#I can't possibly think of a way to describe how this makes me feel

[r0-boat]

Hiii would you mind if I make a request :3

Soooo, I've been thinking, how would the 5 demon king's would react when their s/o or MC (she/her if it's possible, if not genderneutral is ok uwu) is ovulating and she is all needy but doesn't say anything~

Because these men are truly more feral, like Beel's always sniffing us and getting aroused by our smell, or Leviathan having some kind of rut/heat and getting all attached to MC; these boys are more wild and animalistic (don't know if it's the correct way to describe it haha)

Thank you if you accept my request :3

Actually obsessed with this Ask.👀

Natural Pheromones

Whb headcanons

Cw: scent kink, Breeding Kink, scientifically explaining in a porn game lol

summary: AFAB!reader is ovulating and the demons are acting weird

This is very interesting to me considering the fact that demons can't have offspring on their own with each other unless they pray to Lilith or something. But they can have offspring with humans so it makes me think

Since demons have better chances having offspring with humans, perhaps demons just evolved to react to what a human is ovulating.

Solomon was born male he doesn't have the same natural pheromones that AFAB has. Demons who had never been in the human world will never know why they start feeling such a magnetic pull to you.

Did you change your hair? Was it perhaps new clothes? Maybe a new lotion or perfume? because you smell slightly sweeter. And is it just them, but is your skin softer too?

Beel was the most affected by this change; He could practically find you from miles away. Uncharacteristically clinging to you as soon as he finds you. Burying his nose against your neck. You ask him "is there something wrong?" And he just matters that he misses you.

Levi has been taking up his aggressive antics a notch because he's too stubborn for you to find out that he has been jerking his cock ever since you stepped foot in his castle. You have been driving him and his devil's crazy, and he hasn't had the foggiest idea why.

Lucifer has been having a little baby fever of his own since you visited. He wants to know what the child between the child of man and fallen angel would look like.

Mammon is in fucking rut, And no matter how much he fucks you, it's not enough. Draining his balls leaving him still unsatisfied.

Satan is starting to become a resource-guarding dog.

Devils will not leave you alone!! Sure you've been always surrounded by devils but this time you draw crowds, And if it isn't for the kings always around you these devils will be bang and brushing themselves against you desperate for your attention.

#smut #whb #whb headcanons #whb x reader #what in hell is bad

[arabellalark]

"As your shriking figure blows a kiss,

I catch and smash it on my lips."

#the picture that forms in my head everytime I hear this is so beautiful #I can't possibly think of a way to describe how this makes me feel #I can see him being all lovestruck #smiling as he smashes the air kiss onto his lips #and the her laughter in the background #both of them acting like fools in love #does this kinda love even exist for real #Im a jealous girl rn #alexa play jealousy jealousy #alex turner could blow me a kiss anyday and I'll smash it onto my heart

[gangplanksorenji]

Kinknuary Day 2: Praise Kink

Pairing: IVE Jang Wonyoung x Male Reader

Word Count: 3,760

[Kinknuary Masterlist]

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Sophisticated and classy—that’s one of the few words to describe this girl that has been on your nerves since probably day one. You hate her attitude and so is the luck every time you’re with her as everything seems to fall out of place, maybe in the worst-case scenario, you guess. 

Well, in all honesty, you don’t hate the princess. You never did.

It’s just all about jealousy and distraught with your own confidence that whenever she steps in, it crumbles like paper—easily defeated and turned into a ball of nothingness.

Well, everything changed within a singular snap of a finger (it’s figurative, of course) and you feel light-headed just being here, with her, holding her soft hands as she reassures you. She wasn’t even going to try anything that’ll exhaust such a plethora of energy because she knows herself how her charisma and visuals can make a man fall in love with her, not to mention rejecting dozens of men trying to ignite the love in heart but failed miserably.

But here you are, being the biggest irony of Wonyoung’s definition of love… or is it?

“Come on, oppa, we even have two hours left! Please, just stay…”

You can’t and you don’t want to. She can meet you anytime around the day or even in the whole week but you know she ain’t going to give up so easily, knowing she’s not going to stop until she gets what she wants. She wanted you to stay but your job is done here, you’ve taught her well, she pays the price and you’re going to leave her. Simple, yet her charms allure you but you fight yourself against it.

“I said what I said, Wonyoung, okay? I can’t—”

“You can't what, hm?” Wonyoung thuds her foot on the floor, frustrated upon your own actions of leaving her. She grabs your wrists, pulling it with maybe all of her strength (you can’t really tell it because on how easy it is outpower her, your muscular arms against her thin figure doesn’t make it a challenge) and then pouting right after, wanting you to stay and not leave her at this moment, at least.

Well, you can’t just let herself win all the time like she was always used to. You want to see the defeat on her sparkling orbs full of anticipation and her hope being lost—

“Then leave! I don’t need you anymore, oppa! Don’t touch me ever again!”

And there she goes with her reverse psychological attempts of gaslighting and never ceases to make you feel the sudden urge of being dead inside, unable to think clearly and having struggles within deciding the most beneficial one, for you, of course.

Here’s the thing: you don’t want her yet you like her—it’s a win-win situation and why should you overthink yourself about this? It’s like you’re going to lose a lot from this or gain a lot yet you know how cranky and bratty Wonyoung can get and it’s the greatest bane of your existence. Seeing Wonyoung becoming a nuisance and ill-tempered unlocks your irascible self and you hate her for that (and thank god, it happens pretty rarely).

You wanted to fight your urges but you don’t want this to escalate further, knowing how selfish Wonyoung can be and how she won’t adjust even in the tiniest bit.

God, this girl—you muttered upon yourself as it was laced with venom, cursed and damned about meeting this not-so-angelic girl. You can’t resist your temptation either—staying with Wonyoung probably will end in both ways, hoping it’ll be good or better.

“Okay, tch—” You quickly rushed your way onto the couch, sitting on it and earning a loud thud which made Wonyoung gasp at your harsh actions of the possible damage on the furniture but you didn’t care. “There, happy, hm, Wony?”

Her earlier stern and helpless countenance was now replaced with joy and satisfaction, knowing you chose to stay (and it’s like you have a choice because it’s impossible whenever she’s near). 

“Hah, yey! You’re definitely the best, oppa!” Wonyoung sat beside you and rested her head onto your shoulder, signaling the delight that she’s feeling knowing that she’s with you and you choose what’s best for her. “I know you can’t resist me, oppa.”

“Heck yeah I can't cause you’re gonna go nuts if I reject you.”

“What did you say?” Wonyoung pouts yet the glare in her eyes are evident, and so is the distaste that she feels after hearing such unacceptable cacophony. You know that she didn’t mind it, not even the slightest so you just brushed it off with a single “Nothing, Wonyoung.” and all things went normal yet an uncanny feeling in the can be felt—no, it's just Wonyoung on her knees, in front of you—

“What are you doing, Wonyoung?” 

You don't feel so good about this and have this nerve of an unwanted vice happening anytime soon. You knew this would come and you shouldn't have given in to her wants yet the other side of you is full of anticipation as your primal desires are slowly taking over you.

“Don't be so oblivious, oppa. Let me return the favor of everything you've done earlier.” You didn't deserve such a thing, even though you're not new to this—well, also thanks to her, she took your virginity away—you still don't need this favorable return. You just helped her study and tutored her but why would this be the return? Isn't such a simple soul like you enough for a gift?

You can't turn back now; you're only going to move forward and it's just only going to get better from here.

“But why, Wony? I don't deserve such—”

“Shut it, oppa—” Wonyoung tugs your pants as those perfect, dainty fingers scramble on unbuckling your belt and loosening up the clothed defenses that protects the desired grand prize. “—now would you let your little Wony reward you, daddy?”

Of course, the pet name—it turns you on so much that now, you can't contain anything but let your animalistic desires out. You can't stop her because it's too late and in fact, you want this and you're an absolute hypocrite if you don't. 

Things went like a flash—it felt like everything felt too fast as time sped up like a rocket but you didn't care because you wanted her, utterly.

With the last clothed defense on your iron wall, it collapses down to your ankles as it was proven worthless now, your hardening member is now within the sight of her refulgent orbs—god, it just feels better, doesn't it? You're maybe in heaven but the devil is just beside you and the oxymoron never failed to be in its own party.

With the draw of her nails onto your leaking slit, it draws pain and pits gasoline of the fire—pain associated with pleasure and not close to drawing blood. 

“Oh god, Wonyoung—we don't really need to d-do this…”

“Oh stop it, daddy. I know you wanted this and let your little girl pleasure you for the time being—” Wonyoung places her lips onto your swollen head, giving it a small peck that makes you shudder, your mouth escaping beautiful moans that fuels the primal lust and ego of Wonyoung. 

She seems to be the one that likes her ego getting petted and you're here to absolutely do it.

“Such a good g-girl for daddy, Wonyoung. So skilled and so good—you're definitely loving the taste of my cock don't you, hm?”

You're getting cocky and you know Wonyoung is loving this despite the utter brattiness and hypocrisy running down her mind.

“Gah—you know y-your cock is something I can't r-resist, daddy…”

She continues her moderate bobs as your base is now getting wet with her drool that is now starting to drip all over your sensitive head and her chin. She's in her own league and in an absolute masterclass when it comes to dick-sucking—such lips made like a cocksleeve is truly the one to be treasured as it perfectly hugs around your shaft like it was molded around it, her pleasurable suction being the cherry on top.

Her cheeks hollow in every thrust she does with her talented mouth, and you're no stranger to tell her how great she's been blowing you and it only has been a minute—and god, she's making your brain go haywire.

You stroke her hair and caress her cheeks, letting her know how great she is in terms of sucking you off. “Keep doing that, baby. This cock is all for you, princess. So, so, good—god, fuck!”

And it is incredibly off the charts—the corkscrew motions of her fingers, the dance of her tongue filled with enamore and the overstimulating suction is just, nearly, too much to handle. 

No one can top off her skills as she's just a professional in this—every second sending you weak, on your knees as every technique known to enervate your defenses is being presented right now and you can't think of anything articulate except the fact that Wonyoung's mouth is exerting too much effort as it's getting near the promised land—

“Just like—that—baby, ah! So fucking good—god, how are you so incredibly talented in possibly anything?”

Stroke her ego and she definitely loves it—her pupils dilating everytime you commend her is one strong piece of evidence. It's true even though it may seem like you're playing with her and it's crazy to think about it. She may be the jack-of-all-trades when it comes to everything but it’s definitely not even close with that in accordance to her selfish and diabolical attitude—it’s contradicting but you guess it’s just the fact that she always wanted to be treated like a princess and her sophisticated life explains about it. 

Well as much as you’d wanna do the opposite, it’s going to be completely questionable if you’ll degrade the superior job she’s doing between your legs. A flick of her tongue nears you onto that finish line as well as the dexterity of her slender fingers—it doesn’t help at all, considering you still want to savor and cherish every second of Wonyoung’s masterclass, the inevitable can’t be stopped as the growing sensation in your loins is ready to unload everything inside her heavenly mouth.

“Your mouth Wony—”

Her pace is ridiculous, unmatched han any other as her warm cavern glides onto your shaft like a loose speedster, in a hot pursuit—

“—it’s too good—”

Her silken plumpness made to unleash the profanities inside you, unshackling them and bringing them to their endgame but—

Pop. 

“B-but why’d you stop? I’m so close, Wony!”

You vent out the little frustration towards Wonyoung as your high suddenly became on the lowest point, subsided even before you’ve truly noticed it. Wonyoung just pouts at you adorably, apologizing for what she's done and god, the saliva dripping down to her chin and all around your cock is just a sight to see. It was feeling so damn good until she played with you but you’re not furious about it because she’s maybe wanting something and probably—this last bit is what you’re hoping for—having multiple things in store for you, for later.

She’s only getting started and it’s only going to get better than this.

Her quivering plump lips, her disheveled hair, her beautiful façade—every inch of her perfect is such a sight for a nice canvas to be painted on but it is what it is.

“Want you in my pussy now, daddy. God—I really love your cock, so much I just can’t get enough of it.”

Yes, it’s like her favorite candy she’s ready to brag about and it’s addicting. Ever since you’ve slept with her, it became a whole different story being with her as you always envisioned the nastiest things with her whenever you think about her and it’s clouded your mind ever since. Well, now, you have a lot of things to fulfill with her and the blowjob earlier was just the beginning of a show that’s bound to happen.

“I can’t get enough of your mind-boggling blowjobs too, Wony. You make me feel—” You switch places with her, pinning her down slowly onto the couch, your face now inching closer and closer towards her. “—great and that’s what I like about this.”

Without any foreplay, you capture her lips off-guard as you make the most passionate kiss possible that’ll make her feel butterflies in her stomach. Its saccharine taste makes it insatiable, wanting more of her yet a hot half a minute of this flustering moment is enough for the both of you to exchange breaths.

“Like the taste of you, daddy? ‘Cause I do—like, a lot.” Your face was puzzled after Wonyoung said that, also confused and unsure on what to imply as you playfully retorted against her. “I mean, your lips really made everything insatiable. Just can't get enough of you honestly…”

You continue the intimacy, fueling the lust inside you by dominating her with your tongue as she eagerly reciprocates, the kiss getting too heated but Wonyoung taps your shoulder, signaling you to detach away from her lips. You don’t know why exactly she wants this to be over but with Wonyoung’s enlightenment of the climax, your mind has been cleared and awakened, and so are your primal desires.

“As much as I want to kiss you, daddy, my pussy’s been wet since I’ve sucked you off—so p-please, daddy—hng!”

And who are you to reject it? You want to pound her tight cunt as much as you wanted her today and there’s no one to stop you right now, and neither is she. With the best of both worlds, you elevated the anticipating climax yet a brighter idea will make this session a wilder ride.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom, princess—would pound your tight, perfect pussy so hard that you’re only going to think about me only.”

And there and there, everything went off the cliff, up to the highest paramount of events…

-----------------------------------

“Too good, daddy!” Your fingers up her delicious cunt never fails to earn the most heavenly whimpers escaping Wonyoung’s mouth, let alone fueling the lust inside you as your slit leaks precum just from the sight of her tight cunt squelching and clenching around your digits.

“It’s only going to get better from here, princess—” A harsh spank resonates around the puny room as the dissonance of her orchestrated moans makes your hardened length throb in need, unable to control anything. “—because I’m going to treat you like a princess but fuck you like how you deserve it.”

“W-wha—what d-did I deserve, daddy?”

“A rough one, Wony. Since you’ve done a great job at the start…”

As the heat in the air is still ignited, you take the last bit of teasing with your digits and hard spanks as you’re lost for words once you’ve plunged your length inside her. It never gets old and she’s still as suffocatingly tight as ever, not to mention with even the slightest of movement and her pussy responses with the tightest clench possible. Gripping her hips for a small leverage, you thrust in her slowly as you ensue a few kisses onto the nape of her neck, earning such moans that just makes you want to build up the pace even more.

“Ahh, daddy—it’s so good! You’re s-stretching me—ahh—so w-well…”

“And you take me so well, Wony. Your pussy is literally made for me to be hammered, hm?” You quicken the pace, just withdrawing with only the tip inside and then slamming back in, filling her up to the hilt. She mewls in every thrust you do, further arousing you as she grips onto the sheets as a leverage on the harsh acts you’re doing on her tight cunt. Adding some spanks in every oscillation of your hips, you notice how it clenches every time you do it and you’re loving every second of it—loving how helpless and lewd your princess has become is truly a sight to behold. 

“You’re so good at taking my huge cock, princess…” Your brush off her silky-smooth hair off her shoulders as you pepper her neck and back with kisses that further makes the act hotter than what could it be. You trace the curvature of her waist down to her slender thighs that probably run for days and god, why does a princess have to be this perfect? Down every last feature Wonyoung has is in its absolute flawless state and you can’t help but be in awe as you in every ram you do inside her clenching heat is the praise of her faultless figure.

“Good god, Wony—down to your beautiful face up to your pussy, you’re just so fucking perfect aren’t you?”

“Gah, daddy! Fuck me harder please!”

A spank as the retaliation of her hostile takeover of lust has won, and you, the dominative one will orchestrate things onto your own accord, not hers.

“Wonyoung, you’re lucky I can fuck this good because no one can and you’re mine—every perfectly tight hole in your body is mine to use, do you understand?” Between thrusts you spat her with venomous yet genuine words, but she could only cry in pleasure as your thrusts are just too much for her to think of something articulate enough of a response so, it only took her ten seconds to come up with something— “Yes, d-daddy—ahh!”

Such rampant actions never cease to make someone scream in delight and it’s every man's dream to be in this position. Kiss, spank, thrust and repeat, it goes around in circles and you’re not going to stop it because you’re in a state of do-or-die (figuratively, of course) because in any second now, you can feel yourself getting on your high and so is Wonyoung’s, her pussy creaming all over your enraged length is enough of an evidence.

“Wonyoung—fuck! You’re so tight and so good!”

“Daddy I’m going to c-cum—gahh, so s-soon! Please!”

That’s the green light to bring another onslaught of thrusts with no-return, hammering her cunt like it’s rent due alongside grabbing her hair for her heavenly moans to be unshackled (and if you’re wondering, her arms gave out two minutes earlier because of too much pleasure as she rested her hair onto the mattress, muffling her moans in which, you didn’t really like). With the obviously lewd moans (almost screams) of Wonyoung and the repetitive clenching of her tight heat, you know that she’s about to get off so you gave her the final set of the harshest thrusts possible to mankind as it was too enough and all are let out.

You pull out of her gripping pussy as she squirts all over the bedsheets, your cock and even to your toned abdomen. You finger her repetitively in a deft pace that she cries in a wanton need and that even fuels you further into abomination.

“You good, Wony?”

“Y-yes, daddy—unload it a-all in my pussy—” Her shining orbs pleads you onto her desires, wanting you to fulfill it. Her pupils dilate once again, anticipating on a good note with you— “—please…”

“I’m dying to cum inside this perfect pussy of yours, Wonyoung.”

Pinning her down onto the bed (not so harshly), you tease her pussy with your swollen cockhead for a bit, in which earns the finest moans escaping her lips and so are the needy whimpers. Without any time to waste, you plunge into her dripping core once again but this time, the penetration is crazingly-deep, achieving the sensation of a lifetime that makes you feel butterflies. You command her to place both of her legs onto your shoulders, wanting to achieve the deepest penetration possible as she did and god, that felt way better than earlier and it’s too heavenly to be true.

“Ahh—daddy—I—gahh, so so good and d-deep! Fuck me h-hard—cum i-inside me—gahh, please!”

The desperation in her eyes says it all. Even with the messed-up makeup, tears and her disheveled hair all over the place, it’s not even a challenge to sense how needy she is for you and your seed to be deposited inside her. Now bringing the thrusts that surpasses the harshness of your actions earlier, and making Wonyoung the most raucous she’s ever been—all in the experience on the paramount of delight as everything seems to be at that moment, just a step away from your both desired promised lands. You weren’t far off of your high and Wonyoung can sense it through your eyes as she helps out, fucking herself onto your length as you chase your high, grabbing her waist and hips harshly as the leverage with your relentless pursuit onto her pussy.

“I’m going to cum, Wonyoung! So fucking close in this perfect cunt of yours—fuck!”

And you break, everything loose as you bury your length inside her, balls-deep as you unload everything you’ve got and your moans and Wonyoung’s blessed the entire room as it reverberated all over. With your last groan and the hard grip of her hips, your orgasm finally subsided as it was an euphoric one—it was so euphoric that you almost passed out but it wasn’t really close. Wonyoung on the other hand, laid down flat on the bed, enervated from the steamy sex session yet she smiles widely, knowing that your load is inside her pussy as the warmth of it elicits the sultriest of moans.

“Thank you, daddy—hah… For this load… Hah, I love i-it…”

That changed your demeanor from a stern, dominative one to softer, warmhearted as you blush because of her, feeling so grateful and thankful for this moment as the earlier omnipotence of power now subsided, back to your old self.

“Thank you too, Wonyoung—you took me so well… hah, that was exhausting…”

“Yeah, I know, oppa…” She brushes her fingers all over your chest, tracing it slowly as she looks at you endearingly, her eyes telling you how much she loved this moment, disregarding the fact of the pain that she felt—she liked it because it turned her on even more—from all of your harshness and spanking. She’s genuine about it and you could tell it without her even uttering a single word.

“We should clean up, oppa, actually.”

“Yeah, oh no, I think you need some new set of sheets after this.”

“You’re the one to blame here, oppa! You made me squirt so hard!!”

And the bratty, sophisticated Wonyoung is back and here we go again, back from the despair and being the bugbear she is…

#kinknuary 2024 #ive smut #jang wonyoung smut #wonyoung smut #ive x male reader #jang wonyoung x male reader #wonyoung x male reader

[digitallytrying]

This has been haunting me for days, but.

Thinking about how Gale is the undisputable "most monogamous" of your romanceable companions. That he'll approach you if you flirt with someone else and have this heartbroken tone and make you choose between him and someone else. That if you ask for an open relationship he gets genuinely hurt and asks that this is never discussed again. That he sets firm boundaries and feels the need to apologize for being "old-fashioned" and that he describes giving you his whole heart and being incapable of sharing yours.

And then I think of his relationship with Mystra, the GODDESS, and I get this uneasy feeling. I know that there was no possible way Gale could've communicated exclusivity with her, an immortal Goddess who is known for her interest in young Wizard boys/men (which is already so fucking weird but we don't need to get into those implications for Gale rn).

I'm just thinking about being in this toxic power imbalance relationship where one of the factors you value most is violated, and you can't even begin to communicate those boundaries, and I'm like. Fuck. No wonder he's so intense about it in his next relationship. He doesn't want to endure that again.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #i'm not okay #seriously fuck mystra #this isn't to say anything bad about being poly btw #monogamy is just important to gale and i hate thinking that his needs werent met #man deserves total love and devotion

[dragon-ascent]

I wonder how Zhongli would feel if he came home one night, to find his lover surrounded by plushies of him (as an archon, dragon, and his current form) and cuddling a giant Rex Lapis exuvia plush?

Sure, he finds her skill at textile design impressive but he can't help but feel a bit jealous that a creation of fabric and cotton stole his beloved.

Jealous (and possibly pouty) Li is everything to me ;u; so here you go! Enjoy~

The first time you showed Zhongli a plushie you'd made of him in his miniature dragon form, words couldn't describe how touched and flattered he was that his beloved could find pleasure in creating plushies in his image. The fact that you loved him so much amplified his own love for you tenfold, and he couldn't ask for a better partner.

But then, the plushies started piling up. Big and small, fluffy and smooth, person and dragon. Zhongli didn't want to discourage you from making use of your exceptional crafting skills, especially seeing how happy you were, but once the plushies started taking up his side of the bed, he couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy - something he wasn't accustomed to. Especially when it appeared that he was stealing you from himself in a way..?

It all comes to a head when he returns home after a week-long consultation overseas, wanting nothing more than to hold and be held by you. "Darling, I'm home."

No response. Well, that's all right, he thinks, as it's quite late and he wouldn't be surprised if you'd already fallen asleep. Zhongli pictures you nodding off while trying to stay up waiting for your husband, and a tender smile tugs at his lips.

But when he gets to the bedroom, a different scene awaits entirely.

There's the usual mountain of Zhongli-themed plushies around you, but it's...a lot bigger than he'd remembered. And in the middle of it all, you're wide awake and rolling about with a giant plushie of his dragon-Qilin form, about as tall as Zhongli himself is. Your eyes are closed and you're humming, petting the plushie as you do.

At first he's a mix of awestruck and besotted by the scene, but those feelings are swiftly overtaken by envy. Huffing softly, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

...You're minding your own business, stroking your soft Rex Lapis in utter contentment when suddenly the soft fuzzy cotton seems to morph into a smoother, scalier texture.

"Oh!" You open your eyes, seeing a more reptilian version of your creation staring back at you expectantly like a dog. Grinning, you cuddle him. "Wow, I really outdid myself with how realistic this one is!"

He lets out an audible huff now, and you laugh.

Your dragon husband curls up around you, fiery eyes transfixed upon you alone. "Pay attention to me," he murmurs, and there's a hint of a whine in his deep voice, "and me alone." He uses his tail to knock his cotton imposter off the bed.

But you're still being cheeky. "Well, technically these are all you," you say, holding up a little plushie of Zhongli wearing his white archon hood, but your husband only growls at it, which makes you giggle. You stroke his sorry, scaley ol' head. "You're so silly, Li."

"I am not silly," he answers earnestly, nuzzling his snout against your skin. Ah, how he missed your scent. Gently, he uses his clawed hands to keep your upper half in place while his tail coils around your lower half. Finally content, he closes his eyes and purrs.

You roll your eyes, smiling. "You're going to keep me like this?"

"Yes. You are to stay like this with me all night, my darling. Please do not object."

And you willingly give in, letting your lizard lover keep you in his hold like this until the sun rises again.

#sini writes #zhongli #genshin impact #zhongli x reader #fluff #drabble #rex lapis #divider by cafekitsune

[angelltheninth]

Perhaps you could write about how they would react if Y/N was bitten/stung by a breeding spider?. Yes, that's right, reproduction baby hehe. I don't care what the character's gender is. Would it be possible to describe the headcanons?👉🏻👈🏻

(I already apologize for the spelling mistakes, I'm using the translator :D)

Spiderverse🙏🏻

Oh fun, breeding kink is always fun.

Pairing: Ben Reilly, Peter B. Parker, Miguel O'Hara, Noir x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, breeding kink, feral sex, creampie, pregnancy mention, dirty talk, wall sex, rooftop sex, kind of sex pollen, pheromones

A/N: Added Ben this time around, I think I might include him in some other future stuff too.

Ben doesn't want to take advantage of you when you come on to him and tell him about your problem. He also can't deny that he's very, very horny for you. Despite it not being a good idea he can't have you go home like this, he can't have you swinging in between buildings in such a state. But he needs to make sure you want this. Yanking his pants down and sucking his cock because you were so needy for cum is a good argument. The issue is you don't just need to taste him to make this go away, you also need to feel him inside you.

"You really want it? Are you sure, I need to know. I know its hard to talk while you're sucking on my dick but I need to be sure before we go any further. Baby, you know I want you, I want to tear that suit off your body and fill you with cum but I need you to say that you need me to do it. Hah, I'm not teasing you I promise."

Peter is hesitant because you're currently on a rooftop together and you can't seem to move an inch without moaning. He can't leave you here and he can carry you because he knows the moment he touches you he won't be able to resist your charms. You don't want him to resist, you don't care that he's a hero and you a civilian, you need his cock and you need it now, you need his cum inside you, you need him to breed you right now. All this talk of breeding has his senses going haywire, his hands desperately finding your ass as you drop your pants and offer him your pussy, which he sinfully takes.

"I know you're scared right now, you don't know what's happening to you, but I promise I'll help. I'm here for you sweetheart. Ah, your pussy feels good around my cock, a wet mess and I just put it in. You won't last long, I know you won't but don't worry, just need to get some cum in that cunt and you'll be good as new won't you?"

Miguel can't resist the pull the pheromones have on him. He's pinning you against the nearest wall, kissing you, teeth scraping against your neck as he tells you he needs you just as much as you need him right now. The feeling is mutual, and the pleasure will be too. Let him take these suits off and he'll give you what you crave. His cock and cum, to have his babies right? He knows, you can't your desires from him because they're his desires too. They have been ever since you started working together.

"Fill you up, I'll fill that pussy up with so much cum you'll be pregnant in to time. Such a good hole, taking me so eagerly. Are you sure this is due to the spider bite? I think... fuck... I think you're not being honest here. You'd want me regardless, I've seen how you look at me. I know this is a bit backwards but after this let me take you on a date hum? Prove to you I mean this, that you're not just a warm hole to be fucked."

Noir doesn't want to risk your professional relationship by having sex with you in a deluded state of mind. He tries to give you space while also being close to you in case of real danger but you quickly make your way onto his lap, saying how you don't need any space between you two, in fact it'd be better if there was none at all. He curses his judgement as he pushes you to the floor, rutting his clothed hard cock against your pussy almost animalistically. He hates that he's letting his desires take over his rational part of mind but he can't lie to himself, he wants to see what you look like when you're painted white.

"What have you... I can't think about anything but your pussy. Shit, I need you, fucking need to feel you, see you taking my dick. You look beautiful when you're rolling your hips into me, your mind is mush right now isn't it? This will help, I think. If you... I promise you I'm not the kind of man to run from my actions, I'll take responsibility for this, weather you be pregnant after or not."

#ben reilly x reader #peter b parker x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman noir x reader #spiderverse x reader #spiderverse imagine #spiderverse headcanon #spiderverse smut #ben reilly smut #peter b parker smut #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman noir smut #across the spiderverse #atsv x reader #atsv imagines #atsv headcanons #atsv smut #spiderverse peter b parker #spiderverse miguel #spiderverse noir #spiderverse ben #x female reader

[such-expensive-mistakes]

When Oliver Queen was dead, he ended up in the Infinite Realms, where he inadvertently became the mentor to teen ghost hero Phantom. After Ollie came back to life, he made a point of reaching out to Phantom, just in case the kid needed anything.

DCxDP Week prompt: found family

Author's Notes: I've tried to make this accessible as possible to those of you who aren't familiar with the Arrowfam, but here are links to character primers on Oliver Queen, Connor Hawke and Mia Dearden if you want them. If you are familiar with GA comics, then just know that this is set loosely during the 2001 run. And finally, the idea of a hero in the Infinite Realms helping mentor Danny was largely inspired by Blueseabird2's fic Grave Promises. (It's excellent! If you haven't read it, go do that!)

-

"Do you remember it?" Ollie asks, looking at Superman out of the corner of his eye.  They're standing in front of Oliver's grave.  Always made the right enemies. It's a hell of an epitaph; Ollie wonders who came up with it.  Roy or Dinah, probably.

"Remember..." Superman says.

"Being dead."  

Supes gives him that same look everyone seems to be giving Ollie these days, like he's not quite sure if Ollie is all there in the head.  

"Never mind."  Oliver waves a hand.  "Just thinking."

-

He does remember it, is the thing.  He remembers the endless Infinite Realms, as green as any of Hal's constructs.  He remembers the ghosts-- the ones who had originally been alive like him, and the ones that had never lived at all.  Humans and aliens and otherdimensional beings, all together in one place.  He remembers being in the same costume he'd died in, only color-flipped to red.  (That was just wrong.  Red was Roy's color, not Ollie's.)

And he remembers Phantom.

He'd met Phantom pretty early on.  Time in the Infinite Realms was tricky; it didn't move like time did on Earth.  Sometimes it went slower, sometimes faster, sometimes it even seemed to go backwards.   So he didn't remember exactly how long he'd been in the Realms before coming across Phantom, but it didn't feel like long.

Phantom had been chasing down some magical artifact when he'd come across Oliver-- or rather, Red Arrow-- who had picked a fight with an asshole ghost way more powerful than him.

Some things never changed.  But hey, ghost arrows were pretty nifty.

Phantom had helped him out, and in return Ollie had offered to help Phantom with tracking down the artifact he was looking for.  As they talked, it quickly became obvious that Phantom was doing the whole teen hero thing-- and not just in the Realms, but on Earth.  He clammed up when Ollie asked too many questions, but it was pretty clear that he didn't have a mentor or anything.

"Do you have the Teen Titans in your world?" Oliver asked, having learned by that point that the Infinite Realms connected every dimension out there.

"Yeah," Phantom had said, looking wary.

"You should talk to them," Oliver said.  "It helps to have someone out there on your side, who knows what you're dealing with."  The Titans had been good for Roy.  Not just friends, although they were that, too, but an extra support system.  

But Phantom shook his head.  "I can't."  And then he'd gone on to describe the Anti-Ecto Acts and the GIW.  

Ollie had never exactly been a fan of the government-- too much corruption, too many rich assholes using the system to protect themselves-- but this still managed to surprise him.  And while he was pretty sure his own world's Teen Titans wouldn't stand for this kind of thing-- or even the JLA, no matter how badly they sometimes overreached-- he had no way of knowing whether Phantom's Teen Titans were the same ones he knew.  

"Tell you what," Ollie said.  "Next time you get a chance, track me down and I'll show you a few things.  I don't know how much help I'll be with superpowers, but--" 

"Really?" Phantom had asked, then surprised Ollie by hugging him.

That was the start of it.  They'd tracked down the artifact, Phantom had left the Realms to go back and do his hero thing on Earth, and Oliver was left to second-guess himself until the next time Phantom came around.  

Oliver wasn't exactly a perfect mentor.  He'd done his best for Roy, but there were so many things he would do differently if he had the chance.  But he was better than nothing, which was what Phantom had been working with before.

Phantom didn't need to learn archery; he had superpowers.  But Ollie managed to teach him a thing or two about picking your shot and waiting for the right moment.  About trusting your instincts and dodging bullets (or ectoblasts).  

Phantom was cagey about anything that wasn't hero work, but Oliver managed to glean a few details.  He had a couple of living friends who helped him out, he was frequently chased down by ghost hunters, and most of the town he was based in didn't think particularly highly of him.  And that was on top of his whole rogue's gallery of villainous ghosts, not to mention the GIW.

"You can't make people like you," Ollie advised him.  "Even if you do all the right things.  You just have to trust yourself and ignore the public opinion."  God knew plenty of people had hated the Green Arrow over the years.  

It had been rewarding, in a way Ollie had almost forgotten, watching Phantom grow as a hero.  Watching him grow more confident and more skilled-- and Ollie wasn't giving himself credit for all of that, but he'd helped bring those qualities out.

And then, Oliver came back to life.

-

"Where to next?" Roy asks, as they drive out of Central City. Ollie appreciates that Roy is willing to follow his lead on this, even though it's clear Roy thinks he's being ridiculous.  Sure, Wally would probably have let Ollie have that old ring of Barry's if he'd asked, just like the JLA would probably have let him have the diamond-tipped arrow.  But those things weren't theirs to keep or give in the first place.

"Amity Park, Illinois."

Roy gives him a skeptical look over the top of his sunglasses. "The hell is in Amity Park?"  He's bracing himself to hear about some other memorabilia Ollie left behind upon his death, something else that wasn't disposed of the way Ollie had requested.  Something else that other people-- even Roy-- think insignificant.

That would be easier to explain than this.

"Maybe nothing," Oliver says. "But I need to be sure."

-

Finding Amity Park in the first place is a task and a half.  It's not on the map Roy keeps in his glovebox, and they have to ask directions at multiple gas stations across Illinois before they arrive.  

It's immediately clear that they're in the right place.  Amity Park is a small city-- barely even a city, really.  But the property damage evident on the streets and the buildings is on par with the aftermath of an alien invasion.

Roy slides off his shades.  "What on earth..."  He glances at Oliver.  "Ollie, what is this?"

A green streak shoots across the sky, followed by a white one.  

Phantom.

"Follow them!"  Ollie points at the ghosts.  

By the time they arrive, it's a stand-off.  The other ghost has disappeared, but Phantom is hovering twenty feet off the ground, dodging blasts from a couple in brightly colored hazmat suits.  

The Fentons.  Ollie had heard a few stories about them while he was in the Infinite Realms, though Phantom had been reluctant to talk about them.

"Ollie," Roy says.  In his voice, Ollie can hear all the suppressed rage he himself is feeling, watching a child-- a superpowered child, but a child nonetheless-- getting shot at.

"Not yet."  Ollie wants to help, but he doesn't want to make things worse by jumping in without thinking.  Their help isn't needed in the end; Phantom manages to disappear from sight while the ghost hunters are distracted.

Oliver tells the whole story to Roy over dinner at the local fast food joint.

"Jesus Christ," Roy says.  

"So you see why I want to talk to Phantom," Ollie says.  

"Aren't you already training two kids already?  You gonna add all of this on top?"  

"Connor doesn't need training.  He could probably teach me a thing or two.  And no one is training Mia in anything."  Okay, that last part isn't quite true; Oliver knows for a fact that Connor has been giving Mia lessons in archery and hand-to-hand.  But as long as she's not trying to put on a costume and fight crime, he'll pretend he doesn't know.  Hell, it makes him feel better, knowing that she has a trick or two up her sleeve.

"Phantom can't be much older than she is," Roy says, a hint of judgment in his tone.

"Phantom is already dead," he says.  Roy flinches a little.  "And he doesn't have a Hal Jordan to bring him back."

They go back to their burgers.  It's not until Oliver is crumpling up his wrapper that he speaks again.  

"Look," Ollie says.  "This is a lot bigger than Phantom.  And based on what I know of him, he's not going to want to leave Amity Park.  But I want to let him know that someone's got his back."

Roy claps him on the shoulder.  "More than just one person."

-

Tracking down Phantom for a conversation is harder than it sounds.  Oliver doesn't know how much time he even spends out here, rather than in the Infinite Realms.  Not to mention the handy ghost power of invisibility.  

He suits up and stakes out a rooftop downtown, with Roy doing the same on the other side of town.  He's just getting ready to pack it in for the night and try it again tomorrow when a familiar form materializes next to him.

"Arrow?" Phantom asks.

Oliver smiles.  "Hey, kid."  

"What-- how-- you're alive?" Phantom sputters a little.

"Am now," Ollie says.  "A friend of mine brought me back."  He gives a quick overview-- Green Lantern, godlike power, decided what the world was missing was one Oliver Queen.  

"I'm going to do what I can about the Anti-Ecto Acts and the GIW," Oliver says.  "But if you ever need anything, give me a call.  Or just track me down in Star."  He hands a slip of paper with his phone number and email on it to Phantom.  

"Danny," Phantom says.

"Sorry?"

"My name.  It's Danny."

"Oliver."  Ollie holds out his hand and Danny shakes it.  "Good to meet you, Danny."

-

For a while, he only hears from Danny through irregular emails and the very occasional phone call.  Ollie leans on his Justice League acquaintances to help repeal the Anti-Ecto Acts and get rid of the GIW.  It's slow going-- much slower than Ollie would like.  Too many JL members are advising caution, wanting to find out more about ghosts and how dangerous they might be before they take a stand.  Luckily, neither Superman and Wonder Woman were happy about Oliver's news, and hold a lot of sway with the American public.  And rather conveniently, a number of reporters have suddenly begun looking into the Anti-Ecto Acts, stirring up public sentiment against them even more than before.

Things are looking good.  And then, Danny shows up at the front door of Oliver's brownstone.  

Oliver is making himself a sandwich when he hears the knock at the door.  Mia (who had finally gotten Ollie to agree to let her be Speedy a few weeks back) is with the Teen Titans for the weekend, and Connor is working at the youth center for most of the day, so there's no one else here to answer the door.  Ollie wipes his hands on a kitchen towel, and opens the door.

Ollie doesn't know it's Danny at first.  The Danny he met was a ghost, complete with jumpsuit and white hair and superpowers.  The kid that shows up at Ollie's front door is a living, breathing kid.  He's got pale skin and dark hair and he can't be any older than sixteen.  He's a little on the thin side, though given his age, he could just be going through a growth spurt, and the backpack slung over his shoulder is decorated with a NASA patch.  

"Ollie?" the kid asks. 

"That's me," Ollie says.  "What can I do for you?"

"It's Danny.  Phantom," he clarifies in a low voice.  "From Amity Park."

He can see it, now that he knows to look.  The face and build are the same, just color-swapped.

“I need your help,” Danny continues.

The kid looks like he’s about to fall over from exhaustion or stress or both. 

Ollie opens the door a little wider.  "Come on in.  I was just making myself some lunch.  You can tell me what's going on."

Danny follows him into the kitchen and takes a seat at the counter.   Ollie finishes the sandwiches and slides one over to Danny.  

Danny doesn't pick it up at first, busy fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie.  “I don’t know where to start."

"Well, I gotta say," Oliver says.  "You're looking pretty alive for a dead guy.  I mean, same could be said for myself, but I told you how that happened."

Danny grimaces.  "About that.  It's kind of complicated."

Oliver leans against the opposite counter.  "Hit me with it."  

He already knows it's bad.  He was worried about Phantom in the first place; that's why he gave Danny a way to contact him if necessary.  Whatever made Danny travel halfway across the country to see him?  It can't be good.

"My parents are the Fentons," Danny starts.

Immediately Oliver knows the story is going to be worse than he anticipated. "The ghost hunters.  The ones who built the portal."  Ollie had heard all about that portal during his sojourn in the Infinite Realms-- some from Phantom, some from other ghosts.

"Yeah.  Well, the portal didn't exactly work at first.  My friends wanted to see it, and..."  Danny shrugs.  "It worked better than anyone gave them credit for, it's just that they accidentally put the switch on the inside."  

He can see where this story is going.  "And you accidentally turned it on."  

"Yeah.  It killed me, but all the ectoplasm coming through the portal brought me back to life.  So I'm only half-dead."  Danny finishes up his sandwich but Oliver, who is familiar with the eating habits of superhero teenagers, hands him another one.

"I'm guessing your folks don't know."  

"My sister does.  My parents don't."  Danny fidgets with the sleeves of his hoodie.  "That's not important."

It seems a little bit important.  

“It don’t know if there’s anything you can do,” Danny adds. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You can stay here as long as you need to," Ollie says.  There's an extra bedroom that Stanley used as an office, back when this place belonged to him.  He'll need to get the junk cleaned out, but it should work for Danny.  "But it might help if I had a few more details.  Is someone gonna come looking for you-- or for Phantom?"

"I don't think so," Danny says.  "Well, the GIW might, but they're not super active outside of Amity Park."

"We'll handle them if they show up."  Oliver would love the chance to put a few arrows in them, and he's sure Connor and Mia would feel the same.  

There's obviously more to this story than Danny is currently telling him, but Ollie isn't gonna press.  Not yet.  Long and difficult experience has taught him how badly that usually goes when dealing with teenagers.  

Danny finishes up his lunch, and Ollie shows him around, eventually leaving him to hang out in the living room and watch TV.  Ollie himself starts packing up the junk in the spare room.  Danny might have to sleep on the couch for a day or two, until they get a bed for him to use, but it's an alright couch.  Ollie has certainly slept in less comfortable places.

He doesn't realize how much time has passed until he hears Connor call him from downstairs.

"Dad?"  

His tone of voice is carefully measured, but it's enough to remind Oliver that Danny is downstairs-- and that he didn't let Connor know about their new guest.

He dashes down the stairs and, sure enough, Connor and Danny are watching each other warily from other sides of the living room.  Danny in particular looks like he wants to bolt.  

"This is Danny," Oliver says.  "He's gonna be staying with us for a while.  And Danny, this is my son, Connor.  He's the other Green Arrow."  

"Nice to meet you," Connor says to Danny.  Then, "Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Ollie follows Connor downstairs to the training room in their basement.  He has no idea how far Danny's enhanced senses extend outside the Infinite Realms-- or even if they work at all when he's not a ghost-- but Ollie suspects this conversation might not be as private as Connor is hoping.

"Are you sure about this?"  Connor asks.  

"He doesn't have anywhere else," Ollie says.  "What do you want me to do?"

Connor runs his hand over his face.  "I don't know.  But have you even talked to Mia about this?  When did you even meet this kid?"

"It was a sudden development," Ollie says.  "So no, I didn't.  But I don't think Mia's gonna tell me to send him packing."  He knows that's not what Connor is worried about; for all her bravado, Mia is still insecure about many things.  "As for how I met him... that's a bit of a story."

"Okay," Connor finally says.  "As long as you're sure."

Ollie clasps his shoulder.  "I appreciate it."  

-

They don't explain anything further to Connor that night, which is probably unfair to him.  But Ollie doesn't really want to make Danny explain more than once, and Mia won't be back until the next day.

Danny sleeps on the couch, and in the morning, he helps Ollie and Connor clean out the spare room.  Mia shows up a little after noon, having gotten a ride back from one of her powered friends, and finds the three of them eating pizza in the living room.

"You better have saved me some," she says, as she tosses her overnight bag on the floor.

"Didn't your friends feed you?" Ollie asks, but he passes her the box of pepperoni.  

Mia takes a slice and perches on the back of the couch, right next to Danny.  "Hi!  I'm Mia."  She gives Danny a look that is probably intended to be flirtatious.  

Danny looks a little like a deer in the headlights.  "Uh, hi?"

Connor raises an eyebrow at Oliver, and yeah, maybe having a teenage boy staying in the same house as Mia is a bad idea.  Then again, he's closer to her age than the guys she usually hits on.  

"This is Danny," Oliver says.  "Danny, Mia is my other kid.  She's also Speedy."  

They give Connor and Mia the cliff's notes version on ghosts and the Infinite Realms.  Danny knows a lot more than Ollie does about all of it, but he's much worse at explaining.  He either gets lost on tangents about inconsequential details, or he assumes they have more baseline knowledge than they do.

"I'm sorry," Mia says.  "Can we go back to the part where ghosts exist?"

"We've fought actual demons," Connor says.  "How are ghosts harder to believe?"

"Ollie was never a demon," Mia says with a shrug.  Then she narrows her eyes at Oliver.  "Were you?"

Ollie laughs.  "Definitely not."  

-

The next week or so is pretty quiet, by their standards.  The Green Arrows and Speedy go out and handle low-level crime in the city every night, though Phantom stays in at Ollie's suggestion; if the GIW is looking for him, it's better if he lies low.  It's a little worrying how easily he agrees.  It had never been that easy to convince him to do anything when they were training in the Infinite Realms.

Mia, who is better with technology than Ollie is, helps Danny send a message to his friends, letting them know he's safe.  

"It's better if I don't give them too many details," Danny says.  "Anyone who's looking for me will be watching them.  All of our devices are encrypted, thanks to Tucker, but I don't want to take any chances."

Danny comes with them to help out at the youth center, even while Ollie tells him that he's welcome to stay home and play video games or whatever.  Danny hasn't said anything about it, and so Ollie hasn't either, but Danny doesn't seem to want to be left alone for long.

Oliver wonders if that's because he's worried about himself or about them.

"So, where do your folks think you are?" Ollie asks at one point. 

Danny shrugs.  "Does it really matter?"

"Well, I'd like to know if I'm likely to be charged with kidnapping."  Connor and Mia both shoot him judgmental looks, but it's not like either of them were under any illusions about Ollie's ability to be delicate.  "I mean, I can handle it if I am, but I'd like to be prepared."

"I don't think you have to worry about that," Danny says, and that's the subject closed for the moment.

Mia corners Ollie one afternoon at the youth center, while Danny is playing basketball with some of the kids.  Danny is losing, badly.  Turns out he's incredibly clumsy when he's not using his powers.  The kids don't seem to mind, though, and Danny is a pretty good sport about it.

"We're keeping him, right?" Mia asks.

Oliver gives Mia a level look.  He hasn't noticed anything beyond some flirting on Mia's side, but that doesn't mean much.  

"Not like that," Mia says, rolling her eyes.  "I mean, he's cute, but he's kind of dense."

"Funny, I'm pretty sure the same has been said about me," Ollie jokes.

"Whatever he's not telling us... it's got to be pretty bad, right?" Mia says.  "But he seems happy here.  And we won't let anything happen to him."

There's a lot Oliver could say here: Danny has parents, he has friends, he has a home he obviously misses.  By almost every measure, he's far more powerful than Ollie or his kids, and whatever has him scared is quite possibly out of their league.  But the truth is, he feels the way Mia does.  

"It's up to him," Oliver finally says.  "But he's welcome to stay as long as he wants to."

-

Green Arrow and Speedy are crouched on a rooftop, taking aim at a couple of drug dealers, when Connor's voice crackles across the comms.

"I've got eyes on some guys in white suits," he says.  "At Fifty-first and Green."  

That's halfway across town, though nowhere near the brownstone.  If something goes down in the next few minutes, Connor is going to be on his own.  

"Don't engage," Ollie says.  "We're on our way."

They break up the drug deal and make their way toward Connor, who has been updating them on the GIW's movements the whole while.  

"I think they're looking for something," Connor says.  "They keep stopping and checking some kind of device-- I think it's a tracker of some kind."

"They're looking for Danny," Mia says.  

"How did they even know he's here?" Ollie wonders, but neither Mia nor Connor have any idea.  He makes a split-second decision.  "Mia, head back home and keep an eye on Danny.  Tell him Connor and I are handling it."

Mia is obviously put out by being sent away from the action, but she complies.  Oliver catches up with Connor, perching next to him on the edge of a roof.  Down on the street, a couple of men dressed all in white exit a white van and wave around a couple of handheld electronic devices.  They don't look up, which seems like a mistake from people who ostensibly deal with ghosts.  Convenient for the Green Arrows, though.

Trailing the GIW agents is a piece of cake.  Their all-white getup makes them clearly visible from a distance, and they seem to rely on their equipment rather than their eyes or ears.  

Their apparent incompetence makes Oliver get a little cocky, and that's where things go wrong.  He lands on the building closest to the agents, sure that they won't look up and see him-- and he's right.

Unfortunately, their device starts beeping just at that moment, and the two men are suddenly on high alert.  Ollie gets the bad feeling that something about him is what set it off.  They pull out their guns and look around wildly, until one of the geniuses gets the bright idea to look up.  That's when they start shooting wildly at Oliver and Connor.  

Their aim isn't great, and whatever kind of energy weapons they're using are only powerful enough to do some superficial damage to the building facade, but Ollie isn't eager to find out how it would feel to get hit by one of those.  Fortunately, he and Connor are both much better shots than these guys.

They shoot the weapons out of the agents' hands first, then Ollie puts an arrow through one guy's hand while Connor puts one through the other guy's foot.  

For a minute, it seems like it's going to be that easy.  Then, three more white vans come peeling down the street and a dozen more agents pour out.  Now, it's Oliver and Connor who are pinned down, ducking behind the roof's edge to avoid getting hit by those energy weapons.  

Ollie puts an arrow through another guy's shoulder, and is just a smidge too slow getting back out of the way.  The energy blast is going to hit him right in the shoulder.  He braces to take the hit--

A green shield appears in front of him.  The energy blast hits it and dissipates.

For a moment, Ollie thinks it's the work of a Lantern.  And then he sees Phantom, a bright white and glowing target hovering above the street.  

The GIW agents have completely disregarded Ollie and Connor, and are frantically shooting at Phantom.  Phantom is dodging the blasts easily; there's no sign of the clumsiness that he's beset with when he's a normal human.  One of the agents gets an arrow through his shoulder, and Ollie spots Mia perched on a roof across the street.  

In hindsight, he really should have expected this.  Neither of those kids are the type to sit at home when they could be helping instead.  Even so, he doesn't like it.

With Danny distracting the agents, it's much easier for Ollie, Connor and Mia to hit them.  They may be outnumbered, but the GIW agents are terrible shots.  At some point, the agents seem to realize this, too, and flee back into their vans, limping and bleeding, and drive away.  

"Follow them?" Connor asks.  

"No," Ollie says.  "I don't think they're going to try anything else tonight."  

The four of them make their way back to the brownstone.  

"I told you to stay here with Danny," Ollie tells Mia, once they're inside and putting away their gear.  

"Did you really think I was going to listen?" Mia asks. 

Ollie runs his hands over his face.  "A man can dream."

"Besides," Mia adds, "from where I was standing it seemed like we bailed you two out.  Right, Danny?"

With a flash of light, Danny transforms back to his human form.  "I'm sorry," he says.  "I don't know how they knew I was here."

"I'm not sure they did," Connor says.  "They were looking pretty hard for something before they went after the two of us."

"But they were looking for me specifically," Danny says.  

Ollie gives Danny a closer look.  He's clearly nervous.  More than just nervous, he looks like he's on the verge of taking off and running.

"What makes you so sure they're here for you?" Oliver asks.  It's not that he doesn't trust Danny's instincts, but he doesn't feel like he's got the whole picture.  

Danny leans against the workbench, almost knocking a set of half-finished arrows to the floor.  "They've been trying to catch Phantom since the beginning," he says.  "I kind of made their lives difficult."

"Good," Connor says, crossing his arms.  

"Plus, a lot of Amity Parkers kind of... don't like Phantom?  So the GIW heard about what a menace I was, and that didn't help.  But then you got Superman and Wonder Woman and all of them to talk about how bad the GIW and Anti-Ecto Acts are, and that helped, and-- I had it handled. "

"So what happened?" Mia asks.  

"My parents found out.  And I kind of freaked out?  And I flew off, and the GIW caught up to me."  Danny looks around, takes in their stricken expressions, and hurries to add, "Not for long!  But then I headed back home and my parents were telling everyone I was dead.  I didn't know what to do, so I came here."  

Oliver's head hurts just thinking about this mess.  He walks across the room and wraps an arm around Danny.  "We'll get this figured out," he promises, though he's not entirely sure how.  "First things first.  What do you want to do about your parents?"  

Mia scowls at him-- she's clearly already formed her opinion on Danny's parents.  Ollie can't say he disagrees, but he's made his own share of mistakes in the parenting department.  He hopes that the Fentons might be able to come around, if only because Danny clearly loves them.

"The GIW..." Danny begins. 

"I've got a few ideas about them."  Ollie is a little torn between hunting them down himself, pointing Supes or someone in their direction, or letting it leak to the public that these government lackeys chased a kid halfway across the country.  "Do you want to go back to your parents?"

"I don't know," he says. "I miss them, but... I don't know if they'll believe I'm really me. They think all ghosts are evil. But even if they believed me..."  He trails off.  

"You can stay here," Mia insists.  "Right, Ollie?"

"Of course he can."  He didn't actually need Mia's prompting for that.  "You're welcome to stick around as long as you want, but you should at least stay until we get the GIW shut down."  

Danny looks around the room at the three of them.  Whatever he sees must reassure him because after a long minute, he nods.  "Okay.  At least until then."

#dc x dp fic #dcxdp #dpxdc #green arrow #arrowfam #dpxdc week 2023

[thisonehere]

The Lin Kuei boys reacting to you saying you love them during sex

Mk1 Headcanons

C/w: NSFW (BOO, sex!), fluff, afab reader, emotions, smut with feelings, cuddling, trouble with communicating emotions, crying

Bi-Han

Bi-Han has never really been vocal about his feelings, especially towards you. He always viewed them as a weakness. But he is very fond of you... he possibly even lov-nope, he refuses to admit that.

Bi-Han came from a long day of fulfilling duty after duty, running around for Liu Kang, and arguing with his brothers. Now he was getting close to his favourite part of the day: you. Being on top of you to be precise.

He fights off a smile when he opens the door and sees you happily waiting to greet him. As per usual, you eat a meal you prepared, sit down, you talk (well, you're the one that's talking, he's just sitting there and staring at you. He finds your boring day very surprisingly interesting compared to the hectic schedule he has), and now was possibly the best part: the bedroom.

The night was going just like it usually did, you were underneath him, he was on top of you making you go crazy. With every stroke made you feel like you were closer and closer to heaven. You cried his name between breaths, he stayed silent as usual. Replying to you only through grunts and moans. But it was enough, he always was enough.

There have been feelings that have been forming inside you for quite some time, things that were never meant to be formed. This was supposed to just be a casual no-strings-attached fling for him, but to you it was everything. You kept your mouth shut out of fear of being rejected. But at some point, you can't take it anymore, "I love you!" you cry out abruptly.

And with that, Bi-Han suddenly stops his thrusting. He stays frozen there for quite a while, not responding, he just stares at you. "Bi-Han?" He stares at you. "I-" you try to explain, "Turn around and get on your stomach." he interrupts with this sudden demand.

For the rest of that time, Bi-Han has sex with you from behind, he seemingly refuses to look at your face. As you finish, Bi-Han quickly turns his back to you and lies down to go to sleep. Did you do something wrong? Does he not like you anymore? Oh, everything was going so well, why did you have to ruin it? You wonder as you stare at him for a few seconds. With a heavy heart, you lie down as well and go to sleep.

Unbeknownst to you, Bi-Han turns over and looks at your face while you sleep. You love me? He thinks, Me? Why? How long?

When you first told him this, he didn't know what to do so he panicked. Sharing emotions was something he never wanted when starting this relationship. But he couldn't deny that he too started to feel things for you, he felt this way before that too. You made him feel things that he never felt before, things he never wanted to feel.

He is so frustrated. These feelings he has for you make him feel so weak. Yet you seemed so okay with displaying this weakness, why? Why are you so willing to be vulnerable with him? Why did he want to be so vulnerable with you? He so desperately wants to tell you everything he feels, he wants to tell you about his day, talk about his favourite books and movies, just talk to you.

He hesitates before moving closer to you. He stares at your face as if he's trying to find something. Finally, he reaches out to you and pulls you to hold you. He gives you a gentle kiss on the forehead and sighs. "I love you too, Y/n...more than anything..."

Kuai Liang

Unlike Bi-Han, Kuai never for a second hid his feelings for you. He adores you, words can't describe how dear you are to him. Yet he's never been sure where he stood with you. You were attentive and affectionate with him, but he wasn't sure if you felt like he did for you.

It was a long and tiring day, Kuai was relieved to finally be home. He smiled brightly when he saw you waiting for him at the door. He took you into his arms and warmly kissed you. As per usual, he didn't come empty-handed too, he came with a gift for you. Something thoughtful, something he knew you were eyeing for a while. Afterwards, you eat, he tells you about his day, and one thing leads to another and now you are in the bedroom.

Your legs are wrapped around him as you hang on for dear life. Sex with him was a cross between passionate lovemaking and fucking like wild animals. Your mind is numb as all you can process is his warmth and how he embraces you, how good he made you feel. Not just here in this moment, but in multiple other ways. How he doesn't hesitate to give you compliments, the way he listens to you no matter how absurd you feel your conversation is, and how he makes sure that you're okay.

You couldn't deny how much you love him, you cherish everything you have together. You always felt scared about telling Kuai how you felt, Bi-Han was so cold and heartless you feared Kuai would be just the same. But the time you spent with him changed your views a little, maybe you could tell him how you felt after all.

As Kuai continued his assault on your poor body. You felt feelings suddenly erupting inside, things that you tried to suppress. But you are not hiding it anymore, "I love you." you scream without thinking.

Kuai instantly slows down, he looks into your eyes. He smiles as his eyes melt and he stares at you. "I love you too." He says, the smile on his face getting bigger as he looks at you.

When all is finished, the two of you lay there in bed. Kuai still has a huge grin on his face as he holds you close. You telling him this made him feel amazing in ways he couldn't explain. You love me. That was all he could think about. His mind was racing with his possible future with you, the years you'll spend together, your wedding day, and the children he wanted to give you.

He pulls you in closer and tenderly kisses you. "I love you so much, Y/n. Marry me."

Tomas

Tomas is a very shy man when it comes to sharing his feelings with you. He loves you, so much that it hurts. But he can't say anything because of his insecurities. He fears that you don't love him and you are just with him because you pity him. He desperately wants to tell you how he feels, he wants to tell the whole world even. But he just can't.

When Tomas finally gets home, he is emotionally and mentally drained. Not only did he have to deal with important duties, but also with being dragged through the mud by Bi-Han. "You will never be Lin Kuei, Tomas. You will always be the little runt that my father took in out of pity." Tomas had been told this a million times, this wasn't new. And it burned him every time, he grew accustomed to fighting crying or else he would be mocked even more.

It got even worse with the next thing Bi-Han said. "Do you truly think Y/n will ever truly love you? Ha! Tomas, you are naive as you are a bastard." That hurt him on a level he never expected it could. This made him even more insecure, he loves you so much, and the idea of you feeling the same way broke his heart.

As he opens the door and finds you there waiting, he gives you a weak smile. You look down and see that he has brought flowers for you. They were your favourite, carefully gathered together and groomed just the way you like them. After that, you talk for some time, Tomas just sits there and stares at you. You ask what's wrong but he quickly changes the subject. The night goes on and before you know it, you both are naked in the bed.

It's funny, Tomas seems so innocent, like he doesn't know how to have sex nor does he know what it is. But you know for a fact that he fucks like no other, the man is a sex god. The way he was pounding made you feel that you wouldn't be able to walk for weeks. If that was the case, you weren't bothered because you knew that Tomas would be there to take care of you. He was always there for you, that's one of the things you like about him. Coupled with the fact that he is a gentle giant, in touch with his feelings and so easy to talk to.

You never really told Tomas how you felt out of fear that you moving too fast. But the longer you spent with him, the more you knew you were ready to tell him. You just needed to find the right chance. He made you so good that you couldn't wait anymore. "I love you." You say.

Tomas flinches and stops his stroking. His eyes grow wide. "Tomas?" Oh, no... Did you mess up, you think. "I'm sorry, I didn't-" But before you can finish, Tomas take you and kisses you. It is intense, you feel so many emotions and heat coursing through his body. He pulls away for a second, "D-do you mean it?" he asks a little unsure. You nod your head causing him to go back down and passionately kiss you again.

When all is finished Tomas turns his back to you. You didn't think much about this...until you heard a sniffling sound coming from him. Tomas felt overwhelmed by the affirmation of your devotion. He was filled with joy that you feel the same way he does, but at the same time, he still is worried. What if you were just saying that because you were in the heat of the moment? What if you don't feel the same way in the morning? He soon felt a rush of emotion, many good, some bad. It got so intense that he finally gave in and began to cry.

"Tomas, what's wrong?" He turns over to you, a smile on his face despite the tears. He reaches out and pulls you close, "It's nothing. I love you and... you love me. That's all that matters."

#mortal kombat #mk1 #mk1 2023 #mk x reader #mk x y/n #mk fanfic #mortal kombat 1 #bi han #bi han sub zero #bi han x reader #kuai liang #mk scorpion #kuai liang scorpion #kuai liang x reader #tomas vrbada #mk smoke #tomas x reader #mk tomas vrbada #tomas vbrada x reader #lin kuei #mk smut #fluff #comfort #afab nonbinary #afab reader #overstimulative #taking requests #smut with feelings

[fanfiction4sooya]

Call her now (Karina x Fem!R)

Just wanted to write something to open my year of writings!! Just had this idea and well... you will know more once you read it. Hope ya'll like it! 💖💖💖

Ps: thanks to each one of you who enjoy my works and engage with it. I really appreciate each one of you babies 🥹💖

cw: fingering, humping, fingering, strapons, a tad bit of voyeurism, yves is here too and she is an asshole, girl on girl action, swearing, aggressiveness, light stalking, possessiveness, nipple play, etc.

You always wondered what exactly what was that girl's job. She came in at the bank you worked for to deposit a lot of cash every week and you just asked for her ID and did the transaction, but those questions ate you alive. It wasn't anything illegal otherwise the bank wouldn't approve her transactions; Stripper? No, the bills are big and strippers usually get smaller ones thrown at them. 'Maybe she works something more expensive...' You thought for the 10th time as she left your work place with a small nod and a charming smile.

You were staring at your computer a week later, a complete wreck since you and your girlfriend broke up and your life turned upside down. She was obsessively trying to talk to you since then, following you everywhere. You were honestly not feeling very safe. but the only way you had was come into work like everyday. You still had to pay your bills after all.

You didn't even realized when Jimin sat down to the other side of your desk, her leather purse full of cash with her as always.

"Good afternoon" Her voice broke you off from your trance, making you slightly jump.

"Oh, jesus" You closed your eyes, startled.

"I didn't mean to scare you" She said. "I've been sitting here for about two minutes and you seemingly didn't see me" Polite and cold as always, but this time she scanned you.

You felt the need to hide from her sharp gaze, run away. You knew you probably looked a mess and you didn't want to appear like that in front of the yoo Jimin.

"Are you okay?" You lowered your eyes, shy as ever and she stared at your buzzing phone. You turned the screen down.

"yes, thank you for asking" You smiled, fixing your glasses on your face and trying your best to keep your composure to 1: not melt at how intensely she was staring at you and 2: not lose it because of the many times your ex has called you since your client was in front of you.

"Bad ending?" Jimin said, once again taking you from your own mind. A simple transaction that supposedly would take less than five minutes was taking way longer.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Your phone buzzed about 6 times already and before you turned your screen down I saw a trash can emoji followed by 'Ex'" She leaned against the chair, her brown overcoat slightly opening and revealing a black leather dress under it. You gulped, looking away. "So I imagine someone is wanting another chance"

"Uh... yeah" You looked at your computer screen again, finishing her transaction. "Apparently she can't take no for an answer" You said, closing your eyes and mentally slapping your forehead. Too much information.

"She?" Jimin smiled, amused. You gave her the deposit receipt and she got up. "Glad to know I have a chance" She smiled, turning away and stopping at your office's door. "Have a good day, Ms" And she left without waiting any response from you.

You spent the rest of your day thinking of what she said. Was it possible? That woman could be described as a doll, an angel, anything but human and well, not that you thought you were ugly but she was another level of pretty. Your phone buzzed again, but this time you picked it up since you were leaving the bank.

"I told you I don't wanna talk to you" You sounded stern but deep down you were scared. Ha Sooyoung could be menacing when she wanted to.

"But I wanna talk to you" You heard her voice loud and clear right behind you. You turned around and of course she was there, leaning against her motorcycle. That fuckboy attitude present as ever.

A few days prior that would be considered attractive, now it just added to how juvenile her mind could be. Looking back she never took you seriously, you were the least on her priorities but you were too enamored with her to realize all that. Only when she broke up with you saying she needed to "get her freedom back" you came back to your senses.

"please baby, why are you being like this?" She stepped forward so fast she caught your hand without you even realizing. "I said I'm sorry, I wasn't in my right mind" Her eyes scanned you, her nostrils slightly moving as she took in your scent. "I miss you in my mouth" She whispered and your legs almost gave up. Sex with her was really good, another reason for you staying with her for so long.

"First of all, take your hands off of me" You gritted your teeth, pulling your hand away from her grip. "Second: I don't care how much you miss me, I am not going back to you because I can't deal with your indecisiveness anymore, so please leave me alone" You tried to turn around but she held you again.

"Are you going to tell me you don't miss me? Me? The one who taught you what pleasure is?" She sounded more like a jerk than ever. "I know your body with the back of my hand baby..." She got really close to you, everyone that passed you two staring a bit. "You can't find anyone better than me" She spat, letting your arm go in a pushing motion.

It hurt your ego more than your arm have her saying that to you, specially because she knew you very young and inexperienced.

"Hello love, I was waiting for you" You heard her voice before seeing her. Out of nowhere jimin had her arm around your waist, pulling you in for a kiss. You were on your tippy toes because of the height difference, her lips firm against yours as it lasted a few seconds. She let go of you with a smile and soon you heard the other one clearing her throat. Jimin's eyes darkened a bit, defiant. "Who is this, love?" She continued the act and you knew you were profusely blusehd.

"She is..."

"I am her girlfriend" Yves said, pulling your arm and you pulled it back to make her let go of you.

"Oh, is she the trashy ex we were talking about?" Jimin showed her teeth in an imitation of a smile, 'whispering' to your ear. "Oh yeah, not worth it at all" Loud enough for yves to hear. The woman was so astonished she couldn't even think of a proper reply when the taller woman held your hand and you took off with her, taking you to her car. You knew it was a porsche due to your ex's obsession with those fancy cars.

She opened the door for your surprised self, delicately closing it behind you and going around to enter the vehicle. Turning the engine on she waved goodbye to yves (who still had her jaw dropped) and took off.

You were just so surprised that no sound came out of you for a few minutes as you saw the city in a flash of lights due to her speed. She noticed your surprised face, of course.

"You can breathe now" She said, side eyeing you and your pencil skirt, your glasses on the tip of your nose.

"Oh, yeah..." You finally allowed yourself to move. After a moment of the most awkward silence ever known to men you spoke. "Thank you for that..." You started, looking at her direction for one millisecond before blushing too hard. She was so attractive it was maddening. "You didn't have to lie to cover for me..." Your voice sounded small.

"I didn't lie" She stared at you now, turning her head at your direction with her hand still on the steering wheel.

"What do you mean?" You blurted out.

"I was waiting for you to get off work so I could take you home" She stared ahead. You were silent for a moment, thinking.

"You waited for hours just to take me home?"

"Yes"

"That's insane. Weren't you bored?" You said feeling bad for her waiting for you all that time.

"The thought of you entertained me" She half smiled at you.

"What... You are a natural sweet talker" You said, honestly amazed, trying to sound offended but of course you sounded playful.

"I'm a pro at it, love" She kept staring at the road, her side profile prettier than anything you've ever seen. "My place or yours?"

"W-what?" You gripped the side of your skirt, wetness already seeping through your panties with just that question. Jesus, that woman was hot.

"If you wanna go to your place its understandable, I'll gladly take you there and we can grab dinner another time" Her right hand let go of the steering wheel and she placed it on your thigh, looking intensely in your eyes. "If you come with me to my place we are going to fuck all night and tomorrow I'll drop you off at work if you'd like"

You stared at her for an eternity, a million thoughts going through your mind. You thought of saying no; excuses and excuses flowing through your head. You opened your mouth, her warm hand in your thigh making your panties damp.

"Your place"

-🌸🌸🌸-

The lights turned on as soon as you stepped inside; actually, as soon as she stepped inside because now she had your legs trapped behind her back, her hands holding you by the ass and your clothed core grinding hungrily against her stomach. You moaned against her lips when your back finally met the wall and you could really feel the weight of her body against yours.

Her tongue felt so good against yours it was really insane. How did that woman learn how to kiss like that? You tried to chase her lips again when she moved away from yours, whining when she ghosted them over yours just to teasingly smile. You rolled your eyes, scratching her shoulders under the brown overcoat.

Without much effort she kept her way to her bedroom with you on her lap, still holding tightly on her shoulders. She carefully placed you in her bed, straightening her back to look at you, her head cocked to the side like a curious feline as she measured you up and down. To your beautiful face and swollen lips, a mean smile on her lips.

"Fuck I wanted this so bad, love" She crawled to you, your panties were ruined at this point.

For some reason you didn't feel shy at all; not shy, not nervous... anything. You only felt wanted. No, not wanted. You felt needed.

She swiftly pulled you by the ankles, placing herself between your legs and staring from your face to the wet path on your underwear, a glint of arousal visible on her face too.

"you are so beautiful, fucking hell" You throbbed when she said that, her voice raspy and low as if she was speaking to herself and not entirely to you.

"Says the actual goddess over me" You bit your lip, embarrassingly out of breath.

"yet you never seemed to be interested in me" She pulled you by the nape, kissing you hungrily while unbuttoning your blouse all the way down, her fingertips grazing your tummy and making you whimper. "I usually don't go for anyone but I need to have you" she pushed you again to lay down, her tongue swirling against yours made your pussy throb like crazy.

Her tongue and teeth never stopped their assault on your lips, all you could do was whimper and scratch her arms when she traced her fingers down to your drenched cunt. You gasped when she touched your hard clit over the fabric, biting her lip a little too hard.

"Jimin, oh god" Was all you managed to say when she circled your clit a couple of times, rolling your hips each time they moved.

"yes princess, keep calling my name while I make you feel good" She lowered her assault to your neck, knowingly that would give you at least one hickey, smiling when you held her arm to keep it from going away.

It felt too good, and too much at the same time. You body felt feather like and the way she moaned while her hand kept working on your clit made you start convulsing, not really understanding why the fuck were you already cumming when with your ex you only could do it by penetration and clit stimulation.

"jimin, t-too much" you started saying but she kept rubing your swollen clit, a particularly harsh bite making you tip over the edge, squirting all over your panties and her hand. You kept rolling your hips, coming down from your high. "I've never squirted before..." You knit your eyebrows together, a bit surprised.

"Fuck, that useless asshole never made you squirt?" she devilishly smiled, biting her lower lip. She sat on her heels, pulling her dress over her head, her big breasts fully on display now as she quickly undressed you as well, pulling your dripping panties from you with and audible moan. "fuck now I want you squirting all over me" She kissed your thighs, placing herself between them to kiss your mound.

"No, it's your turn..." Pulling her to kiss you again, you thought how much you wanted that woman to be lost in you. "let me touch you, please. I don't really know how to but I wanna make you feel good" You stared into her brown eyes, her doll like features a bit more prominent from up close. She touched your face with her knuckles and that alone made you melt.

Nine times out of ten you bottomed with your ex, which didn't teach you a lot in the matters of being a top. She understandably nodded, softly smiling at you.

"Of course, love" She kissed you again and now you finally had the chance to do something instead of only let her do them to you. "It's okay, take your time" She patiently cooed and you shivered. That was arousing, oh so fucking hot.

You flipped her to be under you, straddling her hips and moaning against her skin when your boobs touched hers. She rolled her eyes and you quickly realized that was a soft spot for her, so you trailed your way down with your tongue, latching on them.

"oh, fuck" She pulled your hair a bit when your lips connected to her nipple. "Harder princess, no need to be soft with me" Jimin said, giving you directions and you clenched around nothing thinking of how hot that felt one more time.

Just now you understood how patience was something you needed in a partner. That guidance and lack of judgement... It gave you a boost of confidence.

You pulled on her nipple with a soft 'pop' and she whined, her eyebrows knit together as she rolled her eyes.

Her hips rolled on their own against yours and you ended up moaning too, sucking harshly on her right nipple while pinching the other. You started to grind down, her clit and yours perfectly grazing each other on that sinful position. She closed her eyes, tossing her head back and holding your hips to bump her clit on yours better while you kept working on her boobs.

"This feels perfect princess, k-keep going" Jimin managed to say between broken moans, the skin slapping sound loud and clear that somebody was fucking.

You were both so wet you could feel it between your legs every time she pushed your hips up to pull them down again against hers. You felt her tightening her grip. Time went both slow and fast, it was insane how turned on you were even by the lightest of touches coming from her.

"I'm gonna cum in your pussy baby, fuck fuck fuck" She gripped even harder, leaving her hand prints on your hips, deeply breathing with her eyes closed, your shiny eyes looking up at her in the most adorable way ever. You looked down to where you were connected and you could literally see how you both creamed on each other.

Coming down from her high jimin smiled at you, pulling you up for a deep kiss. Your heart was thrumming in your ears, that kiss alone making you feel things you didn't feel for the longest time, maybe never.

"Are you feeling okay?" She kissed your neck with you still straddling her and you hummed in response. "Good" She sat down, kissing your lips even more fervently than before, pushing on hand between your bodies to finally touch your pussy. "You are soaked, love" You rolled your eyes, hugging her shoulders when two of her fingers invaded you in one go. "Let's take care of that, hm?" She touch your spongy spot, pumping her fingers hard in and out of you.

You heard your cellphone buzz inside your purse somewhere but not that it mattered now that the most beautiful woman you've ever laid your eyes on was literally fucking you hard enough to take your breath away.

"Can't she take a hint?" She said through gritted teeth, speeding up her pace.

"She'll stop..."You managed to say between a moan. "Eventually" She rolled her eyes.

"God, her insistence makes me wanna fuck you even more" She bit your lip. "Makes me wanna strap you down just so you can call her while calling my name" She said, knuckles deep inside you.

The temptation was too much, the thought of you doing such dirty thing making you clench viciously on her fingers.

"Oh, you want that" She growled, her fingers going to a full stop as she pulled them out of you, taking both to her lips and sucking it to gather your taste on her tongue. "I won't take long" She kissed you and got up. "Pick up your phone and wait for me with your legs open" She commanded.

"Y-yes, ma'am" She went to her closet and you quickly fished for your phone in your purse. In fact, a few missed calls from Sooyoung.

Jimin came back wearing a harness with a strapon, putting on a condom on the big thing. For safety reasons, you assumed.

"And your phone?" She asked, eyes glued on yours.

"She isn't calling anymore..." You said a bit out of breath when she knelt between your legs pulling you to her and laying on her stomach. Her tongue swirled between your folds and your clit, ripping a gutural moan from you. "Jesus"

"Call her now" She said, slurping on your juices. Her tongue in and out of you while her nose bumped your clit.

You did as she said, gripping on the phone for dear life when she turned you around placing you in all fours for her, holding your hips with one of them to play with your folds with the tip of the strap, slapping your clit a few times to make you jolt. Finally the other side of the line picked up.

"Where the fuck are you?" She practically shouted and finally jimin slipped in taking you by surprise and you did your best to swallow the sinful moan you were about to let out.

"I am not at my ap- fuck" You let out when she gave you a particularly hard thrust, the whole thing slipping inside you.

"You look beautiful like this, baby" She said loud enough for Yves to hear.

"What the fuck is going on? Where the fuck are you? I swear to god-"

Jimin picked up pace pulling you into her, your face completely smashed against the expensive sheets as you babbled some incoherent words. She picked the phone from your hand, never stopping what she was doing.

"Oh, hi" Her voice sounded poisonous, her free hand slapping your ass with force and making you cry out. "She is a bit busy now..."

"Jimin, please" You cried out loudly, completely forgetting anything else, the toy hitting your womb was too much to handle. "Please I'm gonna cum, please don't stop" you bit the back of your fingers, the urge to cry getting stronger by the second every time she pounded you.

"WHAT THE FUCK-"

"No need to scream, friend" She pulled you by the hair, your body now completely against hers now. "She is mine now, can you hear that?"She lifted the phone while slamming the dick inside your hole to make your moans even more audible for the other woman. "Bye bye" She said to your screaming ex, throwing your phone on the bed and finally hugging you against her. "I knew it was worth the wait..." She licked your ear lobe then your neck, reaching her hand to your clit, thrusting hard as you came screaming, squirting again all over her legs.

She kept the pace, humping the toy up while holding you for a long while. Her embrace felt strong and protective in some way.

Oh you were doomed.

When she finally took it off you fell onto the bed, limp and sweaty and so wet. She took it off, hugging your limp body and pulling you to lay on top of her on her chest and kissing your forehead, then lips taking in your scent.

"Are you feeling okay?" She said after a while.

"I'm feeling light as a feather" You nudged on her neck, feeling somewhat protected. She was warm and passionate and you really liked that. (authors note: Karina is a fire sign after all)

You finally looked around, taking in the luxurious place you were at.

"Can I ask you something?" You said and she hummed. "Don't get me wrong but I've been dying to ask you..." You placed your chin over your hands on her chest, puppy eyes looking up at her. "What do you work with?" You said making her burst out laughing. After a while she finally managed to pull herself together, looking at you.

"I am a professional domme, love" She said and you went 'Oh'. "Does that bother you?" She asked and you quickly shook your head no.

"No that's not it..." You said. "Now I'm just really thinking... are you taking any applications? I could be an intern..." She laughed out loud, caressing your hair.

"Well I am looking for a business partner..." She pulled you in for a kiss. "But you need to take some mandatory classes first" Her tongue swirled against yours and you whimpered. "Are you still interested?" She said, smiling against your lips.

"Oh you can be sure I'll be the best student you've ever had..." You sat again over her pussy, slightly grinding down and you both moaned, searching for that satisfaction one more time.

Your phone buzzed the whole night until it ran out of battery...

#gxg smut #aespa smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin smut #karina smut #karina aespa smut #karina x fem!reader smut #female reader #ha sooyoung #yves

[kiss-me-cill-me]

Hi!!! I know it’s only a small idea but I wanted to request something for Emmett based on when he first puts his hand around Evelyns mouth to keep her quiet but instead he does it to the reader to keep her quiet, in whatever scenario you can think of. The way he looked was so hot with that eye contact it had me sweating 🥵

My dear anon, literally no idea is too small for Emmett. This man is so underappreciated it's a crime. I also decided to shoehorn in some inspiration from another one of my favorite snippets of Emmett thirst, which is the gif below of him looking through his rifle sights because hnnnnnnggg. Hope you don't mind ;) Thank you for requesting! <3

Distractions

Pairing: Emmett x Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: The more time you spend around Emmett, the more distracted you get. And when you finally can't keep quiet about it any longer, Emmett has to take matters into his own hands (heh heh) and make you stay quiet.

Warnings: Smut, sexual tension, a whole lot of build-up, close call with a creature, kinda angry sex, quiet sex, biting

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

Distracted could not even begin to describe the way you were feeling.

The dim light forced you to squint as you watched Emmett - the scope of his rifle held out just in front of his face as he peered through the sights to scan for potential threats. He took his time, sweeping across the expanse of road stretched out in front of you. Making triple sure that nothing would jump out at you as you climbed down from where you were perched. 

The gun rested firmly against his squared shoulders, and you found your gaze trailing idly from there, down over the line of his arm. Somewhere from off in the distance, a pale yellow light illuminated him just enough for you to make out the soft hair on his forearms. You wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but shook your head, chasing the thought away quickly. It wouldn’t do either of you any good if you startled him.

You refocused on his lips, which were parted slightly. In concentration, his tongue darted out to lick at the sliver of space between them. You wished you had something to hold onto and brace yourself with, against the wave of desire that moved through your whole body. 

But, aside from you and Emmett, the only other thing around was an old metal guardrail. And you really couldn’t risk releasing the noise that might hide in its depths. These days, anything that looked even remotely like it might creak was off limits.

A gentle breeze rustled his hair, and he lowered the rifle. He turned briefly to nod at you, once. It was safe. 

No words dared to fill the dark, empty space as both of you stepped carefully over the guardrail. Pausing at the top of the overpass to take one last look at the scene below, you stopped to reflect on the past two days. That was how long you’d been traveling for, and you’d been together with Emmett for only a bit longer.

Although, “together” was the operative word. You had been sticking close to each other, under some quiet but shared understanding that two people were often better than one, at least when it came to things like keeping watch while you camped out in the open, or scavenging for supplies. But he and you weren’t together together, as much as your mind liked to wander and go wild with possibilities. In fact-

Something suddenly caught your attention, and you snapped back into focus again, to see Emmett waving an arm at you. He was standing a short distance in front of you, partway down the hill that connected the overpass to the wide road below. Staring up at where you stood, with an inquisitive look and just a hint of concern in his eyes, half hooded with shadow.

You gave him a thumbs up, and cautiously started to make your own way down the steep hill.

It was early. So early that it was still almost full dark out, and you followed the beam of the flashlight that Emmett held like a beacon. Usually, you weren’t out until after the sun had risen. But last night, neither of you had seemed able to sleep, and so it felt silly to waste time just sitting around when it would be light in a few hours.

You thought you could glimpse the first few streaks of dawn, just barely starting to leak out on the horizon. Goosebumps spread over your skin, in the chilly half-darkness. Emmett had loaned you a checkered bandana, and you reached up to tuck it a little more snugly into the neck of your jacket. The rough fabric brushed up against your chin, and you smiled.

In front of you, Emmett stopped short. You were only a few paces away from him now, and you paused just behind him, before you could bump into the hand he’d extended to stop you.

The hill didn’t sit fully flush with the ground below. Instead, it dropped sharply off at a stone wall, just a few feet above the road.

Emmett kept one hand pressed to his rifle, holding it still as he eased himself down; careful to not make even the smallest noise. You shuffled up to the edge of the wall, ready to follow right after him. As you stooped down, Emmett reached up, offering help.

You accepted it, awkwardly, and let him take one of your hands in his while the other came firmly to rest on the small of your back. As he guided you down, you felt your arms heat up, rapidly chasing away the goosebumps.

You looked at him once your feet were back on solid ground, slightly surprised by the physical contact. Not that it meant anything. Not that it was even anything worth getting excited about. He would probably do the same thing for anyone. He was just being helpful. 

Abruptly, you realized he’d already started to walk away, continuing on the journey that you were both supposed to be focused on. You hurried to catch up, but made sure your footsteps were soft as you followed.

With no opportunities to talk, the time spent traveling felt long. You were both in your own worlds; Emmett focused on scanning for danger, and you, well, distracted by watching him. As usual. 

It was probably best for both of you that Emmett hadn’t yet noticed the way your gaze lingered on him. But, that was just how he’d been, in all of the short time you’d known him. He was observant, and overly anxious to keep an eye out at all times. He seemed almost not to notice anything that wasn’t actively threatening his safety, and that included you.

Streaks of pink started to stretch across the sky, and then blended into the blue of a new day. Finally, it was light enough to see clearly, and you looked around at what was once a small town. You were just passing through, but the devastation that was clearly written across streets, stores, and houses felt unsettling. 

To your left, a sharp, unexpected sound made your blood run ice cold. Emmett froze right along with you, and you both whipped around to watch as an animal scampered away from a trash can, now tipped over and spilling out garbage onto the street.

Litter was the very least of your worries, though, as an all-too-familiar screech echoed across the empty street.

What shit luck. That was the only thought running through your mind as Emmett frantically dragged you by the arm, not wasting even a second more as the creature advanced. It was close by, and you had nowhere to hide. 

Apparently Emmett did, though, as he forcefully shoved you into the backseat of a car. Both of the doors, you noticed, were missing - completely torn off by some previous run-in with these monsters, by the looks of it.

As your back landed against the cloth seat cushions, you felt the wind knock out of your lungs. The soft sound of breath leaving your body was silenced, as Emmett slammed down on top of you, hastily bringing a hand to your mouth.

Your eyes blew wide as his body pressed fully into yours, stealing your breath in a quite different way. A sound caught in your throat, and you swallowed it down, hard. You were not about to get both you and him killed by moaning at a time like this.

His palm pressed down over your nose and lips, and you could feel the heat of your own breath as he stayed there, not focused on you but still scanning, even now, for the monster that sounded like it had finally arrived. The metallic sound of the trash can echoed out on the street.

You moved your head a little, trying to shake out of his almost-oppressive grasp to breathe easier. That finally seemed to get Emmett’s attention, and he looked down with a mix of horror and embarrassment as his hand pulled away. Still pressed tight together, you both shifted your attention to more urgent matters. 

You could still hear that thing wreaking havoc as it searched fruitlessly for the source of the sound. Sometimes you were almost impressed that the creatures could hunt at all, when they were the ones who were making the most noise out of anything. Anything left, anyway. This was a bad case of wrong place, wrong time, but for the most part, anyone who hadn’t learned early on to stay quiet was no longer around to learn.

Emmett’s arms, planted on either side of your head, tensed as his fingers dug into the seat cushions. In any other situation, this would have been pleasant. As things were now, though, you could feel both your heartbeat and his as they pounded together, hard enough to cross the thick barrier of bone and flesh.

The car lurched, and you felt your eyes bug out of your head. The creature was on top of you now, quite literally; you could hear a sharp groan as the car protested under its weight. A series of clicks told you that it was on the offensive, still searching for even the tiniest sound.

Another sharp jerk made you gasp, barely audibly, but loud enough for Emmett to press his rough hand over your mouth again. This time, he was a bit more careful, leaving you room to breathe out of your nose as he pushed his palm down on your lips. But the panic that swarmed in his eyes as you looked up told you exactly how he felt. You both stayed stock still, waiting to see if that little sound had been enough to give you away.

The car screamed even louder as the creature stepped off, lurking its way down onto the street, now on the other side of the vehicle. You stretched your neck to look back, and watched as it swiveled its head side to side. Thankfully not listening in your direction for too long. 

Cautiously, you dared to move just a few inches, wiggling and brushing your hips up against Emmett’s as you tried to make yourself more comfortable. As you did, though, the unmistakable feeling of something hard pressed into your thigh.

You looked up at him, your eyes straining with horror as both of you realized what had just happened. 

Emmett looked even more mortified than you felt; his lips pressed together in a tight line as his eyes seemed to beg for a way out of this. You threw him a panicked, questioning look. In reply, all he could do was reflect the same painful and wide-eyed face, as if to say, “What do you want me to do about it?”

There wasn’t much either one of you could do, however, as in that moment the creature’s head whirled back around with a sharp screech in your direction. You’d been quiet, you thought, although maybe the sound of your breath mixed with Emmett’s as he strained against you was enough to grab its attention again.

You both froze, and you quickly buried your face in his chest, tucking yourself away from the horrible fate that awaited you, as best you could. 

But, after a few harrowing seconds, you heard the creature move on. The sound of its clicks grew more distant as it ran off, still searching for prey.

You let out a huge breath, silently this time, and lifted your head from your hiding place. As you pulled away slightly from where you had curled up against him, you saw Emmett still looking down at you, horrified. You wondered why, for a second, before realizing your fingers were tangled firmly in his belt loops, desperately pressing his hips against yours as you’d braced for your end.

Now, though, that the danger had passed, all you were doing was grinding yourself firmly against his erection. Which had definitely not gone away, despite all the imminent, life-threatening danger.

Emmett’s hand brushed against yours, and your heart skipped, only for him to pry your fingers apart, releasing himself from your death grip. He refused to make eye contact with you; instead awkwardly shuffling out of the car, and facing away as you crawled out after him.

Your heart was still thundering in your chest, maybe even a bit louder than it had been as you were being stalked by the monster. You wished desperately to be able to talk to Emmett; you hadn’t said more than two words to him since you’d set out earlier this morning. That wasn’t unusual, but if there was ever a time when you wished for the ability to communicate, it was right now.

You scanned quickly for any safe space. Now that you had time to actually assess your surroundings, you noticed several buildings with wide open doors. You tugged Emmett’s sleeve, silently telling him to follow you.

He did follow, somewhat reluctantly, and soon you were deep in the relative safety of the stockroom of a small store, your weapons and backpacks cast quickly aside. Someone who had been here before you had taken the time to shove mattresses up against every wall - added protection to muffle any sounds from within. Finally, you could speak.

“Emmett…”

But where could you even begin? Did you admit that you had feelings for him? Would that only scare him away? Maybe scaring him was good; if that was what a little adrenaline had done to him, part of you felt tempted to put him in even more dangerous situations. But, then again, if that’s all it had been, then maybe he didn’t like you at all. At least, not in the way you liked him. As you quietly wrestled with indecision, Emmett took over the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, still not meeting your gaze. “I didn’t mean- I’m… Fuck.”

“Sorry?” you echoed. “What are you sorry for?”

“For…”

Emmett trailed off; his face twisted into a new expression of pained awkwardness. The tension was thick enough to wrap solidly around your ankles, rooting you to the spot where you stood. 

Emmett shuffled, apparently still restless despite the heavy pressure that had settled over the small room. Your whole body felt weighed down, and yet you were still buzzing with the unchecked excitement that always came after surviving a close call. Your veins felt ready to burst.

“Shit, is it hot in here?” you wondered. 

While outside you’d been freezing in the cold morning air, suddenly in here you felt flushed. Maybe Emmett wasn’t the only one who’d been affected by the adrenaline rush.

You peeled off your jacket, and looked up to see Emmett’s eyes glued to you.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m-”

You cut Emmett off before he could finish his sentence. 

“Don’t say you’re sorry again,” you whispered, a bit more harshly than necessary. “You don’t need to apologize if it’s nothing.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Emmett sighed. 

“So it’s not nothing?”

“What’s not nothing?” Emmett shot back, exasperated. “The way that I’ve been trying my best to ignore you looking at me like you want to rip my clothes off for the last week?”

You stared back at him with renewed horror. It hadn’t really been that obvious, had it? You had felt certain he hadn’t noticed you staring.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” you gasped. 

“Because I didn’t want what just happened to happen!”

“Nothing just happened,” you hissed.

Now you were the one spitting out denials. The oppressive atmosphere grew hotter, and you felt the need to strip off more layers. Not that doing that would be particularly helpful right now.

“Look, Emmett - do you like me?”

You figured that asking him point blank would get you the most direct answer. Instead, he looked at you as if you’d just grown an extra two heads.

And you might as well have, for all the good your current one was doing you. You racked your brain for another strategy, growing increasingly frustrated by the second.

“Do I like you?” Emmett said finally, interrupting your frenzy of thoughts. “What kind of question is that?” “It’s the kind that I’d sure like an answer to,” you replied. “If we’re going to be able to move forward from this, one way or another.”

Emmett glared at you, incredulous, his mouth hanging open as the rest of his face twisted into a look that was hard to read. Just when you thought he was going to turn on his heel and walk out, he took a step closer to you.

In the next breath, he’d grabbed your shoulders and pulled you in, quickly stifling your gasp with his lips.

Kissing Emmett felt like fighting for air, and like having it pumped directly into your lungs. All at the same time, and all scorchingly hot as his lips seared against yours. The torturous days spent fantasizing about this exact moment flashed before your eyes, as you tried to search for some hint that you’d missed to suggest that he felt the same way. Had you really been so wrapped up in your own pining that you hadn’t noticed him struggling, too?

As you both pulled back, you stared at him in shock. Emmett’s eyes were on your lips, too downcast for you to catch his gaze. But finally, they flickered up and lit the spark that had been smoldering deep inside of you. Your fingers tightened over his clothes

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” you asked again, feverish. It was a challenge to keep your voice quiet.

“Say anything about what?” Emmett bit back.

You noticed the way his eyes drifted over you, taking in the frazzled and overwhelmed state you were in. That kiss had taken a lot out of you, and you were frantically scrambling to re-collect your thoughts.

“Why torture both of us by pretending that you don’t want the same thing I do?” you clarified.

Emmett’s hands traveled up to your face, cupping your jaw in his palms as he tugged gently, pulling you to meet him again.

“Because I didn’t want any distractions.”

That was probably the most ironic answer he could have given. What had you spent the past few days doing if not being constantly, thoroughly distracted? By him; by the question of whether or not he would notice you, in the way that you found it all but impossible not to notice him?

“That’s so stupid,” you grunted, closing the rest of the distance between you.

You barely resisted as Emmett maneuvered you, swinging you both with your lips pressed together so that he could pin you against a small table. He lifted you up, making you sit on the surface, as his rough hands wandered over your legs.

“Some of us have self control,” he informed you.

“Really? Who?”

His fingers tightened their grip, and you felt thankful that you were already seated. Without the support of the table, you almost certainly would have crumpled against him. Emmett’s waist was between your legs, and you squeezed desperately, not wanting to let him go in case he suddenly got the idea that this wasn’t the time or place.

And it wasn’t, but you weren’t about to let that stop you.

Emmett’s hand snaked under your shirt, then your bra, rubbing his thumb against the hard peak that had already formed. You bit his lip, cautiously at first, and then with more vigor as your bodies reacted to the other’s touch. It had been so long since you’d done anything like this, and you felt your legs growing more shaky already.

“Take my pants off,” you gasped, pulling away for a frenzied breath of air.

Emmett deftly popped the button on your jeans; practically growling at the sight of you once he had finally peeled them off. You settled back onto the table, and hooked your legs around him once more. Already wet, you could feel yourself stick to the cloth of his t-shirt.

“Fuck,” you sighed, bracing your hands on the table to push closer.

Emmett pulled back, and just as you were about to complain, you felt his hand drift down and brush through your folds. Shivering all over again, you threw your head back.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Emmett muttered, just like you’d thought he would.

“I don’t care. Need to feel you,” you moaned, grabbing his wrist and guiding his fingers right where you wanted them.

You let go, urging him to take over. Despite his reluctance, Emmett seemed all too willing to be pulled along. His fingers sank into you, eliciting a long whine.

“Be quiet,” he reminded you.

But, luckily, the threat of making enough noise to be noticed by whatever monsters were lurking outside wasn’t enough to stop him. He pressed deeper, curling his fingers and brushing the pad of his thumb dangerously close to the bundle of nerves that would almost certainly seal your fate. It was a dangerous game, and every whimper that threatened to escape your lips could be your last, if it was loud enough.

“Fuck.”

Your legs were sore from walking for days, and it hurt as he spread them. It felt good, though; the deep stretch serving to set your imagination on fire with all the possibilities that were unlocking with every twinge of your sore muscles. 

“Emmett.” You put a hand on his shoulder. “I… I want more than your fingers.”

“Don’t push it,” he warned. “You’re already causing enough trouble as is.”

You pouted, but felt something stir inside of you at his words. If you had anything to say about it, you would show him just how much trouble you could be.

“I didn’t realize this was such an- inconvenience for you,” you snapped, voice hitching in the middle as he hit that spot that made you see stars.

“I didn’t want you to realize,” he shot back. 

“And yet, look where we’ve ended up. Despite your best efforts.”

The devilish smirk that played out over your lips seemed to make Emmett falter, and you felt him brush against your clit again. You had to bite your lip to stop from screaming.

Teetering dangerously on the edge of destruction only made you more eager to press on. The adrenaline from earlier had started to resurge, and you clung to it, heart beating fast in your ears as you rapidly approached your climax.

“Emmett. Gonna come,” you warned, already out of breath before you began.

Wordlessly, Emmett kissed you again, and you felt yourself explode against him. His thumb traced circles over your clit, somehow feather-light but solid, all at once. You cursed against his lips, maybe a little louder than you should have, but it was too late to take back now. As your high faded, you listened carefully for the shrill screech that would let you know you’d been caught.

It never came, and slowly you allowed yourself to start breathing again. Leaning over you, Emmett pressed his forehead against yours.

“That was way too close,” he complained.

“But worth it,” you hummed. “C’mon. Now it’s your turn.”

Eyes still half-clouded with sex, you struggled for a few seconds to find his zipper. As soon as you’d started to pull it down, Emmett stopped you.

“We’ve barely survived the last hour,” he scoffed. “And now you want me to fuck you?”

“I was just gonna jerk you off,” you lied. “But hey. If you want…”

Emmett’s face turned bright red as he realized the corner he’d been backed into. 

“Come on - you weren’t complaining two seconds ago,” you teased. “Well, I mean, you were. But you seemed into it.”

Emmett sighed, but his shoulders stiffened as you reached past his zipper and took hold of him. He was definitely still into it.

You slid off the table but stayed pressed against it, leaning back slightly as you pulled him out and pressed his head flush to your core. He slipped in easily, already slick with your arousal and unable to resist the pull of your body.

You sighed, and that was enough to make Emmett grab hold of you again, burying himself all the way in with one thrust.

The shock of it was sudden, but you quickly recovered and pulled him in closer, greedily pressing him as far as he could go.

“This is exactly what I’ve wanted,” you hummed, smiling contentedly.

Emmett’s only response was a grunt, as he pushed deeply into you again, dragging his hips back before snapping forward. His hands were holding onto your arms, keeping you steady against the sharp edge of the table. Both of you hung onto each other for dear life.

“Goddamn distracting…” Emmett muttered. It sounded like only part of a sentence, but you didn’t catch the rest. Too wrapped up in the way he was filling you.

Without warning, he pulled all the way out. He flipped you around, bracing your palms against the table, and then sank back in. You felt your walls tighten around him as you moaned, a little louder.

Fingers splayed over the grain of the wood, you clawed at the table as Emmett pummeled into you, picking up speed to match the erratic beat of your heart. Your eyes screwed shut, chasing the pleasure that steadily built in your stomach.

“Shit. I’m gonna come again,” you gasped, already feeling the waves wash over you.

From behind, Emmett’s hand reached around to slap over your mouth, one more time, pulling your head back a little as he continued to rut into you. You made a muffled sound of protest, but he kept going.

You didn’t have long to concern yourself with comfort, as you were quickly overtaken by pleasure. You let yourself give in; surrendering to the feeling that coursed through you, and the way that his hips never stopped snapping up to meet yours, and the rough palm he held over your mouth. Which was fortunate, actually, because without Emmett’s hand stifling your sounds, they almost certainly would have gotten you both killed.

“Mmmf!”

You tried and failed to bite back the cry that threatened to erupt, only halted by Emmett as he succeeded in keeping his hand steady. 

But it was clear he was close behind you. His hips bucked up with far less precision than they had a few minutes ago, and you could feel him tear out at the very last second, leaving you empty.

“Mmm!”

You cried again as you felt Emmett bite down, his mouth clamped onto your shoulder as he came, stifling his own desperate growl. His cum went not into you but all over you, coating the inside of your legs before he could stop himself. Emmett had clearly waited slightly too long to pull out. 

The soft grunt that vibrated through his teeth sent a shiver down your whole body, followed by another as he rubbed himself into the mess that was now dripping between your legs. Chasing the feel of your combined lust and the friction of your thighs.

“Self control, huh?” you goaded, once he had finally pulled his hand off of your mouth.

“More than you.”

Emmett’s rough voice was right in your ear, and you felt his chest press into your back, breathing heavy to make up for lost air.

“Well,” you said, a bit breathless yourself. “I guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

Taglist: @cillmequick, @hanawrites404, @hypotheticallyspeakingwitch, @littlewinter1917, @mothhball, @nnattu, @red-riding-wood, @slut4thebroken

#emmett x reader #emmett smut #emmett a quiet place #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x reader #cillian murphy smut #LemmyFics

[bunnyreaper]

kinktober 4 - monster fucking

demon!ghost x reader

(18+/mdni, mentions of rough sex/soul sacrifice/dom sub dynamic/size difference)

you hadn't meant to summon him, you hadn't meant to summon anything, really. had you drawn a summoning circle, lit some candles, and chanted some latin? yes, but you hadn't thought it would actually work.

it was just meant to be a meditative practice, a little silliness after the dreams that have plagued you as of late.

something to convince yourself that none of it was real--until he appeared, red skin, black eyes, pointy horns and a look of disgust painted on his face.

thick smoke curls around the room as your otherworldly visitor puffs in out of thin air.

"what d'ya want, human?" the demon's voice is low, his accent thick and his scorn obvious. he lounges against the wall, taller and broader than any human and exactly the kind of infernal sin you dreamed of so often. he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, but for whatever reason, he still answered your midnight call.

you never saw the dream figures face, but this demon's has you captivated--a strong jaw and plush lips. you can't look anywhere but at him, lost in the inky well of his eyes as he peers down at where you kneel on the hardwood floor. you're not sure what to say, hadn't thought you'd get this far at all, and certainly didn't think anything that came would be quite so darkly enchanting.

"don't have all day, love." he snarls as he urges you along, and then he's moving toward you, a harsh grip at your chin as he forces you to rise to your feet and look him dead in the eye.

under his gaze, you feel compelled to tell the truth--out of fear or out of reverence you're not sure, but the words tumble from you anyway.

"i have these dreams..." you start, hesitation washing over you as your eyes slip shut and you recall your nighttime visitor. you feel the demons simmering stare regardless, and you distantly think he knows, but is just making you say it anyway, just wants to hear the confession straight from your mouth, just wants to taunt you into confessing.

maybe it's part of his game, perhaps he's been putting himself in your dreams on purpose, luring you into his trap. the thought makes your stomach churn as you think of how easily you'd fallen for it.

his eyes narrow dangerously. "dreams?" he mocks, his hold on your flesh unwavering, you're practically pulled to your tiptoes--his grip so strong and demanding as he refuses to relinquish you. any more force and he could be holding you off the ground by your neck alone.

shame washes over you in wave after wave, as you become aroused even thinking about the dreams you've been having for so long now. the dreams that have almost become more important than the waking world.

"a demon comes to me in the night and he..." you swallow, uncertain of what word to land on. saying the demon fucks you is too mild to describe the way he acts. he takes you, ravages you, corrupts you. he gives you every kind of sinful pleasure you could dream of and always comes back for more.

"go on." the demon is deadpan, still knowing exactly what you're thinking and yet waiting for the words to spill from your pretty lips, wants to hear you say it.

"... he uses me." you tremble, not from fear, but from arousal, as your eyes meet the demons and you expose the need in your eyes, in your soul. he uses you night after night and you don't have a single protest, beyond the fact it's never seemed possible, until now.

the demon scoffs--a harsh, mocking sound that thrills you against your will. "and you want me to make your sick little dreams come true?"

"yes." you say without hesitation, without a single second passing. you're beyond certain.

"it'll cost ya." one of his hands snakes down your body, feeling your curves before he shreds through your little nightdress with his claws. fangs worry at your neck, as the demon gets a taste for you on his tongue, savours your fear and anticipation. "such a nice fucking body, tasty soul too."

despite knowing what he deals in, that takes you by surprise. "my soul for a fuck?" you ask, a little in disbelief.

the demon picks you up with ease and throws you onto the bed, watching hungrily as you bounce and settle into the mattress. he rids himself of his own clothes with the click of a finger, and stalks over to you like a predator, crawling over your vulnerable body.

his thick, ridged cock hangs heavy between his thighs, drawing the attention of your widened eyes. again, he's bigger than any human, and hard just at the thought of devouring you.

"give yourself to me, all of you. for my fuck, until you can't take anymore. days, weeks, months." he flashes a smirk--sharp, pointed teeth on show. "years... forever. what d'ya say, love?"

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfic #kinktober

[juliasgoodusername]

Sometimes a girl has to go a little crazy. Sometimes a girl has to make a book-accurate floorplan for 300 Fox Way. These things just happen, sometimes.

Obsessive annotations under the cut ✨ but be warned, there's a LOT

Exterior

Okay first of all, I'm no architect, and my only knowledge comes from work experience in the real estate industry + a lot of Sims. The style is sort of neo-rural French colonial. I didn't set out to adhere to that standard so much as I made an amalgamation of homes in Blue Ridge Mountains-adjacent towns in Virginia. Specifically, my headcanon Henrietta template is Orange, VA (I'll save that explanation for another post) so I took inspiration from real estate listings from there.

Alright alright I know there is supposed to be one bathroom, but I simply can't tolerate that in a house with 6+ residents. I can't. There was a possible contradiction in the descriptions of "the single shared bathroom" that I used as an excuse to add a 3/4 bath, and I threw in a powder room for free. Because technically there is still only one full bathroom! But seriously with that many women over 30 most of them probably have IBS or chronic constipation and I'm not making them all share a toilet.

Officially we only have 4 bedrooms listed in text: Blue's, Persephone's, Maura's, and Calla and Jimi's shared one. Everyone else gets rooms that don't qualify as bedrooms via Virginia residential building codes (such as the attic, obviously, which falls below the combined ceiling height and square footage requirements). That really just leaves Orla unaccounted for but I'll get to that later. Other aunts and friends seem to visit during the day and live somewhere else, because in The Raven King only Jimi and Orla were described as needing to move out of the house during the demon stuff.

I designed the entire interior floorplan before I even touched the exterior, so there's a few issues, like how I'm totally missing shutters on the windows that functionally need them most. 🫶 I didn't feel like making the windows smaller to fit them, and I could have added faux-shutters but I think those are stupid. 😘

First floor

"This house is lovely. So many walls. So, so many walls," Malory said as Blue entered the living room a little later.

- Blue Lily, Lily Blue, Chapter 30

Right off the bat, we have an insane number of doors and walls. Old colonial houses are pretty much the opposite of open concept. Functionally I believe that's because it's easier to control heat with closed off rooms, but Virginia is not particularly cold so idk. As for the number of doors, I mean....😤😤😤 I prefer archways/doorless frames in small high-traffic spaces, but every time I thought I could get away with it Maggie would specifically describe doors opening and closing (For example BL,LB Ch 41 gives the reading room double doors, and even the living room gets one in Ch 11. What kind of living room needs a door???). I'm actually missing one of the doorways described in canon, but if you know which one I'm talking about I DARE you to find a place to put that thing!! But I digress.

“Mom," she said as she jumped down the crooked stairs.

- The Raven Boys, Chapter 3

I'm liberally using "crooked" to establish the corner turn stairs. Blue steadies herself on the stair railing when she identifies Gansey for the first time (TRB Ch 15), so I wanted the stairs to have good visual access to visitors. It also sort of has a feng shui-ish effect of separating the public and private energy zones in the house. If that statement made zero sense, I think one of us doesn't know enough about feng shui 👀 and it might be me.

I'm also using that quote to establish Maura's room downstairs, if Blue generally expects to find her mother there, but mostly because everything else was upstairs and it was getting hard to fit. Granted, at one point Blue leads the boys "up the stairs to Maura's bedroom" (TDT Epilogue) but since they were just arriving at 300 Fox Way those stairs could easily be the outdoor ones. There's a handful of little things to support me here, such as Adam grabbing a scrying bowl from Maura's room to use in the reading room (BL,LB Ch 41) implying that her room was the closest place to find one. And speaking of Maura's room-

Calla was overwhelmed by how much shit Maura had in her room at 300 Fox Way, and she told Blue this.

... The mess was taking years from her life. ... Maura liked chaos.

... The psychic hotline rang in the room next door. Calla's concentration fluttered away.

- Blue Lily, Lily Blue, Prologue

Maura is my favorite hypocrite. She claims to detest clutter (TRB Ch 34) and yet her room is literally described as chaos. She probably treats her room like a college student and moves the furniture every time she gets bored/stressed. Thus, I gave her the most insane furniture configuration I could think of while still matching all the contents described.

The phone ringing next door might imply that she neighbors the phone/sewing/cat room, but that area is pretty well described and Maura's room is never mentioned there in any other instance. That leaves us with the kitchen phone (TRB Ch 27) which I put in the hallway with kitchen access as a compromise so it would technically still be in a room next to Maura's.

In the reading room, the man looked around with clinical interest. His gaze passed over the candles, the potted plants, the incense burners, the elaborate dining room chandelier, the rustic table that dominated the room, the lace curtains, and finally landed on a framed photograph of Steve Martin.

- The Raven Boys, Chapter 13

There are so many quotes about the reading room that I just don't feel like citing them, but other details include the mismatched chairs, the shelves, doors etc. It's also described specifically as Maura's "front room" (TRB Prologue) so it's one of the cornerstones that I designed the rest of the layout around. Because of the plants, it makes sense that this room would be south-facing too. (Although idk how much light they get with the wraparound porch awning in the way. Oops lol!)

The outside suddenly seemed vivid in comparison to the dim kitchen. The April-bright trees pressed against the windows of the breakfast area, ...

- The Raven Boys, Chapter 3

Blue Stormed into 300 Fox Way's kitchen and began a one-sided interrogation with Artemus, who was still hidden behind the closed storage closet door.

- The Raven King, Chapter 9

Likewise, I'm using the particularly dim kitchen to place it on the north side, where we also know there's trees in the backyard.

I'll say the kitchen layout is weirder than it strictly needed to be because in the Virginia homes I referenced I adored all the strange kitchens, especially with old timey 'servants area' vibes where laundry kitchen and pantry are all connected. Instead of a kitchen island, they get one of those rolling kitchen carts which I doubled as a bar cart for the drinks they have in the living room.

The kitchen has a doorway to the hall (TRB Ch 13) and the living room is within view when Blue's on the kitchen phone (Ch 27).

Speaking of chapter 27, that's when we get the description "The morning light through the windows turned the drinks a brilliant, translucent yellow." So I put the living room on the east side of the house, where the rising sun would cast really strong light like that.

Second Floor

When she woke up, her normally morning-bright room had the breath-held dimness of afternoon. In the next room over, Orla was talking to either her boyfriend or to one of the psychic hotline callers.

- The Raven Boys, Chapter 3

Blue headed toward the red-painted door at the end of the hall. On her way, she had to pass the frenzy of activity in the Phone/Sewing/Cat Room and the furious battle for the bathroom. The room behind the red door belonged to Persephone, ...

- The Raven Boys, Chapter 11

Blue's room and the Phone/Sewing/Cat room are our cornerstones for this floor. In several examples we know that the Phone/Sewing/Cat room faces the street and has a window (TRB Ch 15, BL,LB Ch 4). While Blue's room is "morning-bright," we also get descriptions of guests at the front door "backlit by the evening sun," (TRB Ch 15) so once again we're probably talking about south windows if it's sunlit at both times of day.

Adam sat awkwardly on the edge of Blue's bed. It felt strange to have so easily gained access to a girl's bed- room. If you knew Blue at all, the room was unsurprising - canvas silhouettes of trees stuck to the walls, leaves hanging in chains from the ceiling fan, a bird with a talk bubble reading WORMS FOR ALL painted above a shelf cluttered with buttons and about nine different pairs of scissors. Against the wall, Blue self-consciously taped up the drooping branch on one of the trees.

- The Dream Thieves, Chapter 49

We get some great descriptions of Blue's room (especially TRB Ch 43), although the above one is my favorite (#wormsforall). Every piece of furniture is accounted for exactly as described except the desk which I added because it seemed practical, and Blue is nothing if not practical™.

Persephone's room is also very well-described, all the way down to the furniture and lighting placement (BL,LB Ch 4 and TRB Ch 11) and it's surprisingly similar to Blue's room, if not a bit smaller. Her room gets strong afternoon sunlight, so I put it on the south too (BL,LB Ch 43).

Calla and Jimi share a room that's also upstairs (TRK Ch 16). Because they are the only two who have to share a room, I have justified that it must be the "master bedroom" (sorry for using that term) and is far bigger than the other bedrooms. I managed to fit two queen beds in there, but some scholars [me] would argue that Jimi and Calla might also share a bed because they are in love. Can you prove me wrong? No, you can't.

As for the bathroom, remember when I mentioned a possible contradiction? Famously, Maura draws the ley line symbol in the steamed up shower door (TRB Ch 1). However, much later we get Maura, Orla, Calla and Jimi all sitting in the bathtub for some kind of ritual (TRK Ch 9). No matter how I picture it, I can't put 4 full grown women in a bathtub together without someone partially sitting on/spilling over the side. But that would be impossible in a combo bath/shower enclosed by glass doors!! Thus, I gave The Bathroom a nice tub and put a small shower in the en suite of Jimi and Calla's room. I know this is a stretch but I don't really care.

Attic

Blue had never been a big fan of the attic, even before Neeve moved in. Numerous slanting roof lines provided dozens of opportunities to hit your head on a sloping ceiling. Unfinished wood floorboards and areas patched with prickly plywood were unfriendly to bare feet. Summer turned the attic into an inferno.

... In one of the narrow dormers, two full-length, footed mirrors faced each other, reflecting mirrored images back and forth at each other in perpetuum.

- The Raven Boys, Chapter 34

Trying to fit the attic access in after everything in the second floor was my biggest challenge, because stairs normally take up a lot of space and you have to be careful about head room. I'm the end, I decided it was one of those fold out attic doors that you have to reach from the ceiling of the hallway. We might get a lot of instances of the attic door being opened (😤 seriously, Maggie... 😤) but technically a trap door in the ceiling is still a door!

Dormers pretty much cemented the French colonial style for me. And you know the drill by now: a hot room probably means a lot of sun, which means I give it a south facing window!

Mud Room/Cellar/Basement

This cellar has absolutely zero mention in the text, but my justification is based in the architecture. So far we've got a funky old colonial house, built without a garage, lots of walls etc. Especially in a low-income/semi-rural area, it's not crazy to assume that 300 Fox Way was built before most residents had refrigerators (1930s-40s). Besides iceboxes, a major way to keep food fresh was root cellars. Modern renovations for old homes convert these to concrete basements, but that's why the basement is so small and connects to the kitchen.

My headcanon is that Orla originally shared a room. Pick whoever you want: Maura, Blue or Persephone, any of them would easily be such a chaotic roommate that Orla snapped and in a fit of teen girl rage moved herself down to the crummy dark basement. Over time, she made efforts to glamorize it, such as a vintage dressing screen to hide the flood drainage pump. The privacy also allows her to bring boyfriends over, even sneaking them through the mud room.

This is really just my artistic license, but I swear it makes a surprising amount of sense in context. There's cases of Orla sneaking into the kitchen (easier if she has a back entrance) and she's almost always using the phone upstairs or in the kitchen (because a basement would get bad reception) even though her calls get kinda ~intimate.

Aaaaaand I think that's everything. Sorry it doesn't look like the photo from the wiki at all, but I couldn't find a source for it and Victorian style wasn't super common in the areas I researched. Let me know if I missed anything major! I'll probably cry myself to sleep if so.

#happy hyperfixation friday everyone #January was a weird month for me ngl this was one of my more hinged projects if you can believe it #please don't let this flop tho like this definitely took longer than any drawing I've ever posted here #trc #the raven cycle #the raven cycle fanart #300 Fox Way #Blue Sargent #the raven boys #my art #trc unraveled

[hyukalyptus]

like, never ever? — beomgyu x fem!reader | besties to lovers. NSFW/MDNI!

cw. bestfriend!dom!beomgyu, virgin!afab!reader, bondage, corruption, spanking, cunnilingus (f. receiving), unprotected sex (use condoms pls!), pet/nick names (baby, sir), nipple play, slight dacryphilia. notes. resposted from my old acct, originally a request, did not re-read too carefully., smut under cut! wc. ~800

beomgyu never thought about you like that before. he knew you were attractive—he's not blind—he just never thought about you in a sexual way. but when you admit it's not that i've never been with someone...i've never even had an orgasm, his brain short circuits.

you've...never? like never, ever? you shake your head and he can't help but chuckle, a cocky smile appearing on his face.

why didn't you tell me? it just didn't cross your mind, but he reminds you i could help you out, you know. his strong hand creeps up your thigh as you feel an ache in your center.

it wasn't just wanting to help out a friend with him. sure, that's a perk—you get to have ur first orgasm and i get to absolutely ruin you. and he's salivating just thinking about touching you, tasting you, pleasing you in a way you've never felt before.

it doesn't take much convincing to get you to lay down on the bed, baby. his eyes fixed on your body as he unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt and loosens his tie. usually, i'd tie you up with this, but since it's your first...but before he can say anything else, or did you want me to use it? you nod shyly, seeing him like this...all disheveled and broad...is definitely doing something to you.

you look so pretty, so pretty all tied up from me on your tummy, hands tied behind your back, ass up. his eyes rake over your body and fuck, i can't believe no one's had you like this. your pussy clenches around nothing as he situates himself underneath you. he seems to forget this all new for you. you gasp and what are you doing?

chuckling, his hands soothe your hips before it's okay, just sit on my face. you squirm and whine, but soon met with a harsh smack on your ass and that wasn't a suggestion. sit on my face.

hesitantly, you lower down to his face and he licks your clit harshly. keeling over in pleasure, you can't hold myself up, sir. can you help?

that snarky chuckle comes out again, sir? you're so polite for your first time. sucking on your clit, he spanks you again roughly, electricity shooting throughout your body. since you asked so nicely, he holds you by the hips, sucking on your sensitive clit. but soon enough, i think i'm cumming, sir, you gasp out and nod rapidly, legs trembling around his face, the knot in ur stomach tightening until you just can't take it anymore. everything feels like it's on fire. tingles are all over your body as you feel what you can only describe as an explosion of pleasure washes over you.

maybe you blacked out there for a minute, you don't know, but he's already ramming his cock inside you from behind and how does my cock feel in that tight, little pussy, huh, baby? you can't form coherent sentences. your ass jiggles with his ruts and spanks and you just wanna be thrown around, sir. please. please throw me around?

his hand meets your backside again before he quickly unties his tie, flips you over effortlessly and ties your hands above your head. legs spread wide, he fucks into you again as you yelp out in pleasure.

you never thought this is how good this felt. you knew it'd be nice, but this? this is so much better than you ever thought possible.

you're trembling, squeaking, shaking, gasping for air—who's making you feel good, hm baby? who made you feel so fucking good for this first time? you nod and whimper and you, sir. he presses your legs up to access your ass again to give it a good spank.

who? say my fucking name, baby. you're still struggling with keeping up with everything. he yanks you up, slamming his cock inside you deeper, which you didn't think was possible. say my name, he grunts with each thrust. you try your best, you really do, but poor baby, can't even say my name. do i need to stop? shaking your head no, please no—please don't stop, beomgyu. he smiles and that's it, baby.

practically crying his name out, you can hardly keep yourself composed before he licks his thumb to rub your nipple. that's when the tears start streaming down your face, close to your second orgasm. ever. a few more thrusts and flicks of your nipple until i'm cumming again, beomgyu. he smiles and follows soon after you, squirting his hot cum inside your tight cunt. and, you must admit, it's so warm and nice. like the best fucking hug you've ever had in your life.

collapsing next to you, you catch your breath and look at each other shyly, both of your juices dripping down further and further before all he can say is that was just...so good. wow.

#hp's writing 🪲 #beomgyu smut #beomgyu hard thoughts #beomgyu hard hours #txt smut #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #choi beomgyu #choi beomgyu smut #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu fic #beomgyu ff #beomgyu smut fic #kpop fic #kpop ff #kpop smut

[1800-lemonadeg1rl]

Jealousy

Wanda Maximoff x reader ☆

Minors dni!! Masterlist°•☆

Summary - pretty much is what it says on the tin. After you try to avoid your crush you find jealousy eating at you.

Warnings: stupid, possibly cringe, maybe a little angst? Idrk, happy ending, jealousy, gay,

A/n: this is the first fic I've written since I was thirteen and I did it just to avoid being involved with my parents fight. Also my grammar probably isn't that great bc I haven't slept in 2 days so pls comment any corrections. Any feedback is so so appreciated

You didn't know when it had started. How even. But you had somehow become infatuated with fellow avenger and best friend Wanda maximoff. To put it simply you had a crush on her, a stupid schoolgirl crush that was beginning to crash down on your friendship with her.

It was small things at first, avoiding eye contact so you wouldn't blush under her gaze or not sitting next to her at meals. Next it was finding reasons not to hang out alone.

Little to your knowledge Wanda had noticed all these things and had begun to wonder if she'd upset you in someway that maybe you didn't like her the way she'd always admired you. She tried to approach you to go out for lunch to try and apologise for whatever she thought you were upset about but before she'd had chance to speak you'd scurried off saying something about needing to train.

And so life went on for Wanda as heartbroken she was that you seemed to want to distance the close friendship youd shared that she'd once thought could be more she didn't want to spend forever alone and crushed.

Thats when your jealousy started.

"Yeah the date actually went really well last night." You'd heard the sweet sokovian accent ring out across the kitchen as you'd shuffled into get your breakfast. Still half asleep you mumbled as you poured a coffee.

"You've got a date?" It came out a little more territorial than you'd intended. Despite your small efforts to dissipate your crush on the woman you were still annoyed at whoever thought they could date the girl you liked, that you should be with.

Not that you were looking at her but Wandas face seemed to light up when you initiated a conversation with her. After weeks of dead silence she'd want nothing more than to hear your voice which she'd describe as honey like and melodic to the ears.

"Yes, yes I am. A second one actually." You could feel your face redden slightly and twitch in annoyance at the words that left Wanda's lips. A second?! Not only had she had one date with someone else it had gone so well they wanted a second.

"You shouldn't go out with them." The words leave your lips quicker than you can stop them. And you look to see Wanda's face, her mouth open wide as her bottom lip twitched slightly.

Shit. You'd upset her. You'd upset the girl you loved. "I... I.. I mean.." You stammered through your sentence trying to find an exscuse for what you'd said. "I just mean.. your an avenger you should do a background check on them first and.. uh.. make sure you know they're legit and not a spy or something." After saying that you quickly fled the kitchen leaving your full cup of coffee much to the confusion of Wanda who'd had just about enough of the way you were acting.

That evening you were in your room catching up on a drama you'd originally started with Wanda but since you'd decided youd ruined your friendship beyond recovery you wanted to finish it yourself.

Then came a small delicate knock on the door. That was how Wanda knocked. Oh god you recognised how she knocked now, how would you ever get over her?

"I'm working go awa-.." You tried to get out quickly at the door as you rapidly turned the tv down and hoped she'd leave you alone.

Before you were even done your sentence she'd interuppted and responded. "Don't say another word. I can hear killing eve (srry I can't think of another tv show) playing in there. Let me in so we can talk."

You waited a beat thinking about the small list options you had right now to avoid the confrontation at your door, none of which would work or were very smart and would probably be more embarrassing than admitting the truth. So reluctantly you let her in. Twisting the handle slowly giving her all the time she needed to change her mind and leave.

Unfortunately that didn't happen and instead she waited patiently before heading over to your bed a flopping down on it in the ever so casual way she used to. As if no time has passed.

"Okay speak. Tell me whats wrong? What did I do to you?" She asks looking up at you with what looks like anger? No, no it was hurt. Everything from her wide watery eyes to her sweaty palms read that she was hurt and was nervous to why you'd been avoiding her.

"Its not you." Was all you could manage to spit out in the moment. Why had you even avoided her so much when all it had done was harm your best friend.

"Okay so what is it?"

She was relentless, she wasn't going to leave until you explained yourself and your recent actions. Being honest you couldn't blame her if it was the other way round you'd want to know.

"I..." You stare at her gorgeous face eyes flicking between her plump lips and her soft, glimmering eyes even in this moment struggling to make eye contact with her without a blush spreading across your cheeks. "I like you.. as like more than friends."

You watched on as her face contorted. The way she bit the inside of her cheek and her soft eyes hardening in time with your admittal. The hurt was long gone and replaced with an annoyance that you had blanked her instead of admitting your feelings but also a small glimmer of hope that it wasn't too late for you two.

"So what? You didn't think to tell me." She gets up from the bed. "Your rational descion was to ignore me in hopes of what?!" She was pacing now. "In hopes of what?" She repeats and suddenly your also stood up trying to open your mouth to speak but she won't give you the time. "In hopes I'd dissappear or your feelings would and we could just be friends again?"

Meekly you nodded. You had ignored her to try and make your feelings go away.

"Did you not think about me? Maybe I wanted you to have feelings for me. Maybe I want to be with you." She was speaking again and nearing you with each word.

"I.. didn't think you liked me like that.. I thought that you'd hate me."you try and explain my poor actions. "Look I'm really sorry.. I didn't know you felt like this about me."

You grab her arm forcing her to stop angrily pacing around the room and to talk to you again hoping it would calm her slightly. "..please I am. I'm really sorry Wanda.. I've missed speaking to you so much, I've missed you so much." Your further apologies seem to lessen her anger as she realises what you had done was unintentional and you'd never meant to cause this.

"You can make it up to me then."

"How?" She was offering to forgive you and that was enough. You'd do anything to stop her being angry with you ever again.

"Take me on a date."

A/n - I can write a pt 2 or follow up if anyone is interested <33

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #marvel #wanda x you #wanda fluff #wanda #wanda maximoff fluff #idk how to tag this #wanda x fem!reader #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximommy #wanda maximoff x female reader #lemonade writes☆•

[istoleyoursk1n]

How do you think the companions would be with a tiefling gn Reader who's insecure about their horns and tail / just in general being a tiefling? Idm which companions!

•❅───────────✧❅✦❅✧───────────❅•

How would they react to a tiefling Tav who's insecure about being a tiefling?

(Little note, I personally love tieflings, I think they're so pretty)

.

.

: ̗̀➛ ASTARION

“Oh, poor thing, you’re gorgeous! Whoever told you weren’t? My, you’re simply the prettiest little tiefling I’ve ever had the pleasure to see, and trust me, darling, I have seen many.”

Baffled that this would be something you’d be ashamed about. I mean, he’d tell you to your face if you were hideous but he hasn't now has he?

He doesn't quite understand what's there to be insecure about, you look just fine in his eyes but if you need his honest opinion then he’ll give it to you.

He thinks tieflings are fascinating in their own right.

With long curled horns, rigid skin, and a gaze as intense as the fiery pits of hell, you’re not exactly the worst thing he's seen.

He’s not a poet but he’d show you how much he adores every inch of your body to prove just how stunning you are in his eyes.

Damn anyone who says otherwise, he’d reject the heavens in favor of a more hellish embrace that comes in your shape.

He really likes touching your horns/grabbing onto them, he’d never explain why but the texture of them under his cold fingertips is something he pleasantly enjoys.

: ̗̀➛WYLL

“Love, you are above the heavens itself. No angel could compare to the warmth I have found in your every touch. You’re someone I am proud to call my lover, horns and all.”

He gets it, I mean he was turned into some sort of devilish fiend by his wretched patron.

He understands how it could make anyone feel insecure. The horns feel heavy, your skin isn't as smooth as most, and there are cases in which people easily judge you for what you are.

Though, are those reasons to make him love you any less? Absolutely not.

You looked at his transformed self and still chose to love him, so of course he’d do the same for you. In fact, he loves you even more now.

He’d call you beautiful in every way he knows how, concealing each thought of you in words that all come to praise everything that you are and more.

Besides, there's something rather poetic about two devils dancing in the moonlight.

Would compliment every part of your body you feel the most insecure about on a daily basis so that perhaps someday you’d love yourself the same way he loves you.

He’d fall in love with you and those fiery eyes again and again if he could. You hold his heart.

: ̗̀➛GALE

“No magic can compare to the spell you’ve cast upon me. Akin to a moth drawn to a flame, I will gladly fall into your fiery embrace.”

Upset that you view yourself in such a way.

He understands that a bad light is often shed amongst tieflings but he didn't think it would affect you to this degree.

He’s completely in love with every bit of you, he can't bear seeing you hate yourself like this.

If anything, this gives him more of a reason to praise you more, going above and beyond to make you feel like the god/goddess he sees in his eyes.

He’d speak in loving whispers about each and every part of your body so that not an inch of you goes unloved.

He loves staring into your eyes, they dilate and pulse in a way that bewitches him to a point where he’d rather meet your gaze than look up at the stars.

You could describe yourself in the most downright horrendous way possible and he’d still look at you with the most smitten expression you've seen a man hold.

He’ll help you get over your insecurities little by little, doing everything he can to make you see yourself as the specialty you are.

: ̗̀➛KARLACH

“What?! Why would you be? You’re only the greatest thing that's ever happened to me! The hottest thing to come into my life! You’re amazing.”

I mean she gets it, there's a dark stigma around tieflings that she faced herself. For a long while, she was seen as this brutish devil who’d kill children!

But tieflings can be cool, she thinks tieflings can and are badass! There's nothing else like them.

Would constantly reassure you that there's nothing you should be ashamed about, you’re amazing as hell and she loves you for it.

Fuck anyone who tries to slander you for who you are, she’d gladly set them ablaze.

The constant heat she feels on a daily basis is nothing compared to the burning feeling you give her. It makes her go weak at the knees.

Very direct about how much she loves the way you look, it's impossible for anything she says to be a lie.

She’d scream it out loud for the hell of it, making sure all of Faerûn knew how gorgeous you were with all your devilish little features.

She thinks the tail and horns are hot, nothing you say can make her ever think otherwise.

She’ll love you until every part of her body burns into ash in the hopes that by then, you will have learned to love yourself.

: ̗̀➛SHADOWHEART

“Hm. Well, I suppose we all have our own insecurities… if it makes you feel any better, I think… no. I know you’re beautiful. You’re beyond every loving word I could ever use to describe you.”

Surprised by this but she doesn't take it against you. Instead, she’ll find her own little ways of helping you out of your insecurities.

The stigma around tieflings is bad but it is something she herself can relate to with once being a follower of the goddess Shar and the misconceptions that come with it.

Gentle reassurances of your appearance and her love for you would constantly come unprompted.

She’d notice you sadly staring at your horns in a reflection and she wouldn't hesitate to walk up to you and remind you about how pretty they are.

If she sees you scratching and your rigid skin, she’d come up to you and gently take your hand into hers, proudly confessing how much she adores your skin.

She wouldn't bombard you with compliment after compliment but she'd certainly be there if the self-hate gets too much.

She would carefully drag you out of that darkness just as you did for her.

She’d gently drag her fingertips across your horns and every rigid part of your skin, entangling her hand into your tail if not for a simple display of affection.

There's not a single part of you she hasn't come to adore and she’ll make sure that in time, you’ll come to adore those parts of you too.

: ̗̀➛LAE’ZEL

“Insecure? How could someone like you be ‘insecure’? Your mind has no place for such degrading thoughts. You’re better than that.”

She doesn't quite grasp the concept of being ‘insecure’ about something other than it being a sign of weakness hence her confusion at first.

She sees you as a brilliant warrior, someone she deeply admires, how do you find yourself hating anything about yourself?

She sees no reason for your self-loathing and may across as rudely direct such as telling you to simply move past it.

But soon enough she’ll realize how much these ‘insecurities’ of yours may be affecting you and go out of her way to try a different approach.

She’ll start off by saying how being a tiefling doesn't make you any weaker or lower than anybody else, in fact, you are more than worthy of praise and respect.

She believes every part of you is attractive, you’d never have to worry about her ever falling out of love for you.

Besides, aren't tiefling’s fire resistant? That's another thing you should be proud of, some do not have the privilege of being able to withstand strong flames.

It's mostly listing every advantage your body holds against others before ever so subtly squiggling in an actual sweet compliment that she sort of hopes you don't pick up on.

She couldn't have asked for a better partner, you are far better than anything she could have wished for and she wouldn't have you in any other way.

: ̗̀➛HALSIN

“Nature has built you in the shape of beauty, my heart, every part of you was intended to be loved. Even the prettiest of roses are put to shame in you’re presence.”

He looks more hurt than you by the newly found information.

He believed nature had made all its creatures perfect to every single degree, that includes you.

He could hardly bear hearing you degrade yourself in such a way, not when you’re the most precious thing he's ever laid his eyes upon.

He’d have to sit you down, and allow both of you to discuss your insecurities and where they could have possibly stemmed from.

After which he goes on an entire monologue about how deeply infatuated he is with you and everything that you are, horns and tail included.

If anything, he thinks your horns and tail are adorable. You’re the very peak of beauty in a world filled of glorious things.

He’ll compliment and praise every part of yourself you've come to hate until you’re a speechless, blushing mess.

Try convincing him otherwise and you might as well faint from the amount of sweet little whispers he’d be sending your way.

There is no way he's letting you get away from this without feeling like the most loved thing on this planet.

•❅───────────✧❅✦❅✧───────────❅•

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 headcanons #bg3 headcanon #bg3 astarion #bg3 karlach #bg3 halsin #bg3 lae’zel #bg3 wyll #bg3 gale #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 x reader #astarion #karlach #halsin #lae’zel #wyll #gale #shadowheart

[absolutelynotmate-archive]

said something stupid, instead of 'i love you.'- c.leclerc

can't we just act like we never broke each other's hearts? pairing: charles leclerc x female reader word count: 26.9k (my bad fr fr) warnings: 18+ minors dni, protected sex, oral sex, google translated french. tw: charles' 2022 season (including france) a/n: this is something, that's for certain. good or bad is yet to be decided. I'VE MOVED BLOGS! if you enjoy this and are looking for more, follow me @formulaforza

You’d texted him two weeks before the season opener. It was short, simple, and a huge overstep, one you promised yourself years ago you’d never make. Do you have any extra paddock passes? He’d said yes, and you begrudgingly asked if you could have an extra, if you could bring a guest, a boyfriend, Michael. He’s a big fan, of Charles and of Formula One. I really want to impress him.

Michael’s been impatiently itching to meet Charles since he spotted a photo of the two of you in your living room. You thought you’d taken them all down before he came over, but, you missed one. He’s sort of a Ferrari fan-boy, an Italian whose transplanted himself to Monte Carlo. You’d been putting off the meeting as long as possible, forced to consider if Michael actually liked you, or if he just wanted to know Charles. It wasn’t easy, to keep them apart. It was winter break, and Charles was in Monaco too much to be easily avoided. There’s a lot of verbiage that is used to describe home, vast is not one of them. 

You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now, the way you followed him around the globe like a helicopter parent that first year he wore red. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. Michael was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldn’t contain when amongst the chaos you’d become accustomed to. His presence, though, felt intrusive on something that had, for so long, been just yours. 

Arthur’s familiar voice calls your name, over the bustling hum of different important and wealthy figures. You grin when your eyes meet his, stand up from the leather sofa you’re seated on, give him, and Pascale, big hugs. Charles told me you brought someone? She asked, voice sweet and curious. 

Her tone was contrasted by Arthur’s quip asking where your arm-candy had run off to, wiggling his brows and searching the room for a man he’d never seen. He’s oblivious to the glare Pascale shoots into the side of his head. 

You explain that he’s in the bathroom, check your watch. “Have you seen Charles today?” It’s not like him to not stop by and say hello, to check in and make sure you’re still enjoying yourself–or that you’re still capable of pretending you are. You wonder if he’s avoiding you, annoyed by the presence of your guest, a guest he doesn’t know. It’s unheard of, you asking for passes. It’s literally never happened. You’d asked about the possibility of one for yourself, back when he was with Sauber, and he’s maintained that you have an open invite since. 

“We were just with him.” Arthur says.

“How is he?” You ask, because he might be mad at you, but also because you know him. His brain works like clockwork. Two hours before a race, right now, he’ll be doubting himself, doubting the car, doubting himself again. In his moments of downtime, before he’s swept up into the chaos of it all, his brain will pick itself apart with nervousness. You think it’s endearing, his nerves. They remind you that he’s still Charles at times where he feels so grand and invincible. 

“He’s good.” Arthur says, because between crucifying jokes and mockings of his big brother, Arthur idolizes him. He’s none the wiser to Charles’ anxieties and insecurities because he’s never looking for him, blind confidence in the man he’ll never admit is his biggest role model. You look to Pascale, who understands the depth of your question, and get a reaffirming nod. 

Arthur diggs two sticker tags from his pocket, full grid access. “For you.” He says, fastening one onto your lanyard. “And for the boy.” He holds out the other, presents it like a crown jewel. You sigh, snatch it from his hand and shove it into your pocket. You hate watching races in the garage, with all the hyper-wealthy motherfuckers who buy their way in. You always feel like you don’t belong. Like, no matter where you move, you’re always in someone more important’s way. Your limbs don’t feel like your own, unable to settle, so close to the comfort of your best friend yet miles away from his occupied mind. 

“What’s going on?” Michael asks, airy tone in direct conflict to his hand on the small of your back, tense with envy. He’s silently laying claim to you, reminding you who you belong to, and you almost laugh at the thought of someone being threatened by Arthur. Charles, you could see. Charles, you’ve had that argument about before. Arthur, though? Arthur, who slept with his ratty blanket until he was sixteen, who lost not one, but two pet goldfish in the span of a year. Arthur, who is very happily in love with the sweetest girl to ever grace this Earth. 

“C’est lui?” Arthur asks, tone bored. “Il est vieux.”

“This is him.” You say, through gritted teeth, introduce them all formally and sit by as an observer in their conversation. The lowlight was Arthur’s mention of grid access, and Michael’s giddiness at watching the race in the garage. You knew then that you’d be uncomfortable well into the night. 

You end up in the garage during the driver’s parade. “Don’t touch anything.” You told Michael, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage. The warning you give was less for your boyfriend, and more for you, who is desperate to run a hand over the red chassis, to memorize every detail of it. If you do, you might feel more comfortable when he’s inside, might be able to pretend you understand the concepts he casually mentions over dinner. 

You squeal like a child when you see Isa, hugging her tight and spilling all the details of your lives since Abu Dhabi last year. You introduce her to Michael, who says he’s a big fan of Carlos. Joris tugs on your ponytail, appearing with Andrea, who kisses your cheek, tells you Charles is going to be so happy to see you in the garage. You roll your eyes. 

Charles is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. He’s probably just as surprised to see you in here as you are uncomfortable about it. When you hug him, the knotted waist of his overalls digs into you awkwardly. “You’re warm.” You say, peeling your body from his sweaty form. 

“It’s hot.” He says, runs a hand through his salty hair.

“They shouldn’t make you wear all this during the parade.” You said, and he shrugged it off, asked where your guy was. You look around, search the garage for him. He can’t be far, and surely he’s gawking from one corner or another. If not at the sight of Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver, than at Charles, a man, whose hand hovers just behind the small of your back. 

Two hands, two separate distinctions. One, possessive and impossible to ignore. The other, protective, almost goes unnoticed. For a few breaths, your shoulders are relaxed, but then his hand is gone, shaking Michael’s. “Good to meet you, Mate.” Charles says, and the whole place feels like a straightjacket again.

– – 

You stand next to Isa, your hands wrapped nervously around each other’s the entire race, watching monitors and listening in on the headsets. “Carlos says the cars have it this year.” She says, while the guys are lining up in their starting spots. It feels like everyone at Ferrari has been chasing it, whatever it is, for a decade. Every year is the year, and every year, you’re begging Charles not to base his self-worth on a bad race or a bad season. You’ll believe in him until your last breath, but your glass of Ferrari is never going to be half-full.

Charles and Max, Max and Charles, Charles and Max. They flip flop positions lap after lap. When it seems like he’s settled in, you allow yourself to breathe. The universe has never allowed him comfort, though. Enter, safety car. The replay is on the screen, and your heart pangs for Pierre, watching his dash go black in system failure. Your heart aches for Charles, though, and the forty-six laps of hard work that was erased just like that. 

Max races like Max, inching closer and closer to Charles, practically lining up next to him. You’re rearing up for a dogfight, but Max fucks up. You don’t know what he did, why he did it, and it doesn’t seem like anyone else does either. It doesn’t matter, though, because Charles is gone. Something in you settles, sure and confident, even if it’s not over yet. You hear murmurs, celebrations, Max is retiring. Charles is going to win.

A Ferrari one-two to start the season. Your smile is so big your cheeks ache. Under the lights, watching him up on the top step, listening to your national anthem, you allow yourself to hope, to buy into the hype everyone else is swearing by. 

His skin shines brighter than his smile, sparkling with whatever lemon-lime soda they’d filled the champagne bottles with this year. You have a momentary lapse, consider what his skin would taste like, sweaty and sticky and sweet. Michael’s presence, his arms caging you in between him and the barricade, assures that the thought is nothing more than a passing one. 

He hugs you when he makes the rounds, being whisked away to whatever media responsibilities he had to fulfill before he heads to the debrief. Sweat and seven-up soaked, he’s running on pure adrenaline, squeezing you so tight you struggle to breathe. 

– –

You shower back at the hotel, wash his hug down the drain with the rest of the race anxiety. He takes everyone out to dinner late that night; Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Andrea, Joris, Michael, and you. It’s a tradition. No matter how late or early in the day it happened. A podium, a celebratory dinner. Like always. 

The air is light, happy conversations flow from smiling faces, filling the room with laughter and excitement and hope. You’re sandwiched between your boyfriend and your best friend. Charles’ arm throws itself around your shoulder when Lorenzo retells a story meant to embarrass you. Michael reacts accordingly, hand on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. They’re fighting over you and only one of them knows it. 

Charles is engaged in conversation, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have bruises in your leg by the time you go to sleep tonight. You nudge Charles’ foot with yours, his head turns before his eyes, lingering on Andrea and the conversation you’re pulling him from before he's searching your eyes curiously. You shrug your shoulder, and as if noticing it’s there for the very first time, he drops his arm onto the table and returns to the conversation. 

He must’ve showered, changed, and hurried here. His hair is still damp, and you want to play with it. Curl the long pieces around your finger and play with the short pieces at the nape of his neck. You soak up his presence as much as you can, knowing it’s going to be several weeks and several races before you see each other again. Crazy lives and crazy schedules that won’t feel normal again until break. You both take care to cherish the times you do get to spend together these days. You’re not twenty-one following him around the world anymore.

“Merci.” You say, at the end of the night. “For everything.”

He shakes his head, shoos your words away like they’re unnecessary, like you shouldn’t be thanking him for pulling strings. “Ton jouet garçon parle-t'il français?” He asks quietly, just for the two of you to hear. You roll your eyes, shake your head. “Il aest assez fan de moi.” 

“Tu l’aime bien alors?”

“Non.” He chuckles. “Je ne l’aime pas. Pas pour toi.” He says it matter-of-factly, annoyingly so and without any elaboration. 

“Heureusement, que tu n’es pas ma mère.”

“Heureusement.”

It’s Miami when you see him next. Hot and humid and sunny, once more. Windy, too. Big gusts move the palms, gluing your hair haphazardly across your face before you tie it back, blowing his shirt tight across his chest. “How’s grandpa?” He asks at lunch. You’re sat across from him on the expansive patio of a waterfront restaurant, waves crashing against the cement beams below you, a seagull running around on the wooden planks in search of fresh crumbs. 

After Bahrain, Arthur wouldn’t drop the salt and pepper allegations, pushing until he found out Michael was seven years older than you. None of the boys have referred to him as anything but a grandfather since. 

“Oh, that?” You say, nonchalant, like you can’t be bothered when you very much were. “He liked me too much.” Translation, he wanted me on a leash. 

“He liked you too much.” He repeated, smile tugging on his lips. “Please,” He gestured to you, “Élaborer.”

“You never liked him, anyway.” You say into the rim of your water glass, taking a long, cold drink. The condensation from the glass drips down your wrist, forearm, off your bent elbow and onto your bare thighs, just past the hem of your sundress. The glass makes a heavy clunk when you set it back on the tabletop. 

“Oh, I loved him.” He laughed. “He was just wrong for you, chou.”

“You barely knew him.”

“After he left you alone in the garage?” He leans back in his seat, gestures harshly across his throat and clicks his tongue. “There was nothing to know.”

“You leave me alone in the garage.” You remind him and he’s quick to jump in. 

“I do not.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, animated. You smile, he smiles. “I leave you with Arthur.”

“You do not!” You laugh, protest without thinking, without needing to. The memory of each and every race you’ve spent in the garage is burnt into your memory. Every second feels like a second and a half. There are no distractions, it’s just you, in the way, and him, flying around in a death trap at a million kilometers an hour. 

He tries to argue, insist he would never leave you alone if he thought you were uncomfortable. You don’t want to hear it, though. If he does leave you under the watchful eye of someone, they have always done a pretty shitty job at looking out for you. “Whatever.” He finally concedes. “Who’s on the radar now?” Nobody, you tell him. Going to be single for a while. 

“What are your plans tonight?” He asked over the phone. It was the middle of the decade, the start of your first year at University. The longest you’ve been away from home and the only time he’d been there without you. 

Jules had died that summer, and the sun had felt dimmed since. You spoke to Charles almost every day, but you were in no rush to get back home. It was ironic, Monaco reminding you of Jules, you finding an escape from the memories in France. It should be the other way around, but, logic has never had much hold over grief. 

“I have a presentation, remember?” He listened to you revise for it, mindlessly picking apart your notes, adjusting even the most minute details, for hours last week. You cried when the ancient printer in the library wouldn’t fulfill it’s only earthly purpose, and he patiently calmed you down, stayed with you on the phone until you fell asleep that night. He never acknowledged it, and you were grateful for it. 

“That’s tonight?” He asked, sounded defeated.

“Yes. Why?”

“I miss you.” He said, and you nearly crumbled into a little ball on the street. “I was going to come see you.”

You hesitated for a moment, tried to remember just how messy your apartment was, sized up your outfit. You didn’t want him to go telling stories to your parents of a disheveled daughter drowning somewhere just below the surface in France. You wanted to be put together when you saw him again, be the rock you were before you left. 

Generously, you would say you fell somewhere in the grey. “Come, then.’ You told him. “You can pick me up.”

– –

Nearly three hours later, after the conclusion of your presentation and his mind-numbing drive, he’s parked a short walk from your university building, waiting for you. “Sulut.” He said. 

“Hey.” You replied, climbing into the passenger seat. “How was Portugal?” He’d just gotten home and you’d been too busy with school to check any race results. Plus, you always liked hearing his recounts of races more than Google results. 

“How was your presentation?” He asks, doesn’t answer your question. 

“Good.” You smiled, buckled your seatbelt. 

Last season, before last summer and before Jules, you couldn’t get him to shut up about racing. It was all he ever wanted to talk about. He could be winning races or embarrassing himself on track, it didn’t matter, he’d talk your ear off. Now, he’s a lockbox with a combination that changes every day. You talk and you talk but nothing is really said, not anymore. You use each other’s voices to drown out the ones in your heads, to dull the pain, if even briefly. 

Growing up, it had always been your three families. Your fathers were best friends, had known each other before they knew their wives. You vacationed together, spent holidays together, had monthly family dinners and walked to the bus stop together. All of you kids were the same ages. Not planned, completely coincidental, they’d always say. You didn’t buy it, Arthur was the only one without a match, poor kid, the permanent brunt of jokes and the forever baby brother. 

“I don’t know my way around here.” He says, hand on the back of your headrest, backing the car out onto the road. 

“I do.” He smiles. Oh, how you missed his smile. All perfect and pretty, just like the rest of him, only happier.

You arrive in Spain early, with him. There’s optimism after Miami, Charles is back on track, back to believing he deserves the title and then some. You all spend the entirety of Monday in La Barceloneta, soaking up as much tranquility and Spanish sun as you can.

Someone is knocking–pounding–on the door of your hotel room. The sun has barely risen, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting hard golden shadows on the entire room. “Fuck.” You groan, rubbing sleep from your eyes, dragging your feet the entire way to the door. When Charles had said, we’re going to spend all day at the beach, you thought he meant midday, at the earliest. “What?” You say, met with Arthur’s annoyed face. 

“You could sleep through a freight train.” He says, and you flip him off. 

“You could have called me.” You say, yawn, stretch your arms out above your head. He rolls his eyes, and it gets under your skin in a way only a little brother can manage. You wish you had a shoe to throw at his stupid face. 

“Charles did. Three times.” He holds up a matching amount of fingers and you nod, that sounds like something you’d sleep through. “Are you ready?” 

Deep breaths, deep breaths, don’t lunge at him. “Do I look ready?” He looks you up and down and you can actually see the gears turning in his head, all three of his brain cells working overtime trying to convince him to keep his mouth shut. “Don’t answer that.” You say, stop him before your eye starts to twitch. “Give me half an hour.”

You knock on the door to Charles’ suite forty-five minutes later. Messy ponytail that you barely brushed, swimsuit, shorts, cotton button-up, entirely too large tote bag slung over your shoulder. Lorenzo answers, “Good morning, sunshine.” He says, all sing-songy and stupid. “Sleep well?”

You walk straight past him into the suite. You think your entire room could fit in his living area. You walk through it, past Joris and Arthur, engaged in a heated conversation, and Carla, who looks about as sleepy as you do. Charles is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of something colorful. “No coffee?” You say.

Mouth full, he answers around his spoon, “I don’t drink coffee.”

“But, I do.” You say, grab a sliced strawberry from his bowl, eat it in one bite. 

“Feel free to make some.” Lorenzo chimes in. You flip him off, too, pouring coffee grinds into a paper filter and starting a pot. Lorenzo grabs a strawberry from Charles’ bowl too, and the metal spoon promptly collides with his arm. “Ay!” He yelps, tries, and fails, to jump away from the cutlery. “You let her have one!”

“She scares me when she’s tired.” He says, and you take another one because you know you’ll get away with it. He points the spoon at you, warningly. You wink, pop it in your mouth and he smiles, chuckles into the breakfast. 

– –

You fall asleep on the cabana bed in your shorts and bikini top, cotton shirt unbuttoned and laid over your face like it’s going to block the light out. You wake up when you’re hit with a bottle of sunscreen. There’s a possibility whoever threw it didn’t realize you were asleep, but the seam lines on your legs lead you to believe you’ve been relatively stationary since laying down here. 

You pull the shirt off your face, sit up, disoriented from the nap. “You’re going to burn,” Charles says, rubbing the lotion into his face. “You have pink cheeks.”

“No, I don’t.” You say, but lather up anyway, ask Carla to reach the places you can’t. 

The first drinks of the day come with lunch, a round of beers. Corona with lime. You keep yourself paced for the first couple hours, a 1:1 ratio between liquor and water. You maintain the slightest of buzzes, one that you really only feel when you catch yourself giggling too hard at one of their stupid jokes. It’s not the beer that takes you out, you’ve spent your entire life trying to keep up with Charles and his professional-drinker friends. It’s not the Sangria, either, however fun that is to sip. It’s the shots. It’s always the cheap tequila shots that do you in. You feel them too late, don’t realize you’re tipsy until you’re shitfaced. You’ll learn one day. One day, but not today. 

You and Charles are sent to find tequila, and you walk down the beach until you find a bar that looks like it’s got decent shit. “I like you like this,” You say, toes sinking into the wet sand, cool water washing over your feet with each crashing wave. 

“Like what?” He asks, squinting through the sun to see you. You left your sunglasses at the cabana and he gave you his to wear. They were big on your face and you thought if you moved too quickly they’d fall off into the sand. His linen shirt whips in the wind, his hair is sticking up in all directions, greasy with sunscreen. He glistened with sweat and coconut lotion, beautifully sunkissed.

“Just.” You shrug. “Happy.”

“Awww,” He teases, throws an arm around you, makes you miss a step and trip into him. He smells like summer and sandalwood and fresh, warm towels. “So sweet.”

At the bar, you order and he pays. Licking the salt off the back of your hand, you down the shot, pucker your lips around the lime, and set off back toward the rest of the group with a handful of shot glasses. It’s harder to carry them than you thought it would be, both of you fighting laughter when a bit of alcohol spills out of the tiny glasses, moving quickly over the burning sand. Back with everyone, you take another shot, no salt this time. 

The next round is broken up by something sweet and fruity. Joris takes a picture of you and Charles drinking them, arms intertwined like newlyweds at their wedding reception. You hope it doesn’t end up on social media, uninterested in a weekend full of online death threats. 

Another round of shots follows soon after, and then another. Not a single water has been sipped in hours. “We should go swimming.” You declared, unbuttoning your shorts and wiggling out of them. “Before we’re too drunk.”

“We’re not getting drunk.” Lorenzo says. Carla laughs from Arthur’s lap. 

You shrug. “I am.”

“You already are.” Charles laughs into a beer bottle. “No deeper than your ankles.” Fuck you, you mouthed, walked backwards towards the sea. You wade out until the waves splash against your chest. On the beach, Charles is unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it on the cabana, taking off his sunglasses. You feel hot in the chilly water. 

“My babysitter!” You laugh when he’s within earshot, slowly cutting through the water to you. 

“I told you ankles.” 

You shrug, form first with your hands and push them against his palms. “I’m not drunk.” He pushes back, laughing, you are. You shake your head, move your hands from his and run them over your hair, gather it to one side, twist the water from the ends. “The water is sobering me.” You lower yourself, sinking down until the salt water tickles your chin. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look up at him, probably with blown, tipsy pupils. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

You hum, dipping your head back into the water. “You never do.”

“I always do.” He says, and you laugh at the immediate contradiction like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You might be drunk. 

You cut yourself off after that, until you can eat something and drink a non-alchoholic beverage. You won’t let yourself get sober, because then you’ll be passed out on someone’s shoulder by sunset. You won’t get trashy, though. It’s a race week, anyone could see him, take a picture with him, a video with you in the background. When you’re together, whether you like it or not, you’re a reflection of him, a public display of the type of people he wants to associate himself with. Tipsy and fun is cute and carefree. Trashed and blacked is messy and irresponsible. 

You’re trying to hold your composure in the taxi, resting your head, and eyes, on the window. The guys picked a restaurant while you and Carla were using the bathroom, and now you’re making Charles read you the menu. He’s doing it in butchered Spanish, trying to pick out the words and meals he recognizes. 

“Is there tapas?” You ask, smacking his chest with the back of your hand. 

“There is tapas.” He confirms.

You almost cry, laugh instead. “My god, I could kiss you right now.”

“You are so drunk.” He chuckles, and you bite your fist, sink into your seat, wish you could fake it better. Have fun and let loose without embarrassing him. 

“Je suis désolé.” You whisper, drop your head the other way, onto his bicep. He adjusts, moves his arm so it’s around you, runs a hand over your hair. He doesn’t ask you what you’re apologizing for, knows that you’ll tell him anyway. “Pour être embarrassant.”

“Chérie,” He says into the crown of your head, a soft kiss before continuing. “You could never embarrass me.”

– –

The sobriety returns during dinner, bringing a pulsating headache with it. You drown your sorrows in delicious, cheap food, and drink an entire pitcher of water by yourself. When you leave, on the street outside, a band is playing in front of a fountain. You all stop, gather around and listen, sway to the lyrics you can barely understand. Joris is taking pictures of the band, Arthur is spinning a giggly Carla around. Charles grabs your hand, twirls you around and dances with you under the orange street lights. You rest your head on his chest. 

“You should sing along.” The vibrations from his laugh soother your aching head. 

It feels like a scene from a movie, like every other person in the city fades away into obscurity and it’s just you and he swaying on the cobblestone street. You’re so close to him, can’t be much closer, wish you could be. If you could, you’d crawl inside him, inspect his brain and the beautiful way it thinks, admire the way he sees the world. You know it’s special. Everything about him is magnificent, from the tallest hair on his head to the soles of his feet, every birthmark and fallen eyelash in between. 

Slowly, your sway has come to a stand still, and he’s staring at you with dopey, tired eyes. It should be illegal, the way he;s looking at you. His sightline jumps all over your face. Your right eye to your left, your nose to your lips. They linger there, on your lips, and then he’s staring into your soul, searching for something. Can I kiss you right now. Give me a reason not to. You don’t know what he wants you to silently speak. If you knew, you’d tell him. 

A cat-call whistle snaps both of your heads to Lorenzo. “Get a room!” Arthur yells, pretends to gag. Carla smacks his chest a little too hard to be playful. 

The gap between you and Charles is only a few inches larger, but he feels unreachable, eyes glossy and avoiding you. “Fuck off, mate.: He says, drop a bill into the band’s opened guitar case. 

– – 

Sunday is a nightmare. There’s no way to sugar coat it or make it sound prettier than it is. Andrea grabs you from hospitality, throws his pass around your neck because nobody is going to stop him from getting into the garage. He keeps you at an arms length for the entirety of the short walk. 

The car is already stopped in front of the garage, he’s climbing out. His posture is defeated, depressing. You wonder if you’ll be able to say the right words or if he’s just going to want to yell. A few people give him encouraging words, pats on the back, a hug. They’re already asking him to go to the media pen, to feed him to the sharks like a bucket of chum. He moves past them all, gets his weight taken and bee lines it to his drivers room. 

Andrea nudges you in his direction. You stay in play, your feet frozen. You don’t know what to say. Go on, he says. 

Fuck. 

You knock on the door softly, nothing. Opening the door just wide enough to squeeze through it, you find him sat on the floor. Knees bent, arms locked and resting on them, fingers intertwined. His back is against the edge of the couch and his head is hung low. He doesn’t look like himself. 

“What?” He says, rigid, doesn’t even bother to look in your direction. 

“Do you want me here?” You ask, and his eyes shoot over to you. He looks exhaustingly sad and sorrowfully tired. You wish you could make it better, rub Neosporin on his cutes and stick a race car bandaid over them. Promis the wound would get better and know you were telling the truth. 

“Stay.” He says, so you close the door behind you. 

You sit on the couch, awkwardly scooch yourself over and around him, a leg on either side of his body. His head rests on your knee and your fingers toy with his hair, soaked with sweat. You don’t know how long you sit like that, just that it’s long enough for someone to knock on the door twice. You stay seated. 

“You should change.” You finally say, after the third set of knocks noticeably lacks the patience of the previous two. 

“Yeah.” He says, and you both stand. “Don’t go home?” He asks when you’re already halfway out the door, when you’re already looking at Mia in the stairwell. You look over your shoulder, nod, smile, and leave the door open for her to slide in and get to work. 

You wait on the stairs, take a deep breath before re-emerging into the chaos. Carlos is still fighting for the podium and you don’t want to drag the mood to the Marianas Trench. It’s just so, so hard to see him hate himself. 

Energy is low, morale is lower, but you stay seated in the back of the garage. When the race is over, you head back to hospitality, linger in his room there. Your phone is dead, abandoned on the floor and you lay on his massage table, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Everything replays on the blank canvas. The perfect lap the day before, his pole position. The sparkle in his eyes and the lightness to his voice. A great start and a commanding lead and a quick pit stop and then he’s slowing down, Andrea is grabbing you and hurrying you across the paddock strip. 

Your presence scares him, makes him jump when he opens the door. “Fuck.” He says. “I thought you went home.”

You don’t bother to look up at him, to sit up. “You asked me to stay.” You listen while he shuffles around the room. His presence means the presence of others, and it’s not long before Andrea is there, picking up your phone and placing it on your stomach. His brothers are gone, Carla too. Joris lingers, the silent, unrelenting support of a friend. 

“Are you hungry?” Charles askes, and you turn your head to face him. His expression is as tired as his voice. 

“Are you?” You aren’t, but you can be if he is.

“No.”

“Me neither.” His eyes narrow, trying to decipher if you’re telling him the truth or if you’re being agreeable. He hates it when you do that, when you tell people what they want to hear instead of what they need to, instead of the truth. “Serious.” You reaffirm, and he returns to packing up his things. 

You just watch him. There’s nothing else to do, but, you want to live in his head, know what he’s thinking and feeling and fighting. You relish in any hint towards those emotions, from the way his shoulders hand to the way he zips up his backpack. 

“Come,” He says, extending a hand, pulling you to your feet. He grabs his sunglasses from their comfortable position on the collar of his shirt. It’s dark out. He just wants to hide the disappointment. There are still people lingering on the track, after all these hours. On your way out, he stops and talks to Pierre and Esteban. About what, you don’t listen. You don’t ever want to talk about this race again, want to leave it in the past. Head down, focused on the things yet to come. When Charles is ready to move on, Pierre gives him a heavy pat on the shoulder and a hug, one of the largest displays of encouragement any of these guys are capable of giving to each other. 

It must be so strange, you think, hoping for someone’s success and failure simultaneously. 

Fans are still here, too. He holds his head high and takes pictures and signs everything, makes them all feel loved and appreciated. Nobody is any the wiser to his inner turmoil, to the way he wil pick apart every single aspect of the race and internalize it, use it as fucked up motivation. He’s silent when he’s not interacting with the stragglers. You, Andrea, and Joris all trail behind him, engaged in quiet conversation about Monaco; the race, sleeping at home, the always surprising strangeness of a race you could watch from your bedroom window. Ahead, he holds out a hand to you, and you take a hurried couple of steps to match his pace. 

“You okay?” You ask. He nods. “Anything but?”

Anything but, a term you’d coined after Jules’ accident, when all anyone ever wanted to talk to you guys about was how you were doing, what you were feeling. The constant retelling, reliving, reassuring everyone you were doing okay when you were far from, it was almost as painful as losing him. Anything but is invoked, and the other has to change the subject, ignore the elephant in the room, no matter how big it is. 

A soft, sad smile tugs on his lips, silent gratitude, and he squeezes your hand tighter, barely so. “Yeah.” He says, and you go on about the haircut you’re thinking about getting once you’re back home in Monaco, asking if he thinks bangs are an option on a face shaped like yours. 

– –

You’re flying to Monaco with Charles, and the rest of Ferrari, early tomorrow morning, so your small group deciding in the hotel lobby that the night will be made better by liquor, probably isn’t the wisest of decisions. You do it anyway.

You all behave, careful not to get tipsy. Andrea reminds Charles he still has to train tomorrow, and that keeps him from going too far. The rest of you are just following his lead. 

He insists on walking you back to your room at the end of the night, even though Andrea and Joris both swore they’d get you there safe. She’s a runner when she’s drunk, he’d said, and you scowled. “Not since I was sixteen!” You defended, insistent that you didn’t need anyone; Joris, Andrea, or Charles, to walk you to your room. It’s not like you’re lost and drunk somewhere in an unfamiliar city. It’s a five-star hotel and you had all of one floor to travel between. 

He doesn’t even say anything on the walk he’d insisted on being present for. Your footsteps echo off the carpeted floors, bouncing between the thin walls and reflecting off the sleek, minimalist artwork. He has a beer in his hand, something from the hotel bar, priced entirely too high for the quality, you’re sure. Each time he brings it to his lips, the glass clinks against the ring on his pinky finger. 

He’s flushed, beautiful as ever, and you wished you were an overpriced bottle of beer; your sweat on his skin, the cold ring contrasting his warm, calloused hands. Those soft, pink lips on you, the way they almost were this week. They almost were, you keep telling yourself, you weren’t imagining it. “Charles.” He raises his brows, silently tells you to continue. “It,” You hesitate. You falter, because it’s not too late to say nothing, to bask in the silence a little longer. You can still stop yourself, shove the thoughts deep down and abandon them somewhere in the back of your mind. Curiosity, desperation, something sparked by the green in his eyes and the red on his shirt and the condensation on the bottle, it all gets the best of you. “The other night, it felt like you were going to kiss me.”

“Hmm.” He hums against the lip of the bottle, finishing off the last of the drink. There’s a long pause. You, waiting for him to say something, memorizing the strange pattern on the carpet. Him, saying nothing. You reach your room, hold the key card up to the lock. The silence is amplified by the shifting electronic gears and you’re pushing the door open. “Are you going to ask me?” You blink. “If I was going to kiss you?”

You exhale. Long and slow, do you want to know? “I haven’t decided yet.” You finally say. I’m not ready for this to get flipped on its head, you could’ve said. I love you too much to like you, you could have said. You didn’t.  “Nuit, Charles.” You say instead, disappearing into the darkness of your room. 

“Bonne nuit.”

“I’ve decided against the bangs.” You tell him in the grocery store around the corner from his apartment, leant against one of the doors in the refrigerator aisle. He’s waiting for a text back from his nutritionist, trying to figure out what he’s going to cook on the boat tonight. It’s family dinner night, and he’d volunteered to host, which meant he volunteered you to host on his yacht

“Good.” He says.

“You told me they would look good.” You laugh, wonder if he even remembers the conversation or if your words were just the backing track to his overthinking. 

He shrugs. “You’re supposed to stop me from looking like a fool.” He laughs at his phone screen, turns it off and slides it into his pocket. 

“My favorite thing about you is that you’re a fool.” He says, pulling open the door you’re leaning against, moving you with it. That’s not very nice, you said as he piled two packages of chicken breasts onto the groceries already in your hands.

“Chicken. Brave.” You add, reminiscent of the last time he tried cooking chicken on the water. It’s a good thing there was a fire extinguisher on board, and saying anything else would break the oath of secrecy you were sworn to. 

“Ha, ha.” He mocks. “Not funny.”

“You know what isn’t funny?” You grab another pack of chicken, just in case. “Telling me bangs would be good.”

Good luck this weekend, the cashier tells him when you’re checking out. Break the curse, yes? Charles laughs, because he’s a good sport, and agrees. You hate all the curse talk, it pisses you off, more than it does him. The conversation around it gets worse every year, every time he doesn’t win at home. 

They love him so much here, he’s their poster-boy during their poster-week, they don’t mean any harm by it, but it still gets under your skin. Curse this, curse that. Fuck off, shut up about it already. Everyone knows his Monaco track record, can everyone please find anything else to talk about?

– –

He finishes fourth, and it feels somehow worse than last year’s DNF. SO close, only to be screwed by the same shit as last week. You drink your weight at the club that night because maybe a lack of sobriety will make it sting a little less. 

“You are not wearing that.” Lorenzo says when you walk out of your building. You groaned, looked down at your outfit. It was slinky, but slinky is what everyone wears to the club, especially during the grand prix.

You settle for a blazer, tell him to suck your dick, and fill the pockets so you can abandon your purse. You start off at a smaller club, one that transitions from a restaurant after dark and has intimate, smaller tables. You’re there for a couple hours, eat something and get buzzed. Predictably, you meet up with half of the grid at Formula One’s favorite club, where you have a bigger section and a bigger group and get a bigger buzz.

“I can’t wear these anymore,” You whined, stopping to lean against the wall of a building to take off your heels. Your feet were blistering, and the thought of having to continue the walk with them on was dreadful. Charles carries them because you keep dropping one without realizing it. It’s not your finest moment, but, you only threaten to jump into one bush on the nearly fifteen minute walk. Overall, a strong showing on your part. 

You lose Charles at Jimmy*z, dancing with friends and strangers and other drivers and their parties. You’re drinking Negroni’s, and you aren’t sipping, occasionally splitting it up with a shot whenever someone suggests it. That’s when you see him again, when he’s putting a double shot of something expensive in your hand. I shouldn’t, you say, because you're teetering close to the line of embarrassment. He rolls his eyes, fully inebriated. Shiftfaced, if you will. “Shut up and take a shot with me.”

You do, it goes down smoother than water. 

“That’s good!” You say, examininging the glass. 

“I know.” He deadpans, and you both laugh. Sober Charles is one of the funniest people you know. Drunk Charles is the funniest person you know. He’s so unserious in everything he does–the way he talks, dances, expresses emotions, there’s nothing not funny about it. 

The club comped the table and a few bottles of champagne for the publicity that comes with having half of Formula One partying under their roof. In exchange, a manager is trying to wrangle Charles’ section into a group photo. You were standing back, laughing at them all failing to maintain any semblance of sobriety, all logic and composure out the window three drinks ago. Charles and Arthur are yelling your name, yelling at each other, looking for you in the strobe lights. You move, hope he doesn’t see you. He does, locks eyes with you, dopey smile, summoning you with this come-hither motion, his middle and ring finger calling you to him. Even drunk, you notice the gesture, the subtle curl, twitch of his long fingers. 

Fucking, hell. Flushed cheeks burn bright and you’re grateful your hair is down, covering your undoubtedly matching ears. He almost kissed you. He did. You’re not crazy, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s too smart not to. 

You smile, lips pursed, and shake your head. It makes him pout, and then he’s yelling your name, gesturing you over with the rapid movement of his entire arm. His other hand is smacking Arthur’s face, trying to rile he and Carla up. It works, and now half the group is yelling your name, so, you give in. Celebratory cheers leave their mouths and the boys share a near-miss high five. Charles grabs the back of your head, pulls you under his arm in one fail swoop. You hone in on his cologne. Tom Ford Tuscan Leather, no doubt. His signature night-out fragrance, the one you and Lorenzo nearly peed your pants laughing at when Pascale bought it for him a few years ago. The hints of raspberry and amber wood, the ones nobody can smell unless they’re this close to him, make you dizzy.

“You smell nice.” You say, and he just looks at you, lowers his head to talk directly into your ear. You look beautiful, he says, and you might be sober. “Don’t say that to me.” You laugh, smooth down your hair.

There’s a  real possibility at least one of the twenty people in the photo were actually looking at the camera. 

At some point in the night, you end up in the bathroom with Carla for an evening debrief. You don’t realize how drunk you actually are until you’re staring into your hazy soul in the bathroom mirror. It’s an out of body experience, truly, you’re watching this conversation from the astral plane. 

“Fuck.” You say, looking to Carla, who appears to be having the same experience as you. You both burst into a fit of laughter, the hunched over, sore abs, red faces, threat to the integrity of your bladder-type laughter that doesn't require anything to actually be funny. “I have to work tomorrow.” You say, trying to catch your breath. You work from home, she reminds you, and you’re both laughing again. “Je t’aime.” You slur, overwhelmed by the alcohol and emotion. “Beaucoup.”

“Non,” She giggles. “Je t’aime le olus.” 

“You look.” You hiccup. “So pretty, I hate you for being so pretty.” Carla shakes her head at her own reflection, adjusts her top, checks herself out. You pat the sweat off your forehead and wipe under your arms with toilet paper from a stall. “Arthur is so, super lucky.” Another hiccup. “You are so pretty. So nice and pretty.”

“No, you are so pretty.” She laughs. “Charles is lucky, and he doesn’t know it.” Charles, Charles, Charles. You don’t want to talk about Charles and his stupid face and stupid smile and stupid fingers and stupid skin. ��I should call Michael.” You say, digging your phone out of your jacket pocket. 

“You should not.” She laughs, but you’re already searching your contacts for his name. “Nope.” SHe says, snatches your phone from your hands and holds it out of your reach. 

“Carla.” You hiccup, pleading and pouting.

“Nope.” She says, putting the device in the bag that hands around her body. 

– – 

“This is my song!” You yell, quickly downing the shot in your hand, entire body vibrating with the bass pouring from the speakers. 

“We should start a band.” Someone says, and Charles laughs. 

“We should!”

“You’re my best friend.” You tell him, stumbling over your own feet without even taking a step. His arm reaches out as a stabilizer, just in case you need one. 

“No,” He laughs. “You’re my best friend. More-er.” That’s not a word. You shake your head. 

“I could play the drums.” 

“I know we’re drunk, but, like. I love you.” You slur, test the waters of shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Another stumble, another hiccup. “I’d do, like, anything for you.”

“I know.” He says, but you can’t hear his voice over the music. “I love you.” He adds, smacking Lorenzo on the arm to get his attention, to draw him out of band practice planning. “She’s my best friend!” He says. 

“I know!”

“I love her.”

Lorenzo laughs. “We all know.” 

“We should take a picture!” You suggest to Charles, and he agrees. “I don’t have my phone. Someone stole it.” He gives you a puzzled look, concerned, grabs your elbow like you’re going to float away in the crowd and asks you to clarify. You just shrug. I have it, dumbass. Carla laughs, takes a picture of the two of you, doesn’t give you your phone back. 

The next time you see him, you’re sat at the table having one of those drunken moments of emotional, existential crises. Your fingers twiddle with the fake eyelashes you peeled from your lids minutes earlier. “I’ve been looking for you.” He says, heavily drops into the space to your right, slings an arm around you. 

You’re always under his damn arm, you never realized before just how often you’re here. Not that you don’t like it, it’s just an observation, confusing and emotionally charged, but an observation nonetheless. He’s so relaxed, completely slouched into the rich leather, legs spread wider than they need to be, the arm that’s not around you resting on the back of the booth. He’s watching everyone else, observing the different people with sleepy eyes and heavy lids. When he talks to you, he turns his head all the way, cranes his neck so he’s speaking into your ear again. You don’t turn your head, you’d be too close. “I have a secret to tell you.” He doesn’t whisper.

“What?” You laugh, settle into his side, into the laxity of it all. 

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, rests his forehead on your temple. “I forgot.” He chuckles. You hiccup. You both laugh. 

Your eyes are closed, tired and so, so comfortable. You might fall asleep here, despite the loud noises and loud music and loud heartbeat. “You were going to kiss me in Barcelona.” You say, liquid courage forcing the words from your mouth like vomit. It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be. 

“I kiss you often.” He says, a weak defense, and kisses the crown of your head. “See?”

You’re not crazy. He was going to kiss you. He was. “Charles.” Your voice is quiet, strained and scratchy and serious. You don’t open your eyes, can’t look at him when you demand an answer, a confirmation. 

“I was.” The admission is suffocatingly delicate, like he might go for it, right then. His hand might grab your face and guide you to him. You’re ready for it, you think, as ready as you’re ever going to be for everything to change.

You don’t have to worry about it, to think about it and dwell on if he’s going to do it. He doesn’t. He just rests his head on yours. Your thoughts race faster than your heartbeat, and you wonder if he can feel your temples pulsing.

2013, family dinner. You’re in your room, hiding out for as long as possible, uninterested in the family events. Very teenaged girl of you, in all regards. Charles burst through your door, no knock, no warning. You didn’t even know they were there yet. Luckily for you, nothing incriminating was happening. He was quite the snitch back then, a real tattletale, especially if you were the one getting in trouble. 

“I have something to tell you.”

“Unless it’s that you’re going to turn around and leave my room, I don’t care.” You’d said, annoyed by his presence. At sixteen, your relationship could best be described as friendly enemies. He was always around, especially when you didn’t want him to be, and he was always the golden child. Perfect in school, perfect on the track, perfect son, perfect friend. His existence was infuriating and because you were so close in age, everyone always wanted you to be the best of friends. 

As a teenage girl, it was evolutionarily impossible for you to go alone with what everyone else wanted. You had to rebel, to run against the grain. Charles and you were not friends, and you did not care about what was going on in his life. 

“Single-seaters.” He said with a dumb smile, leaning on his hand against your dresser. You take maybe one step between your bed and his arms, hugging him tighter than you had since you were children. Okay, maybe you did care about his life. There are some things even evolution can’t change. 

“With who?”

“I thought you didn’t care?”

“I don’t”

His smile grew. “Fortec.”

You half-screamed, half-laughed, hugging him again, somehow tighter. “I’m so happy for you, Cha.” You said, with a level of sincerity you hadn’t used in years, especially with him. You thought for a moment you might cry, that he would make fun of you for it, that you’d do it anyways because you were so happy for him. 

“Don’t tell anyone, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Who knows?”

“Like, nobody.” He’s giddy, it’s almost cute. Almost. 

“Jules?” You ask, even though you think you already know the answer. Jules is God to Charles, this untouchable, invincible figure that represents the culmination of all his own dreams. He was the first person, you expect him to say. 

“Not yet.” He told you before Jules. 

You’re traveling in the weeks after Monaco, jet-setting around the world for your own career. It’s not until France that you see him again. You beat him there, actually, opting to spend some time visiting friends from University nearby, taking a bit of time to enjoy yourself and relax. Despite what everyone in your Instagram comments thinks, race weekends are not a holiday. The nerves and anxiety and heightened emotions you feel during one is so stress-inducing that the work week feels like a week in the Maldives. 

Love you, always proud. You texted him moments after he won in Austria, along with a picture of you and the drink you were having in celebration in your hotel room. 

You were a little bummed you couldn’t be there, celebrating with him. He really needed that win, and you could only imagine the weight it lifted off his shoulders. It’s been a while since you saw him genuinely happy on a Sunday night.

Love you, too. You suck. He texted back seven hours later, reiterating the sentiment the entire time he was home in Monaco and you weren’t. When you jokingly suggested he come to France early, you were met with the threat of being blocked. 

– –

You spent the weekend with Pascale, spending every day at the track trying to out-anxious each other. You don’t know how she sleeps, Charles and Arthur both doing this shit. You’re a nervous wreck and she barely flinches. 

“You remind me of myself a lot.” She tells you. Your knee is bouncing anxiously under the table you’re eating at. “Your mother, of course, but. Selfishly, I see the good parts of me in you.”

You’d always wished Pascale was your Mom, growing up. You have a great mother, you love her to death, but she was your mom. She had to discipline you, she had to put her foot down. Pascale didn’t have to do those things, not with you. She could be cool and carefree and spoil you because she was a bonus parent, not an actual one. If you grew up to be all kinds of fucked-up, she could wash her hands of you. Your mom couldn’t do that. 

You’re so lucky to have her as your Mom, you would say to the boys. They’d say the same thing to you. 

“You’re going to make me cry.” You say, picking at your cuticles. 

“Chérie.” She says, grabs your hand, stills your anxious fingers. “Je suis nerveux rien qu'à te regarder.”

“I don’t like Monaco.” You say. “No room for error.”

“You don’t like any track.” She chuckles, releases your hands. You put them in your lap and go back to picking at the skin. “Not when the boys are out there.”

She’s right, you’re squeamish when you watch Arthur and Charles, don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. Charles loves to make fun of you for it, has videos saved on his phone of you, caught on the television cameras, captured by friends, that one time you were in the background of a Drive to Survive episode. He laughs and laughs at them, but when he watches Arthur, he’s just as bad as you are. 

It’s different, when you love the driver. When you love them more than the sport, more than the team, more than nearly any other person in the entire world, every corner feels tighter, every straight feels faster, the whole thing feels like a narrowly avoided death sentence. 

“I don’t know how you do it.” After Jules, how you do it after Jules. After Anthoine, after hugging a grieving mother and watching your son drive on the same track. 

“I love watching them race.” She says. “I hate it, but I love it. All a mother can hope for her children is that they are brave enough to achieve their dreams.” They’re brave because of her, because of Hervé and because of her. They raised all three of their boys to be strong and brave and kind, and when Hervé passed, she picked up the pieces of her boys and glued them together again, built them up stronger, braver, kinder than before. 

– –

You don’t see him for a while after the race, don’t know if you want to. He’s been eerily calm all when things have gone wrong all season, at least when you’ve been around. It’s only a matter of time until he loses his cool, until he snaps. That radio call? Snapped like a glowstick. He’s angry, at himself, at the car, at the team, at the world. There’s nothing anyone is going to be able to say or do that would make him happy, neutral even. It’s going to be all pity-party and hushed curses until he gets some rest and resets. 

Behind the garage, when you’re finally leaving, he hugs Pascale tight. Her hand runs comforting circles on his back, and then it’s your turn to be suffocated. He squeezes you like it’s the last time you’re ever going to see each other, hangs on like gravity is pulling him in the other direction. “Anything but.” He said. “All night.” 

You nod. “My mom sent me a video of Gi playing with the dog today.” You spoke of your niece, of Charles’ goddaughter. If anyone could hit his soft spot, it was her. “Do you want to see it?”

“Yeah.” He said, and when he watched her stumbling around the park, when her innocent belly laugh and giddy screams spilled out of the speakers, he actually smiled, might have even let a little laugh slip. It’s impossible not to, really, with that little girl. 

He walks in relative silence back to the driver's lot, just listened to you go on and on. You feel nauseous, watching him put on a smile and interact with fans, laugh and take pictures and make children’s days by just existing. It must be such a strange life, a miracle his head hasn’t gotten ridiculously big. 

– –

At the hotel, you can tell he’s still pissed. Rest, reset. He’ll be himself in the morning. You exchange goodbyes in the elevator, you’re on a different floor than him. You expect it’s the last you’ll see of him until summer break. He leaves for Hungary early in the morning and you’re driving back to Monte Carlo with Pascale tomorrow afternoon. You expect, because he’s knocking on your door an hour later while you watch L’Atalante on your laptop. 

The light from the hallway is almost blinding in contrast to your dark room. “Hi.” He says, in running shorts and a t-shirt, bare feet. “L’Atalante?”

“How do you-”

He smiles. “You’re predictable.”

“What do you want?” You say through a  yawn, shocked he makes out the words at all. 

“Can I watch it with you?”

You sigh. “Charles.” You were minutes away from falling asleep, from putting this day behind you. Now, your feet are so cold on the floor it hurts and you’re becoming increasingly conscious and awake with each passing moment. 

“Please?” He asks, voice small and broken. Fuck. You hold open the door, because you’re weak when it comes to him. You’d let him treat you badly if it meant he’d treat you. “You know there’s a giant TV right here, no?”

“I like my computer.” You say, crawl back into the bed, sit up against the million pillows. He flops down next to you, on top of the comforter because he runs hotter than a fireplace. When he’s finally done moving around, shifting until he’s nice and comfortable–sorry, he said–you press play on the movie. 

“I love this part.” He says. 

“You hate this movie.”

“I do not.” He does. He complains every time you watch it, says you need to find a favorite movie that’s in color, that doesn’t have random cat montages, that the main love interest has too many glaring red flags. Watch it with rose-tinted glasses, you told him once, threw a piece of popcorn at his head. “This is my favorite part.”

“No, it’s not.” You laugh. “You hate this part.”

He laughs, too, sweetly and softly, into his own shoulder. “I love it.” You shush him, shove his shoulder because he can’t even say it with a straight face. He doesn’t stay quiet for long, and it’s clear he came here to talk, not to watch the movie, but he tries to pretend. “You need to come to more races.” He says, his head resting on your arm. “I don’t like it when you’re not here.”

“Okay.” You say, only half-listening. It’s your favorite movie.

“Today sucked.”  You paused the movie. Blinked twice, hard, frustrated because it;s your favorite movie, but he’s your favorite person. 

You look at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He reaches over and unpauses it, adjusts so he’s sitting up, too.

You pause it again. “I think you do.”

“I don’t.”

You close the laptop, set it on the bedside table and flip on the lamp. “I don’t know how to make you feel better right now.” You say, stand up, pace the room. It sounds like you’re admitting your defeat, expressing disappointment in yourself with a half-hearted apology. 

He stands up, too, follows you for a step but then you're still. There’s something unfamiliar painted across his face. Exhaustion, anger, desperation–you can’t pinpoint it. Urgency. You realize its urgency when his hands are on your face, thumbs dancing on your jaw, eyes darting between yours. Urgency. 

He was going to kiss you. He is going to kiss you, you think, and you’re going to let him. He can use you as a distraction, if he needs to. You can kiss it better, you’re sure you can. His forehead rests on yours, the tips of your noses bumping against each other, shuddered, broken breaths. Your lips are so close, jaws slack, sharing the air. You’re dizzy. Dizzy and hot and then he’s kissing you. The taste of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the softness of his lips, it’s all so new, so butterfly-inducing. He smells like himself, whatever soap he always uses when he’s traveling. It’s crisp and clean and you want to lick it off his skin. 

He’s the one to pull away, but you open your eyes first. “Sorry.” He says. You smile, kiss him again because you’re not sorry, wishing you could crawl inside his mouth and build a home there behind his beautiful, sharp, white teeth.  

Your name sounds like a symphony when he says it, all dopey and sing-songy, hands firmly on your waist. “Don’t look at me like that.” He says, laughs into your mouth. 

“Like what?” You ask, innocently. 

“Just. Fuck.” He shakes his head, one of his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, open and flat, exploring the vast bareness of your back. “You.” 

“Me?” You giggle at his words, the stumble of them, cheeks hot and flustered. You shouldn’t be nervous. It’s Charles. You know him like you know your own hand, but, he’s never been yours, not like this. Your hands have never searched him like this, fingers never tugged on his hair with lust and longing, never felt the scratch of his stubble on your skin.

“Yeah,” He says into the crook of your neck, leaving a flurry of open mouth kisses in the space between your jaw and your collarbone. “You.”

“We shouldn’t.” You say, even though you’re helping him out of his shirt. “We should stop.”

“Do you want to stop?” He asks, his fingers stalling on the buttons of your pajama top. 

“We can do this, right?” You ask, because you need his reassurance. You don’t need honesty. You know the truth. You need to hear what you want to hear, for him to tell you if it’s safe to jump, to fall aimlessly into the unknown. You need him to lie to you. “Can we go back to normal after this?”

“Ouais.” He says, and even though you don’t believe him, you think he believes himself. “Retour à la normale.”

“Okay.” You say, and he’s unbuttoning your shirt again. If his mouth didn’t feel so good on you, if his big hands didn’t send shivers up your spine when he ran them up the sides of your body, you might have thought a bit harder about what normal is for the two of you.

His hands do make you shiver, though, and he’s looking at your body with these sweet, drunk eyes, sliding the shirt off your arms and letting it pool on the ground with his. 

You’re dropping to your knees on the cold floor next to the bed, pulling his shorts, his underwear, down with you. While he steps out of them, kicks them to the side, you admire him, toned and tanned and so, so pretty. You want to memorize it in case it’s the last time you see him like this, take notes on every freckle and muscle and defining feature under the harsh light. You need to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to make him feel as good as he looks. 

He’s already hard, cock twitching with lust and adrenaline and arousal, all for you. Your work is cut out for you. You tease him, whisper profanities and place soft kisses against the skin of his upper thighs. “You make me crazy.” He says, you take him in your mouth, and he goes momentarily stiff before he relaxes, lets your fingers and your lips work in tandem to pull your name from him. 

“Fuck.” He says, tastes like sex, sweet and salty and manly. His hands knot into your hair, pull it back into a haphazard ponytail that only loses shape as you continue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He repeats, rutting into your mouth, fucking into your throat. You swallow around him, hollow your cheeks and he lets out this whimpered, wounded sound, forces your mouth off him. “Don’t do that.”

“You don’t like it?” You ask, take him in your hand, stroke over the slick of your spit, kissing the base of his cock and looking up at him with these big, saucer eyes. 

“No,” He shakes his head, drags a hand over his stubble. “You’ll make me come.”

You swipe your tongue in one long stripe, swirl it around the head of him, smile. “That’s the point.” You say, filling your mouth with him again, sinking until he’s hitting the back of your throat, gagging you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

He says your name like he’s battling to reason with himself, his grip on your hair tightening, pulling you off him again. You pout, and he rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Tu es mauvais.”

“Ç’est vrai.” You roll your thumb over the tip, mindlessly, really, looking at him and waiting for him to speak. You’re an addict, already. It’s just so pretty. 

“Want to last for you.” You’re not even standing and your knees are unsteady underneath you. You look at the floor, your forehead on his thigh, and laugh. You laugh harder than you should, just out of shock and disbelief. “What?” He laughs, too.

You’re standing, he’s helping you stand. “Who would’a thought?” You can’t stop giggling, cock your head to the side and try not to smile. “You and me?”

His tongue is in his cheek, eyes rolling in such a bratty way. You wonder if he can see how swollen your lips are, all because of him. Your mouth feels empty without him there. “I hate you,” He says with a smile, and kisses you.

Your knees buckle at the edge of the bed, and it’s too easy, the way you’re both on it without ever parting lips for more than a hasty breath. He moves you around like a doll, gentle and effortless in his removing of your shorts, of your underwear, in the manipulation of your positioning on the soft mattress. 

He’s kissing you, sucking bruises into your collar, marking you like there’s any possibility you’re not already his. It’s hazy and intoxicating, him exploring your body, taking his time as he trails down your collar bone, through the valley of your breasts, hot, sloppy breath on your stomach, on your legs. You’re almost disoriented by it all, the natural comfort, the familiarity of him in a place so unfamiliar to his touch. He kisses your clit, you watch him, feel his hot breath on you, jaw slack and eyes glazed over. It makes you hot, makes your whole body flush and shiver. 

“Putain, t'es chaud.” He curses, smiles at you from between your legs. His fingers splay over your hip, his thumb dragging itself over you, parting your lips with the slick of you, amused smile tugging on his face. “You’re so wet.” He says, moves up to kiss you.

“Sorry.” You whisper into his open mouth. 

He shakes his head, mumbles something incoherent, kisses you again. “It’s hot, chérie. That you want it.”

“Want you.” You say, and he slides a long finger inside you, surprised whimper escaping from your lips into his open mouth. He curls it into you, crooks it at just the right angle and you writhe against the sheets. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, that you’re a mess for him over a single finger. 

He moves back down your body, another trail of nibbles and kisses before he laps at you, swirling his tongue around your clit in a way that’s almost painfully good, curling his finger into that same spot. When he slides in another, you’re a goner, moaning out his name like it’s the only word you know. 

“Let go.” He says. Your eyes are pinched shut in an attempt to keep yourself at bay for just a while longer. His eyes are glued to yours when you can finally open them. 

You shake your head. “I’m not.” You start, stopping short to compose yourself when your leg twitches, shakes in applause of his work. “No ego boosts.” You sputter. He laughs against you, the vibrations of it blinding, a whole new sensation that spreads fire over your skin, sends you over the edge with little warning. 

He doesn’t stop, not for a second, when you come. His fingers maintain their rapid pace even as you tense around him, his tongue, his lips, suctioned to you as your body tries to wiggle away. “Charles.” His name leaves your lips in a shudder, your thighs trying to close in on his head, the hand that isn’t inside you holding you open for him. 

He works you over, skilled fingers and skilled mouth, coaxing you through another, louder this time. He leaves you catching your breath, restless, incoherent, shaky on the crisp white sheets and two orgasms ahead. 

He’s so satisfied with himself, licks his fingers clean and grins and kisses you some more, just because he can. Because, it’s all gone to shit and the unspoken, unwritten rules of your friendship have gone so far out the window, they’re in another country. Maybe they’re in Hungary already, or waiting for the two of you on summer break, in Monza, hell, they might even be Abu Dhabi, there’s no telling. 

“Do you have a condom?” You ask.

He freezes, strong arm holding him over you, caging you in. His eyes shut hard. “No.”

“You didn’t bring one?”

“When I came to your room, I didn’t.” He sighs. 

“How gentlemanly.” You quip, wiggle out from underneath him. He flops back onto the bed, apologizing. You grab his t-shirt from the floor and hold it up to cover your body, he chuckles at that. “Apologize if I don’t have one.” You say, rifle through your backpack. Your leg shakes under you while you try to balance, squatting in front of the bag. You hope he notices, sees what he’s done to you without even filling you up all the way.

“Why would you have one?” He asks, just as you find the little package at the bottom of your bag. You turn on your heels, still bent over, condom wrapper in your teeth and look at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Do you really want me to tell you?” You ask around the wrapper. 

He thinks about it for way longer than should be required. “No.”

“Yeah.” You nod, dumbfounded, and stand back up. 

“Really, with the shirt?” He asks, laughing about it again.  

“Salope!” You say, drop the shirt, throw the condom at him. “Put this on yourself.”

“I don’t even like you.” He says, rips open the wrapper with his teeth and slides it over his cock. It hurts, almost, how badly you want him inside you, how empty you’ve felt since he took his fingers out. 

“Don’t do that, you’re going to make me come.” You mock his earlier words, puff out your lips, raise your brows, a knowing glance. 

“I was.” He defends, and you straddle him, wrap your arms around his neck. 

“No, you weren’t,” You kiss him, his hands explore the curve of your ass, fingers dig into your hips, push you down so you grind against him, spread your wetness over him. 

“Okay.” He says with a smirk, lust riddled and completely enthralled by you, one hand moving to thumb at your clit, start chasing another release for you. 

“Okay.” You repeat, barely a whisper, lift yourself up enough for him to line himself up with you. You sink down slow, savor the burn of the stretch, wish it was the first time anyone had ever done this to you, that you could belong to him and only him. 

“Fuck.” He says into your shoulder, kissing and sucking a purple spot into the flesh there, his hands splayed across your back, warm and strong and dragging across the hot skin. “Si bon.” Every inch of your body can feel him, hungry for more, the insatiable urge to hear his moans, to make him whimper, make him feel how you feel.

You grind your hips against his, chasing an unachievable leverage, a static inducing friction. Your foreheads rest on each other and your noses collide roughly in the sweaty, steamed, hitched breaths. 

You’re obsessed with the way he watches your bodies, eyes glued where he disappears into you. You never want to hear anyone else say your name, not after hearing the way he says it while he’s inside you. “That.” He says. “Love that.” You do as you’re told, eager to please, hungry for him to finish. “Es-tu proche?” You shake your head, because you are, but he’s closer. 

In a swift movement, he flips you over, switches your positions, slides back inside you. Even when he’s manhandling you, using you as a device for his pleasure, strong and without thought, there’s something gentle about it, something that anchors you to him. 

He fucks into you with deep, measured thrusts. The new position, the new angle, it drives you fucking crazy, your back arching off the bed, grinding onto his fingers in the selfish chase of your own high. “Charles. Fuck.” I know, he tells you, shaky, pace reduced to an erratic grind. I know, baby, and you’re coming again, biting into the muscles of his strong shoulders, wet and warm and so fucking full of him.

“I’m.” He whispers into your neck, nibbles on your ear. He pulls out and you whimper at the loss. “Where?” He asks, pulls the condom off, jerks himself with those long, veiny fingers. You smiled, devilish. You wanted, needed, his cum in your mouth. 

He’s too close to be gentle, now, to take care and take time. He’s desperate, it’s so fucking hot. His hands are on your head, knotted into your hair, holding you steady so he can fuck your throat. You gag around him, dizzy, hazy, eyes forced shut because everything is white and on fire. “Look at me.” He says. You do, and he has a fucking smile on his face, lewd and practically pornographic.

You hum, pleased with the state you’ve got him in and then he’s bottomed out, still and stiff, coming down the back of your throat, chanting your name like a prayer. 

– –

“What am I supposed to do with these?” You laugh into the bathroom mirror, after a shared shower, delicate fingers examining the fresh bruises he burned into your skin. “I’m spending the day with your Mother.”

He’s drying his hair with a towel, laughs. “Nobody thinks you’re La Sainte Vierge.”

You move through the bathroom, back into the bedroom to retrieve your pajamas from the floor. “And what is that supposed to mean?” You tease, returning, tossing his clothes on the counter. 

“It means,” He hums, wraps his arms around you, hugs you from behind. Your knees are weak and wobbly, his chin resting on your shoulder, looking at each other in the mirror. “Tu es belle, jeune et amusante.”

“Je suis amusante?” You ask, try to bite back a smile, fail.

“Très.” He says, nuzzles into your neck.

He sleeps in your room that night, wakes up early, shuffles around the bathroom, the light pouring out. His movement stirs you, his heavy feet roaming around the silent room. “Go back to sleep,” He says, kisses your hair, and the heavy door locks behind him.

Tired, from the weekend, from him, you let yourself go back to sleep. You should’ve got up and kissed him, you think. Really, truly kissed him, while the rules still didn’t apply and things weren’t back to normal. Whatever normal is for the two of you. 

“What?” You said, spit, when Charles called you for the third time within five minutes. The first Monday of summer break, he’s in Monaco and you’re in France, a thousand kilometers, an hour and a half flight, away. More specifically, you’re standing in the corridor of your office building, meters away from the door you’d just stepped out of, the meeting you had to excuse yourself from leading because your phone won’t stop ringing and surely, something must be wrong. 

“Hello to you, too.” He says, and you can hear the smile on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

“Work.” You say, inspiringly calm. Fuck, she’s at work, you hear him say to someone. “Can I call you back in a bit?”

“Oui, désolée.”

“Ne sois pas.” You force a smile, like he can see it, and hang up, shut your phone off completely before returning to the meeting with an apologetic grimace claiming family emergency. 

You call him back an hour later, after the conclusion of your meeting and then some, pushing past the heavy glass doors to your office building and out onto the street, the breeze blowing your hair into your mouth as you step between two buildings. He answers, but it’s just shuffling on the other end, hushed, muffled voices. “Are you there?” 

“Oui, oui. Une seconde.” He says, far from the speaker. More shuffling before a proper greeting. “You’re on speaker.”

“What are you doing?” Shopping, he says, moves the phone, how’s work? You have to put a finger in your other ear to hear him, between the sounds of the city and the chatter on his side. “It’s fine.” You say, drag out the vowels because you’re bored, because you wish you were with him. He’s always so relaxed on summer break, so content and breezy and fascinating. You haven’t seen him since he was kissing your hair goodbye in France. You need to know if you can actually return to something normal.

“It’s fiiineee.” He mocks, laughs with whoever else is with him. You smile, all toothy and stupid. “Coming home today?” You can hear the hope in his voice. You’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours, it’s an unusually short trip. Most times, you’re here for a minimum of a weekend, almost always more. He shouldn’t be expecting you. 

“Yeah.” You check the time on your watch. “In a few hours.”

“You want to come on the water tonight?” He asks. 

“La Mala?” Of course, he says, like it shouldn’t even be a question. “With?” He speaks to someone else in Italian, you think you hear Andrea say something, and then Charles’ voice is louder, off speaker, you assume. 

“Lorenzo and some camera guys. We’re doing some… comment dire, day with my life?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitate, because the last thing you want to do is be one of three people, to be on display somewhere on Instagram or Youtube or wherever the video they’re making is going. You love him, but the attention is overwhelming and you like to stay as far from it as possible, especially when you’re nervously sorting out the normalcy of your relationship. 

You took a photo of him once, with a fan, just walking around the city. You weren’t even in the photo, didn’t say more than two sentences to the guy he was posing with. And yet, when he posted it on Twitter, said Charles was with some girl, posted a screenshot from your Instagram and said her, he was with her, you had a full inbox begging to know if you were dating Charles, calling you obscene vulgarities, threatening you. You weren’t even in the fucking picture. 

“It will be fun.” He says. “I haven’t seen you since france.” Exactly, you haven’t seen each other since France. Just over a week. It’s chump change for the two of you, at least it was, before his spit dripped down your thigh and he came in the back of your throat. Now, a week is the opportunity for an awkward plant to take root, grab onto you and make everything weird and uncomfortable and wrong/ “We’re having pasta.” He says, can sense your uncertainty, knows it sweetens the deal. 

“No chicken?”

“Never again.” He laughs. “You’re coming?”

“I guess.”

“You guess.” God, he is a child, truly. “Call me when you land, yes?”

“Yeah.”

– –

You can’t remember the last time you felt so nervous to see him. Sitting on the edge of the concrete landing, watching him cruise in on a little boat full of strangers, it’s almost worse than watching him race. Do you have to say something? Is he going to say something? Do you ignore it? That’s the agreement, right? Everything goes back to normal. Normal, normal, normal.

He looks like he’s been in the sun all day, cheeks pink and rosy, the blue of his shirt mellowing him out, making him glow. A God, Heaven shining down on him, presenting him to you like a gift. You hate that you have to share him with anyone when he’s like this, especially with strangers, with people who don’t know how lucky they are to see him like this. 

“Did you miss me?” He calls out when he’s within earshot. You stand up, take your shoes off because there is no way that boat is making it all the way to you. 

“Who called who?” You say, and he laughs. 

You hopped off the landing into the shallow water, walked out to the boat on your tip-toes, trying to keep the bottom of your pants as dry as possible. You had a change of clothes in your bag, but, even a minute in wet pants is too long. He helps you into the boat and you introduce yourself to the strangers pointing cameras at you. 

This was a mistake. It doesn’t even take the distance from the landing to the yacht for you to realize that. So fucking uncomfortable, cameras in your face, recording your conversations, watching the way you look at him. You can already see the comments calling you pathetic, calling you a whore, calling you a bitch.  

It is pathetic, you remind yourself when your hand is on his, stepping around him, moving from one boat to another. They will think it’s pathetic and they’ll be right. 

There’s more production people waiting for your arrival, waiting to take your place next to Charles and capitalize on the fleeting light and beautiful scenery. It’s unusual, there’s nobody here. You introduce yourself to them, too, because it feels strange not to. 

Once you’re onboard, you change in the guest suite. Sweats and a hoodie because the sun is setting, dusk settling on the horizon, bringing in wind with the tide. Bowl of pasta in your lap, mindless television playing, you lounge on the couch, watch Charles do an interview on that stupid little boat, rocking back and forth like a buoy on the open water. 

You want to reach out and grab his hand, hold it still, stop him from pulling his fingers and twisting his rings because then nobody will know he’s nervous, that he’s off balance. “What do you think they’re talking about?” You ask, pulling Lorenzo’s attention from the television. “He looks nervous.”

Lorenzo laughs, quiet, under his breath. “You.” 

You don’t turn back, know your face is going to give it away, can feel the blood rushing, the skin of your cheeks boiling. There’s no way he knows, right? Charles didn’t tell him. He wouldn’t. Lorenzo has no idea how close his joke hits, how deep the knife cuts. He’s just an older brother, living with the sole purpose of embarrassing you. “What?” You say, force out a laugh and almost choke on it.

“Kidding.” He says, and goes back to whatever is on TV. Your eyes stay on Charles, though, infatuated with the way the wind runs its fingers through his hair, the way it tugs on his shirt and inches the boat closer and closer to the yacht, to you. You stare so hard he can feel it, catches your eyes mid-sentence, smile pulling on his words. You’re convinced the upturned corners of his lips can lift even the lowest of spirits. He winks, and then he’s back in the conversation like he never missed a beat. 

Charles has made fast friends with the crew long before you got there. You wonder if they know each other, if they’ve met before. Light words flow with the waves, your body relaxing at the loss of the cameras, put aside to enjoy the experience, to breathe in the moment. His pull is gravitational, even through the strange tension and the awkwardness of the unknown. In your uncertainty, you linger just out of his reach, now comfortable enough to participate in their conversations. He catches you staring off into space, into the vast, starry sky, silently identifying the constellations above you. He pulls your mind back to your body with the tap of his foot on your outstretched leg. With what has to be the softest smile to ever grace this beautiful Earth, he calls you to his side with careful eyes and a subtle nod. 

You scooch closer to him, half-expect his arm to lazily drape itself around you because that’s what always happens. It doesn’t, and a pit of something grief-like settles in your chest. Instead, your arms hang at your sides, upper arms gracing each other every time one of you even thinks about breathing. Your hands are knotted in your lap, thumb examining the texture of your palm, fingers tugging on each other with agonizing anxiousness.

You were so naive to think, even for a split second, that you would go back to normal. THe tension you thought would settle has only become increasingly taught. 

“You okay?” He asks. You nod with a weary smile. A lie, and he knows it. “You worked all weekend?” He continues to prod, ignores the conversation happening around you like it’s just the two of you in a bubble. 

“No, just today.” You said. “Meetings all day.” You don’t look at him, eyes focused on your hands, popping knuckles and digging nails into your palm. You can’t remember the last time you were so unsettled in his presence. “I got a huge logo redesign deal.” 

“Of course you did.” He bumps your shoulder, jolts you. “You’re the best they’ve got and they know it.”

“I’m not the best one there.”

"Maybe not the most confident.” He laughs, reaches into your lap and grabs your hands, stilling them like a patient partner would do. “But definitely the most talented.” He squeezes your hand tighter, and you slide your fingers between his, envelope his hand in both of yours like you’re the one doing the comforting, squeeze back, thank you. 

Your head falls to his shoulder, sigh like you’re carrying the weight of the world, like you’re moments away from breaking down into a pile of ash, blown away with the breeze. A new normal. Maybe that’s what you’ll have to do, create a new normal that’s just as sweet as the old one. When the only options are a life of awkward anxieties or one without him in it entirely, a new normal doesn’t seem so sad. 

– –

He gets stopped seven times on the walk from the berth to the parking garage, takes careful time to be kind, especially to the kids. He’ll never not stop for a child, making their grabby hands, freckle faced days time and time again. You’re a good guy, you say after the fifth, know it’s the last thing he wants to do after his long day. I don’t know how you do it.

He shakes his head, sighs. “Le strict minimum ne fait pas de moi un bon gars.”

“You go beyond the bare minimum.”

He shrugs. “The bar is in Hell, I suppose.”

You take the train to Monza, hunkered over your laptop for the entirety of the ride, working. You weren’t planning on coming in until late Friday night,but Charles asked you if you’d get on the next train, if you’d come with him to sponsorship dinners and obligatory events in the leadup to the weekend. Please, he’d texted. Sayingno, doing anything but getting on the 6 am departure this morning, didn’t feel like an option. 

You texted Isa for three hours trying to figure out what the dress code was for these events, planning out your outfit. All you could get from Charles was, I don’t know, I’m wearing a blazer, probably. The last thing you wanted to do was stick out like a sore thumb, draw anymore attention to yourself or embarrass him. Underdressed, overdressed, you don’t know which is worse. 

You check your phone, scroll through social media and pick at a meal from the dining cart. You’re met with the same stuff you’ve been seeing since that stupid Monaco Vlog on Charles’ YouTube channel. The general consensus amongst all the strangers who know you so well, is that you and Charles are dating. I want this. They way they look at each other. Couples who are best friends make me melt. A friend told you those should make you smile, they don’t, because you aren’t dating. You aren’t dating and he’s going to see them and everyone wants to know everything about you and someone asked on a bikini picture how good Charles was in bed. None of them made you smile. 

Does she know she’s the third choice? Not smiling. Charles, serial monogamist or serial cheater? Not smiling. You’re a whore. You’re a slut. I hope you die, bitch. No smiles. 

They stung, they made you cry at your reflection in the mirror, private your accounts, limit your comments. They were everywhere, in your Instagram DMs, your Twitter mentions, your TikTok ForYou page. It was suffocating. 

Charles was trying his best to check up on you, which only made it all worse. You wanted to believe he wasn’t seeing them. He was just making sure your head was above water, and it was those best intentions that got you invited here, you assumed. It’s easier to keep an eye on you when you’re with him. 

It was a good idea, a good effort, for sure. It was a miscalculation, though, Charles seemingly forgetting just how much attention he has to give to strangers at these events. In a room full of people, dressed in your best cocktail attire, sipping a martini and watching people fight for his attention, you can’t remember feeling so alone, so on display. 

Everyone knows, or thinks they know, you’re Charles’ girlfriend. You’re a bigger extension of him than ever. Side-stepping cameras won’t cut it anymore, they’re hungry to judge you. Look who Charles brought, what do we think of her? Look what she’s wearing, how she speaks, how she stands. They hate you, you’re sure of it. You aren’t classy enough for this scene, not sweet enough, not pretty enough. You aren’t important enough. 

“How are you doing?” Isa finds you leaning on a tall table, poking your olives around your drink with the toothpick they were originally skewered on. 

“Are these things always this weird?” You ask, voice laced with hope that there is a learning curve, that there is some top-secret strategy she can give you so you don’t feel so shitty and deflated again tomorrow night. 

She laughs. “You’ll get used to it. But, yeah.”

“Any advice?”

“Threaten a sex strike if he leaves you alone for too long.” Your eyes go wide, shocked by her words. She just shrugs, downs the remainder of her drink. “Works every time.”

“Charles and I. We’re not. We–” You stumble over your words, and she looks at you with raised brows and a grin that makes you think Charles might be blabbing to the whole grid. “We’re not sleeping together.”

“Aren’t you, though?”

“Did Charles say something?”

She smacks her hand over her mouth, muffling her laugh. “No, but you just did!”

You nod, jaw clenched, tongue running over the front of your teeth. You’ve been so paranoid that Charles was going to tell someone and you’re the one who can’t keep their mouth shut. “It was once, and you can’t tell anybody.” You whisper, sharp. “Not even Carlos.”

“I’m going to tell Carlos.”

“You can’t.” It comes out as more of a plea than an argument. “He’ll say something to Charles, and then Charles will know I told someone.”

She says your name so sweet and patient, like you’re a preschooler about to get a passive-aggressive scolding. “I’ve never seen two people look like they want to fuck more than the two of you. If Carlos says something, it won’t be the first time someone has vocalized it to him.” It’s a horrifying thought that burrows all the way to your bone marrow. You’ve always thought you were so good at hiding it. 

You’re drowning at this party, under the waves of lingering and prying eyes. It’s been an hour since you’ve spoken to Charles, forty-five minutes since you’ve seen him. You pull out your phone and delete all your social media. This is so much worse than wallowing about death threats in the comfort of your own bedroom with the familiarity of your favorite ice cream. 

– –

You’re doing your hair when he knocks on the door. Impatient, impatient, impatient. You don’t answer, he keeps knocking, over and over again. “What?” You say, sharper than warranted, opening the heavy door with as much force as it will allow. 

“This is what you’re wearing?” He says, walks right past you and into your room. You’re not in the mood for his humor today.

“That’s really funny, coming from you.” You say, go back to the bathroom, hairspray your hair, pull a few face framing pieces out from the low ponytail. 

“I look great.” Says the man who hate-crimed an entire country with his jeans in Monaco, who is cosplaying as a banana this weekend. 

“Did you dress yourself?”

He appears in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning on it, looking annoyingly handsome in his suit jacket and white button up. “I did.”

“Oh,” You lock eyes with him in the mirror, put on a phony smile, fingers digging through your makeup bag on the counter searching for eyelash glue. “How nice for you.”

You watch him check his wrist in your peripheral, opening the cardboard lash box and pulling them out, carefully applying glue to one. “What aren’t you ready?” He asks.

“I’ll be ready at five.” You said, setting the falsies on your lash line, trying not to make your concentration face because you know he’s watching. 

You put glue on the other lash. “We’re leaving at four-thirty.” Your head snaps up from the task at hand. 

“You told me five.”

“I did not.”

“You did.” You say, continue putting the lash on before the glue dries because you don’t have another set with you. Quicker, this time, because apparently you’re running a half hour behind. 

“I told you it starts at five.” He says.

Oh. He did tell you that. “We have to be there when it starts.” You say in unison, your foggy recollection becoming clear. 

“Wonderful.” You laugh, to nobody at all. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, and it feels earnest, makes you laugh harder while you hove all your makeup back into the tiny cosmetics bag. There’s no way he’s that clueless, you think, blink hard in the mirror a few times, size up your hair and makeup. 

“No, I’m not okay!” You say, toss the bag onto the counter with a heavy noise. “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to do this.” You push past him in the doorway, stop in the little hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, next to the mini fridge and Keuring-clad kitchenette, sigh at the ceiling so you don’t cry, don’t ruin your makeup. You’re already running late, no time for tear streaks. “I feel like a fucking idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot.” 

You scoff, don’t even know why you’re angry, so emotional, why every nerve in your body feels supercharged. “You do a great job of letting me feel like one.” You don’t mean it, not really. You say it anyway. You know it will hurt him, and you’re tired of hurting alone. 

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.” You say, hoist the ironing board out of the wardrobe. “You did nothing.” You don’t bother setting the legs up, just lay it across the bed. 

“What was I supposed to do?” He asks, grabs the iron from your hands and fills it with water in the kitchenette sink, sets it on the iron board, plugs it in and turns it on. You did through your suitcase for your dress and blazer, shaking them out like they’re dusty old relics rather than something you’d bought just for this. 

You don’t know what to tell him. You can’t summarize all of your emotions into something succinct and comprehensible, especially not while you’re in the middle of feeling them. Everyone wants me dead, everyone is staring at me, I know I’m  not good enough for this. I want to be good enough for this, to make you proud, but it’s so hard. “You left me alone last night.”  You say, roll your eyes and take the tears with it. Elaboration feels like a giant, insurmountable, unachievable challenge. “You left me alone last night.” All you can do is repeat yourself, stare at the dress in your hands, examine the stitching like your life depends on viewing the heather grey fabric at a microscopic level. 

You can’t look at him, know he’s going to be staring at you with soft, sad eyes. You see him look at you like that and it’s game over. You’re not leaving the hotel tonight, not making it to that event. You’re going to cry yourself a bath, melt into a puddle of your own tears. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. 

“Don’t be.” You flatter out the dress on the ironing board. “You’re doing your job.” You move the iron in hard, quick lines over the fabric. 

“I’m still sorry.” He’s behind you, wrapping his arm over the front of your chest, pulling you back against his chest in some kind of strangely affectionate reverse-hug. It feels to right, so you squirm from his grip, keep at the hasty ironing. 

“Don’t feel bad for me.” Flip the dress, iron the other side. “I can hold my own in a room full of strangers.”

“I know you can.” You hate the tone in his voice; proud, almost. You’re not his to be proud of, even if everyone else seems to think you are. 

“Can we just?” You look at him for the first time since he dropped the time bomb on you. “Anything but?” He nods. You nod, switch the dress out for the blazer.

 “I like this jacket.” He says. You look at the outfit, grey dress, green blazer, white accessories. You thought it was too Christmas-y, the red accents on the bottoms of your heels and the red of your lip. It’s Ferrari red, Isa convinced you, very subtle. “You look good in green.”

“Green is my favorite color.” 

“I know.” He laughs.

“You know.” You yank the iron cord from the wall and pull your top over your head without thinking. You meet his eyes, and they don’t dare to waiver from yours. You nod, an I really just flashed you nod, sigh, pick up the dress and walk past him into the bathroom. “You can stare, Charles. I have good boobs.” A laugh from the other room while you step into the dress, pull the straps over your shoulder and leave the back unzipped. “And, you’ve literally been inside me.” You add for good measure. He coughs, chokes on his own laughter. 

Leave it to anything but to abandon one elephant and pick up a new one. “We’re talking about that now?”

You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, wonder if he can hear it in your voice, if he knows you that well, listened to you speak so intently for so long that he can pick out minor fluctuations like that. “Talking about what?”

“You are.” He pauses, you tug on the hem of your dress and it doesn’t give any. You thought there was more fabric than there is. “Are you on something?” You can hear the smile.

“I haven’t been not talking.” You say, coming out of the bathroom, ball of pajamas wadded up tight in your hand. He tracks you across the room, back exposed, while you put the clothes in your bag. You walk back to him, pull your ponytail to one side, gesture for him to zip up the back of your dress. You suck in before he does it, even though the dress fits. 

“You’ve been telling people?” He says, his warm fingers gracing your skin, sending goosebumps up your spine. This never would have happened before, you lie to yourself. You’ve been blushing everytime he looked at you since you were in high school. 

“Maybe.” You say quietly, bit the smile off your bottom lip when his fingers linger at the top of the zipper. “Have you?”

“No.” He says, and when you turn around his eyes trail up your body slowly, taking your permission to stare as gospel, soaking up every inch of you with unabashed eyes. 

“I told Isa.” You say, shove an earring through your lobe.

“You.” Your words pull him back from the glossy eyed size-up with a chuckle. “You told Isa.” The other earring, and then you clasp a necklace, wish you had the nerve to make him do that, too.

“Accidentally.” You add, pull the blazer on, tug on the dress again. Still not budging. 

“Does that mean I can tell someone?” He pretends to mess with the settings on his watch. Pretends, you know, because his watch is never wrong. He changes it as soon as he’s in a new location. That watch has been right since his plane landed.

You sit on the edge of the bed, put your heels on and wonder if the red bottoms are really with the pain and suffering. “No.”

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asks, follows you to the bathroom where you’re already twisting your tube of lipstick, painting them a dark, lustful red. Ferrari red, a dark, ferrari red. 

“We’re running late.” You close the lipstick, put it into your handbag and clasp that shut.

“We are.” He says, and you’re already tugging the door open and gesturing him out. “I’m sorry for not looking out for you last night.” He says in the middle of the elevator ride. “Really.”

“Don’t.” You say. “We agreed, anything but.”

– –

Anything but, you agreed, but he’s silently apologizing all night. You’re not out of arm’s reach for more than a few minutes the entire night, and when you are, he’s got eyes on you, eyes on the bathroom door, eyes on the back of the head of whoever blocks his sightline. He finds you in the crowd every time. The green, he says, I just look for the pretty girl in green. “Don’t say things like that to me.” You told him, even though it makes you warm and fuzzy and grateful when he says it, when he’s there every time you look for him.

“Questa è la tua ragazza, no?” Mattia says to Charles when he introduces you. You’ve met him before, always in passing, though, so it’s a safe assumption to think he won’t know you. 

“Qualcosa del genere.” Charles says, thinks you don’t catch it, pulls you closer to his side. 

“Che cazzo significa?” Mattia asks, and all three of you laugh with varying levels of awkwardness, too much to say for anything to be whispered in the unsaid. 

By the end of the night, you've spoken to more people than you can count and done so in three languages, four, if you count the butchered Spanish class Carlos held with you. You’ve been confused for his girlfriend a dozen times, and somewhere along the line his corrections progressed from just a friend, through no correction at all, to yes. 

“Why did you say that?” You asked the first time he did it. 

“They’re going to think what they want to think.” He said. It felt like a cop-out answer. 

You don’t know if you’re more affected by his presence or if the hoards of strangers are, but it seems like everyone is more interested in what you have to say instead of just staring you down. Calling yourself comfortable would be quite a stretch, but, the room tonight feels a little less like a fishbowl and a little more like a cocktail party. 

You love watching him on stage, really love it, him addressing the audience. You almost burst into laughter, the customer service voice that transcends industries and languages and is something you never get to hear from him. He oozes confidence, talking and laughing with the MC and Carlos and Mattia. He’s so pretty under the hard lighting, it makes all his features look sharper, more defined, somehow. Heaven-sent.

When he comes back he says he’s hot, takes off his blazer and hangs it from the back of his chair, rolls up his shirt sleeves. It’s very grassroots political, very, mind-numbingly attractive. “How are you doing?” He asks, takes a sip of your drink because his is empty, maintains insightful, careful eyes and contrasts them by wriggling his brows over the lip of your glass. 

“I’m good.” You say, nod and smile so he knows you mean it. 

“Really? He sets the glass back down on the tablecloth. 

“Really.” 

– –

You’re at the track early Friday morning, watching Arthur’s practice session with Carla. You haven’t seen him race nearly as much as you’d like to this year. In Bahrain, you didn’t come to anything except Charles’ race, so scared about bringing Michael along. No Imola. You wish you could have been in Silverstone, watched it on your phone at work with the volume on level one. The only time you’ve actually seen him race in person was in Barcelona, and you were basically hungover that entire weekend. Hungover, and trying to convince yourself Charles was going to kiss you. 

You were going to watch him as much as you could this time around, make up for all the ones you missed. That was one excuse for staying away from Charles. The other, everything the two of you did felt emotionally charged. You’re either wishing you could wring his neck, or wishing you could nuzzle into it. Sometimes both. A lot of times, both. 

You grab lunch with Carla in general hospitality and then sneak your way  into the Paddock Club’s pit lane walk to blow some time. Charles is doing his warm up, probably playing football or doing neck exercises that could be in the director’s cut of a Fifty Shades of Grey film. Carlos, though, Carlos is talking to some engineer about something or another, and you catch each other’s eye. He smiles, looks away, and does a double take, furrowing his brows. You just shrug, make him laugh and shake his head. 

“Heard you were being sneaky today?” Charles asks when you’re leaving the track. Someone ahead is taking pictures of him, one of the regulars, one you recognize but don’t know. He’s the one that always asks Charles for a smile and is responsible for half the pictures in his living room. 

You step several feet to the side, remove yourself from the frame, out of the shot. Arthur laughs. No free food for anyone, not even the ones he likes. It’s going to be a long time before you volunteer yourself to be tormented online. 

He says your name, the photographer, and it startles you because you don’t know him. He shouldn’t know your name, you’ve never introduced yourself to him. Charles looks in your direction, holds out his hand and even though you don’t want to take it, don’t want any pictures of you two walking hand-in-hand, you also don’t want to leave him hanging like that in front of a camera. So, you take his hand and let yourself get pulled back into the shot. Maybe they’ll never see the light of day, you can only hope. Surely, a million other things will be more interesting than this. 

Mr. Photographer, Kym, Charles calls him. Kym asks your opinion on the yellow, and Charles laughs because you haven’t been shy with him about your distaste for them. You know Ferrari is really pushing it, though. “I think they’re great. Very avant garde.” You lie.

Yellow not a favorite color? He asks, says your name again. 

“She thinks yellow is a coward’s color.” Charles says, laughs with Kym the photographer. You cringe, even though he’s right. “She likes green.”

– –

You wake up miserable on Saturday, spend the day in your hotel room with the shades drawn and the do not disturb sign hanging from the door handle. Flu symptoms, someone from Ferrari, someone worried about Charles’ possible exposure, delivers a rapid test to your door. Negative. 

You have your phone playing on the lowest possible volume, still too loud, if you’re being honest, and listen to Arthur’s Sprint Race, to FP3, to Quali. 

I thought you didn’t have it in the straights, you mustered up the nerve to text him. Pole, right? You weren’t positive where anyone was starting tomorrow, too many penalties. If you had to bet on being right about one, though, it’s that Charles is on pole. You’d bet on that blind, though. 

We don’t, he replies an hour later. Extremely timely for him, especially on a race weekend. How are you feeling?

Like shit. Even with the brightness all the way down, your eyes still yearn to be clawed out when met with the LCD screen. 

Sorry.

You wallow, pick at the entirely too expensive meal from room service, take a few too many Advils because you’re pretty sure this bug will kill you before the liver damage gets a chance. You nap, you shower, shiver and shake, and nap some more. COnsider scoping your brain out and squeezing it until it pops, your pulse making your temples bulge. 

Your phone lights up the dark room. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling, forcing your eyes closed until galaxies and oil spills of color paint themselves across your eyelids. It could be eleven in the morning. It could be eight at night. Will you answer if I knock?

You say yes, figure he’s still at the track. He’s not. 

A single, quiet knock on the door, he couldn’t have used the force of more than a single knuckle. Your eyes are squinted shut when you open it, hand shielding your eyes. He laughs, just as quiet as his knock, slides into the room and pulls the door closed as fast as the slow-closing hinges allow. 

He puts the back of his hand on your forehead. You search to make out his features in the pitch-black darkness. “I’m dying.” You say, pitiful.

“You’re not dying.” You think he’s smiling, can hear it, even with congested sinuses and clogged ears. 

“I promise I am.” Your voice is so nasally and muffled and sick. 

“Poor thing.” His voice is half an octave higher when he mocks you. 

“Did you just come here to be mean?”

“No. I came to check on you.”

“Consider me checked.” You said, crawling back into bed. Even with your hands moving wildly in front of you in the dark room, you still run into the side of the bed with a thud. “Don’t laugh.” You warn, and he tried his hardest not to. You read once that orgasms can cure headaches. Briefly, you consider the logistics of it. 

Not worth it, you decide. You’d rather have your brain explode all over the walls of this dark room than make things any weirder, leave more feelings and emotions to linger in the shadows of the unknown. “Sommes-nous bons?” He asks, and your face controls into a twisted mess. No way is he doing this now. No way. 

“Pourquoi ne serions-nous pas bons?” You mutter, after much hesitation. 

“Je ne sais pas.” He says. “Vous vous sentez loin.”

“Je suis là.” You lie, and reach your hand out. He finds you in the darkness, or you find him. You find each other, that’s all that matters, really. You move in the bed messily, tangling the sheets and comforter with your legs, pulling him with little force onto the bed. “I’m here.” You repeat with your head on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. You don’t say it because you mean it, you say it because you know when his thoughts are on the verge of becoming all consuming. You say it because the last thing he needs to be thinking about this weekend is if you’re distancing yourself from him. You might know him better than he knows himself, you think sometimes. 

When you wake up in the middle of the night, you’re feeling alive, less corpse-like. He’s not in the room anymore. 

You wonder if it’s possible to distance yourself from Charles, or if your lives are so completely and utterly intertwined that it’s too late for that. A life lived together too long to make distinctions, you think. Nothing is yours, not really. 

Fight or flight, you will freeze every time. You can’t take the leap, have the hard conversations. If you do it, and it goes terribly wrong, crashes and burns brighter than the sun, there’s no walking away, no picking up the pieces and putting yourself back together again. 

When you were young, your Mother once told you she thought you and Charles were each one half of a puzzle–incomplete without the other. You’re lucky to have him, she told you, people spend their whole lives looking for the other half of their puzzle. 

You always found comfort in it. Now, you think maybe you and Charles are two separate puzzles that have been combined into the same box. Sure, they could be sorted, but pieces are probably missing, stolen by time or never there to begin with. The only way to sort each other apart would be to dump it all out on the table, slowly rebuild from the corners in, constantly checking the box to make sure that piece is a piece of you, not him. Nobody has time for that task, not even the people who love the puzzles, not even the puzzles themselves, so you sit on a shelf all mixed up until the end of time. 

He came to see you on your nineteenth birthday. Drove in from Monaco to the apartment you were renting with University friends. Four bedrooms, six people, two emotional support cats, low ceilings, broken fire escape, one bathroom, and a pantry full of cheap alcohol. 

When he arrived, there were significantly more than six people, the pantry full of liquor was a kitchen full of liquor, and you were dancing on a table, drunk in a way only a nineteen year old is on her birthday. Even sloppy and shitfaced, you could make out the distinctive tone of his holler over the hoots of the rest of your cheer squad. 

You’d laughed, giddy and loud, jumped off the table and threw yourself into his arms. “Vous êtes ici?!” You yelled into his ear, adjusting the strap of your top. 

“Je suis là.” He said, at a sober volume. “Bon anniversaire.”

“Merci!” You laughed, hiccuped. “Buvons!”

He should have been playing catch-up, but you’d never let a friend take a shot alone. A gruesome mistake you learned when you were curled over the porcelain toilet bowl two hours later. 

He had your hair knotted into a shitty ponytail, too loose, the part of your haircut meant to frame your face falling victim to the contents of your stomach. He rubbed his hand on your back, like a parent would, and told you it was going to be okay. You spit, laughed into the toilet because he was always so annoyingly sweet to you. You looked over your shoulder and told him so. You’re too sweet to me, you said, he looked at you all sober and earnest and chillingly, and then you threw up again. 

You rallied, though. The birthday girl always rallies. You smoked a cigarette from the perch of your bedroom window and listened to Charles talk about some girl and lecture you, going on and on about how you really shouldn’t be smoking. It’s quite bad for you. You wondered what would happen if you threw yourself out the window, if it would hurt more than his bashful words about her. It’s only the third floor. It won’t kill you. Hearing him say her name and blush one more time might, though.

Jealousy is ugly on you. You realize that in the weeks that follow, and decide that until you have the balls to say something to him, to take charge, you don’t get to be jealous of who he spends his time crushing on. Jealousy is for women who lose, and you’re not even playing, not even on the team. 

It’s a good thing you do, put it behind you, because he brings her to the family cabin you spend Christmas at every year. He warms her hands in his and kisses her under the mistletoe hung in the entryway. At the end of the week, he thanks you for being so kind and warm and welcoming to her. You smile, hug him. Anytime, you told him, cry yourself to sleep for three days thinking about how happy he is.

She’s too good for you was the nicest thing you ever said about her. It was a lie. Nobody is too good for someone as sweet as him. 

You see him next in Austin, a late birthday celebration in the land of unfamiliar accents and oversized portions. The losing battle for the championship is over, Max won in Japan and sat in some stupidly oversized armchair in the cool-down room. It’s ridiculous, honestly, I’m glad I didn’t win, he told you. You went along with it even though you know he’d give an arm and a leg to look like a fool in an oversized armchair in a cool-down room in Japan. 

Despite that, because of that, whatever, the pressure is off his shoulders a bit, the need to perform at superhuman level lowered. He seems lighter when you hug him. 

“I did a hot lap with Brad PItt.” He tells you.

You laugh at the absurdity of his life, follow him on his walk up the paddock. “And?”

He shrugs. “Tires were shit.” His typical day at the office might be batshit insane, but he’s always going to be Charles–little boy who loves cars-Leclerc. 

“Tires were shit.” You repeat. “That's all you got for me?”

“He didn’t speak much.” Make him speak, Charles. It’s Brad fucking Pitt, you would’ve said if it was a few months earlier and things were normal and deadpan and sarcastic between the two of you. You roll your eyes instead. 

– –

“You guys should not let them do this.” You tell the girl working the counter at Austin’s–an amusement park in, you guessed it, Austin, Texas. Americans are incredibly creative, you’ve come to learn. “They’re going to kill each other.” 

She can’t be making more than minimum wage–seven U.S dollars and twenty-five cents an hour–but there isn’t any amount that is enough to deal with this crowd in karts. Two of the most competitive men on the planet, egged on by each other and by the group of guys in line behind you trying to pay for your group’s tickets. 

Do not let them pay for you, you told Charles and he nodded, told you he knew, paid for everyone’s tickets. At any moment it feels like a little red dot is going to appear on your head and Ferrari is going to take you out. They won’t be thrilled to discover both their poster-boy and Disney prince were out late the night before a race, even less thrilled when they find out Charles and Carlos were risking injury in search of cheap thrills with strangers. 

You and Isa share a laugh, feel like mothers chasing toddlers around at Disneyland. We should do that, we should do this. Oh! Look at that, we can’t leave without doing that. 

You watch them ignore the teenager telling them the rules about the karts, telling everyone not to run into one another. It’s just the four of you; Charles, Carlos, Isa, and you. You know they’ll be crashing into each other before you get through the first turn. 

They argue about if they’re fighting for first or fastest lap, flip a coin and throw a fit about the results, play rock-paper-scissors to come to a decision. They lap you and Isa–the rule followers who don’t exceed the speed limit–fly around the track at a speed you didn’t expect anyone to be able to pull from the cheap karts. 

Carlos wins, Charles contests, says he’s going to formally protest it. Then, they want to switch to two-seater carts, so you and Isa are passengers to their reckless driving. Charles wins that round. Carlos and Isa leave after that, claim they’re tired. You and Charles stay for a meal. 

“It’s a pre-podium celebratory meal.” You said. 

“You’re going to curse me.” He groaned. 

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, a meal shared with Charles is awkward, stiff. Before today, you’d barely spoken since Monza. Your social media was still full of death threats, or so you’d been told. The apps have yet to be redownloaded, it’s not healthy for anyone to see that kind of stuff. 

This is how it happens, you think. How lifelong friendships fall apart. There isn’t a separation spot that you can pinpoint and say yes, this is where it all went to shit. It’s a gradual separation, a day without a call, a week without a text, a month without speaking. Slow, steady, and sure, until eventually, you live separate, untangled lives. 

“So,” He says, eats a fry. “That big work deal?”

“Yeah.” You nod, cross one leg over the other on the cold metal chair. “It’s good. Almost done, I think.”

“I’m sure you killed it.”

“Yeah.” Uncross the legs. “Thanks.” Cross them again. The positioning of your legs isn’t the problem, the cold metal chair that doesn’t sit evenly on the floor and rocks when you shift your weight isn’t what’s making you uncomfortable. The food is good and the drinks are cold and your waitress is a sweetheart with a southern accent and long blonde hair. 

Y’all came from the race? She asked. We were busier than ants at a picnic all weekend. You told her yes. I like y’all’s accents, and that was the end of it. He couldn’t get away with that interaction anywhere else in the world. 

Everything is perfect, but you’re still uncomfortable. The problem is him. The problem is you. Everything breaks under enough pressure, even unbreakable things. 

“I miss you.” He said, because the closer your bodies are, the further away your minds wander. 

“I’m here.” You lie. 

He sees right through it. “No, you’re not.” Any possible defense would be weaker than the lie, so you don’t bother, sit in suffocating silence and pick at your fries. “Things have been weird since we slept together.” It was a mistake, you brace for the impact of it. Sleeping with him wasn’t a mistake, not for you. It was everything that has followed that was the issue. It should have been the end of a chapter, a closing book, one way or another. Instead, you’re writing an epilogue and flying by the seat of your pants, stumbling over your words and forgetting characterizations and just trying to make it to the next page. You should be in a new book entirely–a book without him or a book with him on every page. 

It was a mistake, you brace and brace but it never comes. He doesn’t say it. The other shoe doesn’t drop. He just looks at his hands, twists his rings on his fingers, pops his knuckles. “I don’t know how to fix this.” He speaks, finally, and it reminds you of when he kissed you, when you didn’t know how to make everything better. 

More silence, until you’ve both cleaned your plates, until Mary-Grace, the sweet talking southern-belle, sets the check down on Charles’ side of the table, until you watch him google how much gratuity he’s supposed to leave because he’s always scared he’s going to mess up tipping when you’re in the U.S. 

Distance is good, you think. Distance. People need distance. “Abu Dhabi is going to be my last race.”  You whisper. 

He laughs almost, sliding his card into the leather folder and setting it back on the edge of the table. “It’s going to be everyone’s last race.”

“My last race for a while, Charles.” My last race, ever, you think, if distance goes the way you think it will. “I’m going to–I think we.” You sigh. “We need some space, I think.”

“No. Don’t be stupid.” He shoos your words, brushes them under the rug. 

“We can’t fix it. We both know we can’t–”

“--I don’t know.” You speak over each other, building a Jenga tower of lies and one-ups until you finally snap into a different language. 

““--Doit-on vraiment continuer à prétendre que tout va bien?”

“I love you.” He blurts, cuts you off like it’s some grand admission, like you haven’t been saying it to each other since before the word love had any sort of connotation to it, back when it was just something people said to each other. The distance, it doesn’t mean you don’t love him. You’ll always love him, he’s Charles. You just. You need to breathe, and you can’t catch your breath when he’s around. 

“I love you, too.” You say, like you have a million times before, like you’re almost offended he thought any of this meant you didn’t love him. 

“No, no.” His voice is desperate, pleading with you to understand something you’re clearly missing. Surely, he doesn’t mean. “How do you… je suis amoureux de toi.” You clench your jaw and blink, and you’re pretty sure one eye closes before the other.

“Don’t say that to me.” You say. Not, I’m in love with you, too, even though you are. You’re trying to put yourself first here, trying to objectively look at your life, at the things in it that are hurting you. Mixed signals, hurting you. Death threats, hurting you. Unwanted attention, hurting you. The common thread is him, you need to separate yourself from him and he’s saying the only thing that could make you waiver. 

“Pourquoi pas?”

“Because.” You dig your shaky fingers into your leg, burrow them into the denim. It’s going to bruise, you don’t care, so will this conversation, so will walking away. “You don’t mean it.” Shake your head, lip quivering like a little girl who got hurt on the playground. He does mean it.You know him well enough to know he does, which only makes it that much fucking harder. “And I’m not going to say it back.” 

You love him so much, more than oxygen, maybe. You’d throw it all away for him, your heart would let you lose yourself if it meant making him happy, if it meant being with him. You’d stay off social media and pretend nobody was wishing for your death. You’d sit at awkward dinner parties and watch races with limbs that didn’t feel like your own. You’d do it all, if your heart was in charge, because you love him, and can’t fathom losing him. 

Space. Space will make it better, ease the sting of unspoken feelings and heavy words and stupid little games. Space will wash the salt from the wound. 

He says your name like a plea, a desperate prayer, bloody knees and lit candles. You say nothing, too much internal conflict to sort out to verbalize anything. 

The drive to the hotel is deafeningly silent. You can hear the tires of the rental car on the road below, can hear his feet on the pedals, the grind of his teeth because he’s angry at you. He’s angry and he doesn’t want to be. In love with you and he doesn’t want to be. You understand it well, recognize your own emotions being reflected back at you. If you listen hard enough, you convince yourself you can hear the traffic lights changing colors. 

You fly home commercial the next morning, skip the race, hear about his podium three days later from a friend. 

You don’t go to Abu Dhabi.

--

You don’t go to November, or December’s family dinner. He doesn’t text you, doesn’t call, makes no attempt at playing phone tag. 

--

You skip Christmas at the cabin, find out after the fact that he’d done the same thing. 

“Ça devient ridicule, chérie.” Your mother tells you over the phone. “Vous agissez comme un enfant. Vous l’êtes tous les deux.” You’d just told her you were skipping your dad’s birthday party. I have to work, you lied. I’ll bring his gift by the house next week. It was the straw that snapped her back, it would seem. “Vous serez ici demain. Pour papa. Il ne t'a rien fait.” She said it sternly, and if you were sixteen you might have been intimidated by it, might have listened. 

You told your sister after you got off the phone with Mom that you wouldn’t be there, told her as a heads up, so she knew the shit-show of slamming cupboards and passive aggressive comments she was walking into tomorrow. 

Go to your dad’s birthday. He texted you for the first time in months. I won’t go.

I’m an adult. There’s no way to send a message like that without sounding like a child. 

I wish I could see my dad on his birthday. Nobody does the guilt-trip like he does. Go. I promise I won’t be there.

Charles is scarily close to your Dad. Growing up, Charles–hell, all of the boys–they were the sons your dad never had, the ones he didn’t realize he wanted. It was infuriating, sharing him. And then Hervé got sick, and then he was gone, and your dad became a father figure for the boys. It was slow, and subtle, but it happened nonetheless.

You were the one who blew things up, who demanded space and time and distance. If anyone should suffer because of it, it’s you, not him. You should be there.

Not more than you. You disagree, but he’s impossible to argue with without being face-to-face. 

I can be an adult. You say, even though you aren’t so sure you can be. We can both go.

– –

You lingered in your apartment, wondered if he was really going to show up, if you were actually going to get in the car and drive over there, if it was too late to say you’d caught Covid or something. 

You change clothes seven times. Seven, because you want to look good, but not like you tried to look good. Effortlessly glamorous and classy and sophisticated. You don’t know why, it’s not like he’s the one who wronged you. If anyone should be spending extra time in the bathroom today it should be him, he should be trying to prove you wrong, to show you your mistake in walking away. 

It wasn’t a mistake. It was the biggest mistake. There were two very distinct sides to the coin. You’re back on social media, back to living your life without death threats and constant judgment. You haven’t spoken to your best friend in months, have no idea what he’s up to, don’t know anything more than his millions of followers. You miss him, but you don’t miss being Charles Leclerc’s friend, Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend. You like having your own name, being a person with traits that go beyond knowing him. You hate not seeing him, not being with him, worrying that you’re going to run into him around any corner. It’s a small, congested city. He could be any of the faces in the crowd. 

You get to your parents house after your sister and your brother-in-law and your niece. The house smells like pasta sauce and your mom’s flowery candle–the one that is teetering awfully close to potpourri and death and elderly woman. The Bianchi’s aren’t coming–they thought the party was next weekend, called and apologized three different times in the past forty-eight hours, according to your dad. The Lecelerc’s are yet to arrive. 

You slip into comfortable conversation with your family, Mom is right, you aren’t avoiding any of them. You help her out in the kitchen, get yelled at for tasting the sauce, chase your niece around the house, fulfill your duties as the fun aunt, sneak her candy from the jar in Dad’s office and swear just enough that she might call the dog a bitch. 

Arthur and Pascale get there first, before Lorenzo and Charles. They’ll be here late, Pascale says to someone, not you. “My brother is an idiot.” Arthur says when you greet him with a tight hug. You haven’t seen him since Monza, either. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You say. You haven’t seen him, but you’ve spoken to him, congratulated him on moving to F2, offered to take him out to dinner the next time your schedules lined up. Drama with Charles wasn’t going to stop you from celebrating the closest thing you’ll have to a baby brother. 

You almost forget he’s coming. Almost, and then he’s knocking and walking through the door with a small, gift-wrapped box and an expensive bottle of wine, charming smiles onto everyone’s face with just his easy presence. He looks good. He always looks good, but damn, he looks good in that sweater and those jeans and his glasses–he should wear his glasses more, you’ve always thought. He doesn’t hug anyone, and you wonder if it’s so he doesn’t have to hug you. Instead, he hoists Gigi up into the air and steals her seat on the sofa. It’s his seat, unassigned, but assigned by years of occupying it at every family function. Gi wants to lay claim to it, but she’s just as happy on Charles’ lap as she is curled up in the corner seat of the sectional. 

You keep meeting his eyes, snapping them back to the ground every time. It’s sad, if you think about it too long. You were right,the two of you are too entangled. There’s no separating you, not with ties that run so deep, not when you and Charles are just pieces of a giant web of people. There are a million invisible strings and unseen connections that intertwine every member of your family and every last one of your friends. 

You’re painfully cordial. He helps your mom serve dessert, hands you a plate with a corner piece of cake and your favorite ice cream, doesn’t have to ask you like he does everyone else. You don’t even know how he knows your favorite flavor of ice cream, why he remembers that you love the corner piece of cake. 

You thank him, tell him the wine he brought is good and overpriced. I’ve missed being judged for every purchase I made He said, and you told him he couldn’t get rid of you that easily. It’s weird, the weirdest, because he did get rid of you pretty easily. 

“I’m going to F1. Sauber.” He told you in his kitchen while the two of you were washing dishes. You dropped the forks into the dishwasher with a spattering of clangs.

“Really?” You asked, a glaring absence of excitement in your voice. You knew it was coming, everyone knew it was only a matter of time, a talent like his is destined to get to the top. You knew it was coming, but, still, you selfishly and silently hoped it wouldn’t work out. He was yours, and you wanted to keep him to yourself, hated how much you already had to share him with the rest of the world. Gone for nine months of the year, away from home and away from you, it will be so lonely. 

He’s happy to leave you behind, overjoyed, even, and you struggle to come to grips with it, struggle to separate the emotions he’s feeling about achieving the dream versus the ones he feels about leaving you. It feels like the end of the world to your young and naive heart, like nothing is ever going to be the same, like you’re losing another person you love more than life. 

– –

It was the beginning of the season, he hadn’t been home in almost two months, was in the middle of a double header, China and Azerbaijan, you think. You were just trying to survive to Monaco. He’d never been so busy, you’ve never missed him so much. 

Your roommates were having a party, and you were working late. When you got home, his favorite song was playing through the apartment. You don’t know the name, aren’t even sure about the artist, but you know every word, learned them all against your will. Listened to him sing it under his breath while he cooked and scream it during long car rides and blast from his headphones so loud you were worried he’d have hearing damage. He was always, always, singing this song, and you were always, always, asking him to turn it off. 

You wished he was here right now, singing it out of tune and thinking he’s a popstar. You wish you could begrudgingly sing it with him. Instead, you grab a snack from the pantry and lock your bedroom door and put in your headphones, play your music so loud you can’t hear the party on the other side of the door. Tune it out, turn off your longing for him with it. 

You can’t wait until you graduate, until you can pack everything up into a little suitcase and spend all of your money and follow him around the world, can’t wait until you never have to miss him again. 

Come see me. He texted, a month after your Dad’s birthday, right before pre-season testing in Bahrain. He’s already there, or so you can piece together from the text, from the attachment in the subjectless email he’d sent you. Plane ticket, two, actually. Nice to Dubai, Dubai to Muharraq. Both first class. 

No. You replied. Get a refund.

See you tomorrow night. You hated the cockiness of the reply, hated more that you were already packing a suitcase. He didn’t even ask if you were working, didn’t check to see if your schedule was clear or if it was even something you wanted to do. 

I’m not your booty call.

Trust me, I know. He said. Ma vie serait tellement plus simple si tu l'étais. Well, he’s not wrong about that one. 

Your sister drives you to the airport. “I think I’m in too deep.” You told her. You two have never done shallow, she said. You promised to protect yourself, to prioritize yourself, and to text her updates whenever you had them. 

You wished your life was as simple as hers, a good job and a husband and a perfect baby girl. Big family parties and plenty of babysitters for date night and a village that loved and supported everything they did. She had the perfect family, had all her ducks in a row and her shit situated. “I love living vicariously through your insane life.” She said, and you kissed her cheek goodbye. 

– –

You follow his instructions, feel like you’re on a delusional scavenger hunt. Board the plane, land in Dubai, board another plane, land in Muharraq, get on the bus, talk to Azim at the front desk of the hotel, he knows you’re coming. Azim isn’t there. He works the night shift, apparently. 

Azim is not here. You texted your sister. 

Who is Azim?

They call Azim, he answers, and it’s all sorted out when the day-shift manager hands you a key. You wonder what Charles had told Azim. There’s a girl coming, be discreet. It doesn’t seem like him, none of it seems like him. Azim, I’m drunk and tired and invited my best friend, who claims to need space from me, to my room. Please let her in. That felt like more of a possibility, felt like it would confirm your suspicions, that he doesn’t want you here. He wants you, of last year, here. You, of France, likely. 

You’re not having sex with him. Not happening, you won’t fold, not even if he asks nicely. It would solve nothing, and has already fucked up enough of your relationship. If you suck his dick again, you won’t be able to be cordial at birthday parties, he’ll forget what kind of ice cream you like, and neither of you will ever be seen at the christmas cabin again. 

When you get to the room, the suite, you find there’s two bedrooms. Maybe he wasn’t looking for France, maybe he got into the room and saw there was another room and had a momentary lapse where he thought, you know who would enjoy being here? He bought the tickets, sent the text, and by the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late to back out. 

You’re replying to emails on the couch when he walks through the door. That redesign deal, after months and months of back and forth about something as small as the shade of one pixel versus another, is finally launching this weekend. You’re trying to make sure everything is in order, putting the final bows on the project and making sure no ends are left loose. 

“Hi.” You call out, in case he forgot he invited you. 

“Hi.” He says, appears in the lamp-lit room all comfy in that one sweatshirt you’ve always loved on him. “Are you watching L’Atalante?” He asks, moving past you and into the kitchen. It’s too normal. Eerily so, the plane might have passed through the z-axis or something and now you’re in an alternate timeline where none of it ever went sour. 

“No.” Everytime you watch it you think of him. Not in the cheesy, God, I love him and he is such the main character in this love story, way. In the God, I love him and wish he was here to make fun of me for loving this movie, way. “Haven’t watched it in a while.”

“Shame.” He says. “I liked that movie.”

You don’t feel like humoring him about this again, vividly remembering exactly where it got you the last time. Really, you could blame all of this on that fucking movie. If you never watch it, he never asks to come in, you never have sex, and everything is happy-go-lucky between the two of you. “How’s the car this year?”

“Don’t know yet.” He says, pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, the seal snapping when he turns the cap. “Why aren’t you watching L’Atalante?” He takes a drink.

“I told you.” You say quietly, unfocused on your words, fingers rapidly moving across your keyboard. 

“No, you told me you haven’t watched it.” He says, flops down onto the couch. “I want to know why.”

“I don’t know, because I haven’t felt like it.” You tell him, a little more annoyed this time. You haven’t watched the movie. A lot of people don’t watch their favorite movie all of the time. “Why do you care so much? Did you call me out here to play anything but?”

“I called you out here because I miss my best friend.”

“You don’t know me, anymore.”

“It’s been a few months, not a few lifetimes.” Even then, he’d probably still remember the corner piece of cake and his hand would probably still hover behind you protectively and find you in the dark rooms and the crowded rooms. You know no amount of time could make you forget his favorite song, or at what point in his day he gets nervous, what he needs when everything is going wrong, and the way he can sober you up with one look. “I still know you. I still love you.” You sympathize with it, relate to it, because nothing is as hard as trying to unlove another person, you’ve come to learn. “I miss my best friend.”

Don’t break. I still love you, Charles. Don’t break. I miss my best friend, too. Don’t break. Don’t break. “We can pretend for a weekend.” He says. “Just, be normal again. Be us again.” Us. There is no us. Don’t break. 

It’s not like it’s an argument you can just apologize and move on from. He can’t apologize for loving you, for needing to vocalize it. You can’t apologize for loving him, for not being able to take the leap. Normal, normal sounds so good. 

Can we go back to normal after this? 

Yeah. Back to normal. 

You never should have let yourself believe him. You wonder if he loved you, then. If he knew when he said it that it was a lie. You can’t remember when you knew you loved him, like really, really loved him. It was gradual, you suppose, a combination of time and sweetness and jealousy, of grief and joy and innocence. At some point, you were forced to face the sobering reality, but, you don’t know how long you’ve loved him like this. Does he remember a moment, or was it gradual for him, too? 

“Back to normal.” You said. The ultimate game of anything but, the final boss of your friendship. “Just for the weekend?”

“Whatever you want.” He says. “We can do whatever you want.” 

Don’t break. Do not break. “Okay,” you crack, and then, with the force of your entire heart, “yeah.” You break. 

A long time ago, before the gradual realization, you thought Charles and you were platonic soulmates. Today, can you go back to that? To the platonic love. Was there ever a fork in the road, a wrong turn, a path where you end up somewhere else, or have you always been destined to end up like this, in a hotel room, in a foreign country hiding from the rest of the world and pretending everything is light and breezy and comfortable when it’s far from. 

– –

It’s Monday morning, and your weekend together is over. It was a shorter adjustment period than you could have predicted, like relatives who don’t see eachother but once a year. It’s awkward hellos and bombed small talk until suddenly one of you makes a joke and it’s like you were apart for minutes instead of months. 

You go to this tourist attraction together, the Tree of Life. It’s a four-hundred-year-old tree that’s like, ten meters tall or something. It sits alone in the middle of the desert and nobody knows how it’s still alive. It’s a spectacle, according to Google, and was nominated to be another wonder of the world. Someone says its roots run fifty meters deep, and it sticks with you, the idea that there’s so much beneath the surface. You wonder if the tree had a companion four hundred and some odd years ago, if it always imagined spending every day with the companion tree, if their roots were tangled fifty meters below the surface. The tree is gone, now, but maybe its roots are still there, fifty meters down, all tangled up in the roots of this tree. 

It’s probably not from the Garden of Eden like they claim, and there’s surely a scientifically sound explanation for where the tree is getting its water from in the middle of the desert in a rain-less country. It’s just a big tree, destined to dry up and fall over and burn with the rest of the planet. It’s just a big tree, unless it isn’t. 

Does the tree know if it’s special or if it’s just that? You don’t know if what you and Charles have is something special or if you’re just something, but, then again, you aren’t a tree. Maybe the tree knows. Maybe you know. How does a person know that they know?

Charles seems to know, to think you’re worth his unrelenting patience, deserving of the corner slice and the color green, of the stars and the sand and everything in between. He understands you, and he still seems to know, to declare with confidence in the rush of a sports bar in the middle of Texas that he loves you. He’s sure enough that he skips Christmas because you thought space would make everything better, doesn’t tell you that you’re wrong even when you so obviously are, doesn’t stop loving you when you push him in the opposite direction. 

You’ve never been that sure about anything, you think. 

“Looks a bit lonely, doesn’t it?” He offers into the dry air, taking a picture with his phone. You hadn’t thought of it as lonely until he said something, viewed it as possessing an other-worldly strength and unmatched level of determination. The tree never told its companion it loved it, the tree kept to itself and eventually, learned to live alone in the sand. 

You shook your head. “It’s strong.”

“You can be both.” The tree can be both, he’d meant to say, because the Tree of Life is not a metaphor. It’s just a tree. 

– –

The weekend, the game of anything but, the avoidance of the World’s biggest elephant, is over. It’s Tuesday, now, breakfast from room service in the suite, awkward tension filling all the available space, compromising each molecule at an atomic level. He’s wearing a red t-shirt, because he always is, and it sits on him so nicely, looks so comfortable on his skin. You’re wearing a yellow pajama top and the silky material is charged with static and clings to you in all the spots you wish it wouldn’t. 

How do you know when it’s real? You had texted your sister in the middle of the night prior, two-twenty-three if you remember correctly. You couldn’t sleep, had a bad dream–couldn’t decide what was worse, the nightmare while you sleep or the nightmare when you wake.  

You don’t. She replied at a normal hour, when normal people wake up after going to sleep at a normal time. You never know for sure.

That’s fucked.

“I booked a flight home last night.” You told him, picking at the plate of eggs in front of you, the fork scraping on the ceramic plate like nails on a chalkboard, your teeth clinking against the metal everytime it was in your mouth. Just, wrong. In every possible way. 

“Why?” He asks, takes a drink of orange juice, a new quirk, you think. He always used to complain about the pulp getting stuck in his teeth. Don’t be such a princess, you’d tell him and he would roll his eyes, drink the remainder of the glass just to prove he could do it without complaining. 

“The deal was a weekend.” You say, pretend you’re not conflicted, regretting buying the ticket, admit you’re running away again. “The weekend is over.”

“You’re just going to leave again?” He nods, reassures himself through the sentence, wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Not even going to talk about it?” You stay quiet, teeth clicking against the fork. “I–you are. God, you are so–”

“–Anything but.” You invoke it like a constitutional amendment, like a prophecy, like an unbreakable law. 

“​​Oh, va te faire foutre.” Your head rears back, but you don’t let it sting, know you deserve it. “We’re not doing Anything-fucking-but.” It’s been a long time since he was angry with you, openly like this, cussing you out. He’s scary when he’s angry at you, because he’s always calm about it. Raises his voice, maybe, but never yells at you. You wished he’d scream sometimes, it would be easier to read. 

“This weekend was really great, Charles. I don’t want to ruin it.” 

“I just. I don’t understand.” He runs his hand over his stubble, deep in contemplation, trying to analyze you, make sense of you. Good luck, you want to tell him. “I love you. I really, really fucking love you. Je sais que je ne suis pas fou. Vous le sentez aussi.”

A single, heavy tear falls from the corner of your eye. You wipe it with the rough cuff of your jacket before it can trail down your face. The inside of your cheek is bleeding, you think, because you can’t feel the pressure from your teeth but you can taste copper. “I’m scared.” There, you said it. You admitted it, exhaled it with the weight of the world, vomited it into his lap. 

His lips are tight in their frown, eyes red and glossy like he’s going to cry, too. He laughs, though, a sad and defeated chuckle. “You think I’m not scared?” He asks, voice fighting against itself not to crack. “I’m scared as hell to want you.”

He’s scared? But, nothing scares him. He’s fearless, you’re frightened. Unflinching and hesitant. Gutsy and cowardly. Nothing scares him, not even his own mortality. You’re supposed to believe that you, of all people, you, scare him? Impossible, you think.

“I didn’t tell you for fun.” He continues. “I told you, because it was eating me alive. I was so scared to tell you, thought I would ruin us. Mais tu partais, et je ne pouvais pas te perdre. Je ne pouvais pas.” 

Why, why, why is this so fucking hard for you. Sixteen-year-old you, twenty-year-old you, twenty-five-year-old you. Every version of you is screaming at you, we’ve loved him forever, this is all you’ve ever wanted from him. They kick your shins and gut-punch the breath from your lungs and scrape their nails behind your eyes. They are furious, because for longer than you can remember every wish–shooting stars, birthday candles, fountain pennies, fallen eyelashes, dandelions, and ladybugs–they’ve all been for the same thing. The very thing being served to you on a desert platter, all you have to do is pick up the fork. 

“Tu as peur?” 

“Pétrifié.”

Pick up the fork. Eat the corner piece of cake and savor every bite. Be scared. Be terrified that the world is going to take something pure and wreck it. Be scared, but do it together. Pick up the fork.

“I love you, too.”

You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. He was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldn’t contain when amongst the chaos you’d become accustomed to. 

“Ask before you touch, please.” You told him, his hand in yours, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage. 

He is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. “Hi.” You beam.

“Hi” He says, kisses you, runs his hand through the boy’s hair. “Quoi de neuf, Crevette?”

“Il fait chaud, papa.” He says, with poor enunciation and the dramatic waving of a little hand, fanning himself. Charles nods, hoists the little man onto his hip, whispers something in his ear. A private conversation between the two of them, you don’t dare intrude. “Dis-sa.” Charles says, repeats it when he’s met with a giggly belly laugh. 

“We go.” He says, in little, butchered english with a thick french accent. It’s easier to decipher a babble. 

Charles laughs, quirks his brows at you, shrugs. “We go.” He backs away from you slowly. 

“We go, where?” You say, laughing, too, because you can’t not laugh at your little boy’s giggle. It’s too pure, cracks even the toughest exteriors. Charles looks to his mini-me. “Où allons-nous mon amour?”

“La crème glacée.” He says, beams at his father. 

“You coming for ice cream, Maman?” Charles asks, holds out his free hand because it’s a rhetorical question. He’s looking at you with the eyes that make you sober and find you in any crowd, but he doesn’t have to have eyes on you to know you’re coming. “Do you think they have Maman’s favorite flavor?” He asked. 

“Ouais. Ils l'ont eu."

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