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spectrerie · 1 year

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Ok I have no idea if your requests are on or not because I literally never request but I love your writing so here I am! Anyways I can’t stop thinking about ghost x hacker reader who works with 141 and they have to go with the guys on a mission to like hack through security systems or something (idk) but ghost absolutely refuses to let them go like he is so against it. And maybe while they’re on the mission the reader gets hurt or something idrk I haven’t thought that far ahead but I thought you would do so good with this idea!!! Thank you!!

Hello!!!!!!! This request is so good! I got a bit carried away and wrote 3.5k words on it lmaoo, but I'm happy with it now, so I'll post it as an answer to this ask

If you die, I swear I'll kill you.

Simon Ghost Riley x gn!reader

Please enjoy this anon, and anyone else who reads it.

TW: injury, slight workplace bullying, enemies(?) to friends

“With all due respect, sir, no. I don’t need to babysit some egg-head while I’m in the field.” Ghost sat with his arms crossed, knees apart, filling his chair and the room with his presence.

You glanced at Price, you’d both expected this reaction, but it still hurt to hear him say it so easily. For nearly two years you’d put your best foot forward. Did everything to get him to like you until it became clear that he never would. You were ready to settle for respect, for a crumb of acknowledgement. Though soon that too was clearly out of your reach. Now you were just happy to keep out of his way. You weren’t part of the 141, no matter how much information you’d stolen for them, no matter how much data you mined for them, no matter how many sleepless nights you’d given them. You weren’t a soldier. Ghost made sure to remind you of that at every chance he got.

At every debrief he treated you like you were just a piece of the furniture. He ignored you with ease, asking questions to everyone but you. Making plans and strategising with everyone’s strengths in mind but yours. Any information he needed about what you could do he’d obtained through Captain Price. Often with you in the same room, going over your head like you were some machinery he’d be crazy to speak to.

You typed and looked through files. You were a glorified intern as far as he was concerned.

“Well Lieutenant, it’s not up to you, is it? Owl is going with you, and that’s final.”

A part of you cringed at the nickname despite the joy it normally filled you with. You’d felt honoured when Soap had coined it. The night owl of the 141, playing with mice and bringing veritable feasts of information back to the nest. But hearing it used in front of Ghost felt wrong. You could feel his eyes roll without even looking at him.

You didn’t need a call sign.

You didn’t need to be closer to the 141.

You didn’t even need a name, because they didn’t need you.

“Yes, sir.” He said as he stood to attention, mumbling his acknowledgement to the Captain as he prepared for his dismissal.

“Final brief at 0400. Wheels up at 0500, understood?” Price barked out at the two of you. You both gave your acknowledgement and he nodded, satisfied for now.

“Alright, dismissed.”

Ghost made a quick exit, as though being in your presence was more than enough to make him ill. You sighed and began to move, but a hand at your shoulder stopped you.

“Owl, don’t let him get to you. You’re a part of this team, and you’re needed on this mission. I wouldn’t send you out if I didn’t believe you needed to be there.”

You nodded, dropping you head to pull back the tears that threatened to fall.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. Your intel has always been good. We don’t have the time to wait for the boys to bring the drives back, if they even knew what to look for, time isn’t on our side.”

You knew that better than anyone. If only Lieutenant Riley would admit that you weren’t an incompetent civilian, maybe things would go along quicker.

— — —

“Alright boys, this one should be simple, yeah? We go in, subdue any hostiles, grab the tech and get the fuck out. I don’t want any mistakes, I don’t want any problems,” Ghost’s eyes stopped at you as he said the last word, “I don’t want any bad news, understood?” He said as his voice boomed over the sound of the plane's engine.

“Yes sir!” The group called out as one. This would be easy, as he said. You didn’t have to do too much, just follow the group and live long enough to break through the encrypted drives. From their you could relay the information back to Price and Laswell. Simple.

Your eyes drew closed as you took in a breath, trying to centre yourself. Get in, get the drives, get out. Job done. You repeated your mantra until you fell into a fitful sleep.

You woke with a start as your name was barked out.

Lieutenant Riley stood over you, arms crossed. An obvious scowl beneath his mask.

“Gotten enough beauty sleep, sunshine?”

The plane was empty, your teammates stood out on the makeshift runway, watching your change out of earshot. The late evening sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows into the plane.

“I’m sorry sir, I just wanted to be rested for the mission.”

“Well, aren’t you considerate, thank you so much, Pigeon.” His voice dripped with a saccharine sarcasm that cut you to your core. You hate that he’d made a mockery of the callsign you were so fond of. You were sure other people had slept on the flight over. Why was he singling you out so cruelly?

“Are you still on your bloody arse?” He barked out, loud enough too draw the attention of your teammates. “Sorry, sir!” you replied as you jumped up. Your body was yanked back with a start, bucking against the fastening that had kept you in your seat. Your head knocked back against the body of the plane, tilting your helmet over your eyes.

“Oh fucking hell, Pigeon. If you get yourself killed on this bloody mission, I’ll murder you.” His hand made quick work of your seatbelt, snatching it off you in one sharp motion, sending you lurching forward.

If only you’d had the confidence to tell him off.

If only you had the kind of easy relationship with him that he had with everyone else, one that transcended rank enough to quip back at him.

If only he didn’t hate you.

If only he could see you. Not just look at you scornfully, but see you. See your efforts, see your strength.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” You said with your eyes focused on the floor. Your gaze could have cut two pinholes in the undercarriage of the plane. You grabbed your gear and rushed down the gangway, thankful Ghost hadn’t pointed out all the things he found wrong with your apology. With your posture, with your face, with your breathing, with your existence.

“Alright. It’s 30 klicks to their base, but we’ll have to trek the last 5k. Johnny, you get us in, Gaz and I will clear a path while you watch our six. You,” Lieutenant Riley said with derision, “don’t die and find the drives after we’ve swept the place, understood?” You nodded sharply.

“Alright lads, this one’s easy. Any hostiles will be eliminated on sight, in and out, home in time for Eastenders.” Soap and Gaz laughed easily at Simon’s joke. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to show any crumb of happiness in front of him. Maybe he’d yank your tongue out if you so much as chuckled and bring it home for his dog.

As you made your way to the jeep Soap fell into step with you.

“Ye alright?” He asked, a gentle smile playing on his face. How could you be alright? He was always so kind to you, and Kyle always treated you with respect. Even the KorTac boys said ‘hello’, or ‘thanks for the intel’ once in a while whenever you ran into them. Ghost seemed pissed that he had to breathe the same air as you.

A short sigh escaped before you could regain your composure, “yeah, I’m okay. It’s just… I don’t want to mess up. It’s my first time really out in the field and—” and Lieutenant Riley, your best friend and our commanding officer hates my guts and doesn’t care to hide it. “And I just want to do well.” Soap nodded, though he couldn’t really understand. He’d been a soldier since he was 18. He’d proven himself time and time again even before he ever saw active duty. His abilities were undeniable.

You, as Ghost loved to remind you and everyone around you, were a desk jockey egg-head recruited after you’d been caught ransoming credit card companies and running stings on pedophiles with your ‘internet pals’. Caught or betrayed, the thought still plagued you, though the end result had been a job offer from the British Army in lieu of prison time. Soap and Gaz thought you were a genius, some sort of cyber Robin Hood fighting the good fight from smokey internet cafes or 6 monitor supercomputers. Captain Price saw you as a clever kid with good intentions but questionable methods.

Ghost… well Ghost made no secret of the fact he thought you were an egg-head. An energy drink guzzling college drop-out with a lot of free time and no common sense. A basement dweller with more waifu body pillows than real life friends. A useless kid with no place in battle, regardless of the fact that your intel was what told him where to go more times than not.

“He doesn’t hate you, he’s just… well he’s just Ghost. He’s never worked with you, I’m sure things will change after this.” You nodded, thankful for the reassurance though you didn’t really buy much of it. As you opened the jeep door and slid into one of the back seats you noticed Ghost’s eyes were trained on you through the rearview mirror. Watching for something to pick on you for, of course.

You held his gaze as you closed the door and dropped your gear bag between your feet. ‘That’s right Lt, I can sit down without strangling myself on the seatbelt’ you longed to say to him. You settled for holding his gaze and raising your eyebrows at him. As the jeep rumbled to life you could have sworn you heard a laugh.

— — —

Ghost glanced at the pistol holstered on you thigh, as well as the knife sheathed at your hip. The urge to ramble about your right to protect yourself and defend your teammates bubbled up in your chest, the citric need to bite back at him almost won. Thankfully he spoke before you did.

“You do know how to use that, right?” He whispered to you, crouched to your right, Gaz to your left. You’d gone through basic gun training and safety as well as first aid at Captain Price’s insistence once you’d begun working more and more with the 141. A fact you were sure Ghost knew. He’d never let you carry a weapon without a direct order from Price. A direct order not to snatch it on sight and send you to sit in a corner and think about how stupid you were.

“Of course, sir,” you quipped back. Your sarcasm was cut with anxiety. This was real. You didn’t have to kill anyone, you just had to keep up and not die. But this was so real. A gun range was nothing in comparison. The slide of the gravel beneath your boots, the heat of your comrades beside you, the dull green of the night vision. This was real.

“Ghost, do you copy? 30 seconds to detonation.” Soap’s voice was tinny through the comm on Ghost’s shoulder.

30 seconds?

Seconds?!

Your heart pumped a punishing beat as the reality of it all sunk deeper and deeper.

A hand on your knee brought you back to the moment. “Look at me,” the last voice you’d ever expect to comfort you was all that filled your ears. The surprise washed away the fear for a moment as you looked into Ghost’s eyes.

“The second you hear the blast, stay low and follow us, okay? You’ll want to jump up, don’t.”

“Okay.”

His dark eyes stared into you as he spoke. “Keep your weapon in your hands, keep your eyes on me, keep up, and keep calm. This is the fun part.” A low chuckled from Gaz calmed you further.

“I’ve got your six, just focus on moving with the group, okay?” Gaz whispered beside you.

“Okay.”

All you could do was agree, any eloquence you’d had before had long since dissipated.

A deafening boom rang out and the urge to run flooded every nerve in your body. You watched Ghost.

Keep your eyes on me

You focused on Ghost’s broad back as you moved with him. Focused on keeping close. On surviving.

The next minutes were a blur of gun fire and barked out commands. The muzzle flash of the weapons around you was enough to make the night vision useless and so with shaky hands and shallow breaths you pushed the goggles up as you moved through a maze of rooms with Ghost as your guide.

A heavy hand against your chest stopped you before you had a chance to run into your Lieutenant.

“Gaz, now.” He barked quickly as a heavy boot made contact with the door, pushing it from the frame. Garrick fired as he moved deftly into the room, sweeping the corner as Ghost fired at a figure hunched over a laptop.

Everything was happening too quickly. You were pushed into the room, or pulled, you couldn’t know. As your body entered your mind stayed back and watched as a figure rose from a position under the desk. Before you could even see their eyes they hit the floor with a thud.

A wave of nausea spread through you as you moved to where they’d been, pushing the bodies away from the computer as you grabbed it and began to type a series of commands into the terminal. Your hands shook as you pushed a thumb-drive into a port and watched as your code froze the deletion process. You left that to work as you pulled open desk drawers and riffled through their contents, shovelling everything in sight into your pack.

“Hurry up!”

You obeyed, moving quicker as you grabbed files and thick plastic drives with greedy, shaking hands. The final drawer was locked tight. You wanted to call out for a key but shame held you tongue. You pulled at it and it held firm. Ghost could have yanked it open with one hand, you were sure. His presence in the room motivated you to think like a soldier. Think like him.

‘I’m not useless. I’m not useless. I’m not useless.’ You chanted to yourself as you reached to you side and gripped your knife. Jamming it into a gap in the drawer you pushed your whole weight onto it and heard a click.

Yes. You weren’t useless after all.

“Owl! Wait!”

With unbridled euphoria you yanked the drawer open and felt your body and mind reconnect with a violent snap. Like a spark to gas you ignited with something you couldn’t recognise. Warmth spread through your middle as you glanced down into the drawer. It was empty.

“Oh shit.”

“Soap call in a medevac, now!”

Why was it empty? Were they all shouting because it was empty?

Your hand dug into the wooden cube, patting around until you felt something give. You pushed up into it and heard something drop. Another hard drive.

“Owl, Owl you need to move, now.”

A firm hand grasped you by the shoulder and you shook it off. You bent down to pick up the drive and a white hot pain seared your abdomen. You ignored it, and with a sharp wince you grabbed the final drive.

Why were your hands shaking so much? Was it the excitement of war?

You turned to collect the laptop but it was already in Gaz’s hands. He was shoving it into your pack as Ghost grabbed the drive in your hand and tossed it to him.

“No! No, I have to decrypt the—”

“You have to move. Now.” Ghost retorted sharply as he angled himself to block your view of Gaz.

When had they stripped you of your pack?

Why was Lieutenant Riley suddenly pushing you out the door you’d all just come through?

How were you able to see your group moving through the halls? Watching the retreat from an unnatural vantage point, making note of the thick trail of something syrupy behind you.

Was that blood? Did your sloppiness get one of them injured?

— — —

The jeep you’d left 5 kilometres away speed into view in front of the compound you’d just sacked.

Was it moving or were you?

Hands pushed you into it and began pulling off the kevlar and fabric of covering your torso.

‘Is it bad?” Soap’s voice came from the front of the vehicle.

“No, its not too bad,” Ghost said to you rather than Soap. You craned your head down to look at the wound, but a strong hand tilted your chin away.

“I thought I told you to keep your eyes on me, Pigeon” he said lowly as you searched his face for some clue of what was happening. His derisive diminutive sounded odd now, it was laced with something tender.

“Sorry lieutenant, I just wanted to—” you didn’t know how to finish.

I just wanted to see for myself?

I just wanted to be a part of the team?

“— I just wanted to impress you. I’m sorry, sir.” You mumbled as your lids grew heavy.

The pressure on your stomach increased as Ghost spoke to you in low whispers. “Impress me? How? By falling asleep? We’ve already talked about that, soldier. I told you to keep your eyes on me. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

— — —

Your eyes fluttered open, catching a glimpse of a white stucco ceiling.

Shit.

Ghost would kill you for falling asleep again. As you tried to sit up your body barked out in protest. A dull ache blanketed your left side and pulsed through you.

A hand pushed you back down gently. Resting for a beat on your shoulder before pulling away.

“Slow down, kid. You’ll rip your stitches out.” You knew that voice. You turned your head to look at the Lieutenant. You’d already known it was him, all that surprised you was the lack of contempt in his voice.

You couldn’t speak. You just looked around, taking in the small makeshift clinic you’d found yourself in.

“The hospital was too far,” Ghost said, answering the question you mind was already forming, “so they set this up in a safe house nearby.” You nodded, laying back against the pillows. “Sir? What happened?”

You heard Lieutenant Riley sigh as you stared up at the ceiling above you. Too timid to look at him as he recounted your failures on the mission.

“The drawer was rigged. If you’d been taller, or wider, the shrapnel that hit you would have been fatal, Owl.”

The name drew your eyes to him before you could stop yourself.

“I’ve graduated from Pigeon?” You asked, trying to cut the tension in the small room. He laughed, and the sound was enough to make the pain in your abdomen dissipate.

You’d made him laugh.

You had made Ghost laugh.

“You got injured, and didn’t give up. That was a tough thing you did, Owl. I’m proud of you.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, it took everything you had not to let them fall. A warm on hand your head was what completely undid you. Hot tears slipped out of your closed eyes as Lieutenant Riley stroked your hair more gently than you’d ever thought a man of his size was capable of.

“You did well, don’t worry.”

You gathered yourself, remembering the objective of the mission. “How long was I out, sir? Has the operation window passed?”

He pulled his hand back slowly before he spoke. “Intel over here took a look at some of the materials before sending them back with Soap and Gaz. The boys back home will decrypt as much as they can while you’re healing up here. Doc said you’d be okay to fly within 48 hours.”

You nodded, trying to keep your disappointment in check. You wouldn’t even get a chance to do what you were good at.

“But,” Ghost said slowly, drawing your attention away from the pity party you’d already began throwing for yourself. “No one could make heads or tails of what was on the laptop.”

“So its useless then?” You asked, trying to push the hurt out of your voice.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” Ghost let out a low chuckle. God, you’d become addicted to that sound already. “Whatever you plugged into it before you got hurt completely stumped everyone, they said only you’d be able to retrieve anything from it.”

A warm pride filled your chest. No one could do what you could. You weren’t useless.

“So… unfortunately for you, Pigeon. I’ve brought you some homework while I babysit you. Are you up for it?”

Ghost dropped the laptop onto your lap. Your thumb-drive was still plugged into it, filled with malware and viruses you’d cooked up over the years.

You smiled at him, beaming with pride as you opened the device. “Of course, just keep your eyes on me, sir. I’ll be done in no time.”

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mw2 #modern warfare ii #modern warfare #ghost #ghost x reader #hacker!reader #mean!ghost #tw toxic relationship #but that changes by the end of the fic #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley requests #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost mw2 imagines

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lordgrimwing · 25 days

Text

How Elwing Lost A Silmaril

The first letter—sealed with an eight-pointed star pressed into red wax and delivered just before dawn—left Elwing trembling in her small office, stomach rolling and the taste of bile thick on her tongue. What was she to do? What could she do? Her parents’ murderers were coming here.

The letter didn’t say as much outright. The writer (Maedhros, she’d learned his name eventually, but he would always be the red-haired orcish monster that took her home away and haunted her worst nightmares) veiled every threat behind eloquent lines of meaningless placations and enteritis for the silmaril. He asked her, granddaughter of a thief, to return it to him, eldest son of its maker and rightful heir. But she could read what he did not say: that if she did not bend to his will he would do to Sirion as he did to Menegroth. He would come with his fell army and slaughter everyone in his way.

But how could she give up the jewel? It protected them, kept the forces of darkness at bay just enough for the refugees to eke out a living on the shores. And should Eärendil, her dear, brave husband, find a path to Aman, its light might be the only thing that could stay the Valar’s Doom long enough for them to listen to him. She could not give up their hope.

The second letter—sealed in red wax and delivered as the barley fields were harvested—brought more promises of horrors unnamed falling upon the settlement. She wept after throwing it in the fire. She could not do this on her own. The city council was terrified into inaction at the thought of what lay before then, and Eärendil was still out at sea. She missed him. She missed him so terribly when the councilors looked at her with fearful eyes and asked for her decision.

The fifth letter arrived in the hands of an underfed Mannish girl as the first winds of winter blew in from the sea. Elwing gave her food and a family offered a spot in their home, but the girl said her lord instructed her to go nowhere else until she had a reply for him. Elwing thought of banishing her from the city unanswered, of telling the guards with their rough-made weapons to see that the Fëanorian did not return. She regretted the thought nearly as soon as she had it. The girl was young and it was not her fault that her parents joined themselves to a mighty Elf lord. She could stay for a day.

Tell me whatsoever you desire, the greatest or smallest need of your heart.

The letter said in handwriting that was fast becoming too familiar.

I will give unto you that thing and greater still if you would part with my father’s Silmaril. I would bring you all the provisions of my camp, all the weapons of my army, every other precious thing of power left in this land if you would but willingly part with that one small thing that I must otherwise be driven to take by force in the spring. Tell me your desire, and I will give it unto you. Let this not end with blood.

She fumed in her office, angrily pacing the thin rug gifted to her by the weary-eyed wife of one of her father’s guards who fell in the tunnels of Menegroth. She does not need anything from the murdering bastard! Sirion has all it requires. They would be safe if only they were left alone. How can Maedhros think that he could ever give her anything to make up for what he’s done, to convince her to do what he wants? He’s a monster and a coward who wishes to soothe his conscience by acting as if the attack is all her fault, an inevitable consequence of her resistance. He wishes to absolve himself of yet more evil.

She will not let him. If it is the only thing she can do, she will defy him.

Elwing takes up precious ink and paper. She throws herself into her chair and leans over the beaten desk, pouring her anger and helplessness into the words she scratches across the page.

You’ve taken everything from my people. You wish to take everything from me again. You are monstrous, servant of Morgoth. May the Valar stand against you as I cannot. What would I have, you ask? I would have what you’ve taken from me restored: I would have Dior, my father, and Nimloth, my mother; I would have Eluréd and Elurín, my brothers, alive again and in my arms. But I shall never have them for they died at your hands and at your command. You cannot give me my parents. You search for my little brothers but still cannot give them to me. So, what would I have? I would have your brothers. Give me your two youngest. I have lost my twin brothers for this gem. You must do the same.

She signed the bottom with a vicious strike that split the quill’s nip, blotting the page with ink as dark as orc blood. Her heartbeat in her chest, thumped against her ribs under her breast as though it would escape fate. Her letter would change nothing and she hesitated for a moment before dripping wax from a flickering candle for the seal, tempted to throw the paper to the fire.

She’d written in a tantrum, a final kicking of her feet against what would come in an impotent rage. But what did it matter? Did she not deserve to beat her fists against the Doom once? Everyone looked to her for leadership and guidance as Dior’s heir but she felt like little more than a child. This would be so much easier to handle with Eärendil at her side but he still had not returned and at times she doubted he ever would (what Doom had befallen him on the waters? What lonely fate for him and the crew on the waves?). She would send this letter then say goodbye to all childishness and face what came bravely as her parents and grandparents did.

Resolved, she dripped the wax and sealed the letter. She’d give it to the messenger tomorrow with what small food they could spare so the girl did not starve on the journey. And then…

And then all would be out of her hands and fate would fall as it would.

The sixth letter came in the hands of two red-haired Elves on tall horses. The men sat straight and tall in the saddle, their heads held high. Elwing would have called them haughty if they hadn’t dismounted and bowed deeply before her, falling to one knee as one might before royalty. A third Elf, dark-haired and somber-eyed, rode with them, though he kept himself aside and astride his steed.

“Queen Elwing,” one of the red-heads said, his face fire-scarred. He paused, waiting for permission to go on.

She nodded and waved her hand impatiently, wondering what new trick Maedhros was playing or if this was how he announced an impending slaughter.

The speaker went on, looking up slightly though he stayed kneeling. “We are Ambarussa–” he gestured to the other– “youngest sons of Fëanor. We give ourselves up at your request in exchange for the silmaril.”

Elwing stood in frozen silence as he continued, icy sea breeze biting at her fingers and face.

#the ambarussar are hers now i guess #will this change everything or nothing?#i have my ideas #maedhros is the worst of the sons of feanor actually because he will justify doing anything for a silmaril #crack fic #but i'm treating this crack seriously #elwing #amrod #amras #maedhros #ambarussa #elwing's ambarussa au #grimwing writes #the silmarillion #the silmarils #sirion #third kinslaying #(except it doesn't end up happening now)

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shaarlslec · 1 year

Text

me and the devil

words: 6717

introduction/part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 5

warnings/notes: charles leclerc x reader, friends to enemies to lovers type of a thing, blood, slow burn!!

inspired by: Soap&Skin - Me And The Devil, The Neighborhood - Afraid, The Academic - Why Can’t We Be Friends?, lovelytheband - i like the way, The Wombats - Turn , Wallows - Pleaser

masterlist

“I meant every touch, always.” Charles nodded, placing his forehead on yours for your breaths to meet, both hot and heavy, both lusting to be cut by a clash of mouths.

Three hurried knocks to your door made your spine shiver ten minutes after Charles left the room, “I told you I don’t want to ta-” You annoyingly roughly shouted, thinking about the hopeful likelihood that Charles turned on his way back to your door.

Hopeful, that was what your mind was when it came to him, and yet the mouth muttered quite the opposite. Get out, leave – your coping mechanism was showing, always avoiding talking to him about this matter of feelings, always wanting him to leave when all you really sought was for you both to beg the other to stay and figure things out.

And yet, the voice echoing at the other side of the door was not Charles’, “It’s me.” Your manager said in a worried tone, “Are you dressed?” They asked, wide opening the door after your affirmative loud response, “We need to go.” They uttered, making your eyebrows frown in confusion as their tone altered.

“What happened?”

“Disciplinary meeting.” They simply replied, and your blood started to boil.

You disobeyed the team; you know that obviously they were going to grouch you – but could have not they waited for another day or two? Winning the race, taking the first spot in the championship and almostkissing Leclerc was enough for you that day to burst into flames or at least to shut yourself from the world that day, and now you had to deal with this bullshit disciplinary meeting as well.

It went exactly how you would have expected it. You, your manager, and part of your team standing face to face with the team principal and the head strategists alongside with your race engineer and Xavi. Them, congratulating you for your win and thanking you for grabbing important points for the team, and right after that keeping you accountable for your disobedience.

“You cannot pull these moves on us, Y/N.” Fred said, and although you knew how good of a human he is – everyone feared Charles’ words over his. Your team principal had to do his job, Fred was not allowed to let his drivers kill each other on or outside the track. And yet, you were angry – you have been angry for quite some time, and they were all about to witness that type or range that comes from a woman sick of being told by men what to do.

“But Leclerc can.” You simply clearly and coarsely spoke back to him, ��It is okay when your first driver does it, but God forbid I do it too.” You almost spit in between your teeth, causing a grimace on Fred’s face.

You knew you were putting him in a very uncomfortable position, but that was a spot in which Ferrari placed you for two whole years. You needed some sort of revenge, you were only sorry that Fred and the others who were not Charles Leclerc had to go through it – to feel your range, to see your darkened face and to hear your untamed tone. And yet, they helped Charles, they cheered for their “predestined”, and they were the ones who collectively ruined him before Leclerc has decided to turn into the devil.

“Whatever is going on in between you and Char—” Fred begun, and yet his words failed by being cut short.

“Nothing is going on.” You sharply spoke, looking somewhere anywhere else in the conference room and not at him and the people you were disappointing now with your unforgiving insolence. You are turning into me, Charles said. Were you ready to embrace that idea? You pondered that thought, switching glares from one person to the other within your team that were apologizing without words but just enduring eyes. Were you ready to give them hell just as Charles has been doing for the past years? How much was their fault and how much was Leclerc’s? Was the devil made or born? Your chest ached, millions of thoughts rushing through your mind – all about him.

“I hate to bring this up, Y/N.” Fred kept on going, “Your contract ceases at the end of the season.” He almost warned, perfect – another person at Ferrari threatening you, “We would like to extend it for another two.” Your team principal breathed, “That is if you do not cause any more trouble.” Fred highlighted, and you could hear Charles’ words as if they were sitting on the tip of Fred’s tongue.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in, “What if I told you that I was not able to hear the radio coming in?” You spoke, glare on your race engineer now, “What if I told you that from now on, I am choosing what to hear or not? What are you going to do? Kick me out and replace me with someone else?” You intoned, fingers jabbed on the desk’s edges all tensed up in anger, “Hire yet another driver to be Leclerc’s bitch?” You added, widening all eyes in the room including your manager’s, “I would like to see you try.” You then wrecked, and you loathed yourself at that moment for sounding just like him, for rolling your tongue in the same way as him as you spoke the words, for rousing the same type of fright as Charles Leclerc.

“You are not—”

“You are treating me like I am.” You replied, eyes back on Fred who dared to talk, “Let us race fairly – and you will see who deserves the title of being your first driver.” You exhaled, relaxing your muscles underneath their looks.

Charles was not called into the meeting, though your teammate was very much aware of it happening. He was the one who told Xavi that he needed solutions, and Xavi was more than edger to provide them to him even if they were not the ones to be executed on track. Xavi had its influence within the team, acting like a shadow of Charles whenever the Monegasque had to solve politics. Xavi called for the disciplinary meeting, and Fred was more than edger to not upset his preferent race engineer and driver – the whole team was.

Leclerc’s engineer stood quiet the whole time as you and Fred spoke, mentally noting all the details so they can be shared with Charles. You were aware of that happening, that is why during the meeting your looks would fix Xavi’s the most, as if Charles was watching through the engineer’s eyes. Fierce, unbothered, and ready for whatever Charles was scheming next. You already beat him at his own game on the track, how long will it take until you crack him open outside of it too?

You left the conference room angrier than you had entered it, announcing in a hurried rush towards the accommodation’s exit that you needed to be alone. No celebrations for tonight regards your win, no other interviewers, and no media presence around you. You wanted to clear your head and you knew exactly the way to do it – you were just hopping for no one to remember Charles’ answer to the first question about you during the quiz.

Your teammate watching you leave from afar after Xavi rushed to him and spilled the beans in a mouthful, seeing your poor worried manager trying to keep up with you but giving up once you reached the exit.

Leclerc watched you from one of the windows as you went in your car and heavily pressed the acceleration, zooming out of the parking lot in meters of seconds. That was enough time for Charles to dial one of your very well-known common friends, and family.

“I need you to do something for me.” Charles spoke, and he could basically already envision Arthur’s eyes rolling through the highs of Heaven and then back into the pits of Hell, “It is about Y/N.”

Arthur softly breathed at the end of the call, “What did you do now?” His brother asked, moving further from the group of friends who were celebrating his P6 in today’s race at one of the bars downtown, “Forget that – you are not going to tell me anyways. What do you want me to do, then?” Arthur intoned, knowing very well that no matter how bad Charles fucked up towards you, he was not going to be the one to whom his older brother admits.

Charles’ ego was too gigantic for that, and Arthur was not planning on touching that. You were what was important, little Leclerc was more than edger to help especially after you were not returning any of his congratulatory texts that afternoon after the race.

“I will send you a short list of restaurants that I think Y/N is heading too now.” Charles spoke as he watched your car completely disappear form his sight now, “Meet with her, she needs a friend.” Charles bittersweetly spoke, knowing damn well that he would have preferred for that friend to be him, “No matter how much she will say that she is fine and that she does not need someone to talk to – she does.” Charles pinpointed, remembering all the times when you called for him after something has happened to you, good or bad.

And yet, the circumstances were not allowing Leclerc’s wish to become true. He was the reason Fred threatened you with the termination of your contract, how stupid of him with it be to want to comfort you?

Arthur took a glance over his group of friends, “I am with someone now – why can’t you be there for her if you think she needs a fri-” Arthur stopped at the end of the sentence, friends was not exactly the word to describe your relationship now. Not never, Arthur speedily thought, “Ok then, what do you want me to tell her?” He added, fingers pressing on the ends of his forehead.

“Tell her that –” Charles paused, not finding himself honest to speak the truth to even his brother. She is brave, and fearless, and nothing like me – and I am half of a man for wanting to deprive her of what she truly deserves due to the greediness that lays so still inside my being. That her happiness subjugates mine, and that I have yet to learn how to come to terms with that to not get scorched at the end of it all. Neither she nor I.

“That what?” Arthur annoyingly asked, being feed up already by Charles’ pause that had to be taken for his brothers’ train of thought to derail from its route, “Come on Charles, I do not have all day to argue with you over the phone.”

“That she needs to keep her distance.” Leclerc lied, thinking about what just happened minutes ago and then back in the hotel room – about how much he would have wished to kiss you and touch you, and to convince yourself and him that it was not just for the fun of the game but to tame unspoken long-awaited longings, “On track, I mean.” Charles clarified, and he could feel Arthur’s smile over the huff at the end of the call.

“You are so insufferable.” He spoke, “But then again, like I said – I don’t have all day to argue with you. Send me the restaurants, I must go and get your girl since you are such a scaredy-cat.” Arthur argued, pressing the end of the call on the screen before Charles even got the chance to mutter something back to his brother.

“Y/N is not my gi—” Charles has begun, the phone’s screen returning to normal before he got to finish his sentence. My girl, Charles had to recognize that had a great sound to it – only if you were not the girl he was fighting on track.

Arthur was surprised to find you exactly where Leclerc has indicated. The first two restaurants that the little brother went to were unsuccessful, and yet the third one was just the right one: a hidden Parisian sort of a boutique right across the corner of an unnamed street in the heart of the city. Charles knew your post-race rituals, but you were not expecting him to remember the names of the ones you frequently visited. And yet, Charles did – he has been always paying the best of attention to your rambles when you were getting along and hang out together after your races in cities you happened to be at the same time.

“Why do you like these tiny God-forgotten places so much?” Charles would ask when you first took him to one of the hidden-gem restaurants you found back in Azerbaijan after one of your F2 races during your what was your winning championship.

“First of all,” You excitedly begun as you went through the menu’s pages, “These places have the best food you could taste in the entire city. They usually have ten to twelve recipes that they perfect – and they are cheap as well.” You intoned, finger pointing to one of your favorite deserts, “Second, the staff is really nice, and you don’t have to be worried about people recognizing you and asking for autographs.” You pinpointed, glaring over the space to see only two table occupied beside the one at which you and Leclerc stood at.

“Oh, I see, you are right – you would not want for people to recognize you all the time when you are going to be the most well-loved driver on the grid.” Charles argued, scooping through the menu with big curious eyes.

You chuckled, “I was not speaking about me, Charles.” You paused, relaxing into your seat as you were watching him, “I am talking about you – il Predestinado.” You teased, loving how everyone was catching more and more that nickname for him after his Monza win, “In a few years or so when we come back to this city and you will be the one to restore Ferrari’s legacy back into its place, everyone will want a photo or an autograph from you – I am thinking ahead.”

Charles stopped his search through the menu’s words, “Do you really think so?” He buoyantly asked, and that was one of the times in which you saw the hope that faded from the irises of the boy’s eyes being replaced with anger and greed.

You gently cupped Charles’ wrist into your hand, “I know so.” You affirmatively answered as you rubbed your thumb across the back of the boy’s hand, “Don’t worry, you will do just fine.” You added, retracting your hand from his right when Charles turned his to cup yours within the hold of his fingers that were now just brushing against each other. You placed yours back into your lap, and he reminded still for a while with his fingers longing for yours.

Charles nodded, “I was not joking tough,” The man begun, eyes on yours that were awkwardly paying attention to your lap rather than him as you were rubbing your hands together now in nervousness, “You are going to be the most well-loved driver on the gird once you get your rightful seat.” Charles intoned, “You have this loving heart and pure intentions, and everyone can see that.”

You chuckled, turning your glare on him now, “What’s best?” You wondered with your hands now back on the table catching Charles’ glare on them, wondering exactly what Charles was thinking in the back of his mind – that was to catch your hand into his, “To be the most well-loved driver or the most feared one?”

Charles contemplated your words for a bit, both of you knowing well where he stood at that time. His name representing the hope that all fans had for Ferrari’s return, everyone loving his humbleness and softness.

“The most loved one, for sure.” Charles finally spoke as he released a heavy breath of air from between his ruddy lips, “Why would you want people to fear you?” He simply asked as his fingers turned the pages of the menu not seeing you smile at the other side of the table before you whispered a short Yes, you are right – you are always right.

Turns out, Charles is not always right. You said now in the back of your mind, years later and alone at what was a very similar table in an alike restaurant. You wanted to understand him, you really did so. Where did the sweet and caring Charles that you knew went? Where did his compliments and wise words vanish? And – was all of it worth it? You shook your head as the waitress places your drink in front of you, snatching away from a conversation that now seemed to be one from a faraway time and from another world.

“Hello gorgeous.” A voice similar of the one ponding in your mind resounded, and yet quite not the same.

You lifted your glare from the table, “Arthur, what are you do—” You paused with a dry throat, “Don’t tell me Charle—” You stopped again, but not because you could not find your words but because Arthur was the one to interrupt them.

“No, no, no.” The little Leclerc announced you as he slid at the table on the seat across yours, “I was with a couple of friends downtown and I saw you through that little window,” Arthur spoke, pointed out what was indeed a little framed window at the end of the restaurant through which it would have been very improbable that you could have been spotted inside. Yet, you were not in the mood to argue with yet another Leclerc, “Do you mind if I sit?” He questioned with care.

Yes. “No,” You spoke, I want to be alone, “I could use a drinking buddy.” You playfully placed your words, ordering another of the same drink you were having for Arthur, watching him enthusiastically clapping both of his hands together after congratulation you on your win today and scolding you for not answering his texts.

Ten minutes after chit-chatting with Arthur and you realized that you, in fact, never wanted to be alone. You needed someone to talk to about what happened today at Ferrari, and someone who understood how fucked up of a situation that was. Also, someone who knew Charles Leclerc as you did – in some matters, even better. You ranted; Arthur was more than keen to listen.

“Where that leaves me now, I ask you.” You gasped throwing your hands in the air, “I shall behave and act like a good lieutenant for your brother just because he demands that so from the team?”

“No, most definitely not.” Arthur replied, what was with you and taking advice from the Leclerc brothers, anyway?

“That is exactly what I thought.” You added, ordering few more drinks with the idea of getting wasted that evening and yet knowing that Arthur was not quite the man to hold his liquor – neither were you.

“He is troubled now, Y/N.” Arthur gently spoke, thinking about all the times where he saw his brother deep in thoughts regarding the season, racing but mostly especially the ones about you, “Having his hand forced by you might be exactly what he needs as a wake-up call regarding his goals.” Arthur added with softness in his eyes, “I love my brother, but Charles cannot keep this persona for too long – he is too good of a human for that, even if now it might seem like he forgot that.”

You nodded, “I know.” I love him too, you would have wanted to say. Instead, you took a deep breath in, “Enough about me, what is going on with you?” You smiled, wanting to keep your head away from Charles even for a bit now that Arthur was the one standing in front of you, “P6 today in a McLaren! That’s huge.” You winked, patting the man’s shoulder across the table, “You are really planning on getting them back on track.”

Arthur’s eyes rolled, “That is if they were not so stubborn in praising Norris so fucking much.”

You laughed, the on-track banter in between Arthur Leclerc and Lando Norris was the next best thing that excited people during this season besides you and Charles. For the next couple of hours, you talked shit with Arthur – you loved to talk shit with him, you two had always been gossiping besties. Besides that, you drank way too much for both of your own good during all the talk.

Hours passed, evening was now gone, and the city was covered in full-blown darkness split by the streets’ illuminating system. You decided to walk back to the hotel you and Arthur were both staying in by foot to dozen off the alcohol, and that happened to be one long excruciating trip back.

And yet, you loved every single piece of it. Charles was right, although you were not to know what they two talked. You needed a friend, you needed someone to talk to, and Arthur was just right for the job.

You laughed until your stomached pained by the time you made it to the hotel, telling stories about your junior years and making impressions of anyone you could not stand on the grid (current or not).

“Change your fucking car.” Arthur intoned, and you could not help yourself but not to laugh as he was imitating Horner’s voice.

“What a troubled man.” You said in between your chuckles, “Remember that one time when he was riding a horse and his wife said something about the horse being Bottas?”

“Bottas would eat Horner alive.” Arthur almost shouted, and you mimicked a short “shh” to him as you found yourselves at the entrance of the hotel, “We need to behave, little one.” You mumbled, your words as well as your feet stumbling as you were trying to look normal for the people at the reception desk to not figure out that you were simply wasted.

“Ok here, here,” Arthur spoke, taking your shoulder within one of his arms to stabilize both of your bodies, “You walk right, and I walk left.” He drunkenly explained, “In this way, our bodies will lean on each other, and we will look like we are walking in a straight line.” Arthur further clarified, erupting in laughter as the plan was not making any sense.

People at the reception desk were already staring at you from inside, knowing damn well that you two were not sober. They rubbed shoulders, and one of them even took their phone out to take a picture of you.

“Imagine that” They whispered, “Y/N arm in arm with Charles’ brother – they must be complotting against him, or are they having an affair behind his back?” They proudly spoke, almost shooting the shot before his phone was snatched from his hands by the one, they were so proudly talking about.

“I can assure you that both of your theories are utterly wrong.” Charles spoke with a grim on his face, “Not a word about this.” He threatened, placing the phone back on the counter with dreadful eyes, “Now will you be a dear and pretend you have something else to do in the back with your colleague?” Charles harshly intoned while switching glares in between the two employees who were perplexedly looking at him staring back at them as if he was going to do heavily damage right then and there, stepping away from the reception desk to go outside through the sliding doors and meet you two: his dear brother and his girl.

Charles had heard your laughs from the first floor where he occupied whole for himself and his crew. Frankly, the man has not gotten that much sleep due to the events during the day and once he had heard that you were not in want of a celebration for that evening, he knew you will spend most of the evening with Arthur. That made him worry in ways he was unable to elucidate. Charles’ fear was for the evening not to turn into the night, and for you not to search comfort in the arms he pushed you in without any of your knowledge. Therefore, Charles stood awake, and he waited by the widow for you to come back. Kinda stalk-ish, maybe Arthur was right. Oh, how Charles disliked being lectured by his little brother.

Arthur was the one to first glance at his brother at the entrance while you were clinging to the man’s chest with your eyes pressed together in tears due the laughter evoked. But then, when you heard Arthur’s little “oh” and felt his chest lifting in a sigh, you followed his glare and meet Charles coming towards you.

“Oh,” You muttered too, laughter ceasing to exist as you frowned at your teammate, “You again.” You spoke as soon as Charles was able to hear your words.

“Looks like you are having fun,” Charles said looking down at Arthur’s hand now cupping yours for better stability, “Acting like teenagers in front of people who can and will recognize you.” Charles scolded, and you could visibly see Arthur’s vein popping up at the edges of his forehead.

“Oh look Y/N, dad is here.” Arthur spoke in a harsh tone, and that was for the first time you and Charles exchanged a short, worried glare. Arthur was wasted, even more wasted that you were. And perhaps, that was the only time when he would ever joke about that. Charles let out a sigh, and you slightly shook your head with the idea of sobering up a little bit – you only done yourself worse.

You patted the Arthur’s chest, unclasping your hand from his, “Come on, let’s get you into your room.” You mouthed, acting as if Charles was not even standing two feet away from you.

“Let me take care of that.” Charles interviewed, grabbing Arthur from one of his shoulders so he could depart him from you. Yet, Arthur was reluctant of the idea as he snatched away his shoulder from Leclerc’s grip and tightening even harder the arm that was around you, fingers gripping into your skin with such force that it almost hurt you.

“No, I want Y/N to do it.” Arthur replied, stepping away from Leclerc and grabbing you with him too without any warning causing a harsh balance of your feet.

Charles was quick to react to that too. His hand went immediately on your back, as Arthur’s arm was still locking your shoulders but was unable to react stumbling on his feet as well. Your teammate annoyingly breathed, so close that you were able to feel him on your face and to engage in the man’s scent.

“Your room, now.” Charles spoke, one step away from you now as you regained your balance, “We have a plane to catch in four hours straight to Monaco, you need to sober up.” He added, eyes still on his brother’s grip on you.

Arthur laughed, “You were the one to send me to her – now you don’t want to see us together?” He added in a mockery tone, “Fuck, make up your mind brother.” He added, loosening the strength of his arm around you, letting you out of the grab underneath Charles’ attentive glare.

You shifted away – from both. Crossing your arms at your chest, switching glares from Charles to Arthur and then back on Charles, and with your mind intoxicated with alcohol, you were unable to control your anger anymore.

“So, you lied to me.” You calmly first spoke, pointing your finger to Arthur, “I knew you did lie from the moment you sat at the table, but covering for your brother after knowing what he had the team do today and pretending like you really wanted to be there for me?” You huffed, squinting your eyes at him, “Do any of you even care about me at all?” You asked, eyes fixing Charles now, “Or is this just some sort of a twisted game of throwing ball that you two like to play with people?”

Arthur was the one to speak while Charles remined silent, “Of course, of course, of course we do care – I mean, I do.” The younger Leclerc spoke, taking both of your hands in his, “You were not answering my texts, so all Charles was doing was to help me get a hold of you.”

Rolling his eyes, Charles’ mouth opened to speak, “Do not listen to him, Y/N – it was not like that.”

Your hands were left empty in the air now as Arthur turned to his brother, “Are you really going to tell her the truth or what?” Arthur provocatively spoke, “Do you want me to do that as well instead of you?” Arthur added, and you were more than edger to hear Charles’ response to that inquiry but sadly, as you were expecting for him to act, Charles became avoidant of the question and now only – your teammate eluded your looks as much as he could do so in the presence of a very pissed off little brother.

“Like I said,” Charles paused, placing one of his hands on Arthur’s shoulder to snatch him even further from you and closer to the hotel’s entrance, “Let’s get you to your room, Arthur – we are leaving tom –” Charles repeated, but his sentence was unable to be finished as Arthur took a bold move of punching his brother right in the face.

A loud thump as Arthur’s fist slammed Charles’ jaw, and one heavy breath coming from Arthur after realizing what he has done, “Don’t act like you can control anything and everything at once.” Arthur advised, fires coming from the youngest Arthur’s eyes towards his brother, “Grow the fuck up, brother.” He spoke, untensing his fist.

You gasped before covering your mouth with both of your palms; Charles seemed to be unfazed by Arthur’s swift move, “You are drunk, brother.” He added in a soft tone, “We will get you to your room, alright?” Charles breathed, looking now at you who remined speechless inches away from them.

Arthur felt sorry immediately after punching Leclerc, and you could see that on the boy’s face right away. You nodded towards their direction and the three of you entered the hotel, you quickly glanced over the receptionist desk wondering if anyone saw what happened outside as you worriedly walked behind the two of them who were now exchanging short whispers, you could gather the words, I am sorry and I know.

“I took care of that.” Charles announced, looking over his shoulder to catch your stare on the boys’ backs – and Charles’ split slightly bloody and bruised bottom lip in the well-lighted hotel’s hall.

You felt guilty all the way to Arthur’s floor because you caused that, you caused the punch although you were not the one to throw it. You were the one to be silent now, although you would have wished to scream from the top of your lungs. And yet, causing yet another fight might not be the best solution. You shortly hugged Arthur goodnight before Charles slammed the door shut, but not before hearing Arthur whispering into your ear, “My part in Charles’ wake-up call.” He giggled, embracing your body tightly despite Charles’ unpleasant look.

Charles followed you to the elevator so he could take you to your room too, your teammate had to make sure that you were getting the right one. You stood in silence, in a deep-oppressive silence as the elevators’ doors closed. Taking a short glance at Leclerc’s lips, Charles caught you lurking.

“Brothers fight.” Charles simply spoke, trying to wipe the blood at the corner of his lip with two of his fingers, “No worries,” Leclerc paused as the wound was twitching and you could clearly see the discomfort on the man’s face, “It happened before too, none of us like to be told what to do – especially when we are drunk.” Charles clarified, remembering all the times in which either him or Arthur threw punches at each other.

You sighed, “That does not seem very healthy.” You spoke, and hearing your voice was everything Charles was in need to ease the pain.

Charles smiled, turning his face to you to take a better look at what he would like very much to call “his girl” out loud and not just somewhere hidden in the back of his mind, “It was not your fault, just so you know.” He added, and the door clicked – you have reached your floor and had to go. And yet, you stayed and oh, how that made Charles’ heart flutter.

“Can I,” You paused with a shortened breath, “Can you at least let me take care of that so I can feel less guilty?” You answered, pointing out to Charles’ bottom lip.

Charles nodded without hesitating, which was very unlike him, you thought. And yet, seeing you with Arthur pleading so you could take his little brother to his room, made Charles realize that his jealousy unmeasurable at the thought of you being with someone else in a hotel room.

And now, you were inviting him into yours. You went straight to the bathroom to get the medical kit, and Charles watched you searching for that as he took a seat on the sides of the bathtub. The split of his lip was not even that bad, Arthur was unable to punch his brother using full force and of course. Charles could have taken care of the wound on his own and yet, now, how could he say no to the opportunity of you making room in between his legs so you could tap his bottom lip to disinfect it?

Charles looked up at you while you were trying to keep your calm. One of your hands went to his shoulder for better stability. You were still quite drunk, and using that excuse was working. You smelled like negroni, and fresh cooked bread. Judging by that, Charles already was guessing what your order was for that dinner. That made him slightly smile, making your job even more difficult. The warmness of Charles’ body so close with yours engulfed you, and it took you to a whole different reality again – one in which you were not racing with the other, one in which you would have pressed your lips against his right then and there, not thinking about any form of a consequence.

“Up.” You breathed, your fingers going from Charles’ shoulder to part of his neck to sustain him.

Charles obeyed, “I have to apo-”

“Shut up.” You quickly spoke, and not because talking would harden whatever you were doing to heal the wound, but because hearing his voice so close to your ears drove you insanely crazy.

Charles obeyed again, this time with a chuckle.

“I told you to shut up.” You insisted, eyes now on him as you were placing small transparent patch over his cleaned grievance, “You really send Arthur to find me?” You questioned, hand retracting from his neck for a split of a second before Charles’ covered yours with his, grabbing you by the wrist. Don’t, don’t depart yet. Charles would have wished to say, but let the eyes do the talking.

“I did, I just –” Charles paused, and amongst all of the pauses he took while speaking to you all day, this one was the longest and it drove you the craziest because he was now looking at you as Charles used to do back in the days – no greed, no jealousy, no fear into his eyes, just sparks of hope, “I know it will sound thoughtless, but I wanted to make sure that you were alright after what happened during the day.”

You sighed, “You could have asked me on your own.”

“You told me to get out of your room.” Leclerc replied, hand still on yours, chest still aching.

“And now I invited you in.” You nervously laughed as you patted Charles’ skin with two of your fingers, leaving your mark, tracing him, making him want more and more as you shifted even closer to his body in between his legs, “It seems like none of us can make our minds about the other – even after all this time.” You slowly spoke, “Were you jealous of him?” You teased even further, your other hand leaning on the man’s tight that was rubbing yours.

Charles nodded; you were having him wrapped around your little finger now – just as he had you this afternoon too, “My brother or not, men calling you “darling” or not.” Charles intoned, as his other hand went on your waist to hold you dearly to him, “I am always jealous.”

A thrumming smile showed on your face as you felt Charles’ fingers uncovering your back and touching your skin without the fabric of your t-shirt standing in-between the two, “I was always jealous on your girlfriends, too.” You finally confessed, feeling like a rock has been lifted from your chest, “Long-term or not, just a fling or not.” You continued, breathing heavily as Charles’ hand went up your spine, “Fuck, Charles.” You breathed right into his ear, feeling him heavy and hard underneath your touch on his crouch, “We can’t.” You paused, getting your hands out of him.

“We shouldn’t.” Charles agreed, lips close to your chest that he kissed, lips going up to your neck and lingering for a bit on the side of your jawline before not even inches stood in between your mouths, “You have been drinking,” Charles stopped right before your lips brushed against each other, “And I, punched in the face.” He then laughed, with his fingers travelling your spine in such fashion that made your entire body crumble, “We need to think this through.” He pondered, and yet it was too late to think – all you ever did was thinking.

“You are right.” You breathed, glaring up at him as he straightened his back to stood up now, “I am drunk, you are in pain.” You added with an unconvincing nod watching him dissipating the distance that still existed in between your bodies with a step and a cup of face within his palms, “Do you mean this?” You asked with big eyes, touching both of his wrists with your hands as you were looking dearly at him.

“I meant every touch, always.” Charles nodded, placing his forehead on yours for your breaths to meet, both hot and heavy, both lusting to be cut by a clash of mouths, “I have a plane to catch early, Y/N.” Charles added, gulping each of his words.

“Excuses.” You nudged, lips searching for Charles’.

“If I don’t make excuses, I will want to kiss you.” Charles softly spoke, breathing as if he was into your lungs now, “And if I kiss you, I will want more.” He added, eyes closed, hands going from your face on your shoulders where he rested his head for a while too, avoiding your lips as much as his cravings allowed, “And If I get more,” Charles whispered, lips caressing your shoulder as he spoke, “I will not be satisfied if I don’t have it all.” He muttered, and you could feel your knees shake and already envision your body falling to the ground, “I want it all, Y/N.”

By all, Charles meant to fully be able to call you, his girl. No games, no flings, no sweet nothings whispered just to swipe you out of your feet. That was – for now, at least – unmanageable to attain. You knew what he meant, and yet the reply you had to give him shattered your insides.

“And you can’t have it all.” You breathed in the same fashion as him, “That will cause more friction on the track, more chances to lose your beloved championship.” You spoke, hating every single word you were spitting, “Go get some sleep for your early flight, Charles.” You hardly spoke, feeling him departing.

One more glance at him and Charles was gone for good. No kisses goodbye, no kisses at all. Just hard feelings shared in silence in between two people in one random hotel bathroom close to midnight. You and Charles, always caught up in between feelings, hotel rooms, and midnights.

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