#FM writes

[eaissilyy]

Trust me I know what the formless mother is thinking. It revealed to me in a dream. The outer god has reached me. Anyways the lands of shadow’s formless mother franchise is not looking good. (Sorry bloodfiend. why do you have a weapon that is just called… fork?)

I used to draw FM as in Miquella’s egg with a arm, but now had to change to a bloody flesh of armless meat. Don’t know if this is a downgrade or not but girl your range of appearance is WIDE.

[fromtheseventhhell]

"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? | Jon VI

--metaphorical knives at feigning neutrality regarding his sister

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold... | Jon XIII

--literal knives from breaking that neutrality to save her

[cherrari]

lesbian lestappen oh my god you've written SUCH an excellent little brainworm i am never going to stop thinking about them tysm <33

here's all of what i wrote for it (unfinished) just for you anon (unfinished) (did i mention it will never be finished) 6k words. some of those words are nsfw so be warned

Charles barely has time to rip her helmet off before Jenson’s grinning face fills her vision.

She’s seen this scene before. Twice, actually. And neither time did she see it directly from the sidelines; she watched the post-race interviews later, once she was back in her apartment and thoroughly wasted. 

Jenson, with all the bright-eyed joy and energy only someone not strapped into a car for hours could have, thrusts a microphone into her hand. His eyes practically sparkle.

“Charles, congratulations!” His hands flail a little, a gesture that looks like it wants to be a hug but doesn’t quite have the nerve. She manages an apologetic smile. Under different circumstances—sans camera and crowd—she’d probably take him up on it. He knows it too. “How are you feeling?”

She’d rehearsed this answer in her head a hundred times, crossing the finish line, and yet now, with Jenson in front of her, the script has evaporated.

“I am…” She shifts the mic awkwardly between her fingers, and it feels heavier than it should. “Overwhelmed. Happy. So, so happy.” She breathes in deep, trying to ground herself, though it’s no use. The adrenaline’s still surging, refusing to let go. When she looks up again, Jenson’s nose is scrunched, his smile all shaky like he’s seconds from tears. Cute, she thinks distantly. “We—the team—have worked for years for this moment. Hoped for it. To see it come true is a dream.”

It’s not the polished, eloquent answer she wanted, but it’s something. Her skin’s slick with sweat, her pulse still hammering. She should be forgiven for not having it all together. If anyone deserves a pass, it’s her.

Jenson bobs his head, a blur of motion. “I can only imagine,” he says, enthusiasm practically bubbling over. His grin is infectious, pulling a tired but genuine smile from her. “You didn’t look nervous at all out there.”

“Of course, I was very nervous, but—” Charles falters, the words forming a knot in her throat. It’s impossible to articulate this feeling. Jenson knows—he’s been there, lived it—but the fans, they deserve to understand. “Once I got into the car, though, I didn’t think about anything else. Even if the race seemed uneventful, I couldn’t let my focus slip, not for a second. Especially not on this track. But then, in those last few laps… my mind started to wander. To Jules, and my father…”

She glances sideways at the camera, wondering if the vultures online will feast on this—call her an attention-seeker for dredging up the dead. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? 

Again, Jenson nods, hanging onto her every word.

“Being the first Monégasque to win here at home—just incredible,” he says, laughing a little. “And with the weight of all that pressure? Wow.” Charles feels the heat in her cheeks, letting the praise sink in, filling her up like water on dry earth. Then, cruelly, he adds, “Plus, being only the second woman after Max? Your family must be doubly proud.”

A chill runs down her spine, something inside her curling up, shrinking into itself.

Max. Always Max, like a shadow she can’t outrun.

“I hope so,” she manages, clutching the microphone tighter. “And I hope I can do it again next year.”

Not entirely unprecedented, then. She takes in the crowd and reminds herself that at least Max will never have the support of the entire nation. 

It leaves a bitter sting in her mouth nonetheless.

-

Three years ago, Charles spent her Sunday evening after the Monaco Grand Prix curled up in her bed with a giant tub of ice cream and a twitchy finger that kept tabbing between fifteen different YouTube videos. Some were of random stuff to take her mind off the race, others were of the race her mind refused to let go of. One was called Funny Charlotte Leclerc Monaco Compilation. A handful were interviews of people who actually finished the race. Unfortunately, she spent the most time watching those.

She popped open a bottle of wine Pierre had given her years ago when she reached Max’s. She can distinctly recall the sweet taste of plums down her throat as she listened. 

“How does it feel to be the first woman to ever finish the Monaco Grand Prix?” the interviewer had asked. Maybe it was Jenson. It could have been Rosberg. Her memory of that day is fuzzy.

It was windy out, but Max’s hair stayed stuck to her red cheeks, making her look like a cherry. She had answered in a joke like she always did. “I’m the first woman to win at many tracks, it never gets old.” She laughed, and waved her hand. “No, no, but more seriously, Monaco is a very historic place, of course, so…” Charles tuned out after that. 

Historic, yes. But not home. Max might live in Monaco—Charles sees her against her will sometimes, at the grocery store or the gym—but it will never be her home. 

Then, unimaginably: 2022 was even worse.

Charles didn’t even bother with the wine that night. The bottle sat untouched as she pulled out the small box stashed under her bed, the one filled with things Andrea would have a coronary over if he ever found out. She got high enough to see colours she didn’t know existed, hoping to blur the sharp edges of another disappointment. 

And still, through all the haze and frustration, Max remained unaffected. Well, not entirely unaffected—Max had sent her a text, asking if she was okay, if she wanted to go out, do something to take the edge off. It was thoughtful, even kind, but all Charles could think was: I’d rather you care about the race than about me. 

Who gives a damn if Charles is the second woman to win anything, when the first woman doesn’t care at all about keeping track? It makes Charles furious, how effortlessly Max shrugs off everything that matters to her. It’s easy for Max, of course. Easy to be nonchalant about records when you’re winning all the time. Meanwhile, Charles claws her way to pole by the skin of her teeth and more hours in the sim than she can count.

Now, standing in the chaotic, neon-lit depths of Jimmy’z, two tall glasses of something fruity already down, she’s still thinking about Max. The absurdity of it stings. It’s embarrassing, if anything.

“Charles, another!” Joris shouts, shoving a third glass at her. The second one is still in her other hand, empty. “You are not allowed to zone out, not today!”

Charles smiles, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude towards her friends. 

“Take this one back at least,” she jokes, and shoves the empty glass towards him. “Get yourself another too and we will drink them together!” 

Joris grins. “Sure, princess.”

Charles huffs, but the effect of the alcohol on her mood can’t be understated; she doesn’t feel more than a stir of annoyance at the nickname. 

It’s fine if her friends say it. They love her. They’re happy for her. They care that she’s the first woman to win the Monaco Grand Prix and not be in a Red Bull. That, and the thousands of fans who cried for her today, are who matters.

-

By the time Charles and Joris are done, they’ve probably downed enough alcohol to fill an entire bathtub. She can barely stand on her own by the time they leave, her legs wobbling like they’ve forgotten how to hold her up. Andrea tuts softly and hooks an arm around her to guide her back home. Her feet, suddenly aware of their existence, throb painfully with every step, and she winces. Andrea keeps giving her sharp little pinches to keep her from nodding off mid-walk.

“Water,” he commands, sliding a tall glass across the kitchen counter once they’re inside. Charles slumps into a chair, the effort of just sitting upright making her feel like she’s run another race. “And painkillers for tomorrow.”

“Those don’t even work,” she mutters, her words slurring slightly. “You know that.”

Andrea rolls his eyes in that way he always does when she’s being difficult. “Drink the water, then. I’ll text everyone and let them know you’re still alive.”

Of course she’s alive. She’s a Formula One driver. She drives really fast cars for a living. Like, really fast. A few litres of alcohol? Please. That’s nothing compared to what she does on the track. 

In fact, she feels fantastic. A strange, buoyant kind of euphoria settles over her, and she can’t even remember why she was pissed off earlier.

“This is amazing,” she tells Andrea, almost giggling at how brilliant it all seems now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, ruffling her hair with a half-amused sigh. “To bed with you, champ.”

Charles stumbles through her nightly routine with Andrea watching over her like a prison guard. By the time she gets the toothbrush in her mouth, her awareness of him fades into the background. The minty aftertaste hits her like a freight train—far too intense—and she pulls a dramatic face that has Andrea snorting with laughter.

“You won today,” he reminds her, his voice soft but firm, as if grounding her in the moment as she sits on the edge of her bed in freshly donned pajamas. “You fucking won, Charles. You don’t need to dream tonight.”

Charles hums, a sleepy, noncommittal sound, her body already too heavy with exhaustion to respond properly. The next moment, she’s out cold.

-

Monaco is a very small place. Charles goes grocery shopping and sees Lando picking out bananas. Charles goes to the gym and comes face-to-face with George’s attempts at a thirst trap. Charles drags her friends to the movies and the person in front of her in the popcorn line is Kevin. 

Charles exits her apartment, and two seconds later she’s staring at Max. They’re in the middle of a sidewalk, for fuck’s sake.

“Charles,” Max greets. Her tone is as unreadably affable as always. “I’m surprised you aren’t still hungover.”

“Hah,” Charles forces a laugh. She only drank on Sunday night. It’s Wednesday. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

She already knows what Max will say before she says it. “I didn’t ask,” with a shrug and a good-natured grin. “Where are you headed to?”

Charles glances down at herself. She’s in her running clothes: headband to soak sweat, cotton white shorts for easy movement. It’s pretty obvious where she’s headed to.

“Pier,” she answers anyway, because she’s nice. 

Max’s face lights up. “I’ll join you.” 

She doesn’t look dressed for a run. Charles would bet a hundred euros Max had been on her way to the grocery store. But she can’t say no without seeming rude, so she just nods.

“Okay.”

The jog to the pier is uneventful, save for a few people pulling out their phones to snap videos of them running side by side. Charles feels the weight of Max’s gaze on her back, a persistent itch she can’t shake, but at least Sylvia will be happy. Free PR, if nothing else.

When they stop in a quieter area, Max wipes sweat from her brow, raising her arm just enough to flex her bicep. Charles isn’t sure if it’s on purpose, but it feels deliberate.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Max says, her tone conversational, like it’s perfectly normal to expect to run into each other daily.

“I’ve been busy,” Charles replies. It’s true, at least. “Celebrating, and then resting.”

Max nods, but there’s something unreadable in her expression. “Looked like a fun party, Sunday night.”

Ah. Charles should’ve seen this coming. She should’ve lied, avoided this little jab of pettiness. She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm.

“It was,” she says lightly, not giving Max the satisfaction. “All my friends and family were there. Even my mother.”

She watches Max’s expression flicker just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough. Small victories.

“Is the Prince of Monaco your family now?” Max’s brows lift.

“Obviously not. He is just—supportive.” 

Max doesn’t seem to notice. Or, more likely, she just does not care. “It must have been quite the celebration then. A win in Monaco, the Prince attending...”

“Yes, it was.” Charles wipes sweat from her forehead, wishing she could wipe away this conversation too.

Max’s eyes linger on her, bright blue in the sun. “You didn’t think to invite me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Charles says.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Max tilts her head, seeming genuinely puzzled.

Charles pinches the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t want to party the last time I won.”

“That was two years ago,” Max points out, unhelpfully.

The statement pierces through the little threads of patience Charles still has like a needle through fabric. She digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from balling her fists. Don’t do something you will regret.

“Alright,” she says, the word clipped. “I apologise, then. I should have asked.”

“Why are you mad at me?” Max asks, instead of saying anything normal like it’s okay or no problem.

Charles rolls her eyes this time. She can’t help it. “I’m not mad, Max.”

“You are.” Max’s relaxed tone finally snaps. Her thick brows furrow, concern etching lines into her forehead. “You’re like this sometimes after this race—after Monaco, but I thought since you finally won this year, you would be happy.”

“I am happy,” Charles bites out. Again, not a lie. “I am very happy, actually, and I don’t think you know me well enough to say otherwise.”

Max goes quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s slower, measured. “Well,” she says carefully, “as I’ve tried to tell you before, I’d like to know you better.”

“Putain,” Charles spits, her cheeks going bright red. 

There’s almost certainly someone filming them right now, tucked away on a balcony, phone raised, ready to capture their moment for TikTok. The video will get clipped, stitched, dissected. The comments will roll in: Charlotte Leclerc is so arrogant lol, how does she have the audacity to yell at the only other woman in the sport? Especially when Verstappen is a three-time WDC and Leclerc barely has six wins! Laughing emojis, rolling eyes, the works. She can already picture it.

“I am not having this conversation, Max,” she says, voice stiff and low. 

“Why not?” Max openly frowns now. “You’ve been avoiding me for days—”

“You are not so important to me that I have to go out of my way to avoid you,” Charles laughs, somewhat in disbelief.

“Yeah, okay,” Max scoffs. “We live like a block apart from each other, but I haven’t seen you in a week. Not to mention you normally—”

Charles cuts her off with, “Good talk. See you in Canada.”

“Oh my god, Charles, will you just—”

Charles turns on her heel and jogs back the way they came. After two blocks, she glances over her shoulder and finds Max isn’t in sight anymore. 

She allows herself a measure of relief by exhaling without feeling like her chest is about to cave in.

Fucking Max, she swears in her head, and isn’t that the problem?

-

Max is not very clingy. They rarely talk outside of work, and Max never seeks her out on purpose. They cross paths by chance, yes—often at that, but Max would never stoop so low as to show up at her hotel doorstep begging for attention. 

What Max is is affectionate. Touchy, more like, given that there’s little actual affection in it. When Charles happens to be near, Max will touch her just because. A hand around her waist or fingers digging into her shoulder. 

Or like now: squished together in a booth at the dinghy club Lando dragged them all to, to celebrate his second win. 

Charles isn’t exactly in a celebratory mood given everything that’s happened recently, but Pierre requested she come and she can’t say no after bailing on the post-Silverstone festivities. There’s only so many parties one can miss before people start nagging.

The high from winning Monaco wore off just as quickly as it came, but so did her annoyance. Now, seeing Max’s smile doesn’t make her fume, at least not beyond its normal extent. 

“Another?” Max asks, nudging Charles in the side. Charles blinks at her, dazed and overwhelmed by the pounding music reverberating throughout the room. She’s pretty sure Lando took over the DJ booth, and it shows. “A drink,” Max clarifies.

“Oh.” Charles says, looking down at the empty glass in her hand. She hadn’t even realised it was empty. “Sure.”

Max waves someone over and shoves the empty glass towards them. Charles watches the movement of her hand and thinks about how unfair it is that Max’s hands are two centimetres wider than hers. It must affect her grip strength, make it easier for her to hold the wheel. 

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore,” Max says, chuckling as her hand drifts to rest on Charles’ thigh, right where her dress ends. The touch is casual, almost too casual, and Charles feels a prickle of irritation despite herself. “Even though I still don’t know why you were mad.”

“I wasn’t mad,” Charles lies for what feels like the twentieth time.

“Sure,” Max says, a playful glint in her eyes, her hand still resting exactly where it was.

It’s like being back in that alley again—the heat rising to Charles’ cheeks, spreading too fast, too obvious. She can already feel the flush creeping up her neck, but at least the dim, awful lighting in the club might pass it off as alcohol instead of what it really is: embarrassment.

Max knows her too well. She leans in, close enough that Charles can feel her breath on her neck, waiting. Waiting for her to give in, to glance back, to react to how casually Max is touching her in the middle of a club with half the grid and their partners milling around.

“Max—” Charles sighs, her voice low, strained. “Not in public.”

Max’s hand slides off like it was never there, her laugh light and breezy. “Okay, okay,” she says, amused. “I’ll let you drink a little more. Maybe that’ll help get that stick out of your ass.”

Before Charles can snap back, the server arrives, placing two tall glasses of something pink and syrupy on the table. Max grins and hands one to her without missing a beat.

“Let’s just drink,” Charles mutters, her patience running thin. If she’s going to have to deal with Max and her casual provocations tonight, she’d rather not do it sober.

Max’s grin widens, all easy confidence as she lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Cheers, baby.”

Charles clinks her glass against Max’s with a grimace and a pooling heat between her legs.

-

It was always “princess” when she was younger, but not the flattering kind. When they called her that, they meant to dismiss her, to belittle her. You’re too pretty to belong here. You don’t really want this. They couldn’t stomach how well she drove, so they pinned her success on everything else. Her father, Jules—it surely had to stem from them, as if her talent were just a product of her surroundings rather than her own blood, sweat, and tears.

No matter what she did, how well she performed, it was always too pretty, too privileged, too lucky.

Until the wins started piling up. Then “princess” took on a new flavour, but it still didn’t taste any better. Now it’s said with a smile, a nod to how perfect she looks even after hours in the cockpit. Her dimples, her curls that never seem out of place, her lashes that stay long and dark. 

There’s only one person who can get away with saying it without lighting that spark of irritation.

“You are such a princess,” Max says with a chuckle, her eyes dropping to the bright red panties Charles is wearing. Still, somehow, despite Max’s best efforts.

“Not everyone fancies going commando in public,” Charles huffs, though her cheeks betray her.

“I wasn’t judging. I think they’re cute.” Max pinches the edge of the fabric between her fingers, pulling lightly at the hem. “They’ll look even cuter around your knees, though.”

Charles rolls her eyes, but the flush deepens. “Just get on with it before I change my mind.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. Her hands are strong as she lifts Charles by the thighs, positioning her with ease, before yanking at her panties with a deliberate roughness. The seam catches against her skin, sending a sharp jolt through her, heat pooling low in her belly, spreading like wildfire up toward her chest.

Months of dancing around each other, teasing, resisting. And for what? To give in so easily?

She squirms under Max’s gaze, feeling exposed, too open, laid out on the scratchy hotel bed. But exposed is exactly how Max likes her. There’s no question about that.

“You’re very pink down here,” Max observes. “Little princess with her princess parts.”

Charles swings a leg over Max’s shoulder, a warning more than a real kick. “You are so annoying,” she says through gritted teeth. “You can put your tongue to better use, no?”

“Your wish is my command,” Max drawls, and lowers her head to do exactly that.

-

Monza is glorious, and it’s easier to drown her own trepidations out among the roar of the Tifosi. Charles is on top of the world as she hoists the P1 trophy, basking in the elated cheers of the crowd.

As she stumbles off the podium, Carlos wraps her in his arms and presses their wet foreheads and noses together. Carlos squeezes her ribs tight enough to bruise. She can’t find it in herself to mind. Charles has to pull away lest someone get the wrong idea, half-laughing as they nearly tumble onto the green.

“You did it!” he shouts.

“I did it!” she shouts right back.

The team hoists her up for photos, and the noise never stops. People rush around her—a wave of hands and congratulatory touches—and she’s almost overwhelmed by the love and admiration emanating from them.

She feels like a god, almost. It’s a terrible, arrogant comparison, but it’s true. She’s transcendent. Her supporters cry, they weep, they break down into tears of joy on the grass as they sink to their knees. What kind of power does a person have to make someone fall to their knees in ecstasy? Not in bed, but over a fucking sport? She would know.

After the interviews and the onslaught of media and congratulations comes Max. There’s no hesitation as Max walks toward her across the bar. Charles feels that same rush, but this time, she doesn’t push it down.

“You won again,” Max states. Simple. Not quite soft. Just an observation of the obvious.

“Yes,” Charles affirms.

“A little iffy if you only win at your own tracks,” Max teases.

Over Max’s shoulder, she sees Alex shoot her a look. A look that says don’t rise to the bait. Just ignore her.

But if I don’t bite, I will never win, is what she said to Alex in a darkened bathroom before the press started to arrive, shoulder to shoulder at the sinks as Charles washed her hands.

What will it be, when Max loses a championship? When Charles doesn’t just take pole, take a win, but something far greater? Will Max still want Charles after she gets it?

She needs to savour it while she can. She deserves it, tonight. Deserves all of it, more than anyone has ever wanted to let her have.

“There’s no ‘if,’” she tells Max.

“Touché,” Max hums. Her lips crook, and a slow, vicious shudder of anticipation roils through Charles, to the marrow of her bones. “You’re probably eager to celebrate. Am I allowed to join in on the festivities this time?”

Max’s words are so measured, so controlled, but Charles knows better than anyone how much that mask holds back.

“You seem to be the eager one,” Charles says pointedly.

“How could I not be?” A hand settles on her arm. It feels familiar. Max leans closer so that no one else hears what they whisper to her. “You know what happens when you win. Your cheeks get all pretty and red. That’s my favourite look on you.”

“Such a charmer,” Charles says, voice hoarse. The glass she’s holding sits between them, and a gentle touch from Max guides it to her lips. The cool glass presses up to her mouth and Max’s lips brush her ear. Max’s cologne, perfume—whatever it is—slithers in through her nose, and it’s sharp, tangy, like a fresh spritz on a hot neck.

Charles closes her eyes. It would be easy enough to steal a kiss. No one is paying them much attention anymore; not even Alex.

Just as she’s about to do something stupid, Max pulls away and smiles at her.

“My hotel is nearby?” she says, sounding so unabashedly hopeful that Charles can’t even make fun of her for it.

“I think I’m needed here,” she whispers back.

Max’s lips twist into a pout. “I guess so.” She sighs. “Maybe later?” Charles watches her fingertips, follows their slide down her chest, away from her chin. “If that’s—If you’d like.”

It’s not quite a stutter, but for someone with double her wins this season, it’s awfully hesitant.

“Later,” Charles promises, and waves Alex over, finally.

-

Max’s tongue is sharp in ways that aren’t limited to her words. No matter how many times this happens, Charles is always surprised by how deftly she works her, mouth hot on Charles’s thigh.

“Let me—” Charles thrashes, but Max’s arm is secure around her stomach. “Let me, fucking—not like this,” she whines.

She hates it when Max makes her come before Charles can put so much as a hand on her. It feels a bit like she’s losing at something. Even though Max always insists she’s happy on her knees, Charles doesn’t buy it. Nothing feels better than being worshipped.

Max, predictably, ignores her and pushes a third finger in, her tongue tracing a slick pattern up her belly. “You come best when you have a little bit of a hard time with it,” she says.

“Fuck you—”

Max’s palm grinds against her clit, and Charles grunts. When she glances down between her legs, Max has a cheeky grin in place.

“I’ll fancy my chances with that,” Max replies easily, and nips Charles’ inner thigh like a cat. Charles throws her head back and moans.

There will never be enough time. Not enough to catch her breath fully while her heart races like a jackrabbit, and certainly not enough to do everything she wants to Max.

“Roll onto your stomach and spread your legs.”

Charles obeys without thinking. The first orgasm rolls through her when Max pulls at her hair, grinding her own cunt against Charles’ hips, dripping onto her. Then the second comes after Max forces her head down and rims her, the thumb on her asshole sending shudders through her whole body.

She never gets Max on her back that night.

-

Mornings after are Charles’ least favourite part of this, probably. This isn’t a concept she can touch without being burned, but somehow that’s only worked to entrench the fever in her skin more deeply.

Max’s hotel room is predictably fancy, and Charles gazes around it now, with Max still dozing off beside her. She looks like a curled-up bear. There’s something small and appealing about her sprawled on the sheets like this—something different to her larger than life presence on the podium, or on the track.

Charles slips out of the bed without jostling her, somehow. Quietly, she tiptoes naked through the room, and tries to find something of hers in the piles of clothes. Her bra goes on first. She fishes her panties out from between the bed and night stand, where they’d been tossed aside and forgotten. They’re a lost caught; her jeans go on commando.

As she’s slipping on a sock, something hefty and warm wraps around her middle, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“You should know better than to bend over in front of me,” Max says.

“Good morning,” Charles huffs, standing up properly. She lets Max turn her around, and she tries not to let her face flush when she gets a face full of Max’s bare tits. “I have a meeting in an hour, just so you know.”

“A virtual one, I assume,” Max says. “An hour is a long time.”

She looks down the bridge of Max’s nose. Charles’ fingers hover up against the muscles of her chest, almost touching.

“Not when it comes to you,” she says.

Max doesn’t even bat an eyelash, just smiles. “For breakfast, Charles. Not sex.”

Inside Charles, anticipation simmers. For the food, naturally. “Well, hurry up then.”

Max doesn’t waste time in calling for room service. Charles takes care to stay quiet in the background, careful not to let the staff member on the other end get any juicy gossip about there being a woman in Max’s room at seven in the morning. When she hangs up, Max prowls towards her again. The kiss she plants on Charles’ lips is just long enough to make heat bubble and spit at the bottom of Charles’s stomach. Soon, Max’s fingers are tangled in her hair and her tongue is in her mouth. Just the suggestion of Max’s breasts up against Charles’ makes her breathing unsteady.

“Already?” Max murmurs, amusement colouring her words. “You do have stamina, I’ll give you that.”

“You started it,” Charles accuses.

“Can’t blame me for being greedy,” Max points out, as her fingers trail down to Charles’ chest. Charles wishes she hadn’t found the bra, now. “We don’t usually get mornings.”

Charles thinks about what Max said at the pier. I’d like to know you better. Here, with the morning sun coming in, she feels closer to letting Max take a crack. “Better make the most of it, then.” Not an invitation, just a quip.

The food comes after a few minutes of frantic, slightly delirious making out. Max releases her and goes to the door to answer, taking care to wrap her towel completely around her torso.

[thetriumphantpanda]

Drabble/One shot request!

I read it and instantly saw this as Frankie smut scenario…

“you don’t have to be gentle. i won’t break”.

Frankie’s first time with a new lady friend. He really likes her, so he’s being softer than usual, gentle. She really likes him too but can tell there’s a darker side to him under the surface and she wants to test the waters…

ANON YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I'VE BEEN SITTING ON THIS... I love this request so thank you so much for sending it in! I hope you like it and that I did your idea justice.

Pairing | Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Word Count | 2.3K

Warnings | Unprotected PiV sex, fingering, spanking and biting but nothing else I can think of apart from puppy dog Frankie.

ENJOY ALL.

Frankie was nervous, there was no beating around the bush with that one. He’d changed his shirt twice and had needed to comb his hair more times than he’d care to admit because he couldn’t stop fussing with it. Never had this problem wearing a hat, but Benny had told him that if he’d turned up to your house wearing a baseball cap it would be lights out for his chances with you. 

He was early, so he’d been sat in his truck a few doors down so you hadn’t noticed he was early, glancing at his watch, willing the time to move faster so he could knock on your door and see you again. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d liked someone as much as you. He’d seen you at the bar and if it hadn’t been for Benny and his insistence that he walk up and ask for your number he wouldn’t be here. You’d been casually dating for a few months; he would take you out on walks and he knew he’d fallen for you when he’d taken you to the diner in town after a heavy night of drinking with his friends and watched you demolish a bacon cheeseburger and a peanut butter milkshake without worrying about what he would think of the sauce on your face. 

You’d invited him to your place for the first time, coaxing him with the promise of dinner and cold beer, he’d seen in your eyes that there was promise of something else too which was the reason he was so nervous. He couldn’t remember that last time he’d touched a woman, at least not one he liked as much as you. 

He rang the bell at 6:58, thinking that was as close to 7pm that he could be before he talked himself out of it. You opened the door with an apron wrapped around your body, covered in all sorts of ingredients, he could make out flour, tomato and what looked like gravy spattered amongst other things he couldn’t place. 

“Hello.” You were breathless and your hair was falling out of the low bun at the back of your head to frame your face. 

“Hello,” Frankie replied, dipping to press a kiss to your lips as casually as he could muster, “You’ve got a little something right here.” He reached out and dragged his thumb across your cheek, pulling his fingers to your eyeline to show you the flour he’d wiped off. 

“If that’s all that’s on my face I’ve done a good job, you should see the state of the kitchen,” You laughed, moving to let him into your home, “It looks like a literal bombsite so I apologise.” 

“No need to apologise when it smells so good,” He countered, mouth already watering at the smells that were emanating from the kitchen, “What did you make?” 

“Lasagna,” You grinned, “And apple pie for dessert.” 

He let out a groan, letting his stomach do the talking for him, “You have no idea how good this sounds.”  “Sit down then, it’s almost ready.” 

***

Dinner was long forgotten, leftovers packaged up and put away with the dishes and pans soaking in the sink. You had a glass of wine in hand and were lounging on the couch, legs draped across Frankie’s lap as he sipped on a beer, absentmindedly running his fingers along the skin of your legs, causing goosebumps to raise on your skin. 

“Are you cold?” He asked, turning to you. 

“No,” You smirked, “Just excited.” 

“Oh yeah?” He smirks back, raising an eyebrow right back at you, “What do you have to be excited about?” 

You giggled, “I’ve just been sat here thinking about how badly I want you to kiss me.” 

“Well then…” He trailed off, setting his beer on the coffee table as you did the same, settling back into your lounging position. 

He moved swiftly, settling himself between your legs before he crashed his lips to yours. You’d kissed this man many times before, the first time after he’d bought you a few drinks at the bar and then later that night when he’d driven you home and pressed you up against your front door. Then there was the time on the beach after your second date where you’d ended up rolling in the sand together for what felt like hours. This time though there was something different, the heat of knowing what was coming was settling in your bones just as much as it was in Frankie’s, and it was thrilling. 

The man was kissing you like he was starved, flicking his tongue into your mouth to entwine with your own and you could taste the beer on his mouth, mixed with the gum he’d popped after dinner along with someone else that was only him. It was intoxicating and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down flush with your body whilst grinding your hips up into him. 

He dragged his lips from yours and worked them down over your jaw, peppering your skin with barely-there brushes of his mouth. His tongue would lick at the spot on your neck where he would suck gently, you found yourself silently begging he would do it harder so to mark you. You wanted everyone to know you belonged to this man, but his kisses remained feather light as he dragged them further down to your collarbones as his hands ran up the bare skin of your side under your shirt. 

“Frankie,” You mumbled, “Take me to bed.” 

He pulled back, sitting back on his knees to look at you. His skin was flushed in much the same way you thought yours was, heat prickling over his face and his hair was sticking up in curls where you’d run your hands through it. 

“Up the stairs, first door on the left.” 

He stood, scooping you up, one arm under your knees and the other wrapped around the small of your back as your wrapped securely around his neck to keep you upright. He followed your directions and within moments you were led on your back on your bed with him settled right back between your thighs with his lips on yours. 

Frankie’s hands worked up your shirt and you sat up lightly to let him drag it off your body, reveling in the way he stared at you when you led back down like someone viewing the most beautiful piece of art they’d ever seen. 

“God, you’re beautiful.” He mumbled from his lips as they dragged a path down your neck, peppering kisses along the swell of your breast where your bra was sat. 

He slowly dragged the straps down before expertly moving his hands behind your back to undo it and throw it to the floor. His lips were around your nipple before you knew what was happening, eliciting a groan from your mouth and his hand gave attention to the other. He swapped over a few times, which his mouths attention with his hands before he was trailing his mouth down your stomach to the waistband of your skirt. He dragged it off with his hands, stopping to shed himself of his own upper layers before settling his body on the bed next to you. 

His arm slipped under your head to prop himself up over you, the other hand heading straight for the lace covering your pussy, which by this time was screaming for its own attention. He placed a kiss to your lips as his fingers ghosted across your panties, pulling away for you to see the dark heat in his eyes as he realized they were wet. So, there was something else underneath the gentle kisses, you thought to yourself as you winked at him. 

“See how worked up you get me?” You breathed, letting your hand fall to his jeans where it was clear this was working him up just as much as you. 

“Hermosa,” He groaned as you rubbed him through his jeans, “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” 

You pulled him back to your mouth to kiss him, opening your mouth up to him as he licked into your mouth, all whilst dipping his hand under your panties. The touch of his fingers on your clit, even if was momentary, was electric. Your hips bucked up into his hand as your mouth left his in favour of a moan. His fingers travelled down to your slick entrance, gathering the wetness that was pooling and then dragging it back up to your clit where he began rubbing gentle circles around it. 

You thought you were going to fall apart immediately, especially when his lips began pressing behind your ear, his groans of approval at your arousal sending shockwaves down your spine and making goosebumps appear on your skin. 

“Frankie please,” You moaned, “I need you inside of me.” 

You could feel his smirk against your skin as he moved back between your thighs, making a show of unzipping his jeans and taking them off and then he was there in front of you in all his glory. Scars from his time in the forces scattered his body and the softness of his older age was apparent around his middle, but you didn’t care. You just wanted him to make you his. He gently moved your panties down your legs, throwing them into the pile on the floor before spreading your legs, using one of his hands to jerk his own cock as his other went back to rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb. 

“You ready for me, querida?” He asked, moving slightly to line his cock to your weeping pussy. 

“Please,” You begged, “I have never wanted something so much in all my time.” 

He smiled, settling one hand on the bed next to your head as the other helped his cock to slip inside of you. The stretch of your pussy was delightful, you’d never had someone this big before, but the wetness seeping from you made it easy for him to slip all the way inside. The look of ecstasy on his face was enough to make your tummy flutter. You were doing that to him. 

He started thrusting into you, his movements slow and gentle but you wanted more, and you knew he could give you more. You let him continue like this for a moment, your hands squeezing the muscles of his biceps as he moved into you slowly. 

“Frankie,” You moaned, his eyes snapping up from looking at his cock slipping inside you to look you in the eye, “You don’t have to be gentle; I won’t break.”

It was like something snapped inside of him at your words. His chest was heaving and that darkness that had flashed in his eyes earlier was back, along with a grin across his lips. Like you weight nothing at all, you were flipped onto your front, his hands pulling you back towards him by your hips. He was back inside you in seconds and the change of position was perfection. 

He was fucking into you now, the slow and gentle thrusts from earlier were gone, instead replaced by a bruising pace of his hips snapping against your ass. You let out a surprised squeal when one of his hands came down and spanked you. 

“You liked that didn’t you?” He asked, his words coming out breathlessly, “Felt your pussy clench around me, hermosa.” 

“Do it again.” You ordered, slipping one of your hands between your legs to finger at your own clit. 

He did it again, bringing his hand down to your other cheek before using his fingers to massage the spot, god you hoped you bruised in the morning. 

“I’m not… I can’t… fuck, querida I’m close.” He admitted. 

“Lean over me,” You asked, “Put your skin on me and bite my neck, Frankie.” 

Like the diligent lover he had proved himself to be he did what you asked, laying his front over your back whilst still managing to keep his cock buried inside you, slipping in and out with that delicious friction you knew you would be addicted to from this day forward. He latched his mouth on your neck, sucking hard and the pain, the feeling of his breath on your skin, his cock pumping in and out of you and your fingers rubbing at your clit all came together at once to release the white heat of your climax. You were crying out his name and clenching your pussy around him and he was licking at the mark he’d left on your neck. 

“Fucking hell,” He breathed into your ear, “Querida I’m going to cum, where do you want me?” He asked with a sense of urgency. 

“Fuck Frankie,” You cried out, “Inside me please, god I need to feel you cum inside me.” 

Within seconds he was doing just that, stilling himself as his spilled his seed deep into your pussy with a groan of your name into your ear. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he pulled out of you, the last bit of support keeping you upright was gone, allowing you to collapse face first into the mattress. He collapsed next to you, pulling you into his body, the two of you slick with sweat but without a care in the world. 

“I have to get up and clean myself.” You mumbled into his chest. 

“In a minute, let me have this moment for now.” 

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his neck, “If I get a UTI it’s entirely your fault, Morales.” 

He chuckled back but made no effort to let you go, “Was that… okay?” He asked quietly, his fingers running light circles over the skin of your shoulder. 

You looked up at him, using one of your hands to pull his face to your lips to kiss him, “Frankie, it was the best I’ve ever had.” You replied honestly. 

“I didn’t hurt you?” 

“You didn’t hurt me, besides, if you did, I asked for it,” You planted another soft kiss to his lips, “You could never hurt me.” 

[koetblr]

How much to light up my star again, and rewire all my thoughts?

[garadinervi]

Bill Fontana, Landscape Sculpture With Fog Horns, (LP/Vinyl), 209034X, KQED-FM, 1982 [midcenturyclassical]

Design: Bill Anton, Dennis Favello

[syn4k]

when it comes to ghosts and demons and hauntings on the mortal plane, i'm a skeptic by default. i grew up not really interacting with ghost stories- i was the sort of kid who read books about science for fun -and as a result the scare stories never really did more than scare me for a short amount of time.

however, despite that, i'm still enraptured by the intersection between folk tales like these and modern science, which often have a reasonable explanation for them.

your house is haunted and you feel on edge constantly? well, you just installed a new AC last week and it's been emanating these signals that you can't hear but your body can feel and it scares the shit out of you because back when humans were living in jungles hiding from large beasts we evolved to hear things that we couldnt really hear to keep ourselves safe. that sort of stuff. that's what gets me.

because these tiny subsonic noises that we evolved to hear? maybe the wind is blowing weird through a crack in the wall in the haunted house. maybe the foundation is a little shaky. maybe that cryptid in the woods you saw at 2am was just a deer that had chronic wasting disease and/or rabies (poor thing).

and it's so easy with the supernatural to immediately assume ill intent and get spooked, but those ghosts that wail in the night? maybe they needed their bones to be put to rest. i think most of them are nice but if i had to be stuck in the same place for 200 years with my fuckin skeleton in the wrong place i think i'd have a short temper too!

i hold that everything has a logical explanation even if we don't know what that explanation might be but i will listen to your campfire stories nonetheless because that's just what humans do. and i think that's so cool

[daisy-room]

Maybe the Kita fic won’t get published 🧍🏻‍♀️

[kindahoping4forever]

AshtonIrwin: Straight To Your Heart is yours. Music video and so much more coming tomorrow at 10am PT! Tune in at the link at 9:45am and we'll hang out to celebrate the release ❤️

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

Straight To Your Heart Pre-Premiere Live Chat Link

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Straight To Your Heart (Official Audio) - YouTube

Straight To Your Heart - Listen on Spotify

Straight To Your Heart - All Platform Links

Blood On The Drums - All Platform Presave Links

[fadelbison]

Khaotung cuts himself off again. He can’t say it like this. Not on a whim, not in the middle of one of their not-fight fights. He doesn’t even know what road they’re driving through right now or where they’re even going. He’s always imagined it to be a starlit night, maybe by the water, certainly somewhere romantic, somewhere he can take First’s hand. Rome, he thinks. Maybe, Paris. Somewhere so beautiful that they’re not worth a second glance.

Are people going to think *I think* Paris is romantic when they read this? (as opposed to just my character Khaotung). I am such a Paris anti that it's genuinely kept me awake at night. I don't know any romantic cities in Europe lol. I might just replace it with Reykjavik since they're so obssessed with the Northern Lights. I even had it as Istanbul at one point, during which I realized that holding hands and kissing there might be a slight logistical challenge for FK but who knows maybe Khaotung is sheltered from the realities of Erdoğan.

[balloon-garden]

✧.•°{Lucemon FM × GN!Reader}°•.✧

✧Short fic/Fluff✧

✧.•°🎡°•.✧

Lucemon watched his lover scramble around their house, grabbing the things they needed to go out.

The digimon, with how powerful he was, was in a human disguise; still similar to his true form just a lot smaller- still tall by human standards, 6'6- He wore a white turtle neck, black and gold glasses and black jeans with golden seams, as well as a black jacket and white gloves. Lucemon lacked his wings and face markings aside from lipstick and a bit of purple eye shadow. He looked rather human, simple but a bit fancy.

"Are you ready now?" He questioned with a slight smile, amused, and they rushed to his side. Their arm wrapped around his as they nodded.

Finally the two were out of the house and heading towards the sidewalk. No real plans, just out to walk, explore, chat, and most importantly spend time with each other. It was a beautiful day out, the start of Summer. The sky was a bright blue and fresh greens were all around. Simple, but beautiful.

Lucemon looked down at his lover who had started talking about whatever came to mind. He listened, admiring their looks and their voice- That voice was most comforting to him. Times like these were such an odd mix of feelings. Love and bitterness. He loved his partner, he loved their world, and he loved the digital world with all of the digimon. But he still held resentment for whoever created all of this pain and violence—

"Did you ever have a partner? Not like, ya know- Like, a fighting buddy?" His eyes grew wide, snapped out of his thoughts as the question surprised him. All of what he'd been thinking had simply disappeared now. "Oh, ehm, no, I have never."

"Why not?" His lover asked, curiosity glowing in their eyes, making him smile. "It's a long story, my love," he smiled gently down at them. They leaned more into him, "Please tell me? I want to know." They looked up, giving him pleading eyes, getting a small laugh from him. "Well, I suppose I was the top Demon lord, I'd control most of the other lords. Before that, I was the protector of the Digimon...I wanted to protect them all, but bitterness and hatred took over...So much death, pain, and fear...all of that can be fixed in my world. All of it could have changed but no one wanted it to change. So when I wasn't allowed to, I tried forcing it." He paused for a moment, sighing a bit.

"It only created hatred, bitterness and ignorance in me. It made it hard to get close to me, including all of the demon lords. I suppose I still have my walls up, making it difficult to trust someone as much as a partner. I only truly believed in myself and that I didn't need anyone." He had looked forward as he spoke, gaze turning hard and steely for a moment, before looking back at them. He studied their face, their emotions were hard to read aside from sadness and attentiveness.

"Do you think you'll ever have one?" They finally asked, their tone was sweet and caring. The digimon smiled in response, "Someday." He loved the thought of trusting his lover with his life as well as protecting them. His eyes were so loving it made his lover soft. "I do admit, I'm not sure how it happens or works," which was true, but it made his partner grin and laugh a bit.

Their smile got a small grin out of him in response. He kissed their cheek, "I love you," spoken so softly. "I love you too," they chirped as they continued their walk, talking the whole time.

✧.•°{Links}°•.✧

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✧.•°{Please consider donating}°•.✧

[nani-nonny]

The urge to write a different idea rather than finishing my current works grows stronger by the minute

[fmhobeus]

mdni. nsfw content ahead.

౨ৎㅤ۫ aniya (nini/niya). 19. bisexual. she/her/they. avid r&b listener. blasian. dedicated lana del rey enjoyer. horniest history major.

currently obsessing: tom m. riddle

[cherrari]

TRICK OR TREAT MINAH do you have more chalex <3

they're lesbians. surprise

This isn’t the first time they’re being corralled pre-race into some silly PR stuff, and it won’t be the last. Alex expected it the moment she read the headline saying Charles would be moving up that year. Two girls on the grid—two talented girls on the grid—was unprecedented. Hell, if Alex were a marketing intern, she’d milk the shit out of them too.

That doesn’t mean she has to like it, though.

“You’ll be playing against—oh, here they are now,” the staff member begins, and is promptly cut off by Charles’ gasp.

“Antonio!” she shouts, clapping Antonio on the back. He flushes slightly, but manages to get a greeting out before she launches into hasty Italian. 

Behind him, Artur waves at Alex. Alex waves back.

“Ferrari drivers, am I right?” Alex jokes. Artur only makes a noncommittal noise back, his eyes shifting back towards Charles every few seconds.

Alex can’t help but snort at how obvious he is. The staff member waits patiently off to the side as Antonio and Charles chat; Charles is loud, all dramatic hand movements as she discusses what Alex imagines is her earlier wall tap, judging by the sound effects she makes. Antonio laughs at that, which makes Charles laugh even more, and something in Alex sours.

“The game?” Alex prompts, nodding to the staff member.

“Oh, yes!” She stands up straighter and herds Charles back in Alex’s direction. Charles falls into line without complaint, and Alex soon feels Charles’ eyes bearing into the side of her face again. “Okay, so as I was saying, you guys will be split into teams and…”

The game is simple. She’ll ask them a question and they’ll have to write down their answer. Whichever pair has the most matching answers wins. 

Charles’ face scrunches up. “We are going to do terribly,” she grumbles. 

“No faith,” Alex says, but she privately agrees. She doesn’t know how much she and Charles have in common, other than being girls, but it can’t be much. 

“If only our partners were swapped,” Charles laments, picking up her whiteboard.

“You each need to pick a team name too,” the staff member says. “Pick while I set up the camera.”

Alex is content to let Charles decide, and decide Charles does: “Let’s be… Team Guys.” 

“Team Guys,” Alex repeats in a deadpan. “Is that a French word?”

“No, no. Like, Team Men. Guys,” Charles repeats, with emphasis, as if that makes any more sense. “Since we both have guy names. It is about the irony.”

Alex’s head whips around, and she makes proper eye contact with Charles for the first time that day. “Excuse me, I do not have a guy name,” she huffs. “And neither do you.” 

Charles’ real name is Charlotte. Everyone knows this. The Sharl comes from the first syllable. It’s easier to say in a hurry.

Charles pouts, hugging the whiteboard to her chest. “My male cousin is named Alex, you know,” she argues.

“Alexander, probably.”

“No,” Charles says, stubborn. “Just Alex.”

Alex rolls her eyes. The last thing she needs—or wants, really—is to draw more attention to how she’s not a guy. It’s an objectively stupid name anyway. Everybody already knows why they’ve been paired up.

“No, Charles.” She uses the name to soften the blow, but keeps her voice firm. “Let’s just use… I don’t know. Team Art.”

“Team Art,” Charles repeats, like the very word makes her sick. “Fine.”

She’s sulky for all of five seconds before the staff member calls for their attention and she brightens back up. Alex finds it impressive how quickly she can move on from disappointment. She’s never seen her sad for more than a few minutes.

To Alex’s private relief, Artur and Antonio pick Team Trident as their name. It sounds better because of the alliteration, but it’s objectively just as uninspired as theirs.

The game proceeds smoothly enough, and by that, she means it goes exactly how Charles predicted: terribly.

Favourite season to race in? Charles says spring. Alex says fall.

Favourite Italian food? Charles says pizza. Alex says pasta.

Favourite track on the calendar this year? Charles says Monza. Alex says Silverstone. To be fair, they would’ve never agreed on this one even if they were given a thousand retries.

The end result is a total demolition. 9-2 in the Trident’s favour. Charles buries her head in her hands when she sees the prize: a signed Sebastian Vettel driver card. Originals, not photocopies.

“You’re going to be driving with him in a few years anyway,” Alex consoles her, patting her back. “I’m sure he’ll give you all the signed driver cards you want then.”

“I did not want it for me,” Charles huffs, then adds matter-of-factly, “My brother is also a Ferrari fan, you know.”

“Of course,” Alex says, and notes how unsubtly Charles dodged the rest of her comment.

[paeinovis]

I feel like people who think franmaya is just sticking two characters together haven't played the second game 😭

[roomba-mangga]

thing i need in my life: thistle & eodio shakespearean drama along the lines of hamlet... untethered vitriol... conflicted emotions... two-way power imbalance... just pure concentrated doses of this