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punkshort · 5 months

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i'll be home for christmas | part one

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Having just caught your fiancé cheating on you, you decide to come back home from the big city to Austin for the month of December to try to figure out your next step. You had no idea you would be getting more than you bargained for with the handsome single dad who built your parents' house.

Chapter Warnings: no outbreak, modern day but Joel is 40, language, fluff, flirting, reader has a childhood nickname only her family uses, Hallmark tropes up the wazoo, soft!joel, reader's sister is pregnant, talks of infidelity, talks of divorce, alcohol use, kissing, (smut in part two)

WC: 9.1K

A/N: this is my take on a cheesy, fluffy, soft, smutty, Joel Miller Hallmark Christmas movie. It's just sweet and silly and makes me smile, and I hope it does the same for you. I also wrote this in less than 2 days and didn't really edit it much, so sorry in advance if there's any errors.

Found the pic on Twitter but can't remember the source, if you know please send me a message and i will credit them

Series Masterlist

It was the second week of December as you stood inside the airport in Austin, Texas, waiting for your luggage to emerge on the conveyor belt. You thought by coming home early, you would have avoided the holiday traffic, but you were wrong. All around you, people squealed with excitement and embraced, dragging their worn out luggage behind them as they made their way out of the bustling airport. You tried to keep the scowl from your face as you watched, but it was next to impossible, so you wrapped your Burberry scarf around your neck instead, hoping to hide your displeasure.

This was not the plan you had for Christmas. You should be in New York in a high-rise apartment in front of a roaring fireplace with a glass of wine and your fiancé - ex-fiancé - not back in Austin with your parents, who begged you to come visit for the holidays after you told them the news.

Coming home to visit wasn't your favorite thing, but you felt guilty having avoided the holidays with your family for so many years, and you would have ended up all alone in the city anyway. So you caved, using up all the PTO you saved for the wedding, and took the rest of the year off from work.

Your designer luggage stood out like a sore thumb when it tumbled down the conveyor belt. You winced after watching the impact and snatched it up quickly. Glancing around, you saw a beacon in the storm: a familiar green, glowing sign in the distance - Starbucks. The line was long, but your flight was early, so you waited and got a latte, hoping it would lift your spirits a bit before you had to face your parents.

You tapped the side of your coffee cup anxiously as you rode the escalator down to the first floor, scanning the crowd for your mom and dad. There were a few people holding up signs with names on them, and when you saw the sign that said "Bucket" on it, you cringed.

Your dad's tall, round frame came into view when the people in front of him dispersed. He looked almost exactly the same, except a little greyer. Still sporting a shockingly full head of hair and his signature thick mustache, he grinned and pulled you into a warm hug.

"Really, Dad? 'Bucket'?"

"Well, that's what we call you, ain't it?" he said with a smile. You rolled your eyes and tried to be annoyed, but you had to admit that you were happy to see him.

"Where's Mom?" you asked.

"She's waitin' in the car, didn't wanna pay for parking so we're in a pick up zone, let's hustle," he said, wrapping his arm around you as he led you outside. "How was the flight?"

"Long," you said, then gasped when the cold air hit you. "Wow, I didn't think it would be this cold yet."

"It's been a cold one so far this year," he nodded, directing you to the left where you could see your mom smiling and waving from the passenger seat of their white SUV. You waved back and grinned. Maybe coming home wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

"Hiya, Bucky!" your mom said happily, leaning out of the window to give you a half hug while your dad loaded up your belongings in the back.

"Hey, Mom," you replied. "I like your sweater."

She was wearing one of her tacky Christmas sweaters that she wore every year - unironically. It amazed you how some things never change.

You climbed into the back seat as your dad carefully exited the parking spot and joined the line of cars that were slowly inching towards the main road.

"We're so glad you decided to come home this year, you can finally see the new house!" your mom said excitedly. They had built a brand new house, and the way she provided updates and pictures to you over the phone for the past year, you felt like you had already seen it.

"Yeah, can't wait," you said, staring out the window.

"Hope you don't mind, but we're throwin' a party tomorrow night," your dad said, glancing at you in the review mirror. "Wanted to have our friends over to see the place and have an early holiday party. They'll be so happy to see you, it's been so long since you've been home, Buck."

You had been hoping to spend most of the next three weeks in bed moping and scrolling on your phone. The thought of a party and seeing all those people looking at you with pity made your stomach turn. Your mom must have sensed your discomfort.

"It's alright, honey. They won't say anything," she said softly, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

"Okay," you replied, your voice pained as you opened your eyes to stare at the passing traffic on the thruway.

You'll make an appearance for an hour, and then try to sneak back upstairs until the party ends, already fabricating a headache to blame it on.

The house your parents built was impressive, even you had to admit. It was a two story colonial with four bedrooms and three bathrooms. The open floor plan was stunning as you made your way from room to room. The first floor alone had a spacious living room with vaulted ceilings, a kitchen with an attached dining room, and a separate family room off the back. There was even a small office by the front door that you missed the first time around, and a pantry as big as your closet back home.

You cringed at the thought, reminding yourself that it was no longer your home. That was part of the problem. You had moved in with Will, and when you discovered he had been cheating on you, you crashed at your friend Melanie's place. When you tearfully told your parents the news a few days later, they asked you to come home. Just for the holidays, your mom had said. Just to give you time to figure out your next move.

"This is beautiful, Mom," you said honestly, admiring the fine details on the cabinets.

"Thank you, sweetie. Took a long time, but Joel built it just right for us," she said, beaming.

"Oh, the contractor, right?" you replied, distracted now by the backsplash above the counters.

"He's such a sweet man, he was so patient with us when we changed our minds a million times over every little thing."

"Well, tell him he did a great job," you murmured, opening and shutting different drawers.

"You can tell him yourself, he'll be at the party tomorrow," your dad said, opening the fridge to scrounge for some snacks.

"You invited your contractor to your holiday party?" you asked in disbelief.

"Sure we did. We either saw him or spoke to him almost every single day for a year. He's a good man."

"Okay," you said slowly, still finding it a bit strange, but reminding yourself that things worked a little differently in the south.

"Bucket!" you heard your sister call from the front of the house. A smile plastered across your face instantly as you rushed to the door, both of you squealing as you wrapped your arms around each other and jumped in a circle, unable to contain your excitement.

"Cassie!" you said, pulling back to look at her, brushing her sleek, dark brown hair over her shoulder. "You look fantastic!"

"Ugh, I feel like shit," she said, and you laughed, glancing down at her barely swollen belly.

"How far along are you again?" you asked.

"Twenty weeks, but I'm ready for this to be over! I'm so tired all the time, it sucks," she said, flopping down on the couch in the living room after she gave your parents quick hugs.

"Where's Josh?" your mom asked, referring to your brother in law.

"He's still working, he'll be by later," Cassie said, waving her hand. "Gives us a chance to catch up," she added with a wink.

"You girls do that, we need to go to the store for tomorrow night. Do you need anything?" your mom asked, and you shook your head, eager for them to leave so you could be alone with your sister.

"Tell me everything," Cassie said the moment the door clicked shut.

If it were anyone else, you wouldn't have been in the mood to talk about the mess that was currently your life, but you've always been able to talk about anything with your sister. You trusted each other implicitly and there was no judgement, no matter if you had cheated on a test or gotten drunk during prom, you told each other everything.

So you did. You told her how for months, you felt like something was off with Will. How he would stay out late and say it was for work, but none of his work friends ever posted about going anywhere those nights on social media. He grew more distant and you tried to ignore your paranoia, but when he collapsed into bed one night, too out of it to wash up, and you saw the lipstick on his neck the next morning, you lost it. He hardly even tried to explain himself, barely even attempted to lie, and you began to think maybe he wanted to get caught. Maybe he wanted you to do the dirty work and end things so he didn't have to. Fucking coward.

"What a piece of shit. I never liked him," Cassie said when you were finished. "He acted like he was so much better than everyone when he was here, do you remember the comments he made about the wine mom had? It was so fucking rude."

"Yeah, I know," you agreed.

"So why were you even with him?"

"We had been together since college, Cas," you said, exasperated. "I knew him before he was like that. He used to be sweet and fun. Then he got that finance job and met all those assholes and he became just like them."

"Well, I'm just glad you didn't end up married before finding out what he's really like," she said, shifting her weight on the couch with her hand cupping her small stomach. "That would have been a huge mess."

"It's still a huge mess, I have no where to live now, and I can only couch surf for so long," you said, burying your face in your hands.

"You'll figure it out, Buck. I'll help you look for places online while you're here. Maybe set up some appointments so you can tour them when you get back."

"Thanks," you said, giving her a weak smile. "That would actually be great."

"Now, on to more important things," your sister said, slapping her palms against her knees to stand.

"Baby names?" you asked.

"No! Let's figure out what you'll wear to the party tomorrow," she said, wiggling her eyebrows. "I wanna look through all your fancy designer clothes."

You giggled and stood to join her.

"Fine, but I'm still dropping baby names while you look," you replied.

After spending a majority of the next day helping your parents decorate and prepare food for the party, you finally were able to excuse yourself to shower and get ready. Cassie had picked out a Ralph Lauren lace cocktail dress that Will had bought for your birthday last year. You slipped it on, running your hands over the fabric as you adjusted the dress in the mirror. Just because he bought it didn't mean you couldn't wear it again. You snatched the glass of wine from your dresser and took a sip, trying to push the thought of him from your head as you made your way downstairs.

Cassie and Josh were already in the kitchen, munching on appetizers and chatting with your parents. Cassie let out a low whistle when you entered the room. You waved her off and gave Josh a big hug and kiss on the cheek.

"Good to see you," you told him with a smile. "All ready for the baby?"

"Getting there," Josh replied, wrapping an arm around Cassie's waist. You tried to ignore the ugly, jealous pit in your stomach as he told you how the nursery was coming along. You wasted so many years of your life on Will. Your sister was already married and starting a family, and here you were, basically homeless and starting over. Pathetic.

Family friends slowly began to trickle into the house, luckily being whisked away by your parents to give them a tour after you meekly greeted them and hid back in the kitchen. As more and more people arrived, you began to wonder how your parents kept so many close friends when you barely had a handful back in New York.

A few kids raced by you in the kitchen as you made your way to the bar to refill your wine. Even though it was loud, you could still hear your dad's booming voice as he regaled a friend with a fishing story. You wandered around a bit, trying to find Cassie and Josh so you didn't look out of place, but stopped dead in your tracks when you saw them chatting with Mr. Tanner and his son, Troy, backing away before they could see you. Troy used to have the biggest crush on you when you were kids. If he found out you were single, you wouldn't be able to shake him all night.

You eventually found yourself alone, back in front of the snacks. You picked at the chips on your plate, not really interested in eating but hoping to avoid any awkward conversations, so you kept your eyes down, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Apparently, it wasn't good enough because you felt someone sidle up next to you.

"Those any good?" a deep, unfamiliar drawl spoke from your side. You looked up to find the softest pair of brown eyes you've ever seen on a man. Blinking, you took a moment as your gaze raked over his patchy beard and the dark, tousled curls on his head. They looked so soft, you had to resist the urge to reach out and touch them. What was wrong with you?

"Huh?" you managed to squeak out after you realized you had waited too long to reply. Idiot.

"The, uh, chips," he said, pointing at your plate before rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh!" you said, looking at your plate, completely forgetting you even had it. "Yeah, they're alright."

He nodded and glanced around the room, unsure of what to say next. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"How do you know Paul and Martha?"

Distracted, you watched as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, stretching the fabric of his red flannel over his shoulders, pulling the material taught. You had to remind yourself to pay attention and stop gawking at this man like he was a piece of meat. Jesus, maybe you should stop drinking.

"They're my parents," you said after a moment, your eyes flicking across the room, finding them with a group of their friends with your dad's arm wrapped around your mom's shoulder as she giggled and gazed up at him adoringly.

"Oh, you're Cassie," the man said, his eyes dropping from your face to your stomach, and you swore you saw a glimmer of disappointment.

"No!" you said quickly, your hand subconsciously resting on your midsection. "That's my sister, I'm their other daughter." You told him your name and briefly explained you lived in New York and were just visiting for the holidays.

"They must be real happy, havin' you home for so long," he replied, and you shrugged.

"Yeah, it's been a while since I've come home for a visit. I was feeling pretty bad about that," you said, choosing to leave out the biggest reason you were there. This stranger didn't need to be burdened with your love life drama. "Besides, they were so excited to show off the new house," you continued, waving your arm around the room.

"Took us long enough, but it finally came together," he replied with a smile.

"Oh! You must be Joel," you said, realization finally dawning on you.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, shaking his head and stretching out his arm. "That was rude of me, don't know what I was thinkin'." His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you shook his hand.

"My parents always have such wonderful things to say about you. The house is beautiful, I was blown away when I first saw it," you told him. "I especially love the little details on the cabinets."

"Thanks," he said with a soft smile, averting his gaze to look at the cabinet behind you. "I actually did that myself. It's kind of a hobby of mine. Closest to art I'll ever get, I guess."

"I don't think it's just 'close' to art, I think it is art. It's stunning," you told him, running your fingertips over the intricate floral design. "You're very talented."

"Well, thank you," he said sheepishly, rubbing his beard to hide his smile. You could see the blush creeping up his neck and you bit your lip with a grin, turning your head to try to give him a moment. Were you making him nervous? He was painfully good looking, could this guy actually be into you? Were you even interested? The break up was still so fresh and it had been so long since you've dated anyone besides Will, you hadn't even considered it yet.

"So, how long have you worked in construction?" you asked after a minute, discarding your plate on the counter to give him your full attention.

"Oh, my whole life. Me and my brother started the business when we were in our twenties. Only thing we were any good at, and luckily it pays the bills," he told you with a shrug, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "What do you-"

Joel's question was cut off by a young girl with curly brown hair in a red velvet dress bouncing up to him.

"Dad! Can Uncle Tommy take me outside so we can look at the pool?" she asked. Dad? You looked down when he pulled his hands out of his pockets, palming one of the girl's shoulders to quiet her down, and noticed the gold wedding band. Of fucking course.

"The pool? Sarah, it's freezin' out," Joel said, and she grinned.

"I'm not going in, Dad, I just wanna see," she said, rolling her eyes. She glanced over, noticing you for the first time, and smiled. "I really like your dress," she said.

"Thank you," you said, running your hand down the fabric. "I like yours, too."

"Uh, yeah, that's fine. Just make sure Uncle Tommy sticks with you, alright?" Joel relented, and she clapped her hands gleefully before running off again.

"She's cute, how old is she?" you asked him, looking around the room to see if Sarah had run back to a woman who could be Joel's wife.

"She's sixteen," he said, eyeing you carefully. He hadn't thought this far ahead and hoped he wasn't scaring you off.

You turned to him, startled, having guessed she was younger.

"You must have had her young," you said, the words slipping out before you could catch them. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that like it sounded-"

"No, it's alright," he said with a chuckle. "I did. I'm forty."

You nodded and took a sip from your glass, letting your eyes drift away, rethinking your conversation. Maybe you misread him and he was just being friendly. There was no way he would be flirting with you at a party with his kid right there. But then he cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him.

"Listen, I hope I'm not bein' too forward, but are you here with anyone?"

You raised your eyebrows at him over your glass. There was no misreading that. Blinking rapidly, you tried to formulate a reply that wouldn't cause a scene. Was he seriously hitting on you with a ring on his finger? You put your glass down on the counter and opened your mouth to reply when your sister's voice interrupted you.

"Bucket! Come here, you remember Troy, right?"

You cringed, at both the nickname and the person in question, before slowly turning your body towards her and forcing a fake smile.

"Of course. How are you?" you said with a hug.

"Doing great, just got a new job with a law firm downtown," Troy said, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans and shifting his weight nervously. He began to ramble about his new job as your sister introduced herself to Joel behind you. You resisted the urge to strangle her, reminding yourself she was carrying your baby niece or nephew and that you'll have to wait until after she gave birth to kill her. She knew you couldn't stand Troy, but she probably couldn't get rid of him, either.

You stood there, draining your wine glass while he prattled on for the next twenty minutes. By the time Troy's dad walked over and ushered him away, Joel was nowhere to be found.

Probably for the best, anyway. You were getting really sick and tired of only attracting unfaithful men.

You hadn't considered how annoying it would be to have your parents hovering around you all the time, worried that you were slipping into a depression and trying to get you to join them on activities outside the house. After you felt forced to go sledding with them the day before, you decided to make yourself scarce today, which is why you found yourself at the mall in downtown Austin browsing for a Christmas gift for your future niece or nephew.

As you were looking through a storefront window, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Taking it out, you saw a text from a friend back home.

Sydney: You'll never guess who i just bumped into

You were typing out your response, chin tucked into your chest, when you felt someone knock into you. Startled, you looked up only to lock eyes with Joel the contractor.

"Oh!" you managed to stammer out. His deep brown eyes lit up and a warm smile spread across his face when he looked up and recognized you.

"Sorry, wasn't payin' attention," he said. "How, uh, how are you?"

"Good," you said, nodding and clutching your phone in your hand. "You?"

"Good. Was actually just thinkin' about you," he admitted, looking down and shifting the bag he was carrying from one hand to the other. "Never got to say goodbye to you the other night."

"Yeah, it was pretty crowded. I didn't realize my parents were so popular," you joked. "Is Sarah with you?"

"No, she's in school," he replied, and you bumped the heel of your hand against your forehead, rolling your eyes. Of course she was, it's the middle of the day.

"Duh," you said quietly, finding it hard to hold his gaze without getting butterflies, so you looked away.

"So, uh, I hope this doesn't sound creepy, but I asked your sister if you were seein' anyone the other night," he began, and you felt your face instantly heat up. Why didn't Cassie warn you?? "-was wonderin' if I could get your number."

"Huh?" you asked, your eyes widening as you tried to control your breathing. You glanced down at his hand again when he looked away and saw he was definitely wearing a ring.

"Thought we could go out sometime? If you're interested?" he asked, his own nerves wreaking havoc as he shifted his weight and chewed on the inside of his cheek, praying his face wasn't as red as it felt.

"Are you serious?" you asked him, narrowing your eyes. The audacity of some men!

"'Course I'm serious," he said with a nervous smile. "Thought we hit it off the other night-"

"Joel, listen. I'm not going to say what I'm really thinking for the sake of my parents and everything you did for them, but I am not interested in dating married men," you said with a scowl. He frowned, giving you a confused look before you turned on your heel and stormed away, joining the crowd of Christmas shoppers bustling by.

He looked down at his hand, making a tight fist before swiveling his head around, trying to locate you in the crowd before he lost you.

"Hey, wait!" he called out, pushing past clusters of people as he jogged to try and keep up with you. He called out your name as he got closer. You stopped suddenly but didn't turn around, causing surprised shoppers to have to redirect at the last minute to avoid running into you.

"Hey, I'm sorry-"

"You should apologize to your wife!" you said loudly, causing a few people to turn their heads in your direction as they walked past. Joel looked around nervously.

"I'm not married," he clarified quietly. You looked down at his hand again and he flexed his fingers.

"Can we get a coffee or somethin'? And I'll explain," he begged, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each second that passed as you considered your answer. "Please."

"Fine," you agreed, and his face relaxed once again.

You sat down at a coffee shop within Barnes and Noble as Joel ordered you both something to drink. As you watched him at the counter, you admired his long legs and broad shoulders underneath his brown coat and wondered what possible excuse he was going to come up with.

Oh my god, what if she died?

You rubbed your eyes, hoping you didn't just insult a widower in the middle of a crowded mall.

Joel joined you at the table and set your coffee down in front of you with a smile.

"Thank you," you said softly, fiddling with the cup and avoiding his eyes as he shrugged his coat off, revealing a navy blue V-neck sweater underneath. Your eyes drifted to the small patch of bare chest that was exposed and your stomach clenched. Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to meet his gaze, but he was staring down at his ring finger.

"I'm not married anymore, just wanna make that crystal clear," he began, still staring at his ring.

"Okay," you said slowly, waiting for him to continue. He sighed.

"We've been divorced for a few years now," he said, finally looking at you. "It was... hard. Really hard. I, uh," he scratched his beard as he struggled to find the words. "I've had a tough time lettin' go. Thought for a while we might get back together, so I didn't take it off. Then I guess I just got so used to it, I never thought... I'm sorry, I sound like a mess," he said with a sad smile.

"It's alright, I think I understand," you told him, and he looked at you with renewed optimism, encouraged to continue.

"I never took it off because I never thought 'bout askin' anyone out til now," he said. "Didn't realize how that would come across, you just took me by surprise that night and I couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout you."

You blushed and looked down at your coffee, trying to hide your smile behind your cup, but he saw it and grinned.

"Are you still in love with her?" you asked him. You didn't want to get wrapped up in something that would end up hurting you in the end.

"No," he said firmly. "I mean, I'll always care for her. She gave me Sarah, how could I not? But I'm not in love with her anymore."

You nodded as you absorbed his words, glancing around the little coffee shop before dragging your eyes back to his. He was looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to ask anything else that would make you comfortable with accepting a date from him.

"Well, thank you for being honest with me, but I'm not sure I'm ready for a relationship just yet."

Joel tried to hide the disappointment in his face as he nodded in understanding. The first time in five years he asked someone out and he got shot down.

"It's not you," you clarified. "It's bad timing. I just got out of a really long term relationship. Well, I was actually engaged, and I caught him cheating," you explained with a wince, not expecting to bring this up today. "Probably why I was so sensitive about the wedding ring," you said with a half smirk. He nodded quietly and looked down at the ring on his hand, twisting the metal around with the pad of his thumb as you spoke.

"Sounds like we've both been through a tough time," he murmured, and you quietly agreed.

You sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping your coffees and trying to figure out how to end this awkward interaction without making things worse. You were going to lie about having plans so you could leave when he suddenly spoke up.

"No pressure, but, uh, what if we just went on one very casual date?" He looked at you with those soft, brown eyes and you felt your resolve crumbling. "Sounds like we could both use some practice. You're leavin' at the end of the month anyway. Could just be fun, help get us both back out there."

You paused, not expecting that. He had a good point. It's been so long since you've gone on a date with anyone, and it sounded like he was just as rusty. Besides, what else would you be doing with your time over the next three weeks?

"Okay," you agreed softly. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, parting his lips slightly as he straightened up in his chair.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said with a grin. "Why not?"

Early the next morning, you heard your phone buzz on the nightstand next to your bed. With a groan, you cracked an eye open to look at the time, then reached for your phone.

"7:30? Who the hell..." you grumbled, squinting at the bright screen, your eyes widening when you saw Joel's name. You sat up in bed, fully awake now, and slid the notification over to open the text.

Joel Miller: Morning. Are you free tonight?

You grinned, flicking on your light so you could see better to respond, then you paused. Should you make him wait before replying? Would you look too desperate if you answered right away?

You shrugged, deciding to answer him. It was casual, you both knew it wouldn't go anywhere, so who cares how it looked?

You: Good morning, you're up early! And yes, what did you have in mind?

You chewed your thumb nail as you waited for his answer.

Joel Miller: This is nothing, I've been up since 5. For some reason, clients expect me to be at job sites early. How about ice skating?

You giggled and tapped out a reply.

You: I'd love to!

Joel Miller: Great - I'll pick you up at 7

Realizing you forgot to reply to Sydney the day before, you switched messages and shot her a quick answer before sliding back down under the covers to scroll on your phone.

You resisted the urge as long as you could - a whole fifteen minutes - before you typed Joel's name into Facebook. His name popped up with two mutual friends and you rolled your eyes. Of course your parents were friends with him. Clicking on his name, you scrolled down his page, tapping through photos of him and Sarah that looked out of date. He didn't seem like the type to update social media often, and his page reflected that hunch. He didn't have many pictures so it didn't take long until you scrolled all the way to the end, presumably his first photo from when he joined. It was a grainy picture of him with a huge smile and his arm slung around a woman with dark, curly hair, just like Sarah's.

She was pretty, you couldn't deny that, and you vaguely wondered why they broke up. He made it sound like he didn't want a divorce, and you figured he would have mentioned cheating since you brought it up.

You closed the app. If Joel wanted to tell you, he would.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you made your way downstairs on the hunt for coffee. Pouring yourself a cup from the machine, you burrowed into the couch, wrapping yourself in a blanket as you waited for your coffee to cool down and flipped through the various streaming services your parents subscribed to.

"Hey Buck, you're up early," your dad said as he descended the stairs and headed to the coffee.

"Hey, Dad," you said, taking a sip from your mug and wincing as you burned your tongue.

"What're you up to today? You wanna come to dinner with your mom and me?"

"Actually, I have a date," you told him, bracing for the reaction.

"Whoa-ho! Been here not even a week and you got yourself a date? Don't tell me... Troy?" he asked with a big grin, sitting down at the other end of the couch.

"Ew, no!" you said, scrunching your nose. "It's, um, Joel," you said quickly, taking another sip from your mug.

"Our contractor?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah, we met at the party," you told him. "Then I ran into him at the mall."

"Ran into who at the mall?" you heard Cassie's voice from down the hall.

"When did you get here?" you asked as she rounded the corner and gazed at your coffee enviously.

"Just now. Who did you see at the mall?"

"Joel," you said, glaring at her. "Got something to tell me about that?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, wiggling her eyebrows. "He was asking about you at the party. I made sure to let him know you were single."

"Yeah, he told me, thanks for the heads up, by the way," you said. "We're going out tonight."

"I didn't realize he was single, I just assumed he was married because he's always got Sarah around," your dad said, beginning to zone out to the movie that was on the TV.

"He's single," was all you said, picking your phone back up.

"He's cute," Cassie said, and you blushed. "I'm glad you said yes, mom and dad already love him, so he'll fit right in."

"I don't even live here. It's a casual thing, we're just hanging out," you told her.

"Yeah, okay," she said, giving you a wink. You rolled your eyes and pinched her as you passed by.

"I'm going to shower, then maybe you can help me pick out something to wear," you told her over your shoulder, walking back upstairs.

Joel arrived at your parents' house promptly at 7, just as he promised. He pulled into the driveway, checking his hair in the review mirror quickly before sliding out of his truck and making his way up the porch. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this nervous as he glanced down a the green flannel he wore, praying he didn't miss a button or a stain. He was with his ex for so long that he could barely remember a time when he was nervous around her.

But with you, he felt the butterflies the moment he saw you at the party. You didn't notice him at first, but he saw you enter the living room and freeze in the doorway, your eyes locked on someone across the room before backing out the way you came, as if you were looking to avoid them. He couldn't catch who it was, having hardly known more than five people in the whole house, but he felt compelled to follow you. To see if you were maybe looking for a husband or boyfriend. But when he saw you alone in the kitchen, staring down at your phone, he couldn't stop himself from saying something to you.

Joel never did things like that. He always kept to himself, very quiet and reserved. He was content with his work during the day and hanging out with Sarah at night.

For the most part, he was happy. It was only at night when the loneliness crept up, when he tucked himself into his big, cold bed and tried his best to fall asleep as fast as he could, so he wouldn't lay there wishing someone who cared for him was just in the bathroom washing up.

Tommy had been encouraging him to get back out there, always offering to watch Sarah if he caught Joel looking a little too long at a waitress or a neighbor. Sarah was old enough to be on her own for a few hours, but he still asked Tommy to stop by, anyway. Maybe part of him wanted his brother to know that he was going on a date, if only so he would stop trying to set him up all the time with women he had no interest in.

Joel reached out to ring the doorbell, cringing when he noticed it was one of those camera doorbells. Paul must have installed it after the house was finished. He heard heavy footsteps on the other side of the door and held his breath, realizing he hadn't thought about your dad's reaction to your date.

Paul swung the door open, greeting Joel with a deep scowl as he leaned up against the doorframe.

"What's up, Joel?" he asked. Joel cleared his throat.

"Hey, Paul. I'm here to pick up your daughter," Joel replied, bracing himself. Paul just stared at him, breathing deeply as he looked Joel up and down. Joel wasn't a small man, but Paul had at least sixty pounds on him. He tended to have an intimidating look until you got to know him.

"Oh, yeah? For what?" Paul asked, clenching his jaw. Joel froze, wondering if there was a reason you didn't tell your parents about tonight, unsure what to say. Finally, Paul's face broke into a huge smile as he began to crack up, doubling over at the waist.

"I'm sorry, Joel, I had to," he wheezed, standing back up and clapping Joel on the shoulder. "Couldn't help myself. Come on in," he said, still laughing as he led Joel down the hall and towards the kitchen.

"Jesus, Paul, scared the shit outta me," Joel admitted, his heart racing as he rubbed his forehead.

"Beer?" Paul asked, and Joel shook his head.

"No thanks, I'm drivin'," he replied, and Paul raised his eyebrows with a nod.

"Good man, passed the first test," he said with a wink as he twisted open a beer for himself. "Hey, uh, in all seriousness, I just wanna talk with you before she comes down."

"Yeah, 'course," Joel replied, leaning up against the counter.

"I ain't sure what she's told you about the asshole she was with before, but he really hurt her. Now, I know it ain't got nothin' to do with you, what's in the past is in the past," he said. "But just keep that in mind, will you? I can't stand seein' my little girl hurt like that again."

Joel nodded solemnly, understanding completely.

"I ain't like that, I'll be respectful, I promise," Joel replied. "Besides, we both know she's goin' back to New York in a few weeks. We're just gettin' to know each other, is all."

"Yeah, she said the same thing to her sister earlier, but then she spent all damn day on the phone, pickin' out an outfit and gettin' herself ready," Paul said with a sigh. "I'm just sayin', be careful with her."

Joel felt a flutter in his chest and tried to hide his smile when he found out you had been thinking about him all day. He was glad he wasn't the only one.

"I hope you weren't waiting long," you told Joel as he backed out of your driveway.

"Not at all," he said with a smirk. "You're worth the wait. You look beautiful." He glanced down again at the light pink sweater with a small designer logo he was unfamiliar with in the corner.

You blushed and bit your lip, quietly thanking him and trying to hide your reaction behind your scarf, but he saw it. He always does.

Now that he knew you were looking forward to this date just as much as he was, he felt a little more confident.

"Did you have a good day?" he asked, giving you a sideways glance as he merged his truck into traffic.

"Yeah, did you?"

"It was alright," he said, slowing the truck down at a stop light. He turned to face you now. "Couldn't wait to see you, though."

You turned a darker shade of pink and he smiled, pleased to see that he could elicit that reaction from you, the same way you do to him.

"So, ice skating?" you said, trying to take the heat off of you. You looked at his hands on the steering wheel, noticing he made sure to take his ring off.

"Yeah," he said, pressing his foot on the gas as the light changed. "Thought you could teach me somethin'."

"Teach you? How do you know if I can even skate?" you asked teasingly.

"Just a hunch. Was I right?" he replied, his mouth turning up into a half smirk. You giggled and he felt his stomach tighten. He needed to hear that again.

"Yeah, you were right," you relented. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and slapped the steering wheel in victory, making you giggle again, and his chest filled with warmth at the sound.

"Where's Sarah tonight?" you asked him as he pulled into a parking spot at the skating rink.

"My brother's watchin' her," he replied, disappointed that you got out of the truck so quickly. He had planned on opening the door for you.

"Does she like to ice skate?" you questioned as he led you inside to the counter to rent your skates.

"Oh, of course she does. But I usually sit it out and just watch her have fun," he said, picking up your rentals and heading over to a bench.

"You should have brought her, I wouldn't have minded."

"We don't have to talk 'bout her, you know," he said quicky, and your fingers froze over your laces.

"Why wouldn't we talk about her? She's your daughter," you asked slowly, straightening back up to look at him.

"No, I know. What I mean is, I know it ain't every woman's fantasy to go out with a single dad and all the baggage that comes with that. So, if you don't wanna talk about her, I get it," he said, casting his eyes down as he focused on tying his laces. You reached out a hand and gently placed it on top of his, immediately making him freeze at your touch.

"She's part of your life, so I want to hear about her. You shouldn't think like that, Joel. It's really not a dealbreaker for most women," you assured him, gently rubbing your thumb over his knuckles, his eyes glued to your hand as he listened. "And if it is, fuck 'em."

His eyes snapped up to yours now, then a slow smile spread across his face.

"Okay," he said softly, and you smiled, pulling your hand back, leaving him wanting more.

"Besides," you said, standing up on your skates as you made your way to the rink. "You have no idea what kind of fantasies I have."

You turned to give him a wink as you effortlessly stepped out onto the ice, holding out your hands encouragingly for him to follow. It was a miracle he was able to move his legs after that comment, but he managed just because he knew he would feel your warm hands on his again.

Joel was a quick study. He was nervous at first, you could tell that he didn't want to embarrass himself, but he did surprisingly good. Especially considering how crowded the ice rink was and how fast people were skating by. After about half an hour, he was able to skate - albeit, slowly - around the rink next to you without any assistance. Part of you wondered if he pretended to need more help than he really did just so it would make you feel good.

"So, anyway, that's basically what I do for work. It's pretty boring," you said with a sigh.

"Not boring. Marketing in New York City sounds like a dream," he replied.

"Yeah, except I work on all the behind the scenes stuff. It's not really as fun as it sounds," you admitted, not missing work in the slightest since you've been back in Texas.

"Well, d'you work with some fun people, at least?"

You paused, considering his question for a moment, before shaking your head with a dry laugh.

"Not really," you said, but he still tried to help you find a reason why you would put up with it.

"You were able to take off almost a whole month, that's pretty great. Not many places'll let you do that, can't be that bad," he offered, and you scoffed.

"It's the time I saved up for the wedding I was supposed to have," you told him sadly, and he groaned.

"I'm knockin' it outta the park tonight, ain't I?" he said, rubbing his face before almost losing his balance. You giggled and he couldn't stop the huge grin that plastered itself across his face.

"It's fine, you didn't know," you said, waving him off. And for the first time, you really didn't mind talking about it. Something about him made it easier.

"What'dya say we get some hot chocolate?" Joel asked, jutting his chin towards the vendor where you first came in.

"Yeah, that sounds great," you replied. Joel turned towards the exit without looking when a teenage boy, who was speed skating around the rink trying to impress a girl, smacked right into him, sending him flying backwards on the ice.

"Joel!" you exclaimed, rushing to his side. He groaned, rubbing the back of his head.

"Hey, why don't you watch it!" you yelled angrily at the teenager, who had managed to only stumble a bit upon impact.

"Sorry, man," the kid mumbled before taking off.

"I'm gonna kick his ass," you said, about to stand up to go after him, but Joel reached up to grip your arms, holding you in place.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he said with a chuckle. Sweetheart. Your heart skipped a beat at the term.

"Are you sure?" you asked, your brow furrowed with concern.

"Yeah, just gimme a hand," he said, and you stood to give his arm a firm yank, allowing him to stand.

"Let's get you off the ice," you told him, ushering him carefully to the exit and finding a bench.

"Does your head hurt?" you asked, sitting down next to him. Your fingers reached up to graze the back of his head.

"No," he said breathlessly, staring at you as you continued to study him for any injury. God, you were so beautiful, he couldn't force himself to look away.

"That's good. How about your vision?" you pressed, still so focused on the fall and not seeing the way he was looking at you. But when you finally locked your eyes on his, your breath caught in your throat.

All the laughter and playful yelling surrounding you faded. You couldn't look away from his heated gaze, his deep brown eyes boring into yours so intensely, you almost forgot to blink. He brought his hand up to gently cradle the side of your face, his calloused palm meeting your soft skin. Your lips parted to accommodate your sudden need for more oxygen, and his gaze fell to your mouth.

"Joel," you whispered, and the way his name sounded coming from you was so damn sweet, it almost did him in.

"Yeah?" he whispered back, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Kiss me."

He didn't need to be told twice.

He leaned forward, eyes sliding shut and slotting his lips against yours, deeply breathing in your scent so he could remember it tomorrow. He was determined to commit every second to memory, knowing that by morning he would be aching for you, aching for this. Against his better judgement, he pressed himself into your lips harder, unsure if he will ever get to feel like this again when you inevitably came to your senses. The idea of this feeling being taken away from him spurred him on, desperate and eager for every second you were willing to give him.

Your hand came up to the back of his neck, holding him against you as his lips massaged yours tenderly. You inched closer to him on the bench so you could tuck yourself into his broad chest. He was so warm and soft and strong that it was making you dizzy. Your fingertips stroked the curls at the base of his neck as you tentatively opened your mouth just enough to suck his lower lip between yours. The quiet noise he made when you did that made your insides clench with need, and against all odds, you felt yourself falling, completely losing yourself in him and the moment.

A startling voice over the loudspeaker announcing that the rink was closing in fifteen minutes finally snapped you out of it. You both pulled back but kept your foreheads pressed together as the world around you slowly melted back into focus. His hand still cupped your face and he lifted his thumb to gently trace your swollen lips.

"I should take you home," he murmured. At first, your stomach flipped, thinking he meant his home, but you realized he wasn't that type and he meant your parents' house.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and you sat back reluctantly, breaking away. His hand dropped from your face to the hand in your lap, his thick fingers wrapping around yours for a moment as he collected himself with a deep breath.

Finally, he forced himself to stand, still clutching your hand and helping you up. You glanced down at the floor and smirked.

"We should probably take our skates off," you said, and he chuckled, breaking the tension and sitting back down, his hand reluctantly letting go of yours to undo his laces.

After you turned in your rentals, his hand quickly found yours again, unwilling or unable to let you go as he led you back to his truck, this time making sure to open the car door for you. Thanking him quietly, you jumped up into the cab and watched him round the front of the car, running a hand through his hair and sucking in deep breath.

You grinned and bit your lip as he started the truck, swinging his arm around to grip your headrest and twisting his body to back out of the spot. It took everything in you not to scoot across the seat and tuck yourself into his side.

He let his arm drop loosely on the seat in between you as he drove down the street, one hand on the steering wheel. Your fingers inched forward, sliding your palm underneath his hand, lacing your fingers together. The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile and you drove in a comfortable silence, your hands intertwined the whole time, until he pulled into your driveway and cut the engine.

You sighed as you stared at the darkened house, already missing him and he wasn't even gone yet. He peered over at you, trying to think of a way to prolong the date, but aside from the obvious, which he wasn't going to do just yet, he was coming up empty.

"Lemme walk you up," he said finally, and you nodded, reaching for the handle of the door but he stopped you. You furrowed your brow, confused, until you watched him rush over to open the door, and you grinned, taking his hand so you could slide out of the seat.

You stared at the ground as he led you up the path to the porch, your heart pounding in your ears. You weren't sure what you had been expecting tonight, but it definitely wasn't this feeling. This was so much more.

"Well, thank you for tonight," you said as you reached the door, turning around to look up at him through your lashes. "I had a really good time."

"Yeah, me too," he said, his soft, brown eyes trailing over your face, locking away every little detail. Unable to resist, he stepped forward, his rough hand skimming around to the back of your neck. He tilted your face up, ducking down slightly to meet you halfway and brushed his lips gently over yours.

Your hands flew up to grip the collar of his flannel, keeping him pressed against you as you leaned against the front door. God, for someone who claimed to be rusty, he was a really good kisser. He was gentle and slow and it took your breath away both times. You knew you were getting in over your head, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. All you could think about was him and how badly you wanted more.

Nervously, you opened your mouth and flicked your tongue against his plush lips. He responded by parting his lips and allowing your tongue to dance with his own, his mouth applying more pressure than before as the heat flared between you.

Before you could stop it, a soft moan rumbled from your throat, causing him to pull back, panting slightly as his gaze flickered between your eyes. You gazed up at him, eyes dark and desperate, your fingers still gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly.

You weren't sure what he was searching for, but after a moment he seemed to find it because his mouth came crashing down on yours once again, this time with more yearning and desire. His tongue probed inside your mouth, licking past your teeth and in the back of your mind you realized he tasted faintly of mint and you wondered when on earth he popped a mint into his mouth but it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered except the two of you in that moment, each seeking something within the other that you never expected to find.

His chest ached knowing he would have to stop kissing you soon, or else he would never leave. He always considered himself a strong man, after everything he had been through, how could he not? But something about you made him realize he wasn't nearly as strong as he thought. Your lips were so soft compared to his, so sweet and perfect that it made him want to cry because in that moment, he knew he could never let you go.

2K notes · View notes

leclsrc · 9 months

Text

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun?

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?”

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you.

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.”

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!”

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming.

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him.

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips.

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move.

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking.

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed.

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?”

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise.

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling.

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go.

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—”

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition.

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again.

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview.

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week.

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?”

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.”

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people.

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace.

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say, “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch.

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different.

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?”

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response.

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.”

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change.

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

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seresinhangmanjake · 1 month

Text

Mere moments before Jake introduces his bubbly mother to his emotionally-stunted loner girlfriend

(it's basically just dialogue. I'm trying not to force myself into writing longer fleshed-out stuff for Jake atm because i’m struggling with it. Idk, it might be a full fic at some point):

“She'll hate me, Jake. You know that, right?”

Jake snorts and says, “My mother doesn't hate anyone. Arguably, she loves everyone.”

“Has she met a girl like me before?”

“No. But in all fairness, lots of people live their entire lives without meeting a girl like you. I just got lucky.”

“Gross.” Your nose wrinkles. “Will she try to hug me?”

“Yes.”

“Will she ask how we met?”

“Yes. She'll want details, too.”

“Well that's not happening. I do not gab and giggle over cutesy details. I physically can't.”

“Cutesy? When we met you told me to fuck off because I was blocking your sun, in those exact words. Who reads at the beach, anyway?”

“So many people, Jake. So many people read at the beach,” you say. “Tell her we met at a Starbucks. Moms love Starbucks.”

“If I tell her we met at a Starbucks she will want to take you to Starbucks and buy you Starbucks coffees, and you despise Starbucks.”

“Starbucks is not respectable.”

He sighs. “They're not the only ones who add syrup and whipped cream to coffee, you know.”

“They make the biggest show of it and charge the most money,” you argue. “Will she ask about my childhood? Because we both know that was shit, and since yours wasn't shit your mother will think we're incompatible.”

Shaking his head, Jake chuckles. “We are not incompatible, baby. ”

“I know that, but Jake, it took you six months to convince me we're good together and that the universe won't eventually pull it's fucked up ‘gotcha!’ bullshit. How long do you think it'll take for her to believe it?”

“Look at me,” he says, cupping your face. “You’re happy with me?”

You roll your eyes. “Well…yes, obviously.”

“And I am so happy with you. That's all she cares about.”

“I've got five bucks in my pocket. You up for a bet?”

A/N: I have no personal problem with Starbucks.

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#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #jake hangman seresin x y/n #jake seresin fanfiction #tgm #tgm fic

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wasjustred · 1 year

Note

ahhh iloveyourworkssomuch!! 💖 i'd like to request something along the lines of sugar mommy!larissa (maybe with smut, who knows *wink*) 'cause she's all i can think about these days... anyways, happy early new years!!!

Easy Does It - NSFW Larissa Weems x f!Reader

Summary: Larissa spoils you beyond comprehension. Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x f!Reader Warnings: Smut. A lot of it. (Cunnilingus, fingering, strap-on — all Reader receiving) Word Count: ~4.7k

Author’s Note: I hope this meets your expectations, anon! I originally intended to make Larissa way more domineering, but once I began writing it just didn’t feel like her——I tried to stay true to her character where I could. As always, feedback is welcome ﹠. appreciated! ♡ (un-beta-ed as per usual!) ╱ AO3

The arrangement you and Larissa have has been smoothly gliding along for about six months now: you meet for dinner every weekend, in a town about half an hour outside of Jericho. You wear an outfit she’s picked out for you, she pulls your seat out, you share conversation and good - expensive - food and drinks, and you end on the stoop of your apartment, leaning into the kiss she places on your cheek, with a weekly allowance in cash in your purse. It’s the perfect set-up, nothing you’d dare protest, but sometimes you honest to god wish she’d just break her own rules and rail you ‘till the bed breaks.

Tonight you meet her at The Aviary, draped in a black satin dress with a deep slit up the leg––one of her favorites. Larissa helps you into your seat as she usually does, but before she takes her own, she places a long velvet box on your empty appetizer plate.

“Ooh, what’s this?”

“Open it and see.” A small, proud smirk turns her lips, eyes sparkling. You run your fingers over the velvet and lift at the seam, features going slack with surprise when you realize what’s hidden inside: a collar necklace, glittering diamond-cut, softening into a single falling arc of gems which ebbs, finally, into a small, shining teardrop. Light from the restaurant’s fixtures seem drawn to it, gleaming to and fro in a scattered stream of reflection. Your gaze snaps back to hers almost immediately, heart pounding.

“Larissa, I–”

“Do you like it?”

“I– Of course I do, it’s– it’s so beautiful..” Your voice softens and tapers off as you return your attention to the box before you. It’s probably the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given to you, but you stop short of admitting this. “Help me put it on?”

Larissa’s smile grows as she gathers the box in her hands, lifting the necklace from its cushion. She moves to stand behind you and tenderly brushes your hair aside; her hands are as soft as anything, so gentle in the way they handle you, securing the piece around your neck. Your own hand raises to rest atop the new weight at your clavicle, and when she sets her palms along your shoulders and squeezes, you shift your hand up to capture hers.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Do I need one?” Larissa presses her lips to your cheek from behind before she retakes her seat, arching a brow in challenge. The answer is no, of course; this is how you work, special occasion or not. She always manages to keep you on your toes, though, far more thoughtful and intimate than any other ‘financeur’ you’ve ever humored in the past: Tennis bracelets set with gemstones which perfectly match your eyes, a new coffee bar set-up when you mentioned off-hand that Starbucks had discontinued your favorite drink, a signed first edition copy of your favorite book she ‘just so happened to come across’ while out of state. Much more than the simple, routine bank deposits and luxury brand pieces that were never quite you which you received from others. Larissa’s gifts have always been astoundingly personal.

You’ve never told her this, but you stopped dating altogether once your little dynamic began. How could anyone else compare? She makes you feel important without ever having to work for it ––– like you’re lovable, worthy, because you exist, and nothing more. You’re breaking your own rules, being so enamored with her, but you refuse to dwell on it.

“No, you don’t…” You trail off as your food arrives, ducking your head in thanks as the waiter sets everything out before you. Any discussion of her gift to you ends there on Larissa’s own accord, swiftly and advantageously moving on to a new topic as soon as the waiter has left you. The rest of the night is spent sipping expensive wine and musing instead on all of the high-culture goings-on you never get to discuss with anyone else: Art, ballet, classical music. Larissa’s a delicious trove of knowledge and opinions and she impresses you with each turn of a new topic. You often find yourself wondering - not just tonight, but many nights whilst basking in her presence - why she’s chosen you. You can hold good conversation, of course, and have an appreciation for the finer things in life usually reserved for those older and/or wealthier than you, but what’s always been curious, what’s always given you pause, is that she never asks for anything else in return. You have no choice but to ask yourself what it is you possibly have to offer to a woman like her––but you almost always fall short of a satisfying answer.

She’s talking you both through an analysis of the most recent play she brought you to when you take one of her hands in your own, tracing the lines of her palm as you listen. Larissa stumbles over her words at first contact, a rare occurrence for her, and blushes pink at the sensation. When you glance up at her in question she quickly averts her gaze and carries on, moving to smooth her thumb over yours as you continue. You love her fingers: they’re long, delicate, awfully reminiscent of the Greek statues she enjoys waxing poetic about. It’s an instance in which you’re reminded art, very often, echoes us in a continuous cycle of give and take.

You don’t say a word when you notice her face darken another shade as you press a kiss to the inside of her wrist before moving on to dote upon her other hand.

She’s not once explicitly told you, but Larissa’s never expected you to take a physical liking to her. She set the rules she did early on for a reason, knowing she could live with looking and not touching, taking care of you and watching your face turn alight with each gift or special night out without ever ending the evening by your side. No sex necessary, no physical affection expected. But here you are, fawning over her, and she’s never been more conflicted.

To assuage the feeling, she convinces herself it’s the wine that’s made you this way––a good bottle will go a long way, thus your touch must be the product of inebriation, not genuine affection. You’ve both long since finished off your meals when Larissa pays the bill and drives you home as she normally does, to an apartment she partly finances (not fully, at your own insistence that there are some things you should take care of yourself) and walks you to your door, stooping to kiss your cheek. Routine.

She is right about one thing, however, and that’s the potency of the house wine tonight. Not on your reasoning, but your self-control. You spent the car ride home admiring her profile in the passing streetlamps and traffic lights, studying the way each red light cast itself across her, how the passing headlights of opposing traffic bathed her in a cinematic glow you associated only, appropriately, with Vivien Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire. Ghostlike, almost. Ethereal. And at that same wine’s behest, you lean further now into her goodnight kiss than you’d normally allow yourself.

It’s as she prepares to leave that you decide - anchored by the weight of the diamonds around your neck - that this is the night you’ll throw caution to the wind, fervently hoping it won’t backfire and end with her rejection and a ruined arrangement that you’d both worked to preserve over the past six months.

“Do you want to join me for a nightcap? I know we don’t usually, but.. I’d like you to. If you’d like to, of course. If you don’t that’s–––”

“Y/N,” she interrupts. You can hardly tell but her heart’s just about burst out of her chest. There’s an inner battle waging right on the precipice of her ribcage and your bright, hopeful eyes staring up at her aren’t making it any easier to parse out. Do you feel obligated somehow to pay her back for the necklace? She knows you know she’d never ask that of you, that your arrangement is not a traditional one, but has she unknowingly pushed the bounds all the same? Did you simply imbibe too much and don’t really have a clue what it is you’re saying?

Or, perhaps.. Most dangerously: Do you mean it?

“I don’t want you to feel as though you have to… ‘pay me back’ for tonight. That was never my intention.”

She volleys her own inner turmoil dead straight in your direction and stares down at you with what might be, if you squint hard enough, a nervous expression.

You lean sideways against the door and cross your arms over yourself, appraising her. Does she really not want you? What the hell does she get out of this if she doesn’t? You just can’t wrap your head around it, and while you insisted to yourself you’d never outwardly question the bounds of your relationship and why they’ve settled where they are, you’ve put yourself at a crossroads.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

She balks.

“What? Of course I do. What does that have to do with anything?” Larissa’s expression is a mixture of incredulity and apprehension. You decide to bite the bullet then as she lingers uncertainly beneath the moonlight.

“I don’t understand what you get out of this. Am I not–– you think I’m pretty but you don’t want to touch me? You pay for my livelihood but you don’t want anything tangible in return?” You both purse your lips simultaneously and you’d laugh if the situation weren’t so dire all of a sudden. “You confuse me, Larissa.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a small cloud bursting forth as she sighs.

You fucked it, didn’t you? Fucked it right to hell, and now she’s never going to speak to you again.

“You’re an idiot, do you know that?” The air goes still.

…

It’s news to you.

Larissa suddenly pushes forward and traps you against the front of your door, hands leveled at your waist. “I’ve always wanted you,” she grits out, her arms tensing at your sides. “I just didn’t want you to feel as though you had to. Return the sentiment, that is. You’re too precious for that.” Her voice is low and rough in your ear, strangled. You grab hold of her forearms to keep yourself upright when her tone shoots right through you, breathing heavily. You gradually lift your gaze, poring over every curve of hers as you do, and meet her eyes. They’ve nearly gone black with lust, and a subtle quiver in her lip tells you everything you need to know.

“Kiss me.”

Larissa groans, which is admittedly not the reaction you’d expected, and presses further into you, her nose brushing against your cheek. You can feel the heat of her grow, ensnaring you in perfect contrast to the cool night air.

“You have to tell me you want it, darling. I need you to say it.” … Oh. A new wave of arousal surges through you as you turn your head ever so slightly, her lips hovering just out of reach. The shared breath between you has become fraught with possibility, with the overwhelming, unspent energy that’s been collecting over the last six months without either of you quite noticing. Of course this is what she needs: confirmation, not that you’re hers but that she’s yours, by choice and choice alone.

“I want you, Larissa. Please,” you whisper, squeezing her arms in an attempt to ground yourself. She says nothing in return, instead immediately closing the distance and engulfing you in a desperate, searing kiss. Your cheeks burn and it’s all you can do not to melt into her fully, sucking in a sharp breath as her tongue slides against your bottom lip. This, this, you realize, is exactly what you’d imagined: Feeling her against you, wrapped up tightly in her arms, being drawn in and freed all at once, struggling to contain the desire you feel pulsing within yourself. It’s like Larissa’s split open your mind and picked through every thought there, coming away with only the most indecent imaginings and putting them to use as her hips pitch forward and her hands grasp achingly at the roundness of your thighs.

“Open the door,” she husks, suddenly ripping herself away and turning you at the waist to face the door. You fumble for your keys as she scores your neck and shoulders with hot, open-mouth kisses, running the tip of her tongue along the muscle that pulls taut there.

“F-fuck.” The chuckle she gives in response to your whimpering, shaking when you can’t fit the key into its slot, only weakens you further. Larissa must know her effect well as she wraps an arm around you to hold you upright, the other grabbing the key from you and swiftly unlocking the door in one go.

“Trust me, I’m trying.”

Laughter follows you both as you take the stairs one at a time, pausing every few to take her tongue in your mouth and run your hands along her front. You bypass the living room once you reach the landing - a feat in itself - and lead Larissa straight to your bedroom, kicking one heel off in the hall and the other at the threshold of your room.

She stops you just before you reach the bed and holds you steady for a moment: “Hold on, I want to look at you..” You hair is mussed, curls losing their hold in the heat of your entanglement, chest heaving and red. Larissa steps forward to brush her thumb over your lips, searching your face for any sign of hesitation or doubt.

She doesn’t find any.

“Christ, you’re a pretty thing,” she hums. The pad of her thumb pulls at your bottom lip and you acquiesce, tilting your chin up before taking her finger into your mouth, rolling your tongue against its tip, watching her with wide eyes that imply an innocence you don’t possess. A hiss escapes her when your teeth come down around her knuckle and she scowls, gripping your jaw with an intensity that rivets the surrounding atmosphere as she rips her hand away, smashing your lips together once more.

In the next second the backs of your knees are buckling against the edge of the mattress and you squeak; Larissa had slipped a hand over your sternum and shoved, launching you down hard into the bed. Wet heat urges your hips forward as she crawls over you, but her hands swiftly come down to force them back into the mattress, trapping you there.

“Patience, darling.” You scoff as she begins the journey down your body, placing lazy kisses to your lips, cheek, jaw, chest while her fingers deftly work to pull your dress from you. You lift your back so she can snake a hand around and drag the zipper down to its end at the top of your hips, wriggling free and moving to pull at her own dress–––but she grabs your wrists, pinning them above you with a devious smirk.

“Ah, ah. Let me spoil you,” she murmurs into the crook of your neck, one hand traveling to cup the dampness between your legs. Electricity cracks against your spine at her touch; you’re sweltering and freezing all at once, watching her eyes rake over you with a hunger you’ve never seen on her before. Her fingers draw idle circles around your clit as she works her way down your body, leaving a trail of wetness in her wake where tongue meets flesh, nipping at the precipice of your hip bones, glancing up at you before she licks you through your panties. There’s no helping the whine you turn free when she all but purrs at the taste she gets of you from the soaked fabric.

“Larissa, please,” you huff, lifting your hips up to meet her mouth. She takes three steps then in quick succession: chuckles into the skin of your inner thigh; pulls your panties down and off of you; and presses a series of messy, teasing kisses to your bare sex. Your fingers clutch at the top of your duvet as she finally begins to devour you, breath hitching as her tongue circles your entrance and delves into you. In a moment of white hot desperation, you hook your legs around her, calves flexing against her back as you shudder into her touch. She’s ravenous, consuming you with long, uninterrupted strokes that ride on the flat of her tongue, lapping your slickness up and winding into you all at once. The coil is tight within you already, pulsing with every movement of her mouth. You’re almost worried it’ll be over before it scarcely has had the chance to start, but a quiet, bemused voice in the back of your mind ridicules you: Larissa is nothing if not generous.

“You taste divine,” she breathes, before returning her ministrations to your clit, sucking and popping with the filthiest fucking moan you’ve ever heard. The feeling of her tongue against that tight bundle of nerves prompts your eyes to roll back, eyelids fluttering, and imbues your hands with a mind of their own, working them swiftly into her hair and pulling her as close to your cunt as you can get her, hips lurching in an unsteady rhythm. You can feel her amusement at your desperation as distinctly as you feel her mouth, but it’s quickly forgotten when she slides two fingers into you with an ease that makes you lightheaded. The sound of your wetness is sinful, and you have to admit it only spurs you on.

“Fuck me, fuck me, pleasefuckme––” Larissa’s grinning against you as she pumps her fingers, curling into you with a startling accuracy that leaves you breathless and aching. You press your cheek to your shoulder in a feeble attempt to keep yourself above the threshold dividing pleasure and bliss, useless as she slips another finger into you and flicks her tongue against you, quickening her pace as she follows the mounting tone of your pleas. Every touch spreads a warmth through you impossible to ignore, stirring a frantic need beneath the surface of your skin.

“Cum for me, darling, cum for me, that’s right.” Larissa presses the heel of her hand into the space just below the swell of your stomach and the coil snaps suddenly, sharply, sucking all of the air out of you at the same time that you yelp and tense with equal force, clamping around her face as your orgasm tears through you. She continues to lap at you even as your hands push at her, holding fast to your thighs to keep her place. Your legs shake as she builds you up in the same breath that you’re coming down, a second orgasm already rearing its head.

“I can’t,” you keen, but Larissa shakes her head and unlatches briefly to disagree.

“Yes you can, Y/N––be a good girl for me.” It washes over you when she lowers her face again and wraps her lips around your clit, sucking with an unfazed firmness that shocks you to your center. You’re tingling over every limb, pacing your breaths to ride you through this second crest. “That’s it..” Larissa coos, running her hand over your leg comfortingly. You can hardly breathe as the shockwaves roll through you one after the other, and the darkness of the ceiling above you seems to double in size as you stare in a daze.

Your muscles melt into the mattress one by one, sinking deep as Larissa finally pulls her head away and crawls forward to kiss you; you can taste your slickness on her tongue, familiar and tangy. When you part, gasping for air, you wrap a hand around the back of her neck and press your foreheads together, gazing up into her eyes with the softest look you can muster after so thoroughly falling apart in her hands.

“My turn?” She laughs loud and heartily at your doe-eyed demeanor. You’re itching to touch her, to taste her, and she knows it.

“Mmm, maybe.” Larissa shrugs and rises up from her position over you, sliding off to the side of the bed where you can’t reach her––and not for lack of trying. A whine catches in your throat when she shoots a withering look over her shoulder, patting the space beside her. “Help me with my dress, darling.”

You waste no time in flipping over onto your knees, shuffling over to her and grappling with the zipper of her dress. You flush when she laughs both at your inability to get it down in one swift motion and the frustrated little growl that bubbles up from your chest.

“Not funny,” you complain, gritting your teeth as she shifts and the zipper gives, revealing the smooth, snowy expanse of her back. Instilled with a renewed sense of hunger, you push the fabric away from both of her shoulders and continue the journey down and around to her breasts, thrilled she’s forgone a bra tonight as you palm the supple flesh there and roll her nipples between your fingers. The sigh she expels is a ragged one, her hands dwarfing yours whilst her head falls back against your shoulder. You revel in the sight of her lip caught between her teeth.

“I want to fuck you.” You just barely catch it in between her labored breaths and your own thunderous heartbeat, but you do, and you turn to glance at her curiously before her meaning hits you square in the face.

“But––”

She cuts you off. “I want to destroy you, Y/N. You can taste me later,” Larissa mutters, pivoting without another warning and capturing your lips again. You wouldn’t complain if it weren’t for the utter distress you felt to get your hands on her. She doesn’t give you a chance to rebut, however, as she slips out of her dress and climbs over you, guiding your hands to grip her ass. “Later, I promise.” She pulls back to appraise you, taking a rigorous inventory that she’ll commit to memory if it’s the last thing she does: Your flushed skin, the way you can’t keep still under her touch, the unmistakable shine of desire in your eyes.

“In th-the nightstand,” you stammer. Suddenly the realization that Larissa is here, in your bed, and you, at her mercy, is too much at once. You’re trembling with need and anticipation. She tilts her head at you, one second, two passing before she follows your guidance and pulls the drawer open, grinning wickedly at what she finds there.

“Harness?”

You nod vigorously, propping yourself up on your elbows and directing her through another drawer of your dresser. The slow, methodical way in which she fastens the leather around herself surely burns itself into your brain, and you can’t help the shameless moan that seeps out when she smooths an indulgent layer of lubricant along the silicone from base to tip, a delicious sight between her legs.

Larissa approaches with an emphasized swing to her hips, bending at the waist to press a chaste kiss to your lips before she nudges you to scoot back into the middle of the bed, positioning herself above you with a hand on either side of your head. She dips her face down into the hollow of your throat.

Her voice vibrates against you despite her hushed tone. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

Your brain short-circuits at her words, imperfect timing. God, she’s fucking hot.

She lifts her head again to catch your gaze and smirks, nibbling on the tip of your chin. “Use your words.”

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” you rasp, drawing your nails down the broad expanse of her back in anticipation.

The moment she slides into you is pure ecstasy: your toes curl and you haphazardly clamber for purchase upon her skin as she buries herself deep within you, stalling for a few moments to give you time to adjust. The way Larissa groans into the motion draws out an amusing - filthy - rumination about her being able to feel every stroke as with her own body, delighting in your wetness. She fills you seamlessly, snapping her hips against you before slowly drawing herself back, only to repeat the pattern and plunge into you as deeply as she’s able. It’s bruising and pleasurable all at once, how she brushes up against your walls and the ridges of the toy hit what your mind insists is every nerve-ending within you.

You rock together desperately, bodies moving as one as if you’d been doing this for centuries, mapping each other out and bringing each other to your peak. You savor the novel, tangled scent of sweat and arousal, a newly formed association with the sound of Larissa’s broken whimpers now frozen in your psyche.

A startled breath leaves you as Larissa abruptly anchors her weight to one side and pulls you on top of her, flipping your positions. Her arms wrap tight around you, looped at your back and around your shoulder as she fucks up into you at a crushing pace. You whine into the crook of her neck and realize you’re on the verge of tears, an overwhelming wave of pleasure and desperation wracking your body. Quiet grunts accompany her each thrust, slowing just so until it’s a steady pattern you can count to like clockwork, brutal and sharp at every buck of her hips. Your knees are aching, folded as they are, but the tight, coiling sensation within you overrides any and all discomfort, merely a quiet nagging in your brain; your focus is settled precisely on the angle of her cock and how her nails dig into your skin as you grind against each other. She’s close, too. You can feel it. It’s there in the shallowness of her breaths, in the urgency of her pelvis against yours, in the subtle arch of her back. You try to meet her where she’s at in your muddled state, pitching your hips backwards and down when she thrusts upwards––and you know it’s worked when she gasps and her hands scramble to lock together at the small of your back.

“Yes, that’s it darling. Just like that,” Larissa pants, using the leverage of her hold on you to help you fuck yourself. The only sounds permeating the room are that of your mingled breaths and her cock driving into you with a consistent, almost unforgiving rhythm.

“Pleasepleaseplease, ohfuck––”

“Y/N–––”

She tenses with you and cries out as your orgasms hit you both at once, ravaging you beyond reason. You’re hyper-aware of the way her breasts feel pressed against you, the way one of her hands flies up to bury itself in your hair as you ride her through your climax. Larissa’s hips stutter as she whines into your shoulder, sinking her teeth into you, and you marvel at the feeling of her muscles clenching around you, from the sinewy stretch of her arms to her thighs rested between your own.

Everything you’d hoped for. Fantasized about. Greedily deliberated again and again whilst watching her across the table in another fancy restaurant in another unfamiliar town.

Larissa is careful as she pulls out of you, slow and deliberate so as not to disturb the tenderness there. You remain curled on top of her but she doesn’t complain, rather rubbing your back in long, languid movements and whispering affirmations in you ear, a sweet mixture of ‘breathe darling, I’ve got you’ and more headily, ‘you did so well for me, you’re so good, you took me so well’. When you allow yourself to fall to the side of her, she shimmies out of the harness and tosses it somewhere off the edge of the bed, ignoring its clatter as she wraps you up in her arms. You burrow yourself further into her warmth and sigh at the feeling, content.

“Now is it my turn?” you ask, voice low and raked over with exhaustion. The belly laugh she gives is worth all the weariness in the world. “You’re incorrigible!”

#i also tried not to dive too deep into any specific kinks since there was no request for any #i think what i’m gonna do is add to my masterlist what kinks i will and won’t write and go from there!#that way ppl can request as they please :)#if anyone has any constructive/technique-specific comments on the smut pls send them my way!!#i have a tendency to be super explanatory/forward in a way that i don’t think always works for smth so intimate #so i’d love any help i can get!#ANYWAYSSSSS enjoy #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x f!reader #principal weems x reader #larissa weems imagine #larissa weems x female reader #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems x you #principal weems imagine #larissa weems reader insert #larissa weems smut #answered (request)#wasjustred

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webslingingslasher · 11 months

Note

BEGGING FOR A PART 2 TO THE MAY BLURB….

this is kinda long but we needed a happy ending

The familiar Parker door looked scarier than you remember.

It had its slightly yellow hue and the hallway lighting did nothing for it, you hold your breath for five seconds, then release it and start again.

The last time you were here ended in a break up. A mutual break up, but a break up.

You can remember the break up but the details are fuzzy, like it was a rushed decision and you both agreed to make it easier on the other person, except the other person didn’t really want it.

So, you hold your breath, release, and knock.

The door clicks and you hope it’s May, if your ex opens the door you’d pass out.

“Hey, sweetie!” A polite purr from May, her hair wafts with the breeze of swinging the door wide. She hugs you in the doorway before sliding in, your eyes immediately bouncing around the room. It’d be the first time you saw or spoke to Peter in four months, the last ‘sighting’ was when you saw spider-man on a roof when you were walking, it made you go into a starbucks bathroom and sob.

“Hey, May!” You try to be subtle, her warm hand rests on your arm. “He’s in his room, if you don’t want him to join, he won’t.” May silently prays, ‘say he can join, say he can join, say he can join, fix this, fix this, let him fix this.’

Your throat clears, you shoot your eyes to the door, you could make an excuse to leave, or ask May to ditch plans and go to the coffeehouse, or you could talk to her outside because at your grown age you’re petrified of Peter overhearing you. You didn’t know how he felt, and you didn’t know either.

“Can we talk outside?”

You nod at the door, she immediately crosses your path to open the door and usher you out. May smiles, “he’s just as nervous,” can she read you that well? Or are you just terrible at hiding it? “What if it doesn’t work? Too much time has passed? If this goes bad, May I dunno if I could see you again”

“What’s that mean?” Rushed, she can’t lose you. She can’t. She’s lost enough and you were so special to her, she thinks if Peter had moved on she’d be bitter and hold every partner to your standard.

You swallow thick, “it means I move on. I love you, May. But you’re a constant reminder and eventually he’ll move on too and then it becomes weird.”

She understands. She’s had exes and eventually it led to cutting off their family and it hurt almost as much as the break up. But she’s selfish and sure you could fix it, she gets the same feeling from you two as she did Ben. True love, and she can believe it because they too broke up a few times but that universal magnetic pull couldn’t keep them away from each other.

“Then you move on. And we’ll be okay here, just promise me you’ll invite me to the wedding.”

You grip her arm and smile, sometimes you just don’t believe you deserve her love. It makes you sad to think about a one day wedding, you were so sure Peter would be the one across from you with May in the front row. Even if Peter wasn’t the groom you’d save her a seat.

“You’ll be in the front row, I promise.”

May’s heart swells at the confirmation, it’s not like it was a hard commitment. She’d be there anyways, you’re marrying her nephew.

“Tea?”

You peek back at the door, you can face him, it’s just Peter, and you know May has your back.

You nod once, “coffee.”

—------------------

As May starts the kettle on the stove she pulls out the french press, you flash her an impressive look and hold a hand to your chest. “For me, little ol’ me?” May cracks a smile, “Peter insisted,” it makes you swallow and give a nervous smile, she sure can hype him up.

You can remember the walk to his room with eyes closed, you can hear May pace around the kitchen as she finished making finger sandwiches and cookies. A slow anxiety forms in your chest, you feel your heart pick up in beats and tap your fingers on the bar counter.

You should talk to him before you sit down with May, save her the awkward air. It’s the least you could do. You don’t announce your department, if you did it would give you a second to think about it and if you did you think you’d end up bolting.

May lifts her head when she sees you walk away in her peripheral vision, she holds her breath as you walk down the hallway, something tells her you don’t have to use the bathroom. She’s proved right when you stall outside her nephews door, then gently tap your fingers on the wood. So lightly she thinks you did it on purpose, like ‘I tried, he didn’t answer, oh well.’ Your plan doesn’t work when she hears him call out ‘yeah!’ May knows he doesn’t expect it to be you knocking.

Peter’s voice made you freeze, made you remember he was a real person and he was here and you were about to look at the man you swore was the love of your life in seconds.

Brave, brave, brave.

You crack the door open and push through, his eyes go from confused to shock quickly.

“Hi,” rushed and stuttered, like you were a figment of his imagination.

“Hi,” you smile softly, you click the door shut and lean against it, it supports you in more than one way at the moment.

You both don’t know what to say.

Everything sounds so cheap after what you’ve shared together. The idea of small talk with Peter feels choking. ‘How have you been? Long time no see. What’ve you been up to? How’s school? How’s work? How-”

“I missed you.” He said it first, it makes you breathe better. You settled on your feet, you didn’t feel so anchored anymore.

“Then why didn’t you call?” Bitter, you didn’t expect that to come from your mouth. You weren’t even all that upset, you didn’t call either, if you wanted to talk to him that bad you could’ve reached out. There was so much emotion bouncing around it came out in frustration instead of admission.

It doesn’t even bother him, he’s just glad you’re talking.

You shake your head before he can reply, “don’t. I don’t know why I said that, I get why you didn’t call.”

He answers anyway, “I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say, I still don’t. And I don’t think you can call your ex just because you miss her voice. Even if she yells at you.”

The quip makes you smile then falls when you try to piece together the story.

“I promise I’m not taking the piss, but. I just, Peter-”

His name coming from your mouth makes him feel like he’s flying.

“Do you even know why we broke up?”

It’s a genuine question, it felt like an everything at once, heat of the moment breakup. There wasn’t a good reason, at least one you can piece together. It felt like it was just happening and you both committed.

Peter chuckles, like the thoughts kept him up too.

“You don’t know either?”

You sigh and hold your chin in your hand, it was a sigh of relief. You find yourself walking to flop yourself down on his bed, Peter freezes, he’s terrified of making the wrong move and sending you running, he never thought he’d be unsure of how to be around you.

“Years. It was years and we can’t even find the reason why we flushed it down the drain. What’s wrong with us? I mean, we were going to get a place together, we were talking about engagement rings and it settled into this?”

Trust him, he knows. It’s really hard going from looking at rings to sleeping alone every night. It keeps him up all the time, he’s hyper fixated on it.

“I wanted to call you that night. I thought maybe we both needed to sleep on it and the next day I didn’t know what to say or how to say it and then months passed.”

You look up at him, your chin resting in your hands, elbows stationary on your knees.

“It felt weird, right?” Not having each other, when you spend so many years with the same person not having them anywhere is a whole new process, there were so many things you didn’t realize you did with Peter until you lost him.

“Really weird.”

“I missed you too, by the way.”

God does that admission feel good.

The kettle screeches, you jump and in pure instinct lean closer to Peter. It makes him feel warm inside, you still trust him with your life, even if it was a tea kettle.

“I never stopped looking at rings.”

He doesn’t know why he said that. It’s true but it’s weird, something he should’ve kept to himself, but maybe it would smooth things over better. An olive branch of marriage.

It makes you raise your eyebrows, as far as you were concerned you were talking about them. He was looking at them.

“You were looking at them?”

Peter licks his lips, you didn’t even know he was in the first place.

“Not like that,” that’s true, you were very strict on no marriage while you’re in school. “Just gathering ideas I guess.”

He never gave up, you didn’t either. Still giving a hundred percent broken up.

“You’re brave, you must’ve thought I’d come crawling back.” He wants to make a joke but refuses, “I’d come crawling back, I’d man up eventually and come to your door. I was scared of being too late and some guy would open the door instead.”

You tilt your head, “some guy? That’s my boyfriend.”

Peter’s breath hitched, “wait, what?”

You grunt and push against his arm, you realize how long it’s been since you touched him. He’s broad and sturdy, he feels bigger than when you were together, you wonder if he’s been hitting the gym.

“In your hypothetical scenario, not in real life you dolt.” Peter deflates with a breath, “thank christ.” You hum, “I’m sure you’d know if I moved on, something tells me May would be quick to share the news.” He snorts, “you have no idea, she masterminded this you know. She’s been pushing for us to get back together since we split.”

Your throat clears, “was that weird for you? You can be honest, it was weird for me at first.”

“Nah, I know how much you mean to her. I just wasn’t sure what it meant for us, but it kept us connected and I figured that was better than strangers.”

You purse your lips, “do you wanna hug?”

Peter's eyes lit up, he nearly hit the ground with how quickly he hopped up from his bed. You had no idea how much he wanted to, how long he’s been counting since you’ve last been in his arms and holding back every scratching impulse from touching you since you’ve sat next to him. When you pushed his arm he thought he died.

You could use a hug and he could too. It was weird how quick things smoothed over, how one conversation can flip things back into place, like the last four months never existed. He didn’t do anything wrong and neither did you, it just happened.

You stand with him and his arms open, you walk into his chest and wrap your arms around his middle, his arms wrap around your shoulders. You squeeze him, he’s a lot broader, either you really miscalculated his size or he got bigger. You fully relax and rub your cheek into his shirt, it’s soft under your face. All the shirts you had of his lost the scent, you never thought you could miss someone's smell. You can hear his heartbeat, it’s drumming thickly. He’s nervous, you think it’s cute and hold him tighter.

“You’re bigger,” your words jumbled with a squished cheek.

“Spidey’s been active, he’s had nothing going on for four months.”

“I like it when you’re softer, it’s better to cuddle.”

He doesn’t even think about it and kisses the crown of your head, he pauses but when you don't react he doesn't comment on it, because he’s not sorry. “I’ll start doubling down on the burgers.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the haircut.”

“Four months without that tangly mess, sorry babe but it’s not coming back.”

“Then neither am I.”

“Okay, I’ll grow it out a little longer.”

You smile against his chest, “thank you.”

Pushing him away you stretch, “May’s probably itching trying to figure out what we’re doing in here.”

Peter gestures to the door, “go tell her.”

You quirk your brow, “you’re not coming?”

—-------------

When you exit his room May has beady eyes racing over the both of you, Peter has a smile so big it can’t be wiped and you’re glowing.

You settle at the head of the table while Peter makes your coffee, May pours her tea and talks mindlessly on your left. You nod along and peer over your shoulder with a grin when Peter places a mug down in front of you after squeezing your shoulder letting you know of his presence.

“Thanks, honey.” You pick up the steaming mug and blow before taking a small sip.

For the first time in four months May can breathe. A weight has been lifted from her shoulders, things are back to how they should be. She wouldn’t lose you, she was playing both sides, either you or him would make the first move but just like your breakup you did it together. That’s May’s favorite thing about you two, no matter what you’re partners and have each other's back. It's us against the problem with you two always.

Her nephew settles to the right of you, she doesn’t miss the secret glance between the two of you as Peter takes two cookies, looks at you and takes a third, you smile and shake your head lightly.

Yeah, everything is going to be alright.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker blurb #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker fluff #tasm! peter parker x reader #my writing

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chiriwritesstuff · 16 days

Text

The New Girl in Tinseltown; Chapter 3 - Fake Smile

A Dieter Bravo x Actress! Reader PR Marriage AU

Previous Chapter │ Series Masterlist

Chapter Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary: It's the weekend after, and it's back to reality for Doll and Dieter. Of course, the public is loving their sudden nuptials, but what about the important people in Doll's inner circle? Will they believe her through her lies? Meanwhile, Dieter will stop at nothing to prove that what they have between the two of them is real...

Chapter Warnings and Tags: (Not So) meet cute, PR Relationships, what happens in Vegas ends up in the headlines, Dieter just does not give a FUCK, Smut lite, a look at the inner workings of Tinseltown and the sleaziness it comes with, Dieter and his fucking paintbrush, A hell of a lot of dirty banter, is that yearning?, mentions of devious deeds by sleazy people in show business, we introduce a few more characters, SLOW BURN WE DONT KNOW IT, this is unhinged, no use of y/n, Someone gets a name reveal, No beta we die like men!

Word Count: 7.3K (it seems like I can just go on and on and on...)

Song Inspo: ‘Fake Smile’ - Ariana Grande

The first time you found yourself in hot water with the media, it was all because of a little misunderstanding.

A stupid one, yes, but in Hollywood, things like simple misunderstandings were paydirt in the world of the paparazzi. What was even more fucked up was the more stupid the situation, the more they ate it up, and the more money they could make from you making a complete ass of yourself.

TMZ News Flash: Up and-coming starlet arrested for assault of a homeless woman, maintains that it was a misunderstanding-

It was a few months into your career, and you found yourself recovering from a harsh casting call that left you feeling defeated. With your cap pulled low and sunglasses shielding your eyes, you dodged the paparazzi lurking outside the building where the audition was being held. Being labeled Hollywood's newest darling had thrust you into the spotlight faster than you could prepare for, and it felt like everyone was just waiting for you to slip up. It was only a matter of time...

“Look, Alex,” you whisper into your phone, pulling your sweater tight around you, and looking at your surroundings nervously. “I’m not going to land every role I audition for, it was just a bad case of nerves… anyway, give Mum and Dad my love, I’m about to head into the next audition-“ you tell your sister, checking your watch as you hurriedly make your way towards your destination a few buildings down. “… I love you, too. Speak soon, alright? Tell Zoe I love her.”

Lost in your thoughts and the frustration of the day, you hurried along the sidewalk, oblivious to the world around you, when, suddenly, you are accosted by a homeless woman, her cup outstretched, her plea for spare change hanging in the air.

"Some change?" she asks, her cup dangerously close to your face. "I'm cold and hungry-"

You reach into your purse, fumbling for some coins. "Here you go," you offer, dropping them into her cup without a second thought.

Instead of the dull thud of the change hitting the bottom of the cup, you're met with the tell-tell sound of a tiny splash, the homeless woman's eyes widening in shock and tiny horror.

"What the fuck, lady?" she screams, looking at her ruined cup of coffee. "Just because I'm out here begging for money doesn't mean you can be an asshole about it!"

"Oh shit, I am so sorry... wait, let me just run to Starbucks and get you a new one-" you stammer, your eyes scanning for the nearest coffee shop. You pull your sunglasses down slightly, squinting as you spot a café on the corner.

The woman tsks at you, her expression shifting as she suddenly recognizes you. "Hey, aren't you that actress from that movie-"

Your heart sinks as you freeze, the knot in your throat tightening. "Uh, yeah, that's me," you admit, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on you. "I really didn't mean to, I thought the cup was empty-"

"No way!" she exclaims, her voice drawing attention as she gestures wildly. "You're one of those celebs with the paparazzi on your tail, aren't you? Hey, you there!" She points to a man hiding nearby with a camera, catching his attention. "She just dumped her change in my coffee cup!"

"No, please," you whisper urgently to the woman, ducking as the man approaches, camera poised. "I just lost them, please, I can't deal with-"

"Doll! Doll!" he shouts, snapping pictures rapidly as you try to shield yourself. "How'd the audition go? What movie was it for?"

"No comment," you respond curtly, raising your arms to block the shots, the homeless woman's protests growing louder in the background.

"She just tossed her coins in my cup, what a clueless bimbo!" she shouts, gripping your hand and pulling you closer. "Hey, where do you think you're going? You still owe me a coffee!"

"Please, I don't want to make a scene-" You struggle to break free, but in the chaos, your purse swings out, accidentally smacking the woman across the face as you tumble to the ground.

"You bitch!" she screams, clutching her cheek. "Did you see that? She attacked me-"

"No, it was an accident, I swear!" you plead, but your voice is drowned out by the relentless clicks of the cameras.

Later, at the police station on La Cienega.

"Doll," your publicist murmurs as he guides you out the back entrance of the police station, shielding your face from the frenzy of paparazzi. With a protective arm around you, he ushers you into the waiting car, pushing aside the relentless onslaught of cameras.

Once safely inside the Lincoln Continental, you both exhale in relief as Nathan orders the driver to go, the sound of the engine drowning out the chaos outside.

"I warned you about this," Nathan sighs, glancing at his buzzing phone. "I told you things would get crazy after 'Little Star' hit theaters. You can't afford to be careless now. What were you thinking, getting yourself into a situation like that?"

"I don't know, Nate," you sigh, "... maybe I wasn't thinking," you admit, frustration evident in your voice. "How was I supposed to know that trying to do a good deed was going to backfire like this? It's not like I approached her, she took me by surprise!"

"But did you need to assault the poor woman?" he exclaims, his brow raised in disbelief.

You give him a look, crossing your arms across your chest as you gaze outside the car window. 'I apologized, alright? It's not like she's the one suffering from all of this, I missed the audition, only because I thought I was doing her a favor! Fuck!"

Nathan shakes his head, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Look. I get it, but you're not just anyone anymore, Doll. Every move you make is under a microscope. We need damage control, fast... and maybe some media training while we're at it. It's like trying to tame a fucking feral cat or something-"

You nod, feeling the weight of his words. "Yeah, I know. We'll figure it out. But for now, let's just get out of here."

As the car pulls away from the chaos outside, you sink back into your seat, feeling the exhaustion seeping into your bones. This was just the beginning of a long battle against public scrutiny, and you knew it was going to be a tough fight.

The next time you found yourself in the headlines for a scandal, it was when the tiny part of your mind decided that it was a good idea to get eloped with a man you barely even know.

Present Day. 8a - Meeting with your Publicist (Nathan 'The Shark' Smith)

WhatsApp Message from Dieter: Are you there yet? Doll: Just parked. Sitting in my car outside of the studio. What are you doing up so early? I swear, you sleep like the dead. Dieter: Woke up to a cold bed. Maybe fuck the meeting with the Shark and come home. My cock misses you. I miss you. Dieter: (Sends a picture of said cock, fully erect and the mushroom tip bright red and angry, with Dieter's face in a frown). Doll: I can't keep avoiding him, D. Plus, I have my screen test today. Your cock is just going to have to wait, sorry baby. Dieter: Could you just send me a photo of your tits at least?

"What the fuck were you thinking, Doll?"

You roll your eyes as you flop onto your publicist's couch, crossing your arms around your chest. "Spare me the theatrics, Nathan. What's done is done, there's no point in dwelling in the past-"

"Do you have any idea just how much your little stunt is going to cost you? We were so close to landing Disney, and now I don't know how I'm going to convince them that you haven't lost your goddamn mind!" Nathan's voice reverberates through the room as he rips his glasses off his face.

"You pay me to protect you, to guide you down the right path, and you go and hook up with the first guy who winks at you? At a goddamn In-N-Out?! And let's not even talk about this sham of a marriage-"

"I was drunk, Nathan! I did what a normal person would have done if they drank as much as I did! And marrying Dieter isn't the end of the world! Maybe you need to loosen up a bit!"

"You don't even know him, Doll! This is as close to career suicide as it gets, and I'm not sure I want to try to salvage this mess!"

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. The damage is done! we just have to deal with it," you say defiantly, pulling out your phone.

"Maybe he roofied you or something," he mutters to himself, pacing back and forth. "If you want, we could take a drug test, maybe prove that somehow... he manipulated you into marrying him. Maybe, we could get the police involved, and you won't have to go through with this shit show! "

"There was no manipulation!" you retort, "these things happen all the damn time! how do you think these 24-hour drive-thru wedding chapels survive? I don't see the problem of two consenting adults agreeing to marry each other!"

"Have you seen what the news outlets have been saying about you? Half of them are already calling it a sham, while the other half thinks that you're knocked up!" he throws a stack of newspaper off his desk, the pages fluttering in the air as they land near where you sit.

You reach for the top gossip magazine in the towering stack, and your heart sinks as you're greeted by a blown-up photo of you and Dieter in Marcus's convertible. Both of you have flushed faces, yet there's an undeniable spark of happiness in your eyes.

Hollywood Sweetheart marries Hollywood Lothario Dieter Bravo at a Las Vegas Wedding Chapel after being caught having public sex at popular fast food spot In N Out...

You shake your head at that, tossing it back onto the table, not wanting to think of the implications and emotions behind the photo.

"I don't give a damn about the news outlets!" you snap back, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Let them speculate all they want. I'm not going to let some gossip rags dictate my life."

Nathan sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Doll, you're playing with fire here. You're on the verge of ruining your career, and for what? A drunken mistake?"

"It's not just about that," you argue, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on you. "There's more to it than you realize."

"Then enlighten me," Nathan challenges, his tone softer now, a hint of concern seeping through his frustration. "Help me understand why you're willing to risk everything for someone you barely know."

"It's like he sees through all the bullshit," you murmur to Nathan, a pang of melancholy coloring your words. "While everyone else is busy painting me as this flawless figure, Dieter's the one who looks beyond the facade. He's not afraid to acknowledge the messy, imperfect parts of me, the ones I try to keep hidden."

With a sigh, you retrieve a cigarette from your purse and light it, the smoke swirling around you in the dimly lit room. "He's seen and experienced things most people shy away from, yet he's still unapologetically himself. There's a raw honesty to him that I find... refreshing."

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe it's best to give it a few months, let people think it wasn't a mistake, and just..." His voice trails off, the unspoken suggestion hanging in the air.

"Why do you think I'm in this industry? I am good at what I do, and besides... I don't think it would be that hard, pretending to be with him. He's... different, like a completely different person when he's with me. He has this way of making me feel-"

"Objectified? Like a good little slut for daddy?"

"Understood, Nathan," you reply sharply, stubbing the cigarette in the ashtray. "He makes me feel seen," you add with a sigh, a hint of vulnerability seeping into your tone. "Do you think we could wrap this up? I've got a screen test to prepare for."

"You sound like you're smitten with something," he snarks, typing away at his computer. "I don't know what to tell you, Doll," Nathan says, his tone laden with concern. "I just can't see this ending well. Dieter's like a disease, spreading toxicity wherever he goes. It's only a matter of time before he poisons you too."

9a. Trailer.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in, Mrs. Dieter Bravo, in the flesh!"

You put on the best fake smile you could muster, pulling your shades off as you enter your trailer, your 'glam squad' already waiting to help you prep for your screen test. "Good morning to you too, ladies," you reply, taking a sip of your coffee. "Shall we get started?"

"That's it, Doll? you're not gonna give us the scoop?" Your hairstylist teases, "You're just going to pretend like you didn't do something so fucking insane like getting hitched in Vegas? To Dieter Bravo of all people? Are we nothing to you?!" she exclaims, taking you by the shoulders as she playfully shoves you onto her chair.

"I don't know what else I could tell you besides that yes, I got married over the weekend, I mean, it was all over TMZ for everyone to see-"

"I have to ask," Sofia chimes in, giving you a sly smile as she looks at you through the mirror, combing your hair back into a low ponytail. "Is he as big as they say he is?"

"You know, a normal person would say congratulations to someone who just got married."

"I mean, why waste time with congratulations when we can get down to the nitty-gritty? The people don't give a shit about the pleasantries, we wanna know about the good stuff. So, Spill: is he packing or not?"

"Sorry, Sof, a lady doesn't fuck and tell," you say with a saccharine smile, rolling your eyes.

"I'm shocked, honestly," your PA slash childhood best friend Daisy muses, typing away on her phone as she settles on the chair next to yours. "I had no idea you were seeing Dieter before this past weekend," she says with a hint of what someone could perceive as suspicion. "I'm glued to your side 24-7. Surely, I would have noticed that you were fucking him. Dieter Bravo isn't known for being subtle."

"Just because I live under a microscope doesn't mean I don't know how to keep things on the down low, Daisy. I can have a relationship and keep it secret from the world, celebrities do it all the time."

"What I don't understand is if you were so hell-bent on keeping your relationship with Dieter under wraps in the first place, why have such a shitshow of a wedding?" Daisy challenges, throwing her phone on the workspace in front of you as she turns to look at you, an unimpressed look on her face. "Something doesn't add up."

"What are you trying to say, Dais?"

"I'm saying, you were seen sucking face with Adam Patterson at Sundance not even two weeks ago, so I think I'm trying to say that you're full of shit," she retorts, her eyes narrowed as she stares you down.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb, Doll. I know everything about your life, I'm your best friend, for fucks sake! If you were with Dieter Bravo, I would've known. I live right next door to you!"

"Well, maybe I just wanted something that was mine, Daisy. Don't I deserve that?"

She scoffs incredulously. "Does Alex know?"

"Of course Alex knows, she's my sister!" you counter, hoping she doesn't catch the slight waver in your voice, your tell when you're not telling the whole truth.

"BUT I'M YOUR BEST FRIEND! I COME FIRST!"

You're taken aback by Daisy's sudden outburst, Sofia and Poppy exchanging uncomfortable glances as the tension escalates.

"So that's what this is about, then? You're just pissed because you found out like everyone else on TMZ? I'm entitled to privacy, Daisy! I have secrets. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but a relationship involves two people, and we both agreed to keep it quiet-"

"Oh spare me with that self-righteous bullshit, Doll!" she spits, rising from her seat. "This isn't you! It's like I'm talking to a fucking stranger right now!" She pushes past you as she makes her way out of the trailer. "You can have your secrets, but just remember, I know the ones that COUNT, remember that."

"Dais, come on, I said I'm sorry!" you call out after her, feeling a pang of guilt as she flicks you off and slams the trailer door shut.

"That went well," Sofia observes dryly as she starts working on your hair again. You wince a little as she smooths out the strands, already dreading what might come next.

"Hey Sof, instead of the braid, do you think we could leave my hair down? Maybe add some curls and give it that messy-but-sexy vibe?" you suggest, hoping for a change from the usual routine.

"I mean, yeah, that could look really hot, but Nate told me we were going for a more virginal look-" Sofia begins, her hesitation evident.

"Seriously? My character's supposed to be around my age, not some naive teenager," you argue, feeling exasperated. "Surely she wouldn't still be a virgin."

"You know what? You're right," Sofia concedes, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Sometimes us girlies just have a tough time finding love, right? That doesn't mean we can't look hot in the process! Wow Doll, look at you, spicing it up a bit! Finally! Should I send my gratitude to your new beau?"

You recall the way Dieter looked at you during the gala, his fingers gently brushing your hair back as he smiled warmly. "I love it when you wear your hair like this," he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. "It's so sexy, it's more you, you know?"

"Yeah, maybe," you breathe, smiling. "He likes it when my hair is down, but I think I like it, too."

Sofia nods in agreement, smiling at you through the mirror. "I think I like it, too. Look at you," she teases. "Little miss sweetheart, growing up."

Later, after the screen test.

"Are you out of your mind?" Nathan's screams reverberate through the confines of your car, causing you to wince as you pull out of the parking lot. "I specifically told you we were going for a girl-next-door vibe, and you show up looking like a slut?! I swear, the next time I see Dieter Bravo, I'm wringing his neck!"

"I don't see how this is his fault, though. I told Sofie and Poppy about the edits, and they seemed to be on board," you retort defensively. "I have a mind of my own, Nate, no one is influencing me in my decisions, how many times do I have to tell you that?! I'm not some fucking doll you can play with!"

"Well, the Doll I knew before wouldn't be acting like this! It's like you were body snatched or something!"

"I'll have you know, Favreau loved the change, and thought it made sense for the character!"

"I don't give a damn what Favreau thinks!" Nathan snaps, his voice rising in frustration. "You're letting Dieter run your life, and it's ruining your career, Doll. I won't stand by and watch you throw everything away for some fling!"

"I'm hanging up now, Nathan," you declare firmly, your grip tightening on the steering wheel. "I don't need this right now."

Without waiting for a response, you end the call and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The weight of Nathan's words lingers, but you push them aside, focusing on the road ahead as you navigate through the winding streets back to Dieter's house.

As you navigate the winding roads back to the Hollywood Hills, the argument with Nathan still ringing in your ears, you can feel your frustration mounting. The car ride is tense, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

Nathan's accusations replay in your mind, his anger leaving you feeling both defensive and conflicted. You glance at your reflection in the rearview mirror, taking in your appearance. Your outfit, chosen in haste, suddenly feels like a glaring mistake.

The sight of Dieter's house coming into view offers a small sense of relief. You pull into the driveway, noticing the moving boxes scattered across the lawn. The realization hits you that this is now your home, too.

Stepping out of the car, you're greeted by the chaos of movers bustling about, carrying boxes and furniture into the house. Dieter appears in the doorway, concern etched on his face as he approaches you.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, reaching out to touch your arm gently. "You look upset."

"Nathan," you sigh, shaking your head. "He's convinced that everything is your fault."

Dieter's expression darkens, his jaw tightening. "I'll have a word with him," he mutters, his tone laced with frustration.

You offer him a weak smile, appreciating his support. As you follow him into the house, the weight of the day's events begins to lift. You walk into the massive living room, a far cry from your own modest LA flat in Silver Lake. Your eyes widen as you take in your knickknacks amongst Dieter’s gothic decor, your collection of Sonny Angels and their smiling faces alongside Dieter’s collection of what you think are first editions of every Edgar Allen Poe book imaginable, in pristine condition, you might add. You chuckle at the juxtaposition, two very different personalities coming together that shouldn’t work in theory, but look harmonious together anyway. You can't help but smile at the sight, touched by Dieter's thoughtful gesture. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you turn to him, feeling a rush of gratitude and emotion that you can't quite place. "Dieter..."

"Do you like it?" He asks eagerly, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. You find yourself sinking into the embrace, comforted by his warmth as he pulls you onto the sofa beside him. "I thought you might need a little sanctuary after your meeting with The Shark," he continues, shooting you a playful look. "Marcus did most of the unpacking, but I pitched in! It's like you've always been here, doesn't it feel like home?" His words touch you deeply, and you can't help but wonder if maybe there's some truth to the idea that you belong here with him, despite the unconventional circumstances of your marriage.

You sink into his embrace, feeling a sense of peace wash over you. "I love it," you confess softly, snuggling closer to him as he strokes your hair. "It's cozy, it's... us." You pause, a hint of uncertainty creeping into your voice. "But what if someone sees through our little charade? What if they start asking questions again?"

"I'm glad you love it," he murmurs, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. "And trust me, with this setup, no one will doubt us for a second. It's like our little secret hideaway," he adds with a chuckle. "But hey, if anyone tries to interrogate you again, just send them my way. I'll handle them." He flashes you a reassuring smile, his eyes full of warmth.

"Hopefully it doesn't get to that point, but Nate surely thinks I'm close to killing my career," you say, a touch of worry creeping into your voice.

"So I'm guessing your meeting with Nathan didn't go too well then?"

"Oh, he accused you of drugging me at the gala and threatened to go to the police-" you tease, a small smile playing on your lips. "I'm pretty sure he thinks that I've been body snatched or lobotomized-"

"No, you've made a pact with the devil, and now... it seems he's come to collect," he breathes into your ear, his fingers tracing a tantalizing path down to the waistband of your jeans, sending shivers down your spine as they caress your skin. You gasp as he unbuckles your jeans, sliding your zipper down slowly as his hands make their way to your center.

He hums in appreciation as his fingers graze the edge of your panties, a smirk playing on his lips as he feels how wet you are. "What do you say, Mrs. Bravo? Are you gonna let your husband take care of you?"

"... and just how are you planning to take care of me, D?" you moan as his fingers push your panties aside, squirming as they slowly start to part your folds.

"I can think of a few ways, but there's something specific I had in mind," Dieter says with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"What's that?" you ask, intrigued by his sudden excitement.

"I want to show you something," he announces, springing off the couch and grabbing your hand, pulling you to your feet.

Dieter leads you through the spacious home, his steps purposeful and eager. As you approach what seems to be a nondescript door, he turns to you with a smile that hints at anticipation. With a theatrical flourish, he swings the door open, revealing a room bathed in natural light, filled with the scent of paint and creativity.

"This is my sanctuary," he says softly, his eyes gleaming with pride as he gestures for you to enter.

Your heart flutters with excitement and curiosity as you step into the room. Your eyes widen at the sight before you—a massive canvas dominating one wall, covered in vibrant colors and intricate brushstrokes.

"It's breathtaking," you murmur, unable to tear your gaze away from the masterpiece before you.

Dieter steps beside you, his presence comforting yet electrifying. "I painted it for you," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

You're speechless, your heart pounding with a mixture of awe and gratitude. As you take in the details of the painting—a stunning array of orchids in hues of crimson, violet, and gold—you feel a warmth spreading through you.

"It's... it's incredible," you finally manage to say, your voice filled with emotion.

Dieter's eyes meet yours, his gaze intense yet tender. "I wanted to capture the essence of your beauty, the depth of your spirit," he explains softly. "Every stroke, every color—it's all for you."

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you reach out to touch the canvas, feeling the texture of the paint beneath your fingertips. In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of his creation, you realize just how deeply he sees you, how much he understands.

"I don't know what to say," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

"You don't have to say anything," Dieter replies, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. "Just know that this painting is a reflection of my budding love for you, a testament to the beauty I see in you every day."

"When did you have the time to even paint this? This must have taken months-"

Dieter chuckles softly, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he watches your reaction to the painting.

"I've poured my heart and soul into this piece," he admits, his voice tinged with pride. "But it's not quite finished yet."

"What more could you possibly add? It looks perfect to me," you reply, admiring the intricate details of the painting.

"Have you heard of the artist Georgia O'Keeffe?" Dieter asks, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "She had a way of painting flowers up close and personal, in a style that some found suggestive."

"You mean the whole 'vagina flower' controversy?" you chuckle, recalling the scandal. "People always read too much into things. Sometimes a flower is just a flower."

"Yes, but you're more than just a beautiful flower to me," Dieter murmurs as he approaches you from behind, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your shirt one by one.

His touch sends a shiver down your spine as you feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. You lean back into him, feeling his presence enveloping you like a comforting embrace. As your shirt falls to the ground, forgotten, you turn to face him, the intensity of his gaze drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

"Beautiful," he rasps, his hand blindly grabbing a clean paintbrush from his workstation. "What a fucking masterpiece you are, my darling girl."

He rests the paintbrush at the hollow of your neck, his gaze tracing a path down your body as he delicately sweeps it along your clavicle, then down to your sternum. The pressure is just right, sending a shiver down your spine and raising goosebumps across your skin.

"I've painted many things in my life, but never on a canvas as perfect as you," he murmurs, a small smirk playing on his lips as he trails the brush along the curve of your breasts, flicking it teasingly against your nipple.

You let out a soft moan, your head tilting back as his mouth hovers over the sensitive tip. "Dieter," you plead, your eyes locking with his in desperation. "Please, paint me with your tongue."

Meanwhile, at the LAX baggage claim...

"Eddie! Focus!" Alex screams into her phone as she grabs her luggage at the carousel at LAX. "Do you think she would still be at her flat?"

"I would assume that since she's married the bloke, she would be living with him, surely, as her sister you would know this?" he croons, groaning.

"Well, I thought she told me everything, but my obvious shock of her being bloody married should tell you why I'm even in LA in the first place! What if she's gotten into those drugs that this Bravo character is into? Did you hear about that rumor with the ferret?"

"Okay, point taken," Eddie replies, clearing his throat. "Tell me why you felt like it was necessary to book the first flight out of Heathrow for this again? Doesn't Daisy live next door to her flat? Why are you asking me when you could just ask her?"

"Ugh, don't even get me started on that twat," Alex moans, rolling her luggage, walking in circles anxiously. "I seriously think she's a lost cause, just mooching off of my poor sister who is too sweet to know better. Do you know that she pays for her flat? Doll already pays her a good salary, I don't see how she has to also pay for her rent-"

Eddie chuckles. "Is that bitterness I sense, my pearl? She is her best friend, it's not completely out of the ordinary. Besides, it's not like your sister didn't set us up with these sweet digs in the city, London isn't exactly cheap, baby. Don't be an ungrateful cunt, honey. Your ugliness is show-"

"Eddie! For fucks sake, focus!" Your sister cuts her boyfriend off, almost bumping into a family as she tries to navigate her way out of the LAX terminal. She winces as a group of tired eyes glare back at her, shrugging her shoulders and mouthing an apology as she walks past. "How in the hell am I going to find out where this Dieter lives? It's not like I could ask the first person I see if they know where Oscar Winner Dieter Bravo lives-"

"Actually," Eddie chuckles through the phone, "That's not a bad idea, Alex. Maybe you should head downtown and grab one of those 'Maps of the Stars' things and catch a ride on a tour bus. Don't they use those double-decker buses? It'll be like you're back in merry ol' London!"

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Do you have any better ideas?" he deadpans, the sounds of the latest football match blaring on the TV. "You could always give Daisy a ring, I'm sure she would love to chauffeur the princess' sister around Los Angeles like the entitled queen she thinks she is-"

"Oh, Piss off Eddie. I'll talk to you later. Say goodnight to Zoe for me, alright? and don't forget to take the trash out in the morning!"

"I'm not going to tell your fucking dog goodnight, Alex. Just go find your stupid sister, give her a piece of your mind, have her give you some "sorry" money, and then come back home, you know how cranky I get when the laundry piles up-"

"GoodBYE, Eddie." Alex rolls her eyes as she hangs up on her boyfriend of seven years, muttering fucking asshole under her breath as she rifles through her purse for her ciggies. She takes a long drag as she looks out into the sunny sky of Los Angeles, a welcome change to the dreariness of London. She checks her phone once more, a photo of two smiling teenage girls smiling back at her.

She smiles at the memory of the day when the photo was taken, the day of your adoption into her family after what happened before your abrupt removal from your family home. "We're officially sisters, Baby Doll! You're finally free!" Alex exclaims, her arms around your shoulders as you laugh in glee "I'm so grateful for everything, Alex! For you and your family… taking me in after what happened at the chur-" She shakes out of the memory, checking the time. Taking another drag, she presses on your contact and takes a deep breath, the line trilling in her ear.

The person you're trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone-

"Fucking hell, Doll," she groans, shoving her sunglasses onto her face as she turns to the man that is looking at his phone next to her.

"Excuse me, Sir-"

"Those things will kill you, you know," the man replies, not bothering to look up from his screen.

"Haha, yeah, listen- would it be easier to catch a cab, or is there some sort of rail system I could take into the city from here?" she asks, adjusting her tote bag on her shoulder.

"I could tell you, but I honestly don't care to," the man retorts, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. He pockets his phone into his pocket and walks away, shaking his head in annoyance. "Fucking tourists-"

"Oi! Go fuck yourself!" Alex screams back at the man, giving him the bird as he jumps into an Uber. Her eyes widen at the sight of a cherry red double-decker bus, 'Tour of the Stars!' emblazoned off the side of it.

"Holy fuck, Eddie- you're a fucking genius!" she exclaims to herself, hurriedly pulling her luggage to the back of the line of excited tourists. "Who would have thought that bastard could think of something so brilliant?!"

"Do you think we'll get a glimpse of Doll now that she married Dieter Bravo?" a man asks his friend as they wait in line. "Did you see that video of the two of them at the In n Out? her tits looked so massive in his hands!"

"What a lucky bastard, right? I bet she's such a dirty girl under that sweet fucking exterior of hers, what I would do to be able to tap that!" his friend replies, chuckling at himself, smiling like he's said something so fucking profound. "Bravo must live in that sweet pussy of hers, she must taste so fucking sweet, maybe we should go up to his front door and ask to see if he was interested in a gang bang, it's not like he hasn't been caught in one before-"

"Oi!" Alex exclaims, her face red with frustration as she points at the group of men. "Watch your fucking mouth! That's my fucking sister you're talking about!"

"Yeah, and I'm the President of the United States," the man replies, sneering at her. "Doesn't your mommy teach you it's rude to eavesdrop on other people's conversations?" he scoffs, high-fiving his friend. "If she was your sister, why are you in line for 'Tour of the Stars'? I know girls can be crazy, but you're living in la-la-land, lady!"

"Yeah? Well, I wanted to surprise her," Alex retorts, her demeanor growing flustered under the scrutiny of the group of men.

"Well, hate to break it to you, but I don't quite see the resemblance, sweetheart. Maybe if you got some plastic surgery, and I squint my eyes just right, maybe it could happen for you."

As they board the bus, Marty, the tour guide, announces enthusiastically, "Alright folks, buckle up! We're about to embark on a star-studded adventure, touring the homes of Hollywood's elite!"

The men who had been teasing Alex hoot and holler in excitement, egging Marty on with raucous cheers.

"We'll be swinging by Dieter Bravo's estate up in the Hills," Marty continues, adjusting his microphone. "It's one of the hottest properties in town, folks! Who knows, maybe we'll catch a glimpse of the man himself or even his famous wife! They just got married in Las Vegas over the weekend, how exciting, right?"

Alex rolls her eyes at the mention of Doll, already dreading the attention her sister's marriage attracts. But she stays silent, focusing on keeping her composure amid the rowdy crowd.

As the bus winds its way through the glamorous streets of Hollywood, Marty regales the passengers with tales of celebrity scandals and triumphs. An hour into the tour, they finally stop in front of a lavish mansion nestled among the hills.

"This is it, folks! The home of the one and only Dieter Bravo!" Marty announces, his voice filled with excitement.

Alex's heart skips a beat as she recognizes your BMW X4 behind the gates and manicured hedges. With a surge of adrenaline, she jumps to her feet, shouting over the din of the other passengers, "Stop the bus!"

"No can do, lady. Don't want to risk another lawsuit," Marty replies with a chuckle.

"But she's my sister! Please, just for a moment, I need to see her."

But Marty remains firm, his tone unwavering. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't make any exceptions. And even if she were your sister, why would you be on this tour bus?"

He glances at Alex skeptically, a furrow forming on his brow. "Seems like we're attracting all sorts of characters today," he muttered under his breath. "Crazier by the minute."

Feeling frustrated and desperate, Alex makes a split-second decision. "Oh, fuck this-" She lunges for the door handle and, without hesitation, jumps out of the bus.

"Hey!" Marty screams, the bus grinding to a halt. "Get back in here!" he yells as she slams onto the hot asphalt.

"No, can't, shant!" she screams back at the bus, "I won't tell it was you if you just drive away, no harm no foul?"

"... good enough for me!" Marty yells back, motioning to the tour bus driver. "onto the next one!"

The group of men who had teased her earlier chuckled. "Good luck finding your 'sister,'" one of them jeered sarcastically as the bus pulled away.

"Fuck, why do I keep putting myself through this?" Alex groans, wincing as she tries to steady herself, her scraped knees and wrists a testament to her rough landing. With determination in her stride, she approaches the gates, her heart pounding in her chest. Surprisingly, she finds them slightly ajar, allowing her to slip through the heavy iron. Wheeling her luggage along, she heads toward what she hopes is the front door and tentatively knocks. "Hello?"

Growing impatient, Alex begins to pound on the door. "Hey, I know you're in there! Open the damn door!" she screams, frustration evident in her voice. As the door suddenly swings open, she's met with the sight of a handsome man, his annoyance matching her own.

Marcus narrowed his eyes at her, his arms crossed over his chest. "Can I help you?"

"Oh—" Alex gasped, clearly flustered and embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Sir," She glanced back at the map, her eyes darting around her surroundings. "I thought this was the residence of Dieter Bravo. I must be mistaken—"

"Listen, lady, are you in need of medical assistance? Do you need me to call the rehab center that you clearly looked like you escaped from?"

"I beg your pardon?" Alex snaps, her frustration evident in her clenched fists as she strides back up to the man in front of her, her patience wearing thin. She takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to deal with this arrogant jerk. It's such a shame such a beautiful man like him is such a tool, she thinks to herself through her annoyance.

"Look, I've just had a grueling flight from Heathrow after a massive row with my boyfriend. He can't fathom why I needed to fly thousands of miles to LA to see my sister, who's apparently decided to get married by some Elvis impersonator on a whim. Clearly, she's lost her mind, and I've come all the way here to figure out just what the hell has gotten into her! So, if you're not Doll—"

"You're Doll's sister?" Marcus asks incredulously, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, I'm Doll's sister. What does it look like?"

Marcus scoffs, his eyes disbelieving as they roam over her figure, his smirk growing wider. "Sure, if you're her sister, then I'm the queen of England."

"What is that supposed to mean, you prick?"

"Listen, don't get me wrong, you are a gorgeous woman, but I don't see the family resemblance."

"She's my adoptive sister, you moron!"

"That's what they all say, sweetheart."

"OH!" Your voice pierces the silence of the mansion, both Alex and Marcus startled by the sudden outburst. "Fuck Dieter, just like THAT!"

"Oh bugger this!" Alex exclaims, pushing Marcus aside as she storms through the mansion. "For fucks sake! Christabella!" she shouts, opening up every door she comes across. "BELLA! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" She shouts, making her way towards Dieter's studio. "BELLA! I KNOW YOU'RE IN HERE!"

"Hey!" Marcus shouts back at Alex, his composure barely hanging on by a thread. "You can't just enter someone's private property, I could have you arrested!"

"Yeah, well just call my lawyer, then. He is on my sister's payroll, after all!" she sing-songs, making her way up to the door leading to Dieter's studio. "BELLA!" she shouts as she opens the door, gasping at the sudden sight of the both of you stark naked on the floor, with Dieter railing you from behind. You scream at the sudden intrusion, scrambling to cover yourself.

"Dieter," Marcus huffs, "I am so sorry, she just came storming in, saying that shes-"

"Alex!" you squeak, "What are you doing here?"

Dieter looks back at the angry face of your sister, his own expression shifting to confusion. "Who the hell are you?"

"Christa-fuck-abella Martin," Alex seethes, "What on earth has gotten into you?"

"... and who the hell is Christabella?" Dieter asks out loud, rolling himself on the floor in exhaustion.

You grimace as your sister rolls her eyes, throwing Dieter's discarded robe at the both of you. "Please don't tell me you married my sister in that hell hole and you don't even know her real name, mate."

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