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writeroutoftime · 1 month

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pawns in your game

pairing: cassian x fem!reader

summary: when you get injured working a job with rhys, your mate - worried for your safety - loses it and finally lets go of his pent up anger

warnings: angst, injury towards reader, cass getting angry at rhys and also rhys kinda being a dick (look I have a lot of thoughts of conversations that never happened in acosf lol - I just hope this isn't horribly ooc)

words: 1.3k

a/n: first cassian fic! honestly, I know I said I'm in love with rhys, but it's the same for cass and az - so this one is for my fellow cassian people! wasn't sure how to wrap this up, so I left it open for a part 2. let me know if anyone is interested and/or has any ideas? but either way, please enjoy!! (also, if you could let me know what you think because I'm so nervous about posting this!)

tagging @captainsophiestark as requested! (hope you're having a lovely day!)

oOoOo

"Cassian, I need you to visit Windhaven and deal with Devlon. I'm getting reports of unrest, and I want this handled before it becomes a problem." Rhys commanded, not looking up from the papers on his desk.

Standing at attention, Cass nodded his head once, sharply. "Of course. I will go and pack, so that y/n and I may leave before the sun sets." He moved to exit the room, holding his hand out for you, but was quickly stopped before either of you got too far.

"Actually, y/n, I need you to accompany me." Rhys interrupted, directing his attention to you.

Your jaw dropped, caught off guard, and you hurried to school your features. It was not that you had to be paired with Cassian for all missions, but it had been that way for at least a century now since your mating ceremony. It served as peace of mind to you and Cass, and usually meant your missions were more successful compared to when you were separated. Surely, Rhys understood that.

"We will be leaving for the Spring Court in the morning, and I need my most trusted courtier with me."

Shock ran through your body, but you nodded your head regardless. It must be a serious matter, for you had not visited the Spring Court in many months. However, you instantly felt a sharp tug of your mating bond followed by waves of anger that poured off of Cassian.

"Spring Court?" he ground out, fists clenched at his side. "Why must you travel to the Spring Court? I thought we put that behind us?"

"Because I have official business to conduct with Tamlin that supersedes our personal desires. And I need the Night Court's courtier present for." Rhys snapped back.

You sent a soothing message down the bond, trying to calm Cass' anger you felt growing with each second that passed. "Cass, it's alright. Both of us will be fine."

"No. Rhys, you know what happened the last time any of us stepped foot there. You really want to risk it? Can't you send anyone else to go? Lucien, Mor, Feyre?"

Now it was Rhys' turn to growl. "Watch it, Cassian. I've told y/n she will accompany to Spring and that's enough."

"But can't you just-"

"I said that's enough!" Rhys shouted, his eyes darkened dangerously as the thread of his patience snapped. "I am your High Lord, and you will not push back against what I command."

A tension so thick that it threatened to choke you immediately filled the room. You kept your eyes locked on the ground, but you didn't have to look to know Cass wore a mask of despair on his face. It had been decades since Rhys had lost his temper like that.

Cassian merely bowed his head in mock respect before dragging you from the room. He did not speak for the next hour, only doing so to whisper his love and goodbye to you, before flying to Windhaven, not saying another word to Rhys.

oOoOo

The next day found yourself in the ruins of the Spring Court. What once was a beautiful court that thrived for all its citizens now lay dilapidated and lonely, a reflection of the court's high lord's own feelings. It had rattled your nerves to set foot on Tamlin's territory considering the rocky history between the Spring and Night courts, but you would not leave Rhys' side.

Now, you were utterly exhausted from mediating with two, stubborn males all day; only for no new development to transpire, meaning you simply wasted a day away from your own court and your mate. Your only relief came from the swift exit Rhys insisted on, making sure you would arrive home before the sun set.

Yet, the tension from the previous day lingered as you and Rhys traveled to the border to be able to winnow out. But as you both walked in silence, you couldn't help but feel uneasy. Like someone, or something was watching you. Before you could communicate any of this to Rhys, you caught a solider out of the corner of your eye with an arrow notched and aimed at your high lord.

"Look out!" you shouted. With such little warning, you knew Rhys wouldn't be able to deflect the arrow on his own. And with a rush of adrenaline, you pushed your body to reach Rhys.

Mere seconds before the arrow could lodge itself in its initial target, your body collided with Rhys', knocking him out of the way and safely to the ground. Instead, the arrow lodged itself deep in your shoulder, burning like a thousand fires. You let out a guttural scream, immediately dropping to the ground.

Being part of the Inner Circle - the Court of Dreams - meant you were no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything you ever thought existed. Very briefly, you recognized that Rhys had neutralized the threat and now hovered over your body.

His face was contorted in pain and tears clouded his eyes. He moved to pull the arrow from your body, but halted the moment he touched it. Your scream reverberated in the stone courtyard.

"y/n, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." he cried, never seeing you like this. Quickly, Rhys gathered you in his arms and winnowed back to Velaris and directly into the med wing. He prayed Madja could mend the wounds, and he blanched at the thought of Cassian discovering the events that had played out.

oOoOo

Meanwhile, in the Windhaven camp, Cassian was meeting with a handful of males, attempting to negotiate peace. His focus wavered, however, as a blinding wave of agony struck his heart through his bond. He froze on the spot, his heart stopped pumping blood. While on a mission, the two of you had agreed to keep the bond closed - for safety reasons. The fact that he could feel this immense pain, meant something very wrong had occurred.

"I-I have to go." Cassian mumbled, not bothering to offer any more explanation to the Illyrians - consequences be damned.

Immediately, he took to the skies and started the flight back to Velaris. The already long flight felt like it took an eternity. The wind strung at Cassian's cheeks as he soared, but the pain didn't register like the way the bond sung in pain.

Finally, Cass could see River House in his site, and when he finally entered the house, he was met with the site of his family huddled together in the sitting room. All eyes turned his way, a mixture of pity and concern as they looked at him.

"What happened? Where is y/n?" he demanded, fully stepping into his role as Lord of Bloodshed, eyes darkened and wings drawn out menacingly.

Before anyone could answer, another scream could be heard from the halls. Cassian's knees buckled, and he would have fallen to the floor if Azriel hadn't been standing by. Rhys blocked his path, unable to meet his brother's eye.

"She was attacked, brother. We were ambushed while visiting the Spring Court." Rhys whispered.

"And they attacked her?" Cass questioned, though he knew deep down that wasn't the case. When Rhys, or anyone else for that matter, refused to speak, Cassian growled. "What happened?"

Unable to speak, Rhysand gently scraped against Cassian's mental shields and projected to him the whole truth of what had happened at the Spring Court; the ambush, you pushing yourself into harm's way for the sake of Rhys, and the pain you felt from the moment the arrow struck your body.

As Rhys withdrew himself from his brother's mind, Cass drew, deep rugged breaths. The silence in the room was so thick it felt suffocating, but no one dared to move or speak first. However, instead of speaking, Cass pushed past everyone and demanded his way into your room to be by your side.

One look at your crumpled form, sent Cassian to his knees by your bedside. He reached out, hesitantly, to grasp your hand in his and allowed the tears to fall. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart." he mumbled.

Madja made herself known from the corner, approaching Cass the way one would a frightened animal. "The arrow she was shot with was laced with a terrible poison - much worse than faebane. I've done my best, but some of the poison already made it to her system."

"When will she wake up?" Cass asked, not allowing the possibility of you never waking to cross his lips.

The healer sighed deeply, looking over the famed general, now brought to his knees at the sight of his mate fighting for her life. "Only the Cauldron and Mother know. It will be up to y/n to bring herself back from the brink." Madja spoke slowly.

With a final, soothing touch to Cass's shoulder, Madja made her exit. Now off to deliver the same news to the rest of your waiting family.

"Please don't leave me. Y-you can't leave me." Cass whispered, clutching your hand. "I'm here with you every step of the way." he vowed.

oOoOo

And that was how it continued for the next four days as your body continued to try and heal itself from the inside out. Cass refused to move from the chair he had dragged to sit by your bed. Unwilling to leave your side for even a moment.

The rest of his family took turns sitting with you and Cass, bringing him meals, forcing him to at least take a bite. He knew that everyone else was suffering as well from your situation, but it felt like his heart was being torn apart, bit by bit, with each hour that passed and you still remained asleep.

He wasn't stupid. He knew the longer you went without improvement, the less likely it became you would heal. Cass heard the hushed conversations Mor and Azriel held outside your door, discussing what to do should the worst happen, Cauldron forbid.

It was on that fourth day that Cassian reached a tipping point. He heard the door creak open behind him, imagining it was Amren who would be sitting with him, based on the previous days' schedule.

What Cass had not anticipated was to see his High Lord approach the bed and pull a chair up on the opposite side of your bed. It was obvious to see the prominent dark circles that overtook Rhys's normally bright face, and the way his body and seemingly sunk into itself. But Cass could not bring himself to care for his brother's guilt or be the first to utter a word.

With a wave of his hand, Rhys summoned a tray of food for Cassian, and only sighed when he rejected the peace offering. Finally, Rhys found a sliver of courage and was the first to break the silence.

"Madja has yet to make headway on identifying the poison y/n was hit with, but she is not giving up. None of us are." he offered, unsure of how to breach the subject.

Rhysand could only imagine what Cassian was experiencing. The pain of losing Feyre had been so immense, but in a twisted sense, at least it had been quick. A blink of an eye and she was gone. Rhys didn't think he would have been strong enough to sit vigil, feeling her fade through the bond with each passing minute.

"Stop looking at me like she's already gone." Cass growled, eyes darkening towards Rhys.

"Brother, I only want to help her, and to support you."

"I think you've done quite enough. It's your fault she's even in this position to begin with." he spat, enjoying the way that Rhys flinched at his words.

"Now that's not fair, Cassian." Rhys tried to counter. "I never asked her to that for me."

Cass could only scoff at the High Lord's response. "Of course, you didn't have to ask. You're the fucking High Lord, of course she was going to risk her life for you. Isn't that we all do here?"

"All of you, y/n including, knew what you were getting into, what the dangers were, when you swore allegiance to my court. You don't get to throw that back on me. You think this doesn't hurt me just as it hurts you?"

"No, it fucking doesn't!" Cassian screamed, his blood boiling at this point. "Because you use us like your puppets to protect you and your mate-"

"Careful how you continue, Cassian." Rhysand warned, not caring for slander against his mate, even in Cass's state of grief.

"Ever since this "death bargain" you and Feyre struck, it's like the rest of us don't matter. All we do is making sure your asses aren't killed because Cauldron forbid the saviors of Prythian are stolen from us." Cassian blazed on. "Yes, you've lost your mate before, Rhys, but she came back to you, and you to her.

"Who will remake y/n if she can't fight this? You and your High Lady are so far up on your pedestal that you don't know what it's like for the rest of us. Yes, we understood what our duties would entail, but that doesn't mean we have to continue to stand for this." Cassian spat, finally allowing years of pent-up fear and anger to spill over.

With one last, murderous, glare, Cassian turned his back on Rhysand, letting his words ring out for all in the House to hear. His wings stretched out behind him, hiding both you and he from Rhys, the Night Court, and the rest of the world. If it was to only be the two of you against everyone else from that point on, so be it.

part 2

oOoOo

a/n: part 2?

#cassian x reader #cassian imagine #actoar cassian x reader #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #rita writes

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worldlxvlys · 4 months

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hey babe, i love ur writing its acc soo amazing. can you write about like chris or matt seeing you at one of their hockey games and while you were talking to some other guy, they score and do a celebration for you and obvi you don't see so they get pissed and then after the game they see you talking to the guy again and then they come up to you and grab your arm, pulling you into the locker room and then they yk fuck you for like three rounds and them they pocket your underwear and make you walk up to the guy you were talking to before and talk to them, but you're yk walking or limping and the guy notices and the you can do whatever you want

also this could be for either matt or chris or even nate

attention

chris sturniolo x reader

warnings: smuttt (don’t read if you don’t like), p in v, cream pie, oral (fem receiving), cursing, semi- public sex

a/n: i did chris cause i feel like i’ve seen so many hockey matt fics

ummm yeah hope you like :)

———————

i watched as chris skated on the ice, my eyes never leaving him. the game was pretty close, but chris was playing really well tonight.

i felt someone tap my shoulder, making me turn towards them, and breaking my gaze on chris.

“hey” i was greeted by a guy that looked to be around the same age as me. he was a tall brunette, with green eyes.

“um, hi” i said, confused.

“sorry, um i just- do you recognize me?” i narrowed my eyes at him, now even more confused.

i’ve never seen this kid a day in my life before.

“um, should I?”

“ i’ll take that as a no. i sit a few rows back from you in history”

well this is awkward as hell.

“ohhh shit, sorry! yeah, yeah you’re…” i trailed off, waiting for him to say his name.

“blake” he finished.

“blake! yes, yeah! sorry, i’m a little out of it today” i said awkwardly.

this is why i don’t talk to people.

“yeah, no worries. i get it, you pay attention to the teacher, why would you even be facing the back?” he said, trying to justify me not knowing him.

i really really don’t like talking to people.

“exactly” i said, before starting to turn back to the game. before i could, he starting talking again.

“yeah! very studious of you. i’m normally just staring at the back of your head” he said, chuckling a little.

i really want to side-eye the shit out of this kid.

“hmm, normally i’m paying more attention to my boyfriend. you know, the kid who sits next to me?”

hopefully this kid takes the god damn hint.

“oh, chris, right?” i nodded my head.

“isn’t he like, a player, or something? you sure he’s the right guy for you? ”

i just side-eyed him.

this kid isn’t real, there is no way he just said that shit.

“it was a joke! sorry, i just wanted to get you to laugh. don’t take it too seriously” he nudged me with his elbow.

i should’ve sat next to nick, he would have a comeback that would scare this kid off.

suddenly, the crowd went crazy. as i went to turn towards the game to see what happened, blake grabbed my shoulder making me turn towards him.

“listen, i’m sorry that wasn’t funny! i’m kinda just trying to impress you” he admitted.

“jokes are usually funny, that was not” his smile dropped. “not that it’s any of your business, but chris treats me well. i’m not interested in anyone else”

he didn’t say anthing else, so i turned back to the game. which is now over.

fuck. this dumbass made me miss the rest of the game.

i looked closer, realizing chris’s entire team was slapping chris on the back and giving him high fives.

i looked at the score, his team won by one point.

fuck. chris scored the winning point, and i missed it.

chris happened to look over at me, locking eyes as his jaw clenched.

oh, he’s pissed.

CHRIS’S POV

i scanned the crowd, looking for a particular person.

when i finally found her, someone was standing next to her.

who is this kid?

whatever, it doesn’t matter. i have to focus.

the game is so close, all we need is a score and we can win.

when i saw an opportunity to score the point, i took the shot and made it.

i just scored the winning point.

“YEAHHHHHH” i yelled, starting to celebrate.

i looked in her direction, wanting to see her reaction.

what the fuck.

she was facing towards that random kid, his hand on her shoulder.

she didn’t even see.

was she ever even watching the game?

i saw matt and nate, along with the rest of my teammates skate towards me.

i was graced with multiple “congrats, dude” and pats on the back. i didn’t even care, all i could focus on was her.

when i looked back at her, we locked eyes. her face dropped as she realized how angry i was.

i just rolled my eyes and turned away.

READER’S POV

i waited right next to the locker rooms, where we usually meet after chris’s games were finished.

suddenly, i heard blake’s voice again.

he just won’t stop.

“hey, you waiting for chris?” he asked.

“yup.” i kept my response short, looking for chris.

“yeah, that was some game-winning goal, huh?” he asked.

i turned towards him, “how would you know? you were never even focused on the game, you were too busy trying to get my attention”

“i-“ before he could even finish, my arm was grabbed and i was pulled into the locker room.

i didn’t even have to look to know it was chris.

he pushed me up against a set of lockers, “ i scored the winning point” he said as he looked into my eyes. “but you didn’t see that, huh? too busy talking to that kid”

i didn’t say anything, too shocked to speak.

“hmm, lost your voice, baby? or are you just having trouble paying attention to me?”

“no.” i answered.

“no? no, what?”

“i’m sorry chris, he just wouldn’t leave me alone. i told him i had a boyfriend”

“yeah? is that why he had his hand on your shoulder?”

“chris, i’m sorry” he pulled my hoodie over my head, sucking on my neck until it left marks.

“chris, what if someone walks in?” i asked, worried someone would see us.

we were in the very back of the locker room, but we were still out in the open.

“nobody has a locker back here, so as long as you’re quiet, there’s nothing to worry about.”

he unclasped my bra, taking one nipple in his mouth, while squeezing the other in his hand.

“shit, chris” i moaned. he lightly bit my nipple. “fuck!”

“didn’t i just say you have to be quiet? i swear to god if someone comes back here i’m not stopping.” he said as he continued to lick and suck.

my head fell back into the locker, as one of his hands snuck past the waistband of my sweatpants and into my underwear.

i gasped as i covered my mouth with my hand.

he rubbed circles on my clit, as he continued his work on my tits.

“think he could make you feel this good?” he whispered into my ear.

i didn’t open my mouth, scared a moan would spill out.

he inserted two fingers into me. “answer me.”

“fuck, no no no. no one can, just you chris” i whispered.

suddenly, he pulled away and pulled my underwear and sweatpants down.

he brought me over to a bench and laid me over his lap. the bench was wide enough that i could position myself on my hands and knees without falling off.

he slapped my ass, making me whine, and rubbed it after.

he spit into his hand before rubbing my clit with his thumb.

“shit, chris”

“remind me, whose pussy is this?” he asked. i couldn’t see his face, but i’m sure he wore a smug grin on it.

“yours, chris” he slapped my clit, making me jolt forward.

“fuck” i whispered.

he continued to rub my clit with one hand while inserting his middle and index fingers into my pussy.

“FUCK CHRIS” i yelled out, not even caring about being loud.

his fingers moved in me at an abnormally fast pace. i didn’t even know anyone could move their fingers that fast.

i approached my orgasm quickly. “chris! CHRIS! i’m gonna-“

“go ahead cum, on my fingers ma”

my legs started to shake uncontrollably, and i clutched the bench under me for dear life.

“ oh FUCK! FUCK, FUCK, FUUUUCK, CHRISSS” my voice shook as my entire body twitched.

he continued to assault my pussy with his fingers. “oh my god, chris” i moaned as i reached behind me to pull his hand away.

he slapped my clit, making me cry out and move my hand away “you know your safeword”

he maneuvered my legs so that he was in between them and without another word, he gripped my thighs and began to run his tongue through my folds.

i couldn’t contain the loud moans coming out of my mouth as he shook his head from side to side, completely suffocating himself.

my legs instinctively closed around his face, as i squirmed and whimpered.

his nose rubbed against my clit as he moaned into my pussy, sending me over the edge.

“CHRIS- CHRIS I’M CUMMING” i yelled as i finished on his face.

when he pulled away his face was covered in my cum, his eyeblack smudged all over his face.

that is hot as fuck.

he quickly took off his gear and underclothes, leaving him naked.

he placed me on my back at the end of the bench and stood between my legs.

he pumped himself a few times and lined himself up with me and pushed himself in.

“hmmmmm” i whined as he groaned out, “so fucking tight. look at how perfectly i fit in you, this pussy was fucking made for me” he mumbled.

he didn’t even give me a chance to adjust, pounding into me mercilessly.

this side of chris was driving me absolutely insane. he looked too good snapping his hips into mine, lust-clouded eyes, his face red and sweaty.

my head fell back, and my eyes squeezed shut.

“open those pretty eyes, you’re gonna pay attention to me this time” he growled.

he growled.

i’m losing my fucking mind.

suddenly, he increased his speed and thrusted into me with all his force.

“ my GOD, CHRIS” my eyes rolled into the back of my head.

he reached down and started to rub my clit.

“what did i tell you about those eyes”

“sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry” i repeated it like it was a mantra.

he started to squeeze my boob with his other hand.

i started to twitch again, clenching around him over and over again.

“fuck ma” he groaned before painting my walls with his cum, launching me into my orgasm.

i moaned his name over and over again before cumming all over his cock.

he then picked me up, and held me up against a locker fucking me against it.

“chris! chris! sensitive, i- FUCK” he groaned into my ear as he continued to slide in and out of me.

he lifted up my leg, letting him directly hit my g-spot.

suddenly, the locker room door opened. footsteps could be heard, but they were nowhere near us.

chris covered my mouth with his hand, his nose pressed against mine as he stared into my eyes, almost daring me to make noise.

he continued to fuck me into the lockers, his speed increasing.

there was rustling, before a locker door closed. and the footsteps retreated.

i silently gasped into his hand, and he rubbed my clit, making me grip onto his biceps.

as soon as i heard the locker room door close, signifying that the person left, i let out a scream.

“CHRIS I’M GONNA CUM, GONNA CUMMM”

“fuck, give it to me baby” he said as my front half shot up, and i wrapped my arms around chris’s shoulders.

my juices shot out onto chris’s cock, and he released his load into me.

he fucked me through my high, giving a few more thrusts.

when he pulled out, our cum dripped out of me and down my leg.

“here, i’ll help you get dressed” he handed me all of my clothes, except my underwear.

“chris, you didn’t give me my underwear” i said, my voice hoarse from all of the screaming i did.

“i know, i’ll be holding onto that” he said as he put them in his pocket.

“now c’mon, we gotta get you dressed so we can go talk to our friend”

oh. that’s not good.

i didn’t argue, knowing it would make things worse.

once we finished getting dressed, chris grabbed his stuff.

as we started to walk towards the door, my legs started to shake slightly.

fuck. i can barely walk.

“you ok, ma?” chris asked with a slight smirk on his face.

i just narrowed my eyes at him, making him chuckle.

when we left the locker room, there blake stood. directly across from the locker rooms.

i know this kid did not sit here and wait for me.

i glanced over at chris, and he motioned for me to go up to him.

i slowly limped over to him, chris not too far behind me.

“hey” i said to him.

his eyes widened, noticing the limp, as he took in our features. the hickeys all over my neck, my shaky legs, the sweat all over chris’s face, and our messy hair.

“um…hey” blake said.

i nodded, slowly and awkwardly.

chris then stepped in.

“hey, i’m chris. her boyfriend. what’d ya think of the game?” chris asked with a head tilt and a smirk on his face.

“uh, yeah! n-no, great, awesome game! you’re a great hockey player”

this kid is fucking shaking in his boots.

“really? that’s crazy! i didn’t realize you were able to watch the game by staring at my girlfriend!” he said sarcastically.

blake’s eyes widened.

“i didn’t know, sorry”

“you didn’t know she was my girlfriend? alright well, now you do” he got closer to him. “and if you ever forget, i swear to god you’ll end up with a lot more than a black eye, got it ?”

blake just nodded.

“great, walk away” he waisted no time in doing exactly that, getting away as quickly as he could.

i turned to chris.

“hey, i’m really sorry i didn’t see your big moment. i genuinely was trying to pay attention, he just wouldn’t leave me alone”

he gave me a kiss to my cheek, “it’s ok baby, i don’t think we have to worry about him doing it again” we laughed together.

“he looked like he was gonna piss himself” he grinned at me while he wrapped his arm around my waist.

“ok, c’mon ma. gotta find my family” just as he said that, they came into view.

chris helped me walk over, as i was still limping.

nick and matt just looked at us and shook their heads.

“you two are fucking disgusting”

“whatever, let’s go”

matt stopped us, “ hold up, i gotta get my stuff from the locker room”

chris and i glanced at each other.

“yeah, you dirty fuckers i saw you two go in there, which is why i waited” he said as he walked in the direction of the locker rooms.

we looked at each other and busted out laughing, trying to catch our breath.

——————————

…hope you like <333

masterlist

lmk what y’all want

tag list: @lovingsturniolo @lustfulslxt @gwenlore @flowerxbunnie @sturnssx @mattslolita @its-jennarose @frankeelovesthesturnio @sophssturn @bernardsleftbootycheek @queen161718 @chrisdevora @cupidsword @nickmillersn1gf @stramboli4life @mattsneezing @chrisstankyleg @sturniolobltch @vib3swithanuk @ciarasturn1 @bethsturn @bernardenjoyer @mbbsgf @soursturniolo @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @ssturniolo

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hsllfirescoopsreblogs · 1 month

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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

「 ✦ logan howlett ✦ 」

╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all logan howlett stories i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some will have summaries if provided <3

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

➤ as it was by @ichorai

✗ you first met logan as weapon x, wiped clean of any memory of his past life. he had nearly killed you then. and now, almost two years later, he’s pressing kisses over the very same scars his adamantium claws had inflicted.

➤ blast from the past by @lune-hime

➤ a wolverines heartache by @imaginesforfandom

✗ On two separate occasions, both Y/N and Logan find jealousy within their friendship.

➤ feral by @angelltheninth

➤ worked up by @loganbcrnes

✗ logan breaks the bed

➤ anything by @woodolly

✗ Almost everyone fears Logan but Logan only fears you. His wife that happens to be pretty mad at him.

➤ @lilac-mushroom

✗ i need you baby

⑅ When you found out that mutants were being chased and attacked, you couldn't stand the thought of Logan, an old friend of yours, being hurt. Upon arrival at the place he was staying at, you found him beaten up and hurting, his healing powers slowed down. Deciding to take care of him, you couldn't ignore the closeness and strong sexual tension felt between you, just like old times. It wouldn't be bad to give in to it... right?

✗ above the clouds

⑅ Flying over to Atlanta for a mission with the X-Men, you sat next to Logan on the plane. But when his hand sneaked to caress the top of your thigh, you were faced with having to decide between sneaking off with him to the bathroom and leaving Logan painfully hard for rest of the flight. Maybe if you tried to be quiet...

➤ apologies by @jbreenr

⑅The Wolverine's presence in your life took a turn you did not expect.

➤ @buckylattes

✗ two wolves, one bunny

⑅ Logan and Bucky have had their eyes on you for a little bit now, and you can’t stand to wait any longer for them to finally make a move. So you make a move of your own and finally, you all get what you’ve been wanting.

✗ next door neighbor

⑅ Your next door neighbor, Logan, has been trying to get your attention for a while now, but he fears that he’s taken the whole situation the wrong way. Will you ever give him a chance?

✗ possessive

⑅ Logan is always very possessive of you, his girl, but you can’t really be mad at him even if you try.

➤ @buckyownsmylife

✗ untangle me

⑅ The one where once it becomes clear that Logan is your alpha, he’s the one left pining

✗ first burn

⑅ The one where Logan is so crazy to make sure that everyone knows you’re his, that he fucks you in front of everyone.

➤ prom by @loving-barnes

➤ touch me like nobody else does by @galatially

✗ you called and i came, the history between us too broad to ignore; when he showed up on your doorstep five years after he disappeared in the middle of the night, logan howlett decided to clear the air.

➤ in love with the wolverine by @ellana-ravenwood

➤ @hannibals-favourite-meal

✗ sunshine and flowers

⑅ Logan has had a great many loves in his long life and he’s over it. He doesn’t want to lose anyone else yet somehow, the annoying and very much younger art teacher at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, wormed her way into his heart.

✗ the way back home

⑅ After months of being apart from each other, he’s finally back in your arms

✗ worst possible decision

⑅How could Logan be stupid enough to fall for the little sister of an overprotective metal controlling mutant? As it turns out, very easily.

➤ body swap by @make-me-imagine

✗ reader and wolverine get body swapped, and the reader just so happened to be on their period when it happens + them having to deal with each others mutations.

➤ wolverine x reader by @carry-on-wayward-sun

➤ @wolfdeamonghoul

✗ it should have been me pt2

⑅ Bucky and you had a good relationship, until he felt like didn’t need you anymore and so he breaks up with you and starts dating Natasha soon after. It only takes seeing you walking down the aisle, saying your ‘i dos’ to someone else for him to realize his mistake.

✗ what a tease

⑅ you tease Logan too much that he begins to pleasure himself

✗ sexting

➤ @holylulusworld

✗ breed out

⑅ you woke the animal in wolverine.

✗ bed sharing

⑅ “Can you do ‘bed-sharing’ with Wolverine? He’s grumpy and you believe he doesn’t like you, but he can’t stop himself from sniffing at your neck and it can be smutty or just fluff. You decide.”

✗ cranky

⑅ Your boyfriend is cranky in the morning.

➤ @kgficz

✗ newbie

⑅ Logan had arrived at the X Mansion only a few days ago, finding it difficult to adjust. One night when he can’t fall asleep, he finds you awake in the kitchen and strikes up a conversation.

✗ back in time

⑅ Set in Days of Future Past; Logan has lost everything, he has lost you. He’s finally been sent back in time to change the future. How can he keep his head straight when he travels back and sees a younger you?

➤ logan training by @imyourbratzdoll

✗logan and the reader end up training in another... more fulfilling way.

➤ labels by @mlmxreader

✗ you and Logan discuss your relationship over a beer.

➤ the last goodbye by @trickstersteve

➤ just a dance by @lipstickandvibranium

✗ Logan wasn’t fond of parties, but he was fond of her.

➤ i guess you didn’t cheat, but… by @youreobsessedwithtoomanyfandoms

•MASTERLIST

•XMEN MASTERLIST

hopefully all links work, let me know if not <3

last updated april 16, 2024

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett angst #logan howlett oneshot #wolverine #wolverine x reader #x-men #x men x reader #logan howlett imagine #wolverine imagine #logan x reader #james howlett x reader #james howlett #james howlett imagine

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leclsrc · 11 months

Text

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?”

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad.

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed.

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly.

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning.

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job.

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly.

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window.

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.”

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before.

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say.

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08.

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile.

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing, a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but).

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little.

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation.

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip.

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly.

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile.

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs.

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours.

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate.

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together.

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing.

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his.

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity.

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor.

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.”

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks.

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

“The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

#f1 #leclsrc3000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x reader

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eggluverz · 8 months

Note

Ooh, I loved your IL Dan Heng request where he realizes that Reader is no longer around and flips quickly trying to find them out of sheer anxiety that those who still hate Dan Feng would take out their hatred and vengeance on them.

I actually want to try and request fem!Reader getting attacked by a group who just want to hurt Dan Heng through attacking his beloved. But his beloved is no damsel in distress, and fights them off, extremely angry that they are attacking her to hurt Dan Heng for a crime he is not guilty of and finds it pathetic that they continue to hold a grudge against someone who has long passed, not adhering to the Vidyadhara laws that Dan Feng’s sins have been washed away. She tears into them, defending Dan Heng with everything as she beats their ass in an emotional rage with tears that’s only stopped because Jing Yuan has to prevent an Incident from happening even though he would gleefully let her continue beating them down.

Reader is upset that they want to hurt and cause Dan Heng pain. She could care less about them trying to torture or assassinate her.

But Reader still gets injured much to Dan Heng’s guilt and anguish and he blames himself for what happened after he arrives at the scene when he sensed that something was wrong.

Reader proceeds to reassure him that none of it is his fault.

SHOULD’VE BEEN THERE

PAIRING. dan heng x f!reader

CONTENT WARNING. swearing, reader gets slightly injured and is bleeding, mentions of blood and cut wounds

WORD COUNT. 2,317

SUMMARY. you and dan heng are exploring the xianzhou luofu and you get surrounded by a group of assassins who want to hurt you to get to dan heng. you decide to teach them not to mess with your partner.

SOF’S NOTE. hihi!! thank u for liking my something shiny this way comes fic :3 sorry this took a while to get out but i still hope u enjoy!! badass reader was fun to write ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ she a cool bean ! LOL ty for the request xx

The Imbibitor Lunae Dan Feng wasn’t exactly known for being a beloved figure. Like many infamous individuals of history, there were some who hated him, while others continued their almost unnerving worship.

At the Xianzhou Luofu, the opinions of the general public were mixed and even carried onto his reincarnation. Some would rather have Dan Heng return to the position of leadership, while others wanted him gone from the very land his past life once considered home.

And while Dan Heng thought it’d best to separate himself from his past, he did see the value in learning about the culture and history of the Xianzhou as well as the Vidyadhara. As his partner, you were simply glad he wanted you along during the times he felt the need to revisit the Xianzhou Luofu or indulge in their delicacies.

You accompanied him in enough instances that some of the vendors even knew the two of you by name and what your favorite orders were. It wouldn’t have been a surprise it some locals were familiar with the two of you as well.

Today, you both decided to explore the Xianzhou Luofu separately in the morning, and then meet up late afternoon for a meal together. You wanted to try this tea spot in Aurum Alley you hadn’t heard of before. The tea was said to, somehow, make the consumers feel really good and it intrigued you enough to want to go with Dan Heng.

However, your plans of wandering around and enjoying some time alone was cut short when a group of individuals suddenly appeared around you.

You startled at the sight. The must’ve been been using cloudhymn magic for you not to notice their presence at all until they revealed themselves. After the initial surprise, your body instantly relaxed as you prepared for a fight. Judging by the looks on their faces’, it didn’t seem like they were friendly fans of the Astral Express crew just looking for an autograph.

Plastering a smile on your face to turned to the man closest to you. “Can I help you guys?”

He scowled but remained wordless, feeling like he was too important to speak to the likes of you.

You frowned. “It’s not very nice to ignore people.”

“Since when did we say we want to be nice to you?” another group member scoffed, already drawing his blade. “Dan Feng’s whore.”

Murmurs and grunts of agreement sounded from the rest of the group.

Sighing, you placed on hand on your hip and your other on the shaft of your spear. You had many issues with that sentiment. One, you weren’t a whore— You were his partner. And two, if you were a whore, you’d for sure be one only for Dan Heng. Not this old, dead man named Dan Feng people kept going on about.

“I’m getting a little annoyed here, but I’ll give you one chance,” you said calmly, trying not to lose your patience. “Leave me alone and I’ll pretend this never happened.”

“Or what?” one lady chimed in.

With a huff, you quickly scanned the circle of people. The group wasn’t too large; there were only about four individuals around you with their weapons now at the ready. You reckoned they must’ve had some skill, given they were able to use the cloudhymn magic typically practiced by assassins, but you were confident you could hold your own and knock them out by yourself if you needed to.

You tapped your foot and pursed your lips. “You don’t want to know the or what.” There was a mocking laugh to your side and you quickly turned to him with your eyebrows raised. “Is something funny?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You’re not scary at all.”

“She’s just as pathetic as that sorry reincarnation of Dan Feng,” another snickered, nudging your back with the hilt of his sword.

The woman in front of you shook her head, looking down at you. “No one is as pathetic as that traitor.”

Anger surged through you at his words. Dan Heng was so much more than Dan Feng’s reincarnation. He was his own person— A strong, kind, intelligent person at that. And he wasn’t pathetic. In an instant, you knocked the sword out of your ambusher’s hands with a swift kick and pointed the blunt end of your polearm at the woman who insulted him next.

“You want to say that again?” you scowled, prodding her shoulder roughly in warning.

When you moved your weapon, the man behind you swung his sword at your side and you just barely managed to dodge, the blade leaving a long cut across your upper arm. You flinched at the sting but ignored it. You felt small drops of blood begin to roll down onto your elbow, but you sensed the cut wasn’t deep enough for you to be truly concerned. It was nothing compared to what you would do to them if they said one more negative thing about Dan Heng.

They could hurt you and call you names. That you didn’t care about; you could handle yourself. Sure, you might cry a little after the event took place, but when it came to it, you could hold your own. But when they continually kept insulting Dan Heng, you knew you had to put your foot down.

Your partner, your beloved, has been through enough shit without having random strangers who didn’t even know him talking behind his back. This particular group even went as far as trying to harass you simply because of your association with him.

You wouldn’t stand for it. You couldn’t— It hurt your own heart just hearing them badmouth him.

Red flooded your vision as you glared at the group with your weapon in a readied position, “You only need to look in the mirror if you want to see what pathetic truly is. No need to bring Dan Heng into this.”

The group matched your stance and you rolled your eyes before swinging your polearm in a low sweep to knock two ambushers to the floor. Before you could use your weapon correctly and strike the next assailant, a booming voice sounded from your side.

“Now, now. If we’re going to resort to violence, please do it away from the innocent civilians nearby.”

The group of assassins around you straightened up in an instant at the sound of Jing Yuan and the marching Cloud Knights behind him.

While you were half relieved to see Jing Yuan, the other half of you wanted him to go away so you could enjoy beating the shit out of these idiots who insulted Dan Heng. That would certainly teach them not to spew nonsense about things they did not know.

The group silently disbanded and disappeared as they ran away, trying to avoid the clutches of Jing Yuan’s men who were soon on their heels. You frowned at their cowardly escape. They couldn’t even stand to face the lawful consequences of their actions?

“As much as I would’ve enjoyed seeing your execution of justice, I don’t think Dan Heng would want to see you potentially get more injured,” Jing Yuan said with a small smile. “They are assassins, after all.” He examined your arm from a distance before walking up to you and offering a hand.

You accepted, looking down at your bleeding arm with a slight wince. “They barely even nicked me…”

Jing Yuan shook his head, a fond look on his face despite his chastisement. Before he could sterilize it for you, you two spotted Dan Heng running over. His spear was by his side and his expression was frantic as he ran towards you.

“Y/N! Are you alright?” called Dan Heng, his breathing heavy partly from physical exertion, but mostly from worry. “I saw Cloud Knights tracking down some people under the influence of cloudhymn magic.” His brows furrowed as he finally reached you and Jing Yuan, most likely remembering his last encounter with assassins using the same technique. “Did you see them? Are you okay?”

Jing Yuan glanced at the guilty look on your face before giving your arm a squeeze and nodding once to Dan Heng. “I shall let the two of you continue this conversation alone. Until we cross paths again.”

Your eyes widened at his quick goodbye. “Hopefully our next meeting will be for better reasons. Thanks, Jing Yuan!”

“Don’t mention it.” He turned to Dan Heng before he left. “Stay safe and vigilant, Dan Heng.”

As he walked away, you noticed Dan Heng scanning every inch of your body, eyes clouded with anxiety as he took in Jing Yuan’s words and the cut on your arm.

Silence stretched between the two of you before he finally spoke up. When he talked, his tone was unsettling. “Who did this to you? Was it the assassins?”

Your gaze softened as his fists tightened in concern. “Yes,” you admitted, gently putting his hands in yours as you ran your thumb over his knuckles. “But I’m okay, they didn’t hurt me.”

Dan Heng looked at you in disbelief.

“This just needs to be cleaned and bandaged, is all,” you reassured with a small smile. “I’m sure the bruises I left on them are worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“But I’m okay,” you said, soft but firm.

You gazed stubbornly at him and Dan Heng returned the look, neither of you backing down. Eventually, Dan Heng sighed, squeezing his eyes shut at the sight of the bloodstain on your shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he said with an almost imperceptible quiver in his voice. “I should’ve been there for you.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” You frowned, lightly cupping his jaw to lift his head that had fallen to the floor. “You’re always there for me; I know it.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

Dan Heng’s complexion was paler than normal. You could tell this was really eating him up inside.

“You couldn’t have known I was going to get ambushed by cloudhymn magic users,” you said, trying to console him. “If you did, I know you wouldn’t have left me alone. But you didn’t know, and so I did my best to handle them myself— And I would’ve kicked their sorry asses for insulting your character if Jing Yuan hadn’t stopped the fight.”

Dan Heng’s expression softened at that, a hint of an amused smile forming on his face. “They would’ve felt sorry for trying to harm you if they knew of your skill, that’s for certain.” He reached out to hold your forearm in his hand, examining the cut with a sigh. “I just hate that you got hurt because of me.”

You shook your head at his wrongful connection. “I got hurt because of the idiot assassins, not because of you.”

“Didn’t they want to harm you because of your relation to me?”

“Yes, but that just means they’re delusional and stuck in the past and wanted to hurt us both,” you reasoned, watching carefully as Dan Heng pulled a first aid kit out of your bag and began to clean you up. “You did not hurt me, Dan Heng. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He let your words sink in as he sterilized your wound, rubbing the sensitive skin on your inner forearm soothingly as he sensed you tightening up at the sting of pain. Once he disposed of the bloodied cloth, he wrapped a bandage around your triceps and secured the ends.

You admired his work with a proud grin. “Good as new. Thank you!”

Dan Heng released a huff of laughter as he patted the top of your head before kissing it. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I hope it will heal soon.”

“As long as you kiss me daily to make the wound heal faster!”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he mused. You poured and he looked at you fondly. “For you, I’ll give it a try.” Dan Heng placed three kisses on your face—one on your forehead, one on your left cheek, and one on your right—and one kiss on your bandaged arm. “If I give you multiple kisses a day then, will it heal even sooner?”

You nodded eagerly, gesturing to your mouth with a teasing glint in your eye. “Definitely! And there’s one place to kiss so it’ll heal the fastest.”

Dan Heng smiled. “I believe I know the place you are referring to, but we’ll save that for when we’re in private.”

You jutted your bottom lip out and batted your eyelashes at him. “Just a little one?”

He wasn’t much for excessive public displays of affection. You were rather embarrassed by it yourself. But in this moment, it felt as if it were just the two of you on the entire Luofu.

Unable to resist the pleasing look on your face, Dan Heng humored you with a chaste kiss on your lips. It was plush and warm and, while the two of you wanted more, it was enough to satiate you for now.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear.” He took your hand in his, carefully interlacing his slender fingers with yours. “Thank you for looking after me, even when I’m not there. I’m glad you have my back. I will always have yours as well,” he vowed. “I’ll always be here for you.”

As the promise left his mouth, you knew each word was one he meant from the heart. Dan Heng meant the world to you, and you would stop at nothing to protect him. And you knew he would do the same. You saw it through his actions, and now, he told you with his words.

Your stomach warmed and your heart squeezed, feeling touched by his declaration.

“I know you will,” you stated, a confident shimmer in your eyes as you met his headstrong ones. “And I will always be here for you, too.”

#dan heng x reader #dan heng il x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #dan heng #honkai star rail #hsr #dan heng il #hsr fanfiction #hsr imagines #hsr fluff #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #dan heng x you #dan heng x y/n #dan heng fluff #dan heng imagines

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kamaluhkhan · 9 months

Text

all the love we had and lost

pairing: conrad fisher x fem!reader

summary: you come back to cousins beach after a few years away. conrad is not particularly happy that you're back - and you aren't particularly thrilled, either. too bad there's a history (chemistry?) neither of you can deny.

warnings: lots of plot + flashbacks. angst with fluff in betweem. slightly suggestive dialogue/situations but nothing more than the actual show, a guy being pushy about hooking up with reader but nothing happens, mention of injuries and blood throughout, hints of alcoholism, brief mention of dieting (reader is competitive swimmer and deals with certain pressures from that), reader gets her period, takes on too much responsibility and argues with her mother (aka eldest daughter syndrome)

tags: @stargirlsirius-recs, @ifilwtmfc, @qwertyb2577, @allnrsnz, @baconeggndcheez, @peanutbelley, @imogen-skye, @geekinthefuschiahair, @tvije,

a/n: thank you thank you thank you for so much love on my first conrad fic!! i'm so excited to share the rest of the series, so stay tuned :))

read part one here

the best friends of our childhoods are the loves of our lives, and they break our hearts in the worse ways. (fredrik backman)

now — summer, age 18

you throw in some extra sprinkles, along with a few more tablespoons of sugar. belly has a huge sweet tooth. it's the night before her birthday, and you're in the kitchen at the fisher's house baking her coconut confetti cupcakes.

born on june 21st — the summer solstice — belly conklin is the definition of a summer child. she's summer, personified: sunshine, sweet tea, sand, and smiles. having missed so many birthday celebrations, you’re determined to make this year special.

you go to the fridge to grab some eggs, and when you close the door, you're startled by the person standing behind it.

"what are you doing here?" you ask, holding a hand to your chest and setting the carton of eggs on the counter. the joy you felt making birthday cupcakes for belly fades away, replaced with a tingling in your chest. you and conrad hadn’t spoken more than three sentences to each other, or even been in the same room alone, since that morning on the beach. as the distance between the two of you grew, so did your frustration at him.

conrad raises his eyebrow at you. he reaches around you into the fridge and pulls out a beer.

"i should be asking you that."

"the oven at my house is broken and your mom said i could come over."

“i’ve heard that one before,” he mumbles as he leaves the kitchen. you almost can’t believe he brought it up, even if just in a passing, somewhat snarky remark. conrad probably thought you didn’t hear.

these past few weeks, conrad hasn't just been cold towards you — which was a relief as much as it was heart wrenching. he seems more closed off in general, more inclined to spend time with others who hadn't seen him grow up. in fact, you imagine he’s on his way to see nicole now. maybe with her, he can pretend everything is fine. but not with the people in this house, who knew him inside and out.

you would never admit it — if conrad wants to ignore you, you could ignore him just fine — but it was eating you up inside, and it took everything in you not to confront him, to comfort him about whatever he was going through. you’d have arguments when you were kids, but it was nothing a ring pop or tub of cherry jello couldn’t solve. this time is different; the wound is deeper, harder to heal.

you wanted the old conrad back: the sweet boy who cared for you and let you care for him in return.

then — summer, age 14

belly was turning 12, and you wanted to surprise her with homemade cupcakes for breakfast. only, the oven at your house was broken, which meant your intention of baking her birthday treats would have fallen through, if not for susannah’s ever-present generosity.

everyone else was out of the house — you even asked laurel and susannah to take belly shopping to not ruin the surprise. you were decorating the cupcakes when conrad walked in from the deck. his wet hair stuck to his forehead and he was wearing a rash guard, so he probably got back from surfing. he looked paler than usual, even after being in the sun for hours, but you didn’t think much of it at first.

“hey,” he greeted, sounding slightly out of breath. “what are you doing here?”

“the oven at my house is broken, so your mom said i can come over to bake these for belly’s birthday tomorrow.” you gestured at the clumsily decorated treats. the cupcakes had bright pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. you weren’t a professional by any means, but knew that belly would love them.

“but i’m sure she wouldn’t miss one or two, if you wanna try one,” you offered, smiling at conrad.

he smiled back, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “yeah. yeah, let’s do that. i’m just gonna get changed first.”

conrad walked past you, and that’s when you noticed him limping — along with a bloody gash just below his left knee.

you instantly dropped the spatula back into the half-empty frosting bowl.

“connie, what the hell happened?”

“i’m fine,” he answered. “i wiped out, got cut by the fin of my board.” conrad must have noticed your eyes widened with worry because he grabbed your wrist gently, thumb rubbing soothingly on your pulse point. he was bleeding out on the kitchen floor, and there he was, trying to make sure you were okay.

“i’m fine,” he reassured.

the blood dripping down his leg suggested otherwise. years ago conrad would faint at the sight of blood, and though he’d mostly outgrown that, you knew it still made him queasy. you imagined the pain definitely wasn’t making it easier. without another word, you pulled him into the bathroom and made him sit on the edge of the bathtub. you washed your hands then sat cross-legged in front of him.

“you here to fix me up, sweetheart?” he smirked as he watched you gather supplies from the cabinet underneath the sink, your brows furrowed in concentration.

“what?” you paused, almost laughing. until you saw his wound again, and you got back to work.

“it’s from the hunger games,” he explained. “when katniss finds peeta in the arena? and he’s all, like, injured.”

“well, he was definitely in worse shape than you,” you assured. “your cut’s not that deep, it just looks bad.”

“it doesn’t feel great, either.”

conrad exhaled sharply when you started applying pressure to his leg with a damp washcloth. you placed your other hand on his right knee.

“it’ll be fine, connie. i’ve got you. keep your eyes on me, okay?”

he looked down at you, wet hair framing his face as he offered a short nod.

you gestured at him to take over, and your fingers brushed together when he grabbed the washcloth, but he never looked down. his eyes still followed you as you searched the bathroom for something to cover his wound.

a comfortable silence followed. the two of you used to spend hours talking, sure, but what you loved about spending time with conrad is that silence didn't bother him. you could each be in your own worlds while in the comfort of each other's company, and that was enough.

once the wound was cleaned and the bleeding slowed down, you placed a gauze pad over his cut before wrapping a cloth bandage around it.

“i’m pretty sure it’s ‘you here to finish me off, sweetheart?’,” you remembered.

conrad shook his head. “i’m pretty sure it’s not. i’ve read the book like, three times.”

you move to sit next to him on the edge of the tub.

“how sure are you, connie? because i’m pretty damn sure.”

conrad shrugged. “i’m pretty damn sure, too.”

you rolled your eyes, but with a smile. “okay, fine. we’ll check. but, when you see how wrong you are, you have to come with me to see jaws 2.” it was playing at the local movie theatre during their weekly throwback thursday — you and belly had seen it advertised on your way home from getting ice cream. you had wanted to ask conrad, but couldn’t find the right time.

because you hadn’t meant it to be a date, but you also hadn’t not meant it to be. something changed about how you felt towards conrad that summer; or, maybe, you just figured out what was different about the love you felt towards him compared to everyone else.

(yes, love. again, something you would never admit.)

you thought maybe — maybe he felt it too. there was something different in the way he teased you, laughed with you, looked at you when he thought you couldn’t notice.

you did notice. it happened so much that eventually you decided that either it was all in your head and he didn’t love you that way, or he was also scared of what would happen if he did. which, to be fair, was the position you were in. you were very scared of what would happen if you crossed that line.

“i’ll agree to that,” conrad said. “if you agree to having a picnic with me on the beach. if i have to face my fear of sharks, then you have to face your fear of angry seagulls stealing your food.”

a picnic on the beach. you wondered if this was conrad’s way of subtly asking you on a date. did he also want to cross that line, become something other than friends? he looked at you so eagerly, you hoped he did.

“fine.” you held out your hand. “but you have to protect me from angry seagulls.”

conrad smiled at you brightly as he grasped your hand.

“always.”

in the end, conrad lost the bet. the screening of jaws 2 was cancelled, so you rented it from the video store instead. you got his favourite movie snacks, and some of yours as well, and made sure the couch had the comfiest pillows and the warmest blanket. you felt butterflies just thinking about the two of you watching together, cuddling on the couch.

when the time came though, your plans fell through. the playdates your siblings had lined up both cancelled. your mother had plans to meet a friend at the bar, and claimed she couldn't reschedule. by then your parents were divorced and your father was elsewhere with his new girlfriend, so it fell to you to babysit your siblings.

conrad came over anyway: he helped you make rice and lentils for dinner, convinced your brother to eat his vegetables, and let your sister paint his nails. the four of you watched night at the museum and ate all the junk food you had gotten, with you and conrad sitting on opposite ends of the couch, but stealing glances and shy smiles at each other. when your mother came home, a bit after midnight and a little tipsy, she got angry that you’d kept the twins up so late and cheated on the diet she had so carefully planned for you — to keep you in shape for swimming, she claimed. you rolled your eyes, and that made her angrier. without you saying anything, conrad took the twins upstairs to get ready for bed as you and your mother argued. by the time conrad walked back downstairs, your mother had gone into the living room for another drink and you were in tears. he asked if you were okay, and you told him to go home.

you never talked about that night again, and everything went back to the way it was: with neither of you crossing that line.

now

the only reason you let belly drag you to nicole’s party is because it’s her birthday.

as soon as you enter the house, nicole and the other debutantes whisk belly away to a table filled with elaborate cakes. you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by how elegant they look in comparison to the cupcakes you made her.

"come on," taylor groans. "let's get a drink."

taylor grabs two beers and hands one to you. you gratefully accept. the two of you catch up for a bit, when suddenly jeremiah starts serenading belly in an outrageously funny musical number. you laugh along with them, until you catch a glimpse of conrad with nicole on the couch at the other end of the room. nicole is sitting in conrad's lap, and she leans over to whisper something in his ear before kissing his cheek. your entire body heats up.

conrad was right before: you were jealous. as frustrated as you were with him, you were even angrier at yourself for feeling that way.

"i’m gonna go find the bathroom!” taylor says, practically shouting over the music.

"okay!” you yell back. “i’m gonna go get another drink."

you know all too well that it isn’t a good habit to get into, but you need something stronger if you’re going to survive this party. you examine the drink table, finally picking out some mediocre tequila. you take a shot, then another.

“tequila. my kind of girl.” someone declares, creeping up behind you.

it’s a terrible pick up line, and you already have a feeling that the guy trying to flirt with you is some rich entitled asshole.

but, the guy — liam — can hold a decent conversation, and he’s cute enough.

he’s no conrad, though. you take another shot when that thought crosses your mind, and force yourself to flirt with leo. liam. right, liam.

liam leans in close, pretends to listen to you, lets his gaze linger on the deep v-neck of your shirt. you’re so close, you can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“five minutes,” you boast after he asks how long you can hold your breath underwater. somehow, the conversation veered towards your time as a competitive swimmer. you’re just the right amount of tipsy that your inhibitions start fading away.

“wow,” liam says. “i have to say, i’m glad you didn’t have that training camp this summer.”

you bat your eyelashes at him. “oh? why is that?” you lean closer, trailing a finger down his chest.

“because then i wouldn’t be able to do this.”

liam kisses you then, and you kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, runs his hands over your body. you feel nothing. it’s fine.

“let's go upstairs.”

liam’s grabbing your wrist before you have a chance to answer. as he tries to tug you up the stairs, your eyes meet conrad’s from across the room.

suddenly, you feel nauseous. you rip away from liam’s grip and place a hand on the wall next to you to steady yourself.

liam turns around sharply. “what is it?”

“i changed my mind, actually. let’s just hang out downstairs.”

liam grabs your wrist again, his grip tighter than before. “don’t be a tease.”

this time, your voice comes out louder. “i just changed my mind. that doesn’t make me a tease.”

“don’t be a bitch, then,” he scoffs, and you’re this close to breaking this guy’s nose. “do you wanna fuck, or not?”

“i don’t,” you answer instantly, struggling to break free from his grip.

“okay, whatever. we don’t have to go all the way, but we can still go upstairs, and have a good time.”

he manages to drag you up two steps as you strain against his iron grip, now almost cutting off your circulation. your heartbeat quickens and you feel dizzy. finally, you grab onto the railing for leverage, forcing liam to stop in his tracks.

“what is it now?” he groans.

“just stop, liam.”

“listen,” he starts, speaking to you almost mockingly, like you’re a naive little girl. “i know what girls want, so you don’t have to be shy. we’re going upstairs right now and —”

“liam, is it?” the rest of the party is in full motion, but here’s belly, giving liam one of the most intense death stares you’ve ever seen. belly, who if you cut open, would bleed sugar. “i’m gonna have to ask you to let go of my friend.”

“whatever,” liam answers, rolling his eyes. “if you don’t mind, we’re kinda in the middle of something.” he tries to move you forward, but you stand your ground.

jeremiah is also glaring at liam from the bottom of the stairs, his golden retriever personality long gone. “back off, man,” he warns.

“just mind your own business,” liam snaps.

“they said leave her alone,” steven asserts, walking over once he sees what’s happening. “and you don’t wanna mess with us, trust me.” he clenches his hand into a fist as if proving a point.

in other situations, you and belly have definitely teased steven for his tendency to act all tough, but right now, you couldn’t be more grateful.

“who the fuck are you? her bodyguards?”

“just let her go,” belly orders.

“i think she can speak for herself. she wants this, but if you’re jealous, you can join, too.”

your stomach churns. liam leans in close to whisper in your ear. “maybe we’ll see if those 5 minutes come in handy when you’re sucking my —”

as soon as liam lets go of your wrist, his hand trailing downward, you shove him away and punch him in the nose before he can finish his sentence. you deliver a final blow to liam’s ego as he’s doubled over:

“what i want is for you to leave us the fuck alone. there are other people in this house who i’d rather hook up with. people who aren’t complete assholes with fancy cars to compensate for their tiny dick.”

the flirtatious smile falls from liam’s face, replaced with the kind of anger only rich entitled assholes have when they don’t get what they want — figures that he only gets the hint when it literally hits him right in the nose. he’s angry enough to deliver a punch right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you fall down the stairs, but belly manages to catch you before you hit the ground. she holds you as jeremiah and steven step in front. you hear them shouting at liam over the music, but their exact words don’t register.

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and the room is suddenly all fuzzy.

“i’ve got her.” conrad’s calm and measured voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist. “go find cam — the rest of us have been drinking, but he can drive her home.”

somehow, you find yourself in a bathroom, sitting on the counter as conrad stands between your legs. he carefully examines your injury, but you notice how he avoids making eye contact.

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while — probably a dangerous mix of all three.

“you here to fix me up, sweetheart?” the question slips past your lips before you could stop it.

conrad looks slightly amused, and he finally meets your gaze. “that’s not the line,” he deadpans. you know (from trying not to but ultimately not being able to pull your attention away from him all night) that he’s had a few drinks as well; it seems like the two of you ignore each other best when you’re sober.

but, still, he remembers. his comment earlier and his smile right now is all the confirmation you need: somewhere in the back of his mind, he replays memories of you. no matter how cold he acts towards you, he still cares.

he continues wiping the blood off your face. “how’s your hand?” he asks.

you flex your fingers, inspect your hand. “it’s been better,” you answer, though your knuckles are slightly aching. “worth it.”

“i guess all those years away made you a badass.”

all those years away. the reminder feels like a stab to the heart, but you wouldn’t let it burst the comfortable bubble you and conrad had somehow stumbled into.

instead, you offer him a lopsided smile.

“oh, connie,” the nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “i was always a badass.”

“yeah, yeah. but it’s different now. you’re different.” he pauses. you’re worried he’s going to say something else.

but he doesn’t. instead, he asks, jokingly: “did you join a fight club or something?”

you take that as a good sign: like you, he’s trying to preserve the playfulness between you before everything else seeps in and ruins it, before you’re brought back to the present, where you’re both heartbroken and not talking to each other.

“you know the first rule of fight club —”

“don’t talk about fight club,” you finish together.

conrad laughs, even though it’s not that funny. you laugh, too.

a silence falls over you, one that’s not unfamiliar, but not entirely comfortable either. conrad holds the cloth against your nose to make sure the bleeding stopped.

it seemed to be a strange pattern between you two — being there for each other when you bleed.

then — summer, age 12

it was the end of july when you got your first period.

you had made lunch for your siblings and walked them to their day camp, when you suddenly felt an ache in your abdomen. that ache turned into a sharp pain by the time you got home, and you ran to the bathroom to confirm what you’d suspected.

that afternoon, mr. conklin was taking all the kids to mini golf, but you weren’t feeling up for it. you texted belly about what happened and spent the rest of the day curled up in bed.

you didn’t hear him knock over the sound of the movie you were watching, but suddenly you saw conrad standing by your door, holding a bag from the candy shop.

“jesus, connie, you scared me!” you exclaimed, pausing the movie.

he smiled sheepishly and flopped down on the bed next to you. “belly told me you weren’t feeling well. here.” he handed you the bag.

you opened the bag, grateful that conrad picked out your favourite treats. you take one and bite into it. your stomach growled — you hadn’t eaten earlier because you felt nauseous, but now you could eat that entire bag in one go.

“how was mini golf?” you asked, popping another treat into your mouth.

“it was awesome! i finally managed to get past that giant hippo and get a hole-in-one. i got the highest score.”

you frown, wishing you had been there. if anything, to beat conrad’s score.

“don’t worry, we’ll go back another time,” conrad added. “you can beat me then.” sometimes, you swore conrad could read your mind. he then asked if you were feeling better.

“no. i got my period,” you huffed. “it sucks.”

“oh.” conrad adjusted his glasses, a sign that he felt awkward. “i’ve heard about those. they sound pretty brutal.”

“health class?”

“no. my mom, actually.”

health class wasn’t much help for you either, and neither was your mother. you were lucky enough to have susannah and laurel, who had explained everything to you and belly.

“anyway, what are you watching?”

“the hunger games,” you answer. “i just finished the book.”

“cool.”

conrad didn’t move — he actually leaned back against the pillows even more — so you figured he wanted to stay. you moved the laptop so it sat between the two of you and started playing the movie again.

“you know, it doesn’t seem fair that you miss out on having fun just because of your period,” conrad said as katniss finds peeta injured in the arena.

you frown, about to point out that he has no idea how painful cramps can be.

he lifted his hand up to stop you. “not that i can judge what you’re going through. i’m just saying when it’s this bad, instead of being alone, just text me, and i’ll be there.”

when the time came, he watched movies with you in bed. he brought you junk food and pain killers. he even biked to the store when you’d run out of pads.

he was there for you, just like he promised.

now

those moments from past summers now feel warm and sickly sweet, like popsicles melting in the sun — then again, that might just be the remnants of tequila flowing through your veins. you think about what happened earlier, how belly, jeremiah, and steven stepped in to protect you. how conrad is here with you now, taking care of you so tenderly even after you’ve ignored each for so long. it’s like nothing changed. but once you leave this bathroom and the alcohol leaves your system, it wouldn’t be the same. you feared you'd never get that magic back, and that weighed on your chest so much, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“why’d you go for liam, anyway?” conrad asks, breaking you away from your thoughts. he removes the cloth from your nose so you can answer, and the bleeding seems to have finally stopped.

“you really wanna know?”

“yeah. liam’s an asshole. and you’re…” conrad places his hands on either side of your thighs, leaning close. “you.”

“i went for liam because….well, honestly, i didn’t care who it was, as long as they made me forget you,” you admit, because what did you have to lose. you probably have a broken nose, you definitely have blood on your shirt, and your time with conrad is running out.

conrad’s eyes darken. his fingers start to play with the hem of your shorts.

“did it work?” his voice is a whisper, but he’s so close that it’s crystal clear.

“no.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on conrad’s. it's not the most elegant kiss — it's messy, urgent, with your noses bumping together, and teeth clacking against each other. he cradles your face in his hands, and you wrap your legs around his waist to bring him closer. you taste beer on his tongue, and maybe a hint of lime, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. you tangle your hands into his hair, and you swallow his moan as you gently tug. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the alcohol or adrenaline, but dizzy from him.

when you run out of air, feeling like your lungs could burst, you pull away. conrad’s gaze is heavy on yours as he traces your top lip with his thumb.

“connie,” you whimper, itching to kiss him again.

“you’re still bleeding.”

conrad wipes away your blood with the cuff of his flannel. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s a knock on the door. jeremiah, letting you know that it’s time to go.

and, just like that, the moment is gone.

a few days later, belly invites you over for a girl’s night. you paint each other’s nails, eat sour candy, and watch rom coms, just like you used to. she updates you on debutante season, the argument she had with taylor, and her blossoming feelings for jeremiah. you let it slip that you and conrad kissed at nicole’s party, though you admit you aren’t sure what it means — as if you hadn’t spent hours and hours thinking about the kiss, about him. belly gives you a knowing smile, but you change the subject before she can comment any further.

you’re halfway through 10 things i hate about you when belly falls asleep. you grab your phone, deciding to finally reach out to conrad, when you get a text from him.

he’s already on the dock when you arrive, looking out onto the water.

“hey,” you greet as you stand next to him. “i was actually about to text you —”

“did you tell belly that we kissed?” he interrupts. you can’t quite read his expression as he waits for you to answer.

“no, i didn’t,” you lie. “but…would it matter if i did?”

“well, i mean, belly’s close to nicole and i don’t want her finding out," conrad explains. his words are deliberate, and you suspect he'd spent some time perfecting what to say to you. so far, you didn't like where this was going. conrad delivers another blow:

"it’s not like it meant anything.”

you feel like you could shatter into a million pieces right then and there.

“it didn’t?” you hate how fragile your voice sounds, compared to conrad’s stoic demeanor.

conrad shrugs. “i mean, we were both drunk and the thing with liam happened, so we just got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

“you’re saying there’s nothing between us, then? nothing other than friendship?”

he turned away before he answered. “no. nothing.”

“then what about last summer?” you demand. you force yourself to keep it together, your tone firmer than before. “i guess that didn’t mean anything, either.”

“y/n…” he pauses, and you know you caught him off guard. “i don’t know what you want me to say. we’re barely even friends anymore. you come back here, after all this time, after so much shit has happened, and expect us all to drop everything to fit you back into our lives. but, you don't. we moved on. i moved on, and i can’t deal with you —"

“got it,” you snap, already turning to walk away. “loud and fucking clear, conrad.”

it’s not like it meant anything. we’re barely even friends anymore.

you replay conrad’s words as you crawl into bed next to belly, holding back tears as to not disturb her sleep.

you decide then that you didn’t love conrad anymore. you couldn’t because it would eat you up inside.

then again, it doesn't seem like hating him would be any easier.

#conrad fisher fluff #conrad fisher x you #conrad fisher #conrad fisher x reader #tsitp #tsitp fanfic #the summer i turned pretty fic #the summer i turned pretty #conrad fisher imagine #conrad fisher angst #saf writes

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sehnsuchts-trunken · 1 year

Text

Jake Seresin And The Unfortunate Hat Situation

jake seresin x fem!reader 3k words

summary: You’re visiting Jake’s family in Texas for the first time and so far, it’s been going well. Just that Jake may have forgotten to mention the hat rule.

another cowboy fic because i fucking can

disclaimer: strong allusions to smut. im not kidding. this is basically straight up dirty talk all the way through

a/n: i’m warning you once about all the inaccuracies in here and thats it. read at your own risk. i have literally no clue whatsoever about texas and/or cowboys and did not have it in me to research cowboy history for hours on end, like- i tried, okay? i really did try. i know facts about cowboy hats now that i never felt the need to know (though “dont sleep with your cowboy hat on”, um... yeah? thanks? i totally would have done that otherwise) but i still do not have the information to back this shit up lmao

top gun masterlist

(yes i did have to use an everybody wants some gif. during the past week ive rewatched this film more times than i can count and i will take every opportunity i get to talk about it)

“Enlighten me”, you chuckled, spreading your arms, a bottle of beer in your right hand. “Why are none of the cowboys wearing cowboy hats? Isn’t that kind of their thing?”

You were visiting Texas for the first time - a week off of work, away from the Navy and the Dagger Squad for a bit, to meet Jake’s friends and family back home. You’d talked to most every one of them over the phone whenever he had found the time to call, but you’d never actually met them in person before this. So it had been an adventure from the start: getting on a plane in San Diego to take you to Texas where Jake had grown up, being picked up at the airport by his mother, driving two hours to the farm they owned (”You grew up on a farm?”, you’d asked when he’d told you, wheezing at the mental image of teenage Jake herding sheep), meeting his dad, being surprised by both his sisters, getting to see his childhood bedroom.

And then, to top it off: the sound of his alarm at the crack of dawn this morning to go teach you how to ride a horse.

Needless to say that you’d been buzzing with nervous energy for the past few days. Not that you weren’t happy - it was just all a bit much at once.

After lunch he’d taken you into the city and you’d gone shopping for some real cowboy boots. He’d planned to take you to a bar in the evening, to introduce you to some friends. After all you only had a week here and neither of you felt like missing out on something.

When you’d wanted to try cowboy hats in the store too, Jake had snatched them from you and grabbed your hands, pulling you close to him, telling you that you’d get one when you’d become a real cowgirl. Since you doubted that would ever happen, you’d pouted and tried to convince him with kisses and, when that hadn’t worked, half-hearted threats, but he wouldn’t be persuaded even the slightest. He’d only looked down at you with raised eyebrows until you’d caved and satisfied yourself with cursing under your breath.

So here you were: Cowboy boots, jeans shorts and a button-up and no cowboy hat in sight.

Actually, there was one in sight. Jake was wearing his, in all his Texan glory, laughing with some of his friends at the bar. The thing was, he was the only guy wearing his hat. There were some cowboys strutting about with them on their heads, but most of them didn’t have one - hat hair, yes, but no hat. Hence your initial question: “Why are none of the cowboys wearing cowboy hats?”

“Shit, Jake didn’t tell you?”, Kendra - one of Jake’s only female friends here, who’d immediately decided she liked you and pulled you to one of the tables for some girl talk - let out a laugh. “No wonder it’s still on his head. We were getting worried already.”

It was pretty clear to everyone that you weren’t from around here, so you saw no reason to hide your confusion.

“Now you’ve lost me entirely. What?”, you asked, masking your frown with a laugh. You’d been here for hardly two days and you didn’t think you’d felt as embarrassed ever before. You knew about literally nothing. At least you’d done somewhat well at horseback riding, which could’ve been because of Jake’s arms around you and his hands over yours as you - he - held the reins, but either way you were proud of yourself for not falling off and landing on your ass.

“It’s like this: Ladies didn’t wear hats for a really long time. Cowboys wore the hats. So when you saw a lady with a cowboy hat on - that was her man’s. A sign that she belonged to him. Property shit and all.” She waved it off as if dismissing the concept. “Changed over the past few decades, of course. Better that way too. Ladies can wear whatever they want now. But the thought kind of stuck. You see a guy without a hat, he’s probably taken. You see a girl with a hat, that’s probably her man’s. And before you ever steal a hat, you should know the hat rule.”

You raised your eyebrows. Your stomach did weird little flips as she talked. Jake hadn’t explained any of this to you.

“The hat rule?”, you asked. Kendra grinned and leaned in, pretending to let out some big secret.

“You wear the hat”, she said and paused for a second for dramatic effect, “You wear the cowboy.”

You breathed out.

“Oh.”

Oh my ass, you thought.

Jake hadn’t let you buy your own hat for a reason. And then he’d gone ahead and not given you that reason. What the actual fuck.

You would’ve loved to wear his hat. You would’ve loved the thought of him claiming you like that, letting you wear his hat, showing everyone that yeah, you were Jake Seresin’s girl. But no. He’d left you completely in the dark, hadn’t let a single word slip. And he was still wearing that goddamn hat himself.

Like a single fucking guy, not a man in a loving relationship.

Somehow, now that you knew, you were more annoyed by the fact that he was wearing it than that he just hadn’t told you at all. God, he could’ve left it at home. He could’ve taken it off. He could’ve just put it on your head without telling you why if he didn’t want to.

And right there, that was the part you just didn’t understand. Why hadn’t he told you? He should have known you well enough by now to realise that you would absolutely adore wearing that hat. Not only because you wanted to wear a hat (which you did) but also because you wanted to wear his hat (which you did even more). After all, it wasn’t only him claiming you - it was you claiming him as well. And as horrible as the history of that hat rule was, in this present day you felt like it would only have been fair of him to tell you. You wanted to have that chance of showing him off. Of him showing you off, which he did so happily back in San Diego.

“Hey”, Kendra said, her expression a bit more serious as she put a hand to your arm and pulled you from your thoughts. “I’m sure Jake didn’t mean to hurt you. He may seem like a bastard, but he’s actually a real sweetheart.”

You snorted at her, nodding along.

“He is”, you agreed. “Which is kind of why it hurts even more. I don’t get why he wouldn’t just tell me. It’s not like he’s ever been scared I’d say no to him or something.”

Kendra smiled and squeezed your arm reassuringly.

“Try not to worry about it too much. Just ask him when you get home later, yeah? Communication is key.” Her smile turned into a grin. She winked at you. “And hey, you can always wear my hat if you’d like.”

You forced yourself to smile as well as you took a sip of your beer. “If I actually were single, I’d definitely take you up on that offer, but I’m not, and I don’t think Jake would like it much.”

Her grin only deepened. She had dimples, you realised, and the hat on her head matched her eye colour. You were glad to have her here with you. She was someone you were sure you could become good friends with over time.

“That makes it even better”, she said conspicuously. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her ankles over the edge of the table as she tipped her hat back. “He never told you about the hats. You don’t know anything in his eyes, honey. Use it against him.”

There was a twinkle in her gaze that told you she was looking for nothing short of mischief and you had the distinct feeling that she’d been the ‘bad influence’ on Jake in high school that he’d talked about so often. She seemed like a troublemaker. But she also seemed genuine. And she was right - in Jake’s eyes, you were getting to know one of his friends, talking about some girly stuff (which he probably assumed was himself), having a nice night. Not learning about cowboy customs that he’d just so forgotten to mention.

Jake usually didn’t get jealous. He trusted you the same way you trusted him. But he got possessive nonetheless - always with a hand on your back when you were talking to someone he thought was flirting with you, kissing you at the most inappropriate times, making sure that everyone knew you were his. Now he’d had the goddamn chance and hadn’t taken it. And you didn’t fucking know why.

But you were damn determined to find out.

Kendra slid the hat off her head and offered it to you. You took one deep breath before you reached for it.

You let your fingertips skip over the rim for a moment. Were you really about to do this? Then you put it on your head.

Alright. If Jake wasn’t going to tell you about the way this worked on his own accord, you’d make him tell you.

Kendra emptied her beer and you followed suit before the both of you got up. She grabbed both bottles in one hand, turning to you to send you another of those winks.

“I’ll bring these back to the bar and get us new ones. The dancefloor’s all yours.”

With a nervous smile, you adjusted your newly aqcuired hat and made your way onto the dancefloor. There was soft music playing in the background - country, of course, loud but not loud enough to disturb conversation. It wasn’t late enough for that just yet. Which was honestly a relief, since you had zero clue whatsoever about line dancing or whatever it was they did down here. This way there were only a few couples twirling each other back and forth and some people moving to the beat all on their own. You let out a breath and closed your eyes, allowing yourself to really feel the music: the guitar, the steady drums, the vocals.

Slowly, you started swaying - from one side to the other, turning, twirling, one step, then the next, heels here, toes there. A grin was making its way onto your face. The music grew, not as much in volume as in pace, and you didn’t know just when you had started to forget about everything except your movements (like the people watching, for example), but then the song changed and you gasped as you realised you knew it. Eyes fluttering open, hands coming together to clap, lips twisting into an actual laugh as you sang along, catching Kendra’s gaze and waving her over.

She joined you with a laugh, grabbed your hand to twirl you around, and god, her voice was heavenly. For just a split second you wondered how Jake hadn’t ended up falling for her. You certainly would have.

And speaking - more like thinking, but whatever - of the devil, you felt an all too familiar hand on your shoulder. You turned at the same time that Kendra let go of you, allowing you to admire your boyfriend in all his furious glory.

Not that he actually looked furious. Not to anyone but you, not with that facade he wore whenever anyone got under his skin. But you, well... You’d been with him long enough to understand that twitch of his jaw, that tension in his shoulders, that flicker in his eyes. And yet - the cowboy hat still sat on his head.

“I got it from here, Kendra”, he said, eyes fixed on yours, as you held your breath. She snorted, but still made to move away, muttering something under her breath that you didn’t catch. Then Jake spoke again. “Take your hat, Kendra.”

He grabbed it from where it rested on your head and threw it at her without looking away from you. She sucked in a breath.

“If you throw my hat again, I’ll kick your ass, Seresin”, she said and you could tell that even though they were friends, she wasn’t kidding. Shit, the people here were really fucking serious about their hats. Another reason why you were mad at Jake for not telling you about any of it.

“Next time, don’t set it on my girl’s head”, he growled - growled, really, you didn’t know what else to call it. She scoffed and walked off.

“How could she know I was your girl?”, you whispered, challenging him even though he already looked like you’d crossed some line that he’d drawn without telling you. “How could anyone?”

For a few moments, he kept quiet. You defiantly stared up at him. Should he think whatever he fucking wanted to, this was entirely his fault.

Then something changed in his expression.

“You found out about the hat rule”, he said, “And the first thing you did was go and put on somebody else’s.”

“Well if my boyfriend doesn’t want to have me wear his hat-”

You couldn’t react as quickly as Jake had gripped you by the waist and pulled you close to him, forcing you to tip your head back to keep looking at him. He was, in fact, so close now that you could just kiss him and honestly, you were tempted. Just as tempted as you’d been when he’d come out of the bathroom looking like that, just as tempted as you’d been when you’d left the house, just as tempted as you’d been in his truck. But you were also stubborn. And you had good reasons not to kiss him right now (even though they were getting harder and harder to remember by the second).

“Darling, I’d go wild for you with my hat on.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“So why am I not wearing it?”, you asked through gritted teeth. You couldn’t quite believe just how easily this whole situation was getting under your skin. But it seriously hurt your ego - and not just that. The fact that Jake hadn’t told you about something so important in his hometown, some, as ridiculous as it may be, piece of culture, something that would so clearly show everyone that you were dating him, really, actually, seriously dating him, stung more than you wanted to admit. It was like someone had asked him outright if he was taken and he’d said no.

“‘Cause I told you to wait”, he drawled, “Didn’t I? Wait ‘til you’re a real cowgirl.”

Curiosity and frustration were mixing in your stomach, a weird, dangerous combo. You grabbed for his collar, pulling on it just a bit too hard - nothing he couldn’t stand his ground against. You were feeling insulted by all this and you found that you should let him know.

“What’s a girl like me gotta do to become one in your eyes, hm, Hangman?”

Hangman. You only called him that when you meant business. It was like a mother using her child’s full name whenever it got in serious trouble. Jake stiffened, fingers digging into your hips so firmly that you were sure you’d be able to see the marks in the mirror later on. You’d hit a nerve. Always did when you called him by his callsign. No more Jake, no more baby, none of that.

“Behave”, he said, eyes fixed on yours, that one word carrying so much more meaning. You didn’t care. For once, you really didn’t fucking care. You wanted him riled up, wanted him furious, wanted him right at this breaking point. So you smiled.

“Like a dog?”

He’d smashed his lips on yours before you could react.

All teeth and tongue, decisive, possessive, angry. You didn’t want to give in as quickly as you did. But he hardly left you a choice - he was everywhere, arms wrapped so tightly around you, chest pressed so firmly against yours, not giving you the option to escape, to duck away, to tease him any further. So instead of doing that, instead of making him run after you more, you let him have the control. All of it. Instead of turning, instead of making him chase you, you pulled him close to you by his collar with all the force you could manage, pulled him into you, pulled him with you as you stumbled backwards from the sudden change of weight, put your entire trust in him to keep you upright. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to if that meant letting go.

Not with how much emotion you were putting into this fucking kiss.

Jake was the one to break away first. Pupils blown, cheeks reddened (you were sure you looked even worse), panting. You loosened your grip on his collar and ran a hand through your hair instead.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you remembered that you were still in a bar, still in the middle of the dancefloor, still under the watchful eyes of his friends. A different part was screaming at you to fuck it and fuck him right here, right now.

“Shit”, he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. His hat let a shadow fall over both your faces. “You’re gon’ be the death of me someday.”

“Hopefully not too soon”, you teased, a smile playing on your lips as he pulled back just a bit. “I still gotta find out how to become a cowgirl after all.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up as well. He raised his eyebrows, examining you for a second.

“You really wanna know, sweetheart?”

You let out a laugh. “Fuck yeah.”

He leaned in close, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, and you had to swallow. This felt intimate, somehow.

“You’re gon’ be a cowgirl once you rode your cowboy.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He pulled back with a grin. Smug, you realised. He was so fucking proud of himself for this - for having caught you off guard like that. You couldn’t let him win that easily. Not with that already inflated ego.

“All of this just to get me into your bed?”, you chuckled. “Damn, Seresin. Lotta work for no reason, hm? I’m in it at the end of every day anyway.”

He shrugged - as best as he could with his hands still on your waist.

“What can I say? I aim to please.”

You couldn’t help but grin too. The angry, sizzling tension had dissolved into something much more pleasant, much more dizzying. Something that set your skin ablaze and your mind on fire. You grabbed one of his hands from your waist and intertwined your fingers with his.

“Want to get out of here?”, you asked. He leaned in and kissed you with a smile - slow and steady and sensual, wholly different from before.

When he pulled back, you were breathless again.

“Always.”

#top gun #x reader #top gun x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #cowboy fics

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