#and I know I joke a lot about how it was the ‘French is easy’ tiktoks that pushed me back into ml but really

[oh-koenig-my-koenig]

(cw: age gap 25/41; nsfw, smut, MDNI; spit kink, dry humping, creampie)

the part before: breaking me (not literally)

Lazy evenings with König

...are what I enjoy most about being with him. Now that I'm staying at his place, we get a lot of those.

We just sit on the couch, listening to music and exist in the same space. Doing something on our own. I started another crochet project, I'm actually trying to make a cute lacey top, but the pattern isn't that easy.

Sometimes we share a drink, just like today. The glass of wine passes between us because he poured himself one, and I didn't want to get up and get my own.

His hand is on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles over the skin that is showing. And I have a hard time concentrating on my crochet project because of it, the soft touches pulling me out of my thoughts while trying to replicate the pattern.

He's reading something, something in German, those goddamn glasses on his nose, while caressing and kneading my thigh, not even paying attention to his lingering touches. Just absentmindedly stroking until he removes his hand to pick up the glass of wine again. Taking a sip and handing it to me then.

I sigh and put the whole crochet project away before reaching for the glass and scooting closer to him.

His eyes pan from the pages to me, looking at me from over his glasses, like "what?". I chuckle, crawling over his lap, and the curious look turns into a knowing one. His signature smirk turns up one of the corners of his mouth, while I settle down on his lap. His hands land on my hips, softly kneading, while I lean forward and give him a little kiss. I straighten back up while he sets the book and his reading glasses down on the end table.

His gaze is on me again, getting heated, when I drink some of the wine.

"Can I have some as well?", he asks, seeming a little breathless. I want to hand him the glass, but he gently pushes it back into mine.

"No, I mean... from your mouth.", he explains, the look on his face heated, but earnest, his cheeks coloured in the lightest shade of red. He clearly isn't joking right now, looking at me, patiently waiting.

My lips part as the little request sends a pang of filthy need to my core, my hips are squirming in his lap and I can feel his dick harden against me. I mean, we already shared drinks like that, from his mouth to mine or vice versa. This isn't any different, right?

I take another sip of wine and lean forward to press my lips to his, kissing him. Slowly letting him taste me and the wine. He moans into my mouth when I deepen the kiss, his tongue stroking eagerly against mine.

His hand tangles in my hair as he frenches me (He wouldn't like me calling it 'frenching'), a deep and sloppy kiss, while I pull up his shirt a bit. Caressing over the tummy and his muscles with my fingertips.

When I break away, I can see the hazy expression on his face, the hoods lidded, almost seeming drowsy. Something they call Schlafzimmerblick in German, ‘bedroom stare’. His mouth has fallen open just a little bit and his eyes are fixed on my lips, like he is still thinking about it.

"You like that, huh?", I tease him softly while I know myself just how wet it made me. I can feel the slick between my thighs as I press myself against his lap, the thin layers of fabric a barrier between me and him.

"Yes.", he answers without hesitation, his hands gripping my hips, his fingers digging into the swells of my ass. He clears his throat. "Could you do it again?"

"Hm, I don't know...", I tease him a little more, a little bratty smile forming on my face, and he groans.

"Please, I-", he starts again, but I already lift the glass to my lips.

I sit up a little straighter, scooting up his body. My hand is tangled in his hair as I lean forward to kiss him again. Letting the sip of wine slowly trickle down into his mouth while my legs close around his waist, my hips searching for friction, finding it as I grind against his abs. The fabric of my panties and my short shorts are in between, I can feel the roughness of it against my sensitive slick skin, and I wish they weren't.

His needy kisses spur me on. Seeing, feeling, sensing how he drinks me up, how he's hanging onto my lips, it gets me as well. When I break away again, his hands are still grabbing me, his eyes intently on mine, the filthy need of his winning over his hesitant restraint.

"Please, fuck, just-" He breathes in harshly. "Just spit in my mouth, I need to taste you.", he begs, his deep voice desperate and needy as his arms close around me, pulling me closer to him.

I still for a moment, his words registering in my mind, and I suppress a groan. Fuck, I'm so turned on, my panties damp and wet. Fighting the urge to restlessly rub myself over his stomach.

I look into his eyes, darting from one to the other. He's just waiting, patiently, what I'm going to do. Letting his arms drop away a bit to give me some space to think. I put the wine glass down on the end table, scoot up further and he instinctively tilts his head back, so it rests against the sofa cushions, his long hair falling down the backrest.

I place my hand on the side of his face, moving it down to his chin. His mouth falls open and I take that as the invitation it is, letting the dollop of spit that rests on my tongue slowly drip down until it lands on his.

His eyes roll back as he closes his mouth and swallows down my taste, a low groan dropping from his throat. The sound sending a shiver down my spine.

I press my lips to his and he almost devours me with his desperate kiss, his hands roaming my body until they land on my hips again. Dragging me back and forth, and the sensations shake me, my thighs starting to tremble. Oh fuck, this is really getting me worked up.

"Have to get these off.", I tell him, the words getting swallowed up by his mouth, still stealing kisses.

He pulls back a bit, a string of saliva hanging between our lips, while I scramble to get my pants off and he pulls his shirt over his head, the black fabric damp and sweaty.

Then my wet pussy rests against his stomach. He growls when my wetness spreads on his abs and tummy, soaking parts of the happy trail leading further down. I moan, a soft turned-on sound, pressing against his lips, licking, nipping, getting all sloppy with it again, while I drag myself over his stomach. Feeling the hard shapes against my pussy. Feeling deliciously dirty.

"I need more, please.", he mumbles into the kiss.

A little smirk stalks onto my lips as I pull back and look down at him, not moving a bit, stopping the rolls of my hips against his stomach. Just caressing his face softly, feeling the scruff on his jaw against the palm of my hand. Toying a bit with him, and I enjoy seeing him like this...

"Please, just- I'll do anything.", he almost pleads, his eyebrows turned up.

"Anything?", I ask, while I pull his head back again, my fingers gripping his hair tighter.

"Yes." His lips part as he looks up at me. The look in his eyes, how he gazes up at me, make my lower belly tingle. It feels like he is at my mercy for once, and the feeling is intoxicating.

"Please, Liebes. Spit in my mouth again.", he begs, again. No shame in his voice, just pure need.

Seeing the big strong man crumble like that, desperate, pleading for a filthy little taste of me is a heady sensation. His hips rut forward into nothing, I can feel him squirming beneath me.

Anticipation is building in my core while I'm pulling his head back a little bit further. "Open up.", I whisper, and he drops his jaw in an instant.

And I spit. The sound alone sends a tingle down his spine, I can feel him shivering beneath me. The saliva hits his tongue and lips, and he laps it up.

Seeing the pure unadulterated pleasure on his face does something to me and I can't stop rubbing myself on him, his fingers digging into my thighs, moving me over him, spurring me on.

His eyes are turned up, looking at me with that look, totally enamored by me. And I press my lips to his slightly opened mouth, needy to taste him as well, his deep warm scent and the tart hint of wine.

I kiss him with a frenzy, not stopping my movements, feeling his hard muscles, the soft tummy and the fluffy curls of his happy trail against my slick pussy.

His one hand is still on my ass, digging into the plush pillow, while the other slowly strokes to the front until his fingertips find my clit. I'm a wet writhing mess, his fingers stroking over the sensitive nub, circling it.

He swallows up the sounds that rise up my throat, kissing me deep and sloppy, his tongue stroking against mine. The next roll of my hips, his fingers pressing against my clit, and I come, trembling as I restlessly rub myself over his stomach, riding it out, while he whispers sweet nothings to me, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me closer.

Still moving, I smile against his lips. "I think I just discovered that we both like that very much.", I whisper to him, coming down from my orgasm.

"Yeah...", he answers, kissing me again. "Fuck, I almost came in my pants.", he confesses which pulls a chuckle from me.

I slide down a bit until I'm seated on his lap again, my eyes panning down. The tip of his dick is poking out of his boxers, a stain of precum staining the fabric beneath.

"Liked it that much, huh?", I say, taunting him with a pulled-up brow while I drag my finger over his tip.

"Ja, fuck. You taste fucking divine", he drawls. "And leaving a mess like that on my stomach..." The heat in his gaze intensifies as his eyes dart to the wet trail on his tummy and abs where I shamelessly rubbed myself to completion.

"Apparently, I like making messes.", I tell him.

"Those messes I can get behind.", he says simply, a filthy little smirk tipping up the corner of his mouth. He leans forward to kiss me again and I don't think I could ever stop kissing him.

I just came, but I can't get enough of him, holding onto his bare shoulders, my hands greedily roaming his burly back.

He pulls my shirt up, breaking the kiss for a moment to lift it over my head and tossing it to the side. His hands shoot up to fondle my tits, playing with them as his lips finds mine again. He pinches my nipple softly before squeezing the supple mounds, his huge hands cupping them.

My mind is still reeling, hazy with pleasure, whiny mewls dropping from my mouth, but I just need more of him, closer, just...

"I need you inside me.", I tell him, whispering softly against his lips.

"Let me get a-", he starts, almost getting up with me in his arms.

I pull back a bit, looking at him. "No, I mean, like this." He slumps back into the cushions and I rub myself against him, the fabric of his boxers against my sensitive skin. "Without anything between us."

His eyes snap to mine, searching them. "Are you sure?", he asks, a little breathless.

I nod, sure that I want this. Not sure about his reaction though. "Yes, you know I'm on the pill now, and I'm clean.", I explain with a calmness, that I don't really have. I'm so wound tight and needy, my pussy still leaking wetness onto his lap, anticipating what he will say. He's just looks at me, contemplating.

"Fuck, okay, I'm clean as well.", he breathes, but he doesn't move. I still can see a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

"We don't have to do it, if you don't want to.", I say, backing off, smiling at him. It's okay, of course. I want him to be okay with it too. "We'll just get a-"

He grabs me, pulling me into him. "I want to.", he simply says, a little shiver shaking him. "You really are sure?", he wants to know again, but I don’t have any second thoughts in my mind.

"Yes.", I answer again, pressing my lips to his. His tongue pushes into my mouth, stroking against mine, his hand tangling in my hair.

I free his dick from his boxers, pulling the waistband down further, so I can feel his heat against me. I don't break the kiss while I rub my slick all over him, the movements hurried and needy.

Until I can't take it anymore. I get up a bit, lining his length up with my entrance, and slowly sink down on him. Inch by inch. Cursing quietly at the stretch while his gaze holds mine, his mouth falling open, a deep ragged breath shaking him.

We both groan in unison when the swells of my ass rest on his lap, his dick fully seated inside me. "You feel so good, fuck.", he sighs.

I feel tight, so fucking tight around him still, my walls pressing down on him, as he stretches me over and over again while I start to ride him. His tip massaging against the soft spongy spot inside me, when I start to roll my hips, and I think I can even feel his fucking piercing.

"Oh, fuck, you're squeezing me.", he groans, his head falling back. The ecstatic expression on his face is mirroring mine as I move up and down his length. Slowly, relishing the feeling of him slipping in and out of me.

He looks completely lost in his pleasure, just like before, taking what I'm giving him for a change, riding him with languid strokes.

"So good for me today, huh?", I whisper softly, and the little comment gets me in trouble. His eyes light up, his hands are grabbing me again, the quick movements make me lose the rhythm.

"Always, brat.", he growls, pulling me into him. Lifting me easily, only to push me down into the cushions again a second later. Now I'm the one looking up at him, his tall stature towering over me.

He gets rid of his pants hurriedly before he pushes my legs up and slips into me, groaning when my pussy swallows him up, and I can’t help the loud moan escaping from my lips when he bottoms me out.

His gaze is fixed on the spot where we are connected, watching his dick move out and press into me again, slowly, nothing between us. My eyes are on him as he places his arms beside me on the cushions, and I go to hold my own legs up, spreading myself wide for him.

"Good girl.", he drawls, and if I wasn't bent in half like this already, I would have folded.

His thrusts get harder, deeper, and I can feel how my pussy is clenching down on him, when he hits that sensitive spot inside me.

"Oh fuck.", he curses, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he wills them to stay on my face. I know he can feel it, more intensely than usual. The warmth, the wetness. The inevitable closeness.

His long dark hair is falling forward when he thrusts into me, his hand pushing the strands back every so often, so he can keep looking at me, the ends shaking with every roll of his hips. His face is soft, his jaw slack, his eyebrows turned up. In contrast with his deep, hard strokes, his lap colliding with mine in loud slaps of skin against skin.

My spine goes rigid, the orgasm slamming into me with full force, the enraptured look on his face getting burned into my mind as I look up at him, pulsing around his dick.

Choked moans drop from my opened lips, coming hard, and he doesn't stop pushing into me, even when he loses his rhythm, his hips stuttering forward. Desperate thrusts into my wetness.

"Fuck, gonna cum.”, he whines.

My arms shoot out to grab him, pulling him into me, I just need him closer. Our lips press together as he bends down and I whisper breathlessly into the kiss: "Yes, yes, come inside me, please, fuck."

And he does, his hips pushing forward once more as he spills inside of me, a deep moan dropping from his mouth, and I swallow it up in another kiss. Pressing myself up against him while he comes inside me.

His ragged breaths against my lips, his sweat-slick chest against my pressed-up legs. His dick still deep inside me. Our combined panting fills the room, the soft scent of sex heavy around us. And I don't want to let go, one hand on the back of his neck, feeling the soft strands of his hair, the other stroking over his face, his shoulder, down his side.

He presses a kiss to my cheek, pulls himself out of me and I whimper at the loss of fullness. I just want him back inside me. I feel the wetness drip down, my juices and his cum. Fuck. He really just came inside me. His eyes are fixed on my pussy as his fingers dart out to coast over the soft wet skin.

"Hmm, so fucking pretty.", he drawls, his gaze heated and just a little bit depraved.

His finger strokes up again, through our combined slick, making sure it doesn't further drip down, or onto the soft cushions. He then lifts it to my lips, his pointer and middle finger parting them as he pushes them in. His eyes are intently on my face while I lick his digits, the salty taste on my tongue. Pushing a little deeper until I’m almost gagging, the tattooed letters on his knuckles disappearing into my mouth. My eyes turn up, breaking the eyecontact, and he pulls back.

He lifts me from the cushions, into his arms, and I hold onto him, slumping into his sweaty chest, while my legs wrap around his waist. My head is resting against his shoulder, and I can feel the beat of his heart strumming beneath my fingertips. Strong and steady, but just a little bit too fast.

As he is carrying me towards the stairs leading upstairs, over his shoulder, I see our clothes, strewn over the living room floor, his book and the glass of wine on the endtable. His big hand strokes up my body until it rests on the back of my neck and he murmurs into my hair: "Come, Prinzesserl, gotta get you to bed.". With the way he says it though, I doubt we’ll get much sleep.

next part: going for a walk or more stuff in the Masterlist ~

#metalhead!könig #she likes the dark #könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut #könig x reader #tw: age gap

[ethereal-pie]

bullfrog head cannons

I have seen no fics of this beautiful French man so I have done it myself

just a ramble of my thoughts in bullet point form

he is an american bullfrog, he not only looks like one but also there are tons in France

He enjoys warmth and gets grumpy if he is too cold

I feel like he doesn’t touch you all that much but adores cuddling 

If given the opportunity he will burry himself in pillows and blankets ( bonus if they are weighted) especially during winter cuz of his hibernation instinct

He will insist you join him and promise it’s very comfortable 

He isn’t slimy like his real world counterpart but his skin feels very moisturized 

He gets cold super easy and shove himself under your shirt or jacket to soak up your natural body heat 

You also don’t have to worry about it being too hot to cuddle as he is cool to the touch 

He will insist you let him put his cold ass hands on your bare back to warm them up , he will pout if you don’t let him 

Letting him do this will more then likely result in him having his head under your shirt and his face pressed into your back and his hands on your upper stomach 

He usually avoids conventional touch based pda, the most normal pda you’ll get out of under normal circumstances is a peck on the cheek 

Instead the way he shows touch based pda is by sitting on your shoulders

Although if he is super cold he won’t care all that much

 And  Unless your in a situation where being partners with him would put you in danger, he will be  fairly vocaly affectionate

He will call you his beloved and other pet names 

As well as praise, flirt and compliment you

Some of His pet names  involve your name 

He seems like a darling, my dear, love type of person

He will jokingly call you stupid ones as well 

He has a lot of running jokes with you and will tease and joke around with you all the time, he just likes laughing with you in general 

Some of your jokes might take a second to land with him in the beginning but as your relationship continues he will pick up almost immediately 

He tries really hard to be cool cuz he wants to make friends but everyone being stuck on him being a frog annoys him a lil 

He will complain about this to you at least once 

He is trying to be cool and Poetic!

When he is mad he will begin to speak in a mix of French and English but he doesn’t really yell at all, he does talk faster tho 

He will bath for hours but doesn’t like to shower 

He cannot use certain soaps or he will get sick because he will absorb the chemicals through his skin 

He likes the look of bubble baths but if he sits in them he gets sick cuz of the soap In the water 

Given his accent I assume he speaks French but I think he can speak multiple European language, due to his job 

He is very adverse to the idea of eating bugs, he isn’t scared of them but if someone offers him a bug he will be grossed out.

He is the kind of person to not only catch and release bugs he finds inside but he will have little convos with them too

You’ll hear in the other room “hello there my miniature friend.’’ And as he takes them outside “ I’m very sorry but you cannot stay here.” 

His approach to flying bugs is far different, he will take NO PRISONERS

He is very efficient with a fly swatter and knows all the concoctions to lure and kill flys fruit or other wise 

He avoids using his hands cuz of the bug guts 

If you are afraid of bugs he will find it amusing but he won’t tease or torment you, he will just chuckle at how ridiculous you look up on the counter while he captures the invader.

He is very polite and kind to everyone he interacts with unless they have done something to warrant other wise 

He will use French sayings in English  instead of the English one because he is convinced that “ they are far superior” 

Pins and needles are now ants, it’s raining ropes not animals, forget apples and trees, dogs don’t make cats.

If you use the English versions he will argue the French version is better 

“ bolt of lightning explans the felling of it, love at first sight is so bland.’’

Please convert he will find it unendingly adorable every time 

He does get cuteness aggression and will randomly shove his face into your chest and aggressively nuzzle into you whist squeezing you and violently kicking his legs and making a happy humming 

He will be embarrassed the first few times he does this 

He will get cuteness aggression from your cuteness aggression 

If you bite him he will be very confused but won’t care all that much so long as you aren’t hurting him

You will probably be taller then him and honestly he likes it that way because when you hug him he feels like momentarily  he is a totally encased by you 

You can carry him but only certain ways

No toddler hold, with one arm and him on your hip 

Piggy backs, shoulder sitting and standing are encouraged 

You can only sling him over your shoulder in emergency’s 

Same with under your arm 

He doesn’t like princess carry’s cuz he can’t hold on to much and he wants to touch with  max surface area

Carrying him by his armpits away from you has the same problem, he will struggle 

He does enjoy if you hug carry him with both arms, either his face in on your chest or resting on your shoulder 

I have made a helpful diagram ( I can draw but it’s just stick me cuz I’m lazy)

He will randomly start monologueing if given the opportunity 

He will tell you about being an assassin but only if you ask 

I think he is more likely to be with Someone who has prior experience with fighting

He feels nauseous after producing bubbles 

He will lean on or try to be touching you while he recovers 

You cannot truly surprise him, he will know something is up the moment you even begin to plan 

He knows because you act slightly different 

And hiding  or sneaking something past him is also impossible 

He has to actively try to avoid finding out what your doing 

You’ve snuck something into the garage, I guess he isn’t going In There for a while 

Hiding something behind your back, he isn’t even gonna face your direction while you hide it 

You cannot sneak up on him either 

When you try he will scare you by suddenly turning around and grabbing you 

On the other hand he has  scared and surprised you accidentally many times 

hope you enjoy and this inspires more fic to be written of bullfrog

#Bullfrog #captain laserhawk #captainlaserhawk #bullfrog x reader #Bullfrog images #captain lazerhawk head cannons

[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."

#f1 #f1 angst #f1 fluff #f1 one shot #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc instagram edit #charles leclerc x female reader #cl16 #f1 2022 #f1 fanfiction #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 x reader #ferrari #carlos sainz #arthur leclerc #Spotify

[bvtbxtch]

White Knuckles and Red Hearts | Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

a cute little (I don't know what this work means, the fic is 3.9k words) oneshot for valentines day <3 IT STILL COUNTS BECAUSE ITS FEBRUARY

You had been paired together in Home Ec. You were making eclairs. Everyone else in your class sneered at him, hoping - praying - that they wouldn’t have to be in the same workspace as the freak of Hawkins High. Sure, you didn’t jump for joy when you met him in your designated kitchen space, but you gave him a warm smile and introduced yourself. From that moment on, your name rang through his mind like church bells. His hands shook when the two of you measured ingredients, but you quickly put him at ease with your effortless friendliness.

“So, eclairs huh… have you ever made them before?” You smiled over the metal bowl filled with various dry ingredients. 

“Ahh, can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Don’t find a lot of fancy baking in the trailer park. But I did spend about 10 minutes in a French class before I was kicked out so I do know that it’s french.” Eddie jousted back with a dry laugh. 

“That’s where I knew you from! Your face looked so familiar to me!” You giggled. Eddie’s cheeks bloomed a glowing red. Your smile grew and you peeled your eyes away from him to form your choux. 

“You know, in French eclair means flash.” You babbled. Eddie could see your cheeks were turning a darker pink than the rouge already donning your apples. Eddie wanted to listen to you talk forever. “They say it’s because the glaze on the top of them… or because people eat them so quickly, they’re gone in a flash!” You both looked up and locked eyes. You suddenly felt shy. Stupid under the glow of the big brown doe eyes peering down at you. How the hell did anyone think that this person in front of you was a freak, was dangerous, wasn’t worth friends?

“Sorry, I’m babbling now.” You turned away to begin whipping cream while Eddie had begun to boil water.

“No, no! Babble away! You have interesting stories.” Eddie praised. 

The rest of the afternoon flew by as the two of you laughed, stole spoonfuls of chocolate, and filled your delicate pastries with sweet cream. The bell dismissing the students from their last period of the day startled the two of you out of your dream world. You handed Eddie the last bowl that needed to be put away and wiped your wet hands on your jeans. 

“Well, thanks for being a great home ec partner, Eddie. If we get to pick our people next time, we should work together again.” You smiled and squeezed his shoulder as you breezed past him to grab your backpack. You flashed him another smile and waved at the door. Eddie felt his knees buckle. You were beautiful; Eddie had noticed you at the beginning of the semester, in awe of how simple and easy you made beauty look. You weren’t popular by any means, but as a member of the drama club, you had a great group of friends. Eddie couldn’t imagine why you would want anything to do with him.

DnD wasn’t the same; Eddie’s mind was not fully immersed in the world he had created. Usually charismatic and intense, he was tripping on words, forgetting important details he had set up last session. His mind was transfixed on you. God, he felt pathetic. You were the first girl that wasn’t in Hellfire or wasn’t trying to get free weed from him to be nice to you. Was that all this was? Was he that pathetic that he was going to fall in love with any girl who was nice to him? Surely not. You were different. Not every girl had glowing eyes like you did; nor did they have such a friendly smile, and the slightest dusting of freckles across their cheeks like yours. They didn’t genuinely laugh at his jokes or touched his arm like you did. You weren’t petty or rude or hung out with him as a joke or-

“Dude!” A squeaky voice rang out, interrupting his daydreams of your interactions. “I rolled a 16 does that hit or not?!” Dustin Henderson was not a patient person on a normal day, but now, the third time he had to snap Eddie out of whatever coma he was in, he was rapidly growing angrier by the second.

“Uh- yeah.. How many hit points does it take?” Eddie mumbled. 

Within 25 minutes, the whole Hellfire party had surrendered to their DM, ending the session 40 minutes before their scheduled end. With a frustrated huff, the gaggle of high schoolers exited the stuffy prop room and into the dim hallways. 

February rain was not uncommon in Hawkins. It had caught you off guard though. In typical midwest fashion, the morning had started out mild and sunny. Now, at 5:45 when you were attempting to flee the grip of Hawkins High and make the 10 minute walk to the comfort of your own home, you were met with sleet and rain. You paused at the thick glass doors keeping you warm and dry and let out a long sigh that clouded the vision in front of you. You shrugged your shoulders and pushed through the doors into the cold, wet parking lot. You were kept warm by the thought of seeing an outlandish metalhead in the morning. You had to admit, you had been scared by Eddie Munson. His hard shell deterred many people away, but when you were given the opportunity to get to know him today, you penetrated right through to his soft center. You had to stay after school to direct for the one act festival next month, but like Eddie, your mind was transfixed on your home ec partner. You replayed your conversations in your head as you headed to the main street that dissected the community of little houses and the high school field. You shivered into your jean jacket, cursing the fact that your fashion choices weren’t practical at all for a rainstorm in February. Your eyes stayed glued to the pavement in fear that your face would freeze solid if you looked against the wind. Your hair stuck to the sides of your cheeks. You moved your legs as fast as they would carry you.

Eddie jogged out to his van, now covered in frosted rain drops. The short jaunt already had made his hair heavy with moisture and left a shiver in his spine. His engine lazily sputtered to life and he tore out of the school’s parking lot. He couldn’t wait to get home to pick up his guitar and write you forbidden love songs you would never hear. His headlights pelted through the thick, icy rain. God it was miserable. As he rounded the corner of yet another sleepy avenue, he slowed his van and pulled to the side of the road. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief as he stared at your hunched over figure fighting through the storm (and very obviously losing). He pulled his rusted van over to the sidewalk just ahead of where you were trudging. You stopped and squinted towards the rusty Chevrolet Astro and the curly haired driver that was looking at you with his beautiful, yet worried, eyes. You could see Eddie’s tongue poke out of his mouth as he reached over to the passenger side of his van to unlatch the door. 

“Hey, Y/N! Are you okay?” The boy had to yell to be heard over the pelting rain and the rattle of his exhaust pipe. “Do you need a lift?”

Your heartbeat quickened and your cheeks grew warm. You smiled at him sweetly. “It’s okay, Eddie. It's only a few more blocks to my house.”

“Are you sure? It’s terrible outside. I really don’t mind!” You paused in contemplation. Did you know Eddie well enough to get into his van? Most of your friends would say no, but you felt like you’d known him for a long time. You felt safe around him. So you shrugged your shoulders and hopped into his van with a small ‘thank you’ leaving your lips. A sudden wave of bashfulness hit you after you gave Eddie approximate direction to your house. 

“I-I usually just walk, you know? It was so nice this morning, but…” you ended in a curt giggle, and you couldn’t help but shake your head in embarrassment. It made Eddie’s dimples sprout on each of his cheeks, like you had seen for the first time this afternoon. 

“Well a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking at all! Let alone in weather like this!” Fuck. His lips moved before his brain could catch up and stop him. His eyes grew double in size and it was his turn for his cheeks to turn a bold red. “Sorry I didn’t mean- I mean-”

“It's okay Eddie.” You turned your head away from him to stifle your grin. “I appreciate the ride”

It felt like no time before Eddie pulled up to your house.

“Thank you again, so much for the ride. That was so sweet of you.” That damned shoulder touch again. The warmth from the hand around his jean jacketed shoulder sent molten lava straight to his heart. 

“Hey,” he choked. He ravaged his cluttered console for an old napkin and a sharpie. He hastily scribbled his digits on the napkin and shoved it towards you, eyes glued to his knees. 

“Here, take this, just in case you get caught in this shit weather again.” He didn’t feel your fingers take the paper. He peered up at you, cheeks bright red and brown eyes bright with rejection already. “You know, I just-I don’t mind driving you, you know? It’s strictly just-” He was interrupted by your soft hand around his wrist.

“Eddie” you cooed as you took the wrinkled paper from his hand. “You are the sweetest. Of course I’ll take it. I really appreciate it.” Your eyes locked with him and you felt electricity surge from him to you. You released your grip with a blush and backed away from his van.

“Maybe I can call you about some home ec homework too?” Eddie thought his chest was going to burst out of his chest. 

“Y-yeah, doll. That would be great.”

He watched to make sure you got into your house, and left only when you flashed him a smile and wave from your door. He drove home smitten, still smelling your perfume, feeling your warmth from the empty seat beside him. Blissful giggles escaped his lips. 

-

The shrill ring of the telephone startled Eddie out of his daze and brushed through the cloud in his room to the hallway. He picked up the phone and answered with a lazy ‘hey’. His throat closed when he heard your voice peep on the other end of the line. \

“Hey, Eddie. I-is this a bad time?” Yes. Eddie thought. He was just starting to feel his buzz, now he felt like he was going to have a heart attack.

“No! No not at all! What’s up, Y/N?” His baritone voice went straight to the butterflies in your stomach. You took a deep breath to ground yourself. You could hardly believe what he was doing to you. Yesterday, Eddie was a stranger to you, someone that was interesting to look at, but you hadn’t dared interact with him - he was too cool for you. 

“I-I’m so sorry to ask this… but I think I left my history textbook in your van from this afternoon. I am so sorry but is there any way I can come pick it up or you could-”

“Oh! Yeah I will bring it to you, no problem!” Eddie choked. Your stomach sank in excitement.

“Oh, great, thank you so much!”

“I’ll be there in 10” Eddie hung up the phone before you could let out another apologetic thank you. You bit at your nails in selfish excitement. 

Eddie raced through the darkening streets of Hawkins. He remembered where you lived like the back of his hand: past the school three blocks, to the left, then take a right and you were almost at the end of the street. Luckily the storm  His headlights pulled up to the sidewalk in front of your house, like he did earlier that afternoon. To his surprise, he saw the upstairs window on the second floor illuminated with your excited figure. You sheepishly slid the window open and crawled through it and shimmied down the ivied siding. You trotted up to Eddie’s unrolled passenger window. 

“Hey, Eddie. Thank you so much!”

“No problem. Front door broken?” Eddie chuckled. 

“Nah, strict parents make for sneaky kids.” You wagged your eyebrows at him. You boldly opened his passenger door and snaked into the seat. Eddie’s cheeks grew warm with yours as your bodies were now closer (but not as close as you both craved). He sheepishly handed you your textbook, which you pulled to your chest.

“Thanks, Eddie.” you peeped. A sudden burst of courage hit you, and although your hands felt numb, you took a breath and let the words escape your mouth. “I need to tell you, I don’t think that you’re crazy and weird like people say.” You dared to look into his soft, dark eyes. “I think you’re really sweet, and funny. And it really sucks that Hawkins is too small minded to see how great you are.” You leaned over and gave him a sweet peck on the cheek before hopping out of the passenger seat. Eddie wanted to pull you back to him, to grab your face and press his lips to yours; but he was frozen in shock. He would have never imagined you ever wanting to talk to him again, let alone thinking he was a good guy AND pressing your perfect pout to his cheek?

“Thank you again, Eddie, for driving all the way over here. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He mustered up the strength to break out of his daze. “Yeah, doll. I’ll see you then”

With silent smiles, Eddie watched you retreat back up the siding of your house back through your window, pausing to look back at him. 

Eddie drove home with a smile plastered to his face. 

-

The second week of February was filled with stolen glances in the busy hallways of Hawkins High. Your home economics classes flew by, papers being graffitied with notes and doodles passed between the two of you. Your dreams were filled with Eddie. Every second or third comment to your regular grouping of lunch buddies was something that the metalhead said or did or comments that reminded you of him; But you didn’t dare disturb him and his gaggle of Hellfire-clad freshmen; just like he knew he would warrant a death wish by coming to speak to you and your friends. So, you kept your little slice of heaven to blushing smiles, secret notes, and your home ec class.

When the two of you both found yourselves at school late (which both of you were finding more excuses, Eddie would offer to drive you home. You would sheepishly follow him through the parking lot and take (what Eddie will now permanently hope is) your spot in his rusty van. You were scared to admit it to Eddie, but it was easy for your own revelation: Eddie was very quickly becoming your comfort person.

February 14th was usually a day that reaffirmed that Eddie was destined for a life of loneliness in Hawkins, Indiana. Until, he pried open his overfull locker and was greeted with a small green note with his name neatly printed on it. 

“Eddie. Thank you for being such a great person to be around. I hope you have a great day - just like the rest. You deserve them.”

Under the message, your name sat with a small heart scribbled next to it. Eddie’s cheeks burnt a furious red. His big brown eyes scanned the hallway desperately, hoping to spot your bouncy curls, or hear your infectious laugh; but to no avail. He trudged through the halls. He strode up to Chrissy Cunningham and her gaggle of cheerleaders - your normal crowd.

“Hey Chrissy.”

“Oh- uh, Eddie?” The metalhead could tell that he had caught the girl off guard.

“Sorry, don’t mean to bother you in your natural habitat” the girls shifted uneasily. “But do you know where Y/N is? I need to talk to her… about home ec homework.” He wavered over his lie, and Chrissy caught the note grasped tightly in his hand. 

“I haven’t seen her yet today.” The girl gave a polite but curt answer. The group dissipated, but Chrissy offered a light touch on his shoulder. “When I see her, I’ll let her know you need to talk to her.” With her words ringing in his ear, and the shrill warning of the morning bell, Eddie was alone in the hallway with his lovestruck mind. He decided to do what he did every time he was in crisis: go to the bleachers and make himself forget about all the shit that was worrying him. He spent the morning outside, but by the end of the day Eddie had spent his time either thinking about you, or tracing every inch of the school looking for you.

You had stayed home, school feeling less than ideal today. You had stuffed the note in Eddie’s locker at the end of the day - opting to stay even later than he did and walked yourself home. You didn’t sleep all night, and could barely get any food down today. Would he understand? You were only bold enough to make a move in subtleties. Would he care? 

Eddie gripped his steering wheel with white knuckles. It was a drive that he wished was both over already and would never end. It was a short drive to your house from Forest Hills Trailer Park. Eddie had called Hellfire off and beelined out of the school when he found out you hadn’t shown up at all. He felt he had paced a trench in his bedroom floor debating whether or not he should go to your house. What if the letter was a mistake? Or if you were only reaffirming you only liked him as a friend? When the clock hit 9:30pm, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and trotted down the concrete steps. When the van rumbled to a start, he turned the radio fully off, too tempted to be absorbed in his own thoughts. The streetlights of your neighborhood illuminated the small red heart box and the humble bouquet of roses that sat where you normally did. Eddie chewed on his lip so hard he thought he tasted blood. His brakes squealed to a halt on the sidewalk outside of your tidy little house. He had hoped that the light in your bedroom would be off, so he could wimp out and go home and hide in his bed forever. But his heart skipped an excited beat when he saw the light in the window you had crawled out of a week ago was on, and it illuminated your figure moving through your room.His breath caught in his throat as he turned the key in his ignition and grabbed his wares to begin his journey up the ivy siding to your window. 

-

You had hid yourself away in your room - cassettes, VCRs and books being your welcome distraction from your anxious heart. A tap on your window pulled you from Madonna’s breathy whines about living in a material world. Your heart dropped to your knees when you saw a mop of dark ringlets framing an alabaster face. Eddie’s eyes were wider than you have ever seen them, but filled with an unreadable haze. You rushed to the window and let the boy fall into your room. He straightened himself up with a nervous smile, you returned the sentiment. His hands stayed fixed behind his long body. He shifted his weight, but couldn’t help but inch closer to you as well. 

“Hey” he peeped

“Hi, Eddie. What are you-”

“I-uh. I got your note.”

Your breath hitched and it was your turn to shift your weight. The spot on your carpet was suddenly too tempting to look at than Eddie’s face. His hands obscured his vision. In them you saw a small red box, and flowers. You looked up at Eddie with confused excitement; his face was warm, cheeks blushing. 

“I looked for you all day at school today because I wanted to ask you if you’d be my-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you threw yourself into his arms. Your cheek could feel the pounding in his chest and he stood in shock. 

“Of course I will, Eddie.” You breathed into him. You pulled yourself away from him and took the flowers from his hand. You placed them on your desk with a giggle. You turned to see the open box that Eddie had in his hand. In it laid a small chain with a pink and purple guitar pick. You gasped in awe and your eyes filled with tears. 

“I thought, since I have one-” he pulled a red and black pick on a chain out of his Dio tee. “We could kind of match.” Eddie’s voice shook. His cheeks matched the red on his own necklace. You pulled him to you and pecked your plumped lips against his cheek. Eddie chuckled as he spun you to put your new favorite piece of jewelry on you. Eddie clasped the metal and ran his hands down your arms. 

“Let me take you on a date, please?” He whispered. His hands sent shivers throughout your body. His lips pursed on the top of your head and you wished you could stay in this moment forever. You turned in his arms and draped yourself around his neck. His arms migrated from your arms to your cheeks. His doe eyes were dark with admiration, he wanted to devour you whole, but he waited, silently asking for permission to press his lips to yours. You silently obliged him and tilted your chin up to him. His soft lips met yours and the world slowed. His thumb traced small grounding circles on your jaw. Your insides filled with molten, a desperation for the moment to never stop. Eddie’s soft lips probed yours, lightly asking for permission to deepen your kiss. You permitted him with a content sigh and let Eddie show you just how much he really cared about you. All of the words he was too afraid to say to you, all of the times he wished that he could sweep you off your feet and kiss you in front of everyone. For the thank you he couldn’t give you for the note you left him. For the times he wanted to ask you out in his van, or the time he desperately wanted to tuck your wet hair behind your ear the first day he drove you home. He poured all his heart out to you and you felt it. You pulled away softly with wet eyes. 

“Eddie, I would be honored.”

-

Taglist: @eddies-acousticguitar @mmunson86 @sadbitchfangirl @hideoutside @anxiousobserver @ali-r3n @brinleighsstuff @filth-fiction-archive @vintagehellfire @kirstinjayjay @darknesseddiem @poofyloofy @sluggzillaa @aol19 @dark-angel-is-back @keikoraven @emxxblog @adrenalineeerevolver @crybabyddl @lovemegood @cherry-pop3547 @cozmiccass @leelei1980 @trixyvixx @skylar-ish-meh @harrysgothicbitch @emsgoodthinkin @micheledawn1975 @thehuntresswolf @girlwiththerubyslippers @blueberry-lemon

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson ff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson edit #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson brainrot #eddie munson x female reader #stranger things fic #eddie munson ficlet #carly writes

[bahrtofane]

after pleading and much excitement on kylians’ end, you finally bite the bullet and take him with you to your hometown of algiers. 

kylian x algerian!reader

word count : 1.3K+

watch it: fluffy fluff fluff, mild over thinking and angst if u rly rly dig deep for it 

luv my country fr fr

—--

theres a small dent on the wall from where you banged your elbow so hard you swore you broke it. you were around 10. it's been years, and the little spot still stands. you never forget to run your thumb over the ridges, the cool wall warming under your touch.

It's been years, but the wall holds the memory, a mirror of you. each flick of your thumb ignites the scene inside your head over and over, you swear you can feel your elbow sting. you remember the way you hissed sharply and called for your mom, who came scuring from the hallway. and how your cousins all lined up to see the damage and soon teased you for being a baby. screeching at the 'crater' you left in the wall. your aunt snapped a picture of the comotion while she laughed hysterically, hand on her hip, head tossed back while the rest of the family filled in to check out the commotion. 

you were given a wet towel to keep in your elbow till the swelling went down. and the teasing never stopped, in fact you're bound to have it happen at any second. your cousins called you bulldozer for years, some still do. that's even your contact name in a few of their phones. 

it's so silly how such a little moment from so many years ago carries on. wasn't even your funniest moment in full honesty. you have much better ones. 

it's been years, and it remains one of your many contributions to your grandmother's little flat. cozy and quaint in the center of algiers. today you bring a new addition, kylian.

you joked about taking him once, just a passing comment while you showed him pictures from your last trip. he hummed, latching onto the idea like an excited puppy to a chew toy. bothering you with itineraries (as if you need one in your hometown?), your texts are a wall of flight screen shots at this point. and of course bombarding you with questions every second he got the chance. 

"should i pack light?"

"what cities will you take me to?"

"do you think i'll need to bring a lot of security?"

in truth, you were hesitant to bring him along.

 going back home is a feeling you can never get enough of. from the moment you step off the airplane and the familiar smell of your country hits your face, to your first dip into the mediterranean, a homemade meal, singing out of cars in the dead of night while you race through the city. 

bringing him is an intimate ordeal. your country is your first love, first home. she raised you in a sense. 

she is a part of him, the same as she is of you. but having him in your grandmother's home? introducing him to your very lively extended family? you don't know about that.

you were worried about your sanity as much as his. you know the questions will be never ending. he's your fiance now after all, wedding in the works. this is only going to add to the disaster that is wedding planning. you know you're going to have to squeeze in promises of inviting your 2nd cousins aunts cats neighbors gardener. 

and how could you forget, he's kylian. kylian mbappe. there's no way you're bringing him to the heart of algiers and going to be free to roam the streets as you please.

you know you'll never be able to do so on your own again once the media puts two and two together. good by freedom. it's easy in resorts or fancy hotels. everything can be arranged. but not here. 

you and kylian value your privacy dearly. french media has barely ever gotten a proper look at your face and you intend to keep it that way. but you don't think you can get away with that here. you want to show him real places that hold history and the people. not just fancy villas on the coast that cost more than you want to think about. 

he pleaded with you anyway, even after you voiced your concerns. "i have an agent and security for a reason. just take me and the rest will come easy. don't even worry."

you frowned, "it'll be in the summer, when everyone else and their mother is going."

"i just want to see it you know, authentically. i want to experience just a part of what you did growing up." he confessed, shy. 

and so you caved. and here he is. leaning against that same wall you rammed into all those years ago, fanning his face with a pile of notebook paper he found lying around after a long day of unpacking the gifts you bought for your family. 

he's had a long day of posing for pictures and videos, all of which you rolled your eyes at. it's nearing sunset, and you press your forehead against the familiar cool wall of one of the living rooms. it's going to be where you sleep for the next 2 weeks or so. 

the couches convert to beds and you get to play the age-old game of war with the mosquitoes that torment you. you haven't told kylian yet. he needs to be ambushed in the middle of the night for the full authentic experience. ha ha ha. 

you look back to where kylian is sat on the couch perpendicular to yours, hes given up on the fanning. hand under his thighs while he watches what he can of the balcony. you can see the sea from here. in all its beauty. the gentle wind it brings flutters the curtains while you hum. 

tomorrow he meets the rest of your family and you can't help the butterflies that pool in your stomach at the thought. your fiance, meeting the rest of what makes this house a home. you can't wait. for now though, all you want to do is nap.

you get up from your couch, sliding on your socks to press up against his side. even if its pushing near broiling temperatures. he doesn't complain, only bringing his hands to cup your face gently, giving your nose a peck. 

"its so beautiful here, " he sighs, "thank you for bringing me."

you hum into his lips, giving them a firm kiss, "you're welcome my love. i'll show you around tomorrow. it's time for my post flight nap."

he gives you a lazy smile, "yes please i was waiting for you to bring it up. it's past my nap time." he pouts.

you roll your eyes and throw one of the couches throw pillows against his chest. he manages to grab it, hurling it back at you. and while you're distracted he curls his hands against your side, tickling you till you yelp and thrash in his hold, back pressed against the couch while you gasp in between laughter. 

he finally lets you go and collapses on top of you, kissing any skin he can reach.

"okay get off, it's too hot for that." you groan.

he at least listens to that, peeling himself off you and retreating to the far end of the couch while you set up yours for what you know is going to be top 5 naps of your life, easy. 

against the gentle breeze and city sounds, you're lulled to sleep. in your vision you see kylian getting ready to do the same, reaching over to press one sound kiss on your forehead before settling down into his little bubble. 

you could do this forever you think. you're glad he came.

#kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe one shot #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe imagines #kylian mbappe imagine #mbappe #kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x you #mbappe x reader #kylian x you #kylian x reader #kylian imagines #kylian fanfic #mbappe imagine #mbappe fanfic #mbappé #football fanfic #kylian fluff #bahr footy

[taurussbabe]

Heyyy!! so I do not know if you are accepting requests but if you are can make Charles x reader wave she is a newly formed doctor of formula one and he does not trust her much until Charles gets hurt and needs care which forces the two to approach

It's not about liking

a/n: thank you so much for this request anon! absolutely loved writing this, hope you like it! word count: 1k pairing: Charles Leclerc x doctor!reader Tw: car crash; mentions of ferrari and their dnf's

“Hey Y/n!” Pierre said as he walked towards you, leaning in to give you a hug “How are you?”

“Hey, I’m good” you answered and greeted the French man, heading to your office. Meanwhile Pierre was talking to his friend “You still don’t like her?” he asked Charles.

“It’s not about liking, I just think that’s weird they hired someone so young and unexperienced.”

“You should give her a chance, she’s really nice” Pierre yelled before entering the Alpine garage.

.

You were watching the race on your office when you saw a car lose control, roll over and hit the barriers. It was never a good feeling whenever someone had an accident. You couldn’t see whose car it was, only that it was one of the Ferraris.

Soon enough, you got a call saying it was charles’ car, the call was also letting you know that he as coming for a checkup. You knew charles didn’t trust you enough and that obviously affected you, but you also knew that this was your chance to prove yourself to him.

Someone came in with charles and helped him sit on the bed.

“Ok, I’m gonna need you to take your helmet off, please, do you want me to help?” you asked softly but he didn’t answer you, just took off his helmet and balaclava.

You just thanked him and asked if he knew where he was, and what had happened and a series of other questions, ruling out concussion.

“Ok, look, I think you have some fractur here, so we have to go to the hospital.”

“We?” his voice came out rougher than usual, probably because of the scream he let out on radio and because he hasn’t even said a word since he came in the office.

“Yes, we, I’m your doctor if you get hurt on service, so let’s go.”

.

You were in the waiting room, you had talked to the doctors, and they were now doing some tests on Charles. Soon, a doctor came in announcing he was being put on a cast.

“Hey.” He said as he entered the room.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Better” he answered as you head towards the street, immediately feeling the cold breeze hit your face. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Oh, no problem, I was just doing my job.”

“Yeah, but your job is to be my doctor, not to be nice to me when I was a total jerk to you earlier.” A small smile crept onto his face as he said it and you realized he was truly sorry.”

“It’s fine, you were upset, I understand.”

“Well, you don’t have too, so, I’m sorry, I really am.” You smiled at him and nodded softly.

You were talking outside before saying to charles “Hey, look I actually live nearby, we can walk there and I can drive us both to track, if you want to, of course.” You offered.

“Yeah, that would be great, if you don’t mind, of course.”

He let you lead the way, considering he didn’t know the way to your place. “Hey, thanks, by the way, the other doctor may have mentioned that the fracture could have gone unnoticed easily, but you saw it, so thanks.” He knew those words meant a lot to you and made you extremely proud, yet you still remained professional.

“Again, just doing my job.” You said and shivered from the cold.

“Wear my jacket.”

“What? No, of course not, it’s yours.” He forced the jackets onto your shoulders and smiled.

“Keep it.” He smiled.

The rest of the walk to your place went easy-going, and the conversation kept flowing easily.

After you reached your car, you started driving you both to track, making a joke how ‘it wasn’t a Ferrari, but you hoped it would be good enough for him’ just to tease him. Once you reached the track, charles got out of the car and asked if you wanted any company, but you sent him home to rest, because he definitely needed it. And without even realizing it, that night he went home with a smile on his face, despite the horrible crash he had been on. Maybe Pierre was right, maybe he should have given you a chance earlier, maybe you were nice, just like he said.

.

After a week, you were now in Spain, travelling with the drivers, when Charles approach you.

“Hello” he said in a singing way as he got closer.

“Hi, ready to watch the race instead of being in it?” you ask him, knowing he would be pissed, but instead, he just smiled and nodded. “You only have to miss two races, it’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Hey, I was meaning to ask you, do you want to watch the race from the garage, so you don’t have to be alone watching it?”

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you to offer, but I have to be in the office in case someone needs me.” You could see his expression changing until his face suddenly lit up again.

“I can watch it there with you, I’m not needed in the garage anyway, if you don’t mind of course.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” You smiled at him and he smiled back at you, his dimples appearing as he did so.

.

That weekend and the next one, charles joined you in your office, as you both watched the race together, earing some looks and jokes from, mostly, Pierre and Lando.

.

“You like her, mate, just ask her out already.” Said max as he and Lando tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Charles to ask you out.

“I don’t think she likes me, I was very rude to her before.”

“Mate, I’ve seen the way she looks at you, she likes you.” Lando said, which made him blush and look down.

.

“Charles” you called him out.

He turned around at the mention of his name and smiled when noticed it was you who was calling him.

“Hey, how are you?” you asked the Monegasque in front of you.

“I’m good, so much better, thanks to my amazing doctor.” You laughed before continuing with the conversation.

“Listen, I don’t know if I’m crossing any boundaries or anything, but would you like to maybe go out sometime?”

“Yes” he said very quickly, and then realized how desperate it sounded so he just said again, this time more calm “I would love to.”

Turns out, Pierre was 100% right about you, you were indeed amazing.

#charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #taurussbabe #charles leclerc fluff

[i4gonzalez]

Kylian Mbappé

FLUFF ALPHABET

FLUFF ALPHABET: kylian mbappé

summary: things about your relationship with kylian based on each letter of the alphabet. (this is right? idk how explain it)

notes: i had never done a fluff alphabet, so i’m a little insecure about it. anyway, be kind to me;)

ps: if you want me to make a separate imagine about any letter, please let me know.

english isn’t my native language, so i used translator for it

━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━

ATTRACTIVE: physically, kylian loves your smile. your smile was the first thing he noticed in you. kylian is sure that your smile improves his days and always tells you that. he does his best to see you smile every day. emotionally, kylian loves how positive you are. since he met you, he has also become a little more positive. you are like a walking ray of sunshine.

BABY: kylian never had a serious conversation with you about children. sometimes you made a mental list of names for babies, kylian always chose girl’s names while you chose boy’s. anyway, you agree that you are not ready to be parents yet.

CUDDLE: kylian knows that you love that he cuddle you in the back, so he always does. sometimes he also cuddles you supporting his head between your neck and your shoulder.

DREAMS: you two like to imagine yourself in the near future. kylian always imagines you together on the beach, having a lot of free time — since you don’t have much. kylian knows that you love the sea. maybe you could also adopt a dog, it would certainly be called petit (which means small in french)

EARLY MORNINGS: kylian wakes up early every day and — unlike you — this is not a problem for him. sometimes when kylian comes back from morning training on weekends, you are still sleeping or being too lazy to get out of bed. but when he is off he likes to enjoy lazy mornings with you, since you hate getting up early.

FIRST DATE: kylian was a little nervous while waiting for you at the restaurant. When you arrived, he handed you a bouquet of your favorite flower and you smiled. your smile made his nervousness go away and everything was more natural. you talked and laughed a lot that night. kylian gave you a ride to your house and felt very lucky to have gone out with you.

GRATITUDE: kylian feels very grateful and lucky to have you with him. kylian knows that it is not easy to have a relationship with a person who has a public life. since a few weeks of dating, paparazzis have started following you and you both know what the hell this is. after seeing you endure all this madness and several hate messages from his female fans, kylian was sure that you were the perfect person for him.

HONESTY: kylian is always an open book. he has no reason to lie and always talks to you about everything. he is also not very good at hiding things from you, even if it was something small like your surprise birthday party. you value honesty a lot, so you love the fact that kylian is so honest.

IMPRESSION: the first impression that kylian had about you was that you were like a walking ray of sunshine. you were always smiling and being kind to everyone around you. after you smiled at him, kylian was sure he had to ask you out.

JOKES: kylian is not a joker, but he makes a point of thinking and learning several jokes to make you laugh. he knows that you smile easily and loves your laugh. you try to make him laugh with some silly jokes too, but you can never finish them, since you end up laughing before the end. kylian loves it.

KEYS: one of kylian’s favorite memories is from the day he gave you the keys to his apartment. “what is this?” you asked, after seeing that kylian gave you a small golden key. “this is the key to my apartment,” he said. “well... now it’s our apartment, right?” kylian asked, making you smile. “is that serious?! damn k, i love you!” you hugged him and then kissed him for a while.

LOVE LANGUAGE: kylian’s love language is physical touch. he loves to hug you, hold your hands and be together with you. kylian knows that your love language are words of affirmation, so he always makes a point of praising you and telling you how much he loves you. you’ve never been a big fan of hugs, but kylian’s are an exception. his hugs makes your day so much better.

MARRIAGE: kylian and you really want to get married one day. you two are waiting for the right moment. you agree that it would be something small, only with close friends and family. you and kylian imagine what your married life will be like — with ups and downs, like every couple — but for sure the honeymoon is the best part. you two would love to go somewhere that have sea. boats are also indispensable!

NICKNAMES: since the beginning of your relationship, kylian calls you mon soleil (which means my sun in french). you just call him k because you always thought these nicknames with initials were cool.

OBSESSIONS: kylian knows that you love shells. you have a collection of shells (like a kid); there are small, big, beautiful and common. he always makes a point of getting some shells for you every time he goes to the beach.

PETS: kylian and you don’t have any pets. you’ve wanted a dog before, but you realized that neither of you have enough time to take care of one. even so, you have a list of names for dogs on his phone notes. the first name on the list is petit.

QUESTIONS: kylian and you always make a point of asking each other thoughtful questions every day. “how was your day?” and “you know that I love you, right?” are in your vocabulary.

RAINY DAYS: just like you, kylian hates rainy days. even so, when he’s off, he takes the opportunity to rest and watch several series with you. he prefers action series, but ends up giving in when you try to convince him to watch romantic series like bridgerton or normal people.

SONGS: on your first date, the song la vie en rose by emily watts played on the radio. this is your couple’s song. kylian has a very different musical taste from yours. but when you are together in his car, kylian lets you choose the songs you want — even knowing that you will listen to taylor swift all the way.

TIME: kylian and you are a couple for a year and a half. after some dates, kylian asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend — and you obviously accepted.

UPSET: when you is upset, kylian make his better for cheer you up. sometimes, he just seat on your side and be a support for you.

VALENTINE’S DAY: valentine’s day is your favorite date. kylian always does his best to spend as much time with you, in addition to giving you lots of gifts and chocolates. you always make cute cards for kylian.

WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: kylian always tells you many words of affirmation, since this is his main language of love. he also loves to praise you in french, kylian always says things like “tu es belle” (you are so pretty), “je t’aime mon amour”, (i love you, darling) “vous êtes si intelligent!” (you’re so smart!). you love when kylian speaks in french.

XO: you and kylian are the kind of couple who loves to hug and be together. you two always find a way to touch each other physically. you walk hand in hand, kiss and hug each other all the time. physical touch is the basis of your relationship.

YES: the happiest day of your life was when kylian asked you to date with him. it was on your eighth date, kylian took you to a surprise restaurant, the place was very beautiful and elegant. he seemed a little nervous, so he gave you flowers and held out the ring, kylian said “y/n, i love you! do you want to date me?”. you smiled and obviously say yes.

ZOO: a few months ago, you saw a giraffe while scrolling your instagram feed. that was enough for you to really want to see a giraffe in real life. so, you spent several days asking kylian to take you to the zoo and after some time you finally went. taking some pictures with a giraffe and seeing it in person was amazing, this will definitely be one of the coolest things you’ve done. despite not being a big fan of giraffes, kylian liked to see you so excited and happy.

━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━ ━━━

★ the requests are open! you can also send requests to social media fics or fluff alphabets.

#football #football imagine #soccer #kylian x you #kylian fanfic #kylian mbappe #kylian imagines #kylian x reader #kylian smut #mbappe fluff #fluff alphabet #mbappe imagine #mbappe fanfic #mbappe x you #mbappe smut #mbappe x reader #mbappe one shot #mbappé #soccer imagine #social media imagines #imagine #fanfic #kylian x oc

[blossom-works]

Power Couple

Request (anon): Hiii!! How are you? Can I ask for a kylian request where both the reader and him go on Ridiculousness and it’s just all fluff and jokes, thanks anyway

Thank you for your request! I had to tweak your submission since I don't think Kylian would allow his s/o on a platform like that for privacy's sake. I do hope that I made you proud with this though!

---

About a month ago, you and the board of your hospital agreed that it would be best if you quit your job. Now, why would you quit a job you absolutley loved doing? The reason why both parties agreed to it is because while you were on maternity leave, someone found out you worked at the hospital and told the world. People started coming to (and sneaking in) the hospital just to snap a photo or a short video of you. Some even harrassed you. It got so bad that the safety of the staff, patients, and actual visitors came to the surface.

When you told Kylian about this, he was furious. He took it to his social media and posted a statement saying that he was disappointed with his "fans" behavior. Kylian also said that he would be taking the threats and harassment towards you to court. "I do not take the safety of myself or my family members lightly. All threats and harassment made towards my wife maliciously or jokingly, will be investigated by my legal team."

You cried for days after you left your job. You truly loved it and the kids there. Kylian even asked to take a day off practice to make sure you were okay. Since then, you have been distracting yourself by being a stay-at-home mom. You loved it. You love being able to take care of your child 24/7. In fact, you took pride in it. When Matthew was old enough, you and Kylian enrolled him in daycare. It would be good for him to socialize with babies his age and people who are not you or Kylian. You hated being home alone with no husband or kid to dote on. It was just you and that big ass house.

You brought this to Kylian and you both came up with a solution. Fayza, your mother-in-law, is working on a project for Inspired by KM and she could use your help. You immediately accepted Kylian's proposal and the next week, you were working alongside your mother-in-law. Your first day was pretty easy, just reviewing the project itself and adding your little details. The following days were more hands-on work. You even had to do a small interview with Fayza about the project.

To say that you were nervous was an understatement. You are grateful that Fayze was there to take the lead when you stumbled here and there. While in Bondy, you met the kids there and did so many fun activities with them. From cooking and baking to playing a game of football with them. At that time, the targeted demographic did not know that you were Kylian's wife, but now, people know that Kylian's wife is supporting her husband through his organization.

Now, you are confident when doing your interviews. You added a lot of value to the organization that you ended up being named "director". A position that sits just under Kylian. You even have your own secretary! French news media went wild about how much of a power couple the two of you are. When you were given the position of director, Kylian threw a huge party to celebrate. The more projects you push out in Inspired by KM, the more your face gets recognized. You transferred the knowledge you gathered while working at the hospital and inserted it into Kylian's organization.

You and your family traveled to France a few days ago because you and Kylian have to do an interview there to talk about the latest project of Inspired by KM. Kylian's parents will be at the family home so they can watch their almost one-year-old grandson.

The two of you agreed to stick to a neutral-colored wardrobe. Kylian is wearing a white button-down and black slacks with some loafers and as always, donning a HUBLOT watch. You chose to wear something a little more dressy. A back shirt and blazer with a pair of beige, velvet pants and nude heels. You tied your hair in a low bun and are wearing an Olivia Burton watch Kylian got you for your first anniversary. Quite the power couple look indeed.

(Bold dialect will be in French)

"Mrs. Mbappe, it's well known that you joined your husband's organization because you lost your job at a Spanish hospital. How was that like for you?"

Ah, a question you have heard and answered a dozen times before.

"It was hard. I loved my job but the board and I came to a mutual understanding and agreement. Both parties agreed that it was no longer about whether or not I should keep my job, but it was about the safety of the people who worked and were administered there."

The interviewer nods and writes down a couple of notes. He then asks Kylian how he felt about the situation. Kylian just said that he was angry for you and did what he could to protect you. He calls the incident a blessing in disguise because you have done so much for his organization, and it has made the two of you closer as a couple.

"You gave birth in the fall of last year, correct? Has motherhood clashed with your duties for Inspired by KM?"

"No, it hasn't. I'm thankful for my husband's resources that allow me to work with Inspired by KM. Motherhood has made me a more nurturing woman which helps with my job at KM."

Again, he nods and writes down some notes. The interview so far is a bit redundant. His questions have been questions you have answered before, just worded differently. It does not help that the interview is a live one (with a live audience), so you cannot make any signs that show your disinterest.

"So, the recent project Inspired by KM was actually partnered with UNICEF. Can you tell me how that happened, Mrs. Mbappe?"

Finally! A question about the project that was recently launched.

"Certainly! I have always admired the work that UNICEF does and our missions align. One is just more global than the other. I shared my desire to expand KM's reach to children all over the world with my husband and our board at KM. Everyone came to an agreement and I wrote a proposal partnership to the general director of UNICEF."

"Why did you agree to it Kylian? Other than it being because your wife wanted to."

"When my love first brought the idea up, it was just the two of us. She had already come up with the project's structure and it was all very detailed. It wasn't just something she came up with on a whim. My wife did her research because she truly wished to make the project a reality. She was very passionate. She was still passionate when she proposed the idea during a board meeting. My wife supports me by cheering for me in the stands when I'm playing, and she supports me by working for my organization. I agreed because I want to support her."

The audience watching clap for Kylian's response. They even hollar when you kiss Kylian's cheek in appreciation. You are so glad that you are wearing makeup that hides your blushing face (besides the actual blush used).

"I want to bring attention to this projection screen here." The interviewer motions to the object. The projection turns on and a video pops up. The play button is clicked and when the first frame comes on, you hide your face into Kylian's shoulder in embarrassment. He too hides his face in your hair in embarrassment.

What on earth is being displayed to make you and Kylian want to hide from the world? It is a video of you and Kylian carelessly dancing in the office building. To destress the two of you, Kylian put on some music and coerced you to dance with him. Neither of you realized that Wilfried recorded the moment.

In the video, neither of you cares to observe your surroundings. Heck, one part of the video shows Kylian trying to twerk to the beat of the music. The room fills with laughter and you and Kylian are trying your best to shrink yourselves. Oh God! This entire interview is being broadcast! - Live!

Thankfully, the video stops at one minute and the torture is over. Takes a couple of seconds for the laughter to die down which does not help with your embarrassment. You are pretty sure your blushing face is showing through your makeup, but you can only know when the videos and photos of today come out. You lift your head off of Kylian's shoulder and fan your face. Kylian is busy wiping the tears of laughter and pain away from the corner of his eye.

"Well, it seems like the two of you do a great job at supporting each other." The interviewer coughs out. "In all seriousness, it's great to see two busy people such as yourselves enjoying the small moments in life. It's relatable and I believe it brings a positive message to people that they should have fun when they can."

Your husband speaks up. "I agree. It's like with football. I have to be serious when I'm on the pitch but when I'm off, I can have some fun and enjoy life. Enjoy the life I have with my wife." Kylian reaches over and holds your hand in a tight grip. He brings the back of your hand to his mouth and plants a firm kiss on it. The star athlete is never big on PDA. He always finds a way to hold onto you though. It could be hand holding or putting his hand on your waist or the small of your back. The most PDA Kylian will do is a kiss on your head or a small peck on the lips.

For the remainder of the interview, Kylian never let go of your hand. The two of you had to stay an hour or two after the interview to do some fan service (mainly Kylian). Many of his fans came up to you and asked how Matthew was doing. It warms your heart to know that there are people who you do not know, who care about your small family. You tell them how Matthew is a wiggle worm and how he loves to eat squash. He hates tomatoes and is unsure about cucumbers. Bread and cheese though, Matthew would live off of it if he could (French genes amirte).

A little far from you, you think you hear someone asking Kylian if he can teach them how to twerk. Your husband persistently declines the request that was clearly made to poke fun at him. Gosh, that video is going to haunt him forever, huh? Mentally, Kylian sarcastically thanks his father. The day was eventful for the two of you. Over the course of a few months, you have learned how to see the blessings in the curse. You found a way to help children not just in your community, but to the children spread across the globe.

---

Hope my little newsletter isn't too cringy or pathetic

#x reader #fanfiction #football #kylian x reader #kylian mbappe #mbappe x reader #kylian mabppe x reader #kylian mbappé imagine #football imagine

[eyeofnewtblog]

Things that happen at home:

So, my mom had her first symphony concert this weekend, and I’m happy to report that it was a smashing success.

What I personally thought was really cool is that the whole symphony is mostly older women. Most of the brass section was older men though, and you could tell that the trumpet and trombone players were having a great time with the music (lots of jamming out head and shoulders movement) and WOW that tuba player has A Set Of Lungs.

Honestly kinda makes me miss the days when Middle Sister would stand just outside my bedroom door and just BLAST through her practice session as fast as possible. Yes, she was a tuba player. Yes, she was in marching band and orchestra. Yes, I absolutely ran out screaming “MOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!” Every. Single. Time. No, that did not stop her in anyway whatsoever.

Anyway, there was also a cello soloist that performed with violin and viola accompaniment, and he was legitimately fantastic. I told my mom during intermission that she was better and she did her scrunch up face of You’re Full Of Shit But I Like The Support which was cute.

I was sitting next to my one of my cousins for the concert and we both kept side eyeing each other and giggling about how he was bobbing along and jamming out…for those of you that don’t know, it’s very easy to jam out and look cool when you have either a very small instrument or a very large instrument.

When you have a medium instrument, like a cello or French horn, you just look silly if you’re jamming out (saxophone is the exception) and my mom has this very…contained way of playing that looks intense but graceful and determined. So to see someone looking like they’re jamming out on an electric guitar while playing a cello was just…hilarious to us, because we’ve been watching my mom jam out for decades and never seen anyone look so goofy while sounding so good.

One of my moms work friends showed up, and she was an absolute delight. Complete sweetheart; it’s also really fucking funny to tease government contractors about their top secret clearances and joke about their projects or basically anything that they aren’t allowed to talk about. (I teased her specifically about being in the CIA because she does intelligence analysis; my husband and I have a long standing “argument” about if my mom works on quantum computers or making targeted ai satellite systems talk to each other, because honestly her PhD could easily allow for both) the goal is to make relatively small jokes and then drop it quickly because you don’t actually want them to violate their security protocols…but fucking hell if it isn’t fun to toe the line.

My mechanic husband had the dubious joy of teaching me how to jump start a car in the parking lot without jumper cables. (My car battery is in the fritz and needs replacement but we honestly thought it could wait another month or so…)

But basically you put the car in neutral, push it into a position that it can roll naturally downhill, then put it in either first gear or reverse (which ever way is down hill, basically) and release the clutch. I’m pretty sure this only works on automatic transmission vehicles, but I could be wrong and didn’t ask for clarification.

I’d like to point out that we were in a crowded parking lot with a perfectly functioning set of jumper cables. We could have absolutely asked any of the ten people walking by if we could get a jump. We could have waited for my cousin to come out, because we were parked right next to each other. But no. “What if you’re stuck by yourself? You pride yourself on being able to get out of anything.”

That man knows me too well.

Overall, great night. Fantastic concert, great learning experience, got to be an absolute little shit. 10/10, would do again.

#humans are space orcs #my mom is amazing as always #cello is the best instrument I’ll die on this hill #car trouble #marry a mechanic #trust me it works #but also #marry a plumber #either way you will never be helpless again

[bloodstainedsaint]

eugene roe x best friend + medic! reader hcs

word count: 900+

warnings: mentions of war (obv) but overall fluffy happy stuff :)

notes: this is really self-indulgent but i hope y'all enjoy it too

first of all, i feel like you're the only person that eugene would ever call by their nickname (at least before babe)

his nickname(s) for you would probably be based off your name or where you're from (if you're not also from louisiana), like “bluebonnet” for texas

your nickname(s) for him would be gene, bayou, or my favorite: genie

when you call him by his real name, that's how you know it's a serious matter

someone would ask: “why do you call doc roe genie?”

“‘cause he makes your wishes come true when he treats you”

if you're from louisiana, then that’s how you know him; otherwise, you guys met in the army, or thru my personal hc: you went to nursing school in louisiana and met him in a town there before the war started

being friends with eugene means that you’re either an extrovert or actually an introvert who is less soft-spoken than eugene and is therefore the more outgoing one between the two of you (bc someone has to be the talker and it's not going to be him)

when he gets mad at you (usually coming from a place of concern, like you were being too risky saving someone…or you didn't eat), he cusses at you/reprimands you in french, and if you don’t know french, then you’re just hearing angry french noises

will give you chocolate bars, a listening ear, and words of advice when you're feeling down (bc his love language is acts of service and quality time)

you’re there to calm him down whenever all his bottled up emotions are too much to suppress any further and he blows up, like with winters and welsh or when he returns from bastogne

you let him know that what he’s feeling is entirely valid and shouldn’t be swallowed down

he’d definitely go off at/death stare anyone messing with you, and you'd do the same for him (but everyone in the company loves y'all so i don't see this happening)

you’re the one who encourages him to talk to easy company’s men, because you know that you could lose them but you’re friends with them anyway and you want him to get close to them too

when eugene’s smiling, you’re smiling because you just want to see him happy

actually, he smiles the most around you, even if it's the fleeting kind

you, as you snuff out the cigarette he was smoking: “how do you smoke and you're a medic? that stuff kills you”

cue eugene hitting you with a slightly annoyed look (he does that a lot) (with love ofc)

when he comes back from the town of bastogne for the first time, you like to tease him about meeting renée

“someone finally understood your gibberish!” or “bayou, why does your face look red? usually you look sickly and pale”

bc that boy looks like a ghost in the ardennes

you’re cheerful when he makes a friend in babe heffron, because until then eugene was only sticking by you

during off-duty times where no one's actively in danger, the two of you are inseparable; where one goes the other is not far, and that goes for anywhere the company takes you

you guys shared a foxhole in bastogne before dike told you two to split up so the company didn’t lose two medics with one shelling

but before that you would huddle up with him for warmth, your head on his shoulder and his head resting on your head

sibling bond fr

from a distance, he smiles as he watches you interact and laugh with the easy guys until you pull him in so he could be part of the camaraderie too

when someone yells medic, one of you goes and the other stays if someone else gets hurt for max efficiency

when the two of you do work together, it's like you guys are in sync, hardly needing to use words to communicate what the other needs to do

you like to mess up his already spiky hair

you can tell when he’s feeling despondent, so you just sit there with him in silence, keeping him company with a few jokes or random stories here and there to get his mind off of things, seeing as he's not really one to vent

if you like someone in the company, trust that eugene is scrutinizing them, making sure that they’re a good match for you and that they’re going to treat you right

he’ll also warn you that having a crush in the military or being in a relationship during war could be dangerous; he has your best interests at heart, but you have to tell him that you know what you're getting into

he WILL tease you a little bit though

“want me to go injure (your crush’s name) so you can treat him?”

cue you smacking him with a “gene!”

he’s protective over you; he’ll stand slightly in front of you when shit starts going down, and if you’re close enough, he’ll check that you're okay first before going on to the rest of the men

you best believe that after the war, you guys are still the best of friends and will keep in touch and visit each other, even if your paths diverge

the rapport between fellow medics is unmatched, and that’s especially the case for you two <3

-

taglist: @mads-weasley, @ronsparky, @dcyllom, @malarkgirlypop

#band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #eugene roe #eugene roe x reader #hbo war #doc roe #doc roe x reader #hbo war fanfic #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #101st airborne #easy company #shane taylor #band of brothers fanfic

[valcubust-writes]

Read the Demo here! / art account is @valcubust​ / Da Spotify

...

2027, A voice transcript found on a recording device:

"...can be killed with fire, testing done in..." A french accent. "September of 2025. If I am counting correct."

. . .

"Now, with more testing I can hopefully learn more about them. Learn advantages. Sending someone out to rile them up. Will check in later."

...End transcript.

You're alive.

One survivor amongst thousands of dead. The actual death toll (if there was ever a record of it) is unavailable now. The world ended in 2026.

Now, four-hundred and twenty-three days later, you're here. In the outskirts of Scarswater, Ohio; you live in what used to be a small farming community. Once full of life and a bustling economy, but even before The End, the area had been steadily gentrified. Dead fields, closed businesses, and now, a beautiful wasteland of parking lots and unused plazas.  

Whatever caused it is unknown. Of course, you could ask everyone you know and they would all have their own ideas about what happened.

All that you know for certain is that in January of 2026, everything stopped working. Cellphones, computers, televisions... all electronics went on the fritz before shutting down entirely. After that, people started disappearing. Animals, too. And then went the crops, mass death of acres and acres of valuable foods and materials. All gone within six months. Mass hysteria ensued, people got scared, started hoarding goods. Everyone and their mother had a gun pointed right at the road, just in case anyone got any funny ideas.

And all of that was before the bizarre sightings.

The... things. Gooey, tar-like. They absorb, and absorb, and absorb.

You wondered, for a bit, how they could eat so much. But that thought has long passed. They have no limits, no voices, no care in the world except consume. How long until they finally consume you, too?

FEATURES

Play as a nonbinary, male, or female character; straight, bisexual, or gay.

Custom Pronouns (I'm considering adding duo pronouns as well. like, she/they etc.).

Choice for a ‘common’ name or something bizarre. In which characters will definitely recognize that you have named yourself something batshit.

Asexual routes (this is very important to me)!

A mildly customizable backstory

Several love interests

LOVE INTERESTS

Miles/Mindy (He/they, She/they): A surprisingly bashful stranger with a farmer's tan, M has the means to keep to themself alive and safe, so why are they bothering to make sure you make it, too? Circumstances have thrown the two of you together, whether or not they stick around is up to you.

Audria (They/them): Goofy and a little out of touch, Audria is a certified genius, not that it matters anymore. The key to your protection — and your group's — is them. They often head out of the camp to scavenge, and  know how to keep a car running. Audria is one of the few people still around who knows anything about electronics. They often seem preoccupied with something important, but Audria always makes time for you.

Calvin/Carissa (He/him, She/her): The unofficial leader of your group — not that they'd want to claim the title — C is in charge of food collection, distribution, and growing. They have a chill attitude about life, and a whole mess of conspiracies. Still, you wonder what's hidden behind all of the easy smiles.

Lola (She/her): Lola is an unfriendly, hot mess. You've never met someone so flighty in your life. She is distrustful and stubborn, and you suspect even the name she told you might be fake. It might be hard to get to know her.

Sandy (She/her, He/him, They/them (genderfluid)): Sandy is a transfer from the West Coast. during a yearly visit to family, they got caught up in an unfamiliar setting. Sandy floats about life, taking very little seriously. They remain fickle in just about every category in their life; they have an easygoing attitude and a tendency to make everything into a joke.

OTHER CHARACTERS

Bea, Preston, Courtney

Bea (She/her): Bea is soft and caring. Not just to you, but the other people in your group as well. Being the only person around with any knowledge about healthcare, she is charge of medical.

Preston (He/him): Preston is a proper hill-billy, not the most likeable of people, but you can't deny he's a good shot. Preston keeps watch and hunts for the group.

Courtney (She/her): The younger sister to C, Courtney juggles many tasks, usually helping out with what others are doing. She always wants to go with you when you leave.

The rest will join later!:)

WARNINGS

 Definitely some bad language, and slang that might not immediately understood by everyone. I’ll most likely include a glossary if it is too ‘Ohio’ of me.

A warning that there is definitely going to be reference to death and hardship (often), as well as active death among background/side characters.

I’m still waffling over a couple of the names I’ve chosen, but for now I think I’m satisfied with them. We shall see!

General warning for horror elements, there’s for sure going to be body horror in the future, and as well as I can write grotesque imagery.

Mentions/explicit depictions of drugs/alcohol/addictions/guns

content/trigger warnings for gender and body dysphoria, plus mild transphobia ( NOT EXPLICIT, it is implied, referencing a point in time in the past )

This setting is (obviously) very specific to me, as I’ve always wanted to tell a story about the type of scenery I see often. I’ve gotten to see a fun mix of rural yet urban in the area I live in that I haven’t seen someone really tackle before.

I’m also super busy, so writing will come pretty slow for me.

Important note: This story may be enjoyed by people who have the same tastes as me, but it’s mostly being written for myself! I love my characters dearly and it absolutely tickles me to see them finally coming to life in text. But it’s very sculpted to my preferences. This story is for me, and it is about my experiences and those I know closely. Give or take a few monsters.

#split if #valcubust #choice of games #interactive books #interactive fiction #split intro sheet #no one has ever been this nervous #as i am right now

[lyralit]

writing characters who speak other languages

> similar sounding words.

if it sounds the same (table in french and table in english) or similar, the speakers of the other language often interject the word in that other accent into the phrase. 

> grammar

grammar isn’t the same in all languages! it’s very easy to translate something literally and have the words completely switch up to make no sense. adjectives often switch sides—so you can go from “run fast” to “fast run”.

> accents

[this is my personal experience] but I’ve never meet a French person speak with a sterotypical “ze toilettes iz zat way” accent. actually a lot of them speak with faint British accents, with a lilt toward more French-sounding words. and just because you speak another language doesn’t immediately equal have a thick accent.

> accents (ii)

also another note: if you speak spanish and french, for example, a lot of people will speak french with the spanish accent on certain words, or vice versa: whichever you know better. if your tongue is used to pronouncing a word that looks exactly the same a certain way, it’s easy to forget to switch accents.

> limits

maybe the character understands Mandarin, but can’t speak it for the life of them. knowing a language isn’t always having every base down! a lot of the time, especially if it’s not your first language, you tend to be stronger in certain areas: understanding, reading, writing, speaking.

> searching for a word

another thing would be forgetting a word in their weaker language: they’ll probably interject the word they know in their strong language with an (as an example) english-sounding accent. or, they run through a really absurd list of words to find the right one: it involves a lot of muttering, one seconds, and held up fingers.

> switching languages (i)

I don’t see people do this often. or at all. unless it’s expressed, or they give up speaking in their weak language and convert entirely to their stronger one. there’s no switching back and forth, half sentences in each language.

> switching languages (ii)

I do this. personally. I know a bunch of languages—english, french, mandarin, spanish—and when I’m writing, or occasionally speaking, in a weaker language, sometimes I will mix them up in the middle of the phrase. this is more for writing, and speaking I can usually manage. I have turned in more than one fremanglish test. (also when I’m speaking, I’m more likely to call my spanish teacher 老师 instead of señora, rather than switch languages completely)

> education

my first language is english, but I had a french education: so many subjects, such as maths and science, I only know the french terms for—even though I know english better. and they don’t always add up. (a triangle (?? I think that’s what it’s called in english) in geometry is an equère. and don’t ask me what a rapporteur is in english.)

other fun things that I too often suffer from ! :

very stupid-sound descriptions for the simplest object because the word FLIES from your brain

freaking grammar again. it was on the list, but french grammar is KILLER and it confuses me so much in english. chinese grammar is almost nonexistent, as far as I know.

jokes! they don’t translate well. my science teacher made a joke about a poisson pané and no one laughed.

slang. you don’t often run around speaking how you do at school. (something that confused other language speakers, I found is that “what’s up” is used to say “hello”, and the speaker doesn’t usually truly mean it)

swear words often convert back to their mother tongue

#these are what I know from *my* experience #lyralit #creative writing #writerblr #writblr #writing #writers block #writing ideas #writing prompts #writers #new languages #languages

[kylianswifey]

First Date - Kylian Mbappe x Reader

Summary:

love ur writing , psg!french footballer reader x kylian has been on my mind a lot… you can do whatever you’d like with this request ! 💐

Y/N had always been passionate about football. Ever since she was a little girl, she would spend hours watching games, analyzing plays, and practicing her skills. So, when she got the opportunity to play for the PSG women's team, she was over the moon. She couldn't believe that she was going to be playing for one of the most prestigious clubs in Europe.

The first time she saw Kylian, she was starstruck. He was already a famous football player, and seeing him in person was like a dream come true. They would run into each other from time to time during training days, and Y/N couldn't help but feel drawn to him. He had a certain charm about him that was hard to resist.

It started off innocently enough. They would exchange small talk, joke around, and even flirt a little. But as time went on, the flirting became more and more intense. Y/N found herself looking forward to their encounters and couldn't help but blush whenever Kylian would flash her a smile.

One day, as they were stretching after training, Kylian made a move. He walked up to her, a mischievous glint in his eye, and asked, "Hey, do you want to grab a drink with me sometime?"

Y/N was taken aback. She had been hoping for this moment for weeks, but now that it was here, she didn't know what to say. "Um, yeah, sure," she stammered.

Kylian grinned, obviously pleased with himself. "Great! How about tomorrow night?"

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. "Tomorrow night? Yeah, that works for me."

"Awesome," Kylian said, before giving her a wink and walking away.

As Y/N watched him go, she couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement. She was going on a date with Kylian Mbappé. It was almost too good to be true.

The next day, Y/N spent hours getting ready for the date. She tried on outfit after outfit, trying to find the perfect one. She settled on a cute summer dress and a pair of strappy sandals. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn't help but feel a little nervous. What if Kylian didn't like her?

As she arrived at the bar where they had agreed to meet, she saw Kylian already there, waiting for her. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a t-shirt, but he looked amazing as always. Y/N couldn't help but smile as she approached him.

"Hey," she said, feeling a little breathless.

"Hey," Kylian said, grinning at her. "You look beautiful."

Y/N felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "Thanks."

As they settled into their seats and ordered drinks, Y/N felt the tension between them. It was different from the easy banter they had shared before. This was more charged, more electric.

They talked about everything and anything, laughing and joking as they got to know each other better. Y/N found herself completely drawn to Kylian. He was charming, funny, and incredibly smart. She could see why he was such a talented football player.

As the night wore on, they moved from the bar to a nearby park. They sat on a bench, looking up at the stars, as Kylian put his arm around her. Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine as she leaned into him.

"Y/N," Kylian said, turning to face her. "I have to tell you something."

"What is it?" Y/N asked, her heart racing.

"I think you're amazing," Kylian said, his eyes fixed on hers. "I've been wanting to ask you out for so long, and I'm so glad I finally did. I feel like I can be myself around you, and I really enjoy spending time with you."

Y/N felt her heart soar. "I feel the same way," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kylian smiled at her, and then leaned in to kiss her. It was a soft, gentle kiss, but it was filled with passion and longing. Y/N felt her body respond, her heart beating faster as she melted into the embrace.

From that moment on, Kylian and Y/N were inseparable. They continued to play football for PSG, but they also made time for each other. They would go on dates, travel the world, and support each other in their respective careers. They were a team both on and off the field.

As their relationship progressed, Kylian and Y/N also started to train together more often. They found that they had a natural chemistry on the field, and they pushed each other to be better players.

Y/N loved watching Kylian in action. He was so fast and agile, with a quickness that was almost mesmerizing. She found herself studying his moves, trying to learn from him.

Kylian, for his part, was equally impressed by Y/N. He admired her tenacity and drive, and he loved watching her play. He found himself cheering her on, even during their competitive drills.

One day, as they were practicing their free kicks, Y/N felt a pang of nerves. She had always struggled with free kicks, and she knew that Kylian was watching her closely. She took a deep breath and tried to focus.

Kylian stepped up next to her, offering her a small smile of encouragement. "You got this," he said.

Y/N felt a sudden surge of confidence. She took her shot, and to her surprise, it was perfect. The ball sailed over the wall of defenders and into the goal. She turned to Kylian, her heart racing.

He was grinning at her, obviously impressed. "Nice one," he said.

Looking back on that first date, Y/N knew that it was the beginning of something special. She couldn't have predicted where their love would take them, but she was grateful for every moment they shared. As she snuggled up to Kylian on the couch, watching a movie and laughing together, she knew that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

#kylian imagines #kylian mbappe one shots #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe imagines #kylian mbappe imagine #football imagine #mbappe imagines #mbappé

[fuckyeahizzyhands]

Con: I think the show deserves a season three whether I'm involved in it or not. It was always David's dream to make three seasons. I would be gutted for him if season three didn't happen. As far as Izzy being involved, that's entirely up to David Jenkins.

Screen Rant: I did some Googling, and I found articles. One of them was titled “Our Flag Means Death Season Two's Best Character Isn’t Who You Think”, and it was talking about Izzy. The other one was “Izzy Hands is the Real Star of Our Flag Means Death Season Two”. Those were both headlines I found. What was it like to find out what Izzy’s journey this season was going to be? It’s had such an impact on so many people.

Con O’Neill: David and I spoke about it quite a lot before we shot, about the redemptive qualities, and I was delighted that we didn't suddenly turn him into a saint overnight. I was delighted that the redemption was complicated and layered, and I don't feel that Izzy disappears in any of it. I think he's very much who he always was, but with slightly more of an open soul. I was so grateful to David and the writers for creating an arc that was playable rather than Hollywood-ized and too easy. It was challenging; it was a very, very lonely shoot for me. I found myself gravitating towards my own company most of the time, mainly because of the hours. And, because if I wasn’t shooting, I was learning to walk on that f***ing leg. If I wasn’t doing that, I was sword training, and if I wasn’t doing that, I was body training, and if I wasn’t doing that, I was recording a song in French. So, I was busy. Our group is a group of beautiful people, and we would meet every Sunday for lunch. Christine used to arrange that. I found myself initially quite hesitant to join that, because it felt like I had this weight on my shoulders, certainly for the first four episodes. I loved it as an actor. I found it really challenging as a man on his own in New Zealand, where it rains [a lot].

Screen Rant: I'm a music nerd, and kind of a musical theater nerd; my favorite episode of this is the one where you're singing in it. I love those sequences so much, your voice is insane, and it's such a good character moment. How did the decision to make that happen—singing, and specifically that song--come about? Did they write that for you because they knew you were a singer?

Con O’Neill: We’re all walking around backstage, telling jokes, playing music, and singing; that’s just what happens when you shoot a show. David called me up while I was in Wellington. I was in Wellington for a week shooting something else. He called me up and he asked me if I knew “La vie en rose”; I knew it, vaguely, but I don't speak French at all. Then, he mentioned that they wanted to do it in an episode. So, I learned the English version, Dean Martin’s version, and then they asked me if I could learn the French version. I don't speak a word of French, not a word, but my partner does, and I had a friend who just played Edith Piaf piano—Jenna (Russell)--and between the two of them, they taught me the French version of the song. If somebody had asked me prior to this, “What song would Izzy sing?” “La vie en rose” would never have entered my head. And now, there's no other song that fits. That's the genius of David. David's very clever with music. We know that--we’ve all experienced how clever he is—but to pick that song for him, at that point in his life? Yeah. F***ing hell. That was genius.

Screen Rant: Your character died this season. How far in advance did you know that, and did that affect how you approached or thought about the season?

Con O’Neill: No. I mean, to be honest, I felt it was going that way. I've been around a long time, and when a character starts this kind of arc, especially in something as interesting as our show is… When David took me out for dinner, I kind of thought this was where it was going, and, partly, I was relieved. I'm not an actor who likes to just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat. And, I knew that Ed and Stede were going to end up together at the end of this season, so Izzy, as he stands, wouldn't make any sense to still be there. So, it was a relief that the decision was being made. I was a bit upset because I love playing him, but leave them wanting more, you know? I will be eternally grateful for what they gave me; how they played him out in the show. The beautiful speech they gave me, the opportunity to do “La vie en rose”, and the opportunity to die in Taika’s arms and to be able to honor that relationship… I couldn't have asked for a better play-off, really.

Screen Rant: This season did introduce, with the Gravy Basket, the potential for someone who has passed on to return. If there was a season three, do you think your character would have anything else to impart on Stede or Blackbeard in a similar scenario?

Con O’Neill: You’d have to ask David Jenkins. I don't know where David wants to take it, and I wouldn't preempt that with me making up stories for Izzy in a flashback or ghostie Izzy, or whatever. I have no idea where David wants season three to go. I think the show deserves a season three whether I'm involved in it or not. It was always David's dream to make three seasons. I would be gutted for him if season three didn't happen. As far as Izzy being involved, that's entirely up to David Jenkins.

Screen Rant: So much of this season and Izzy’s journey is his relationship with Edward and his love for Edward, and so much of the conflict is about how much Edward is changing. Did you have an understanding of what version of Blackbeard, or Edward, that Izzy was looking for, and wanting to be around?

Con O’Neill: That’s a great f***ing question. Between season one and season two, in the interim, Izzy experiences a broken Blackbeard, and a Blackbeard that's never going to go back to what he was, because he's heartbroken. Everyone who's been heartbroken knows that you never go back to who [you] were. He just wants to fix Blackbeard. That's why he takes his life in his hands by confronting Blackbeard; he just wants Blackbeard to be fixed, to find his soul again, [and] to find his heart again. Whether he's involved in that is not relevant. What's relevant is, he loves Blackbeard so much that he wants him to find himself again. So, it's never Izzy’s version of Blackbeard that Izzy’s looking for. He's looking for Blackbeard to find himself again, and that's only through Stede.

Screen Rant: I was looking up the real-life Izzy Hands, who testified against allies to get a pardon and supposedly died a beggar in the streets of London years later. Would you have been interested in that, dramatically, if that was how his story ended on the show?

Con O’Neill: No, that's not our show. We're not historically [accurate to] those times. If we were, they wouldn’t have cast a guy who is 50 to play a 16-year-old pirate. I don't know. I'd love to be able to tell you what area that season three, if it ever happens, would go, but I literally have no idea. I don't think we're going to go down the historical route. I’d be very surprised if we do that.

Screen Rant: I don’t know if you’ll have an answer for me, but I saw that you initially auditioned for a different role. I love Taika so much; I feel like you would have also made a great Blackbeard. Is that who you were going for, initially?

Con O’Neill: Absolutely not, but thank you for saying that. I don’t see anyone else as Blackbeard but Taika. When Taika was announced, I knew what our show was. But no, it wasn’t Blackbeard. And no, I’m not going to tell you.

Screen Rant: Okay. Perfect. Well, clearly it all worked out for the best. I mean, you're incredible, and the whole cast is so perfect in their roles. It's been a pleasure to watch you and… yeah, congrats on the show.

Con O’Neill: Thank you so much.

#our flag means death spoilers #our flag means death #ofmd #con o'neill #izzy #izzy hands #con interview #interview #season 3 #video transcript #david jenkins #screenrant #Youtube

[lefresne]

the wonderful world of medieval language textbooks

While I was writing up some stuff for a class on bilingualism I came across the 14th century language textbook Manière de Langage. This was a book destined to the English travelling abroad in France. Not unlike most textbooks today, it uses didactic dialogues to teach its students French and the Manière therefore doubles as a phrase book that can be brought along on travels!

It includes useful info such as:

Greetings, asking for the time and for directions

Sir, may God grant you a good day…good health…joy / Lady, may God grant you a good evening / Sir, you are welcome. / God keep you, good friend. /God keep you from evil, my friend. / What is the time? / Between six and seven. / How far is it to Paris? / Twelve leagues. / Is the road safe? / God help me, it depends./ Is the road easy? / God help me sir, it is difficult. / Tell me, how many leagues to my destination? / About twelve / Is it safe from robbers?/ God help me, sir, no. Some people were robbed recently / Really? / Truthfully, sir

how to find accommodation and ask for a drink

God keep this fair company ! Where can I find good lodgings? / Sir, just in front, with the sign / God be with us / Sir or lady, hospitality in the name of charity and the Holy Cross / Sir, come in, by God / Lady, do you have good wine? / Truthfully, sir, a lot / What wine? / Red and White / And how much is it? / I have some at sixteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, and two

How to order beer and settle a bill

Lady, do you sell beer? / Sir, the gallon for three coins / Lady, get us some beer! Lady, fill our cups! And bring cups and goblets for the wine. Lady, bring us meat (= food) / Yes, sirs, enjoy your meal / Lady, send for some cheese. Lady, remove the table cloth. Lady, come and count (= settle the bill). Lady, how much was it? / Sir, it is x amount / Lady, take what you need. Is everything paid? Have the beds been made? / Sir, yes / Then let's go to bed!

How to buy items at the market

How much is this? How can I have this? / Do you want it? / Yes, sir, just say the word / Sir, you will give me x for it / Sir, no, that is too expensive!

some useful pick up lines and how to ask a woman out for dinner

(of all the flowers in the dew / It seems to me that you are the most beautiful / like a rose amongst lilly flowers) okay....

a bunch of insults (includes: kiss my ass )

under the useful rubric: Contemporary politics, a reference to the deposition of Richard II

Lady, I am glad to see you / Sir, truthfully, I am happy to see you. What news, sir? / Truthfully, lady, some most extraordinary news / And what are they, please? / God help me, lady, I have heard that the king of England was deposed / What! are you joking? / No, it is the truth / So the English don't have a king? / They do, the one that was Duke of Lancaster, the very nephew of the king that was deposed! / Really? / Really! / And what will happen to the queen? / By God, I don't know, I wasn't there / And the king of England, where was he crowned? / In Westminster

#el.txt

[gravedigginbbydoll]

pencil shavings and shared smiles {pt.4}

Fem! Teacher Reader x Teacher! Eddie

Previous Masterlist Next

AN: Hi friends! Sorry this took so long, I was struggling to finish this chapter and figure out how I wanted things to go but here we are ! Enjoy! (Also pls reblog and like if you enjoy it!)

WARNINGS AND CONTENT: Minors DNI!!!, Noncanon, Hawkins AU, Normal Hawkins, Rumors about Eddie, Eventual Smut, Very fluffy, Outcasts and Bullying, Mentions of Loneliness, Flirting, drinking, violence/fighting, drug usage, mentions of death, Fem!Reader, use of nickname Tish in place of Y/N, older! Eddie, short-haired Eddie, 1995/1996 Hawkins, F! Reader has a dark past, F! Reader is a former goth lol, angst.

Summary: First day of classes, and the day is not too hot for you. 

Following that peaceful afternoon with Eddie, you slowly started to unravel bits and pieces about the man. At the same time, he slowly got you to open up more and more. You had spent your following few lunch breaks between training periods with him, even one day bringing old faded polaroids to prove your brief stint in the goth scene. Eddie had nearly lost it when you showed him a photo of you at a goth club in your hometown, a dark little underground venue fondly called ‘The Church’. 

“Tish, I barely recognize you. Your makeup and clothes! I thought I was the black sheep!” He exclaimed, chucking with pink cheeks. He had started calling you ‘Tish’ as a joke, referencing Morticia Addams. He thought himself incredibly clever when you revealed you had taken French in high school and at your college. 

You had not let him off easy, making him bring proof of ‘The Hair’ Harrington and his own wild mane he had bragged about to your next lunch in the library. He had done as promised, bringing multiple polaroids of himself and his friends. One had him and Steve, along with Dustin and Mike, who you know now as Nancy’s brother. They all had arms slung around each other, Dustin sandwiched in the middle as the shortest in the lineup. Eddie had a mischievous smile, his hair much longer, and his brunette curls wild. He wore a jean vest with patches, a leather jacket underneath, and a worn-out Metallica shirt. It was the same Eddie you knew, but his face had no smile lines or soft wrinkles. Steve looked the same, but his hair looked like it was reaching for heaven, which made you laugh a bit. The other photos all had Eddie in similar attire, and you could even point out some of the people you recognized. 

“See?” Eddie teased. “Told you I was metal, Tish.” 

You were wishing for those lunches and teasing jabs from Eddie currently as you anxiously got ready for your first day with students. Before moving to Hawkins, you mostly worked as a sub due to… extenuating circumstances. You had your first day planned out, opting to do introductions and explain to students what you hoped to do as their first reading while also setting expectations for the classroom. What you hadn’t prepped for was your neighbors having loud and obnoxious sex all night, leaving you lying awake for hours before finally succumbing to sleep. You were now shaky and tired, trying to pull on your heels, leading you to misstep and break your other heel while twisting your ankle. Pain shoots up your leg, and you slide down your wall, a sour mood spreading. You pull off the heels and sigh, trying to calm your nerves and turn the day around. 

Flats it is. 

The ride to school is relatively calm, save for the headache that’s trying to creep in. There’s a bit of traffic, but nothing crazy. When you reach the school, you feel your stomach drop at the sight of parents dropping off their children and teachers’ cars parked in the lot. You check your wristwatch, hoping you didn’t read the time wrong. Instead, the numbers flash at you in mocking tones. 

It’s 9:00 am. The school day has already started. 

You feel your chest tighten as you rush across the parking lot and into the building, trying to dodge the few kids running around the hallways late for their homeroom. When you finally make it to your room, you see none other but Mrs. Doyle standing in your doorway, crossed arms and disapproving, staring at your homeroom class seated at their desks. You scramble in, smiling apologetically at the older woman’s scorn, rushing to your desk, and throwing your purse into your chair as you head to the board to quickly write your name. When you spin back around, you see something on your desk. A candy bar. Next to it is a note scrawled in messy handwriting. You gently pick it up, reading the message. 

Good luck on your first day, Tish. Knock ’em dead. 

A smile finds its way onto your lips, and you straighten up, beginning to introduce yourself to your homeroom class, a new sense of determination and courage finding its way into your heart. 

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

Once you reach lunchtime, I feel the slight boost of confidence beginning to wear off. Your students didn’t seem excited by the reading or explanation of the assignment, groaning at the prospect of homework. 

You sit at your desk, rummaging through your bag, when you hear a knock at your door. You stop to look up, your heart skipping a beat at the idea of a familiar head of curly hair being behind the door. Instead, it pops the head of the ever-scorning Mrs. Doyle. Your heart sinks. 

“Mrs. Doyle, hello. How may I help you?” You smile politely, swallowing down your nerves. 

She enters your classroom, closing the door softly before turning to you; her stern expression has not changed since this morning. 

“I came to discuss your tardiness.” 

You feel your cheeks heat with embarrassment as you nod, trying to offer an apology. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Doyle. I truly appreciate you watching my class this morning. I promise-” 

She cuts you off with a hand raised, her mouth pursed in a hard line. “Now, I’m not sure how they do things in ‘the big city’ or wherever you’re from, but here tardiness is unprofessional. Especially on the first day. Let us hope it’s a one-time mistake.” 

You nod, smiling shakily, your hands trembling. Guilt and shame consume you. “Of course. My apologies.” 

She shakes her head, heading out the door, but stops to look at you first. “Just know… this job isn’t for everyone.” 

You feel your stomach drop to the floor, panic creeping through your system. 

She smiles a sickening faux grin. “Well…good luck, dear.”

As she closes the door, you try to control your breathing. You eventually feel your body relax and decide to look through your bag again to find the small sandwich you managed to throw together during your rush to get ready. You feel your stomach growl and your frustration grow as you realize you left the sandwich out on your counter. You decide to calm the rumbling of your stomach with the candy bar Eddie gave you, but you still feel hunger gnawing due to forgetting breakfast this morning. You groan and lay your head on your desk. Today is quite a day. 

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

The end of the day is finally reached; the students race to get out of school and head home to comics, games, and TV. You smile softly at the children running out of the school, memories of your own youth playing in your head. Some things don’t change. 

You are about to head to the teacher’s lounge and grab a coffee before starting lesson plans when an older gentleman dressed in a button-down shirt and nice dress pants comes to your door. He smiles at you. He’s handsome and clean-cut, but you don’t recognize him. 

“May I help you?” You offer a smile, though confusion swims through your brain. 

He smiles wide and holds a hand that you take and shake gently. “Hello. I’m Mr. Robucks. I’m Jimmy’s father.” 

You hold back a grimace, recalling Jimmy as the well-dressed yet rude boy who didn’t pay attention in class and had attempted to sneakily stick gum in one of the more timid girls’ hair. You stopped him with a stern glance, but he still unnerved you. 

“Ah, yes. He’s in my 2nd-period class. Is there any concern or something I should know, Mr. Robucks?” You furrow your brows but smile softly, trying to not let your nervousness show. 

Mr. Robucks chuckles and shakes his head, his grin wide. “Please, call me Chris. And no, I just figured I’d introduce myself. My boy can be mischievous, but he’s a good kid.” He looks you up and down, making your skin prickle and crawl. “Although, not sure how he could focus with such a young and beautiful teacher.” 

You fake a laugh, trying to be polite. “Oh please, Mr. Robucks. Thank you.” 

He jokingly squints at you, wagging a finger. “Now, what did I say? Call me Chris.”

You smile tightly, grab your bag, and head towards the door. “Well, Chris, it was nice meeting you, but I’ve got to get going-” 

He stands before the door, looking at you and smirking, tilting his head. “Well, I do hope we see each other often. Perhaps I can show you around town.” 

You feel your throat tighten at the offer, trying to keep your fake smile and politeness from cracking. “Perhaps. Good day, sir,” you state, trying to brush past him. 

He steps aside to let you, but you can feel his eyes on your back, watching you walk the hallway. 

You hurry your steps towards the teachers’ lounge, closing the door behind you and letting your head lean against the door as you sigh, trying to regain calmness and a sense of control. 

“Tish…?”

Even in your frazzled state, you recognize the low timbre of his voice and turn. He’s sitting at a table with Steve and another relatively young male teacher to his left. His eyes are full of concern and confusion, and he leans forward. You walk toward the table, an apparent slump in your shoulders. You sit across from the men at the round table, looking up at them wearily. Eddie reaches across the table and squeezes your hand, his hands warm and calloused, the rings he wears a cool contrast against the heat of both of your skin. 

“What’s up, Tish? Hard day?” His usually teasing tone is soft and cautious, and he keeps his soft hold on your hand, rubbing a thumb back and forth across your hand. 

You feel heat rush through you but look up at him, your eyes threatening to overflow with tears, but you fight it with a tight-lipped smile. “Honestly? Not the worst I’ve had.” 

He gives you a pointed look, shaking his head. “Uh, uh. I don’t do well with bullshit, Tish. Spill it.” 

You feel your heart warm before sighing. Then, you launch into the story, explaining everything from the late night you had due to your obnoxious neighbors (which Eddie promptly got up during to make you some coffee, with as much sugar as possible), the students hating the assignment (Steve and Eddie reassure you that the kids are just upset that summer is over, and the art teacher you come to know as Will reassures you that when he had his first year at Hawkins Middle, the kids tore him to shreds), Mrs. Doyle scolding you for running late (Eddie promptly threw up a middle finger and said ‘fuck her’), to the weird father trying to flirt and make passes at you (Eddie and Steve both threw up the finger then, scrunching up their noses). By the end, you feel like a weight has been lifted off your chest. 

You hold your coffee cup, the warmth radiating off your mug spreading through you. You sit with the three a bit longer, laughing at Eddie’s over-the-top gestures. He’s telling a story about his first year teaching and how he fell flat on his face in the middle of the parking lot, making himself look like he’d gotten in a fight. He’d jokingly told his students he was an ‘underground boxer.’ One of them believed him, causing parents to call the school to panic and some of the older teachers (including Mrs. Doyle) to really chew him out. 

After a bit more casual conversation, Will heads home, grabbing his briefcase and waving you goodbye. Steve then checks his watch, cursing as he runs out the door, claiming he’s late for “movie night” with Robin. You and Eddie are left alone, the teacher’s lounge relatively bare as most of your coworkers left to rest and recuperate from the first day back. Finally, you stand up to go, remembering your plan to work on the reading assignment and try to make it more fun for the kids. Eddie stands, grabbing his stuff as well.

You take in his appearance discreetly as you grab your things, and your toes practically curl. You finally noticed his attire and felt something swirling in your stomach. Eddie is wearing a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to showcase a smattering of tattoos along his forearms. He still has his chunky silver rings and guitar pick necklace, though you see it more now with one of the shirt’s top buttons undone. You feel your thighs squeeze together as you try to shake off the thoughts. 

Eddie heads to the door first, opening it for you. When you approach him, he does a dramatic bow, head tilted down as he draws out his words. “After you, milady.” He glances up at you, eyes twinkling with humor. 

You giggle softly, faking a curtsy. You try to imitate a posh accent, failing miserably. “Why, thank you, Sire.”

You walk through the doors, Eddie walking beside you. You’re both mostly silent, holding your bag on your shoulder, Eddie’s hands in his pockets. When you near your hallway, he turns to look at you, a shy smile gracing his face. Your heart pounds as you look up at him. 

“Say, Tish… Do you like stargazing? What with being a lady of the night and all,” He teases, dimples appearing as his deep and warm eyes stare into you, their coffee hue warming your insides. 

“I’m not opposed to it. Why? Is someone offering?” You tease, fighting the grin that wants to cover your face. 

He shrugs, walking backwards towards his hallway, away from you. His grin is wide and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Your heart flutters. 

“Could say that. Maybe you should meet them in the parking lot at 8?” 

Your stomach churns with excitement as the smile you’ve been fighting spreads like wildfire across your face, and you feel your emotions bubble out of you. 

“Maybe I will.” 

He shines with excitement and joy, his grin never dimming in brilliance. He keeps his front to you before pivoting on his heel and holding a hand in a wave. He calls out over his shoulder, tone light and teasing.

“Hope to see ya there, Tish.”

taglist: @bebe07011 @corrodedcoffincumslut @kurdtbean @nerdflash @kimmi-kat @aheadfullofsteverogers

#eddie munson x reader #stranger things 4 #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson au #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #teacher!eddie #teacher!em #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things au #stranger things fanfiction #st4 #robin buckley #steve harrington #pencil shavings and shared smiles #older eddie munson