#but i promise you that i still have a lot of love for how LO used to make me feel and what it meant to me once upon a time

[genericpuff]

what people assume i'm thinking while i'm working on rekindled: "GRRR I HATE LO AND RACHEL!!! I HATE HER SO MUCH!!! THIS WILL SHOW HER AND HER FANS! THIS WILL SHOW ALL OF THEM! I HOPE RACHEL SEES THIS AND CRIES!!!"

what i'm actually thinking while i work on rekindled: "man i'm having a great time working on this but i can't wait to be done with this panel that's driving me nuts. i wonder how i can get that cool splatter effect rachel did in S1. bright colors make brain go brrrr. i can't wait to get to the part where hades clowns on himself. oof i'm hungry, i need to figure out what to have for dinner tonight. oh look, an 11 hour retrospective on the simpsons-"

#fr i'm vibin' y'all i'm having a great time #ppl see me joke about rekindled being a spite project and just automatically assume i'm SEETHING the whole time i'm working on it #i wouldn't waste time working on something purely out of hate y'all lmao #it's easy to cling to the idea that i hate lore olympus with a blind seething passion due to what i get up to here #and it undoubtedly makes for the easiest explanation that doesn't require any nuance #but i promise you that i still have a lot of love for how LO used to make me feel and what it meant to me once upon a time #i wouldn't be trying so hard to make it emulate the style of S1 to begin with if i didn't love it deep down lol #you're just on an LO critical blog so ofc a lot of what you're gonna see is LO critical stuff LMAO #don't miss the forest for the trees pls <3 #i didn't even include all the times i'm sitting there drawing thinking 'i wanna play video games i wanna play video games i wanna play vid- #lore rekindled #self post

[joekeeryswife]

arranged marriage 2 - f.c

hello angels! oh my goodness thank you all so much for the love in the last chapter, i cannot express how grateful i am to all of you! Felix is 22 and reader is 20.

here is chapter 2 (there may only be 1 or two chapters left 😔) of my short series! here is y/ns ring, if you don’t like it you can change it, there is also going to be a link to a few dresses and again if you don’t like them you can change it!! there will probably be some mistakes so bare with me lol, enjoy reading🩰

taglist🩰 (add yourselves here): @hummusxx @lalademie @kikiandbella @anamiad00msday @saltburntt @livvy256 @gee72sstuff @edogiscool @real-lana-del-rey @cel3stel0v3r

it had been almost three months since your engagement party and a lot had changed. you and Felix were not getting along at all. your parents had thought it was best if the two of you moved in together and it had been the worst decision they had ever made. all you would do was fight and argue.

today, luckily, your mum, Elspeth and Venetia had decided that it was best for you to start trying on wedding dresses which meant you wouldn’t have to see Felix. “how are things with you and Felix going?” Elspeth asked, the three of you were sat in the back of the car almost at the wedding dress shop.

“not good. all we do is fight, i’m seriously considering not following through with this marriage” you rolled your eyes at the mere thought of Felix. “he’s being a dick head. sorry about him y/n, it’s like he’s on his period” Venetia apologised for how her brother was acting.

“oh no y/n don’t think like that, it’s just nerves. the two of you are going to have a very extravagant wedding and he gets nervous with those sorts of things” Elspeth said as she ran a hand through her hair. “it will get better i promise” she finished, showing you a sweet smile.

“surely you’re excited to try some dresses on? you might even find the one today” your mum finally spoke up. she loved the idea of you in a lovely white ballgown, walking up the isle arm linked with your fathers.

she had been dreaming about you getting married for years. “i hope so. how do you know if it’s the right dress for you?” you questioned, both women had been married and been through this exact same experience as you.

“you just have a gut feeling. i mean with me i had two dresses. i had one for the ceremony and then one for the party, god i wish i could relieve my wedding. it was the happiest day of my life” Elspeth said and your mum hummed, agreeing with what she had said.

“you’ll know if it’s the right dress, don’t worry about that sweetheart” your mum grabbed ahold of your hand and squeezed it gently. you nodded, giving her hand a squeeze back. “oh look, we are here” Elspeth said as the driver pulled up outside a fancy wedding boutique. “well, here goes nothing”.

-♡-

“oh that dress is ravishing” you heard Elspeth say as you looked at yourself in the mirror. “it’s elegant, fits your body nicely, you look beautiful. what do you think?” she continued as she looked at the dress. this was the fourth dress you had tried on and you were beginning to think that this bridal shop didn’t have anything for you. “well, it���s a pretty dress. but i think it’s a little too plain” you mum agreed “it is a little too plain. very pretty but you need some sort of design on there” Venetia nodded her head, indicating that it was time to try on yet another dress.

you walked back to the changing room with the stylist and she helped you get into the next dress. this one was beautiful, it looked like a princess dress and that was something you loved. however, the dress was still plain. you walked out and stood in front of the three of them, their gasps were loud. “oh my goodness, this dress looks absolutely perfect on you y/n” Venetia said as her eyes trailed over the dress.

“y/n, you look so beautiful sweetheart” your mum said as she looked at you in awe. “i love it but it’s still plain, i want some sort of pattern on the fabric. i love the way the dress is and i would have picked it if it had a pattern” you said as your hands brushed over the dresses skirt. your bridal stylist Amy spoke up “you do look gorgeous in this dress style but i think i have one similar to this with a pattern. why don’t you go to the dressing room and i’ll bring it through?” you nodded, a smile appearing on your face.

you made your way to the dressing room filled with nerves and excitement. hearing that she had a dress similar to this made your heart beat fast. after a few minutes she came into the dressing room with the most perfect dress you’d ever seen. it was exactly what you wanted.

she helped you put the dress on and your heart fluttered, this was your dress. you walked back out your mums eyes filled with tears and both Elspeth and Venetia gasped, i’m awe of how beautiful you looked. “y/n i seriously have no words. you look so radiant and elegant, i am praying that you have picked this dress” your mum said, the dress was absolutely perfect.

“i can’t see any flaws in this dress, i think if i was to ever design my wedding dress this would be it” you turned to face the three of them, you’d never felt like this before. “that dress is just absolutely gorgeous. you look like a bride” although you were mad at Felix, you were excited to get married. not because you were marrying him but because you could party like no other in the most beautiful dress with your family and friends.

“i think my brother might fall in love with you when he sees you in this dress” Venetia somewhat joked, she knew her brother would at some point fall in love with you and this dress would make it 100x easier. “i think it’s time we buy this dress and go celebrate” Elspeth said which you all agreed too.

-♡-

you had been out all day and it was now 7 at night. you hadn’t heard from Felix at all and you were not looking forward to seeing him. you opened the door to your house. “Felix, are you home?” you called out but got no response. you walked round the house saw him sitting on the sofa watching the tv.

“hey” you spoke as you sat down on the sofa next to him, you put your bag next to you and sighed. it had been a long day and finally sitting down felt amazing. he ignored you, his eyes still fixated on the tv screen. “how’s your day been?” he shrugged at you and you sighed, rubbing your forehead in frustration. “we can’t live like this Felix. this is no life” you looked over at him.

“y/n, have you ever thought that maybe i don’t want to live here with you?” his tone didn’t shock you, he had been in a bad mood for weeks. “i’m sorry but this wasn’t my decision either. do you really think i want to live here when you’re in a bad mood all the time?” he was silent.

“maybe think that i’m trying to work this out for the sake of our parents and whatever this relationship is and you’re just throwing it back in my face” he stood up, his tall frame towering over you.

“y/n. this isn’t a relationship. we are being forced to marry each other” you stood up, you weren’t going to let him intimidate you. there was an uncomfortable distance between you both.

“what is your problem Felix? why is there such an issue with you marrying me. i get we don’t love each other but am i really that bad?” you hated to admit it but even though Felix had been awful to you, there was a part of you that was falling for him.

there was some days where he was okay and the two of you got along, having Felix be nice to you was what made you somewhat fall for him. “don’t try guilt trip me y/n. you hate me just as much as i hate you” he scoffed but you just shook your head.

“what? i have been nice to you since after that talk we had in the bathroom at the party. i’m sick of you blaming me for absolutely everything when i’m reality it’s you who is the problem. i don’t think you realise how you make me feel when you treat me like shit” you could feel yourself getting upset.

“don’t pretend like you really care. you never cared about how it made you feel before so what’s changed now?” you shook your head, embarrassed that you were even about to admit this.

“what do you think Felix?” he looked at your confused. “there has been some days where you’ve been so sweet and it’s hard for me to not catch feelings for you” his eyes widened and you looked down at the ground, way too embarrassed to even look at him.

you could feel your eyes welling up with tears of embarrassment and frustration at the fact you had just admitted to Felix, the one person you’d thought you’d hate for the rest of your life, that you had feelings for him. and you knew that he didn’t feel the same. you could tell by his energy when he was around you.

it was silent, it felt like an eternity waiting for him to say something. when you felt like you’d been standing there long enough you decided it was best for you to leave, you’d embarrassed yourself enough and you just wanted to be alone. you grabbed your bag and started walking away from Felix who was still trying to process everything you had just said.

“y/n wait, don’t leave” he noticed that you were heading for the front door and was quick to follow you. Felix was never good with expressing how he felt and spending this time with you, living with you, made him realise that he was falling for you and that scared him. he’d been in love once before and it ended horribly and he didn’t want the same thing to happen with you.

“i’m going to my parents house don’t follow me. i want to be alone” you continued walking and looked for your car keys in your bag, he could hear the waver in your voice as you tried your hardest to keep your tears at bay until you weee away from him.

Felix continued following you and when he was close enough he grabbed your arm and turned you to face him. in one quick motion Felix pressed his lips against yours. it took you by surprise, it was filled with passion and love.

you quickly kissed him back and dropped your bag on the floor. your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him in closer. you’d been in one relationship and had your fair share of kisses in the past but it was nothing like this.

he pulled away, both of you breathless “please don’t go. i’m sorry i upset you. i am just scared” his eyes looked deeply into yours and you felt your heart flutter. “i’m scared that one day you’re going to find someone better than me because let’s be honest we haven’t gotten along, well, ever” his cheeks flushed a bright shade of red as he confessed his feelings.

“at first i didn’t want to do this marriage but now, it’s all i can think about. i see us getting married, travelling together, having kids together and growing old together and i’ve never felt like this before” you couldn’t believe what you were hearing, Felix Catton the one boy who truly hated was confessing his feelings for you.

“do you think maybe we could start over and try make this work? not like we did the last time in the toilets” you semi-joked which made him smile, you hated to admit it but his smile was beautiful.

“come on, let’s go back inside it’s freezing out here” he said, pulling away from your hold but he grasped your hand and squeezed it softly. “i can’t believe you dropped your birkin bag for me” you picked it up and looked it over. “you’re lucky, it has no marks on it. looks as good as the day i bought it”

the two of you made your way back inside hand in hand, happy that you both finally expressed your feelings for one another. the only thing left was for the two of you to get married.

#fanfiction #imagines #jacob elordi x fem!reader #jacob elordi imagines #jacob elordi imagine #jacob elordi x reader #jacob elordi #felix catton series #felix catton x fem!reader #felix catton imagine #felix catton imagines #felix catton x reader #felix catton #saltburn imagine #saltburn x reader #saltburn

[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

[fallingintoyourlilaceyes]

New years eve party (modern!Aemond Targaryen x reader, side Alysmond)

synopsis: Every year you and your friend throw a new years eve party for all the singles in your building. When you first invite the new neighbour he declines, only a year later it seems like everything has changed.

warnings: Alys being a bad girlfriend, alcohol, self induldent fluff at the end, afab reader

word count: 2.8k

taglist: @hopelesswritergall @urmomsgirlfriend1

(If you want to be tagged for a specific character/fandom/series or in general let me know in my asks, comments or DMs)

A/N: The year is about to end so happy new year to everyone!

The first time Aemond and you meet, he just moved into the apartment complex, two floors beneath you and your flat mate and best friend. It's late in the year already so you decide to welcome him to the building with some Christmas cookies in hand.

"Hello. I saw you move in here last week and wanted to welcome you to the building." You offer your hand to shake after he opens the door with a questioningly arched eyebrow. Aemond isn't a man of many words you learn quickly.

"Thank you, that's... nice." The platinum blond shakes your hand and takes the cookies from you. "I'm Aemond. Aemond Targaryen. And you are?"

You give him your name. "If you ever need anything, I live two floors above. All you need to do is knock."

Aemond nods curtly.

"Oh and since new years is right around the corner, we always throw a little party for all the singles in the building. You should stop by if you want. We won't bite, I promise." The smile on your face refuses to fade even with his rather cold demeanor.

"Again, thank you, but..." A feminine voice interrupts him.

"Aemond, love, who is there?" The woman who the voice belongs to appears in the door frame as well. Holding onto your new neighbors arm almost possessively.

"Hi, I'm your new neighbor from two floors above. I just wanted to introduce myself real quick and bring over some cookies." You state. Your smile falters a bit as you see the gorgeous dark haired woman.

"Well, you did that now, didn't you? We still have lots to unpack so you'll have to excuse us." She says in a clearly faked friendly tone that hides nothing of her words true meaning. To stay away from both of them.

"Sure. I'm sorry for bothering you in the middle of moving. How silly of me. Have a nice day." You give them a small wave and go back to your apartment.

You couldn't lie to yourself about the disappointment you felt at the sight of Aemond's girlfriend, but he was attractive so was it really a surprise he wasn't single? You shake your head to get rid of those thoughts when a key turns in the door.

"I'm home!" Sarah calls out as the sound of her keys hitting the ceramic bowl sounds through the apartment.

"I'm in the living room." You answer back.

"Hey, how was your day?" She asks with a relaxed smile.

"Same old, same old." You mutter, still kinda in thought.

Together you go to the kitchen to cook, like every night, when you decide to speak up about what happened.

"Have you met the neighbors from two floors down yet?" Curiosity coats your tone as you try to remain nonchalant.

"I thought it was only one. That weird, blond guy. I've seen him around once or twice." Sarah busies herself by stirring in one of the pots.

"Yeah him and his girlfriend. I went to welcome him today and she was really possessive and borderline bitchy. Like, she couldn't get me out of their bubble again fast enough. Didn't even give me her name." Your eyebrows furrow and your nose scrunches up slightly at the memory.

"Maybe she felt threatened by you?" Sarah chuckles and then a moment of silence follows. "Now that you mention her though... I did hear a woman yelling on my way up here earlier."

That´s the end of the topic for then as the two of you change to lighter topics of conversation.

However, the strangers keep occupying your mind. After Sarah tells you about the altercation, you hear them on and off as well, only to see them madly in love the next time you saw them.

New year’s eve passes and so does Sarah´s and your party. The night going by as eventless as it could. Probably because everyone is drunk off their tits, but when you wake up in bed next to one of your neighbors, you just feel bad. You couldn´t even put your finger on what exactly made you feel this way. It just feels wrong. Okay that wasn't entirely right. If you were just a little more honest with yourself you would know that it was because your brain had decided to spend its free time romanticizing the idea of Aemond and how it would be to be in a relationship not only in general, but with him. Dreaming of him wasn't a rare occurrence and whenever you met him at the mailbox, you could feel yourself blushing as if you were in middle school. Simultaneously not far from you, as the months progressed, Aemond's relationship deteriorated more and more. Alys had grown gradually more jealous and toxic to a point where even he couldn't excuse her behavior anymore. Which hurt more than he would ever want to admit. The two break up and make up almost regularly. The day she tells him she is pregnant however, is the day things escalate. You hear the fight even in your apartment. There's screaming, slamming doors and after about an hour there's complete silence.

Like the good (and slightly worried) neighbor that you are, you make your way down the stairs, knocking quietly on the hard wood.

In a matter of seconds the door gets opened with a rather energetic and aggressive motion.

"Alys, I told you it's..." Aemond growled until he realized it is you who had knocked and not his ex-girlfriend. "Fuck, sorry. I didn't realize we were that loud. I promise it won't happen again."

"No, it's... It's alright. It sounded bad though. Are you good?" Your eyes soften and scan his presence.

The knuckles of his right hand were pressed into an ice pack, his chest heaves with every sharp breath. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, before he answers.

"Yeah, I mean no, but yeah." His one seeing eye drops towards the floor, unable to look at you. It's obvious he doesn't want to talk and you are not one to pry for answers, so you leave it.

"Okay. Um, if you need something, anything. You know where to knock." You give Aemond a sympathetic smile.

Against all your hopes, he actually does knock on your door a week or so later. Granted it is only for some eggs, but still. A win is a win, you tell yourself as you hand him the carton with the eggs he had requested.

"Fuck, thank you. Really. I don't know where my head is these days." Aemond scratches the back of his neck, giving you a perfect peak of his boxers underneath the grey sweatpants. He must've just come from his morning run.

"No problem at all. I did tell you that you could ask for anything if you needed it after all." You assure him.

"Hm, you did. Still... You'll definitely get those back."

Before much more of a conversation can start up, he is gone again. A pattern that continues for the next couple of months, even though he does warm up to you noticeably without Alys´ influence around. Going as far as to even give a small smile here and there. What shocks you the most however, is when he stops you by the mailbox one day close to the beginning of December.

“So, uhm, I know it´s still a while until new year’s, but I just remembered that you told me about this party you and Sarah have every year.”

“Yeah, what about it?” You look up from the mail to meet his eye and tilt your head.

“I was wondering if that invitation still stands by chance?” His brow is furrowed and his tongue swipes out to wet his lips.

Aemond's question makes your heart beat faster. "Of course. Definitely. I'd be happy to see you there." A wide smile spreads your lips.

From previous talks you had gathered that the blond wasn't much of a party animal, but then again neither were you.

“We usually start around eight, but it´s all very relaxed, really.” You inform him and then say your goodbye as the two of you reach his door.

Until the day of the party the two of you only see each other in passing. Giving a quick nod or wave and a smile to the other as you made your way wherever you had to be. Even the evening of it feels like you are constantly running around. Between preparing snacks and drinks, greeting people left and right, refilling stuff and taking shots and dancing with Sarah there wasn't a single moment to chill, before the doorbell rings one final time for the evening.

"Aem! You made it!" You call out happily and as his eye meets yours he witnesses your face lighting up visibly. The nickname for sure is a surprise at first, but taking in the scent of alcohol in your breath, it all checks out. Still it gets his heart to beat faster, before he can answer anything you already pull him inside. The shots Sarah had made you do, made you even more high energy than you usually were. Yet the moment you take his hand to pull him inside, you feel a strange, warm calm run through you follows by a shiver down the spine.

"You almost had me scared you forgot about me." You tease as the two of you sit down on the sofa with a drink in hand.

"I could never forget about you, but my brother called and tried to convince me to go to some party at some stupid club. Let's just say he was never the best at accepting the word no."

"Oh, you have a brother?" Your eyebrows rise so far Aemond is certainly convinced they are about to touch your hair line.

"Yeah. Two brothers actually and a sister." He admits.

"Wow and are you close with them?" As an only child you could only hardly understand what it was like to have siblings. Even if Sarah had tried to explain it to you multiple times.

"We're as close as we can be, I'd say."

"Huh, for some reason I always pegged you to be an only child..."

"How's that?" He asks while the two of you sip on your drinks, lost in the conversation.

"I don't know, probably because of your dark and mysterious brooding nature?” Playfully you pull your chin higher. “Anyway, now that you are here, do you want to dance?”

“How could I ever say no to that question…”

Over the declining bass of the music, a soft knock on the bathroom door echoes through the room. You hadn´t even noticed someone turning down the music It could have been minutes or hours since you entered the room for all you knew. Aemond´s voice calling out directly after. With a groan you lift your head off the cold tiles on the floor. "It's open...” The blond steps in and closes the door behind him immediately so noone else would see you in that state. Curled up on the floor with your forehead resting against the cold tiles in an attempt to cool down and fight the nausea that climbs up your throat. "Oh I'm dreaming of you again." Your speech is slurred and quiet as if talking any louder would make you vomit. "If I wouldn't be dreaming and if you would be really here, then I would tell you I love you." "You're drunk." He murmurs and shakes his head. "Yes. And hopelessly in love with you." You argue with a weak voice. Nevertheless you wrap your arms tightly around him as he picks you up off the floor. There is no lying about the state of inebriation you are in, but the conviction with which you speak also tells that you are speaking the truth. Even though he doesn't want to believe it yet. "Come on, let's get you to bed." Aemond sighs and begins to more or less carry you back to your room. "No..." You whine in protest. "I wanna go back to the party. I'm not even tired yet. Let's dance."

You're like a child, the blond thinks as he rolls his eyes. "No. No more dancing tonight. The party is over, it's bedtime now." "Awww come on, Aem..." You give him your best try at a puppy eyes look, which is only half successful. Ending up more as just a pout.

Aemond´s heart beats faster at the nickname once again. Something it had done quite often in the past months whenever he saw or spoke to you he notices. Gods, he can hear his brothers laugh at him for being like this when it came to emotional matters. He doubted the excuse of Alys having fucked him up in that regard was applicable, when you where so different from her. Carefully Aemond lays you down on your bed. Taking the shoes off your already half asleep form. By the time Aemond pulls the blanket over you, the sound of soft snoring already fills the room.

The next morning you wake up alone, fully dressed, with a massive headache, a bottle of water and a note on the bedside table for the first time in a while. Telling yourself that this was exactly the reason why you never drank and swearing to every deity above or below that it would never happen again. Groaning some more at the brightness that streams through the window, you sit up in bed to take a sip of water and the pain killer right beside it. With the cotton mouth successfully fought off, you turn to the note. Wondering where the paper even came from you notice how neat and pretty the curly letters are written. The name of the addresser jumps into your eyes next. Signed at the bottom. Aemond Targaryen. As you read his name, your eyes eagerly jump to the top of the page.

I hope this note finds you well and the pain killers help any hangover you might take away from last night. I had a lot of fun with you. Also, you snore when you sleep.

Aemond Targaryen

“Fuck…” You curse under your breath. Trying to remember last night makes the headache only worse, but at least there are no gaps in your memory. Left with the memory of the blond helping your drunk self into bed, you decide to apologize to him. Freshening up and putting on some comfortable clothes, you climb down the stairs in the evening.

“Come in.” Aemond greets you with a smile as he sees the way you flinch ever so slightly at a door slamming shut somewhere.

“Thanks.” Gratefully you sit in his living room, while Aemond gets you a cup of coffee. “I- uhm, I came to apologize for last night.”

“For what?” His brows furrow together so much they almost become one.

“For getting so drunk that you had to carry me to bed. I usually am not like this at all.” Regret laces your words.

“Oh, that. Don´t sweat it. I´m kind of used to it and I still had a lot of fun.” Aemond assures immediately, but it does little to reduce the shame at your own behaviour.

“No, no. Even if you are used to it, I shouldn´t have done that. It was so stupid and unfair to you.” You lay your forehead into one hand and sigh.

“Why did you even drink so much in the first place?” He inquires.

“I kind of wanted to ask you out… but then when I threatened to chicken out so Sarah told me to drink something for courage and somewhere something became a little more and then we ended where we ended.” You feel your face begin to burn at the admission.

“You wanted to what?” A soft pink flush lays over his cheeks.

“I wanted to ask you out…” You repeat even quieter than before.

“Well, you could still do that, if you so wish to.” Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage as you take in his words.

Your eyes grow wide and your lips part as you look back up at him. Stumbling over your words for a while before you get out a clear sentence. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

“Yes, I´d like that very much. There is a new restaurant that I´ve been meaning to try out. Maybe I could pick you up in an hour?” The request makes you happier than anything. Overshadowing any of the shame you had felt previously.

“Yes, oh my god absolutely.” You jump up in a flurry of excitement, that entirely chases off the remnants of hangover. “Just give me an hour.”

The smiles on both of your faces grow incredibly big, reaching your eyes for the first time in a long time. When you go, it is so hastily you have to be careful not to fall up the stairs and even Aemond feels a certain type of happy as he changes into something more fitting with his heart skipping in his chest.

#aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fic #house of the dragon fic #hotd x reader #hotd x you #modern aemond #hotd modern au #modern house of the dragon #modern hotd

[zynxwrite]

hey darling <3 hope you are well rested today! may i request something like when neteyam and lo’ ak say something hurtful about sibling!reader thinking she’s not there but she accidentally overhears? if its not too much, can it have fluffish ending? no pressure take your time 🦋

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐄?

pairings ❰ Neteyam x Sibling!F!Reader, Lo' ak x Sibling!F!Reader (Separated) Spider x Reader (briefly)

You overhear your brother talking hurtful things behind your back. How could he?

GENRE: Angst, comfort after. WARNINGS: none.

NETEYAM.

You, the middle child of the family had always tried to fit in. Never really had a role to take. You were just you. The plain old [Name] with no purpose to being a sully. You were always what they call annoying; A brat who can't behave. Even you really don't know why you act like this-you can't control yourself and just eventually do something. Or you accidentally shout and hurt someone just by it.

"Freak. She does not deserve to be a Sully." What you commonly hear when the Na'vi speak of you.

"That girl is mad. Disrespectful. A dog to her family." And it can even come to this.

You were an outcast to them. To your family, you think. You were nothing but a dog to them. Still, your family loves you. Maybe Especially your sisters, Kiri and Tuktirey. Even if they cannot understand your situation-they're always there for you. Kiri was your adoptive older sister. And you were her first sister. As children, you were both inseparable, like how glue sticks to a paper.

The relationship of you and your edest brother were never really that close. But you admire him a lot. A lot. You admired him more than your father. He was more likely the father of your siblings than your actual one. Jake was always hard on you and even your siblings.

"I will never treat you like a nothing. Promise." A lie.

Scratches, injuries were present to your legs. You were not supposed to go hunting, you disobeyed your father again. All you wanted was just to prove your worth.

Neteyam began to speak to a mutual friend, assuming you were not there to hear his words. But there you were, behind a tree listenig to their conversation as you watch them just finished fishing.

"I don't get [Name] at all! I always try to teach her but she just does not listen. It's getting annoying, truth. She's a brat." Neteyam crossed his arms while sharing something to a friend. And the friend happens to agree. Of course it will. They always do.

"I do not know how she can even be related to you at all."

"Neither do I. She's not a sister of mine."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and your eyes welled up with tears. You had always admired your sibling, looking up to them for guidance and support. Hearing them talk about you in such a hurtful manner shattered your heart, leaving you feeling vulnerable and betrayed.

He continued, "She thinks everything is so easy, and she can just coast through life. It's infuriating how she goes about her days, seemingly without a care in the world, while the rest of us are trying to keep it all together." Unable to bear the pain any longer, you accidentally reveal yourself, finally being seen.

Neteyam's eyes widened as he saw you. Knowing that you probably heard all that he said about you. Feeling a mix of sadness and anger, you managed to whisper, "I didn't know you felt this way... I never meant to disappoint you." The voice of yours cracked with emotion as you turned and left the place, needing time to process the hurtful revelation.

"Shit. Wait, [Name]!-] But you already left both of them before he could even say another word. You were also known for being fast, your legs were like the sibling of the winds. Fast.

Oh, great mother. What has he done? Such shitty thing to say.

What you didn't know that Spider was also in the same place as you. Hearing all the words your brother said to you. His plan was to scare you so he followed you. But he didn't know that it would lead to this. Your human friend then followed you.

You didn't know where you were running. But the speed of your legs just kept running. Running to whatever you stop to. Before you could even realize you were completely far away from the village.

A sound coming from a bush entered the core of your ears. But you ignored it. Not wanting to pay attention to anything anymore. 'Neither do I. She's not a sister of mine.' This. This piece of crap. Such words.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you clenched your fists, feeling a knot the my stomach. You wanted to run away, but your feet felt glued to the floor, unable to move. The pain of his words pierced through your soul, leaving me feeling worthless and unloved. You always knew that the people disliked you. But never expected your brother to hate you as well. Thoughts started to circle all over you. Do your sisters find you unlovable as well? Your mother? Overthinking made you hurt more.

"[Name]?" That voice. You recognized it. Suddenly, you felt a gentle touch on your shoulder, and turned to see none other than Spider, the closest friend you had. The only one. He had been your rock through thick and thin, always there to lend a listening ear or a comforting hand. You two shared a lot in common. Being disliked by the people.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice filled with concern, "I heard what happened. Are you okay?" What do you think. You couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They cascaded down your cheeks as you whispered, "I don't know what's wrong with me. Why did he say that?"

"Am I that much of a brat?" You were sitting, and he was standing. Spider pulled you into a warm embrace, letting you cry on his shoulder-accidentally wiping the blue paint off his skin.

"You're not the problem, and you're not alone," he said firmly. "Sometimes people say hurtful things out of frustration or their own issues. But that doesn't define who you are. You're strong, caring, and deserving of love." More tears started to form you. But this time it wasn't tears of that feeling.

As you cried, Spider stayed with you, providing a safe space for your pain. His presence and words brought some comfort to your shattered heart. While the hurtful words from your so called brother lingered, Spider's support reminded you that you had someone who genuinely cared for me. You hope your sisters didn't hate you too.

"Thank you, Spider."

"How stupid can you be?!" Kiri yelled. "Brother...Why would you say that? You know she's sensitive! Norm said she had difficulty expressing herself." Kiri had heard about what he said from Spider, but never told Neteyam it was from him.

"You know how much she looks up to you and cares about your opinion. It's not fair to speak about her like that behind her back." Neteyam's face flushed with embarrassment and guilt. He fumbled for words but remained silent, realizing the gravity of his actions.

"I understand that siblings can have disagreements and conflicts," Kiri continued, her tone softening slightly. "But there are better ways to handle your feelings. You could talk to her directly and try to understand what's going on instead of making hurtful assumptions."

Neteyam looked down, clearly grappling with his emotions. "I didn't mean for her to hear that," he finally mumbled. "I was just frustrated, and it came out."

"I get that," Kiri acknowledged, "but you need to be more mindful of your words. They have consequences, and you hurt her deeply. She's your sister too, and she loves you despite everything. Don't take that for granted."

A mix of guilt and regret washed over Neteyam's face. He knew Kiri was right, and he had to take responsibility for his actions. "You're right," he admitted, his voice filled with remorse. "I messed up, and I need to apologize to her." Kiri nodded, appreciating his honesty. "It's not going to be easy, but you owe it to her and yourself to make things right," she said.

Later that day, Neteyam approached you. "Sister," sister.

"Can we talk?" he asked softly, and you hesitated for a moment before nodding. Sister... the word kept ringing inside that head of yours. "I need to apologize," Neteyam began, his voice genuine and vulnerable. "I said some awful things, and I can't even begin to express how sorry I am. I was frustrated, angry, and I took it out on you. But that was never right, and you didn't deserve any of it."

"I felt so disconnected from you," he continued. "It seemed like we were drifting apart, and I didn't know how to handle it. But I realize now that pushing you away was the worst thing I could have done." Confusion stirred in you. Was he actually sorry? You couldn't help but overthink.

"I'm sorry. You are my sister." Really?

Not even a second-You hugged him. Forgiveness has already been granted. You always thought how warm his hug was.

LO'AK.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, you could feel the tension in the air. The gathering at the village had started out joyous, but now it felt heavy with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. You had noticed your brother, Lo'ak, acting distant and on edge all evening, but you couldn't pinpoint the reason behind it.

"Hey, [Name]! Dance with us!" Your little sister, Tuk tried to pull you from the crowd. Sorry, Tuk.

"Uhm-I think I'm gonna go for a walk first. I'll dance with you later, promise!" Feeling overwhelmed, you decided to step out onto the crowd for a moment of solitude. As you moved away from the chatter inside, you overheard hushed voices and recognized Lo'ak's distinct tone. Curiosity got the better of you, and you couldn't resist eavesdropping on the conversation.

"I don't understand her," Lo'ak's voice carried the weight of frustration. "She's always so needy and emotionally sensitive. It's exhausting to be around her. It's so annoying." He sighed. "She doesn't act like a relative to me, bro." a friend of his nodded.

"Why did I even have a twin." why did he?

Each word hit you like a physical blow, and the tears that had been building up in your eyes finally spilled over. You felt the sting of hurt and betrayal, listening to your own brother talking about you in such a hurtful manner. You had always looked up to your twin and thought he cared for you deeply, but his words shattered that illusion.

Before you could retreat, Lo'ak's voice wavered with realization, "Wait, where did she go? Did she hear me?"

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, but the pain was too raw. Still, you couldn't bear the thought of confronting him, not when he had uttered those words in the heat of the moment. Instead, you quietly slipped away and found a secluded corner on a tree to hide your tears.

It was already dark. You have been gone for almost an hour or two. The people have been worried about you. Where did you go? Were you safe? Tuk couldn't help but ask Neytiri every minute if you've already returned. But you were just nowhere to be seen.

Thankfully, Lo'ak eventually found you. It took him 30 minutes to find you with his Ikran. There you were, hugging your legs under a tree. He almost thought you fell asleep. But you weren't.

He landed his Ikran on the ground. There he stood, his expression pained and regretful. "I-I didn't know you were there," he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't mean what I said. I was just frustrated, and I didn't think before I spoke."

Tears welled up in your eyes again, and you looked away, not wanting to show your vulnerability. "It doesn't excuse what you said," you replied, your voice shaky. "You really think I'm that unbearable?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant," Lo'ak pleaded, taking a step closer to you. "I've just been going through a lot lately, and I didn't know how to handle it. I never meant to hurt you." Despite your anger and hurt, you could see the sincerity in his eyes. You knew that he was struggling, but that didn't make his words hurt any less.

"I can't believe you said those things about me," you said, trying to hold back your tears. "I thought we were close." You were his twin.

"We are close," Lo'ak said, his voice cracking. "And that's why it hurts so much to see you upset. I've been a terrible brother, and I'm so sorry."

The pain in his voice tugged at your heart, and you felt conflicted. Part of you wanted to shut him out and protect yourself, but another part wanted to believe that he genuinely regretted his words.

"Please. I know you can't forgive me that easily. But you need to come back with me. They are worried about you."

"Take all the time you need," he said softly. "I'll be here when you're ready to talk, and I'll do whatever it takes to make things right." He took his hand out and placed it in the air. Gesturing it for you to hold on. But as you held his hand-he pulled you into a hug.

NOTE: SORRY I HAVEN'T WRITTEN FOR A LONG TIME AND I'M STRUGGLING BECAUSE I'M WORKING ON A NOVEL AOAHDJSJSBK. SORRY THE WRITING IS TERRIBLE. (I fr need to take lessons to improve my ass.) My writing style has changed hasn't it? AHH WRITERS BLOCK AND ART BLOCK GOT ME

I am also open for requests pookies <33

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #avatar #neteyam #avatar loak #lo'ak te suli tsyeyk'itan #lo'ak x reader #loak x reader #neteyam x reader #spider socorro #miles socorro #spider avatar #x reader #spider socorro x reader #kiri #tuktirey #atwow #avatar fanfiction #avatar x reader #atwow x reader #atwow fanfiction #atwow loak #atwow neteyam #avatar way of water #avatar 2 #avatar 2022 #━ zynxwrite

[barcalover86]

Can we have a jealous gavi pls

Masterlist

Enjoy!

This is going to be a little different, not a toxic jealous boy.

Summary: You spend your time with his family and friends, but he wants you only with him.

You trust him, and he trusts you, that being the reason you are rarely jealous when someone is near a girl/boy. You love each other, and you both know it, making a promise at the beginning of the relationship that if something bothers you, you have to tell each other the problem to solve it. That's why your relationship wasn't toxic at all, and everyone loved that.

Tonight, Spain had won the cup and everyone was so happy, especially you. You were so proud of what Pablo had achieved this season, and when you saw him close to you, you couldn't help but run towards him to give him a long and proud hug.

When he saw you, he immediately smiled and kissed your head.

"Aahh, mi campeon!!!"

He gave you his medal, and you smiled widely at his gesture.

"Gracias, amor!"

He knew how much you love his medals and you, looking so beautiful with them on your neck, he had to take a picture.

His family had already arrived, and he thanked all of them, giving each other some hugs.

They took a lot of pictures, and you didn't want to interrupt, so you looked around, only to see Ansu waving at you.

You immediately went to him and congratulated him on his achievement.

"I'm so proud of you, well done, hermanoo!" you said with a smile on your face. A chuckled escaped Ansu's mouth before he hugged you.

"Already went to your boyfriend?" he asked while laughing.

"He was the first one, as always. He is just with his family, and I don't want to interrupt them. Let them have their moment together."

"You are so nice, y/n, but I think he would love if you were there with his family, don't you think?"

You looked back to see a happy Gavi, talking with his friends.

"No lo se, Ansu. He looks so happy. I'll talk later to him, anyway. I really don't want to interrupt anything, especially tonight."

"Do what you think is best, hermanita"

He smiled at you before going back to his family and friends. Now you were left alone and didn't know what to do.

You eventually went back to where Gavi and his friends were staying, and when he saw you again, he smiled.

"Where were you?"

"To Ansu"

You saw a bit of uncomfortable in his eyes but decided to say nothing.

"Amor, can we take a picture with the trophy?"

"Of course!"

After you took the picture, Pablo wanted to say something but was interrupted by his couch, telling him that they had to do another group picture. He sadly agreed and apologised to you.

Now, again, you were left alone. You went to his his friends who came to support him and started to chat with them. You started to laugh at the stories with your boyfriend, and you started to have a good time with them. When Pablo saw you with his friends, he felt sad, but went to talk with his teammates and some of their families.

It's been 1 hour, and Pablo still couldn't be with you. You were everywhere, but with him. You even went to some fans to talk to them about the match, which he found adorable, but he wanted to be with you.

On the other side, you as well wanted to be with your boyfriend, and you started to miss him a lot, but you wanted to give him space, not wanting to be the clingy girlfriend. You wanted him to enjoy his moments with his team, and when they went to the changing rooms, you stayed with his parents, waiting for him in the car.

You knew that he was going to celebrate with his teammates with their bus, but you still wanted to see him for the last time until the next morning, so you waited for him.

When he saw you and his family waiting for him, he immediately went to you. You were staying in the back, not being able to see Pablo clearly. He barely saw you but still smiled at you and thanked you once again for coming to support him.

"Hasta mañana, hijo"

"Hasta mañana, mami y papi!"

Ahhh, he was such a cutie.

"And I hope I see you home too, cariño" he said to you.

You smiled and nodded before he went back to the bus.

After you got to their house, you saw plenty of stories of him eating, dancing, and having fun. You were so proud of him.

"Que pasa, mi hija?" his mom said to you.

"Did Pablo do something to you??" Aurora asked you, but you shook your head and laughed.

"No, no! I just can't wait for him to come home. We barely talked tonight. I wanted to give him space and not be the clingy girlfriend" you wanted to say it strong, but it only sounded like a sob.

"No, don't say that about yourself. He loves spending time with you, trust me" Auroa assured you and gave you a huh after her mom.

It wasn't that late, but Pablo missed you a lot. You talked more with his friends than with him, and that made him sad, but so sad. It wasn't that he didn't trust you. That wasn't the reason for his jealousy, but the fact that you had time for them and not him made him.. angry, disappointed, and almost to tear up here in front of everyone.

He couldn't help but go home and finally talk to you, hug you, kiss you. Mierda, he didn't even kiss you!

He was grateful for his mom for asking you to stay over so that he could see you early, but it still didn't satisfy him enough.

It was really late now, and you were still awake, waiting for your boyfriend to come home. You were waiting peacefully in his room, trying hard not to fall asleep. When he saw you awake, his eyes softened. He was so tired and barely walked, but he managed to go to you and grab you into a hug.

"I missed you" he said.

"I missed you too, cariño."

He wanted to kiss you, but you told him to brush his teeth because he smelt like alcohol, which you didn't like at all.

He wasn't drunk, he barely drank, but he still smelled like that sip of bear he had from Ansu.

His face changed into sadness, and he went to prepare to sleep. After he changed he came back and sat next to you. He was so, so tired that he immediately fell asleep, covering more than half of the bed. You couldn't sleep properly and didn't want to wake him up, so you went to the living room to sleep on te couch.

The next morning, his mom covered you with a blanked.

When Pablo woke up, really late, and not seeing you, he thought that you already woke up and went to the bathroom or somewhere in the house.

When he saw you still sleeping on the couch, his heart broke completely.

"What is she doing here??" asked his sister

"I don't know, we just found her here"

You woke up because of the talking, and when you looked at the clock, you immediately stood up.

"Oh, I have to go home! I have a family lunch! I'm sorry if I bothered you, and thank you a lot for letting me stay"

"Oh, no problem, anjo" said Pablo's mom.

"Wait, already?" Pablo now was angry. Really angry.

"I'm sorry!!"

You went to his room to change. He went after you.

"Y/n!"

You didn't answer.

"Y/n!!"

"I'm in a hurry, Pablito!!"

"Don't 'Pablito' me!"

When you heard his angry voice, you got really scared and froze.

You turned to look at him.

"Why?"

"What why?" you were confused.

"Did I do something? You want to break up with me, don't you? But you just waited after yesterday to not ruin my night, right? If I had lost, you would have done it, am I wrong? Hmm, am I wrong, y/n!?

"What? No!"

"Then what's all this!?"

"What do you mean, Pablo! I don't understand!"

"Do you love me?"

You wanted to reply, but he spoke first.

"Do you still love me?"

"Yes! Yes, I do!"

He stayed silent for some seconds, before he spoke again.

"Do you still love me as a lover?"

Now you were really confused.

"Yes!! Yes, I do, Pablo! What's got into you? I really need to hurry up. I'm already late"

"Para, y/n! If you want to break up with me then do it now!"

"Pablo, I don't want to break up with you!"

"Then I don't understand!"

"I don't understand either!"

You packed your things, while he was looking at you. When you texted your mom to tell her that you would be late and are sorry, Gavi spoke again. Now his voice changed.

"Are you really going?" he said sad.

"We can meet tomorrow, if you want..?"

He sighed.

You kissed his cheek and left the house, with him after you. Before the Uber you called, arrived, he hugged you from behind and put his head on your shoulder, kissing sometimes your neck.

"You saw a car and you thought that the Uber arrived, but it was another one for someone else so you got out of Pablo's hug.

"Why don't you let me touch you?" you looked at him to see that his eyes were tearing.

He put his hands over his eyes and started to cry.

"No, no, don't cry!!"

He was sobbing hard, and you felt so sad.

"I love it when you touch me, amor!!! I love when I stay with you and I'm sorry I have to go now, but I promise that we'll see each other tomorrow, alright?"

You felt so bad for making your boy like that, you were really a bad girlfriend now.

"I'm so jealous, y/n! I can't anymore.."

"What-why?? Don't you trust me anymore? I didn't do anything to anyone and-"

"No, not like that. You stayed with everyone, but me yesterday. I wanted to be with you and only with you at the camp, but you were laughing with my friends! I didn't even kiss you for almost 2 days, and yesterday, you didn't want to because I smelled like alcohol. And you didn't even want to sleep with me! You decided that it's better to sleep on the couch. You did everything, but stay with me!" he finally confessed.

After you heard that, you immediately kissed him. Oh, how wrong was him. You explained to him you part of the story. How you didn't want to be a clingy girlfriend and how you didn't want to wake him up to tell him to move a bit because you didn't have space to sleep. You assured him that you too missed him a lot.

When the Uber came, you brought Gavi with you to your family lunch. He was part of the family and spending time with eachother was something that you both needed right now.

All day, you were holding hands, enjoying you together time. He told you that you are important to him and that you should never feel too clingy and you told him to never think that you don't love him anymore because that breaks your heart, especially that it is not true at all.

You love this boy more than anything, and he loves you as well.

It is something different, but I hope you liked it. I can make a classic jealous Gavi if you didn't like this version. Requests are open

#fc barca #fc barcelona #football #gavi #pablo gavi #pablo gavira #pablo martín páez gavira #gavi imagine #gavi x reader #gavi x yn #gavi x you #gavi fanfic #gavi fluff #pablo gavi x y/n #pablo gavi x you #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi imagine #pablo gavi angst #gavi angst #pablo gavi fluff

[heavyhitterheaux]

Meet Me Halfway

AN: Whewww buckle up!

Synopsis: He's a hopeless romantic, but you can't for the life of you understand why he won't commit. He's attached to you and doesn't want to be around anyone else. Doubts start to creep into your mind and now you're left feeling like you aren't good enough.

Pairing: Jack Harlow x Reader

Requested by: @kentuckyboyharlow 🥰

Jack Harlow Masterlist

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

“That’s my good girl, you better take this shit and act like you want it.” Jack said while hovering above you while you were in the midst of getting your back blown out by him for the sixth time this week.

All it took was a few new outfits from Givenchy and three pairs of Louboutins to have you at his mercy.

But this was the usual thing.

You definitely didn’t need him, there was no doubt in your mind surrounding that.

But you wanted him.

You were successful in your own right having graduated from the top of your class at Harvard and following in your parents footsteps of being a business owner. You had always had an eye for fashion, so that was your go to. High end boutiques that you owned which could only be found in Paris, London, New York, Tampa, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Atlanta. 

The two of you met when he had ventured into one of your boutiques when you had happened to be there and he was infatuated by you from the first glance. 

And everyone was able to tell. 

This entire friends with benefits situation had been going on for a year and a half, and as much as you didn’t want to admit it, it was now starting to bother you.

Bottom line is that you knew that you deserved better, but you wanted for the better to come from him.

As far fetched as that idea was. 

Jack would tell you all the time how he longed to be in a relationship with someone that would see him for the person that he was and not just what his job entailed.

Well, that was you.

He would admit that you were one of the few people who still treated him like a person and separated him from what his job description entailed. 

He would go to you about everything and sometimes more often than not, you would know things before even his best friend Urban did.

Jack would always tell you how much he trusted you and how much he valued having you in his life, however it didn’t quite feel like it sometimes.

Being that you signed an NDA, there really was no one that you could talk to about your relationship issues and didn’t want the risk of you accidentally letting his name slip from your lips when you were addressing the topic. 

So, you suffered in silence.

But, you honestly didn’t know how much longer you could take. 

Jack literally did everything for you that a boyfriend would do in a relationship, there just wasn’t a title to go along with it. 

As you were both coming down from your high, Jack took the opportunity to pepper kisses all along your skin, before finally reaching your face and kissing the side of your mouth before pressing his lips to yours. 

He slowly slipped out of you making you wince before laying down next to you on his back and pulling you on top of him.

Jack noticed that you had been unusually quiet for the past three days.

He bought the gifts in hope that it would put you in a better mood, but truth be told nothing had changed.

That’s when the thought of him losing you crept into his mind no matter how much he tried to block it out.

You meant a lot to him and when an opportunity arose for him to tell you, he took it.

He loved you and was in love with you but probably would never say it to your face. He was scared that he would either run you off or mess up a good thing and that was honestly the last thing that he wanted to do.

You were his safe place and his safe haven. 

“Babe, why are you so quiet? Did something happen? You haven’t been yourself for these past few days.”

“I’m fine, I promise.” You answered, not bothering to pick your head up from his chest to look at him and you knew that he was going to continue to push until he got an answer that he was satisfied with.

“You know better than to lie to me. You can tell me anything. I want to help you fix what’s wrong if I can.”

Oh, he definitely could,alright, if he would just admit his feelings and stop being scared all the time.

That was the only reason that you could think of as to why he hasn’t said anything to you yet.

“Can we just drop it? It’s not something that I want to think about right now. You asked me to come see you and I did and that’s all I want to focus on before I have to fly back home.”

“We can drop it for now, but before you leave I want an answer.”

“It’s nothing, just work things.”

“That’s bullshit and you know by now that I can see right through you.”

“Jackman….”

“Damn, we on government basis now?” Jack asked as he looked down at you and the two of you finally made eye contact.

You were quiet and simply looked at him. 

When he didn’t get an answer from you all he did was sigh before kissing the top of your head.

“Fine, I’ll let it go for now. Maybe it’ll take your mind off things when we go to see my parents and Clay later.”

“I thought you said that we weren’t leaving this bed when I got here?”

“Well more or less. We’ve been going at it for six days anyway, one night away won’t hurt. And they miss you anyway. I told them that you were coming and they got excited.”

This obviously wasn’t the first time that you had met Jack’s parents. You actually knew them really well. He always introduced you as his friend when meeting someone new and every time Maggie saw you she would ask if her oldest had asked for you to be his girlfriend yet.

Because she honestly didn’t know what the hold up was either.

She would always tell you the way that Jack talked about you and how he would literally light up and get excited. He didn’t do that with anyone else.

Not to mention that when the two of you met, he literally cut off everyone that to him would be seen as a distraction and would take his attention off of you.

You were the shiny new toy that he was infatuated by and as many times as you wanted to walk away from the situation, he kept reeling you back in. 

“So, what do you think of the house?” Jack asked you quickly changing the subject before you had an opportunity to say no.

You had been the first person that he confided in about wanting to buy a house and he wanted for you to go house hunting with him in Louisville, however, your schedule just didn’t allow it. But you promised him you would come and see it as soon as you could.

When he made the purchase, he immediately flew you out to see it, hence, why you were there now.

He still had some decorating to do for him to get it exactly how he wanted it, but the basics were there.

You were the first person to step foot in it besides him and the realtor and you admit that you loved that he confided in you so much because he valued your opinion on different things.

“I like it, it suits you.”

“I got an extra key made for you too.” Jack said while reaching over to the bedside table to grab it and then placing it in your hands.

“Jack…”

“No, I want you to have it. You’re my person and if at any time you need me, you know that I’ll be here and there’s no need to hesitate. I’m always going to be here for you no matter what. If you want to hop on a plane in the middle of the night to come see me, then you can. You keep me grounded and the last thing that I would ever want to do is lose you.”

“Okay.” You said as you reached over to put it to the side of you making a mental note to put it on your keys later.

“Can I be real with you for a minute?” Jack asked you and you simply nodded your head.

“Of course you can, I’m never going to tell you no.”

And truth be told that’s what your problem was, never being able to tell him no.

“I just think about how I can’t wait to settle down and have kids. I highly doubt that I’m going to meet my wife in a club somewhere, but you never know I guess. I want for them to want for nothing and that’s why I work so hard now.”

Luckily you weren’t facing Jack as he told you this because you immediately rolled your eyes.

He always did this shit and made you feel as if you were just a placeholder even if that wasn't his intention. Keeping his wife’s spot warm for when he actually did meet her and then what? He would probably kick you to the curb and would probably have to give him the house key back.

When that happened, you planned on cutting him off for good.

And you weren’t going to run back to him no matter how hard that it might end up being.

Because how in the world would you be able to compete with somebody’s wife?

“I don’t know if that’s what I want in life or if that’s the type of life for me.” You quietly answered and Jack did a double take.

Honestly, you wanted for it to be with him, but the thought of that went out the window a long time ago. 

What Jack wouldn’t admit to your face is that the only person he saw that future with was you.

“Since when? From the moment we met you said that you always wanted a family.”

“Well things can change.” You replied while shrugging. 

“Any man would be lucky to have you and he wouldn’t want for nothing because of how amazing of a person you are. Anyone is able to see that. Especially me."

“I.. just don’t know if I’m cut out to be someone’s wife.”

“You’re definitely more than capable. Just look at the way you take care and do things for me.”

You so badly wanted at that moment to get up and walk out the door and never speak to him again, but of course it wasn’t that easy.

You were too far in and down bad and you knew it. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Jack placed another kiss to your temple and this time you couldn't help but to smile.

“Now let me eat you out before we have to get ready.”

It was now around 8 PM and Maggie had cornered you with a glass of red wine for you to update her about everything that had been going on in your life in the backyard since she ordered out for dinner not having the energy to cook anything.

I guess it was fair seeing as the last time you saw her was a month ago.

You truly adored his parents and looked up to them as they were yours right along with Clay.

“Okay miss lady, spill it!” Maggie said while sitting next to you and handing you the wine.

“Nothing is really going on!” You said while laughing and taking a small sip.

“Nothing? Nothing at all? Including with my oldest child?” 

“Definitely nothing there. We’re friends, that’s all.”

“But the way that he looks at you tells me otherwise. I know that look because that is how Brian looks at me.”

“Mama Maggie….”

“What?! I’m just saying! I know what love looks like when I see it and I definitely see it between the two of you no matter how much either of you wants to deny it, Mama knows best.”

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong but….”

“But what?”

“I just don’t think I’m the perfect fit for him.”

“And that is utter bullshit, excuse my French. You two fit together like two puzzle pieces and not the ones that you have to force together.”

“We’re friends and the last thing I want to do is ruin that.”

“But my question is, what if you don’t ruin it and it turns into something more? Then what? You’re never going to know unless you try.”

Just then Jack made his way over to the two of you and Maggie simply eyed him.

“You two were just talking about me, weren’t you?” He asked while looking between both of you.

“Oh, just telling Y/N how I’m waiting for you to ask her on a proper date. Nothing more or nothing less.”

“MOM!” Jack exclaimed while turning beet red and all you could do was stifle a laugh.

“What? What’d I say? You obviously want me to be honest with you right?”

“I… I should have never asked. Anyway, Y/N, you ready?”

“But we’re only one glass in, don’t tell me you’re stealing her from me already.”

“She has an early flight mom, so yes I am stealing her from you.”

“Fine, Y/N, just remember what I told you and don’t take so long to come back and see me.”

“I promise I won’t.”

The two of you simply rode in silence back to his house and once there, you immediately went upstairs to begin packing.

“Hey, you okay? I seriously want you to tell me what’s wrong. I didn’t forget.” Jack asked while coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around you and placing a kiss on your cheek.

"I promise I'm okay. I just don't want you to worry about me.'

"But I always worry about you. Can't help it. If it was left up to me, you would be around me all the time."

"I know I would." You said while laughing and Jack turned you around so that you were now facing him.

He was simply looking at you with that famous smile of his and you could feel your face starting to get hot.

"Oh my gosh, stop!"

"Stop what? I didn't even do anything!"

"You're staring at me!'

"Well I can't help it if my girl is extremely gorgeous." Jack said while leaning down to kiss you and you eagerly kissed him back.

"Can't you stay for one more day?' He quietly asked and you immediately sighed.

"You know I can't."

"Yes you can, you're the CEO and can do whatever you want."

"You had me for a week already."

"And truth be told I need another one. Come on babe, please." Jack said while trying to subtly reach behind you in order to close your suitcase to put it back in his closet.

"But…"

"I haven't seen you for an entire month. Everyone was suffering just ask Urb."

"Fine, one more day."

"Good, because I already went in your phone and changed your flight so this would have been real awkward if you had said no."

"Jack!"

"What!? I missed you."

"I missed you too."

"See if you moved down here, I could see you every day and not have to miss you so much all the time."

"Now, Jackman.."

"Hey, it was just a thought!" 

Even though you promised Jack to stay another day, you still packed the majority of your things away so that it would be easier to get ready to leave and hopefully be at the airport on time. Jack had helped you finish and the two of you began to have a movie marathon before you fell asleep. 

Jack was still wide awake and peering down at you while you were asleep on his chest.

His thoughts were running rampant and he knew that you deserved better than this.

But truth be told, he was terrified.

Terrified of his feelings that he had for you.

He didn't really know why, seeing as he knew you like the back of his hand and he knew that you wouldn’t hurt him, but that thought still had residence in the back of his mind.

The biggest thing he had to separate is the fact that you weren't her.

The two of you had absolutely nothing in common and when Jack met you, it was like a breath of fresh air.

You were focused, had your goals, dreams, and aspirations set and he honestly wanted nothing more than to see you win and be by your side through all of it.

But what he didn't plan on was falling in love with you head first.

He wanted to tell you, he really did.

But the last thing he ever wanted to do was disappoint you or vice versa, you disappoint him.

However, the way that you showed him that you cared let him know that he wanted you in his life for the long run.

It was only a matter of time until you got fed up and he didn't know what he would do when that happened.

Just a little while longer and he'll tell you.

The wife that he would always mention that he wanted was you.

He saw a future with you and no one else.

Now all he needed was the courage to tell you.

—

You had been back home for about a week and a half and had been extremely busy getting new designs ready for fall. You admit that you hadn’t been answering your phone much or talking to Jack on a daily basis like you usually did, so it didn’t surprise you when your phone started ringing with his specific ringtone attached to it. 

"Hello?" You answered when you had finally found your phone that was buried underneath multiple fabrics that you were using for the dress you were designing.

"Babe! What took you so long to answer your phone!?"

"I'm working, Jackman. I need to work in order to buy things."

"My girl doesn't need to work when she knows I got her. Anything you ask me for, I get it without a second thought."

"I- cut it out."

"Just saying, but anyway, I got your assistant to clear your schedule for this weekend. Actually the whole week." 

"What the!?!? JACK!"

"My baby needs a much deserved break and I'm spending the entire week spoiling her. You'll thank me later."

"Where are we going?"

"Meet me on the tarmac at 6 am on Saturday to find out. Oh and bring that purple lingerie set that I like."

"What? I don't have a set that's purple." You answered, trying to think of all of the sets you had in your head.

"Yes you do since I got it delivered to your house earlier. It'll be waiting for you when you get there."

"What am I going to do with you?" You asked him while shaking your head.

"Nothing. Been stuck with me this long. And you know you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Jackman, get off my phone and let me finish so I can go home."

"So, is that a yes? That you'll go with me?"

"Well I didn't tell you no, did I?"

As promised it was around 5:45 in the morning when you pulled up to the airport to see Jack already waiting for you.

You had barely gotten any sleep the night before between how excited you were, how much you missed him, and worrying about finishing the designs for your boutique.

Once the car came to a complete stop, the driver opened the door for you and while he was getting your bags out of the trunk to load onto the plane, you ran full force into Jack with him catching you and your legs immediately went around his waist.

“Did someone miss me?” He curiously asked while kissing the top of your head.

“Ehh, I mean I guess I missed you.” You responded as he placed you back down on your feet and began to play with your braids. 

“Wait, you guess? After all that I went through to plan this shit for you? YOU GUESS?”

“Of course I missed you J, now where are we going?” You asked as you began to climb the steps of the private jet with him right behind you. 

“Did you bring what I asked you to bring?” Jack asked while eyeing you as the two of you were now seated next to each other.

“If it’s the purple lingerie set that we’re talking about, I’m actually wearing it right now.”

“Good girl. You’ll see when we get there.”

The two of you were now in Paris near the Eiffel tower having a candlelit dinner for your next to last night in Paris and you were in absolute awe of how much he went through to be able to do this for you and were thankful that he takes initiative to be able to spend as much time with you as he possibly can. 

Tonight had to be the night that he was going to do it.

It only made sense right?

He had to ask you to be his girlfriend at this point, because nothing else would make sense.

Him flying you to Paris?

Having dinner near the Eiffel tower?

Putting you in one of the most expensive hotels in the city?

And not to mention him fucking your brains out ever since the two of you touched down with no end in sight. 

The purple lingerie set definitely came in handy. 

I mean this was one hell of a first date if it could be considered one, but you were definitely convinced that it was.

“J, thank you for this.” You said while sipping on your red wine and he simply looked up at you and smiled.

“Anything for my girl, you know that. I know that this is one of your favorite places in the world and I remember you telling me how you really never get a chance to enjoy it because usually when you come here, you’re working so I decided to bring you when I knew for a fact you wouldn’t be working at all. Only work you’re allowed to put in is on this dick.”

“Way to ruin the mood, Jackman.”

“What?! I was just saying! And do you know that I don’t let anyone call me Jackman, but you? Besides my mom of course, but I just love the way my name sounds when you say it.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Well, yeah. You’re special to me.” Jack replied while shrugging and turning red at the same time. 

“And you’ve definitely shown that to me this week, and all the time really now that I think about it.”

“And I wanted to ask you something.”

“Of course, anything.” You answered as your heart started to race.

This had to be it, it just had to be. 

“I just don’t know how you’re going to take it.” Jack said while scratching the back of his neck, clearly nervous.

“Babe, just ask me.”

“Would you be in charge of designing my wardrobe when I go on tour?”

What.the.actual.fuck.

“Wait, what?”

“Only because I know you have so much to do already, but I wanted you to come on tour with me! I can’t go that long without seeing you or having you near me.”

“Oh.” You said in defeat and now decided to pick up your fork and play with your dessert and trying not to break down in tears in front of him.

“Just think about it, baby. No pressure, but I would love to have you with me. And you already know how much PG adores you.”

“I’ll think about it.” You quietly said and Jack immediately noticed a change in your demeanor.

“Okay, just let me know. Oh and one more thing.”

Jack simply pulled out a box that had Cartier written on it and placed it in front of you and all you did was stare at it.

“What are you waiting for baby? Go ahead and open it.”

You did as you were told and slowly opened it up to see that it was a bracelet.

But not just any bracelet.

It was THE bracelet that you had told Jack you had wanted, but never got around to actually buying it yourself.

“Jack…”

“Do you like it? Here let me put it on for you.” He said while taking it from you to help you put it on.

It was taking everything in you in that moment to not rip it off and throw it into his face.

“You’re my person, Y/N, and don’t you ever forget that. You ready to get out of here?”

You forced a small smile and quickly nodded.

You needed to get away from him.

As soon as possible. 

This had gone on long enough and you were tired of feeling like you weren’t good enough for him.

The ride back to the hotel was awkwardly silent and Jack knew that there was something wrong, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it could actually be. 

He finally cornered you in the master bedroom of the suite that you two were staying in and wanted an answer.

“Babe? What’s wrong? Something’s off.”

“You just wouldn’t understand.”

“Why wouldn’t I understand? Where is this coming from?”

“Jack,  drop it and I mean it.”

“Something is wrong with my girl and I’m not dropping it until she tells me why.” He answered before turning you around to face him.

All you did was look down and Jack quickly put his finger under your chin for you to look up at him.

“I’m tired of not being good enough.” You quietly whispered not being able to hold it in any longer.

“What? What do you mean? Good enough for who? You are more than enough.”

“Obviously not for you.”

Jack wasn’t expecting that for an answer and was now looking at you confused.

“For me?”

“Don’t play dumb because I do not have the patience for it tonight.” You said while turning around and continuing to pack your bag.

“I’m not playing dumb, but why would you say that?!”

“Jackman, you literally do everything as if we’re in a relationship. Down to the gifts, you buying me a car no matter how much I wanted for you to return it, you fuck me whenever you feel like it, fly me out to wherever you are in the world and you literally just gave me a key to your house. And now apparently instead of flying me to Paris in order for you to ask me to be your girlfriend, I get a bracelet and you asking for me to go on tour with you instead. All while still not being able to call myself your girlfriend. You just take and take and take from me and I allow it! I follow you anywhere like a lost puppy! You don’t see any problem with that?”

“Where is this coming from because the last time I checked, you were okay with it.”

“When was the last time you checked? Because I honestly don’t ever remember you asking me.”

“And you’re just saying something now? We’ve known each other for almost TWO years!”

“And that’s all you have to say? You constantly make me feel like I’m not good enough and that I’m a placeholder for your actual wife because you even said it yourself.”

“NO I DIDN’T!”

“BUT IT WAS IMPLIED!”

“Y/N.. just I can’t have a girlfriend right now.”

“But you can have me, who is basically your girlfriend without the title? I’VE MET YOUR PARENTS AND YOUR GRANDPARENTS. WHO DOES THAT FOR SOMEONE WHO THEY DON’T PLAN  ON BEING WITH?!”

“I….”

“And now you don’t even have an answer because you never intended on making me your girlfriend in the first place. Even if you led me to believe that you were. You cut everyone off for me and it’s like for what? You might as well call them back because whatever this is, it’s over and done with. You’re not going to play me anymore.”

“No one is even playing you! You knew this shit from the beginning and how it would be!”

“Jack, you don’t have to worry about me so here’s your key back. And do me a favor. Don’t call me for the rest of your life and I hope that you find your wife wherever she may be.”

“Y/N… you don’t mean that. You…. don’t do this.”

“You don’t love me so why do you even care if I walk out of your life?”

“I DO LOVE YOU!”

“BUT NOT THE WAY THAT I FUCKING LOVE YOU SO I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT! I’M DONE, I’M DONE WITH THIS SHIT! I DESERVE BETTER!” You were now crying and Jack was trying to embrace you, but you immediately pushed him away.

“No, I’m not getting roped back in so don’t even touch me.”

“Y/N, you’re crying.”

“BECAUSE OF YOU!”

“Y/N, I just need more time. We’ll do this, we’ll do it all. Be in a relationship and everyone will know about it.”

You simply wiped your eyes with the back of your hand even though they were still steadily streaming down your face.

“No, don’t try to save face now and try to make it right. I meant it when I said I was done. Don’t give me any handouts. I want someone to love me for me and love me outloud and not be afraid to show it. I have never seen someone so scared of commitment like you are. I’m not innocent in this either, however, I realized that I deserve more.” You said as you closed your suitcase and was making your way towards the door.

“I CAN’T FUCKING LIVE WITHOUT YOU AND YOU KNOW THAT!”

“You lived without me for 22 years. I’m sure you’ll find a way to fill the void.”

“Y/N please. I don’t know what I’m going to do if you walk out that door and never talk to me again.” Jack pleaded with you with actual tears in his eyes.

“You’re Jack Harlow. You’ll find another bitch to keep your bed warm at night.”

“But she won’t be you!”

“And you’re damn right about that. Maybe now I can actually look for my husband, wherever he may be.”

“Let’s just sleep on this and we’ll talk about it again in the morning.” Jack said while trying to come closer to you but you immediately backed up. 

“Jack, I made myself pretty clear. The answer is no.”

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#jack harlow #jack harlow fic #jack harlow fanfic #jack harlow angst #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow x black reader #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fanfiction

[iateyourparents]

fOoL fOr YoU | c.b.

pairing: colby brock x singer!fem!reader

summary: fate has its own ways to connect people who are destined to each other, even after breaking them apart at some point in life.

warnings: kinda short, use of y/n, bad writing and grammar(i’m sorry but english is not my first language)

an: songs used here are fOoL fOr YoU by ZAYN, My stupid heart by Walk off the Earth. Album used in here - Lover by Taylor Swift.

pictures are from pinterest:)

“Come on guys, let me hear you! I know you like this one!” you said to microphone before continuing the song “Cause I’m a fool for you and the things, the things you do…”

You heard crowd clearly and loudly singing with you your debutant song and you couldn’t feel more proud.

Even though since realese of this song you made two whole albums it still was most of your fans’ favorite song, and to be honest, it was yours too.

It was song about your teenage love, how you felt about that one boy that you aren’t even in touch anymore. You wrote fOoL fOr YoU while you still were a lovesick teenager but before you were able to present it to your former muse from these times, you were broken up.

Then, years later you met that amazing man, Charles, who took you under his wings becoming your manager and helped you with realesing your debutant single - fOoL fOr YoU.

And that’s how you became pretty famous and now, here you were playing all around the world for your “we’ll never be the same again” world tour, promoting your newest album.

“Alright, that was so good! Thank you!” you took a break to take a sip of water and then you were back in front of the chanting crowd “Okay, so I wrote this one about my ex who was absolutely awful experience but also taught me a lot.”

You could hear loud screams from a crowd which already knew what song you were about to sing so you just laughed and started singing, crowd following also started shouting lyrics.

“My stupid heart don’t know, I’ve tried to let you go so many times before…”

After few more songs you bided your goodbye to the crowd promising you will be back someday and you got off the stage and met Charles on backstage.

„How was it?” you asked with smile, sipping water.

„That was great!” you could say he was proud „And you were worried you wouldn’t be able to play on arenas.”

„That’s a big step!” you defended yourself with smile „I can’t wait to take a shower, I stink.” you grimaced.

„I won’t disagree.” he laughed and hugged you „Go relax a little before we have to go to tourbus.”

„You too Charlie, I know that you are secretly almost ripping off your hair.”

Now you were supposed to head to Los Angeles where you would play two concerts and then you would have a month long break before starting last part of the tour - Europe.

|||

You were currently sitting at the vanity in your changing room. Your make up artist, Sarah, was doing your make up for your last performance before a break when Charles came into the room.

„Hi” he started.

„Hi Charlie, what’s up?” you could tell he had some offer for you.

„What do you say, you, me and your band go to some club after you come off the stage to celebrate successful tour?”

You looked at him in the mirror and smirked at him.

„Sounds great to me.”

|||

You and your crew sat in some club. You weren’t drunk but it felt good to feel more easy with alcohol in your system after stressful couple of weeks.

„My forever favorite moment is when this one fan threw his boxers on scene and they landed perfectly in front of y/n. Her face was priceless.” Mark, the drummer, laughed. You loved talking about memories from the tour but that memory actually was traumatizing since it was the first time ever when something like this happened.

„I felt attacked.” you joked and took a last sip of your sweet drink „I’ll go order next one. Somebody wants something?”

You heard chorus of no’s and assurances that they have almost full glasses so you just walked towards the counter and waited for a bartender to end taking someone else’s order.

„Your concert was awesome.” you heard next to you. When you turned to the side you saw someone you thought you would never see again in person.

Infamous ghost hunter, your ex and an old muse of yours.

Cole Brock.

Or rather, Colby.

„Thank you” you smiled „Fancy seeing you here.”

„I live in LA.” he explained „I liked this one song, what was it? Fool for you?”

You smirked and shook your head „Yeah, I like it too.”

„So, was I good muse?” he winked and you laughed. Of course he would know it was about him. You’re pretty sure that when you were together you were sometimes telling him parts of this song.

„Excellent, thank you.”

„I’m always happy to help, so if you will need some new music, here’s my number.” he handed you a piece of paper with some numbers.

„I’ll make sure to call if i’ll need anything.” you winked at him and he laughed.

„I hope so.” he looked behind his back where a blonde boy, Sam, called him „I have to go but i’ll be waiting for your call.”

|||

If some days later you actually called Colby, nobody have to know. And if that meeting ended with him tangled in your sheets, also nobody have to know. And if this was more than one time occurrence then also nobody have to know.

And if your next album called ’Lover’ was about him and everyone knew it was about him, then it’s okay.

And if you both tattooed ’fOoL fOr YoU’ on your hips on the day of your wedding, then it’s great even if everybody knows.

You two really were like lovesick fools.

#colby brock x reader #colby #colby brock #sam and colby #snc #music #katrina stuart #sam golbach

[billyhargrove-s]

Night's like These

a/n: is billy OOC? possibly. do I care? not really <3. enjoy

request: What about Billy seeing his s/o and (step)sister getting along? Maybe they are dancing together?

relationship: billy x f!reader

warning: fluffy, mentions of Neil, I think thats it.

Many nights, Billy found himself staring at you in wonder. Tonight was one of those nights. When Neil found himself in a fit of drunken rage and Susan had practically begged Billy to take Max with him to your house for the night. Things had gotten better between the two of them, he liked to think that you were the reason for him mellowing out a bit and being nicer towards the girl. Well, then again he knew you were the reason for a lot of things. 

Just like how right now, you were blaring Kate Bush through a Karaoke machine and forcing him to listen to the two of you singing poorly as you danced around each other. An hour prior, Max had been anxious about leaving the house where her mother dealt with Neil, yet somehow you managed to calm her down with a promise of a fun filled night. 

No matter how much Billy wanted you to be all his for the night, and sweep you away, he knew how much you loved his sister and saw her as your own. Instead of interrupting the two of you and your impromptu girls night, he ordered a pizza and sat himself down on the couch, fiddling with the rings on his fingers. 

He never understood how someone so loving, and caring, wound up with him. It was like you were sent from above to set him on a straight path. After meeting you there were less fights at school, less fights with Max, and he was overall a nicer person. Of course, he was still overprotective about everything and god forbid someone looked at his girl, but with you, he felt at peace. He was carefree and never worried about anything other than being a good boyfriend to keep you happy and with him. 

He laughed as you collapsed on the couch next to him, absolutely breathless from belting the last lyrics of whatever song you were singing. Your head was in his lap, hair splayed out underneath you and Billy put his hand on your thigh, squeezing it. 

“That was great babe.” He praised, even if it was anything but. 

“Thank’s, I think I can give Kate Bush a run for her money.” You told him, reaching for his face to bring it down to your lips. He smiled into the kiss before pulling away to look down at you in total adoration. This was his life, you were his life, as much as he hated to admit it these nights where you and Max got along like you’d known each other your entire life were his favorites. He knew you’d always wanted a younger sibling, and Max was the perfect surrogate for that. 

“Hungry?” He asked playing with your hands. There was never a moment where Billy wasn’t touching you in some sort of way. He always had to have one hand on you at all moments. You were his home, and just touching you in some way made him feel secure. 

“Starving.” Max said from where she laid on the floor next to the karaoke machine, staring at the ceiling. “I think I might die if I don’t eat something soon.”

“Oh so I should cancel the pizza?” Billy asked taunting his sister causing her to roll her eyes and flick a hair tie at him. While things between the two used to be tense and that would’ve caused a screaming match, now it just felt like something normal. Like they’d grown up together and had always taunted each other for

“You do that and you’re no longer invited to girls night.” You said pouting. “You’ll have to sit in your car and think about all the fun you’d be missing out on.”

“Or the pitchy singing, my ears might thank me.” Billy teased and you playfully smacked his chest. 

“You jerk.” You told him with a laugh and he smiled lovingly at you. The doorbell to your house rang out and Max rushed to get the pizza, grabbing Billy’s wallet from the coffee table as she did. He didn’t even protest, he couldn’t care less about buying. He’d do it a thousand times if every night was like this one.  

“Have I ever said that I love you?” He asked quietly, kissing your lips in a slow and delicate way. 

“Once or twice.” You spoke giving him another soft kiss. 

“I swear I’ve said it more than that.” He said with a lopsided smile. “How could I not? You’re perfect in every possible way, and don’t even fight me on that because I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life proving it to you and reminding you how much I love you.” 

“I love you more Billy.” You whispered giving him a final kiss, sitting up as Max came back to the basement with the pizza in hand, tossing Billy his wallet. 

“Always trying to one up me.” He muttered, opening the box and taking a slice for himself. 

“Should we watch a movie?” You suggested to Max who was busy stuffing her face with a slice of pepperoni pizza. 

“Absolutely.” She said, looking like a chipmunk with the amount of food stuffed in her cheeks. 

“Alrighty you get one set up, I’ll grab some blankets.” You told her before turning to Billy. “Are you guys spending the night?” 

“If I had the opportunity I’d spend every night with you Y/n.” He said with his signature grin on his face. He knew his dad wouldn’t be as mad about not coming home if Max was with him. He’d deem is sibling bonding and wouldn’t argue as much about spending the night at his girlfriends house.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” You said, kissing his forehead and grabbing some blankets from the linen closet and throwing them at Billy. He smiled as you sat down next to him once more and spread the blanket over the two of you as Max popped a VHS tape into the player and ran to the couch, sitting on the opposite side of you. “What are we watching?” 

“Texas Chainsaw Massacure” Max said with a grin, and Billy sneakily handed her a five dollar bill as he put his arm around you. They had an unspoken deal, you hated horror movies. But Billy loved the way you curled up next to him when they were on, so Max picked a scary movie, you cuddled Billy a little bit closer and she got arcade money. 

“Oh god I hate this one.” You mumbled, even if you didn’t really hate it, you just hated trying to sleep after watching it. Billy squeezed your shoulder a little tighter and you leaned on him as the movie started. You jumped as Leatherface claimed another victim and Billy laughed as you dug your face into his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry I’ll protect you.” He whispered, kissing your temple. 

“Barf.” Max muttered from beside you, despite thinking how cute it was the way Billy was always reassuring you of your safety. 

By the time the movie came to an end, you were asleep leaning on Billy and Max was half asleep using one of the throw pillows and laying in your lap. He chuckled to himself, wishing he could capture this moment to look back on forever. He smiled and pulled you closer to him listening as you grumbled in your sleep and wrapped your arms around his waist, squeezing him in a hug before falling back asleep. He was cramped, and tired, and the couch in your basement was tiny, but he wouldn’t change a thing if it meant he could spend more nights like this.

#billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #stranger things #billy hargrove imagines #stranger things imagine #x reader #stranger things x reader #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x female reader

[petitemistletoe]

Hi i was wondering if you could write something for James Potter x fem!reader already in a relationship. Maybe they’re at a party and some guy makes her uncomfortable and won’t leave her alone and it’s just James being the protective bf he is.

If not don’t worry!!! xx

Title: Protection Charm

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Warnings: mentions of sexual assault/harassment, eventual smut

Word Count: 2.3K

A/N: Y'all are real lucky that I've been in a marauders era and have been reading ATYD. Read ATYD here! Feel free to request more from this era!

“But why do I have to go this party?” Remus whined as he took a bite of his eggs. 

“Moony! It’s your birthday party!” Sirius said, looking completely affronted that Remus would ever suggest such a thing. 

“Come on, Remus! We went through all the trouble planning it and inviting everyone and-” James started but Remus cut him off. 

“Wait a minute,” Remus held his hand up and looked at his friends sitting in front of him, “who exactly did you invite?”

“Well…everyone! You’re very popular, Moony.” Peter said with a grin. Remus looked like he was going to blow him top sooner rather than later and you thread your hand through Remus’s arm. 

“What would you like to do for your birthday, Remus?” You asked.

“Get drunk with you lot,” he shrugged. 

“Isn’t that what we’re going to do at the party?” Sirius threaded his fingers through his hair and looked at Remus had just been dropped from space.

“I mean just with us!” Remus shook his head, tearing a piece of toast in half and handing you the bigger piece. 

“How’s this, Remus? The party is happening whether you like it or not so let’s get really pissed tonight and next weekend we can get even more pissed at Hogsmeade.” You suggested, dodging the bigger piece, grabbing the smaller one and spreading a bit of marmalade on it. 

“Fine. But I’m not blowing out any candles.” Remus said, draining his tea and standing up. 

“Where are you off to?” James asked. 

“Have to turn in an essay to Binns. Told him I’d get it to him first thing in the morning.”

“See you later, Remus,” you called to the lanky marauder. 

“Cheers love,” Remus gave you a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing from the great hall. 

“Now hold on a second,” Sirius started and you only knew that he’d begin with the dramatics, “why on Earth does Moony get to kiss your girlfriend?” Sirius turned his head sharply to face James. 

“I’m a person!” You protested lightly. 

“Remus is like her older brother. I also don’t control what she does,” James shrugged, moving closer to you so he could put his arm around you.

“So can I kiss her?” Sirius asked James. 

“Still a person!” You rolled your eyes. 

“No. Remus is an older brother. You’re a dog, Sirius.” James rolled his eyes and tightened his arm around you. 

“Are you jealous, Mr. Potter?” You said with mock shock.

“Not jealous, just making sure you don’t get fleas from Padfoot.” James laughed, dodging the piece of bacon that Sirius had flung at James’s head. 

Classes always seemed to take longer when a marauder’s party was scheduled to follow. You promised that you and Remus could have a little dinner just the two of you so you snuck off to Hogsmeade for a quick dinner of pub food and butterbeer at the three broomsticks before the party. 

“Listen I know you said you wouldn’t blow out any candles but,” you pulled out a cupcake with a single candle in the middle. 

“God I’m glad James is dating you,” Remus said, blowing out the candle and cutting the cupcake in half. He handed the larger half to you, which you refused because there was no way you were going to allow Remus to have the smaller half of a cupcake on his own birthday. 

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you said with a grin. 

“Don’t tell the boys but if you and James ever break up, I’m on your side.” Remus smiled. You walked back to the Gryffindor common room with Remus’s arm around your shoulders. The common room erupted with cheers with the guest of honor entered and Remus sent you a bewildered look. 

“Firewhiskey?” You asked him. 

“Definitely,” he nodded as Mary, Lily, and Marlene cornered him and started peppering him with ‘birthday pecks’. You could see James and Sirius playing beer pong and by the sound of their cheers it seemed like they were winning. You poured Remus a strong glass of firewhiskey and then a glass for yourself when you felt a hand on the small of your back. You knew Remus was still cornered by the girls, you could hear James and Sirius at the pong table, and you could see Peter sneaking off with some girl in Hufflepuff. So who’s hand was on your back? You turned to see an attractive seventh year Slytherin, Lucius Malfoy, grin down at you. 

“Hi darling, who’s the other drink for?” 

“Hi Lucius,” you shrugged Lucius’s hand off and stepped away so you were facing him, “the other drink is for Remus.”

“Oh of course, the man of the hour,” Lucius sounded like he was making his voice extra sultry. 

“Surprised to see you here. Didn’t think you were a fan of Gryffindor parties.” You said cautiously. 

“I’d never turn down an opportunity to see you, love. I do have a question for you, though.” Lucius’s finger hooked under your chin so you made eye contact with him. 

“Alright?”

“Are you dating Lupin?”

“Remus? Oh no-”

“Excellent,” Lucius leaned down and kissed you rather forcefully. You put your hands on his chest and pushed him back. 

“Lucius. I’m dating James,” you didn’t want to make a scene but Lucius’s grip on your arms was pretty tight and he gave no indication that he was going to let go. You glanced back at James but he was currently absorbed in making Sirius drink from one of those funnels that Mary had brought back from the muggle world. 

“I don’t see him around.” Lucius said, leaning his head down to kiss you again. His lips were against yours but you didn’t kiss him back. 

“Let me go Lucius, I’m serious,” you said, trying to pull yourself away. 

“Come on now, don’t be a bitch,” Lucius said, his grip tight on your wrists. You were beginning to panic when you felt Lucius pull away from you. You looked up in time to see James punch Lucius right in the jaw. 

“What the fuck, Potter?” Lucius said, holding his jaw with one hand and pulling out his wand with the other. 

“Get away from her, Malfoy. Get out of Gryffindor tower before I hex you,” James said, positioning himself in front of you. 

“Not if I hex you first,” Lucius said, hissing out a curse. James was ready with his own but Remus yelled, 

“Expelliarmus!” Remus snatched both James and Lucius’s wands, “Now you two are making me exercise my prefect duties on my own birthday. Detention for you both. Malfoy get the fuck out of here.” 

“Fuck off, Lupin.” Malfoy said, clearly not thrilled at the idea of returning to the dungeons with a bruised ego and a bruised jaw. 

Peter and Sirius were struggling to hold James back and you heard Sirius hiss at his brother Regulus, 

“If you’ve ever done anything good for me ever in your life you will get Malfoy out of here right now.”

Regulus was not going to disagree and along with a few other Slytherins, they hauled Malfoy out of Gryffindor tower. 

“Let’s do a round of shots!” Sirius said with a grin. He had no intention of letting the party halt because of some interhouse drama. James turned and wrapped you in his arms, 

“Are you okay?”

“Let’s get out of here.” You said shakily. James nodded and you both slipped out of Gryffindor tower. James’s wand was raised just in case you ran into Malfoy again but it seemed that Regulus had made sure that Malfoy didn’t linger. He lead you to the astronomy tower where you sat on the edge with your legs dangling and shared a cigarette. 

The energy between you was uneasy, uncomfortable. James was obviously still upset with Malfoy but was trying to keep calm for you. You were still processing Malfoy’s disgusting behavior. You couldn’t help yourself, though, and you started to laugh. Little chuckles at first but then full belly laughs and finally you were doubled over trying to catch your breath as James stared at you. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He finally asked, after pulling you by the forearm after you almost toppled over the edge of the tower which only made you laugh harder. 

“You were jealous,” you giggled, your hands clasped firmly over your mouth. 

“I-” James started but he too started to see the humor in it and he started to laugh too. 

“How’s your hand?” You asked, picking up James’s left hand and examining his knuckles. There were bluish bruises forming already and you knew he’d probably need to go to the hospital wing in the morning. 

“It’s fine. Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked. You let out a weak chuckle and nodded. 

“Yeah. Thank you for…you know.” You said with a smile. 

“Of course, love. I’ll always be here for you,” James practically whispered. You brought his bruised knuckles up to your lips and kissed them lightly. You kissed around his hand and then on the sides of his fingers and then you slid one of James’s long fingers into your mouth. James took in a sharp breath and watched you, mesmerized, as you slid your tongue around his digits. James let out a strangled moan when he saw how deep his fingers stretched down your throat. You released his fingers softly and looked up at him with doe eyes. James’s eyes were lust blown and he was looking at you while breathing very hard. 

“Come here,” he pulled you towards him and kissed you hard, his hands knotted in your hair as he practically consumed you. He was starving and you were his last meal. He kissed down your jaw and down your neck before coming back up to your lips. 

“We should have sex,” you panted. James nodded. 

“Yeah definitely.”

“I don’t think I can make it back to the dormitory,” you shook your head. 

“No, I can’t either.”

“You got an Outstanding in transfiguration right?”

“Yeah,” James looked at you like you had grown another head for talking about school at a time like this.

“Then transfigure these desks into a bed.” You said, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle. 

“Oh! Yeah, fuck…yeah.” James nodded, throwing his sweater somewhere across the room.  He was fumbling in his pockets for his wand and you sunk to your knees, pulling his wand out of his pocket and handing it to him before pulling his cock out of his underwear and putting it in your mouth. 

“Oh my god,” James gasped, one hand on the brick wall of the tower. You let the head of James’s cock brush the back of your throat before you made eye contact with him and pulled away. 

“James, the bed,” you grinned before leaning down and taking one of his balls in your mouth while jerking him off.

“In my defense,” he said in a strained voice, “it’s a little hard to focus.” James was able to transfigure the desks into some sort of futon before letting out a strangled moan and saying “please stop before I cum in your mouth.”

You stood up and took your shirt and bra and dusted your knees off before reclining back on the futon. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” You asked, spreading your legs and pulling down your underwear. James watched with pure shock and adoration as you let your panties dangle on an outstretched foot before letting it drop to the ground. 

“Yes, yes! Absolutely.” James nodded, diving onto the futon and burying his face in your pussy. His lips immediately attached to your clit as he maneuvered three fingers inside you. James kissed you deeply before you broke away from his lips and moaned into his open mouth. 

“Fuck, don’t stop I’m going to cum.” You panted. James grinned and if you had been able to open your eyes you would’ve seen how embarrassingly fogged up James’s glasses were. He was also rutting against the edge of the futon and moaning into your own mouth. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist as you rode his hand into your orgasm. You barely had a moment to come down from it before James was fully ripping your skirt off and pushing himself inside of you. 

“I learned-” James could barely get two words out through his moans and you had to take a minute to wipe the inside of his glasses so you could actually see his eyes, “-a charm hold on a minute.” James stayed inside you as he reached over your head for his wand again. He mumbled something and pointed his wand at one of the crystal balls. The ball shot itself into James’s outstretched hand and transformed into a rapidly vibrating clitoral stimulator. James pressed it against your clit and you dug your nails into his bicep. 

“Where on earth did you learn a charm like that?” You gasped, feeling a second orgasm coming on. 

“Moony is a genius,” James said, before practically screaming, “I’m going to cum!” 

You could nod as you came, nearly sobbing and moaning. James came too, moaning loudly and resting his forehead against yours. You pushed the vibrator away and took a few minutes to breathe laying back while letting James rest his head on your chest. 

“So wait a second,” you said once you and James were able to restore your heart rates to a normal BPM. 

“What is it?” James looked adorably goofy with his glasses all fogged up again and you took them off and wiped them. 

“What do you mean Remus taught you that charm?”

“He’s a man of many talents,” James said with a shrug. 

“He deserves a much better birthday party then.” 

#James potter #James potter x reader #James potter x reader smut #James potter x reader angst #sirius black #remus lupin #lily evans #Marlene mckinnon #mary macdonald #petter pettigrew #marauders x reader #marauders era #all the young dudes #atyd marauders

[julia4today]

can you do like hobie x reader but miguel is readers father and he finds out that reader is dating hobie

yes. for this though we will have to kind of work around gabriella. we’ll just say she exists and is your older sister || i’m not really sure what ages i should use so i’ll leave that ambiguous.

——

mahogany fluff —- pt .1

(hobie x spanish speaking!reader) —— fem prns

avoidance. a skill you need to learn if you are going to sneak around and evade your parent. especially if that parent is 6’9 and 110% muscle.

————

your origin story with hobie is one that’s messy at best. especially considering the obvious blockade that was your father. him being overprotective and also hobie’s boss are two things that one never wants paired together. yet, love is one thing that can overcome. — i’m just kidding, there wasn’t a powerful we love each other moment, mostly just a lot of laughing.

it was mid july and your father was just as engrossed with work as always. you wanted to spend time together, have fun. he said he would love to but honestly you didnt think it would happen. you began to go to headquarters yourself and drag him from work. like, literally drag him.

this obviously garnered lots of attention, for one, who is this girl yelling at boss? a certain spider also happened to catch wind of the girl. he would join the crowd, laughing, cheering mildly aswell.

“dijiste que vendrías a cenar conmigo y con gabi . ¿y dónde te encuentro? ¡no en la cena! ¡hicimos empanadas, imbécil!”

“¡lo siento, mi princesa! i promise i didn’t mean to miss dinner.”

“yeah well you did, no empanadas for you. we’ll feed them to chester instead.” you say, turning around and walking away. leaving miguel to bask in the shame. you giggled at the thought of your dog getting more empanadas than your own father.

while miguel was busy being questioned about the strange girl who just walked up in here, hobie walks off to go talk to her.

“man you are an ace! that was barmy. who are you?” hobie leads with a compliment, genuinely impressed and a little refreshed at your presence, how not scared you were to yell at miguel. “a new spider recruit?”

you stop, rolling your eyes a little, still fuming at your dad. turning to greet the voice your mood immediately switches. his smooth accent and his sharp features should’ve made you a puddle right there. “n-no i’m not a spider recruit. i’m that pendejo’s daughter.”

“na shot,”

“don’t get your knickers in a twist,” you say mildly mocking his thick cockney.

“how d’you know?”

“i watch a lot television.” a laugh coming from both of you meld together.

“i’m just amazed at how you stood to the boss like tha’,”

“it’s a lot easier when the boss comes home and watches the soaps with you. what’s your name mysterious spider who’s following me home?”

“hobie, hobie brown. you’re a cheeky one, can’t believe you come from ‘im.”

“no, i’m y/n.” he laughs at your stupid joke, making your face heat up.

“i’d be chuffed to hang out with you sometime y/n. maybe visit my earth?”

“papá no me deja ir a diferentes tierras,” you shrug. “says it’s too dangerous.”

hobie nods, pretending he knows what’s you said. “atleast let me get to know you. ya like ackee?”

“mhm,” you say, a little suspicious but also mildly intrigued.

“‘ow bout tomorrow you come ‘ere n i’ll take you to some real jamaican food.”

“alright hobie, i’ll play.” you giggle and continue to your car.

he smiles waving. knowing what he’s getting himself into.

————

alright that’s part one! idk when part two is coming. sorry this is so short i didn’t have many ideas. reqs are open! —-

#hobie brown #hobie brown fluff #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader

[genericpuff]

Do you think Rachel can evolve in her writing and art in possible future projects?

As much as I talk shit about her work here, I do hope that she moves on to better things after, yeah. I think getting away from WT would do a load of good for starters, though I do hold Rachel responsible for a lot of the 'creative' decisions in the story that are indicative of her being just a poor writer, there are certainly a lot of things that can be pinned on Webtoons as well, such as the deadlines and panel requirements they enforce that don't allow anyone to have the room they need to breathe and plan ahead.

I'm not planning on following any of Rachel's work after LO, not just because of how bad LO turned out, but also because I just don't think it would be in good spirit to do so. When I started reading LO, I loved it, and I hadn't seen the issues in it yet because many of its issues were still hidden by the potential that it had. When that potential fell through, I saw the cracks more and realized that Rachel just... didn't have it in her to write the story that was promised. So now, knowing how badly LO turned out, it just wouldn't feel right for me to read her future projects because I would be going into it with that bad taste still in my mouth, and that wouldn't be fair to her or myself. I never set out to read stories with the intent of hating them right off the bat and that goes for any of Rachel's future projects as well.

If I do ever read her work in the future, it'll be after a lot of time has passed and only if improvement in her writing and art has become evident enough that it's worth checking out. I don't think she can find that improvement working for WT's, or with the attitude that she seems to have towards criticism and holding herself accountable to doing better.

If she does evolve and improve in her art and writing, great. I may not read whatever projects she has planned for down the road, but I hope they improve and do better so that her legacy doesn't begin and end with LO. I don't think anyone deserves to be known for one project forever (unless they explicitly want to), regardless of whether they were good or bad, because every artist and writer is so much more than a single piece of work.

And hey, if Adam Ellis can turn his career around from being known as the daily laughing stock of /r/ComedyCemetery to being known for his fascinating horror comics and creepypastas and legitimately funny comedy strips, then I don't think it would be impossible for Rachel to turn her work and reputation around, either. The potential is always there - she just has to take hold of it and learn how to move forward with it.

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

[softstarlite]

The Casualty of Love

CHAPTER 1

Summary: He's back home. You have almost forgotten how warm his eyes were and how big your crush for him was.

Warnings: Age gap (Javier is 40 and reader is 27), mentions of death.

Rating: +18 (Not explicit)

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

A/N: sorry guys that this one is kind of short, I promise that it is because is the first chapter that I write after almost 4 years without writing anything at all and because I have a terrible big cold bullying me. But I promise that future chapters will be much longer, I hope this one gets you hook up (please remember that English is not my first language) :-))

Divider by @saradika

Javier didn't though he would be waking up in his old bed in his parents house ever again, for him there were only two options, dying on the field in Colombia or working on the DEA until he would be too old and they would force him to retire from the field and he would just live the rest of his days in Miami to be close with the only people he would have then, Steve and Connie.

After everything that happened with the Cali Cartel, Los Pepes and the government of Colombia, the DEA “invited” him into retirement, for a bit he thought about moving to Miami but he couldn't bear thinking about turning his back to his pops again, even more now that he was alone in that big ranch.

“Fuck…” he rises up from the old bed, his back protesting. He makes his way into the kitchen, where his dad is already dressed up and drinking a cup of coffee.

“I made a pot, mijo” Chucho says, signaling with his head towards the coffee maker and sipping.

“Gracias, pa” after two weeks of the same routine, waking up, drinking at least one cup of coffee, getting dressed and spending the day keeping himself busy around the ranch so he wouldn't have to even think, Javi was getting tired of what his life looked like now. He loved his pops with all his heart but between the absence of his mom that was their string of unity and the many years that they've had spend away from each other, he felt like there was always a tension when they were together.

“Mijo, would you mind going into town today to pick a few things up for me?” his dad says while getting up from the kitchen table and putting the empty mug in the sink.

“Sure, pops. Just make me a list and i'll go after feeding the cattle”

Taking the keys out of the ignition and making your way across the parking lot to the little store, your head, more specifically your forehead, collapses with a hard thing.

“ Ouch” you rub your forehead while looking at where your purse has landed.

“Uh, fuck” you hear a masculine but almost familiar voice say from above you. Your gaze comes up to be met with a pair of chocolate brown eyes that you have for sure seen before.

“Ja-Javi?” you say with wide eyes and mouth agape. He mumbles your name like a question, like he can't believe what he's seeing, was it truly you? you looked so… so different, so grown up…

“So it's true, you really are back, eh?” you can feel the corners of your mouth rise a little while you say it.

“Been for two weeks…” his eyes can't help but to roam your body “you… look different…” he says more to himself than you.

“Well, that's what more than a decade does to someone” you chuckle.

“It really has been that long? Mierda…” he runs a hand through his hair.

You suddenly realize that your purse it's still on the floor, so you pick it up. For a few seconds an awkward silence floats between you too, in which you both just stare at each other.

You then realize something, “espera, you´ve been back for two weeks and you haven't been to my mama´s house? She's going to kill you when she finds out, you know it right?” you nervously rub your hands together in front of you.

“Shit, you´re right…” he closes his eyes tightly, “with helping my pops getting the ranch in a better shape and all, i forgot about going to Maria´s…”

“Hey, I'm sure if you explain it to her, she'll understand it. You´ve always been her favorite anyways” you give him a reassuring smile that he reciprocates with another, but somehow it looks like it almost pains him to do so, like he has not given a real one for way too long.

Javier chuckles, “well, after so many years away and only picking up like three of her phone calls a year, i wouldn't bet on been her favorite anymore”

“Yeah… I don't think that could ever be possible. And if the amount of times she talks about his Javiercito are indicating of it, you definitely are on top of the list still” you don't take your eyes off of his, you had almost forgotten how warm they can be and now it was almost impossible to pull yourself away from that warmth.

He changes the subject, still feeling guilty about how much he felt he had abandoned his parents in one of their hardest times in life and also the woman he felt that was like a second mother to him.

María, your mom, was his mom's best friend, they had been since high school. His parents became parents at a very early age, most people in Laredo gave them side eyes and their back for a long time, but your mom never did, she was there even when Alma Peña discovered that she was indeed pregnant and not just sick.

She was even the third person to ever hold him, after his own parents.

Your parents didn't have you until they were 30, so Javier was just like a first born child for your mom for 13 years until she had you.

Alma and Chucho did try to have more children but life had a weird sense of humor and after giving them a son they weren't looking for at such a young age, it decided to not give them anymore children. So when Maria had you, Alma Peña held you in her arms even before your father did and she loved you like her little girl until her last breath.

“How old are you now? You were only like 12 when I left” he shifts from one leg to the other.

“I was actually 15,” you chuckle “don't worry, didn't expect you to remember, you were too busy all the time to even notice me” you say a little fast, trying to hide that the fact hurted you every time you thought about it. “I'm 27 now” you give him a tight smile.

“Almost the age I was when I left. Wow, time really has passed, eh?” he says with an air of sadness in his eyes.

“Yeah, that happens” you feel an awkward tension growing between you so you change the subject fast “so… you're just working on the ranch now?”

“Yeah… pops needs the help anyway, he's getting old. I would rather not see him deal with the ranch chores by himself anymore” he looks at the ground of the parking lot for a brief moment then his gaze rises up again towards you “what are you doing now that you´re not in high school anymore?” he asks you with a tiny smirk.

“I changed one school for another,” you giggle “I went to college to get a teaching degree and after working in Boston for a few years, when my dad got sick, i moved back home to help ma with him before he died, then i just stayed for her and your dad to be honest. I'm working at the elementary school now” when you mention your dad, your face can't help but make a tight lip expression, you didn't have a good relationship with him, and you couldn´´t understand why your mom didn't leave his ass for so many years. But your relationship with your mom was pretty good considering the circumstances.

“Sorry about him by the way, even if you guys had a rocky relationship” he gives you a worried look, like he wanted to ask a million questions about how you felt back then and feel now about it, but they never leave his mind. “Your mom told me about it in one of her calls…”

“Yeah, thank you. She was devastated when it happened and I think she felt like she couldn't confide in me because of my situation with him, so she only talked about it with Chucho” you re adjust the purse in your shoulder “well i need to buy a few things and then get back home to ma, I'll tell her that you´ll be visiting soon?” you ask, putting your gaze back into his warm eyes.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Tell her I'll be there on Friday, after finishing my chore on the ranch” he says, almost nervously putting his hands inside of the pockets in his tight jeans.

“Okay, I'll let her know Javi. She'll start making food today, I'm sure” you chuckle and take a step away “see you on Friday, bye!” you wave to him and make your way across the parking lot to enter the little store.

“Bye…” Javier mumbles more to himself than to you, since you were far already. His eyes can't help to roam the back side of your body in your sundress while you walk away from him, when he catches himself, he shakes the thoughts roaming his mind away and walks to his truck to go back to the ranch.

Next chapter

#javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x female reader #javier peña x you #javi peña x reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javi pena #javi pena x reader #javi pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier pena narcos #javi pena fanfiction #chucho peña #chucho peña narcos #narcos #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #narcos netflix #pedrostories #the casualty of love

[cleolinda]

My sister noticed

Previously on: I grew up in a haunted house and I didn't notice: So I told you a story about how a Count Chocula used to creep behind me at night when I was a child, and I described my very weird childhood home to you. I told you how my sister had Something Dark living in her bedroom, and I told you about the time she and I compared notes and realized that we also had the ghost of a young woman in the house. Maybe.

I asked my sister to read over the draft for me, maybe gather up the fortitude to fill in some details, and she texted back, "Oh, I'll tell you anything you want. But that’s not how it happened."

I am willing to believe her version for two reasons:

1) My memory has been shit after having covid umpteen thousand times.

2) I actually remember her version of the conversation we had, now that it's in front of me.

I also remember my version, is the thing—the one where I told her about Rebecca when we were younger. And that raises some questions about how independent, how uncompromised, our experiences were. But I think those questions are themselves the story. Can I trust my memory at all? I had such bad brain fog the first time I had covid that I could not remember how to scramble eggs. A lot of things are just mist to me now. There's what I remember and there's what actually happened, but what do I even remember? And that's before you even get into the idea that we're talking about ghosts we "felt" in the house. We saw no apparitions, no shadows, no odd movements.

This is not a story where I'm asking you to believe me.

There are things you experience, and things that happen. An example from the winter of 2016:

What I experienced was standing out on our deck one night and looking up at the stars. They were moving in a slight swirl motion, not unlike the painting Starry Night. I turned to my mom and said, "Well, the stars are moving, so if the world ends or something any time soon, here's our first sign." She stared at me.

What happened was, our upstairs heating unit had a leak, and I sustained mild carbon monoxide poisoning. (I like rooms to be cool, so I had used the heater less than most people would, at least.) This was only discovered during a routine furnace check, after my vision had been a little weird and I had been deeply fatigued for two or three months. I have had a CO monitor upstairs ever since.

Did I see the stars swirling? Yes. Were they? No. That's the distinction I want you to make while I tell you all this. Did my sister and I experience things? Yes. Do I know what happened? No.

So what I agree happened was, we were having Grownup Sunday Family Dinner a few years back, maybe 2019 or so. I had been really into Buzzfeed Unsolved, which later evolved into Watcher Entertainment, but my sister was refusing to watch any of it. She's a big fan now, but she only started watching the guys last year. Yesterday, we tried to piece this back together via text.

My sister ["MS" from here on out]: Like I feel like off and on for years you mentioned [Shane and Ryan's shows] and I refused

MS: And one day my argument was to talk about our own house

Me [let's go with Cleolinda Jones, "CJ"]: You said you felt like fake ghost shows were disrespectful to people who actually experienced [hauntings].

MS: YES I FEEL LIKE THAT WAS THE CONVO

I love paranormal investigation shows, whether they're patently fake or not, as long as I enjoy the people investigating, so I couldn't understand why they personally offended her. Pulling at this thread back in 2019 is how the the whole ghost story started coming out.

CJ: And I was like, okay, but here’s one show where they get, like, nothing, but I can promise you that it's real

(Because the Unsolved/Watcher shows pair a believer with an actual skeptic who still, lo these many years later, does not believe in any of it. I truly believe Shane and Ryan would not stage "evidence," for that reason. Shane makes fun of ghosts and people who believe in them, but he's honest about it, and my sister likes that.)

At this point, we go back to the first version of the story that I posted: my sister had told me that Something had lived in the Four Closets Bedroom with her when she was a preteen/early teenager. It felt very dark, very bad, and she had not told anyone else about it until that dinner. The way I relayed it to you, Dear Reader, was that she hadn't wanted to go into detail, and I wasn't sure what it looked like, or if it "lived" in the little witch closet, or what. That night at dinner, I had gone on to tell her that, you know, now that you mention it, I did feel like something used to follow me up there at night. And this was when "My sister started crying. Like just staring at me in wide-eyed horror, her eyes filling with tears" had come in.

1. Something Dark

CJ: So you were telling me about our house being haunted. Something in your room. How would you describe it?

MS: I think it more lived in the attic

(our pal the dark fucked-up attic room)

MS: but would roam the entire floor so I felt it in the peach room [my (Cleo's) old bedroom and then later, my sister's] but more so in [the Four Closets Bedroom] as it was closer to the attic

MS: The best way I can describe it is just never feeling like I was alone. Feeling like something was always behind me. But I refused to turn around to look. It felt like a darkness that almost oozed behind you in a way that was almost suffocating.

CJ: What I find interesting is that we both describe it as Just Feelings, and never feeling alone.

My sister texted me at this point that she used to sense Something upstairs whether it was day or night; "even in the day, it didn't feel safe." But night was worse.

MS: There was one night in 3rd grade when I was reading and had like my first panic attack because I was newer to living upstairs and I felt it come in the room at night for the first time

MS: I also used to feel compelled to keep the AC running all night like it was never cold enough.

Here's the weird thing: when we moved to the house where I currently live and our rooms were on the same floor, we always fought over the thermostat. My sister hated her bedroom being too cool, whereas I get hot. I remember one night, we were arguing over it, and she was weirdly on the verge of tears: "Why do you have to have it so cold?" In 2023, my sister texted me at this point that she didn't want our childhood home to be cold; it was like the thing wanted that temperature, even if she hated it.

You often hear that ghosts make rooms cold, that's a big ghost hunter show thing—but whatever was up there couldn't lower the temperature on its own?

CJ: "If you can’t make it cold yourself, storebought is fine"

CJ: And you don’t have a visual impression of it, I’m not just blowing past that?

MS: I refused. REFUSED to look. Ever. For any reason.

CJ: I did too, so that’s interesting

CJ: I describe it as a Count Chocula, which should tell you how much it didn’t bother me. Which I find weird

(Truly, there is a reason I titled that post "I grew up in a haunted house and I didn't notice.")

MS: I can’t tell if it was truly terrifying. Or if the amount of data I was getting from it was just so overwhelming that that alone was terrifying to a child. I wish I could answer that now.

CJ: Yeah, in some way I think we’re saying the same thing. I was seven years old and I couldn’t comprehend what it was, either, so I just imagined a silly vampire

CJ: like I can’t overstate how cartoonish it seemed to me at the time, while still being very DON’T LOOK BACK

Part of the problem, she added, was that she felt compelled to go turn down the air conditioning... and the thermostat was next to the (carpeted. shag carpeted) bathroom. And then she had to race back to her bedroom... the same way I used to, as quick as she could.

MS: I also felt like I could NOT run. Like the way you shouldn’t run away from a mountain lion. It would create the need for it to chase me.

MS: What is so strange is that [learning about paranormal investigation] has not changed my perception of my experience in the slightest. Whether that’s the reality or not. It is still something I find dark and terrifying.

CJ: I think you would answer this differently now than you did then: what do you think it was?

We discussed this by text for a while. I mentioned being intrigued that Something Dark wanted to be cold (but apparently was not able to make the room cold). My sister—having agreed to be quoted here—said, "I kinda hope to avoid someone being like 'you had a demon in your house,'" as she doesn't really feel like that's what it was. Her gut feeling (and, bear in mind, we are working off nothing but feelings here) is that it was a spirit or ghost: something formerly human. We agree that it seemed male in some way (again: a Chocula).

And you're probably thinking, This is total bullshit. And it probably is! I'm not claiming any of this to be real evidence! I just find it interesting that we somehow came up with the same bullshit.

CJ: It just fascinates me that I did not experience 90% of this, and yet I got a strong enough whiff of it that I’m like, yeah, I can see it

But what about the female presence, the one I went off to color with in the middle of the night?

2. Rebecca

MS: I didn’t find out you had done the ouija board until we were adults. You didn’t tell me when we were kids

MS: That’s why I was SO shocked when we talked at the dinner table.

See, I was convinced that I had told her about my ouija adventures when I was a teenager, and "What about Rebecca??" flowed really well in the first post. That conversation was already a bit fictionalized in order to condense it from what I remembered—that's how memoirs work, really, unless you have actual transcripts of your life and room to include them. You're telling a story. I thought I was telling a condensed version of a true story. And yet, I do remember how shocked my sister was at dinner that night. And she would have only been seven or eight when I was messing around with that shit. Those two things do support the idea that I wouldn't have told her.

MS: You did tell me skeletons lived in my closet tho

I told you I was kind of a shit.

CJ: when I told you about Rebecca, what was your reaction?

MS: That’s when I went white. Bc I realized we had had a similar experience and I wasn’t just crazy

CJ: The thing is, I WOULD HAVE SWORN I had told you about Rebecca when we were younger

MS: If you did you didn’t name her and that’s why it was nuts when I realized 2 decades later we pulled the same name and we both remembered it.

We did it again, too—I posted briefly about putting this whole saga together, and how my sister asked me to give the ghost a pseudonym (ghosts deserve privacy too). And in trying to think of a good replacement, we both came up with "Rebecca."

CJ: so how did you know the [original] name?

MS: Ouija board with [best friend, redacted] in the playroom when I was like 13. She cried the whole time. We both thought the other was moving [the planchette].

You'll remember the weird, windowless, sky-blue playroom with the scary door from the previous post.

MS: But she was crying so she wouldn’t have been. And I would have never pulled out the name [Not Actually Rebecca]

MS: There was part of me that wonders if I did it but I would have NEVER chosen Rebecca

CJ: So did I bring Rebecca up first in this conversation [at dinner in 2019], or did you? I did?

MS: You said it first. I would have never [told you first] cuz I would have thought you were placating me. Like I’d never really know if you weren’t just agreeing with me

And that's when my sister had "stared at me, saucer-eyed, pale. Like I'm not sure I had ever seen anyone 'go white' until that moment." And I had told her about getting up at midnight and going to color in the weird playroom, and someone else being in there with me, no big deal.

After all this discussion, we do think that Rebecca was briefly my "imaginary friend," but our mom told me to stop talking about that. Not because our mom was spooked, but because she felt like it was rude for me to talk about someone I was presumably making up in front of company. So that stopped. Thinking back on it, I just felt like someone was sitting next to me on the couch. I didn't feel anyone next to me; when I looked, I felt like I could see where... someone was not? The space that someone invisible was taking up? It felt like something reasonably friendly. "Chill" is the word I keep using. Not super eager or possessive, just like a girl who was a bit older, maybe a teenager, a babysitter age, who liked me well enough. There was some dark shit in the attic, apparently—it did feel very oppressive in there—but I would get a sense that a metaphorical desk lamp had been turned on. A presence that stayed back, relaxed, but emanated "hey, I'm here."

What my sister and I agreed on was that we remembered how these "feelings" were both vague and memorable. I can't remember events or chronology accurately, but I remember the actual sensations and presences very, very clearly. They resist reinterpretation. I can't sit here and say, "Oh, Rebecca was totally a guardian angel, I see that now." The Something Dark sounds functionally demonic, but my sister doesn't feel like that's accurate. (If anything, she gets a sense that this could have been a malicious uncle—not father—of some kind to Rebecca, if the two beings were related: particular in their vagueness.) These two presences just... were. My sister says she primarily sensed Rebecca outdoors in our backyard, when we were pretending (were we?) to play with fairies. I didn't sense Rebecca there—but then, I wasn't aware that what I sensed was a someone, not for another thirty years or so. My oblivious ass was up at midnight filling in my She-Ra coloring book with a ghost like, "Yeah, I'm alone in the dark for no reason, this is normal." It's only in retrospect that I recognize atmospheric feelings as things that actually took up space, and I don't know how I didn't see it at the time. I can't explain that, and I can't ask you to believe it. All I know is that my sister still feels very traumatized by her experience of it—and I can't explain why I don't.

I think one of the reasons paranormal investigation shows don't scare me a whole lot is because so much of the "evidence" is random knocks and creaks and movements and vibes, and I'm like, yeah, I've lived in two houses now like that. The door of my current bedroom opens and closes on its own all the time. It's probably a draft from the ventilation system (which does not have CO leaks anymore) (probably). I've seen something at this house that a lot of people might call a shadow person, but I was probably imagining it. So many of these ghost shows just have things that I grew up with and didn't even think a whole lot of at the time; I seem to be protected by a +3 Sphere of Sure, That's Fine. Is my current house also haunted? I honestly don't know. Would I notice if it was?

#part two of two #story time with cleo #long post #the haunting of jones house #spooky season #halloween everyday #me for some reason #first look on patreon

[marclef]

OKAY HELL YEAH THE POWER'S BACK ON HERE SO, VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE!!

SOME-FUCKING-HOW I'VE GOTTEN TO ✨300✨ FOLLOWERS!!!!!

I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS IS POSSIBLE BUT, I AM BEYOND AMAZED BY THE SUPPORT AND LOVE YOU'VE ALL GIVEN ME SO THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!! ❤❤❤ YOU'RE ALL TOO SWEET AND KIND AND I LOVE EVERY ONE OF YOU /PLAT 🤗

this came a lot sooner than i expected, so i didn't have the best of plans to celebrate... but i do have a good Babysitter Fakey to offer. i hope you like him 😊

and... some ramblings under the cut, if anyone cares about hearing me yell for a moment...

but.... let me just say that, moving my art onto Tumblr has been one of the best decisions i've ever made. the love and support from here compared to Instagram is unreal, and, something i never saw coming, i've actually made some real close friends here. and me being the socially-awkward weirdo i am, it really means a lot to me. you guys have been helping me feel not just better about myself, but helping me reach out and talk to others like me, it's just insane. i genuinely mean it, thank you guys so much. you're the best ❤😭❤

and another thing..... i've been a bit busy with stuff lately, but i promise i'm trying to work on stuff! i've got a few drawing asks i really need to work on, and as for my writing..... okay i still haven't started it. but i AM trying to figure out how best to write it, because i plan on doing both split parts AND drawings for it. i want to make sure it comes out the best it possibly can. but stay tuned, there's a lot i've got to finish up!

..... oh alright. one more bonus if you've made it this far. lo and behold: the very first art piece i ever posted to Tumblr, not thinking i'd be moving fully onto here hehe 😅 enjoy Peppino's old design in all its full glory ✨✨✨

ain't he a beaut'.

#ghghgggghhhhHH so much stuff to get to today!!! now that i have power back i can actually goddang do them!!! #but hey!! this was important!! it's always important to tell you all how much i love ya's!!! #now to try and power through some of those asks because I'VE BEEN SITTING ON THEM FOR A WHILE I'M SORRY 😭 #my art #pizza tower oc #pizza tower fake peppino #eyhm stuff #i'll make a seperate post of just the Fakey picture with no text too so you guys can enjoy it 😁 #okay got like 20 different things to go do now so i gotta go!!!! see ya and peace and love!!!

[barcalover86]

loved your jealous gavi fic .

Could we get a angry bird gavi fic where his always moody but reader knows how to deal with it 🥺

Thank youu!

Masterlist

Pablo was always in no mood when he would lose a game, knowing that it was somehow his fault after all, which often that wasn't the case.

You learned that your boyfriend needs time to calm down and then you can go talk to him.

The truth is that he isn't calming down before he touches you in some way. Holding your hand, feeling your fingers playing with his..

You had some type of magic in you. Your eyes could make him get lost, and your voice would make him stop everything he is doing to listen to you.

Now, it was one of those days when he was really moody. It wasn't really because he lost the game, but also because some players would have told him something that really bothered him.

You didn't live in the same place, but decided to go to his after Lewa called you to tell you that your boy is not feeling too well. You wanted to make him feel better and stopped somewhere to buy some food for both of you.

You were standing at his house in Barcelona with food in one hand, and in the other a picture of him with a pen.

It was really late, and you texted Gavi right before the match that you are going to sleep earlier because you have some things to do tomorrow morning. He saw the text and only decided to say back one good night, hoping to see you soon.

You managed to knock on the door with all your things in your hands, and after 3 or 4 minutes, you saw your boy with a tired and sleepy face opening the door.

When he saw you standing right there, he immediately smiled and took the food from your hands.

"Holaa!" you said childish.

"Amorrr" he said after putting the food down and going for a hug.

"If my favorite player isn't too tired right now, could he sign me something?"

When he saw the picture of him and the pen from your hand, he chuckled.

"Ayyy, for sure, cariño, but come in first."

You laughed and came into his house. Now, that you could see him better, he wasn't tired anymore. His eyes were sparkling. He was only wearing some shorts and when he hugged you again, your cold hands on his warm body made him shiver a bit.

"Lo siento!" you chuckled.

He kissed you and then he started to ask a lot of questions. "How did you get here?" or "Why are you here?" or " Are you cold?" and a lot more. You answered him honestly and then sat at his table to eat the food you bought.

"You still didn't sign my picture!"

He immediately took it in his hands and signed it before he went to you to kiss you all over your face to sign you too.

You were laughing hard. He was always like this when he saw you after a bad game, and you were thankful that he wasn't that type of boyfriend who was letting his anger on you.

"So, why were you moody with your teammates, cariño?"

He sighed and explained all to you. How did he behave to his teammates, and how did he get angry because of some player. He blamed himself again for the loss, saying that he didn't play like he wanted tonight.

You explained to him that your teammates are as sad as he is, and having a bad behaviour with them wasn't going to make things better, but even worse. You told him that some games are better and some are the opposite, because even the best one have to lose sometimes to not get bored of just winning.

At that, he slowly laughed and promised to you that tomorrow when they had training, to go and apologise to his friends.

After you ate, you went to sleep because you knew how tired Pablo was. You cuddled, and the next morning, you two had to go to your daily tasks.

He went to training and apologised like he promised before being teased by his teammates that you are the only one who can calm him down. He was really thankful for having you in his life and smiled proudly that you were his and he was yours.

I don't know if this is exactly how you wanted, but I hope that you liked it.

#fc barca #fc barcelona #football #gavi #pablo gavi #pablo gavira #pablo martín páez gavira #gavi imagine #gavi x reader #gavi x yn #gavi x you #pablo gavi x you #pablo gavi x y/n #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi imagine #pablo gavi fluff #gavi fluff #gavi fanfic #pablo gavi fanfic