Congrats On 5k Queen! You’re Writing Is So Brilliant Beyond Belief And You Deserve All The Love And
congrats on 5k queen! you’re writing is so brilliant beyond belief and you deserve all the love and support this site has to offer. can i request lando+angsty smut (the best combo)…prompts along the lines of “i don’t think im ever going to love anyone the way i love you”//“i don’t think i want to love anyone else”
how did it end?
ln x famous fem!reader
in which it ends, until…
i love this fic with my whole heart. thank u sm for this request, anon, and for being so absolutely for gorgeous and kind <3 kicking off the 5k celebration with a big, sad, sexy bang! lemme know what you think, hugs n kisses
songs to set the mood: how did it end? by taylor swift
warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, angst angst angst, fluff, happy ending! exes to lovers, just. a lot going on. sad!lando, sad!everyone, so many feels, r is a big deal model, alcohol consumption, mentions of smoking
4.1k words
one gasp, and then…
“how did it end?” the woman strokes your arm, soothing, tentative.
you don’t know her all that well, she’s signed to the same agency as you, you see her in the halls sometimes and sit next to her in makeup chairs.
you stare blankly at her, registering. news travels fast apparently.
you smile, small, fake, tilting your head to the side. you mumble something about different schedules, timezones, right person, wrong time. she watches your face intently, with sympathy. you want to throttle her. she’s being kind and you despise her for it right now.
“i won’t tell anyone.” she affirms, her fingers still smoothing over the skin of your arm.
yes you will, you think. all of her friends, the rest of the building will know exactly what you’ve told her by the time you get to your meeting. you don’t begrudge her, though, that’s the nature of the industry.
“well, it was good to see you.” you nod, even go in for a quick hug, and then you speed away, beelining for the elevator. the ride is short, your managers office somewhere on the third floor and you shuffle down the corridor, ready to be informed of what your life will look like for the next three months.
fittings, shoots, paris trip.
mhm.
swimwear season, charlotte tilbury, meeting with the vogue journalist.
cool.
week off, few days in london, monaco grand prix.
no.
“what? no.” you splutter. out of habit, you reach for a necklace, frown when you realise it’s no longer there.
“what do you mean, no?” she narrows her eyes at you.
“i can’t go to the race. no.”
“girl, i love you, but did i ask?”
“you know i can’t-“
“you won’t have to see him.” she reasons.
“but what if i do? he’s obviously gonna be there, and the events before and after- no. no.”
“lando norris is not gonna be the end of you.”
you stifle a laugh, one that sounds more like a strangled cry.
what if he already was?
-
look who we ran into at the shops,
walking in circles like he was lost
lando stares at the shampoo.
specifically, the one you use. used. he can’t be too sure anymore, he supposes.
he’d popped out for a loaf of bread, about an hour ago. he didn’t want to acknowledge how long he’d been staring at the women’s toiletries section.
you seemed to live on, everywhere. lando could see you in his apartment, the passenger seat of his car, the back of the garage. even the fucking supermarket wasn’t safe. you were very much alive, moving on with life, and yet you haunted him like he’d killed you himself.
perhaps he had, in a way.
the basket grazes the outside of his leg.
that’s the shower gel he’d buy for you, the one you only used when you stayed with him in monaco.
there’s the tampons you asked him to buy, crying back at home on your- his bed.
oh, and there’s the shampoo that you made him buy, the one that you told him made his curls feel extra fluffy when he was between your legs-
“lando?” a voice calls, drawing lando out of the mist.
“oh, alex. hey.” lando croaks. he hasn’t noticed the lump in his throat until now. he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.
“what you doing, mate?” alex asks, eyebrows furrowed. he scans lando’s face, puffy eyes, watery.
“shopping.”
“for women’s shampoo?”
“no, no, just… looking.” lando stutters.
“when was the last time you slept?” alex’s voice is laced with concern, apprehensive. he doesn’t know what to say to his heartbroken friend.
lando smiles weakly.
“i’ve been sleeping.”
alex sighs.
“okay, when was the last time you slept properly, then?”
lando’s shoulders visibly sag.
“about a month ago.”
-
we hereby conduct this post-mortem
“we can’t do this anymore.”
the words fall from your lips in a whisper, but they reach him like you’ve screamed them at him. he sits opposite you, in the arm chair, so far away, only a metre or so.
“i know.” lando breathes shakily.
“i don’t want this but…”
“yeah.”
it’s been such a good year. you’re in love. it’s not enough. there’s too much distance, too many outsider opinions, too much longing for someone who’s on the other side of the world.
he’ll be in london. you’ll be in brazil.
he’ll be in australia. you’ll be in amsterdam.
it’s too much.
“i love you, though.” you remind him meekly.
“don’t know how to not love you.” he sniffles.
your heart shatters, the pieces flying over the room, spilling across the floor. they mix with the splinters of his, painting the room red. all you feel is blue.
you cry in his arms when he takes you to bed, his own tears spilling over your collar bone when he buries his head in your neck, licks over the marks he’s left there. to remember me by, he’d muttered dryly.
when you’re both finished, he lays there for a moment, still on top of you. damp with sweat and tears, the taste of one another still lingering on your tongues.
“how is it possible that i miss you already?” he pants, lips grazing just below your ear.
“i get it, lan. i’ve been missing you for a while.”
you’re gone when he wakes up.
and so, a touch that was my birthright became foreign
-
come one, come all
it’s happening again
the empathetic hunger descends
there are about six cameras pointed at you when he asks the dreaded question.
you’re in new york, sat on a talk show hosts sofa, lit by stage lights and his inquisitive eyes. two hundred people sit in the audience, on the edge of their seats waiting for you to spill your secrets.
“so, what happened there, with lando?”
you plaster on the fakest smile to date, crossing your legs anxiously.
“we’re both just so busy, you know? he’s doing amazing things in f1 and i’m all over the place with work.”
“we love both of you over here, it was sad to hear.” he sympathises, adjusting his tie and leaning back in his chair. his fingers drum over the wood of his desk, waiting for more.
vultures. everyone is a vulture.
“and we still have a lot of love for each other. he’s a wonderful person.”
there are tears in your eyes and bile rising rapidly in your throat when you shake hands with the crew, the host, and retreat to your dressing room. you stumble into the en-suite and throw up. then, you fall onto the sofa and cry. you fix your makeup at godspeed and reply to the text from your team, inviting you to drinks at some rooftop bar, promising to meet them there. you punctuate the text with one too many exclamation marks, feigning excitement.
“we still have a lot of love for each other.”
translation: i can’t understand: how did it end?
-
lando watches your interview. of course he does. he watches everything that you do, watches the way you set the world on fire.
he can’t help himself where you’re concerned, like an addict craving the next hit. you look so pretty on tv, glowing. you look fine.
god, why do you look fine?
he hates himself for hating just how fine you look. he is not fine.
“he’s a wonderful person.”
your words ring in his ears. they anger him, because if he’s oh-so-wonderful, why aren’t you here? why isn’t he there with you, waiting backstage? why can’t you just hate him? why can’t he just hate you? maybe you will, if he shows you just how not wonderful he can be.
he gets drunk that night. forces max to hit the clubs with him. sticks his tongue down a pliant woman’s throat. doesn’t ask her name. let’s her invite him back to her place. it has to be her place, he can’t fuck someone else in your bed, the one you used to share. he leaves minutes after he’s pulled out. he’s sure she’s lovely, too good for him and his bitter fucking heart. he feels utterly disgusting.
lando goes home, scrubs his skin red, and then does it again. he doesn’t go to sleep, watches from his balcony as the sun begins to rise over the sea. he hikes to the highest point he can reach in monaco, where it’s quiet and there’s no one to judge him, or worse, sympathise with him.
he stands at the edge of the cliff. screams once, twice. he sits on a rock, and lets himself cry.
the deflation of our dreaming
leaving me bereft and reeling
my beloved ghost and me
sitting in a tree
d-y-i-n-g
-
your stylist is plying you with options.
you can wear the denim with the cream OR you could do the red and white? or we can go full glam! or! or! or! we could-
you drown her out. you don’t give a fuck. not a single one.
what you wear to the monaco grand prix is quite literally the least of the your problems. your biggest problem, of course, is that you have to go to the fucking thing.
visibility is important, get people talking! the words of your manager ring in your ears until you have a dull migraine brewing behind your ears.
you leave the fitting not entirely sure what you’re wearing, but your stylist will be sending the clothes over so you can pack.
when you land in all too familiar nice, there are cameras. when you get to the hotel in monaco, you and lando are already trending on twitter. well, at least he knows you’re coming. when you’re getting your makeup done before your first event, you get a text.
i’ll try and keep my distance.
try.
try is such an interesting word. the fact that he has to try to stay away makes your belly flutter with embarrassing, self loathing butterflies. don’t try too hard, you want to respond. you don’t.
should’ve told you i’d be here you shoot back.
you think i didn’t already know?
of course he knew. he’d probably asked god knows how many brands to invite you. you try and feign an illness but your team drag you kicking and screaming to the event.
-
there are no two ways about it: you’re drunk, on a tuesday night, somewhere in the principality. a few cocktails with a jewellery brand turned into a night on the town, bar hopping with people you hardly knew and barely recognised.
you’re shaking your ass in jimmy’z, pretending to have fun when you see him.
lando stands at the bar, watching you, jaw tensed, eyes solemn. you exit the club faster that his car down a back straight, stumbling into the smoking area. you bum a cigarette from a guy who tries really hard to convince you that he’s the son of a british lord, and sink into the corner, ignoring the people recording you.
depressed model shame smokes outside monaco club because she is fucking pathetic, the headlines will read.
“thought you quit that shit.” his voice washes over your body like you’ve been set on fire, smooth tone, ambiguous accent making you ache.
“i did but then i got forced to come to monaco, so.” you shrug.
“forced?”
“‘m here for work.” you sigh.
“i guess i am too.” he mumbles. you raise an eyebrow.
“you live here, lan.” you tease. lan rolls off of your tongue too sweetly.
“doesn’t feel like it anymore.”
how can it, without you? he wants to scream at you. he can’t, you don’t deserve it.
“how are you?”
you want to touch him.
“shit.”
he needs a taste.
“yeah.”
you put your cigarette out. it tastes like shit, half smoked.
you stand there, stare at each other.
take me home, you want to beg.
come home, he clenches his fists, trying not to grab you and remind you how you’ll always be his, right here, up against the side of the club.
“good luck, if i don’t see you.” you whisper. you linger, praying that he’ll beg you to stay so that you can crumble into his arms, without having to make the first move.
lando ponders his options. his head and his heart wage a war.
logic wins, unfortunately.
“thank you.”
you take that as your queue to get the fuck out of there, and disappear into the night.
-
it’s raining on sunday. the dreary weather seems to perfectly sum up what has been the worst week of your life.
you’ve seen your ex boyfriend more times than you can count, ended up with about four hangovers as a result, and with a pounding head, you have to sit in the paddock club and wait for the sound of engines to split your head in half. it was your own doing, so you’d suck it up, recognising that you were a disgustingly privileged bitch, and there are people who would sell their kidneys to do what you’re complaining about.
you never complain, not usually. but your heart hurts and your body hearts and your mind hurts and it’s just not fair. lando is gorgeous, and you miss him so badly, and your shoes are digging in. who the fuck thinks it’s a good idea to wear heels to an f1 race?
you see him before the race, mouth good luck from afar. he winks. it’s something you used to do before every race. old habits die screaming.
the rain falls harder, the track slick. you say a prayer and take your seat.
“norris has this in the bag, he’s bloody good in the wet.” you hear some old guy say behind you. you are cursed with the knowledge of just how good in the wet he is, and you end up flushed.
he wins. his second one in three races. you pray that no one notices the way you weep. everyone notices.
you make a mistake and rush for the podium, your pass giving you access. he graces the top step and you sob, grinning like a fool, soaked through with rain. the anthem plays, the champagne pops. he finds your eyes in the crowd. your hair falls, stringy and curled, mascara smudged. you are the most breathtaking sight. he stands still, washed with an onslaught of champagne, watching you like he’s scared to take his eyes off of you. his boyish grin and hopeful eyes render you weak - you’re there for him, after all - and he can’t help but bask in that little fact.
dangerous territory. you break, and disappear.
-
say it once again with feeling…
the photographers barely get a second to snap a picture of the top three, because lando is gone. he takes the stairs two at a time, descending from the podium and throwing his pirelli cap and a shaky apology at his pr rep. the adrenaline spike makes his blood rush; he needs to find you and stop you and tell you that he will never be able to stop loving you.
the exit is the natural assumption, and he nearly slips a thousand times as he sprints through the paddock. the ground is wet, but he figures that if his car made it, so can he. the gates are in sight, and so are you, your clothes sticking to your shivering frame.
he calls your name, thunderously travelling towards you, his voice hitting your ears like a sonic boom. you freeze, turn slowly until your facing him. the rain splashes around you, not letting up.
you’re within his reach, and he pulls you in, hugging you tight. you melt into him, clinging like he’s a life force. he inhales you, your scent that he’s missed so horrifically. you crumble, and so does he, pieced back together as one.
“i can’t do this, i can’t.” he kisses the words into the cold skin of your neck.
“no, neither can i.” you choke wetly with emotion.
“miss you too much. it’s too hard, it’s stupid, it’s-“
“wrong. it’s wrong. ‘m sorry.” your breath fans his face, breathing life into him, life that he’d lost four months ago.
he grabs your shoulders, lowering so that his eyes are level with yours. his curls fall over his eyes, sodden from the rain.
“i don’t think, no, i know: i’m never gonna love anyone the way i love you.” lando speaks slow, convincing. your chest is tight.
“i don’t want to love anyone else.” you croak, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe.
“come back to me.” he mutters, pleading.
“don’t think i ever left.” you breathe, hushed.
your lips slot over his easily, it’s like breathing. the kiss is messy, helpless, and he engulfs you whole, his body wrapping around yours like a blanket. you latch onto his race-suit, drawing him in, and then you both seem to remember where you are.
lando norris caught kissing ex like horny teenager in monaco paddock!
you pull away with breathless chuckle. the air is fresh, and you feel alive. he steals another peck.
“wait for me at home. i’ll be quick.” his hand finds you ass, just for a second and you scold him playfully.
home.
yeah, home.
“don’t make me wait.” you grin.
his brain short circuits.
“do you still have your key?” he splutters, refocusing.
you scoff. “never took it off the chain.”
-
you pace the apartment, taking in the space. it hasn’t changed, but it’s messier, a visual representation of lando since you left. the pit of your belly swirls with anxiety, anticipation. he’ll be back soon, and he’ll kiss you, make love to you, remind you that you’re home and that it’d be stupid to leave again.
you’re still damp from the rain, shedding layers until you’re left in your vest and jeans, ridiculous heels kicked off by the door, your jacket airing over the back of a chair.
he hasn’t taken down the pictures of you together. he hasn’t moved your ugly collection of magnets from the fridge. he hasn’t changed the blinds that you chose, but he didn’t really like. your candles sit on the bookshelf half burned, the teddy he’d won you at a fair sits neatly on the sofa. the L pendant and it’s chain is strewn over the coffee table, right where you left it the morning after it ended. your breathing is heavy.
the front door opens behind you.
you don’t move, your eyes still fixed on the silver chain, overwhelmed by how empty your neck feels all of the sudden. he comes up behind you, his head resting on your shoulder, arms finding home around your waist. you often used to find yourselves in this exact position; while you brushed your teeth, made coffee. the room is deathly silent, breathing and the distant buzz of post race festivities the only thing you can hear. lando follows your gaze.
“kept it. knew that one day, you’d come back for it.”
“i came back for you.”
“and that necklace will stay with you when i can’t be there.”
you nod. he kisses your neck.
“missed you so bad.” you gasp. he licks your skin, bites down softly.
you spin in his arms, his hands pawing at your hips and everything blurs when he kisses you.
-
shaky fingers work over zippers, buttons, clasps, and then you’re both bare. you sink into the mattress that you missed so much, his body moulded with yours when you both tumble into the sheets. this is messy and frantic, utterly lovestruck. the lightning strike of his touch has you keening, sweating beneath him already.
“missed you. missed this.”
“do something, lan.” you cry, quiet against his shoulder.
“missed my perfect girl.” he grunts, lips working your chest while his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps over your inner thigh.
“please.” you sigh when his fingers dip between your folds, sliding over your wet flesh. his lip catches between his teeth, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of you.
he thumbs at your clit, stroking over you in slow, firm swipes, and then he’s sinking a digit into you, slow and steady. your toes curl, tears pricking your eyes at the intrusion, but you don’t have much of a chance to adjust, a second finger joining the first. he fucks you full, the stretch of just two fingers making you whine, one hand threading into the sheets while the other slams over your mouth. you want to hide, the pleasure rendering you a mess across the pale grey linen.
“no, let me look at you.” lando rasps, spare hand tugging at your wrist. you whine, writhing when he curls his fingers. “why are you hiding?”
you can’t hold back the choked cry that sounds from the back of your throat, his palm bumping your clit as he grinds his fingers deep.
“gone shy on me, baby? where’s my good girl gone?” lando coos, moving so that he’s leaning over you. the angle change sends your legs flying, kicking out at the sweet torture. “‘s because you haven’t been fucked right in so long, hm? can’t remember how to behave?” he’s smirking down at you, scanning the changing lines of your face.
“need it, need-“ you stutter, the words dying on your tongue.
“words, pretty girl, words.” lando encourages, false sympathy dripping from his tongue.
“need to cum, want you to make me…” you trail off.
“was that so hard?” he tuts, and everything speeds up.
the sound of him working you so sweetly makes you shake, your thighs clenching tight around his hand. the wet squelch hits your ears and you blush, cheeks coloured deep with embarrassment, awe, desperation.
your mouth drops open, screaming silently when it hits, your thighs slick. you drip down his wrist, his hand covered in your release.
“there’s my girl.” lando sighs, diving down to kiss you hard.
you can feel the damp press of his fingers as they dig into your thighs and you squirm beneath him, finding your way into his mouth.
“fuck me.” you slur, teeth knocking with his. he swallows you whole, groaning into your mouth.
“not so shy now, hm? been dreaming of hearing you beg for it.” lando shudders, shifting between your legs.
you can feel the press of him, thick against your cunt and you wiggle your hips, pushing to meet him halfway. the stretch burns deliciously, and you grab at his shoulders, dragging him in.
“fuck, baby.” he breathes, sinking into you slowly. “feel like heaven.” disbelief coats his voice, like he can’t reconcile that this is real; you’re back here, his, in the bed you were always supposed to share.
“it’s so good. feel so good for me, lan.” you whisper, lacing your fingers through his hair.
“love you so much.” he kisses you like he means it, rocking into you with purpose.
“can’t believe i lived without this.”
“can’t believe you’re all mine.”
the release builds, every thrust reminding you of what you could have lost for good. there was no lack of love, in fact you were starting to wonder if you had loved each other too much before.
“never losing you again. can’t live without you. my beautiful girl.”
your tummy grows tight, and he finds your clit when he feels you clamp down on him. he pulls you through the pleasure, guides you to your orgasm and you blindly follow him. you’d follow him anywhere, you decide.
you tell him you love him when you let go, spilling all around him, warm. he’s panting, kisses your forehead gently. he rolls off of you, and you feel the slow drip instantly, but you curl into his side and he wraps around you.
home.
“promise me something.” he whispers. you feel the way he shakily inhales.
“hm?”
“don’t leave again. you belong here, too. with me.”
your eyes are watery.
“i’m staying. ‘m yours.”
“about that…”
lando springs from the bed, naked, disappearing from the room. you watch, confused, cold all of the sudden.
you can hear his footsteps padding through the hallway, and then he’s back, his figure in the hallway. he runs, jumps, lands gracelessly next to you. endeared, you laugh softly.
“sit up.”
you do, leaning up to sit next to him. his fingers skim your shoulder, pushing your hair out of the way. cool metal dances over your skin.
“back where it belongs.” lando smiles at you, eyes wide and stunning.
you toy with the L. something heals in your chest, right around where your heart is.
“the sweetest boy.” you shake your head in disbelief, grin up at him like a fool.
“bath?”
“you know me so well, noz.”
come one, come all
it’s happening again
-
oh, my heart. there is something deeply wrong with me
-
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More Posts from Systemicoppression and Others
the "This isn't right and I shouldn't be into this but I'm interested" ADHD moment kicking in
I just reada really good fic but halfway through I realized "oh shit this is really familiar.... didn't I write something like this once?" And as I kept reading I kept predicting what happened next and the further I went the more convinced I was that they'd ripped off my story-
like, copied the ENTIRE plot and re-written it, just better than I had? The characters were more fleshed-out than mine were, and the POV was more interesting, and the pace made more sense- but it was MY STORY?
So close to the end I was like "holy shit.. do I message them? Ask if my story inspired theirs? Should I be angry? Flattered?" Cause their tags and description didn't mention me AT ALL, which, sure, it's fanfiction to begin with, but if you're using my work than at least credit me as inspo, right? Just to be courteous?
But I get to the end of the final chapter, and it's not finished, and I'm kind of disappointed cause I never finished my story and I was really immersed in their version now and had been looking forwards to seeing how they tied up my loose ends- so I scroll to the bottom to leave a comment, and.
It's MY URL.
IT WAS MY STORY THE WHOLE TIME.
THE ONE *I WROTE*.
In *2013*.
And FORGOT ABOUT
BECAUSE I WAS SO INSECURE ABOUT MY SLOPPY, SHALLOW, AMETEUR WRITING
And I'm just sitting here now staring into space thinking about every shitty story I've ever written now like
IT WAS ALL GOOD?
IT WAS GOOD THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME??
I'M A GOOD WRITER?????
this is his ‘max verstappen’ smile. look how lovely.
I'm a patron of the arts (I save every remotely valid pin I see on Pinterest)
I’m a patron of the arts (I leave nice comments on aO3).
they matched each other's pettiness
crying so hard right now WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME
Love Potion '99
Pairing: Vampire!Oscar x Witch!Reader
Rating: PG-17
Words: 3.5K
Warnings: Fluff, Angst, it's just....I'm sorry
A/N: Happy October!!! Hope you all love it cause I haven’t written in a hot minute so yeah
Synopsis: Oscar should really pay attention to which mug he drinks
"Hey, when is it going to be ready?" Looking up from your little black cauldron, you see your coworker Oscar. Despite the vampire jokes Lando likes to crack, you and Oscar share a unique bond. You've lost count of the times you've heard those vampire and sun jokes, and Oscar's giggles always make the situation lighter.
"Should be ready soon," You smile, watching as he sits down his mug, filled with the sickly sweet smell of iron. Leaning over, he looks down at the blood-tinged potion, a swirling mixture of rare herbs and a drop of blood from a lovestruck goblin, and crinkles his nose. "Who even wants a love potion?" He grumbles, but you both know the answer. Poor Angie, a ghost who lost her boyfriend to a gorgon, and she wanted him back.
"Oscar, we're not supposed to judge our customers," you sigh as Oscar shakes his head. You can't help but feel for Angie, a ghost who lost her boyfriend to a gorgon and wanted him back. "Poor, Angie," Oscar whispers, grabbing his mug and sipping it. "I know, I know. I told her it was useless. It only works when someone has some sort of feelings for the person. She didn't want to listen," Oscar shakes his head as he leans against your work table.
"Going to the party?" He asks; your face pinches, making him smile, his fangs poking out slightly, "No, god knows I like Lando, but spending a full moon with him? No way," Oscar hums and itches his ear. The party was always a sight, a gathering of all supernatural beings. "Would," He clears his throat, "Would you like to come to my place and watch trashy Halloween movies instead?" Sticking in your spoon, you gather up the thick potion and put it in your mug, sitting it down.
"Maybe, I don't know, you know how I am with full moons," Oscar rolls his shoulders and grabs his mug, taking a huge gulp, but freezes and lowers it. "Ugh, bad batch," Putting it down, you giggle and go to grab your mug but turn to stone, seeing it empty. "Um, Oscar, don't kill me," Oscar raises an eyebrow, confused by your sudden change, and hears your heartbeat pick up. "What? I would never hurt you," He growls, insulted by the thought that he'd do anything to hurt you.
"Oscar, I think you drank my potion," you whisper, covering your mouth with your hand. Oscar's eyes widen before they narrow, and he looks down at his mug. He picks it up, sniffs it, and then looks at the one dangling from your hand. "Oh," he whispers and stares at the mug. "Oh, no," he backs away, and you squeak.
"Listen, you should be fine! As long as you don't have feelings for someone and aren't in contact with them, you should be fine," You laugh nervously as Oscar shakes his head. "Tell me you have an antidote," You fall silent at that, and his eyes about pop out. "You didn't make an antidote!" He yells, and you flinch, "She didn't ask for an antidote, and who the hell," You hiss, "DRINKS MY POTION!" You yell back as Oscar tugs at his hair. "You set the mug next to mine!" He rebukes, but you just scuff.
"Please, do not blame this on me; you are the one who decided not to check if it was the right mug!" Oscar growls and you actually freeze. Lando walks into the back, "The hell are you two yelling at each other for? We have customers in the front!' Lando growls low as you and Oscar turn towards him. "Y/n made a love potion, and she put it in a mug next to mine, and I just drank it!" "Dumbass here just drank my love potion and is trying to say it's my fault!" You both yell, Lando's eyes grow wide before he steps back. "Above my pay grade," he turns around, returning to the store's front.
"Ugh! You'll be fine anyway, Oscar. It's not like you're in love with anyone," You grumble, bottling up the last little bit for Poor Angie. Oscar glares, and you look up, mouth dropping open. "Oh god, oh god, you're in love with someone, aren't you," You whisper; you always thought so but never wanted to make him uncomfortable. "I knew it!" Oscar's eyes widen in utter horror at your words. "I knew you were in love with Lando!"
Oscar sputters, "Lando? Are you insane," He hisses, sounding like a cat, and you turn red, "Oh, oh, I was wrong," You cover your face as Oscar throws his arms up, "Fucking hell, Y/n," He voice cracking as it goes up an octave. "You know what, I just, just, I'm going to the front," He turns and stalks out of the room, leaving you in the back reeling.
------------------
"Hey," you jump, dropping all your potion books. As you turn, you see Lando leaning in your doorway. "Poor Angie is here, please hurry," He begs, and you nod, knowing that when Poor Angie starts to cry, she always bursts Lando's eardrums," Grabbing the potion, you walk into the front, and your eyes immediately find Oscar, who was helping a fairie find some herbs, he looks up and blushes quickly looking away, and you sigh, "So stupid," You grumble,
"Hi, Angie," She looks up, bottom lip wobbling as she hiccups, the windows shaking, and Lando slides on his head headphones, refusing to be laughed at by his mate, Carlos again. "Hi," She sobs, and you sit across from her. "Here's your potion. I hope it works," you whisper. She blows her nose, the windows crack, and Lando presses the headphones closer. "Thanks," She sobs and walks out, letting out a wail that has everyone inside and outside flinching as the glass spiderwebs. "Damn wailing ghosts," Lando grumbles.
You turn, freezing as Oscar stares at you intently but quickly looks away and moves fast to the back. "Sooo, drugged him, huh?" Lando teases, and you turn, glaring, "He was being dumb, mistook my potion mug as his blood mug and drank it. Not my fault," Lando shrugged his shoulders; besides, he did the research. Potion won't be broken until under a full moon and with a particular mushroom that blooms under it every 15 years, and guess what?" "It's this 15th year," "Yep," Lando popping the 'p,' making you huff.
"Also, I would keep Oscar with you, a vampire on a love potion? He'll want to bite and drain whoever he's in love with," You stare at Lando; it had not even occurred to you that a vampire on a love potion would be a disaster. "Shit, he's going to have to live with me, isn't he?" You groan, banging your head on the counter, Lando pulling his book from your head. "Hey, this isn't my fault; you're the one who decided to drug him. Your head snaps up quickly as you glare at him. "I didn't drug him; he's the one who was reckless," You hiss, stomping off as Lando giggles and follows you into the back room.
Oscar sits on his little stool, pouting as he stares at his blood mug. "Oscar, you'll have to stay with me until the full moon." Sometimes, you forget that Oscar is a vampire until he's suddenly standing in front of you, staring down at you. Backing up, your back hits the counter corner, and Oscar towers over you. "Why? I thought you said-" He closes his mouth, jaw so tight you worry it'd break.
"Oscar, stop. That looks like it hurts," you whisper, your hand reaching up and touching his jaw. Jerking away, he looks down and unclenches his fists. "I should probably go to your place, right?" His voice is soft as he leans back, giving you space. "Yes, Lando thinks it would be best," Pulling out your keys, you lay them in his palm, and a slight smile graces his lips. "Guess I'll see you at home, roomie," You feel warmth coat your cheeks as you clear your throat. "See ya,"
-----------------------
"This is so weird," Oscar whines, tugging at his hair as he stands in your bedroom. And god, he's wanted to be in this room so much, but he didn't want it to be here this way. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. How the hell do you drink from the wrong mug," He flops back, lying on the bed, and takes a deep breath but quickly sits back up. "Fucking potion, everything about you is charged now," He whispers, grabbing your blanket, wanting to take a deep breath, but stops knowing he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
"Oscar!" Sitting up fast, he rushes into the living room and sits down as you open the front door. He smiles innocently, grabbing a random book. You stop, startled by him being right there. "Hey, everything okay? You're not feeling.....bity?" Oscar's smile drops slightly, but he shrugs it off. "I'm well aware of what love potions do to vampires, Y/n," You sigh, dropping your bags and hurling yourself onto the couch beside him. "Oscar, I'm so sorry," You whimper into the pillow.
Sighing, Oscar stands and moves gently, kneeling at eye level with you. "Y/n, baby, it's okay," He curses himself. What the hell is he doing calling you baby? Stupid potion, god, the full moon couldn't come quicker. "Oscar, you drank a love potion, and now, I have to babysit you because your feelings for that person are just going to grow, and it's going to get harder to control yourself," You whisper, unable to understand the pain.
"Should've been Lando; he would've just gotten super horny," You groan, hiding your face in the pillow. "That's Lando already," Oscar reasons, pulling a giggle out of you as you look at him. "That's true," Oscar smiles, feeling his chest warm at making you feel better. "Listen, I'll be alright," You sit up, pouting. "I only have one bed," Oscar stopped breathing, not like he needed to, but still, he didn't even notice.
Shit, he was royally fucked now.
"Oh, I can sleep on the couch," He takes tiny breaths, trying to ignore the thrum of your pulse and how your scent wraps around him. "Oscar, please, you're," You wave your hand, not wanting to call him large, but Oscar was rather broad. Oscar giggles and covers his mouth, "I will be fine on the couch," "No, you and I can share a bed, Oscar. We've been friends for years; hell, I've even shared a bed with Lando," Oscar can't control the slight growl but quickly clamps it down, but you hear its eyes widening. "Sorry,"
"I like Lando, but no, thank you." Oscar feels a little bit of pride and happiness well up in him. He may have a chance with you. "Um, shit, it's close to dinner, what would you like?" "Nothing in a mug," You stare at him, not finding it funny, and he stops his goofy smile and clears his throat. "Um, too soon?" "Too soon," You pat his head, standing up and walking into your kitchen.
"Um, I can eat anything," Oscar stands, knees popping as he moves to lean against the counter, smiling. Baked chicken with mac and cheese?" Oscar nods and moves, getting everything before you can even turn. Okay, rule, no vampire speed unless asked," Oscar's cheeks get a little flushed, and you must stop yourself from getting giddy at how adorable he looks. "Sorry," he mumbles and helps you by making the coat for the chicken.
"Hey, how would you know if the potion was working? I mean, could it be you made a faulty batch?" Oscar approaches the topic carefully, not wanting to insult you and your craft. "Hmmm, it's possible; love potions are tricky; I mean, one simple ingredient could make it not work, so we just have to watch and see." You shrug, boiling the pasta as Oscar nods, chopping up some veggies. "Um, how will we know if it's working?" Setting the knife down, and looks at you.
You look up and see the worry and maybe slight terror in his eyes. Wiping your hands on a towel, you sigh and fix your shirt. "Oscar, Poor Angie asked for a powerful and potent love potion. Everything you feel for the person you like will be heightened to the extreme. It's basically your soul being consumed by that person wholly." You explain. Oscar swallows thickly and turns back to the cutting board. The sound of a knife on wood fills the silence.
"Oscar, you're going to be okay," You whisper, his body jumping, feeling your arms wrap around his waist as you hide your face in his back. "Just make it till the end of the week. Then we can go back to normal," Oscar drops his head and covers your hands with his, squeezing them. He turns and hugs you properly, burying his nose in your hair, and refuses to let you go. "Promise me, promise you won't let me hurt you," He whispers, squeezing you slightly before letting you go.
"You'd never hurt me; besides, I'm not the one you love," You pat his cheek gently and go back to the pasta, stirring it as Oscar feels his heart shatter and clears his throat. "Yeah, that's true," he whispers and goes back to helping you cook for dinner.
----------------------------
"You look like hell," If Oscar had any strength, he'd smash Lando's skull in as he pushed him into a mug filled with warmed blood. "Not a love potion, just good ol' blood." Oscar glares and goes back to hiding his face in his arms. "Must be hard, living with the women you love, and the love potion making you crazy; I'd give you props; you'd got big balls," Lando leans on Oscar's counter, and Oscar groans in response.
"I mean, if I was surrounded by her scent and shared a bed with her, I would've already bent her-" Oscar snaps, snarling and swinging his arm, Lando easily dodging and sighs heavily. "Well, guessing the potion is working," Oscar's eyes grow wide, and he sits down, dropping his head. "All I want is her; I just can't function. I wasn't able to sleep because of her pulse, fuck Lando, I wanted to bury my teeth and more in her and just," Oscar shakes his head; no, you're his friend; he has no right to think about you like that, it made him feel gross and horrible.
"Have you wanked?" Oscar quickly stares at Lando like he's grown a second head. "What? You're clearly pent up; just go wank or something; maybe it'll help," Blinking, Oscar really questions his life and why he's picked Lando, of all people, to be his best friend. "I'm in love, Lando, not in whatever it is you go werewolves go through, "You mean a-" "Don't you dare, finish that sentence," Oscar flashing his fangs as Lando holds his hands up.
"Listen, mate, maybe you should come to stay with me instead," Lando whispers as you walk past, talking with a customer about a potion to let their hair change whenever they think about it. "No, no, the thought of being away from her, it hurts so much, Lando," Oscar whimpers, biting his bottom lip and drawing blood. "Muppet," Lando sighs and grabs a tissue and dabs his bottom lip. "Osc, you can't do this to yourself. I don't think you'll make it to the full moon," Lando whispers, feeling horrible for his friend.
"I can, I can do it, and then I can go back to silently wishing I had a chance with her. But the mere thought of being away from her makes me crazy, Lando; I can't stand being away for more than a few minutes. If she's in my presence, that's fine, but away? No," Oscar shakes his head as he turns, seeing you laugh and smile with the customer. Lando sighs and ruffles Oscar's hair before patting his cheek. "Drink your blood, Oscar," Oscar nods and drinks his blood sadly.
------------------------------
"No, please, Oscar, don't do this!" You whimper, covering your mouth as Oscar pulls his mouth away, drenched in blood. "You did this. You made me this! It's all your fault!" He roars, eyes blood red as he rips into the poor woman's throat again.
"NOO!" You sit up fast, breathing rapidly as you try to suck in the cool fall air; Oscar is immediately in front, ripping a scream from your throat; he backs up, flinging himself into the wall as he stares at you. "Y/n, baby?" He whispers as you wipe the sweat from your brow, trying to calm your heart. His eyes train to your neck, and you flinch, but you immediately feel tears gather in your eyes.
"I...I..I made you into a monster," You sob, covering your mouth as tension leaves Oscar's body. "Shh, no, I'm not. I'm here; I'm still your Oscar," He whispers and climbs on the bed slowly, not wanting to push you beyond your limit. "You turned into a monster," You hiccup, wiping your eyes furiously, "It's all my fault," You sob, Oscar moving and tackling you in a hug as you bury your face in his shirt, as he shushes you, everything in him begging to get you to stop crying.
"No, no baby, it's not. It's my fault, mine. I should've been more careful," Oscar pleads, bundling you up in his arms as he scans the room, making sure nothing was in the room hurting you. "It's mine, not yours, never yours, baby." He whispers, kissing the top of your head as you cling to him tightly, your sobs slowing down. "I'm so sorry, Oscar, I'm so sorry," Oscar shakes his head and lays you both down, pressing you against his chest.
"Don't please, don't cry over me," Oscar begs, growing desperate as the potion curls in his heart, fucking potion. "I swear, I'll get that antidote, I promise," Oscar bites down hard on his lip, drawing blood again, but licks it away as he moves you two to lie down. "Can I confess something," You whisper, calming down from your nightmare. "Of course," Oscar whispers, letting the stillness of the night settle around you two.
"I wish it was me," Oscar freezes, not understanding, and lets you continue, "I wish it was me you were in love with; isn't that stupid," You laugh and cuddle closer into Oscar's hold, who stops breathing, having the urge to just blurt out the truth. It's not! It's you! I've always loved you!
"It's silly, sorry. Just let's go to sleep," you whisper, hiding your face in his chest. "No, it's not silly. I wish it was you, too," he whispers, hearing your heart rate pick up before slowing down. "Hmm, we can just dream, "You whisper. Oscar blinks fast, blinking away the tears that have gathered. "Yeah," His voice breaking before he clears his throat. "Goodnight, Osc," Oscar stares at the ceiling, whispering a broken goodnight.
-----------------------
"Happy Full Moon," Lando chuckles, as Oscar looks far more like death. This has been the longest week of his life, and two nights ago, after what you said, he barely functioned, just moving through life the past two days like Poor Angie. "Lando, should I tell her?" He whispers, stirring his blood mug; Lando stares at his friend, heartbreaking, remembering when he went through his heartbreak with his girlfriend. "I don't know, buddy, it's up to you if you tell her," The door opens, and you walk in smiling so bright Oscar fears it'd burn him like the sun.
"I found it! The mushroom blossomed last night, so I made the antidote, tada!" You hold out the shimmering navy blue vial that makes Oscar's heart drop. "Oh," He whispers, throat so tight he can't breathe, which is silly, considering he's already dead. "Yeah, but I contacted Charles, and he said the only downside is that it'll wipe all traces of feelings of romance you have for the person, so here," You place it in his hand and walk away.
"Fuck, man." Oscar stares at the vial as Lando curses softly and shakes his head. "Oscar, it'll wipe everything, are you sure," Lando whispers, seeing and practically hearing Oscar's heart just break. "Hey, can you go get something for me?" Oscar asks, Lando nodding his head. "Um, under my desk, there's a picture of Y/n. Can you get rid of it for me?" Lando sighs, not saying anything as he walks away.
Going into the back, Lando quickly finds the picture, pulls it out, and stares in shock as if it were Oscar and Y/n as little kids. Oscar was clearly human, a cute little boy with the same hair as of now smiling brightly next to you. "Jesus, fuck, you've known her since you were human," Lando whispers and walks out.
"Goddamn, Osc, you never told me you've known her since- no," Lando whispers, seeing the empty vial and Oscar chugging his blood. "Hey, we better hurry up; we've got customers," Oscar smiles, teeth stained red as Lando nods, ripping up the photo and tossing it in the trash. "Hey, Welcome to Potion '99!" Lando smiles as the door dings.
Atleast you kissed the brick before you threw it at me
Mon Soleil
Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader
Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)
The door shuts softly behind him.
That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.
Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.
He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.
That’s where you are.
Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.
Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.
“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.
You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.
“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.
He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.
“You’re home early,” you murmur.
Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”
Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”
He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”
“Did you win?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.
He closes his eyes.
“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”
“Sounds like a dream job.”
Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”
You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.
“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”
You blink.
He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”
Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”
“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”
He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”
“You’ve said no to a lot.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”
You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.
“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”
“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”
There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.
You look at him. “You’d want to?”
He hesitates.
“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”
That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.
He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”
“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”
You shrug.
He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”
You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”
He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’re usually not.”
“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”
You look at him for a long time.
There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.
“I wrote today,” you say finally.
His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”
“I want to read them.”
You raise a brow. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
“I’m not ready.”
He doesn’t push. “Okay.”
You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”
Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”
The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.
“How long are you home for?” You ask.
“Five days.”
“Before Spain?”
“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”
Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”
“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.
“Charles-”
“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”
You swallow.
He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.
“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.
You nod.
So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.
In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”
You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”
“Especially when you’re quiet.”
He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.
“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”
You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I always come back to you.”
And in the hush of the room, you believe him.
He holds you closer.
Outside, Monaco sleeps.
Inside, he dreams only of you.
***
The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.
Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.
He glances over at you.
“You sure?” He murmurs.
You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.
“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”
The door opens.
The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.
You step out first.
And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.
But it’s enough.
The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.
There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.
“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”
You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.
Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.
You watch him go.
He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.
The memory hits like a whisper.
***
It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.
He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.
He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.
You turned.
He held it out. “You forgot this.”
You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”
“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”
You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”
“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”
You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”
He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”
You nodded.
That was it. That was the moment it began.
Not with a spark. But a softness.
***
Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.
“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.
He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”
You nod slowly. “You sure?”
“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”
The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”
You smile. “I know.”
But it doesn’t last.
After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.
“Charles, Charles, one question?”
He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.
The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”
Silence.
For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.
Then, “No comment.”
You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.
He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”
The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.
He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.
The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.
You stare out the window.
He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”
“I know,” you say, too quickly.
“But it didn’t sound like-”
“I know, Charles.”
Another pause.
“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”
You nod. “It never is.”
He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not. But it’s true.”
There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.
Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”
You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”
“I know that.”
You exhale, soft. “Do you?”
He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”
“And I want you honest.”
His jaw tightens.
You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”
“I hate it.”
“Me too.”
The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.
The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.
You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.
You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.
“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”
You swallow.
His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”
“I know.”
His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”
“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”
Your eyes search his.
He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.
“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”
You kiss him first.
And then everything slows.
There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.
He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.
His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.
“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”
“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”
He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.
When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”
You shake your head. “You were scared.”
He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”
“You have me.”
He nods.
Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.
He says it again, barely audible.
“Mon soleil.”
And you fall asleep knowing he means it.
***
It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.
He stays still for a moment.
Watches you.
You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.
He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.
Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.
But it’s not the book that stops him.
It’s the manila folder on the desk.
The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.
He tells himself not to look.
Then he does.
Just one page, he promises.
Then two.
Then-
A line.
To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.
Charles stops breathing for a second.
The words blur.
He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.
There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.
He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.
Charles exhales, long and slow.
He reads on.
The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.
He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.
You see him.
You always have.
And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.
So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.
***
Letter one.
Found tucked inside your book the next morning.
I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.
***
Letter two.
Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.
Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.
***
Letter three.
Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.
I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.
***
He doesn’t sign them.
Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.
You’d know his handwriting anywhere.
***
The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.
It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.
You don’t say anything.
You just … sit with it.
Read it twice. Three times.
Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.
When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.
He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”
“Still early,” you murmur.
“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”
“Maybe.”
He grins. “Lucky me.”
You lean in and kiss him.
It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.
When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”
You shrug. “Felt like it.”
He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”
So you do.
***
That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.
But something’s shifted.
You start noticing the notes.
They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.
And still, you don’t mention them.
Because that’s the thing about Charles.
He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.
But when he loves — it’s quiet.
***
A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.
“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.
You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
You smile. “No new ones today.”
He feigns offense. “That you found.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”
“I do.”
There’s a pause.
“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”
“I know.”
He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”
“I thought you were shy.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”
He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”
You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”
He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”
“I still do.”
He swallows hard.
***
Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.
Letter four.
I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.
You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.
He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.
***
A few days later, you call him out of the blue.
He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”
You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
There’s a pause. Then:
“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.
You blink. “Stop what?”
“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”
Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”
He lets out a breath. “Okay.”
You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”
“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”
***
That weekend, he comes home.
No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.
You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.
“Hi,” you say.
He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.
Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”
You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”
“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”
You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”
He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”
You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”
He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”
You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”
He nods. “I will. One day.”
But until then-
The notes are enough.
***
He sounds like someone else on the phone.
The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.
“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”
You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”
“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.
You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
“Charles, look at me.”
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”
And that’s all it takes.
You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.
And underneath it all: him.
Raw. Alone.
Not anymore.
***
By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.
He doesn’t see you at first.
He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.
His whole face shifts.
Like breathing after holding it too long.
He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.
“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.
You nod. “Of course I am.”
He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”
He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.
And then-
His arms are around you.
Just like that.
He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”
“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”
“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”
You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”
His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”
“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.
Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.
“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”
***
That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.
He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.
You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.
“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.
He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”
“You don’t.”
“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”
He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.
“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.
You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.
“Because I love you,” you say simply.
His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.
“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”
You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”
And he does.
He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.
“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”
You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.
“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”
His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.
“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”
Your heart stutters.
“I’d catch you,” you breathe.
His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.
When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”
He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”
“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”
He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”
You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”
He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”
***
And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.
Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.
His handwriting, scrawled but certain.
You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.
You don’t cry.
But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.
Where all the others live.
***
The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.
Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.
He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.
You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s just true.”
Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”
He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”
He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”
***
The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.
Not once.
You step out of the car together, and everything slows.
You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.
Not just affection. Not even pride.
A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.
It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.
Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.
You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.
“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”
And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.
“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.
He grins. “You run, I follow.”
A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.
“Is this your girlfriend?”
“Are you official?”
“When did it start?”
Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.
A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.
The world sees it.
And for once, you let them.
***
Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.
Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.
You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.
“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.
Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”
You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.
“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.
“Good,” he murmurs.
You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”
He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”
There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”
He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”
You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.
Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.
A ring.
Small. Delicate. Not flashy.
Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.
One for his birth month. One for yours.
Not a proposal.
But something more sacred, somehow.
A promise.
“Charles-”
“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”
He takes your hand.
“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”
He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.
“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”
He cups your cheek.
“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”
You’re crying before you can stop it.
He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.
“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.
“You are my world.”
You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”
His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”
You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.
“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”
He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”
***
Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.
He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.
And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.
It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.
When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.
Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.
Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.
You glance up. “What?”
He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.
“Mon soleil.”
You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”
“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”
You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.
“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.
“And?” You murmur.
He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.
“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.
You turn to look at him.
“That I revolve around you.”
The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.
You lean into him and close your eyes.
And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.
Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.
It’s you, glowing.
And him — right where he’s always been.
Yours.
not to be dramatic but I would die for him
Oh he’s everything to me
The Honda Odyssey
Logan Howlett / The Wolverine x Reader Summary: The car fight reimagined and it only needed to be like 10% more erotic than the original.
6k words - I got carried away. I just love Wolvie so much. I'm so happy Logan is getting the love he deserves. Long live the Wolverine renaissance. T-T
Warning: smut, p in v, ass play, foul language.
If you had to pinpoint a moment when your life became the shit show it had steadily developed into, you’d say it was the moment you auditioned for X-Force.
In your tenure as besties with Wade Wilson, it's fair to say things hadn’t gone smoothly. The man was a conduit to all things fucked up, but you adored his loose morals and quick mouth. The idiot in red had weaselled his way into your heart and became something of a brother to you and more recently a roommate.
Now, if you’d have told your younger self you’d be in your late twenty’s sharing an apartment with a burn victim who regularly staples a toupee to his fucking head and a coke-head, blind, old African American woman, you’d have laughed in their fucking face.
So, you’d like to think that as these things go you are pretty damn well adjusted but traversing the multiverse was a bit of a stretch, even for you.
One moment you’re at Wade’s surprise party, the next your ass has been zapped to the TVA and you’ve been given a sacred mission; to accompany Marvel Jesus (Wade) and protect the sacred timeline.
Naturally you’re fucking mind blown, you’re a low-level mutant, fuck, you couldn’t even join the X-Men. Your particular set of skills were a dime a dozen and your flagrant disregard of rules had made you a ‘poor candidate’.
No, the mutant powers you had been graced with weren’t extraordinary by any means. You were basically an off-brand Captain America, just without the gorgeous cheekbones, patriotism and righteous need to do good.
In layman terms, you are strong as shit and have an accelerated healing factor. Not quite the same level as Wade’s mind you. You have, give or take, an inconvenient five-minute turnaround on the more fatally debilitating wounds.
To say you were unqualified was an understatement and to say you were reluctant was a simple fact. A fact you repeated, loudly to anyone that would listen as you were bathed in rich black leather.
“I think maybe you meant to grab negasonic teenage whatchacallit… she’s great, super powerful!” You continue. “Did you mean to get Domino or Colossus or maybe one of the X-Men? “
“No Miss Y/L/N. We have not got the wrong person for the job.” The man you later find out is called Paradox, calls out as you re-enter the operation headquarters. “Mr Wilson requested your presence; he wanted your assistance on his mission.”
“Y/N/N… ten out of ten, baby girl, I one hundred percent would bang. I’m talking raw dog, Barry White on a rug, let’s go all fuckin’ night.” Wade hollers in his own brand-new suit and even you must admit, you look fucking amazing. “Sweet angel, we’ve just gotta’ come up with a superhero name for you!”
You are enrobed in rich thick black and teal leather, your first ever hero suit and it’s a fucking good one. It doesn’t cling, but instead pulls you in securing your flesh and extenuating curves, ones you hadn’t entirely realised you had. The bottom half your face is concealed with a mask, carefully crafted to follow the contours of your nose and cheekbones.
You’d barely recognised the mysterious figure in the mirror.
“Right?! Tailor was pretty handsy though!”
“Oh yeah, ha! - that man is indeed a predator.” Wade says with a chuckle and a fond sigh.
It shames to you to say but that’s when you stopped fighting this whole thing. You looked the part of a hero; you thought that maybe the TVA knew what they were doing. That they had seen something in you and knew that you had a good heart under all the darkness that lingered on the surface.
Wrong.
You were just a demand Wade had made. He wanted his number one disciple at his side whilst he carried out his sacred mission. You were part of an attempt at appeasing him whilst they destroyed your timeline.
Little more than a pawn to be used whilst they manipulated him into a false sense of security.
Thus, you were thrown into a series of events far beyond your control when Wade being Wade decided you were hunting down a Wolverine to stabilise the timeline, only to be once again fucking zapped into some place they called the void by that little English shitbird named Paradox. It’s entirely accurate to say that you were a little less sturdy than your compadres.
Unfortunately for you, the fall from such a height into the void was fatal. When you finally awake in the desolate wasteland to the sounds of blades clashing it is disorientating to say the least.
Forcing yourself to your feet you lower your mask and gasp in the sweet strangely stale oxygen as you stretch out your newly healed spine with a groan. It was impossible to tell how long you were out as you take in the scene before you; Wade and the Wolverine are engaged in a heated battle. From the looks of it, Logan is winning this fight despite being the human equivalent of a knife block with Wade’s katanas protruding from his chest.
For a moment you pause, perhaps its head trauma that hasn’t healed (He’s fucking Deadpool, he can look after himself for two minutes) and appreciate his form, the Wolverine the two of you had kidnapped was gorgeous. Tch, as if there was any other kind.
Sure, you were biased you’d always been somewhat of a fangirl, but the Wolverine was objectively breath-taking.
You’d indulged in comics whilst growing up but when you found out he was real and looked the way he did, hell, Wolverine was your sexual awakening. He was the first man to make you feel that tingle in your lower stomach. Yes, you may have been thirteen years old, a ball of puppy fat and social anxiety but you’d been waiting for him ever since.
You’re snapped out of your reverie when Wade loses baby knife in Logan’s shoulder blade, finally you spring into action. In good time as well as you’re not sure if even Deadpool can survive decapitation.
In the singularly most stupid act of your life you throw yourself in front of your friend’s body. “Wait, Wait! Please!”
Wade has paused behind you, you can feel him weighing up the situation, pausing for a moment to see what you’re going to pull out of the bag.
“The TVA they can fix it, whatever you did, whatever made you the worst Logan, they can fix it! – They have the power to end universes, but they also have the power to fix yours! Help us get back there and we can fix both of our worlds! I promise, they can fix it.” You plead, it’s not quite a lie exactly, more of an Educated Wish than anything.
Okay it is a lie, but you’re sure that the TVA can most likely, probably, maybe fix his world.
Logan’s eyes lock with yours in that moment you can see that he wants to kill you both and be done with it, but that hope won’t let him. You feel a smidgen of guilt for the deceit, but frankly you’ve done worse for less. Your world was on the line it wasn’t the time to pull your punches.
Fast forward four exhausting hours, two periods of unconsciousness and one flaying to find yourself sat opposite Wade gagging down cold spoonful’s of Spam in some dusty ass diner.
You were no better than a man as you watched the Wolverine.
Those arms, those thighs, the way he had beheaded Sabretooth without even breaking a fucking sweat. You wanted him to wrap those instruments of death he called hands around your throat and fuck you dirty until the sun came up.
It had been a long exhausting day and you had been soaking wet for most of it.
Shit, could he smell that? Does that count as sexual harassment? You’d have to ask Wade.
Logan, however, was utterly dismissive of your advances in the face of what was undoubtedly utterly horrific past trauma. Something you were trying to be understanding about, but self-pity in a man, it just turned you on. I said you had some surface layers of darkness.
Unable to help yourself you gaze at him as he opens a bottle of rubbing alcohol. You are utterly entranced, watching the thick chords in his throat bob as he takes a swig.
That tanned skin where his jaw ends and neck begins, slick with sweat and dirt. You’d love to sink your canines into the strip below his ear. He must feel your stare on him as he looks up and catches your eyes dark with lust already surveying his person.
It should embarrass you, that every time he peers your way, he catches you gaping at him like a lovesick puppy, but there’s something about Logan you can’t quite put your finger on. The man heats your blood like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, maybe it’s that torch you’ve carried for him since girlhood, maybe it’s the thick thighs you’d kill to ride – who can say for sure?
In what you assume is against his better judgement, he comes to perch on the booth beside you. His broad shoulders cast an imposing figure as he gets close enough that if you were to move your hand a couple of inches to the right, you’d finally be able to touch that yellow fabric that plagued your tween dreams.
You’re burning up at the thought of him, unable to stop yourself you part your legs slightly to ease some of the pressure. Logans nose twitches, his head swivels your way and his eyes catch your own.
Welp - at least you have your answer about him smelling your arousal.
Deciding that you were most likely verging on sexual harassment charges you decided to focus back in on the task at hand, gagging once again at another spoonful of spam.
“Be a good girl and swallow, Y/N/N, you know the rules!” Wade jokes, your chortle was your only response. What could you say? He always hit your funny bone despite the ocean that was raging in your panties.
Logan stares at Wade for a long moment before turning to your way and addressing you for maybe only the fourth time today?
“What are you doing with this fucking clown? You his sidekick? Following him round to laugh at his stupid fucking jokes whilst he gets kids killed?”
“Why I have never.” Wade is faux outraged at his words, clutching his imaginary pearls as the Wolverine throws around accusations that aren’t entirely untrue.
The Wolverine’s expression remains stern as his eyes track your face. They seem to be evaluating your character and from the flare in his nose and crease in his brow you can guess he finds you lacking. You’re embarrassed to admit how much that deflates you, so you do what you do best; you deflect.
“I could follow you around and laugh at your jokes instead, if you like?” When you speak your voice has a sultry edge to it and there’s no mistaking your intentions.
Logan seems to think on your proposition for a second or two, before he huffs grabs his rubbing alcohol and unopened can of Spam and heads over to sit at the bar.
“Holy hot ham and cheese on rye, Y/N, you fucking slut.” Wade berates you though his voice is as light as it’s always been as he boots your shin under the table. “Trying to your holes filled by Wolvie during a world saving mission, Marvel H Christ, stay on fucking task!”
You swear you hear Logan mutter a Jesus Christ from the bar.
Though as Wade continues irritating the hero hunched against bar, you can’t help the realisation that he didn’t say no.
“You’re uh… well regarded in our world.” Wade complements, being real doesn’t come easy to him. You appreciate the effort.
“Well, I’m not shit in mine.”
“I tried to join the X-Men because of you.” You speak up finally joining their conversation. Wolverine’s back goes rigid, but he doesn’t respond. You’re not sure if he’s waiting for you to continue or hoping you’ll stop. “You made a difference to this world, made me think I could do the same. I just never quite make the cut.”
Logan doesn’t seem to have a response.
It seems your words have an effect as you catch him watching you more often. When Wade makes his jokes, he looks to you for validation of his withering looks.
You’re probably more distracted by this revelation than you should be when the three of you come across a real nasty variant of Colossus seeking out Wade for… you want to say… revenge?
The not-so-gentle-anymore-giant flips the Honda and tosses both Wade and Logan through the treeline as they advance on him as if they were little more than toys his mother had asked him to pick up.
One by one your bullets ricochet from his metal skin as he comes towards you. You aren’t built for this fight; you are completely and utterly outmatched.
All you’re doing at this point is buying yourself some time for your backup to pull themselves from the rubble, however during a particularly spirited cartwheel the metal oaf finally gets his hands on you. Colossus’ metal palm is cold on your throat, and you could swear you hear your neck snapping before you feel it.
With a gasp you return to life to find a slightly dishevelled Logan standing above you. By the grace of god, his sleeves have been worn away in the fight, his arms, oh sweet lord, his arms are on full display.
“Thought you were a goner.” He offers you a hand when you simply stare mutely his way. Locking your fingers around his wrist he pulls you to your feet. You don’t release your hold on him and neither does he.
“Don’t throw the party just yet, eh?” You joke weakly, for a second you could swear there’s a slight raise of the corner of his mouth, imperceptible, if you didn’t know what you were looking for. In the past few hours you had become an expert on Wolverine’s face.
Your mouth is dry as you take in his thick sweat laden biceps.
“Where’s Wade?” You query whilst rolling your aching neck as you haven’t heard his voice in a record thirty seconds, Logan suddenly remembers himself and drops your hand.
“’fraid Metal man took your clown, was pissed with him and can’t say I blame the guy.”
“Shit.” You sigh rubbing your temples as you kneel to pick up the dismembered arm of your best friend. “Well – fuck. That’ll take him a few hours at least to grow back – He’ll be so sad about his suit.”
You peel the fabric from the limb and tuck it under the breast plate of your own suit. Wade will want his glove back when it grows back.
“He say where he was taking him?”
“Oh yeah, that along with his plan for world domination...” Logan huffs as if your mere presence annoys him.
“Thought you didn’t like sarcasm.”
“I like sarcasm just fine, Bub. It’s you I don’t like.” You can’t help but smile his way at the comment made at your expense, his brows crease. “You’re a strange one.”
“Can you do your sniffy thing?” Its impressive, you thought he’d reached the limit with his scathing looks towards Wade, yet he somehow manages to pull a deeper frown out the vault especially for you.
“Sniffy thing?” His words are spoken with such derision, it turns you on a little. You realise that perhaps you are in fact a deeply troubled individual.
“Oh, sorry.” You pretend to clear a frog in your throat. “Please, oh, please, beautiful, handsome Wolverine, please can you locate my bestest pal with your heightened sense of smell?” His face doesn’t break despite your hands clasped in front of your chin.
“You’re just as fucking annoying as that moron.” He huffs “Get in the fucking car, we’ll follow his trail.”
“You can smell him from the car?”
“The blood, Jesus Fucking Christ, there’s a trail of blood.”
“Ah.” Is all you reply as you find your seat in the passenger side and start your own one on one team up with Wolverine. Its not exactly the way you imagined it, but beggars certainly can’t be choosers.
After a few moments of sullen silence, you decide that there’s no time like the present to form a long-lasting bond.
“What’s your world like?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Okay... What’s the first thing you’re gonna’ do if they can save your world? I bet its something boring as fuck, like team-“
“What did you just say?”
“I bet you’re gonna do something boring like-“
“No before that.”
“What’s the first thing you’re gonna’ do if they save your world?” You question, his sudden interest in your words takes you by surprise as he has been vacant from your conversation.
The breaks suddenly shriek as the car comes to a stop.
“What do you mean if?”
“I…”
“You said they could fix my world. Undo it all, is what you fucking said.”
“I mean I think they can!”
“You fucking liar.” The edge to The Wolverine’s voice is terrifying. The realisation trickles down your spine, Logan has been nice to you all this time, you’re finally meeting The Wolverine.
“I didn’t lie!” For some reason you’re ashamed of your deceit, you’ve murdered countless people and still, you’ve felt less remorse. Logan’s eyes pin you in your seat as disgust clouds his face. It hurts more than you can fathom. “Not exactly, I think they can fix your world! – I needed your help and if you killed Wade there was no hope for my universe!”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your universe!” He spits your way; his hands are gripping the wheel in what seems like an effort to keep his cool.
“I know, but I do!” You cry back at him. “You know how to save the world, you’re the fucking Wolverine! I know how to kill people, but this hero shit, this isn’t me!”
“Ha! No shit.” There is pure hate in the man’s eyes as he stares back at you.
“Please, you’re Logan. Whether you’re the worst one or not - You’re still better than me.”
“Get out of the fucking car.” The words come from between clenched teeth and are filled with warning.
“No – fuck you.” Your rage breaks the banks to meet Logan’s. Perhaps it’s the guilt, maybe it’s the fear for Wade but something within you snaps at his constant bad temper. “It was an educated guess and a fucking reasonable one at that, get the fuck over yourself you big bird wannabe geriatric fucker! “
He slams his palms on the steering wheel, his nose flares and his teeth clamp together. “Fuck me? Fuck you – you sad pathetic excuse for a side-kick. No wonder the X-Men wouldn’t take you, and they’ll take fuckin’ anyone. You are a ridiculous, immature, moron who spends her days following around a fucking clown to avoid facing the reality that you are no one. I have never met a sadder, more attention starved asshole in my entire life. You were right about one thing, you’re no fucking hero.”
Its shameful the way your stomach drops, and your eyes involuntarily begin to tear. To hear your hero say the words you’ve thought about yourself whilst laying awake at night. It’s a knife to the gut.
“Nothing to fucking say, huh, Angel?” The use of Wade’s nickname for you is like sandpaper on your skin, it rubs you the wrong fucking way.
“I am going to hurt you now.” Your voice is barely a broken whisper.
“You’re going to hurt – “His faux chortle is cut short by a swift punch to his face. You’re worried you may have been overzealous with your swing when his nose begins bleeding. The Wolverine is stunned for only a moment before he grabs the back of your neck and proceeds with smashing your face into the dashboard and those concerns are quickly put to bed.
The old fucker is strong, but you don’t think he’ll kill you, yet another educated wish.
“Not so tough now…” He shouts as the radio channels change with your skull. Pulling a knife from your leg strap you embed it in his thigh and pull the lever to recline your seat whilst he’s distracted, luckily, you’re not there when he swings for retribution.
Though one of his fucking steak knives catches your upper arm slicing through the leather. Warm blood trickles down your arm, staining the beige interior of the poor Honda.
Your legs are your strongest asset, so when he attempts to restrain you with the seatbelt, you are presented with your window of opportunity. You wrap them around his neck as you pivot your hips slamming the Wolverine headfirst into the metal of the door. Once, twice, three times - on the fourth he lands a fist to your gut, luckily, he has retracted his claws.
If he was willing to kill you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.
You’re winded struggling to catch your breath from the gut punch, but you manage pull the knife from his thigh that is nestled between your legs and thrust it into his neck, you aim for the spot you’d fantasied about kissing before he’d torn your character apart piece by piece, now you just want to bathe in his fucking blood.
It was the pain that instantaneously made his claws extend. He’s quick to move them, though he slices through the sides of your suit as he buries them in the chair behind you. Your ribs are a bloodied mess though you don’t care, in a few hours they’ll be good as new.
Logan has seized the opportunity and has your arms pinned to your sides, his blood has cooled a little more than yours, he doesn’t seem to want to murder you over an argument.
Perhaps he’s more well-adjusted than yourself, that thought alone should concern you, except it just enrages you further.
“You stupid fuckin-“The Wolverine starts admonishing you, before you swing your head forward and headbutt him.
Yes.
You really do that.
You headbutt the man with the adamantium fucking skeleton– at full strength. Its sheer dumb luck you don’t crack your own skull in the process– maybe Logan was right, you are fucking dumb.
“Fucking fuck!” You cry grabbing your forehead and writhing. Noone wins with a headbutt, except Logan apparently.
“Fucking stop that.” Your writhing has pushed your core against his crotch, and he is already packing quite the heat at what feels like half-mast. He grabs your hips to stop your movement, but it only seems to push you closer. “Stop fucking moving.”
The constant arousal you’ve felt since meeting him returns in double time, Logan’s nostrils flare and his eyes darken. It’s debased and you’re ashamed that you want him, you haven’t stopped wanting him, despite the awful fucking words that left his mouth minutes ago.
“Like … a little pain Wolvie?”
Its relief you feel, you think, when instead of answering or punching you in the face, he closes the gap.
The Wolverine’s claws retract, and he grabs at your chin. Logan’s mouth utterly devours your own, your front tooth clashes with his own as you push yourself upwards, you pull your knife out of his neck, catching his grunt of pain on your tongue as you begin licking your way down his thick throat.
The vein you’d spotted hours ago is throbbing freshly healed, you sink your canines into the flesh and its as good as you’d fucking imagine. His groan is utterly beast-like as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.
The Wolverine’s throat tastes like salt and iron. Thick, tangy and warm on your tongue as you soothe the bite. It drives Logan wild, thrusting his hardened member against your warmth. One of his gloved hands rises to lock on the back of your neck to pull you into yet another earth-shattering kiss. His sharp hot tongue slides against your own, exploring the expanses of your mouth like its his to claim.
You bite at him again then, your teeth catching his bottom lip sharply. Logan groans into your mouth before you use every ounce of your enhanced strength to throw him backwards against the dashboard.
He is taken utterly by surprise as his head slams into the windscreen cracking the glass with a grunt. When he looks your way Logan’s eyes are blackened with desire, he is utterly wild.
Slowly as if afraid to make any sudden moves, you unzip your combat boots, your eyes never leaving his. One boot and then the next.
You thank the TVA’s tailor for making your suit a two piece as you shuffle backwards into the backseat, pushing the thick leather down your legs all whilst maintaining eye contact with the beast leaning against the dashboard.
“You sure you want this Darlin’?”
“Darlin’?” You question mockingly, your voice lowering to imitate his own, as you wantonly spread your legs, your bare leg resting next to the headrest. Only a pair of black cotton panties separate him from your most intimate parts and his eyes are locked on your clothed core. “a second ago it was ‘Pathetic Moron’ to you.”
Your head tilts in question as his eyes lock back on your own, you think perhaps for a moment something akin to regret passes over his face, but you’ve never been entirely comfortable with feelings, so you drop your hand into the waistband of your panties, you’ve barely circled your opening with your pointer finger before he’s on you.
“That’s my job, you fucking Moron.” He plunges two bare thick fingers into your heat. Gasping you throw your head back against the headrest, it’s a tight fit and its been a while but the slight burn eases some of the aching in your core. “You’re fuckin’ soaking wet, you like it huh, bub? Making me bleed?”
Your grab his jaw, your nails digging into his flesh. “I’d like to bathe in-” He scissors his fingers finding that spot inside you and you let out an embarrassing noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “-Your fucking blood… you mean motherfucker.”
You’re an absolute goner when he starts rubbing your clit, after a day of foreplay your body seizes, and you grab at the nape of his neck trying to find something to anchor you down. But as fast as the build was you come tumbling down just as quickly, when he cruelly withdraws his hands.
“No! - Wha- what the fuck?!” You’re almost crying as your torn from the precipice.
Logan flips you over onto your stomach before you can complain any further, your face down on the filthy upholstery as he pulls your panties from your hips. You can’t see him from this angle, though you can feel his warm hands tracing the globes of your ass.
You force your knees further apart, pushing your bare soaking pussy against the tight bulge of his yellow suit. If you had enough of your facilities about you, you’d be embarrassed that you’re currently rubbing your cunt against The Wolverine like a bitch in heat after he’d chewed you out only minutes ago.
Logan’s hand dip between your thighs, his fingers swirl along your hole, dragging your wetness along to your aching clit.
“You think I’d make it that easy?” He asks as he continues the journey back and forth. On the second pass he dips his finger inside of you for a fraction of a second before resuming its path. “What do you want, darlin’?”
You weren’t going to beg, in fact you bit your tongue to stop the traitorous words from forming, this man had already made you abandon most of your self-respect, he wasn’t having this.
“Logan…” At your breathy words the man leans forward, pressing his fabric covered cock into your ass as he folds his body over yours. One hand comes down next to your shoulder, the other explore your tits as he rocks himself into your throbbing core. It’s the perfect storm as he nuzzles into your exposed throat but somehow you manage your words. “Fuck me or don’t, I’m not begging, bub.”
He exhales through his nose in what you guess is equal parts amusement and annoyance, but you’re far beyond caring. He places a bite on the spot where your throat meets your shoulder as his body pulls back. Momentarily his hands leave your hips to deal with his own pants. You hear the clank of his belt hitting the car floor moments before you feel the head of his cock, running along your folds.
The head of his cock is thick, and it feels hot to the touch as he runs it along your slick. All of a sudden Logan pushes forward and sheathes himself inside of you with a single thrust.
You try your best to hold in your incoherent moans but to little avail as he pulls back before slamming full force back into you. If you were a human woman, your pelvis would’ve shattered from the force of his hips against your ass, instead you gather your strength and push back, allowing him deeper. The both of you moan in unison at the depth he reaches.
You grab onto the foam of the seat, ripping through the fabric with your bare hands desperate for an anchor as Logan unforgivingly pounds into you from behind, once again he folds his body over yours, wrapping a palm around your clawed fingers.
“.” He grunts something incoherent into your ear as he picks up the pace, slamming into you repeatedly, slowly picking up his pace. Your core is positively aching as you throb around him, pulling him deeper within you. If you were expecting any further explanation, you’re sorely disappointed.
The wolverine pulls back, gripping at your hips keeping you still as he resumes his powerful strokes. Logan’s hand dips to your clit, rubbing quick circles sending you barrelling back towards your orgasm. As you begin to clench around him, he pulls your body upwards, his head brushing against the top of the car as he holds you against him his fingers never leaving your clit.
“Come on my cock, Angel.” Unable to stop yourself you clench around him, hearing him talk like that does something primal to you.
You fucking loved Logan’s mouth, you bet he ate pussy like a champion if he played the clit this fucking well.
You stopped fighting it and threw yourself from the cliff, shattering in his thick muscle veined arms as he held you up against him, his cock still viciously plundering your depths.
“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispers against your neck whispers peppering it with bites.
Logan gives you a few moments to come down from your high before he resumes his punishing pace, you think perhaps you’ve reached your limit of pleasure, that the threshold can’t possibly be topped until he whispers into your ear in that gruff voice.
“What was it Wilson said? Filling all your holes?” The Wolverine asks, his eyes meet yours over your shoulder meaningfully, asking permission as he offers you his thumb. You merely moan your approval and wantonly draw his finger into your mouth, soaking the pad in saliva.
Logan yanks your head into a vicious kiss. It’s a messy one, filled to the brim with need. The hand not currently locked on your neck holding your face to his, travels down your back, through the valley of your bodies. The pad of his pinky runs appreciatively over the globe of your ass, before his hand dips into the crease.
Logan’s thumb runs teasingly against the tight ring of muscle, it’s a foreign experience which makes you startle slightly.
“Anyone ever fucked you here?” He asks as he bites down your neck, delicately pushing you forward until your head rests on the backseat. You shake your head as your eyes close, his cock is buried balls deep within you as he plays with your asshole.
When his thumb finally breaches your tight hole just past the nail, he begins his thrusts once more. His cock fills your pussy from behind and suddenly you feel so fucking full, Its far too much for you.
“Fuck… Logan.” You gasp almost on the verge of tears as pounds you into the back seat. It seems the ass play has gotten to him more than expected, as his pace has increases.
“Where?” He asks breathless from the exertion as he pulls his thumbs from your ass and takes a handful of the meat on your hips.
“Inside…. Please … Logan.” You practically beg though you’ll never admit it, his rhythm becomes stunted as his hips slam into the back of your thighs.
“Give me something tight to come in, Darlin’.” Moaning at his words you’re eager to obey as you reach your hand between your own legs and rub mercilessly at your clit. The unforgiving pounding, the grunting and the fingers currently bruising your hips and the burning of your now vacant ass send you sailing over the edge.
You clamp down on him like a vice, groaning unable to hold back your whimpers anymore as he finally bites your neck and pumps his seed deep inside you as far as it can go. Logan grunts like a beast as he pulses deep inside of you.
Logan collapses beside you. Dents in the interior of the van you don’t even remember making have appeared from where a stray elbow or knee has hit the metal in the throes of passion.
The Wolverine tucks his cock back in his suit. Ever the gentleman, he uses your black panties to wipe away the cum dripping from your thighs, you haven’t got the heart to tell him that when you’re commando redressed in your suit that you can still feel him dripping from you, your pussy uncomfortably slick against the leather.
After dressing, the two of you sit in contemplative silence. Neither one of you has the emotional complexity to discuss what happened and neither one of you will accept fault for your argument that led to it, so, silence reigns.
The tension is sliced in two as Logan leans forward and pushes an errant lock of hair behind your ear in an act so goddamn endearing, you melt. You still wouldn’t apologise for lying, because you didn’t lie but you can meet him a quarter of the way.
“I’m sorry for calling you geriatric.” You whisper catching his eyes, a small spark of humour leaps into them, you’ve seen more emotions from your hero in the past half an hour than you knew he was capable of.
“I shouldn’t have-“ Logan’s heartfelt apology is cut off by the lead of this goddamn story.
“Well, well, well. Would you look at this, My best friends, Ha! I get fucking kidnapped, an arm ripped off and you’re nowhere to be found? I thought don’t worry Wade, they won’t leave you, Y/N/N will come around that corner any second."
Wade has appeared through the passenger side window; he looks a little worse for wear and has a child’s arm growing from his stump, its kind of gross to look at.
"What if Colossus had had his way with me? What then Y/N? I expect this from Wolvie, but not from you! No, no heroic rescue for old Deadpool. I have to save myself because you fuckers are too busy playing hide the adamantium bone! Thanks for nothing guys. Now the car has old man sex stank to it, as if this hunk of shit Honda could get any worse!”
Honestly no one talks about how feminism truly rocks because you're telling me THIS MAN existed, IN VARIOUS TIMELINES AND TIMEZONES. And the only person who jumped his bones was Wade Wilson? A MAN. NOT A WOMAN. A MAN. This is all a sick agenda we're willingly going with. (poolverine agenda) not complaining tho. definition of: true feminism is sucking your husband's tits
OMG YOU ATE W THIS GIRL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
hey, I don’t know if you take requests atm so feel free to ignore it because I have a pretty long request, but I just wanted to tell you that I love your writing!!
I was bored today and kept daydreaming when I got this idea for a request, feel free to change some things if you want:)
Idea is, the two were dating for a while, like a year or so, and they broke up because they wanted to persuade their own dreams, him winning a wdc and her being in med school to become a doctor. But during their relationship, Lando always dragged her into the gym with him, so she kind of got a contract with the gym for like 2 years idk. After their breakup she kept going to that gym, because she didn’t want to let her money go to waste. One day working out, a guy came up to her and tried to help her, getting close and supporting her. She saw Lando was watching them and kept going because she knew that would get him jealous. After her workout session in the changing rooms obv, she wanted to get unready etc. and Lando came in. Some enemies to lovers banter, so that he ends up pushing her against the wall in the shower and one thing leads to another and they have sex. At the end they settle for another round in his apartment and end up getting back together.
Atp feel free to do whatever you want and whatever you’re comfortable with!
Kind of like break up then seeing each other again leading to hate/anger sex, semi public sex, jealous sex
Kisses <3
Warnings: Smut, 18+ angst, praise, hot!sex, shower!sex, swearing, hate!sex, degradation, slut-shaming
Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader
A/N - I’m sorry this took so long but omg this is such a good request!! xxxx
You had loved Lando. Of course you had, he had been an amazing boyfriend, but it wasn’t your dream to stay in a garage and watch him from afar, achieving his own dreams. And it wasn’t his dream to watch you go to med school and waste all his talent away.
The breakup had hurt. Absolutely, it had been painful letting go of a man you’d loved since you were in high school, but you both had destinies somewhere else, and if you couldn’t do it with the other by your side, then so be it.
“Yeah, I’m just heading to the gym right now,” you said, pulling on your hoodie as you spoke to your best friend, Maria, over the phone. “Jesus, didn’t Lando drag you there every day?” she asked, as you rolled your eyes, tying your hair into a ponytail.
“Yeah, I still have the stupid membership,” you grumbled, “I’m gonna finish it, then not renew it,” you said, picking up your gym bag, and grabbing your bottle. “Alright, well, you have fun,” she smiled, as you muttered a small ‘bye’ before hanging up.
You’d chosen some cute little pink sports bra and a matching pair of tight leggings, it was easier for you to work out in something like that. You walked into the gym, scanning your membership as you did so, god knows why you’d opted for the two year membership.
It had been a little bit ambitious of you to have gotten a membership, hoping you’d be together for that long, but at the time it seemed reasonable. At the time, it seemed like it could happen, and it wasn’t just a thought that you had.
You were standing by the mirror, holding a couple weights, trying to think of anything but how Lando would stand behind you to make sure you were okay, or how you’d share his bottle with him when you forgot your own…fuck.
It hurt. It hurt so much that you couldn’t be with him, that you’d had to watch his races through a fucking television and not with him, to show your support and how much you loved him. You still loved him. But did he still love you? You’d never know the answer to that.
“Hey, you need some help?” a voice made you look up, a guy, with a half smile on his face. God, you need a distraction from Lando anyways. “Can you spot me??” you asked, as he nodded, setting his shit down and placing his hands on your waist to move you back a bit.
Lando didn’t know why he hadn’t cancelled his membership. He was a millionaire, he could afford to lose a few thousand, but returning to the same place, every single day, at the same time, it felt like a natural part of him that he simply couldn’t go without.
Like a life source, almost needed to him as much as air was needed to him. Almost as much as you were needed to him. But he had a break between his triple header, so it had been a month after you both broke up, but he was back in his game.
That stupid pink set… why did he buy it for you? And why did he gave to see some girl in that same set with a guy helping her lift, who looked a lot like you…wait…
No way. Lando would’ve thought you’d cancelled the membership or something. He remembered the look on your face when he’d said he couldn’t do it anymore, the way your gorgeous eyes had shimmered with tears…he’d never forget that.
But seeing you here now, another man touching you, that’s what made him snap. “I’m gonna grab the rest of my shit, you go the showers,” the guy smiled to you. Way too friendly for Lando’s liking. “Hey,” he said, his voice sullen as he approached you.
“He- oh, uh, hi Lando,” you said, your face visibly falling as Lando narrowed his eyes. “Who’s that guy? You got a boyfriend?” he said, not even caring where he was going as he followed you. “No,” you said, your reply short and sharp. What right did Lando have to do this?
“You don’t get the right to act like-,” you started, but Lando cut you off, his voice sharper and harsher than you expected. “I don’t care what rights I have, I know them very well, thanks,” he said bitterly as you rolled your eyes, hanging up your bag in your locker.
“Still wear this, then?” he said, running a finger along the under band of your bra, your shoulders tensing. “Stop,” you batted his hand away as he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Why have you moved on so quickly, hm?” he asked, “what, you’re that desperate for a cock?”.
“Oh don’t even,” you scoffed, “don’t make out like I’m a slut or what we,” you snapped, “you left my life, I have every right to move on from you, you left me!”. Lando’s jaw went slack, his eyes darkening. “I left you, yeah?” he said, your body jumping as he pushed your softly, back against the wall of the shower, locking the door.
“We agreed to move on!” he snapped, his voice louder than he intended. “Oh please, don’t act like you haven’t slept with anyone since then!” you said, equally as loud, taking his by surprise. “Why?” he said, his voice dropping of all its hate and and anger.
“Why do you look prettier without me, Y/N?”. That made you freeze. “What the hell does that mean?” you said, voice shaking shaking. “You look good, just as good. If not better,” he said, slowly letting his eyes trace your body. “Why did you move on so quickly?” his voice raised once more.
“Maybe you’re right!” you yelled, “maybe I do want cock, is that so bad?”. Lando clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together almost painfully. “You want cock, yeah?” he said, “well I’ll give it to you,”. You were about to open your mouth to protest when his hand quite literally tore your sports bra off.
“Lando!” you hissed, the materials falling off your body in two pieces. “I bought it, I can rip it,” he said, dipping his head to press wet kisses to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spots, the ones he knew perfectly well, the ones he was so well accustomed to…
“I’ll buy it for you in every fucking colour if you do just shut the fuck up,” he snapped, nipping at your neck, finding a point along your collarbone, and sucking down on it, a moan leaving your lips as he held you against the cold wall of the shower.
He moved his hands down to the waist band of your leggings, a moan on your lips as he traced your wet folds through your panties. “Lando, fuck,” you gasped, hands clawing at his back softly, your nails digging into his skin as you tore his shirt off.
“You’re just fucking dick desperate, Y/N,” Lando scoffed, pulled his own joggers down, his cock springing hard against his abdomen as he moved your panties to the side, pumping his finger in and out of you, no care to go slower, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit.
“Couldn’t even last a month without crawling back like a desperate little slut,” he laughed, the sound cold and belittling, as you whined, his throbbing head pushing your folds apart, running over your aching bundle of nerves, teasing your entrance.
“Say you want it, Y/N,” he said, his head dipping down once more to run over the love bite he left on your neck, his cock slipping into you. “Oh fuck, Lan,” you gasped, your hands tightening over his biceps, nails scratching at his skin as he groaned.
“Tight as ever,” he said, holding himself inside of you, running a hand over the bump in your tummy. “Fuck, it’s like you’re made for me,” he said, slowly pulling out of you, leaving his head hanging inside of you as your cunt clenched again, tightening round his tip as he wrapped a hand round your neck.
His veins flexed as he slowly moved his hips, shifting the tempo til he was ploughing through your folds, your moans becoming louder and louder, eyes rolling as he held you against the wall. You hadn’t really gone a whole month without sex whilst dating Lando, so it didn’t take long for your orgasm to build up.
“Oh fuck,” you gasped, your heat enveloping his thigh member, the vein on the underside throbbing against your entrance, your breaths coming out short and sharp. “I’m gonna cum, Lando,” you gasped, one of his hands moving to your hair, the other rubbing across your clit.
“God, do it,” he said, your eyes squeezing shut as you both gasped, his thrusts becoming sloppy and your pussy clenching as your orgasm flushed, your thighs painted with thick ropes of cum, your body shaking. “We’re not done,” he said, his hand in your neck.
You whimpered, accepting the hoodie he thrust at your chest, pulling it over your head as you let him grab your hand, dragging you out of the changing room. The guy from earlier just watched as you were dragged away, grumbling under his breath about ‘bitches changing their minds’.
By the time you had come back to the apartment, it had barely changed, but the one place you were most acquainted with, aka, Lando’s bed, looked even more appealing than it ever had. “Lando,” you gasped as he dropped you onto your back, your body bouncing.
“Turn over,” he said, teeth gritted together as you nodded, your body bent over the edge of the mattress as he lifted the hoodie. “Always looked good in my shit,” he said, pushing his cock into you once more. “Oh god,” you gasped, your eyes rolling as he held himself in you again.
“Missed this, hm?” he asked, “still come to that stupid gym, all because of you,” he growled. “What?” you asked, just about managing to say the words without moaning, one of his hands pushing you it not he mattress, the sound of his hips snapping into yours echoing round the room.
The sound of his cock plunging into your wet heat, over and over again, it was filthy, your eyes rolling at the sound of it, Lando’s jaw going slack. “Can’t not go to that place when I used to take you there all the time,” he said, “you’d look so good…”.
“Can’t believe we never fucked there when we were dating,” he said, and all you could respond with was a moan as he toyed with your clit once more. “Missed you so bad,” he said after a few seconds, his lips parted with need and pleasure.
“Missed y-you too,” you choked out, your cunt clenching round him as you felt your second orgasm build up, the bump in your tummy prominent from his cock, thick and long inside of you. “Need you back,” you gasped, your hands helping your body to balance.
“Yeah? I want you too,” he said, leaning down to press surprisingly soft kisses to your neck and collarbone, as you whimpered. “Lando, please,” you moaned, “d-don’t say that,”. He frowned, his hips slowing down, not enough to deny your orgasm, but to make you focus on him.
“Why?” he asked, tilting your chin to look at him. “Don’t get my hopes up,” you said, body rocking as he frowned. “Y/N, I want you back,” he said, “truthfully, I want you back. We do long distance, I’ll visit after every race,” he said, almost pleading with you.
“W-We can talk about it,” you said, your cunt clenching round his thick member as your orgasm flushed through, Lando’s body lined with a sheen of sweat, his cheeks painted red as he slowed down, pulling out of you, his cum shooting along your thighs as you panted.
Fuck, you needed him back.
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You think you're the painter, but you're actually just the canvas
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