withdrawing his hand with a playful smirk. "As you wish, darling."

Charles continues his rhythmic thrusts, as Y/N leans against him, her body limp and spent. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent as he feels himself nearing the edge. As he nears the peak of his own pleasure, Charles releases a loud groan, his movements becoming more frantic. With a final thrust, he empties himself inside her, feeling the hot spurts of his cum shooting deep into her. He lets out a string of curse words in French, the words escaping him in a fervent rush of ecstasy.

As they come down from the peak of pleasure together, Charles holds her close, their bodies intertwined in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

When their breathing has slowed down and their bodies relax, Y/N softly murmurs, "Stay with me tonight, Charles. Just sleep here."

A tender smile graces Charles' lips as he brushes a lock of hair away from her face. "Of course, mon amour," he replies, his voice filled with affection. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

They adjust their bodies, finding a comfortable position to rest in each other's arms. Charles presses a lingering kiss to Y/N's forehead before closing his eyes, contentment spreading through him like a warm embrace.

Y/N nestles closer, feeling safe and cherished in Charles' embrace. "I don't regret this," she whispers, the words a gentle caress against his chest.

Charles' heart swells with happiness as he tightens his hold around her. "I'm glad that you don't," he murmurs, his voice laced with sincerity. "More than anything."

In the tranquil stillness of the night, they drift off to sleep. The fall out far from their minds.

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